Chapter Text
“Sherlock, what in hell are ya - “
“Shhhh!”
John’s pleading look was the only reason that Lestrade didn’t say something incredibly rude in the presence of the two stilled forms in the room. One of them was very very dead, so it wasn’t as if he would have cared anyway. His wrinkled face sat somewhere between a look of surprise and begrudging acceptance that he wasn’t going to ever get out of his bed on his own ever again. The other person laid with his right ear pressed against the wood floor of the bedroom - which at the moment - was playing the part of a crime scene. It looked as if some strange game of Limbo was being played where neither participant knew the rules. That made sense to John. He was fairly confident that Sherlock had deleted such a party game. As for Mr. Alastair Nells, as stated before, was very very dead, so he had no interest in party games either.
A gentle sway of Sherlock’s legs and hips brought him back to a more upright angle, and he gave an impatient wave to John to come closer. John did, with a quick glance to Lestrade, who was doing a very good impression of a man trying his best not to break his back molars.
“There’s a - ,” Sherlock began. His eyes narrowed as he pulled John by the hand and the doctor went toppling to the floor beside him. “Can you hear it?”
John frowned which was apparently the incorrect thing to do. However, it was hard not to frown when yanked into a kneeling position by an overly touchy flatmate. Even if he was bloody brilliant.
“Pay attention to the sounds and not your bruised knees,” Sherlock grumbled.
“That’s what he said,” Lestrade muttered back, and that was highly inappropriate. So was the giggle back from John. Poor Alastair Nells more than likely deserved better than this from The Yard.
Probably.
“Neither my knees nor my ears have any fucking clue what you’re on about,” John grunted, but he didn’t move from the spot. Maybe it was the way Sherlock’s unique profile looked in the midafternoon light. “What should I be hearing then?”
“A tick,” Sherlock responded back. “Or more notably, a series of ticks in a randomised pattern.”
“Shit,” John whispered, and Sherlock turned his head to fully face him. “Like a timer on a bomb or something?”
The detective shrugged, which was not helpful in any way at all. However his next words he aimed at Lestrade.
“I’d suggest getting your men out of here and send over the proper authorities to check for explosions.”
Greg’s eyes went wide at that before barking out a series of orders to leave, then ushering John and Sherlock out of the flat. Twenty minutes later three people wearing padded bomb suits made their way carefully into the building. John watched them, frowning slightly as Sherlock’s attention stayed on tapping out another text to his parents.
“How are they holding up?” John asked, taking a step towards Sherlock, though trying to still give him allowable space.
“Mummy is setting up the arrangements,” Sherlock replied, not looking up. “Father left to take a walk.”
John opened his mouth, then thought better of it by the exhale Sherlock made. So, more out of stubbornness to comfort a friend regardless of the backlash, he spoke up.
“And how are you doing?”
“Fine,” Sherlock said, his mobile now back in his coat pocket and adjusting his scarf. “I’m always fine.”
“Yeah, but he was your uncle.”
“Great uncle,” Sherlock corrected, “whom I hadn’t seen since I left for University. We were never close, John…so my only concern is to Father who may walk off his grief over the next fortnight. He might end up in Bristol by then.”
The matter-of-fact tone of Sherlock’s words were off putting in ways that John didn’t know how to handle. Part of John wanted to laugh at the ridiculous image of Reginald Holmes strolling his way across London, head held high and resolute in not returning to his family until his mind both excised and exercised all sadness connected to human mortality out of his memory of Alastair Nells. The other part of John wanted to hug Sherlock until the skinny git buckled under the weight of being cared for, and actually talk about the feelings he pretended not to have.
Instead, John cleared his throat and waited for Sherlock to speak again, which took a very long time.
“The only traits my great uncle and I shared was an enjoyment of solitude and curly hair that require a large amount of attention. Speaking of attention, when will the explosion team be finished? They are stomping around my crime scene.”
“Your crime scene is it?” Lestrade asked, seeming to come from nowhere. His face was set in a scowl that meant that no one was doing what he’d been demanding for the better part of the afternoon. John rubbed at his temples, battling the restart of a migraine.
“When will we be allowed back inside?”
The chill in Sherlock’s voice was giving the outside temperature a run for its money. Lestrade, who was used to dealing with all variations of Sherlock being Sherlock didn’t answer, but instead turned on his heel and left the same way he apparently came from.
“If you were in any way a normal person,” John said, once they were alone again. “I’d say you were showing signs of grieving.”
“But since I’m not there is no reason for errant assumptions.”
If words could slam a conversation shut, then Sherlock had done just that as far as John was concerned. So John also turned on his heel to find out where Greg had gone, because if he stayed with the world’s only consulting detective any longer, there might be two members of the Holmes family dead in one day.
Unfortunately the explosion stopped John where he stood.