capt_facepalm

Title: What a Tangled Skein We Weave
Author: capt_facepalm
Rating: PG
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John H Watson, an intruder
Summary: John has been trained to kill; Sherlock... not so much
Warnings: none
Word Count: 475
Author's Notes: (Perhaps this should count as a warning... I was given the prompt for this quite late at night, and began to write when my resistance was at its lowest ebb.)

What a Tangled Skein We Weave

.oOOo.

A scream pierced John’s exhausted slumber. Basra? No. The helicopter? No.
The sofa... Baker Street... London... Sherlock...

‘Sherlock! You okay?’

‘No, John,’ a terrified voice cried out from the kitchen. ‘Help me!’

John sprang to his feet grabbing the closest makeshift weapon; the fireplace poker.

Peering around the corner into the kitchen, heart pounding, ready to attack, John spotted Sherlock cowering in the corner, in great distress. Except for his flatmate, and his usual clutter, the room was vacant. John breathed a deep sigh and tossed the poker back onto the sofa.

‘What happened? Have you hurt yourself?’

Sherlock just pointed at the table.

‘Kill it, John! Please?’

John looked closer and scowled. There was nothing there. If Sherlock had started using again...

‘It’s still there! It just moved!’

Yes, there it was. In the flesh. Or whatever spiders are made of.

‘Sherlock, it’s just a little spider! Certainly not as shocking as what you left in the microwave...’

‘Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!’

‘No. It's harmless!’

‘You killed a cabbie for me!’ Sherlock persisted. John could hardly argue with that.

‘Okay, I'll try. But you'll have to...’ The world’s only consulting detective rushed past him, into the sitting room. ‘...leave the kitchen... first?’ John shook his head in disbelief and grabbed a nearby book.

‘Don’t look,’ He warned. ‘This isn’t going to be pretty.’

John slammed the book shut. Then he whacked it against the counter. Then the wall. He clattered the glasses and dirty dishes in the sink. Then he struck the counter again for good measure.

‘Did you get it yet?’

‘No, the little devil is on the run! You better get to your room and barricade the door!’ John paused, listening for the satisfactory slam of Sherlock’s door. Then he put down the book, knelt low to the table, and addressed the spider with a voice barely above a whisper:

‘Sorry, Mrs Webb. I’m afraid it’s time for you to shift houses.’

The spider climbed onto John’s extended fingers and he opened the window with his other hand.

‘There you go!’

The spider gave a wee curtsy, and then began rappelling down the outside wall. Histrionics did her hypertension no favours these days. Hopefully 221C Baker Street would be more to her liking.

‘John! Are you okay? I don’t hear sounds of battle.’

‘Quiet, Sherlock! I’m laying in ambush!’ John shouted as he washed and dried the dishes in the sink. Minutes later, John’s phone vibrated... a text message from the next room:

Too quiet. Are you OK? Respond if possible –SH

John rolled his eyes as he replaced the poker and rearranged the sofa cushions.

Situation escalating. Silence essential. Contact me again in exactly 1.0 hour. –John

Message sent, John returned to the sofa to resume his nap.

.oOOo.

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