Sherlock and John

A Pot Full of Toes

'John.'

'John.'

'John.'

I slam down my battered newspaper onto the coffee table and turn around, my eyes brimming with irritation.

'Can't I just get 5 minutes of peace around here Sherlock?'

Silence.

'No.'

I sigh and walk over to the kitchen table, where Sherlock has several tree worths of paper laid out, covering the surface. He's bent down, over a microscope, peering through the lens, and by the way his shoulders are tense and his back is arched.. I can tell that he's on the edge of solving the crime. His knuckles are white, as they grasp the silvered edge of the microscope, and his curly hair is pushed back, messily over his forehead, sticking to the skin with sweat. Maybe it'll take seconds, maybe it'll take days, but he's got this one in the bag.

'John,' he mumbles, waving over to the fridge, 'fetch me those toes that I put in the bottom left hand drawer if the fridge. Grumbling, I shuffle over, and shift around inside the draw, hoping that I won't come into contact with anything... Gross.

'I can't fi...' I begin

'Behind the carrots.' Sherlock states, without even looking up from his work. I pull out a sack of mouldy carrots, and behind them, looking as lovely as ever, is a little pot of toes.

Bile rises in my throat and I retch.

'Oh pull yourself together.' Sherlock snaps, twisting a dial on the microscope, and writing something onto his pad of paper. 'Its only toes, I thought you were a doctor.'

'I know I was.' I grunt, an edge of discomfort on my voice. I don't, really like talking about the war. Not really one of my favourite topics. 'But toes are just.. Something I've never really got used to. Y'know?'

'No. I don't know.' Sherlock says, calmly. He looks absorbed in his own 'mind palace', so I plant the pot of toes onto the table, and begin to resume my reading. I can't really get over the media, and how they portray Sherlock and I, so reading about what they say kind of helps.. I guess.

I turn the page, and snort with laughter, before throwing the newspaper across the floor, and grabbing a dusty cushion to my mouth.

'Yes, I know,' sighs Sherlock, 'that picture of me with that stupid hat is extraordinarily funny.'

He has an edge of sarcasm to his voice, something quite rare in Sherlock, so I pursue it.

'Really?' I ask, 'I thought it quite suited you.' He glances up, and sees the expression on my face, before ignoring my statement and carrying on.

After a while, he speaks up again, breaking the fragile silence.

'When is Mrs Hudson back?'

'I don't know.'

'Yes you do.'

'No, I don't.'

'Yes, you do.'

'Sherlock.' I look up over the edge of my cushion and see him smirking in my direction. He doesn't ever really joke so I peer at him for a while, before asking.

'Whats so funny.'

'Oh.... Nothing.'

I stride over, and point at him, trying to look as menacing as possible, which is quite hard when the man your trying to intimidate could probably tell you things about yourself even you didn't know.

'What.. Is.. It.'

He laughs for a second, a deep, throaty laugh, then answers, excitement building in his eyes.

'I solved it.'