I Think I'll Go For a WalkFandom:
PG-13 Mildly injured and not-so-mildly embarrassed John, Sherlock and assorted Yarders being prats. Also quite ridiculous.Word Count:
I do not own these characters or their world.Summary:
A minor accident in the flat ends up being a major annoyance for John.A/N:
July Writing Prompt Challenge #20 "Rabbit Season" which entails picking from prior watsons_woes
Challenges and prompts. This sort-of fills Challenges 7 (Embarass Watson) 15 ("You're useless to me like this.") and 16 (Minor Injury). Title is a quote from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.-.-
I Think I'll Go For a Walk
"You're useless to me like this, I'll have you know."
John gritted his teeth and hobbled across the wide car park toward the crime scene. "Shut up."
"The corpse may in fact decay before we arrive."
John glared up at Sherlock, who was taking one stride for every three of John's halting steps and jittering with frustration. "Your fault, you know. If you hadn't left the bloody hoover out all over the floor-"
"It was standing in for the Chunnel."
"Whatever. If it had been put away instead of left out being the bloody Chunnel and half hidden under the coffee table-"
"Northern France." Sherlock took another measured step.
John sighed explosively. "If the bloody thing was where it was supposed to be instead of where it was, I wouldn't have tripped on it and sprained my ankle at half four in the morning, would I?"
Sherlock glanced over with a raised eyebrow. "John, we've been living together for four months. You should know by know that walking through the sitting room at any time of day or night without due care and attention may be hazardous."
John huffed. "It's a sitting room Sherlock, not the M1. It should be safe to cross."
"It is, for certain values of safe." Sherlock frowned down at John's right foot.
"Oh, the ankle?" John said faux-mildly. "Yeah, it's fine, thanks. Hurts like blue murder and should by all rights be elevated with ice right now, but why not traipse across the largest car park in London at dawn instead?"
Sherlock turned and started walking backward in front of John. "You realise that you might walk faster if you stopped talking?"
John seethed and hobbled silently, wishing for the twelfth time since the injury that he hadn't donated his old cane to a charity shop. Sherlock smirked, the smirk fading as he glanced down again at John's foot, and turned to face forward.
The undifferentiated blocks of flats around the car park loomed closer. "Which one is it?" John asked, wincing.
"That one, obviously." Sherlock pointed at one on the eastern edge, around which John could now see police cars and cordons, and officers milling about. Squinting he could make out Sgt Donovan talking to Lestrade, and Lestrade looking at his watch.
"There's not much time allowed for this, John. We have to get there before-" Sherlock stopped and looked at John.
John kept walking. "What?"
In a bustle of coat, Sherlock grabbed John around the middle and lifted him up.
"OI!" John shouted, struggling in confusion. "Let go!"
"We have ten minutes in which to get to the crime scene, observe it, and make my deductions clear to those fools." Sherlock hoisted John, still struggling, over his shoulder. "This will go much faster and be much less painful for your ankle if I simply carry you."
"What!? No!" Head hanging down Sherlock's back, John gave up squirming in favour of hanging on to his flatmate's coat to keep from falling off his shoulder when Sherlock resumed full stride with his ridiculous long legs. Soon John could hear the assorted police, SOCO and CID officers laughing at the sight they must make.
"Oi, you lot, shut it!" shouted Lestrade. The snickers died down to amused mutters and coughs.
"Hello Freak," came Sgt Donovan's voice from the other side of Sherlock. "Bringing your own corpse to crime scenes now?"
"John's sprained his ankle, obviously," Sherlock snapped.
"Morning Sherlock. Dr Watson," said Lestrade with the faintest lilt of laughter in his voice, addressing John's upraised posterior. "You're looking well."
"Hello." John waved from behind Sherlock's right hip. "You can put me down now, please Sherlock."
"I don't know." Lestrade's voice was cheerfully disingenuous, and John suddenly regretted beating him so soundly at darts the last time they were at the pub. "Body's on the fifth floor and the elevator's bust."
"I'll manage," said Sherlock, settling John into a less awkward position over his shoulder. "He should stay off the ankle."
"Really, Sherlock, I can walk!"
"Crime scene, now." Sherlock strode into the building, still carrying John.
Behind them John could see the small crowd of grinning officers watching their odd progress. He groaned and covered his face with one hand, hanging on to the back of Sherlock's coat with the other. When we get home, I am going to strangle him with his bloody 'Chunnel'.
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