Dr. John Watson (
sharpshooting) wrote2012-07-10 11:34 pm
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It would've been an exaggeration to say that John hadn't stopped thinking about Sherlock and the cocaine since he'd found out about it. He was still worried about it, though, and not likely to stop anytime soon-- at least not until he'd found where Sherlock had hidden it and gotten rid of it.
It wasn't made easy by the fact that Sherlock had gone from following him around everywhere like a singleminded and sarcastic guard dog, to disappearing for long stretches of time. Each time Sherlock re-emerged from wherever he'd been (usually the lab, counting on the ratborgs to protect him from John's interference no doubt) John inspected him closely for signs of coming down off a high, but found none. After a few days he determined that Sherlock had squirrelled the drugs away for safekeeping, and it would be up to him to find out where.
He knew better than to try looking when Sherlock was in the room with him, so he waited until he was reasonably sure his flatmate was in the lab, and let himself in. The place was even more of a mess than the day John had arrived; he was almost surprised Sherlock hadn't begun colonizing his space as well, with the amount of crap he had shoved into his own.
He had no idea what Sherlock would consider a good hiding place, so he chose at random, and started with the dresser.
It wasn't made easy by the fact that Sherlock had gone from following him around everywhere like a singleminded and sarcastic guard dog, to disappearing for long stretches of time. Each time Sherlock re-emerged from wherever he'd been (usually the lab, counting on the ratborgs to protect him from John's interference no doubt) John inspected him closely for signs of coming down off a high, but found none. After a few days he determined that Sherlock had squirrelled the drugs away for safekeeping, and it would be up to him to find out where.
He knew better than to try looking when Sherlock was in the room with him, so he waited until he was reasonably sure his flatmate was in the lab, and let himself in. The place was even more of a mess than the day John had arrived; he was almost surprised Sherlock hadn't begun colonizing his space as well, with the amount of crap he had shoved into his own.
He had no idea what Sherlock would consider a good hiding place, so he chose at random, and started with the dresser.
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John hadn't heard Sherlock come in, which was hardly surprising, given that his head was all the way inside Sherlock's sock index -again.
"I expected this days ago, really." Come to save me from myself? How's that going for you?
Sherlock tipped one of the chairs forward, depositing a load of paper and rumpled clothing into the floor, and sat.
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"Sorry to disappoint you," he said with as much ire in it as he could muster.
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"Don't let me stop you. Did you try the mattress yet? It's heavy, if you need a hand."
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"I have no excuse," he said. "You know what I'm after, Sherlock. I'll leave as soon as I have it."
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Sherlock looked John over, strategically. He'd lost almost ten pounds since Baskerville, and even then Sherlock had always liked his chances in a physical fight. Also the smoking would have given him a handicap in the short term, unaccustomed as his lungs were to functioning at less than full capacity. Not to mention the very dubious control John had over his emotions; even if he really wanted to overpower Sherlock, since it was for his own good, it was unlikely that he could bring himself to beat the pulp out of his 'dead' friend. Which is what it would take to prize away the phial.
It wouldn't be nice to watch, but Sherlock was fairly certain John couldn't make good on his threat. When he didn't move, Sherlock thought it safe to get on with their lives.
"So. Dinner?"
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Which meant there was no power play he could make that would actually work. Not that there was ever really one that would work with Sherlock, but sometimes he'd been able to badger his friend into backing down from being an idiot. It rankled that now, when it was more important than ever, Sherlock was making sure that John had lost the ability to affect the situation at all.
Or maybe he hadn't. He looked at Sherlock for a moment, considering, weighing Sherlock's anger and the likelihood of success against satisfying his own (admittedly childish) whim, before deciding timidity was useless. He rushed Sherlock and tackled him around the waist, bringing them both crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs, Sherlock trying to shove John back while John dug at his pockets, searching for the vial.
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"John!" He wasn't going to get the phial, but Sherlock was having a hell of a time reminding himself of that. John was incredibly determined and seemed to have borrowed several limbs off someone. He found himself pulling punches, not willing to hurt John in order to win. At last Sherlock managed to get a hand around each of John's wrists and hold him off. From the flat of his back, Sherlock still managed a dignified fury.
"I think that's quite enough, don't you?!"