thewhitelily

“… don’t know what you were thinking!” bellowed John's voice as Greg climbed the stairs towards 221B.

“Replicating the exact circumstances of the victim’s incident was crucial to—”

“—and the crucial thing now, Sherlock, for the sake of your continuing health, is to find me some acetone right now, or you’re going to find someone's stoved your head in by a—”

Greg thought that was his cue before he was forced to act in a professional capacity.  More professional.  He tapped at the door, pushing it straight in, catching sight of Sherlock—slumped insouciantly in his chair—while John clutched his tea-mug and glared at him in a way that Greg was surprised wouldn't crisp his hair.  

Wow, that was some dedicated Britishness right there; Greg had never managed to drink tea right through the middle of an argument with his wife.

“Uh, case?” Greg tried interrupting tentatively. “Three dead bodies tied together at the knees with a big ball of string?”

“Colour?” asked Sherlock sharply, turning and leaning forward in his chair.

Greg narrowed his eyes back at him, wondering what difference that made. “Green.”

“Hmmm,” said Sherlock, leaning back into his chair again and entirely failed to hide the little-boy excitement inside the nonchalant pose. “I suppose we can have a look. Ready, John?”

The ruffled feathers of John’s huff settled down as he gave a matching nod that entirely failed to hide his excitement. He took a last draught of his tea and set it down on the table, then went to grab his coat with a hand that was… still holding the mug of tea.

John looked momentarily baffled at its presence and then abruptly furious in a way that made even Sherlock visibly unsettled.

He turned, the look on his face pinning Sherlock in place.

“Acetone. Now,” he said in a low, dangerous tone, and pointed at him with the cup. “And the next time you want to experiment with superglue on my crockery, you’d damn well better make sure you’ve got a solvent first!”