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Guys, I finally submitted this one on time!
Okay, here it is:
(please excuse the terrible title)
—
A Rainy Day in 221B
Rain pelted the windows of 221B Baker Street, pounding the glass so hard it was at the point of breaking. Sherlock was restless, pacing all over the flat, compulsively checking his phone for any new texts or updates he may have missed within the last few seconds he checked it last. John was constantly being distracted from his book, looking up when his mad flatmate groaned or incessantly tapped his fingers on any hard surface available.
Frustrated, John placed his bookmark inside and shut the novel, slamming it audibly in order to catch Sherlock’s attention. It miraculously worked, a stunned expression on his face. He bit his tongue, trying to choke down the smirk he knew was coming. Sherlock just look so ridiculously rumpled, his dark curls a bizarre halo, nostrils flared, and eyes filled an insane light.
“No word from Lestrade?” John questioned, already knowing the answer.
“None, none whatsoever. John, my mind needs constant stimulation or else it will rot into an inevitable pile of mush. I have concluded all my experiments; I even finished writing up the dull report of my findings. Checking the website is no good, I’ve been refreshing the page every,” Sherlock paused long enough to check the time on his phone, “minute and forty seconds, to no avail I might add. Maybe I’m better off taking out the syringe and shooting up. That could possibly give my mind something to occupy long enough to distract from the inane, dull normality of life. Speaking of, where the hell did you hide my stash?” Sherlock shot him a crazed look, clenching his jaw. John gave him a disapproving shake of the head, crossing his arms.
“Sherlock, you don’t need that rubbish, you’ve been doing so well, too.”
“John, you don’t understand, this is an emergency.” This time, John did not hold back his smirk.
“And what about spending a rainy day inside our flat an emergency, hm?” Sherlock stared at him witheringly. He strode over to where John was sitting, grasping the arms as he bent forward to look him straight in the eye.
“Because, John, I can feel my brain melting.”
John raised his left eyebrow.
“Oh can you now?”
“Yes I most certainly can! Soon it will be leaking out my ears and then you would have to clean up said leakage since I would be otherwise indisposed.” John bit his lip, knowing that this would be not the best time to laugh, no matter how funny it may seem. A bored high- functioning sociopath jonesing for a fix? Could be dangerous, very dangerous in fact. But, you see, that didn’t scare John Watson.
John Watson was a doctor, a soldier, and, above all else, Sherlock’s closest friend, so he could clearly take Sherlock Holmes head-on. And besides, dangerous was fun, John enjoyed dangerous, so instead of swallowing his laughter, he let it bubble to the surface, aware of what the consequences might be.
Sherlock would probably throttle him, crushing his windpipe so he would never be able to laugh at him again, but at that moment, John couldn’t be arsed. If he were to die, he couldn’t imagine a better death than taking a good long moment to laugh at his deranged friend. Sherlock crouched down even closer to John, so that their noses were practically touching, his clear eyes burning into John’s navy blues.
“Were. You. Just. Laughing at me?” Sherlock practically spat out each syllable. John rolled his eyes. He always does have a flare for the dramatic, John thought.
“Of course I was, and I’ll bloody do it again and keep doing it.” John chuckled for good measure.
“John, I’m bored. I have absolutely nothing to keep me preoccupied. I do not think it wise to make me angry.”
“Oh come off it, grumpy pants. You just said your brain was melting, for god’s sake, and that it would leak out of your ears. C’mon, even you have to have a sense of humor.” Sherlock stared blankly at him for several seconds too long before righting himself, standing ramrod straight, as if there were some sort of invisible string being pulled from the top of his head. He turned and sulked over to his own chair, flourishing his blue silk robe in his wake. Sherlock drew his knees to his chest, clutching them as he rested his chin on them, avoiding John’s steady gaze.
“Sherlock,” John said gently after the silence stretched from seconds to minutes. The silence was greeted by even more (petulant) silence. John sighed deeply, rubbing his hand over his tired face. It was like dealing with a bloody seven year old sometimes.
“Sherlock, don’t do this, I was only joking.”
Still nothing.
“If it would make you feel better, I’ll get out my med kit and check to make sure your brain is in its proper place. How does that sound, Sherlock?” John asked in his most coaxing tone, the one he used to get kids to take their shots, dangling the promise of lollies over their heads, soothing any and all fears.
“Sherlock, please, this is honestly ridiculous. You’re a grown man; you should be able to handle a bit of boredom. Relax, go to your mind palace, think of another experiment, just don’t sit here and have a strop like a bloody five year old. You and I both know I was just messing with you, which was obviously a huge mistake. I going to have myself a shower and when I’m done, I do not want to see you in the same spot with the same look on your face, got it?” Sherlock remained quiet, turning slightly away from him. “Right, well I’ll take that as a yes,” John huffed, walking toward the bathroom, leaving Sherlock to sulk in peace.
—
One hot shower later and John felt clean and fresh and almost content. He managed to work out the tension in his muscles, but there was still a nagging sense of guilt clawing at him. While he toweled off, he thought of ways to make it up to him.
He could give Molly a call and ask if she had any spare body parts lying around, but he didn’t want to inconvenience her and he definitely did not want to go out in the freezing cold rain, even if it was just to get into a cab. That would be a very last resort, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that point. John thought as he pulled on a pair of worn jeans, a shirt, and a jumper, each time coming up with virtually nothing.
Until it hit him.
Cluedo.
Yes, that would certainly get Sherlock out of his funk. He rushed to his closet, rummaging through stacks of clothes until he finally saw the edge of the board game. A rush of memories playing as a child with Harry overwhelmed him and he couldn’t help but smile.
This one game brought him so much joy and he only hoped Sherlock felt the same once he started to play. John envisioned the pair laughing and teasing and guessing, spending the day playing game after game, any trace of guilt washed clean by Sherlock’s easy grin. John couldn’t have been more wrong.
—
“Sherlock, just play the bloody game right, will you?” John asked slowly, holding back the angry shake in his voice.
“But John, it’s obvious that Mr. Green killed himself, the evidence is staring you in the face. He was depressed that his wife was having multiple affairs with their gardener, so he believed life to be worthless. He also loved to be dramatic, being a theatre lover. So, he organized a dinner party, knowing full well that he was going to kill himself, and he waits for everyone to get settled before slipping away quietly while his guests were having drinks. He was probably smiling while he was tying the noose, glad to provide proper entertainment for his dinner guests. Hearing the group laugh at some dull joke, he jumps and within moments, he’s dead. Several minutes after, someone spots his swinging body and screams, and here we are.” Sherlock’s smile was not the joyous, light hearted smile John pictured. No, this one was full of smug superiority. John took a few deep breaths before speaking.
“Sherlock, I’m going to tell you one last time: the victim cannot commit suicide.”
“But the evidence!”
“What damn evidence? Everything you said you spun out of absolutely nothing at all. The killer, which there is definitely a killer, has to be one of the dinner guests.”
“Nothing you say will convince me that Mr. Green did not kill himself.” John nearly punched that self satisfied look off his face.
“Fine, don’t believe me? Look at the rules to the game.” John shoved the flimsy paper at his egocentric flatmate. Sherlock’s eyes scanned over the paper, frowning slightly. John leaned back, smiling widely.
“See Sherlock, those are the legitimate rules to the game.”
“I don’t care, I still believe Mr. Green hanged himself.” Taking three more steadying breaths, John looked up again, trying his best not to scream.
“That isn’t even the weapon used, it was the bloody pipe, so he obviously did not hang himself.” Sherlock remained quiet, staring fixedly at the board. All of a sudden he snapped, flipping it over, making the pieces and small sheets of paper go flying. John pinched the bridge of his nose as Sherlock threw his temper tantrum.
He wielded the hunting knife that’s usually imbedded in the mantel and used it to pin the board to the wall. Sherlock bounded to his room and slammed the door. John chuckled, shaking his head. He made a mental note to never play Cluedo with Sherlock Holmes ever again.
