Detectives

A collection of Sherlock oneshots (including Johnlock fluff)

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1. the hound of the balaclavas

John had not seen Sherlock for a few months now. Busy with his job and family life, there was no space in his schedule for being a detective. However much John like the regularity of civilian life, he missed Sherlock. So, after cancelling several prior engagements, John now stood outside 221B Baker Street, waiting for Sherlock to open the door. Except he didn't. John waited a few more minutes - maybe he was working on a case. After a handful of watch checks, the door opened.   Sherlock stood in front of John. He was wearing a dark woollen balaclava. 

 

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, John. I was just trying to find my balaclava."   

 

"Um, Sherlock?" John raised an eyebrow. "You know balaclavas are for winter, right? Or could you have possibly deleted that from your mind?"  

 

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look skeptical.  

 

"John." Sherlock paused. "I know what season balaclavas are meant to be worn in. However, it is vital that I wear one now."  

 

An awful thought struck John. What if someone had tried to harm Sherlock again? It had happened before. There were people who didn't like what he did. Sherlock managed to escape the last one with barely a scratch, but what if his time the damage was permanent? He conjured an image up in his mind, of Sherlock's face, distorted and deformed, scars tracing lines across his high cheekbones. Was that why he felt he needed to cover up, in Spring?   John shook the images from his mind, trying to convince himself that it was nothing, probably just an experiment. Sherlock turned and walked into the flat, flinging the door open so John could come through. John stepped over the threshold and surveyed the room. No damage seemmed to have ocurred, so the balaclava was probably something harmless. The skull still sat on the mantlepiece and the yellow smiley face remained painted on the wall. Still, he worried.  

 

"So, Sherlock." John cleared his throat. "Are you going to tell me the story behind the balaclava?"  

 

Sherlock ignored him. He turned away and picked up his Stradivarius. His pale, slender fingers plucked the strings, leaving the bow abandoned by the sofa. After a few notes, he picked up the bow with a sweep of his arm. A melancholy tune filled the air, battling with the traffic from outside while Sherlock pranced around the flat, eyes closed, focused on the music.   John stood patiently in the kitchen until the piece drew to a close.

 

Sherlock's eyes remained closed as John said, "You're going to have to tell me about your face sooner or later."   Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he put down his violin.   

 

"I'm surprised you haven't deduced that someone has moved in upstairs. It seems a normal life has made your skills a little rusty."   

 

John sighed. "How, Sherlock, does that have anything to do what I just said?"   Sherlock slumped into his chair and threw his head back.  

 

"It has everything to do with it. This certain 'neighbour' pays for subscription to the magazine 'OK!' I can't seen why, it has no intellectual value whatsoever. And, John, who on earth is Rihanna?"  

 

John rolled his eyes. "Never mind," he said. "Please continue."  

 

"One day, recently, the magazine was accidently placed at my doorstep. The edition in question happened to come with fake tan. I thought it would be to my benefit to perform some experiments on this fake tan, see what she was putting on her face and warn her. As it happens, it was not at all beneficial. I failed to predict what the outcome of the experiment was. There were chemicals in there that I had no idea about and during my testing of a concentrated solution, a reaction occurred."  

 

John held his breath.   

 

Sherlock pulled off his balaclava, a grave expression on his face. It was not at all what John was expecting.   

 

Sherlock's face was orange.  

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