Sherlock, of course, had not been asleep when John left. He heard the man clomp around the flat (really, could he make ANY more noise? He sounded like an elephant herd), and listened with his eyes closed at the jingle of John's keys moving to his pocket, then the tromping down the stairs, and finally the slam of the front door.
Finally, Sherlock thought to himself. He never slept much anyways, but last night had been particularly bad. He'd been having odd dreams of late, of castles and knights and a gleaming sword, and a man in a pointed hat. They weren't bad dreams, per say, at first, but then there was war, and battle, and death.
Always death.
Now that John was gone, he could start his experiments on the rat livers in the fridge. John had almost found them, but since Sherlock had put them in a container marked sour cream, and he knew John hated sour cream, he was fairly certain that he could store them long enough to get at least a few good bits of data from them.
xx
He was elbow deep in rat livers when his phone rang. He had a specific ring for John, one for Lestrade- Graham, Gavin? It didn't matter- and the funeral march for his meddling brother. Everyone else got a generic ring.
It was a generic ring, so he left it alone, buzzing in the pocket of his second best dressing gown.
When it rang only 1 minute and 27 second later, he tried to avoid it again, but a nagging sensation bit at him. He dug into his pocket, his hand still bloody and sticky with rat entrails, and looked at the number. It wasn't one he knew, and he thought about letting it ring through.
But he'd already been interrupted, his concentration gone. He poked hard at the answer button and barked into the phone "What is it?"
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Date: 2019-01-08 06:34 am (UTC)Finally, Sherlock thought to himself. He never slept much anyways, but last night had been particularly bad. He'd been having odd dreams of late, of castles and knights and a gleaming sword, and a man in a pointed hat. They weren't bad dreams, per say, at first, but then there was war, and battle, and death.
Always death.
Now that John was gone, he could start his experiments on the rat livers in the fridge. John had almost found them, but since Sherlock had put them in a container marked sour cream, and he knew John hated sour cream, he was fairly certain that he could store them long enough to get at least a few good bits of data from them.
xx
He was elbow deep in rat livers when his phone rang. He had a specific ring for John, one for Lestrade- Graham, Gavin? It didn't matter- and the funeral march for his meddling brother. Everyone else got a generic ring.
It was a generic ring, so he left it alone, buzzing in the pocket of his second best dressing gown.
When it rang only 1 minute and 27 second later, he tried to avoid it again, but a nagging sensation bit at him. He dug into his pocket, his hand still bloody and sticky with rat entrails, and looked at the number. It wasn't one he knew, and he thought about letting it ring through.
But he'd already been interrupted, his concentration gone. He poked hard at the answer button and barked into the phone "What is it?"