Work Text:
It was an early December morning in Baker Street, the sky grey with the blanket of winter, the temperature rumouring an upcoming snowfall. The trees outside were naked and lacked their warm undertones as they adjusted to London’s chill, or perhaps it was the fog that made them appear almost greyscale; England certainly had its vengeance. I had pulled my curtain just enough to gaze at the view outside my window from the comfort of my bed, but not enough to let in the cold. Soon bored, I pulled my curtain closed and tugged my duvet back up to my chin. I let out a contented sigh, relishing not only the warmth and comfort of my bed, but also the silence. It was almost as if I were alone in the flat— no scent of cigar smoke, no gunshots, no pacing footsteps, and no persistent muttering.
I must’ve drifted back to sleep, as I suddenly jolted to the sound of my bedroom door handle slamming into the wall from the door being opened too enthusiastically. That was sure to leave a mark; I ought to let Hudson’s know, and apologise on behalf of my insufferable flatmate. How displeasing. I let out a guttural sound of fatigued dissatisfaction and buried my face into my duvet, trying to let my flatmate know that I’d much rather be asleep than deal with him and his nonsense.
“Watson,” Sherlock spoke expectantly, approaching my bed, “I say, Watson?”
“Bugger off,” I grumbled back, rolling over so that my back was facing my friend. He tutted in response.
“Now, now, Watson,” Sherlock chided, “I have a case!”
“Go on, then. Run along now.” I mumbled in return. I was met with a petulant huff.
“Aren’t you going to give me the satisfaction of informing you of this case? It’s quite thrilling.”
“No.”
“Well, why not?”
“I’m trying to sleep.”
“Hm, you’re doing an awful job at it.”
“Yeah, I wonder why…”
Sherlock huffed indignantly, then proceeded to tell me about the case anyway as he perched on the edge of my bed.
“There is a couple in Brighton who continuously receive a newspaper every day without fail. However, they had unsubscribed from that specific publisher two years ago, and had only started finding the papers on their doorstep again four days ago,” he explained enthusiastically. “Now, usually I would find a case such as this mundane. But, my dear Watson, the couple has found specific letters scribbled out in ink. They believe it’s a message.”
I groaned once again, rolling to bury my face in my pillow.
“Sherlock, can we just have a day off? It’s cold, and I’m cozy here in my bed. Please, mate.” I pleaded. A common occurrence.
“A day off?” Sherlock squawked back. “My dear Watson! There’s no such thing as a day off when it comes to solving crime!”
I rolled onto my back in exasperation, staring up at the ceiling, “Sherlock. I don’t give a fuck. I have no fucks, they’re gone! You ran me ragged on the last case. I need a day off,” I snapped back.
Sherlock remained silent for a short while before I heard him hum. What a dreadful sound, the sound of his mind whirring.
“How intriguing…!” Sherlock purred.
I let out another sigh of dread before daring to ask, “Now what?” and turning my head to glare at my flatmate. He was dressed in his pyjamas: black, checkered trousers accompanied by a woollen, grey sweater, and a navy blue robe atop his attire, which looked almost like a cape.
“Your fucks… where have they gone?” Sherlock inquired conspiratorially. For the first time in quite a while, his words genuinely surprised me. How could a self-proclaimed genius be so dense?
“Sherlock. It’s a figure of speech,” I deadpanned. However, I was ignored. Typical.
“What is a fuck, and how does one obtain it?” Sherlock mused.
I huffed and sat up to look at the man, hoping to see that idiotic, smug smirk that spreads upon his lips when he’s joking. It wasn’t there. Sherlock was serious.
“Sherlock…” I began, trying to explain my figurative language.
“Contrarwise,” he interrupted, “how does one lose a fuck?”
Do you ever get that feeling, that irritating and slightly panic-filled feeling, where nothing makes sense when you wake up? Whenever something happens, or someone’s speaking to you, it doesn’t make any sense? Like someone is speaking at you in another language, or like you’re still learning how to function? Yeah, that’s what I hoped was happening. Because surely there was no way my flatmate had gone this mad. Sure, I always knew he was a little tapped, but for god’s sake. For a man so intelligent, I had thought he had a grasp on figurative speech. Unfortunately, I was wrong.
Sherlock leapt off my bed as if electrocuted, and began to pace my bedroom like a tiger in an enclosure, his robe gently swaying behind him; from my bedside table to my drawers, then back to my bedside table. He began muttering to himself about what a fuck may look like.
“Now, what does a fuck look like?” Sherlock mumbled under his breath. “Once I know what to look for, where would I begin my search?”
God give me strength.
Naturally, I tried to explain it to him; “Sherlock. Have you heard the saying “I don’t give a fuck”?” I asked him.
Sherlock paused his pacing and stared at me as if I had broken the Da Vinci Code. “So you can give them…! Interesting...” he purred, and resumed his pacing.
“Can you place them?” he asked me in such a tone that it was as if we were playing Guess Who.
“Uhm, no…” I answered uncertainly.
“You sound unsure,” he commented.
“Because this is absurd!” I cried back.
Sherlock hummed, “Indeed! Where have your fucks gone? We really ought to solve this case. The case of the missing fucks! Oh, isn’t this so delightfully perplexing!”
I promptly whined into my hands in response.
I soon found myself in our living room. I was seated in my armchair, a blanket over my lap, my legs curled up behind me, and a self-prescribed cup of tea in my hands, which was warming up my palms nicely. Before me, Sherlock sat in his settee; his lanky legs were outstretched in front of him, his shoulders hunched forward slightly so his elbows could rest on his hip bones with his hands pressed together, his fingertips touching the tip of his nose, and his thumbs against his chin. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have assumed he was praying for a case.
After quite some time, he looked up at me. I met his intense gaze.
“Watson?” he spoke.
“Yes?”
“Where was the last place you saw your fuck?” he asked me with full seriousness.
I stared at the detective across from me with a deadpan expression, silently praying he would at least smirk. I’ve never wanted to see his stupid, smug smirk more than I have today. Sherlock only raised an eyebrow.
“Well?” he prompted.
“Yeah, I last saw them flying out the fucking window,” I muttered back sarcastically, feeling exasperated once again. “You’re still on about this?”
Sherlock hummed in intrigue and rose from his seat in one fluid motion before heading to the window as if it had him by some gravitational force.
Then, he hummed. “Yes, I can see that. The window is slightly ajar.”
That made me squint at the window, “What?” I blurted, then, “Well, close it then! No wonder this place is freezing.”
Sherlock shot me an unimpressed glare, “No.”
“Why not?” I asked
“That’s tampering with evidence.”
I groaned and reluctantly set my mug down to join my friend. The window was indeed slightly ajar. I thought I had closed it last night to keep the heat in. My eyebrows furrowed slightly, “Did you open it?” I asked, which earned me a glare.
“No. And if I had, I’d at least be more careful than to scuff the windowsill. Look,” he answered me, pointing to the windowsill. The white paint had been scraped faintly, exposing the wood underneath. “You know how finicky this window is. How, when you open it, you have to lift it up a bit in order for… well, in order to avoid this.”
Sherlock hummed pensively, then padded to his bedroom. My eyes followed his retreating figure, “Uh– Sherlock– Hey– where are you going?” I called.
“Getting dressed! As should you,” Sherlock answered, then poked his head around his doorway, his eyes gleaming, “... because the game is afoot.”
I sighed and begrudgingly made my way to my own room. At least Sherlock is with it enough to let me get dressed rather than drag me across London in my pyjamas… again. As I dressed myself, my mind wandered back to the “case” at hand. I began to wonder if Sherlock was serious or if this was some elaborate ploy to get out of the house. Did he have an ulterior motive? Was he really this bored? Was he having a psychotic break? I wasn’t sure what I’d prefer.
My train of thought was then derailed as I heard banging at my door. Speak Think of the devil.
“Come on, Watson! Chop chop!” Sherlock called impatiently on the other side.
“Yeah, yeah, hang on. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet!” I called back as I nearly tripped over putting my trousers on.