FIC * Normalcy (is overrated) * Sherlock * Sherlock, John

[renrenren3]

Title: Normalcy (is overrated)
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock, John
Words: ~650
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: This is what passes for normalcy at 221b.
Beta: none
Notes: Written for prompt 7 (poker) of the Maritombola @ maridichallenge.



There's a fireplace in their living room in Baker Steet, a remnant from a time when people traveled in hansom cabs and streets were lit by gas lamps. John once commented that it would be nice to clean it up and have a nice fire going during the coldest weeks of the winter, but then again John is a hopeless romantic. Central heating is much more practical and efficient. If it was up to Sherlock he'd get rid of the fireplace entirely, but he doubts that Mrs Hudson would approve of such drastic remodeling. So 221b Baker Street has been left (mostly) as it was when Sherlock and John moved in, including the fireplace and other useless contraptions.

Next to the fireplace there's a poker, also a relic from the past, and that poker is currently covered with blood. Sherlock knows that because he's the one who got the blood on it. Sherlock also knows that John knows that there's blood on the poker, because only ten minutes ago John looked up from the paper he was reading and frowned. (He had read up to page 8, world politics, because he'd bent forward a little and scratched his knee, probably thinking about Afghanistan. The initial frown was due to what he'd been reading, but then his eyes focused on the other end of the room and he'd moved his lips a little, as if thinking about how to phrase his question. Is that blood on the poker?, probably, John was very straightforward, but then the frown deepened, most likely he realized that Sherlock's answer to such a pointless question would have been a terse Yes. John had played the conversation in his head and then he'd gone back to his paper, making a point not to look at Sherlock. He's so easy to read, it's almost endearing.)

John keeps reading his paper and Sherlock pretends that he's still thinking about his case, a rather boring double homicide that he's solved ages ago, but it will be much more satisfying to explain everything when he's holding the final and crucial piece of evidence, the grass-stained tutu, which good old Lestrade is currently looking for. Besides, Sherlock can't talk right now. He needs to know if John will ask about the poker. Only a year ago, he would have asked already. Probably in a very loud and outraged tone, possibly phrasing it to imply that he was considering the idea that Sherlock might have just beaten someone to death with that poker. By now John knows that Sherlock wouldn't do anything of the sort (he'd rather use poison as his weapon, or borrow John's gun) but Sherlock didn't anticipate this silence. It's unusual for John not to say anything at all, not even to scold Sherlock because he didn't bother to clean up his own messes.

A thin drip of blood goes from one end of the poker to the carpet. John glances briefly to the poker, then to the spray painted smiley face with bullet holes. After he finishes his paper, John folds it and tosses it aside. He clears his throat. Sherlock feigns disinterest and tries to guess what John is about to say. It's either going to be Mrs Hudson is going to give you hell for this or an inquiry as to which kind of blood is it. Sherlock is rather looking forward to explaining about the goose.

"Are you hungry?" John asks. "I could go for a kebab." Sherlock turns around and stares. John looks back with perfect innocence. "Or we could get Chinese, if you'd like."

He doesn't ask Sherlock about the poker, and Sherlock doesn't ask him why he didn't ask about the poker, because John's so used to living with Sherlock that he wouldn't flinch if Sherlock brought home a dead body. Sherlock doesn't know how to feel about that, so he gets his coat and they go out to dinner.

The next day, Mrs Hudson gives Sherlock hell for the poker.

Comments

[scatteredintime.livejournal.com]

This is very wonderful and perfect. ♥