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willow_41zRating: G
When living with a person who noticed every detail, it seemed wise to assume that every detail was significant, even if your flatmate was used to dealing with normal people and their “funny little brains.” This philosophy, however, was complicated by the fact that Sherlock Holmes was not a neat man. Extraordinarily observant, yes. Fastidious about his personal appearance and his experiments, yes. Neat, no. Not at all. A section of the newspaper folded on top of John's coat usually meant that there was something pertaining to a case in it, but a stack of papers on top of his shoes just meant that Sherlock hadn't cared where he'd tossed them.
Still, John was pretty sure that the cheque, signed “John H. Watson,” left ripped neatly in two on the lounge chair, was significant.
He picked up the pieces and looked around. Sherlock was out; there was nothing about the cheque to explain its destruction. John made a face, left it where it was, and turned the kettle on for tea. It had been a long day at the surgery, and he was starved.
Two and a half hours later, he heard someone taking the stairs three at a time, and Sherlock burst through the door. He put a plastic bag on the kitchen table, fiddled with something under the microscope for a bit, went off to his bedroom, and came back in dry clothes. “John,” he said now, an acknowledgement or greeting. “You had a long day at the surgery.”
John had learned not to ask. Besides, fatigue was easy to detect even for people who weren't Sherlock Holmes. “Mmm, yes. And what about you, did you have a nice...” He trailed off; he still wasn't entirely sure how the other man spent his days. On more than one occasion John had come back from work at the surgery to find Sherlock in apparently the same position he'd been in that morning.
“Tolerable... had a chat with Lestrade. He's got something on, but he won't tell me about it until tomorrow...” Sherlock's voice was muffled as he rummaged through the fridge. “Dull.”
John waited until his flatmate emerged from the kitchen with leftovers from their last takeaway. He eyed the plate, taking it as a sign that Sherlock didn't have a case going on, and wondered what, then, had happened to make the day 'tolerable.' But he didn't ask. Instead he held up the pieces of paper. “What's this?”
Sherlock eyed him. “It's a ripped-up cheque, John.”
“Right, thanks... why did you rip it up?”
“Because I had no intention of cashing it.”
John frowned. “What about the rent? Mrs Hudson's going to be--”
“I paid the rent.”
“Then why didn't you cash my cheque?”
“I didn't need to.”
John refrained from glaring. It took effort. “Sherlock, altruism is not your strong point. Explain why you apparently didn't accept my share of the rent money?”
“I paid your share from your half of the bank money.” Sherlock picked up the day's paper, looked it over briefly, and murmured, “It was the real estate agent.” He tossed the paper away.
“My what?” For a man who was so quick about extracting information from others, Sherlock was remarkably recalcitrant about imparting any.
Sherlock stabbed his food with a fork like it was a particularly intractable corpse. “The twenty-two thousand pounds Shad Sanderson's gave us for solving the bank case.”
“Us?” When he didn't get a response, John continued. “Sherlock, you solved the case, not me.” Still no answer. “Shall I list my contributions to the case? I failed to identify the correct book, failed to save Soo Lin, and got myself and my girlfriend kidnapped, requiring you to come rescue us.”
“You also worked on the case long enough that you fell asleep at work,” Sherlock murmured, now looking at something on his phone.
“How--”
“Your insistence on going to bed remarkably early for the subsequent week.”
John shut his mouth. Instead he said, “Sherlock, I'm not taking that money. It's yours.”
“I knew you'd say that.” He put his phone down and looked up. “That's why I'm paying your share of the rent out of it instead. Unless Mrs Hudson raises the rent, your next contribution will be due in thirty-five months.”
“Thirty-- what-- Sherlock, this is insane.”
“Insanity usually manifests itself in much more interesting ways. I'll give you a receipt if you won't rip it up.”
No, it wasn't insanity, it was-- “Then it's charity, and I won't take that.”
Finally Sherlock looked up and fixed his gaze intently on John. “What you failed to notice in the tramway was that Sarah was getting ready to knock her chair over to escape the bolt. I was right behind her. It's unlikely I would have been able to dodge in time, and the world would have been minus its only consulting detective. Consider it a payment for services rendered to humanity.”
It took a moment for that to sink in, because Sherlock was right, he had failed to notice.
“Unless, of course, you'll accept the balance of it, or unless you move out.”
“I'm not moving out,” John said, because it was the only sensible statement he could make while his mind was still processing.
Sherlock smiled-- one of his real smiles. “Good.” His phone beeped. He jumped up and grabbed his coat, leaving his plate half-finished. “Got to dash. Molly's got an interesting cadaver in.” He tied his scarf and was gone, leaving John trying to figure out just how he'd gotten three years' free rent out of being kidnapped and held at gunpoint.
When living with a person who noticed every detail, it seemed wise to assume that every detail was significant, even if your flatmate was used to dealing with normal people and their “funny little brains.” This philosophy, however, was complicated by the fact that Sherlock Holmes was not a neat man. Extraordinarily observant, yes. Fastidious about his personal appearance and his experiments, yes. Neat, no. Not at all. A section of the newspaper folded on top of John's coat usually meant that there was something pertaining to a case in it, but a stack of papers on top of his shoes just meant that Sherlock hadn't cared where he'd tossed them.
Still, John was pretty sure that the cheque, signed “John H. Watson,” left ripped neatly in two on the lounge chair, was significant.
He picked up the pieces and looked around. Sherlock was out; there was nothing about the cheque to explain its destruction. John made a face, left it where it was, and turned the kettle on for tea. It had been a long day at the surgery, and he was starved.
Two and a half hours later, he heard someone taking the stairs three at a time, and Sherlock burst through the door. He put a plastic bag on the kitchen table, fiddled with something under the microscope for a bit, went off to his bedroom, and came back in dry clothes. “John,” he said now, an acknowledgement or greeting. “You had a long day at the surgery.”
John had learned not to ask. Besides, fatigue was easy to detect even for people who weren't Sherlock Holmes. “Mmm, yes. And what about you, did you have a nice...” He trailed off; he still wasn't entirely sure how the other man spent his days. On more than one occasion John had come back from work at the surgery to find Sherlock in apparently the same position he'd been in that morning.
“Tolerable... had a chat with Lestrade. He's got something on, but he won't tell me about it until tomorrow...” Sherlock's voice was muffled as he rummaged through the fridge. “Dull.”
John waited until his flatmate emerged from the kitchen with leftovers from their last takeaway. He eyed the plate, taking it as a sign that Sherlock didn't have a case going on, and wondered what, then, had happened to make the day 'tolerable.' But he didn't ask. Instead he held up the pieces of paper. “What's this?”
Sherlock eyed him. “It's a ripped-up cheque, John.”
“Right, thanks... why did you rip it up?”
“Because I had no intention of cashing it.”
John frowned. “What about the rent? Mrs Hudson's going to be--”
“I paid the rent.”
“Then why didn't you cash my cheque?”
“I didn't need to.”
John refrained from glaring. It took effort. “Sherlock, altruism is not your strong point. Explain why you apparently didn't accept my share of the rent money?”
“I paid your share from your half of the bank money.” Sherlock picked up the day's paper, looked it over briefly, and murmured, “It was the real estate agent.” He tossed the paper away.
“My what?” For a man who was so quick about extracting information from others, Sherlock was remarkably recalcitrant about imparting any.
Sherlock stabbed his food with a fork like it was a particularly intractable corpse. “The twenty-two thousand pounds Shad Sanderson's gave us for solving the bank case.”
“Us?” When he didn't get a response, John continued. “Sherlock, you solved the case, not me.” Still no answer. “Shall I list my contributions to the case? I failed to identify the correct book, failed to save Soo Lin, and got myself and my girlfriend kidnapped, requiring you to come rescue us.”
“You also worked on the case long enough that you fell asleep at work,” Sherlock murmured, now looking at something on his phone.
“How--”
“Your insistence on going to bed remarkably early for the subsequent week.”
John shut his mouth. Instead he said, “Sherlock, I'm not taking that money. It's yours.”
“I knew you'd say that.” He put his phone down and looked up. “That's why I'm paying your share of the rent out of it instead. Unless Mrs Hudson raises the rent, your next contribution will be due in thirty-five months.”
“Thirty-- what-- Sherlock, this is insane.”
“Insanity usually manifests itself in much more interesting ways. I'll give you a receipt if you won't rip it up.”
No, it wasn't insanity, it was-- “Then it's charity, and I won't take that.”
Finally Sherlock looked up and fixed his gaze intently on John. “What you failed to notice in the tramway was that Sarah was getting ready to knock her chair over to escape the bolt. I was right behind her. It's unlikely I would have been able to dodge in time, and the world would have been minus its only consulting detective. Consider it a payment for services rendered to humanity.”
It took a moment for that to sink in, because Sherlock was right, he had failed to notice.
“Unless, of course, you'll accept the balance of it, or unless you move out.”
“I'm not moving out,” John said, because it was the only sensible statement he could make while his mind was still processing.
Sherlock smiled-- one of his real smiles. “Good.” His phone beeped. He jumped up and grabbed his coat, leaving his plate half-finished. “Got to dash. Molly's got an interesting cadaver in.” He tied his scarf and was gone, leaving John trying to figure out just how he'd gotten three years' free rent out of being kidnapped and held at gunpoint.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-26 09:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-27 01:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-26 10:05 pm (UTC)And I like how Sherlock solved that.
Although John could have just taken the money and found himself better digs:)
But,uhm, Shad Shanderson?
Wasn't the guy called Sebastian? Or did I miss something?
Or are you refering to a totally different case?
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Date: 2010-11-27 01:26 am (UTC)Shad Sanderson is the name of the bank. It's on the glass doors and on the front counter.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-27 09:17 am (UTC)And ooh, okay, I wasn't really paying attention to that *looks shifty*
:D
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Date: 2010-11-27 02:45 pm (UTC)I had to go back and rewatch the bank bits to catch the name! Oh noez, having to rewatch "Sherlock." :D
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Date: 2010-11-27 06:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-27 06:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-27 11:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-29 05:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-28 06:35 pm (UTC)Sherlock's logic is wonderful and hilarious, and John is just adorable ♥
no subject
Date: 2010-12-29 05:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-15 12:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-28 03:50 am (UTC)It's hard to figure out what Sherlock thinks about money. I don't think he cares much about it, but he is practical in some ways.