Sherlock & Co. Flash Bang Project - "Of Tango and Spinning Thoughts"
This is a writing part of our Sherlock & Co. Flash Bang Project - mine, @voilaammayi, and @morguhimechan. Check out the end of this post or go to their profile to see the awesome art they’ve created as the complementary part of the project. Enjoy!
the prompt: He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He picked up the phone and read the text.
Of Tango and Spinning Thoughts
Sherlock was yet to fully acknowledge the fact that Watson would probably never stop to astonish him.
He was rather proud to say that he - colloquially speaking - has worked Watson out. By now he learned most of his routine and habits. For example, Sherlock knew that for breakfast he liked to eat toast with jam, occasionally with honey or cottage cheese. So a sugar bomb, if it was matched with a coffee that he usually bought out in the neighbourhood. The doctor claimed those walks were to clear his head and get a positive attitude for a day, Sherlock! To which the detective used to reply that if not for the Patreon people, all this positivity would soon become despair at the state of your wallet, Watson. But then he never complained, when he was given biscuits from the cafe.
He also got to understand Watson’s texting etiquette, although it took him some time. The Internet was a vast and useful space, but text chats? They posed a real challenge. Half of the people acted there completely differently than they were in reality. The second half insisted on using slang, abbreviations, truly weird interpunction, and God knows what else far more frequently than Sherlock found it necessary or appropriate, really. All that, with its variety and unsaid rules or meanings that he was still learning to decipher, usually got him pretty tired pretty quickly.
Thankfully, both Watson and Mariana were rather consistent and truthful in the way they were communicating on the internet, so eventually Sherlock got a hold of it.
Watson was quite similar online as he was in the flesh - many jokes and changing topics. Using the damn abbreviations, but always explained them every time Sherlock asked him what in heavens does tbh nvm man lol or other absurd things mean. Almost every sentence in a separate message, as if to visualise how the next and next thought popped out in his mind, prompted by the previous one and impatient to get out. Sometimes his texting stopped in the middle because he had to do something else and then forgot to finish. From time to time he had a phase when he was sending emojis rather excessively and - to Sherlock’s worry - using a whole variety of them. Other than those relatively understandable ones, every else with a meaning that seemingly only Watson had in mind, Mariana too baffled by them on a regular basis.
Speaking about Mariana, sometimes Sherlock had an irresistible urge to leave everything he was doing at the moment and go thank her. She was so clear and straightforward in her messages, using just punctuation marks combined instead of emojis. Dots at the end of most sentences and usually commas where they belonged. A beautiful example of effectiveness and intelligibility in the detective’s opinion.
Sherlock himself has taken over only two of the internet habits yet. First, voice messages which were a blessing in knowing that he would be heard correctly, intonation other way completely lost in this so-called modern way of talking that was texting. And second, gifs. At first, he almost caused a war on Baker Street, when he said the word aloud with a letter j instead of g. Watson went on a half-hour rant about how pronouncing it other than gif is immoral and inhuman. Sherlock argued that the inventor of the thing itself called it jif so he too would do as such. The fight was yet to be decided, for now forbidden to continue by Mariana. She wisely didn’t choose a side.
Anyway, Sherlock found gifs brilliant. Certain communicate in captions at the bottom joined by a certain visual reaction. Quick and clear. By now he had a whole folder in his app gallery of thoroughly chosen gifs for particular occasions. Sometimes, when he had no energy to bring his thoughts into words but needed to get a longer message through, he just sent gif sets containing the meaning as a whole.
Watson claimed it was hypocrisy if Sherlock were using gifs instead of words and then complain about using emojis. Sherlock said in response, that Watson is nowhere as consistent in using emojis in terms of their meaning as Sherlock is with gifs.
All this knowledge gained and yet he still became a victim of online texting. Well, after a bit of thought he had to admit, it was less a texting thing and more a matter of his naivety and curiosity, let it be damned. Although there was always a safe option of just saying that Watson and his mischievous schemes were to blame. Because when one day Sherlock saw messages popping on on his phone’s screen and about trains of all things, he just jumped right in.
John H. Watson: Hey sherlock
John H. Watson: Sherlock mate
John H. Watson: Do you know what time it is??
John H. Watson: Yep that’s right sun is shining birds are singing and all that
John H. Watson: So are you ready to hear your train fact of the day from your personal source john watson md?
John H. Watson: Bet you don’t know this one!!!!
John H. Watson: Did you know the longest UK train station name is Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwlllantysiliogogogoch
John H. Watson: Don’t ask me to say it
You: You missed an “I” on the “Illlanty”
You: It is quite an amusing fact though, I must say.
John H. Watson: You have no idea how long that took me to type
John H. Watson: Actually made me chuckle that one!!
John H. Watson: Now I have your attention
You: What is that supposed to mean?
John H. Watson: Sherlock Holmes, I do believe it is your time to do the washing up
That way Sherlock ended up in the kitchen, elbow-deep in the sink. It was truly awful, touching all the wetness and sliminess there, and he would ditch the task immediately if it weren’t for the fact, that Watson was already washing the dishes five times more frequently than him - precisely because Watson knew how much Sherlock hated it, so the detective had the decency to do it at least once from time to time as a show of gratitude.
He had to come to the kitchen also because when he ghosted next messages from Watson, the doctor showed up at Sherlock’s door personally to walk him to the sink and gave him both a dish soap and a sponge courteously, as it was some treasure, saying:
- Your crown jewels, my lord.
In the end, of course, Watson caved in and after letting out a dramatic sigh he pushed himself off the countertop where he was leaning and joined Sherlock at the sink. To keep the balance, as Watson phrased it, he denied actually washing the dishes and agreed to just dry them with a kitchen cloth, their fingers brushing while passing the plates.
He also couldn’t resist taking onto a cupped hand some of the foam that had gathered in one of the pots from the dish soap, and splashing Sherlock with it. The opalescent, bubbly, and - to the detective’s distress - wet thing all over his dark curls. All over the place, too, to be honest, because it escalated into a full-blown battle for a minute or two. Watson was glowing with victory afterward, no matter the sheer amounts of dish soap on his clothes.
(Sherlock just couldn’t bring himself to touch the slimy contents of the sink longer than necessary, so he took the almost full bottle of dish soap as his weapon. Well, let’s say it wasn’t so full anymore.)
Watson went to the bathroom to bring them some towels while murmuring to himself something along the lines That’s exactly how it ends, you ask him to clean and there is only more to clean afterward - but at the same time, his laugh still heard across the flat even though he was a few rooms away.
Mariana eyed them in a very suspicious manner for a long moment of silence, when they had no other option than to knock on the Baker Street 221A’s door later that day and ask if she would lend them some more dish soap, so Sherlock could actually finish washing those bloody dishes. She looked rather intimidating with hands on her hips and a raised brow.
- And what have you done with the one I bought you just yesterday…?
There was a bit of emptiness in the boys’s minds when they looked briefly at themselves, hopefully getting their stories aligned in some telepathic way, for the sake of their crumbling dignity. Then they said at the same time:
- Watson started a fight.
Sherlock opened his mouth looking almost insulted. Watson elbowed him under the ribs. Mariana raised the second brow, too.
- No soy una idiota, boys.
All that was the reason why the next night’s events looked the way they did.
It was late and Sherlock didn’t feel particularly tired. No, quite the opposite. Energy came to him from nowhere around midnight and settled rather comfortably in his body, so he had no choice but to use it in some way. It was not unusual, actually, that’s the way it was his whole life. His mind is uneasy and with a whole plethora of thoughts to keep yourself busy with. Many threads that once started, then wait to be analysed and brought to a conclusion. But simultaneously, his interest in things coming one moment and gone the other, each next thought more fascinating than its predecessor. Always looking for more, craving for something new or unusual that could keep his mind entertained.
So it was bound to happen - both periods of unbearable boredom and excessive activity. In the first case, when everything around seemed almost painfully mundane and his brain was burning out on itself, trying to find anything worth his attention. And the second one, when there was even too much to do, too urgent and compelling, so he stayed up at weird hours at night, completely absorbed with whatever it was that interested him this time.
Tonight it was violin. In the depths of the internet the other day he found music of Antonio Agri, some Argentinian musician, that filled his head completely for now and refused to leave it. So here he was, practising Los mareados at three am. He drew the bow across the strings, sounds of tango filling his room - probably seeping through doors and windows, into the flat and outside, onto Baker Street.
But then, just when he was about to play the trickiest part, his phone buzzed. And again, and once more. And it continued to, every dozen seconds, no matter how Sherlock tried to ignore it and get back to his violin. He didn’t have to check to know who it was, texting him this late at night. Watson probably didn’t like a live performance of Argentinian music when he was sleeping.
It didn’t stop after a few minutes, the buzzing more insistent in Sherlock’s ears than his own music. If he reached out for the phone to look at its screen, he was expecting to see some caps-locked messages scolding him for making sure no one in the building would never lend them an egg when needed, as Watson liked to phrase it. Maybe, if Watson was more sleepy than pissed, something closer to Sherlock my dearest roommate and companion I know music is the greatest gift and it must be lovely to play but will you please shut up.
Sherlock actually had a whole catalogue of messages like that in his memory (and on text chat with Watson), so he allowed himself to not check out this one. He went back to playing, and after a while his phone went silent and his room once again filled with nothing else than violin.
It took him some time, but finally, he was satisfied with the effects and decided it was enough for today. He could finally go to sleep, unbothered by pent-up energy. He changed his clothes and got ready to go to bed. But while burying under the covers he forgot himself and checked the phone.
Suddenly he felt uneasy again, what he was seeing not the thing he had expected. There was twenty or so unread texts from Watson, the list so long that the whole of it wasn’t visible on a lock screen. And in those that were, Sherlock couldn’t find a word about violin.
John H. Watson: Okay mate you’re not gonna believe it
John H. Watson: The train we took last time, right?
John H. Watson: The one to Chessington
John H. Watson: For the case
John H. Watson: Did you know that the same station where we got off is where seven bodies were found in the last three years?
John H. Watson: Seven Sherlock!
This was where the notification box ended, more text available if he unlocked the phone. He hesitated for a second, suspicion rising. What if Watson was baiting him again? He would open the chat, curious about the supposed train crime, and then boom!, as Watson would exclaim if it was him saying it, Sherlock would be caught by an accusing message, scolding him for not doing his laundry or something.
His scepticism was abruptly interrupted by an incoming text from Mariana.
Mrs. Hudson: Gracias a Dios you finally stopped playing or I would come upstairs and confiscate that violin of yours.
Mrs. Hudson: Performances appreciated but in the daytime, please!
Mrs. Hudson: Go rest, Sherlock. Good night :))
You: Noted. Good night mrs. Hudson.
Her texts took up the place on screen from Watson’s, but not from Sherlock’s thoughts. His curiosity won.
John H. Watson: How come people still want to even step foot on the platform
John H. Watson: No way to know if where you’re standing just now isn’t a place of somebody’s death
John H. Watson: You could stand where somebody bled out and have no idea
John H. Watson: How do they even get those blood stains off the pavement
John H. Watson: Sake the bloody thing is harder to wash than cranberry
John H. Watson: And I know a thing or two about washing off cranberry cause it was the only ice cream flavour I liked when I was eight
John H. Watson: Half of my clothes had cranberry stains and my mother almost crossed me out of her will cause I wouldn’t stop eating them
John H. Watson: Oh the thing I just did
John H. Watson: Wrote I mean
John H. Watson: Saying “the bloody thing” when I was talking about literal blood a second earlier
John H. Watson: Sorry it wasn’t intentional
John H. Watson: But you have to admit it is a good one
John H. Watson: Eh good old wordplay
John H. Watson: So unappreciated in this cruel modern world
John H. Watson: So that train yeah?
John H. Watson: Did you know that every one of those people was found with an unused train ticket for a Plymouth-Cardiff ride
John H. Watson: That’s on the whole other end of a country!!!!
John H. Watson: Every one of them I repeat
John H. Watson: A ticket that was never used and dead the same day it was bought
Texts ended. Nothing like So what do we reckon? or Well? Are you interested mate? to follow up on the case description. Because, maybe interrupted by a few digressions and unbidden thoughts of Watson’s, it was practically a case he was offering Sherlock. But it all felt unfinished, weirdly suspended. The weirdest of it all was a bubble at the bottom of the chat, insinuating Watson was still writing something, even though almost twenty minutes passed since he sent the last message.
He gave it all a few seconds of his mind insight.
After that, despite all his intelligence he suddenly felt very stupid.
He rushed out of his room, leaving the phone and warm, welcoming bed behind. All this urgency he had to abandon the moment he stepped a foot outside the door because if he woke up Archie with his frantic moving through the flat, he wouldn’t hear the end of it (or of Archie’s alarmed barking). Watson would eagerly add the dog’s turmoil to Sherlock’s list of things why neighbours hate them.
Sherlock didn’t know it yet, but at the same time, John was lying on his bed - eyes open but lights not on. His sheets were somewhere on the floor, he wasn’t sure on which side. He was still too hot anyway but had no actual energy to get up and open a window to let some cool night air into his room. Even less energy, since the violin music stopped playing and there was nothing else anymore to keep him from his own thoughts.
The story behind it all was as old as time. Well, not really, but it sounded good that way. It wasn’t even as old as John himself, since most of his life he was blissfully free from PTSD and its nightmares. Funny thing, he considered many worries before joining the army, but not ever that this bloody illness would get him. Was it an illness or a disorder? Rather a disorder, he thought after a moment. He should finally accept that it wasn’t going anywhere and will stay with him for a long time - till the end of time, probably - and just go to therapy. Get some meds or his brain fixed, anything really. But the thought was heavy and with a responsibility. He knew it’d be good for him in the end, but he wasn’t quite ready.
He considered it safer to deal with one existential crisis at a time. First, he had to deal with coming back to the country from Ukraine. Getting sacked from the army. ‘Sake, becoming a criminal in a technical sense. And still, nothing compared to dealing with being blown up, hospital convalescence, and the knowledge that there are scars on his body that would stay there forever. Itching every time he woke up from a bloody nightmare like this.
Secondly, he dealt with the matter of where he’d even live and what he was gonna do with his life. It was all a bit of a coincidence, really. But in the end and all things considered? Sherlock and Mariana, this whole thing they three created, were the best thing that ever happened to him. That’s it, nothing else needed to be said.
So the third thing was getting used to that. That he had a stable life - as much as it could be phrased like that, considering what they did for a living - and that it was good. With a purpose, relatively safe, and filled with warmth. Baker Street felt so warm. Sometimes he was still learning to feel comfortable with that, to acknowledge it all. He smiled every time.
Then yeah, the fourth thing could be dealing with PTSD and all his past on therapy. In a while. Just not know, when everything was more or less okay. Let the monsters sleep for a bit more.
But John wasn’t sleeping. He woke up with a gasp and just sat on a bed for a moment. Details of the nightmare already fading, but a bad feeling connected to it not going to leave his mind until further notice, thank you very much. When his breath calmed down and heart stopped racing, he tried to collect his thoughts. Yes, the dreams were still disruptive to his nights, but by now he got quite used to them. Sometimes there was one that was leaving him particularly shattered, but mostly they were just… inconvenient. Causing him to be tired the next day because of not getting enough sleep. Or so he told himself, but that was not something John would officially admit.
Right now he knew two things - that he was not gonna fall asleep again and that he had to distract himself immediately to not go down some very unpleasant spiral of thoughts. He also realised that there was music in the air. Sherlock was not sleeping, too, and playing the violin. How could he not hear it the last fifteen minutes? He knew the answer - the question was rather rhetorical, don’t mind him - but John didn’t dwell on it and instead focused on listening. The melody was somehow familiar.
He reached out for his phone, not exactly sure why. He had no way of checking what the music was even if he’d like to. But thankfully his phone had endless means of distraction. Soon he found out it wasn’t working - he could scroll Instagram as much as he wanted to, but at some point, his mind repeatedly stopped paying attention to what was on the screen and went back to the nightmare - even though it was a complete blur by now - and all the other things that was making him anxious. Prompted by the dream coming to the surface.
He needed someone else to distract him. Another person determining the topic of his thoughts. Just somebody to talk to, please. For a moment he fought with himself, laying on the mattress again and staring at the ceiling.
Music was still playing in the flat. Sherlock was still not asleep. His phone was somewhere near, probably, and John’s still in his head. But it was three in the morning.
John tried keeping down all the worries for a moment and got himself together. He researched for a bit, jumping from one Wikipedia article to another and making a stop at a news site - to at least be able to message Sherlock something that was of interest if he were to bother him this late at night.
He opened the text chat and started typing.
Soon about twenty messages or so were sent. He wasn’t thinking about how much he wrote, busy with getting words out of his head and onto a screen. Truly distracting himself for a few minutes. Then he watched his phone expectantly, waiting for a replying bubble to appear. A moment passed, then a second one. Nothing happened, his texts didn’t show the read marks. The violin was still playing.
He sighed, a bit disappointed but mostly just tired. He couldn’t blame Sherlock, honestly. It was the middle of the night and the detective wanted to have some privacy and time for himself. Not that Sherlock was equally polite but that was a thing for another day. Anyway, he was probably so caught up in playing, as usual, that he had no idea what was even going on around him. Someone could break into the flat and he would just turn a page of the music sheet.
John smiled, no matter all things. Sherlock was just something else. The most brilliant and bizarre person he has and will ever met bit in the podcast intro was not far-fetched. Also the most infuriating at times but God help anybody that would try somehow taking Sherlock from his life. He was a doctor, he knew how to heal bones. But a soldier, too, so he also knew how to break them.
There was tapping on the floor panels and John realised, first a bit spooked, that Archie entered the room through a gap in the unclosed door. He slowly came to the foot of the bed and made a noise, something similar to sneezing.
He crouched down and lifted the dog. ‘Sake, he forgot how heavy it was. He would never admit it but Sherlock might have been right in saying Archie was a little fat.
- You sensed I was upset, huh? Good boy. This time I will let you sleep on my bed. But don’t get used to it, alright?
Who was he fooling, he would let him sleep on the bed anytime the dear creature would want to.
And so they were lying together, Archie next to John’s ribs. John wondered if Archie acknowledged feeling his heartbeat, just as now he acknowledged feeling the dog’s. He smiled again and scratched him behind the ears. He decided to not think about the nightmare again - although he was sure he didn’t have much say in the matter - and instead try to decipher what Sherlock was playing. There was absolute certainty we wouldn’t get it, but it occupied his mind at least.
He hadn’t realised that, but he started drifting off to sleep. And he probably would completely, if the music didn’t stop abruptly. He needed a second to orient himself. When he realised what happened, the hint of disappointment appeared again, but it didn’t have time to settle, because the door to his room creaked the tiniest bit.
John guessed it was Sherlock and held his breath. Without any particular reason, he felt heat crawling up his neck. ‘Sake, why was he embarrassed? There was no shame in his nightmares, besides Sherlock already knew about it all. Get yourself together, man. Yeah, no, the heat was still there.
After a moment passed, he heard knocking. Huh, Sherlock was not one to knock.
His voice was so hesitant that John almost forgot about his embarrassment, he was so taken aback. Sherlock and shyness, who would have thought?
Apparently his voice wasn’t great either, great. He cleared his throat when Sherlock was slowly opening the door. John felt his eyes, scanning him up and down. He also suddenly realised that we went to sleep without a pyjama top, his Jaws-themed t-shirt crumpled on the floor. He frantically reached out for it and pulled it over his head, noticing Sherlock’s eyes hadn’t left him, instead watching as he was putting his arms through the sleeves. The heat reached his cheeks.
A moment of silence passed.
- I’m an awful detective, Watson.
In that simple way they both understood the shared knowledge of John’s nightmare, his text’s flood, Sherlock playing, the end of it and why was he now standing in the doorway.
John felt he was melting inside a bit. A huff escaped him, along with a small chuckle.
At this moment Sherlock felt relief filling him whole. He couldn’t help but let his face act on its own accord, his brows lifting and eyes narrowing because of the smile that appeared on his face. He started playing with the fingers of his right hand. Watson seemed relatively okay, despite his ignorance. There was no harm done because of how long he let himself be occupied with the violin.
They stood like that, not really doing anything, just looking at each other. Watson’s eyes glowed almost unnoticeably in the faint yellow light that seeped through the window from the street. Sherlock felt quite enamoured by that. Didn’t notice Archie on the bed, who was now asking for lost attention by climbing onto Watson’s lap. So that’s why it was so easy to get through the flat in silence, the main disruptor was already here.
It was Watson who spoke up first:
- Could do with one of those pressure hugs, though.
So Sherlock sat on the bed next to Watson, their feet on the ground. Watson smiled at him and Sherlock put his arms around him. One reaching further, across the doctor’s back to his shoulder, and the second only as far as somewhere between his chest and abdomen. Archie started licking it. Sherlock winced a bit but didn’t do anything else. He was rewarded with Watson’s hand on his own. Warm spread from there through his skin.
There was silence again, this time more comfortable. Just their breaths and sometimes a faint noise from the street. Watson’s head landed in the space between the end of Sherlock’s jaw and his collarbone, the man’s hair tickling his cheek. He wouldn’t complain, because thanks to that Watson wasn’t feeling nor seeing Sherlock’s ears, red by now. Or at least he hoped so.
There were some unfamiliar thoughts, forming in his mind over the weeks that passed by, caused by situations like this. But pleasant. Warm ones and accompanied by remembrance of Watson’s smiles. Sherlock was slowly realising that he noticed new things about the man and that they made him feel in a new way about his companion. About John.
He didn’t dwell on those thoughts, leaving them for when he would be ready to understand them. And ready for the consequences. But it all made his head spin.
Suddenly Watson spoke again:
- What was it that you were playing? It sounds familiar.
- I highly doubt it is in your range of interest. More of the classic side of things. It’s the music of Antonio Agri, an Argentinean violinist. I found out about him this morning.
Watson just laughed quietly.
- Ah, so Los Mareados, then. Now I remember.
Sherlock opened his mouth. Then closed and opened them again.
- I did a presentation about him in high school - Watson added, smiling. - Each one of us had to choose a musician from a different country. I picked a name at random in some book from the library.
Yes, he would never stop astonishing him.
Watson squeezed his hand.
Mareado meant faint in English, as Mariana told Sherlock. But also giddy, feeling like everything is spinning around. With his eyes closed, remembrance of the violin sounds, and mind empty for this short moment, he found all those meanings quite suitable.
