Apathy...
Title: Apathy...
Author: fate_incomplete
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Characters: Sherlock, John (friendship)
Word Count: 900
Summary: Single gunshot wound, domestic disturbance gone wrong, hardly worth the effort really...
.......................
Apathy. If he bothered to think of a word to describe his feelings towards those around him, that would be it. Sherlock was sitting in a cab, still undecided whether to get out or not. Single gunshot wound, domestic disturbance gone wrong, hardly worth the effort really.
He could see Lestrade talking to some detective he should probably know the name of. Lestrade looked over at him, clearly waiting for him to get out and solve whatever it was about this case that had them perplexed, which was probably everything. It was all so predictable.
Sherlock looked away, sinking further behind his coat collar, wondering why he had got in the cab in the first place. He heard a tapping on the window.
"Sherlock!"
He looked up to see John peering through the foggy window at him. Oh, right, that was why.
He irritably wound the window down half way.
"I'm not getting out."
John looked away, evidently frustrated. Sherlock didn't know why, he had clearly made it known on the ride over that he didn't want to be here. Almost anything would be better than helping Scotland Yard's 'finest' with the world's most boring case.
"Right." John said. "I suppose we will be going back to Baker Street then. Maybe you could help Mrs Hudson with her..."
"Oh all right," Sherlock said, opening the door with more force than necessary, almost hitting John with it as he tried to ignore the smirk on his colleague's face.
Sherlock pulled his coat tight around him, shoving his hands in his pockets as he pushed through the throng of moronic officers, John following in his wake.
"Anderson's not here is he?" Sherlock asked.
"No. Finch," John replied brusquely as he bumped into someone as he tried to keep up with Sherlock's longer stride.
"Who?"
"You've worked at least three cases with him."
"Red hair?"
"No."
"The other one then."
"Probably."
John was still frustrated. Sherlock could hardly blame him; dealing with Lestrade's lackeys was always frustrating.
Sherlock stood in the doorway to a room on the second floor. The remains of a man in his late forties sprawled on the floor, surrounded by yellow evidence cards amongst the feet of far too many people.
Six sets of eyes turned towards him, all with varying levels of contempt and stupidity. He ignored them all, eyes dancing around the room and sliding over the body instead, noting details that most overlooked. John brushed past him, settling beside the body, hands proficiently examining it. He noted John lift something from beneath the dead man's finger nail, briefly rolling it between his fingers before handing it to one of the officers.
"What do you need?" John asked, looking up at him.
"An interesting case."
"I'm sorry, are we boring you?" One of the officers asked scornfully.
"Yes."
Sherlock rolled his eyes as John gave him a look, that one that said he was being rude and disrespectful at a crime scene.
He spoke to John only, taking mild satisfaction in ignoring the others.
"The suit, expensive but ill fitting, he has had it for a while, but wasn't comfortable in it. Married into money, or more likely his wife had a recent windfall, inheritance, from a favourite aunt maybe. He resented it, gambling stub in his right pocket, he's not a gambler, hates it in fact, but did it out of spite. Her clothes are still in the closet, but not all of them, she has taken her better quality outfits, the expensive ones. Jewellery still on the bedside table, but it is old, cheap, what he gave her when they were younger, none of the newer, expensive pieces she bought to flaunt her inheritance are left. She was leaving him, he tried to stop her, grabbed her by the arm, still has threads from her coat under his fingernails, cashmere. She pulled away, took the hand gun from the dresser, his gun, and shot him."
He watched as John's eyes flitted around the crime scene, following his words, finishing up on the open top drawer of the dresser.
He paused as John turned back to look at him, trying to hide a small smile. "Can we go now?"
He turned and left before John could answer.
"Well, that was fun," John said as they exited the building.
"Fun? Really John, I could have told them what had happened before I got out of the cab."
"Still, you had fun showing off."
Sherlock shrugged, smiling despite his irritation.
"How did you know she inherited money?" John asked with far more curiosity than any of the police had shown.
"Mismatched furniture, the older pieces were cheap, newer expensive. Gaudy expensive artwork, clearly bought recently and with feminine tastes. Chinese tonight I think," Sherlock said as he hailed a cab. "Get some milk while you're out too."
He didn't have to look to know John was glaring at him.
"Oh fine, we'll eat out," he said as a cab pulled up, sounding far too put out to actually be placating. "You can get the milk tomorrow," he added as he got in, smiling to himself as he heard John's step pause at the words, no doubt turning to glare at him again over the roof of the cab.
Yes, apathy was the word he would use, though he still hadn't found one for John yet.
.......................
Author: fate_incomplete
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Characters: Sherlock, John (friendship)
Word Count: 900
Summary: Single gunshot wound, domestic disturbance gone wrong, hardly worth the effort really...
.......................
Apathy. If he bothered to think of a word to describe his feelings towards those around him, that would be it. Sherlock was sitting in a cab, still undecided whether to get out or not. Single gunshot wound, domestic disturbance gone wrong, hardly worth the effort really.
He could see Lestrade talking to some detective he should probably know the name of. Lestrade looked over at him, clearly waiting for him to get out and solve whatever it was about this case that had them perplexed, which was probably everything. It was all so predictable.
Sherlock looked away, sinking further behind his coat collar, wondering why he had got in the cab in the first place. He heard a tapping on the window.
"Sherlock!"
He looked up to see John peering through the foggy window at him. Oh, right, that was why.
He irritably wound the window down half way.
"I'm not getting out."
John looked away, evidently frustrated. Sherlock didn't know why, he had clearly made it known on the ride over that he didn't want to be here. Almost anything would be better than helping Scotland Yard's 'finest' with the world's most boring case.
"Right." John said. "I suppose we will be going back to Baker Street then. Maybe you could help Mrs Hudson with her..."
"Oh all right," Sherlock said, opening the door with more force than necessary, almost hitting John with it as he tried to ignore the smirk on his colleague's face.
Sherlock pulled his coat tight around him, shoving his hands in his pockets as he pushed through the throng of moronic officers, John following in his wake.
"Anderson's not here is he?" Sherlock asked.
"No. Finch," John replied brusquely as he bumped into someone as he tried to keep up with Sherlock's longer stride.
"Who?"
"You've worked at least three cases with him."
"Red hair?"
"No."
"The other one then."
"Probably."
John was still frustrated. Sherlock could hardly blame him; dealing with Lestrade's lackeys was always frustrating.
Sherlock stood in the doorway to a room on the second floor. The remains of a man in his late forties sprawled on the floor, surrounded by yellow evidence cards amongst the feet of far too many people.
Six sets of eyes turned towards him, all with varying levels of contempt and stupidity. He ignored them all, eyes dancing around the room and sliding over the body instead, noting details that most overlooked. John brushed past him, settling beside the body, hands proficiently examining it. He noted John lift something from beneath the dead man's finger nail, briefly rolling it between his fingers before handing it to one of the officers.
"What do you need?" John asked, looking up at him.
"An interesting case."
"I'm sorry, are we boring you?" One of the officers asked scornfully.
"Yes."
Sherlock rolled his eyes as John gave him a look, that one that said he was being rude and disrespectful at a crime scene.
He spoke to John only, taking mild satisfaction in ignoring the others.
"The suit, expensive but ill fitting, he has had it for a while, but wasn't comfortable in it. Married into money, or more likely his wife had a recent windfall, inheritance, from a favourite aunt maybe. He resented it, gambling stub in his right pocket, he's not a gambler, hates it in fact, but did it out of spite. Her clothes are still in the closet, but not all of them, she has taken her better quality outfits, the expensive ones. Jewellery still on the bedside table, but it is old, cheap, what he gave her when they were younger, none of the newer, expensive pieces she bought to flaunt her inheritance are left. She was leaving him, he tried to stop her, grabbed her by the arm, still has threads from her coat under his fingernails, cashmere. She pulled away, took the hand gun from the dresser, his gun, and shot him."
He watched as John's eyes flitted around the crime scene, following his words, finishing up on the open top drawer of the dresser.
He paused as John turned back to look at him, trying to hide a small smile. "Can we go now?"
He turned and left before John could answer.
"Well, that was fun," John said as they exited the building.
"Fun? Really John, I could have told them what had happened before I got out of the cab."
"Still, you had fun showing off."
Sherlock shrugged, smiling despite his irritation.
"How did you know she inherited money?" John asked with far more curiosity than any of the police had shown.
"Mismatched furniture, the older pieces were cheap, newer expensive. Gaudy expensive artwork, clearly bought recently and with feminine tastes. Chinese tonight I think," Sherlock said as he hailed a cab. "Get some milk while you're out too."
He didn't have to look to know John was glaring at him.
"Oh fine, we'll eat out," he said as a cab pulled up, sounding far too put out to actually be placating. "You can get the milk tomorrow," he added as he got in, smiling to himself as he heard John's step pause at the words, no doubt turning to glare at him again over the roof of the cab.
Yes, apathy was the word he would use, though he still hadn't found one for John yet.
.......................