Untitled BBC Sherlock ficlet for comment-fic meme
Here's a tiny ~700 word ficlet for the comment-fic meme over at RUNNING HOT, which can be found here: http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/130938.html?thread=2683514&#t2683514
Need help with John immediately - SH
What's happening?
He's being unreasonable - SH
Doesn't sound like an emergency, Sherlock.
Come now please - SH
It was the 'please' that caught Lestrade's attention. He'd just gotten off a fourteen hour shift and a detour to Baker Street wasn't on the top of his to-do list. But he'd known Sherlock a long time, and the man didn't really say 'please". Ever.
Right., he responded by text, and headed into what turned out to be nothing like what he expected.
When Lestrade entered the flat, John was stomping around in nothing but a dressing gown, muttering under his breath and slamming things down on various surfaces, rifling through drawers and cabinets. Sherlock was right behind him, valiantly attempting to get John to sit down, but if there was a man in London whose stubborn streak measured up with Sherlock's, it was John Watson.
"What's happening here?" he asked, by way of announcing himself.
Sherlock looked like someone had just tossed him a life raft. "Lestrade, for the love of Christ, will you try to help me get him back into bed?"
Lestrade wasn't sure exactly what that meant for just a moment, then he got a better look at John. His face was flushed and his eyes were glassy, the lids slightly drooping. He was sick, clearly, running a pretty high fever from the looks of it.
"John. John, it's Greg, what are you looking for?"
"My pistol, obviously! There's clearly something suspicious going on in here today, I'm only trying to keep us safe and Sherlock's gone and hidden my fucking gun, he's being a spectacular git. Would you distract him so I can find it, please?" All of this was delivered as if it made complete sense, which it didn't, but if John had a high fever, there's no telling what his brain was broadcasting.
Exasperated, Sherlock practically shouted, "He's not going to help you find it, John! There's nothing dangerous happening here except that your fever is making you delusional and even I know that delusional + handgun does not equal 'keeping us safe'!"
John ignored him in favor of tossing up the sofa cushions. Sherlock gave Greg a pointed look, head cocked to the side, as if to ask Do You See What I'm Dealing With Here?
Lestrade had experience, though, distraction techniques that had worked in past situations, so he figured maybe he'd try one out on John.
"Look, why don't you go lie down a few minutes and let me find it for you?"
"I live here and I can't find it, you're not going to be able to find it, Greg, and I need it. I'll do it myself."
"John, I've torn this place to shreds on drugs busts a dozen times. You don't think I know where to look?"
At that point, John stopped, eyeing Lestrade with a wary look. "You really think so?"
"Yeah, 'course, John. Can't have a man without his weapon, not when there might be something dangerous happening. You just go on and get a bit of rest, I bet it won't take me more than ten minutes to figure out where it is."
John was sagging a bit by now, clearly giving in to the exhaustion from his illness. "Well, all right, but I'm coming back out here in fifteen minutes if you can't find it."
Sherlock was visibly relived and put his hand gently around John's arm. "I'm sorry for trying to hide your gun from you, don't be angry. Let me just get you under the covers, all right?" He led John from the room and looked at Lestrade with wide-eyed wonder when he returned.
"How'd you do that?"
"Got kids. Sometimes you have to trick them with a distraction."
"Brilliant. Now how are you going to distract him when he comes back out here?"
"Sherlock, he'll be asleep in three minutes. Now, I'm going home. I trust you can take this from here?"
"Yeah, I - thanks. Thank you, really."
"Don't mention it. And don't mention to John that I used my expertise in heading off a child's temper tantrum on him, all right?"
True to Lestrade's prediction, by the time Sherlock returned to the bedroom, John was fast asleep. He could only hope that the fever would break and he wouldn't have to find a better hiding place for that damn Browning.
Need help with John immediately - SH
What's happening?
He's being unreasonable - SH
Doesn't sound like an emergency, Sherlock.
Come now please - SH
It was the 'please' that caught Lestrade's attention. He'd just gotten off a fourteen hour shift and a detour to Baker Street wasn't on the top of his to-do list. But he'd known Sherlock a long time, and the man didn't really say 'please". Ever.
Right., he responded by text, and headed into what turned out to be nothing like what he expected.
When Lestrade entered the flat, John was stomping around in nothing but a dressing gown, muttering under his breath and slamming things down on various surfaces, rifling through drawers and cabinets. Sherlock was right behind him, valiantly attempting to get John to sit down, but if there was a man in London whose stubborn streak measured up with Sherlock's, it was John Watson.
"What's happening here?" he asked, by way of announcing himself.
Sherlock looked like someone had just tossed him a life raft. "Lestrade, for the love of Christ, will you try to help me get him back into bed?"
Lestrade wasn't sure exactly what that meant for just a moment, then he got a better look at John. His face was flushed and his eyes were glassy, the lids slightly drooping. He was sick, clearly, running a pretty high fever from the looks of it.
"John. John, it's Greg, what are you looking for?"
"My pistol, obviously! There's clearly something suspicious going on in here today, I'm only trying to keep us safe and Sherlock's gone and hidden my fucking gun, he's being a spectacular git. Would you distract him so I can find it, please?" All of this was delivered as if it made complete sense, which it didn't, but if John had a high fever, there's no telling what his brain was broadcasting.
Exasperated, Sherlock practically shouted, "He's not going to help you find it, John! There's nothing dangerous happening here except that your fever is making you delusional and even I know that delusional + handgun does not equal 'keeping us safe'!"
John ignored him in favor of tossing up the sofa cushions. Sherlock gave Greg a pointed look, head cocked to the side, as if to ask Do You See What I'm Dealing With Here?
Lestrade had experience, though, distraction techniques that had worked in past situations, so he figured maybe he'd try one out on John.
"Look, why don't you go lie down a few minutes and let me find it for you?"
"I live here and I can't find it, you're not going to be able to find it, Greg, and I need it. I'll do it myself."
"John, I've torn this place to shreds on drugs busts a dozen times. You don't think I know where to look?"
At that point, John stopped, eyeing Lestrade with a wary look. "You really think so?"
"Yeah, 'course, John. Can't have a man without his weapon, not when there might be something dangerous happening. You just go on and get a bit of rest, I bet it won't take me more than ten minutes to figure out where it is."
John was sagging a bit by now, clearly giving in to the exhaustion from his illness. "Well, all right, but I'm coming back out here in fifteen minutes if you can't find it."
Sherlock was visibly relived and put his hand gently around John's arm. "I'm sorry for trying to hide your gun from you, don't be angry. Let me just get you under the covers, all right?" He led John from the room and looked at Lestrade with wide-eyed wonder when he returned.
"How'd you do that?"
"Got kids. Sometimes you have to trick them with a distraction."
"Brilliant. Now how are you going to distract him when he comes back out here?"
"Sherlock, he'll be asleep in three minutes. Now, I'm going home. I trust you can take this from here?"
"Yeah, I - thanks. Thank you, really."
"Don't mention it. And don't mention to John that I used my expertise in heading off a child's temper tantrum on him, all right?"
True to Lestrade's prediction, by the time Sherlock returned to the bedroom, John was fast asleep. He could only hope that the fever would break and he wouldn't have to find a better hiding place for that damn Browning.