Cycle 4, Round 3 Results:
In first place is #1 (irisbleufic) with 15 votes, earning 3 canes for team_mycroft:
1.
ST. BART'S WEEKLY BULLETIN: CLASSIFIEDS
All the news that's hardly fit to print.
31/10/11
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I left my coat in the 1st-floor break room last week.
If found, please return to the Mortuary. Thanks :)
-Molly
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ANNUAL COMPUTER LAB BAKE SALE
8 November 2011, All Day
Proceeds to benefit replacement of 3rd Floor microscopes
(damages courtesy of YOU KNOW WHO)
Donations welcome, edible or monetary!!!
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iBook G4 13" for sale
Excellent used condition (4 yrs and running strong)
£500 OBO
Email Mike for more info
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Somebody took my scarf. Again.
Kindly return it if you value your life.
SH
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7/11/11
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Lisa, will you marry me? XOXOXOX
Eternally yours,
Raj
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Molly: Please specify coat colour and any identifying
stains, marks, and/or flaws. I already know your size.
SH
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ANNUAL COMPUTER LAB BAKE SALE
Tomorrow, All Day
Proceeds to benefit replacement of 3rd Floor microscopes
(damages courtesy of YOU KNOW WHO)
Yes, Charlotte is making her famous Bakewell tart!!!
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I had no idea Lord Voldemort himself walked in our midst.
SH
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iBook G4 13" for sale
Excellent used condition (4 yrs and running strong)
£425 OBO
Email Mike for more info
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You're still asking too much.
(And my scarf is still missing. Tick tock.)
SH
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14/11/11
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Raj - YES! <3 <3 <3
Yours, Lisa
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For the benefit of everyone else, it's a grey pea coat
with five buttons down the front. No stains, in very
good condition. Might still smell like the dry cleaners.
-Molly
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Congratulations to Lisa Mulvey and Rajesh Talwar on
their recent engagement. Bart's wishes you the best.
The Editor
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You might as well just sign your name.
Glad you've found a more socially acceptable
way of passing your spare time (although it's
far less profitable than your previous pursuits).
SH
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I still don't understand how you slip these missives in
at the last minute, and I still don't understand why I
let them run. For the entertainment value, most likely.
The Editor
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ANNUAL COMPUTER LAB BAKE SALE
Revenue Report: We raised a total of £321.48
Thanks to all who contributed!!!
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iBook G4 13" for sale
Excellent used condition (4 yrs and running strong)
£300 OBO
Email Mike for more info
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This year's Bakewell was rather lacklustre. I'd give
Raina Chishtie's pumpkin bread top billing next year,
if I were you (rest assured I'm glad that I'm not).
SH
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21/11/11
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WE HAVE THE SCARF. OUR DEMANDS ARE SIMPLE.
VACATE 3RD FLOOR LAB POSTHASTE OR YOU WILL
NEVER SEE YOUR PRECIOUS WOOL FRIEND AGAIN.
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We would like to remind you that this is a weekly staff
newsletter, not Gumtree. Please react accordingly.
Congratulations, Lisa & Rajesh!
The Board of Trustees
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iBook G4 13" for sale
Excellent used condition (4 yrs and running strong)
£300 OBO
Email Mike for more info
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If I take it off your hands for £150, will the abysmally
repetitive adverts stop? My eyes are bleeding.
SH
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Sorry, forgot to put this in last week:
YOU KNOW WHO is what they call you behind
your back. How could you possibly not know?
The Editor
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ANNUAL HOLIDAY GIFT EXCHANGE
Sign-Up Deadline: 1 December 2011
Please leave your name on a slip of paper in
the glass fishbowl in the Atrium!!!
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Your blatant exclamation-point abuse offends me.
YKW
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28/11/11
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I have liberated my scarf from its supremely unclever hiding place.
Molly, your coat is now in your locker. I'd change the combination
if I were you (still glad I'm not). You owe me coffee or pumpkin bread.
Will be in 3rd Floor lab as per usual, etc.
SH
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I would like to formally apologize to the Board of Trustees for
letting this newsletter get a bit out of hand. However, I would
also like to point out that putting this freak show together is
the highlight of my week, and my professional opinion with
regard to the Classifieds section is that it serves a unique and
necessary purpose in our all too frequently uptight community.
The Editor
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ANNUAL HOLIDAY GIFT EXCHANGE
Sign-Up Deadline: 1 December 2011
Please leave your name on a slip of paper in
the glass fishbowl in the Atrium!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Lisa & Raj are on the gift registry at Fortnum & Mason.
Dig deep, everybody! Let's make this special :)
-Molly
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Sherlock, couldn't catch you in time last week,
but how about a counter-offer of £200?
Best,
Mike
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5/12/11
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The Board of Trustees would like to remind the Editor that he
was granted this post on a trial basis only, although they must
also concede that he makes an excellent point. Carry on.
The Director
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ANNUAL HOLIDAY GIFT EXCHANGE
Sign-Up Deadline extended to 10 December 2011
Please leave your name on a slip of paper in
the glass fishbowl in the Atrium!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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I will find out who chairs the Seasonal Activities Committee
and use their intranet account to download questionable material.
You have been warned.
YKW
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Might as well just sign your name.
The Editor
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Snark is a good look on you, John.
SH
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We would like to thank Mike Stamford for his generous
donation of £200 as a follow-up to the Bake Sale.
SAC Chair
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Tied for second place are #16 (thisprettywren) and #21 (myfieldnotes) with 10 votes each, earning 2 canes for team_watson and team_sherlock respectively:
16.
Sherlock has deleted a lot of things from his hard drive over the years.
Extraneous data, of course. Those decisions are easy. John had laughed at him about his lack of knowledge about the solar system, but it isn't as though astronomy were powered on his own understanding of it. The planets had been orbiting the sun since long before there were humans to understand the physics of it; they'd continue to do so until long after the last rational minds were gone.
Upsetting details from his own personal history. He deletes those, not because they aren't important--they are; or, at least they were at the time, and Sherlock does know enough to realise that's its own type of valuable information--but because they're distracting. Mycroft has always found it disconcerting to recount a childhood memory only to find that his own brother has no recollection of it happening. He'd objected rather strenuously when he discovered that Sherlock had deleted the memory of their pet spaniel.
("It's a matter of humanity, Sherlock."
"He was a dog. It was years ago. What possible purpose could it serve, taking up space in my brain?")
*
Some information he never bothers to store at all.
Sherlock doesn't know how to drive, for instance, although he has no doubt that, should the need arise, he'd be able to work out the mechanics quickly enough. He's entirely avoided reading entire sections of the accepted literary canon. There are large numbers of non-European plants whose blooms he wouldn't recognise (though he has relevant websites bookmarked).
*
Some things, he never quite forgets.
His mother's birthday, for one, even though she died years ago. He'd tried to delete it, a few months after the funeral. When it rolled around again the following April, Sherlock had been glad that particular bit of data had stuck.
Mrs Hudson's favourite type of biscuits. Ostensibly because it's useful to be able to curry her favour, though he's hasn't taken advantage of it since moving into the Baker Street flat. Building up capitol, he told himself, the last time he brought her a packet. She's smiled and thanked him, and he'd declined her offer for tea.
That there are seventeen steps up to 221b. It's not necessary knowledge, except when it is: when he's exhausted or hurt, when he knows John's waiting for him. He counts them every time.
Sherlock never forgets how to shoot a gun, despite the fact that Mycroft had successfully kept him from acquiring one after that case with the Serbian diplomat, four months after he moved to Montague Street. (Then John arrives and--to belabour a metaphor--shoots Mycroft's best efforts all to hell. Just for that, Sherlock thinks he'll keep him.)
***
Sherlock finds John's cane propped behind the sitting room door one late summer afternoon. Through the open window comes the sound, not of London traffic, but of the lazy droning of bees.
He stares at it for a long time before picking it up, hefting it in his hands, testing its weight. John watches him do it over the tops of his glasses, not speaking. It feels almost unbearably medical under his fingertips, its metal smooth and cold.
"I don't remember this being here."
John sighs and folds his paper down into his lap. "That's my old cane," he says. His voice is patient; he'd long ago accepted that Sherlock's genius comes with this sort of price.
"You hated it," Sherlock says. "It can't have any sentimental value for you." He's frowning at John as though John himself is a puzzle, as though the answer could be read on his face.
"I did hate it," John agrees.
"You haven't needed it in years. Not since--"
Not since that first night, running together down alleys and up staircases. The first time John had followed Sherlock even though he was wrong (then right, then wrong again); that night Sherlock did something unforgivably stupid and John answered by doing something unforgivably brave.
When he looks up again, John is smiling at him, the corners of his eyes creasing into lines that are, perhaps, deeper now than they once were, but no less kind. "Remembered now, have you?"
The answer Sherlock gives is the truest he knows. "I never forget the important things," he says. "Those, I always keep."
21.
Sherlock leapt from the cab even before it reached a full stop. Lestrade stepped immediately forward leading Sherlock through the entrance and down the warren of corridors, words rapid-fire. "He doesn't remember anything. Scared the life out of a couple of university kids. Thought they'd found a dead body. We're waiting for toxicology to come back."
Sherlock didn't acknowledge him.
"He's in a bad way of it. He decked Anderson when he tried to get a look at him."
Sherlock hit the stairs taking them two at a time.
"He won't talk to any of us."
The details were unimportant. After eight days. There was only one thing. One data point that mattered.
John's bruised, stitched face was frowning down at his hand, but he shoved himself upright, expression going wary as Sherlock burst through the doorway.
An aberrant misfiring of neural cells, perhaps assisted by poor quality control in one of the five nicotine patches he wore created a disconnect between Sherlock's brain and his mouth, for instead of the innumerable things he meant to say what came out was, "You're alive."
Cautiously surveying him through the eye that wasn't swollen shut John nodded.
"You don't know me?"
John shook his head.
Sherlock pretended not to notice the flinch as he stepped forward. "Your name is John Watson. You are a doctor. You were a soldier. You were invalided out after you were shot in the shoulder and for other reasons no longer relevant. You live at 221B Baker Street. You do not object to odd smells, violin music, or if the last biscuit is gone before you have tea." Sherlock indicated John's now clenched fist resting against the bed tray. "Although you write with your right hand, you prefer shooting with your left. And my name is Sherlock Holmes."
John's swollen eye flickered warily to Lestrade in the doorway, then to the IVs tethering him, then to Sherlock's face. Without a word, Sherlock could tell none of it was familiar.
He could go on. Fill John's head with facts. Tell him about Sherlock's coat and how no, as John's military training had automatically noted, he did not have a gun marring its cut because John's gun had gone missing right along with John. Or yes, those were patches on his wrists and hidden up his arm, but not indicators of a smoking habit because one only had to observe the state of his nails. He could tell him yes his hair was always this disheveled, that incessant running his hands through it until he had wanted to pull it out had done nothing to alter its natural state. He could tell him every fact Sherlock knew. But it wouldn't mean anything to John. And Sherlock wanted to go out and damage something. Preferably with explosives.
John was watching Sherlock. Opening his mouth, John finally rasped. "Do you have a pen?"
Sherlock raised his brows. "Yes."
One handed John pulled the napkin from under the plastic cup of ice chips and awkwardly clicked it on. Sherlock cocked his head and watched as John carefully wrote "Sherlock Holmes". Then he stared at it, biting down on his split lip.
"You appear to have retrograde amnesia with no evident traumatic brain injury. Not surprising considering the cocktail they suspect was in your system when you were found, by two students claiming they were taking a shortcut but who were actually trading sexual favors. They were not your captors." And he let his words go heavy. "But I promise you, we will find who did this and stop them."
John slowly nodded. "All right."
Sherlock blinked. Lestrade exclaimed from the doorway. "What? You won't talk to us but he comes in and suddenly 'all right'?"
"Yes."
Discomfited, Lestrade asked. "Why?"
John looked at Sherlock and then down to the tray's napkin. He raised his eyes and beyond the swelling and bruising there was something that looked like relief. "Because I left myself a note."
Sherlock frowned. The napkin held only John's rendition of Sherlock's name. If it wasn't a reminder...
Sherlock's gaze flashed to the clenched fist resting beside it. Oh.
"May I?" Gently he took John's hand in his own. The smeared words were written in black in the same decisive handwriting across John's palm.
His name is
Sherlock Holmes.
Trust him.
John's split lip tugged into a smile. "Apparently I felt there were some things more important than knowing my name or that I don't mind missing the last biscuit."
In third place is #23 (bwblack) with 8 votes, earning 1 cane for team_sherlock:
23.
“Mycroft Homes, if you orchestrated this….” Sherlock seethed as he tried and failed to loosen the rope that bound him to a chair in the northwest corner of a cold, grey room.
“You think I was so desperate to spend time with you and your companion that I had you kidnapped?”
“You’ve done it before,” John interjected.
“Twice this past Christmas.” Sherlock added.
“Well, if you hadn’t escaped the first time…”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere.” John sighed.
“Where could we possibly go?” Lestrade asked as he tried to wobble the chair he was tied to. “Bloody things are bolted down… as if we might walk off with them…”
“You are not funny.” Sherlock sighed.
“You expect me to do a comedy routine while the four of us are tied to chairs in opposite corners of some tiny room? It’s like we’re naughty primary schoolers.
“Or kinky bridge partners,” Mycroft offered.
“Those aren’t cards in my pocket, I’m just happy to see you.” Lestrade waggled his eyebrows emphatically.
“If only the rest of you were so mobile,” Sherlock smirked.
Lestrade’s eyes twinkled as a wickedly sly smile spread across his face, “Well…”
“If it wasn’t Mycroft…” John interrupted before they were drowned in a sea of entendre, “then we need to find a way out of here.”
“Our chairs are bolted to the floor,” Lestrade replied. “Our Legs and feet are bound. I’m no Holmes but I think they’ll agree with my assessment that the walls are concrete. We’re unlikely to break through them without a tank. The steel door….”
“We need to wait to be found?” John interrupted.
“That would imply we are lost.” Sherlock frowned.
“We are!”
“I am never lost when I am in London!” Sherlock scoffed. “I am trapped, however.”
“How nice for you. I’m lost and trapped.”
“Shame,” Sherlock sighed.
“Right, well, when will one of us be missed?” John regained focus.
Lestrade shrugged, “Donno, off until Monday, technically…. Depends on how many murders we have on the weekend, doesn’t it?”
“When will you be missed at home?” John asked.
“Won’t be.”
“They won’t worry when you don’t turn up for dinner?”
“I’m rarely home for dinner.”
“When you don’t call to check in, then?” John sighed.
“Not so great at that, either,” Greg blushed.
“Right, well, Sherlock’s schedule is erratic at best. Mycroft? Surely, your assistant will notice your lack of communication.
Mycroft frowned, “Maybe. Yes. But I was scheduled for meetings in Tehran. So she scheduled a ski weekend in Gstaad.”
“You’ll be missed at your meeting!” John perked up.
“I will be absent, not missed.”
“I imagine they’ll be rather relieved to be rid of you, actually.” Sherlock snickered.
“Quite.” Mycroft agreed.
“Right… well… Honestly, Lestrade, this is why you should call home more often!”
“Honey, I’m sorry I won’t be home in time for dinner. I’ve been unavoidably detained.” Lestrade said with a sigh.
“That is quite alright, Dear. I’m a bit tied up myself.” Mycroft responded in amused tones.
“Lunch tomorrow, if either of us can get away?”
“It is a date.” Mycroft agreed.
“A tentative one.” Lestrade laughed.
“Wait,” John’s eyes widened in shock, “you two…”
“You didn’t work that out at Christmas?” Sherlock shook his head in disbelief.
“I was too busy being kidnapped!”
“Won’t you be missed at your surgery?” Lestrade asked.
“No, I am not scheduled to work this weekend.”
“Or any weekend. He was sacked,” Sherlock explained
“I was given to believe he was a rather top notch physician,” Mycroft frowned.
“I kept missing work without notice.” John reddened.
“For cases,” Sherlock defended.
Mycroft sighed as he tried and failed to find a more comfortable position. "Well, it will be good for my diet.”
The men tensed as the door creaked open.
A team of armed response officers flooded the room.
Lestrade grinned, “That was fast but how’d….”
“I alerted them,” A female voice came from the doorway.
The men all turned their heads to see Mrs. Hudson just entering the room.
“We had a date to watch Telly, remember John. “ She coughed, “you downloaded all that Project Runway? Sorry officers. I know that’s illegal but Tim Gunn is….” She trailed off as a warm glow spread across her face.
Lestrade grinned, “I agree. But how’d you find us?”
“I used the tracking computer thingy..” She held out a device, “that your Mr. Holmes gave me at New Years.”
“Mycroft!” Sherlock protested.
“No more escape for you this Christmas, brother.”
Overall Team Standings
Team Watson - 17 canes, 2 patches
Team Lestrade - 13 canes, 3 patches
Team Sherlock - 11 canes, 3 patches
Team Mycroft - 10 canes