Joy (Sherlock, M, allergies, part 5/5 COMPLETED)

[VoOs]

This started out as a drabble, but now I feel like I might want to continue, so...

It's been a long time coming, but it happened at last. VoOs writes Sherlock fic. Run for the hills.

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”Not easy on the ego, is it?”

John couldn't help himself. He knew it was petty, but after having spent a good three hours trapped in a train compartment with an increasingly restless, cranky detective, this was a welcome new development. If nothing else, at least it would put a stop to the ceaseless flood of deductions spilling forth from his bored companion, most of them about John himself, and most of them insulting.

“I see she dumped you at last... I'm surprised it took her this long, to be honest... the signs have been apparent since October... Angelo's? Really, John? Is that your best idea of a dinner date?... no wonder it ended with her throwing her drink in your face... how tediously cliché... it was a double White Russian if I'm not mi – wait, no, a Pink Panther, obviously... who would drink such a repulsive beverage anyway?... honestly, John, you're better off without her...”

What can I say, Sherlock? This is what happens when you tell your girlfriend you have to cancel your planned weekend trip to Brighton to go with your flatmate to Glasgow instead. Romantic walks along the beach, or a game of hide-and-seek among dark alleyways, in search for a serial strangler? There I go again, me and my priorities...

Tired, vaguely hung-over, and deduced within an inch of his life, he could certainly use some distraction to take his mind off last night's fiasco. Some distraction, and a good laugh. Luckily, as fate would have it, Sherlock was about to provide him with a little bit of both.

Trying not to smile too widely, John watched as the detective slid the compartment door shut behind him and threw himself down on the seat opposite, all angles and long limbs. The taller man's hair was slightly damp at the fringe, and the skin of his forehead and cheeks wore the polished, slightly pinkish hue of someone who has just given their face a thorough washing with water and soap. He had changed his shirt, and John had a sneaking suspicion that he would find the old one crumpled and shoved into the wastebin in the train's lavatory. Well, Sherlock had certainly done his best to save what could be saved, but despite his efforts he still carried with him the unmistakable, prickly smell of old lady's perfume, like a flowery aura around his person.

John gave a snort and covered his grin with his fist.

“You smell like a sewing circle.”

“Thank you, John, I am aware.” Short and sharp, punctuated by an equally short and sharp sniffle.

“I have zero sympathy for you, you know”, John said, still from behind his fist. “You were exceptionally rude back there. Quite frankly, I think you should consider yourself lucky that she accidentally grabbed the wrong bottle out of her bag and sprayed you with perfume instead of pepper spray.” Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and glared, his characteristic pale, icy stare oddly toothless now, framed as it was by an irritated redness.

“I just thought her friends might be interested to know about the contents of that hip flask, seeing as she had just offered to drive them all after they arrived at the station.” Was he actually pouting now?

“Enough with this 'Good Samaritan' act. You were just showing off, as usual.” John shook his head and, with a quick glance at Sherlock's face, stood up and reached for the overhead luggage space to fish something out of his suitcase.

“Here”, he said, and threw a pocket packet of tissues onto his friend's lap. “I don't have to be the world's only consulting detective to be able to tell that you'll be needing those.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, but his façade of nonchalance was quickly shattered as he was forced to sniffle again, a rather wet, inelegant sound.

“I can't believe she managed to spray me with the only perfume out of five hundred that affects me this way”, he muttered bitterly, pulling a tissue out of the package with a somewhat theatrical flick of the wrist.

“Wait, are you telling me you've actually sampled five hundred different perfumes?” Now it was John's turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Obviously, John. I keep a list of the five hundred most common brands, and save for this one, Joy by Jean Patou, none of the others have ever caused me any problems. There is a perfume from Ancient Egypt, 1700 BC, consisting of balanos oil, myrrh and resin that has been known to bother me as well, but fortunately it has been... out of production for a while.” Would you look at that, the man actually had some sense of humour left in him. John opened his mouth to ask in which context the detective had come across a 3700 year old Egyptian perfume – that ought to be a good story – but he was interrupted by a sudden, shaky gasp from the other man. Once again, John had to fight back a laugh as he watched Sherlock blink repeatedly and squint up at the light in the ceiling, lips slightly parted and nostrils widening like the ones of an animal taking in a scent. It was almost like spotting a rare bird, John thought. He couldn't even remember when he last had seen his flatmate sneeze. Most of the time he seemed to be above such trivial things as bodily functions (hell, sometimes you almost had to force the man to eat), so to see him like this, trying to coax a sneeze out like any other human being was... refreshing. Almost reassuring. But mostly funny.

“Oh, for... c-christ sakehh... hehh...” After long last, Sherlock gave a final gasp and then snapped forward, raising the tissue to catch a shuddering sneeze that was surprisingly high-pitched for a man with his deep vocal timbre. “Heh!'iisch!” This time, John couldn't resist laughing.

“Bless you. Feel any better?” Sherlock shook his head and grumbled something unintelligible into the tissue, still not straightening. His bony shoulders seemed to shiver with another series of hitching breaths - “hh – hH – hHH-!” - and then... nothing. He let out a frustrated groan and raised his head, the itchy state of his nose still evident in the irritated lines around his nostrils and eyes.

“I'm starting to think I would have preferred the pepper spray”, he said, sniffling thickly and massaging the bridge of his nose through the tissue with slow, purposeful movements.

“Don't be so dramatic, it's just an allergy,” John said, fondly. “We'll buy you some antihistamines when we arrive, and then you can take a shower at the hotel.”

“Is this funny to you?” Another glare.

“A bit, yeah. I also feel like justice has been served, somehow.” The detective's only response to that comment was to blow his nose a great deal more loudly than was probably necessary, and then toss the balled-up tissue on the floor. John just smiled and picked up his paper. The train wouldn't be arriving in Glasgow for another one and a half hours or so, but a sulking silence (albeit one interspersed with sniffles) would be far more tolerable than a fussilade of deductions.

Outside raindrops began to tap their soft fingertips against the window. Sherlock sat curled up in the corner of his seat, staring gloomily out at the passing terrain and occasionally wiping or rubbing at his progressively pinkening nose. Sometimes John was amazed at his thirty-something year old flatmate's tendency to both act and look like a twelve year old boy.

After a while had past:

“How about some tea?” John put down his paper again. “A trip to the cafeteria, what do you say?”

“Yes, because that went swimmingly last time.” From crisp, clipped public school diction to “swibbig'ly” in less than fifteen minutes, and all it took was an angry old lady armed with a bottle of Joy.

“Are you coming or not?”

Sherlock unfolded his long legs and got to his feet. With a heaving sigh:

“Fine.” Fide. John was still giggling as he led the way down the corridor to the train's dining car.

TBC(?)

Edited January 7, 2014 by VoOs

[Spoo]

It's been a long time coming, but it happened at last. VoOs writes Sherlock fic.

Buuuut onto an actual response, I think this is FANTASTIC, VoOs! It impresses me beyond belief how well you write (especially since English isn't your first language). Everything is so pretty and descriptive and I just-- I'm finding John's endless amusement to be the best thing ever, omg. And of course, Sherlock is brilliant and petulant and twelve.

Sherlock - 0

Old lady - 1

Huzzah!

TBC(?)

Um, YES.

Edited December 1, 2013 by Spoo

[HoneyBunny]

Hnnnghh yes yes yes perfect

This fic is so many levels of awesome. It's so in character; of course Sherlock would annoy someone so much they tried to attack him with perfume/pepper spray And John laughing at Sherlock, just OMG. Best. Thing. Ever.

And then the details like Sherlock taking a tissue with a flick of the wrist, and his deductions, and the line about his public school diction, and ughh I just cannot with this fic any more

Pleeease continue? Pretty please? *puppy dog eyes*

[VoOs]

Awww, Spoo and HoneyBunny, you are the sweetest, really. Thank you so much for your kind comments. It means the world, especially as this is basically the first time I've dared to venture into proper fanfic land.

I'm sorry this update is very short and lacking in the sneeze department, but I promise I'll make up for it in the next part. I just... gotta have my build-up first.

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Joining the short line at the cafeteria counter, John cast a quick glance back at Sherlock to see how he was doing. Sherlock had crossed his arms again and stood with his back ramrod straight, head held high and lips pressed tightly together. His eyes, which would normally have been dancing and darting around the carriage, laser-scanning every surface and passenger for the smallest details, now seemed to stare blindly at something in the distance, unblinking, slightly narrowed. While he didn't possess as much as one tenth of Sherlock's people-reading skills, John got the strong impression that his friend was concentrating very hard not to sneeze. The lingering hint of perfume seemed to be fading at last, however, so it probably wouldn't be too long before the symptoms started to ease up. Some steaming tea to help clear his airways, and he'd be back to normal in no time. Or, at least, back to as normal as a Holmes could get.

“You okay?” John mouthed with a friendly quirk of an eyebrow in Sherlock's direction, feeling like he'd had his fun and quite ready to stop with the teasing. Besides, miracles did happen – maybe the incident had even taught the detective a lesson. Sherlock gave a tentative sniff and then nodded, seeming to relax somewhat.

Good.

“You...!” then rang a shrill voice from somewhere behind them, and John turned around to see the old lady from earlier come marching towards them with a grim, determined look on her over-rouged little face.

Scratch that. -Not- good.

Raised index finger jotting out like a teacher's pointer, the lady stopped mere inches from Sherlock and glowered up at him through her purple, cat eye-framed glasses. John could have sworn he saw the detective recoil a little.

“You have some nerve to show your face in here again...! no shame...! never been so humiliated...! what gives you the right...! that hip flask belongs to my husband, I was just looking after it for him... I'll teach you not to stick your nose in other people's business...!” The entire dining car had gone silent. People were staring. Sherlock looked down at the little lady hissing and fuming somewhere in level of his chest, and John could see his strong eyebrows settling into that all-too-familiar haughty expression that could make even the most high-ranking police officers falter under its icy force. He opened his mouth -

Please, Sherlock, this is a person whose business you really don't want to 'stick your nose in', remember?

- and he was off:

“First of all, your husband is dead – as evident of your wearing his wedding ring on a chain beneath your blouse – and if 'looking after it for him' means 'keeping his drinking habit alive' then yes, I can see why you...”

Nope. No lesson learned there, after all.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and resisted, only barely, the urge to elbow his friend in the ribs. It was only when he took a deep breath to sigh that he noticed that the smell of perfume was back again. Of course it was. The old lady must be wearing it. Hadn't Sherlock noticed? Perhaps his nose was still too congested for him to smell it. Even if there wouldn't be any more face-on spray attacks, the detective was still getting a good dose of the allergen just by remaining in close proximity to the woman. Perhaps an elbow to the ribs wouldn't be necessary to shut him up after all, John thought, and leaned his back against the counter to watch the inevitable unfold.

TBC -

Edited January 8, 2014 by VoOs

[ohlala8]

Ooooh, is it wrong that I sort of want her to break the whole perfume bottle over his head? It's always such a joy to see Sherlock not in control of the situation.

[MaiMai]

Ooh I love this so much! VoOs you are such a good writer, I adore your style! I'm glad you've decided to venture into fanfic land, this is perfect! Just ohmygosh I am so in love with this!!!

From crisp, clipped public school diction to “swibbig'ly” in less than fifteen minutes, and all it took was an angry old lady armed with a bottle of Joy.

This line made me laugh so much, I love it!!!

massaging the bridge of his nose through the tissue with slow, purposeful movements.

And this description is so vivid and

Eeee this is amazing!!

[Spoo]

Sherlock looked down at the little lady hissing and fuming somewhere in level of his chest, and John could see his strong eyebrows settling into that all-too-familiar haughty expression that could make even the most high-ranking police officers falter under its icy force.

Yes, yes, YESSSSS.

Also 'somewhere in level of his chest' - hahahaha. This is progressing very nicely, VoOs! Doesn't matter if there's sneezing or not; I could honestly read your writing anytime! There is definitely a build-up here, though, and I can feeeeel the tension~ It's about to go DOWN.

*Stands next to John to also watch the inevitable unfold*

[Anonymouse]

Sooooo after years of stubborn indifference, this kind of makes me want to watch the show...

[matilda3948]

YAY!!! Love this sooo much! Thank you

[AppleBlossom]

Dammit girl, don't keep us hanging! Loving the story so far and your writing is absolutely beautiful! XD I cannot wait to wait to see the magic unfold! So happy ;D

[DogLover]

This is absolutely amazing and perfect and I love it on so many levels. For one thing, it hits all the right fetish buttons, but aside from that Sherlock in general is lovely and you write both him and Watson extremely well, and your writing is just kind of amazing in general, style and descriptions and just gah, incredible.

Also, I'm kinda torn in between hating the old lady and rooting for her

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Good grief woman... are you trying to kill me?

That was rather delightful. *stares hopefully at the tbc*. ^^

[VoOs]

Baaahh, stop it, you're all making me blush here. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

This update: Things go DOWN, as Spoo so nicely put it.

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He didn't have to wait for very long. John had just payed for their tea and was picking up the lidded paper cups when he noticed the first hitch in the flow of merciless observations being made about the old lady. Sherlock had just finished describing her rather bizarre taste in anti-wrinkle treatments (bee venom face masks), and was about to launch into a rundown of her shoplifting habits when his voice suddenly grew strained and he had to pause for a moment to clear his throat. This gave the old lady time to interject a few thoughts of her own, all of them rather colourfully worded. John was genuinely impressed. He almost wished he'd had a bucket of popcorn to accompany the show, and started sipping his tea as a kind of substitute.

Shortly after resuming where he had left off, Sherlock seemed to become aware of what was happening. His machine gun-paced speech began to slow down and soon became almost hesitant, his consonants once again robbed of all their sharp edges. It's hard to sound aloof and authoritative when your voice resembles the voice of a person who has just had their nose broken. Realizing this, Sherlock swallowed his remaining deductions and finally became silent.

“Are you done now?” The little lady was still standing her ground, fists clenched and eyes blazing. John half expected her to start breathing fire. “How dare you?!”, she snarled. “I ought to sue you for defamation!”

“Be my guest”, Sherlock managed, in a halfhearted attempt to have the last word, and made a gesture to try and move the woman out of the way so that he could leave and get away from the source of his mounting discomfort. Not surprisingly, the old lady wouldn't even budge. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock tried to sidestep her to get around her, and she immediately placed herself in front of him again, blocking his way. From where John was standing, it almost looked like a clumsily choreographed dance, and he had to bite his tongue in order to not burst out laughing again.

“Oh, for goodness sake, move out of the way will you!” Sherlock snapped, his hand going to his face to press a knuckle under his nostrils for a few seconds. A brief gesture, perhaps, but undoubtedly an acutely necessary one.

“I am not going anywhere until you apologize”, the old lady announced, loudly, and put her hands on her hips. The way Sherlock stared at her, one would think that she had asked him to cut off his right hand. Up until now the detective's face had remained remarkably expressionless, but wetness was starting to gather in the corners of his eyes and he could no longer keep from sniffling. And yet, he still hesitated.

Obstinate man-child.

“Go on, Sherlock”, John said, finding it impossible to resist any longer. “Just get it over with. I know you're itching to get back to the compartment.” That did it. Trying, and only half succeeding, to disguise a hitching breath as a sigh of annoyance, Sherlock spat out a rather breathless “I'm sorry” and practically sprinted out of the dining car before anyone could say another word. John watched him go and was rather surprised when the detective was able to both reach the door and close it behind him before the first, faint set of sneezes could be heard over the soft rattle of the train's movements. The whole carriage seemed to let out a small sigh of relief, and the other passengers turned their attention back to their conversations and meals.

“Jerk”, the old lady muttered to herself while walking past John to order something from the cafeteria.

I know. I know. But this time, at least he'll get to pay for it.

John looked around and rubbed his hands together, rocking back on his heels in indecision for a moment before deciding it was probably for the best in the long run.

“Right”, he began in a loud voice, addressing the entire carriage, “I don't suppose anyone in here happens to have a Claritin tablet to spare?”

“Would it have hurt you to keep your mouth shut back there?”

“Why didn't you tell me right away that she was wearing it?”

“You couldn't figure that out yourself?”

“She wasn't wearing it the first time!”

“You know, Sherlock, for a genius you really can be astonishingly stupid.”

This time, Sherlock didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't. If his first encounter with Joy had been unpleasant, this second exposure had rendered him a dripping, itching mess, seemingly constantly on the verge of -

“Ehh'isch! 'hht'iiSCHh! Ih'kshh!-ikshh!-'kshh!”

Well, that. All John could see was a bird's nest of curly black hair as Sherlock's head bent down and bobbed in time with the sneezes. Even when the fit ceased he didn't look up, but stayed hunched over with his face hidden in his steepled hands. Curled up in the corner of his seat again, he looked like he wanted to sink through the dark blue backrest and be swallowed up by the wall behind him.

John looked at his watch. It would take at least an hour for the antihistamine pill - generously donated by a shy young woman back in the dining car - to take full effect. Luckily, the allergic reaction didn't seem to be affecting Sherlock's lower respiratory passages; John had almost started to worry earlier when he, upon returning to the compartment, had found his flatmate caught in a fit so relentless that he barely had been able to breathe between sneezes. Things had only marginally improved since then, but at least he wasn't wheezing. It was all a little bizarre. If seeing Sherlock sneeze was like spotting a rare bird, then seeing him suffer through a full-blown sneezing fit was like running into a bloody unicorn.

“That perfume doesn't just 'bother' you, Sherlock,“ John said, “it's kicking your arse. Has this happened before? You having this severe a reaction, I mean?”

“No.” Muffled, from behind his hands. And then: “This... is... utterly... ridiculous.” He scrubbed at his nose again, for what seemed like the hundredth time, and wiped angrily at his eyes before finally looking up, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and reddened, raw-looking nostrils.

“You look like shit”, John observed.

“A fitting discription, I'm... s-sure... ehh... hh -” Breath stuttering, eyes squeezing shut and upper lip curling back from his teeth, Sherlock's expression once again collapsed into one of such desperate ticklishness that John could almost feel an empathetic tingle stir somewhere deep in his own nose.

“Hang on” he said, hospital-bred reflexes setting in, and quickly reached over to shove a couple of fresh tissues into his flatmate's hands just in time for them to catch the next outburst of sneezes.

“Hh'tSCHh! Ih'tsch! Heh!'IISCHuh! Ugh.” The sniffle that followed sounded like something one would expect to hear coming from a clogged drain pipe rather than a human being. It made John cringe a little, but then he risked a smile:

“Hang in there. Less than an hour from now, and we'll be in Glasgow. Why don't you tell me a little bit more about this strangler case? What do we know so far?”

TBC(?)

Edited February 17, 2014 by VoOs

[Spoo]

Derp voice comment because my fingers were flailing with too much excitement to type a proper response!

[VoOs]

Derp voice comment because my fingers were flailing with too much excitement to type a proper response!

Derp voice reply because UHGDJAHDGFfffff -

[MaiMai]

Ohmaigod. I can't even-

I was gonna write a list of all the stuff I loved but it was so perfect I couldn't decide what to put on it apart from just EVERYTHING!! *flails*

Edited December 5, 2013 by MaiMai

[HoneyBunny]

Oh my God. This is simply amazing.

As much as I'd love to write a proper comment, at the moment I'm not coherent enough to say anything more than ASDFGHJJ

and i was gonna say "poor sherlock" but it kind of serves him right

[DogLover]

TBC(?)

God yes please yes YES YESSSSSS

(What, no, I am not overexcited. Not even a little bit. Nope.)

(That was a lie. )

This is incredible and I honestly did not think it was possible to pull off in-character Sherlock sneezing his head off but you have proved me very, very wrong and yay!

[phoenix]

I'm enjoying this story very much! Some highlights for me:

His machine gun-paced speech began to slow down and soon became almost hesitant, his consonants once again robbed of all their sharp edges.

Ooo, I like this description a lot. I'm content to sit back with John and watch the show...

“Hang on” he said, hospital-bred reflexes setting in, and quickly reached over to shove a couple of fresh tissues into his flatmate's hands just in time for them to catch the next outburst of sneezes.

I'm a big fan of this scenario. It combines elements of two things I love: the urgency of someone desperately trying to grab a tissue/handkerchief in time, and someone covering another person's sneeze for them. Very nice.

Looking forward to seeing what happens next!

[Dusty15]

If seeing Sherlock sneeze was like spotting a rare bird, then seeing him suffer through a full-blown sneezing fit was like running into a bloody unicorn.

AUGHH I love every bit of this. It's late so I'm a hot mess of not making sense, but this is AWESOME VoOs!!! <3 It's like something straight out of an episode!

Edited December 6, 2013 by Dusty15

[TheCakeIsAlive]

If seeing Sherlock sneeze was like spotting a rare bird, then seeing him suffer through a full-blown sneezing fit was like running into a bloody unicorn.

Oh, he's such a wonderful idiot sometimes. (And I totally agree with Spoo about your writing.)

Gah, we need more Sherlock in our lives. Maybe if we ask very nicely we might convince Gatiss, Moffat and Benedict to use this in an episode?

[SomeoneRandom]

“Go on, Sherlock”, John said, finding it impossible to resist any longer. “Just get it over with. I know you're itching to get back to the compartment.”

You're too cute. John's such a little shit.

Oh, yeah, I love the rest of it, too.

[curliecatlover]

This is just... Spectacular. I agree wholeheartedly with everything spoo said.

Just fantastic!

[VoOs]

Thank you so much, everyone. I'm so glad you're reading.

This part is a little bit all over the place, and I haven't really checked it for mistakes, so I apologize in advance for that!

Part 4 (or: The Part In Which I Describe Things. )

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He was asking for two reasons: one, because he was genuinely interested, and two, because asking Sherlock to talk about a case was usually the most reliable way of getting him in a better mood. Sure enough, the second the cozy subject of murder was brought up, the detective sat up a little straighter; it was like seeing the human equivalent of a dog perking its ears.

“Not much, as of yet”, he said, as if this was excellent news indeed, and somehow managed to sound unabashedly excited despite his increasingly thick, raspy voice. “There have been three victims so far, all of them members of the Scottish Opera at the Theatre Royal and all them killed within the span of six months. The third victim, an Emelia McKee, was discovered yesterday morning, strangled to death in one of the theatre's dressing rooms. The marks around her neck suggest that the murder weapon had been the same as in the other two cases – most likely a metal wire of some kind, used as a garrote.”

“Piano wire?”

“Piano wire at the opera. Our murderer is either very unimaginative, or a romanticist.”

John whistled softly.

“So we're basically dealing with a strangling phantom of the opera, huh? What about the two other victims?”

“Nathan Jamieson and Clara Hunter, both of them opera singers, just as McKee. All three graduated together with an MA in musical theatre from Royal Conservatoire of Scotland two years ago.” And there it was. Long hands sliding down to rest just beneath his chin, eyes bright, gaze like a grey laser-beam fixed upon John as though willing him to complete some unfinished sentence hovering unspoken in the air between them. As always, John wasn't sure whether that look made him feel intrigued or annoyed, but the detective's enthusiasm was undeniably contagious. Shrugging, John decided he might as well have a stab:

“So... if they all graduated together, could that mean that the murderer is someone they all knew, like an old classmate from uni?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Thought had occurred. The Glasgow police have already investigated all of the victims' classmates but they didn't find anything. This doesn't in any way mean that there wasn't anything there to find, of course.”

“Your regard for the police is as high as ever,” John noted.

“My regard for the police is as high as they d-ehh... deserve," Sherlock replied, his usual offhand arrogance dampened somewhat by his catching breath. Swiping his wrist under his nose, he gave yet another deep, nose-wrinkling sniffle and then exhaled slowly through his mouth, the urge lessened but, from the looks of things, far from gone.

“How are you feeling?”, John asked, suddenly significantly less convinced that one measly Claritin tablet was going to make much of a difference once it had been dissolved into the system of Sherlock 'Three Nicotine Patches' Holmes.

“Like I've inhaled fire ants”, Sherlock muttered, and made an illustrative gesture with his fingers curled, clawing at the air in front of his face. “It's distracting, to say the least. And it's going to be an hour before the pill starts taking the edge off it?”

“Well, it depends”, John admitted. “Two people can respond very differently to the same medication. You'll just have to wait for the reaction to run its course.”

“Fan-tastic.” Straying dangerously close to sulky twelve-year-old territory once again. John could feel his patience slipping.

“Stop moaning. It's your own bloody fault.”

“How am I supposed to focus on the case if I can't even take a breath without needing to... sn-ihh... hh... hhH -” More quivering gulps of air, but it turned out to be just another false alarm, leaving the detective teary-eyed, brutally congested, and even more irritated than he had been before John's attempt at a conversational decoy maneuver.

Back at square one.

John clicked his tongue and reached for his paper again.

“How? Oh, I don't know. Mind over body? You're good at that sort of thing. I'm sure you'll find a way to cope.”

He could almost feel Sherlock's eyes burning a hole through the pages of foreign affairs as he flipped them open to read the first column.

Rule number one when dealing with the walking spectacle that was Sherlock Holmes: never expect to get to have the last word. That much had been obvious from the very start of their acquaintance, and exceptions to the rule were so rare that they almost seemed mythical at this point. Consequently, as his last comment remained unanswered, John soon found himself peering suspiciously over the top of the paper, anticipating a snappy comeback that never came. The other man must really be feeling rotten if he was going to let John get away with such sarcasms without at least pointing out that John had, oh, for example, neglected to phone his sister despite promising to do so three weeks ago. As obvious from the way he had tied his shoe laces, or something like that. But no, for the moment the detective's attention was otherwise occupied and, once again, John didn't have to share his friend's deductive talents to see why.

Sherlock had turned his head to the side so that he was now facing the train window and the darkening, rain-striped landscape swooshing by outside. Face tilted slightly upwards, brow furrowed and eyelids on half-mast, he seemed to be holding his breath, looking for all the world like a sneezing fit waiting to happen. Except that it never did. After remaining in that position for at least twenty seconds, poised at the brink of a paroxysm but never quite tipping over, the need once more abated and he buried his face in his hands, rubbing his fingers violently up and down the length of his nose almost as if to punish it. Uttering a wordless sound of frustration, he turned to grab another handful of tissues from the rapidly dwindling supply John had provided him with, trying to clear his full-to-overflowing nose into their folds but not having much success, his sinuses too stuffed-up for him to blow properly.

“Ughh... I can't believe this...” Voice hoarse and nasal beyond recognition, he now sounded positively miserable.

It was true that the detective had brought this predicament upon himself, but John still couldn't help but feel a sting of sympathy. He was also beginning to suspect that his good intentions to get Sherlock an antihistamine tablet might have backfired somewhat. The pill had obviously worked in the sense that it seemed to have taken the edge off the allergic itch, but only just enough to stop the sneezing. Imagining what it must feel like to have one's nose buzzing with needling tickles like a disturbed beehive only to be denied the relief that sneezing could bring, John couldn't really blame Sherlock for looking and behaving like he wanted to crawl out of his skin.

“That's it. I won't stand for this”, Sherlock said suddenly and stood up without warning, almost making John drop his paper in surprise.

“Huh?”

“This”, Sherlock repeated impatiently, gesticulating to his own face while sniffling sharply and scrunching his nose up for emphasis. “Did you bring a plastic bag or something, for dirty clothes?”

“Yes, but wha...”

But Sherlock had already reached up and opened John's suitcase, found the plastic bag and pulled it out.

“You're not going to...?”

“Yes, John, since you're asking: I am going to fetch my other, perfume-drenched shirt back from where I threw it away.”

“But you're only going to make yourself worse again!”

“Relax, I'm just going to take a quick whiff and then seal it safely inside the bag. Anything is better than this confounded itch.”

“As a doctor, I have to strongly advise against it”, John said, flatly, a deadpan expression on his face. Sherlock met his gaze calmly, even as he sniffled wetly again and pinched at the tip of his nose.

“So you want me to just leave it there in the bin then? It's a Dolce and Gabbana shirt, John.”

Of course. Sherlock would know that John had spent far too much time being unemployed and forced to look closely at every penny to not be outraged at the thought of someone throwing away a pricey piece of clothing like that.

Posh bastard.

“Are you out of your mind? Go and get it before someone else notices and swipes it!”

“At once, doctor.” The man even had the nerve to smirk.

“I hope you go into anaphylactic shock, you wanker!” John called after him as the detective disappeared out into the train corridor with brisk steps.

“Un-fucking-believable.”

TBC(?)

Edited November 28, 2014 by VoOs

[matilda3948]

This is delicious!!! Great job