BBC Sherlock Howard, Misplaced - Survive

"I want to kill myself, I want to die."

Sherlock waited until the cup of tea was drained before opening his mouth.He should know the consequences behind this sentence.

Boredom - like a broken heart.He had always been less sympathetic to the emotions that flared up.

The window was open, and a gust of cold air poured in, lifting the corner of Sherlock's suit, his long, knuckle fingers gripping the rim of his cup.The detective got up from his chair and closed the window reluctantly.

A withered yellow leaf was brought into the room, a sign of the end of life, lifeless and lifeless.

Sherlock stared at the foreign object that wasn't originally part of the home in disgust, and swept it under the sofa with the toe of his shoe.

The rustling wind in the background fell silent for a moment.

Sherlock turned away, as if waiting for the doctor to speak.

"What?" Sure enough, John clenched his hand and crumpled the edge of the newspaper. He raised his eyes in disbelief.

"What is the meaning of life? Doctor, can you give me a proper explanation?"

"Life is beautiful," John said, "if you're willing to watch—" and soon realized that was wrong, Sherlock was watching all the time, it was his instinct.

"Say it again, 'observation'?" The tone was sarcasm.

"Oh, forget it, pretend I didn't say it!"

John licked his lips, the aroma of the coffee was still there, but he didn't have time to savor it.

"You said, you want to die?"

The detective raised the corners of his lips almost indiscernibly, all he was waiting for was this moment.

"It's okay, I was joking. The coffee beans at home are gone, and I will buy some at the supermarket next time."

The doctor looked back and forth between Sherlock's face and the cup in his hand, and the man was quietly like a statue for John to observe, with a composed and arrogant look - as if he was fully prepared, complacent, and confident .

"Maybe you need to stop taking cases—murder cases," John murmured. "You're addicted to it, and you can't get it out of it, but I don't take it when you're crazy."

John shook the newspaper in his hand, and said nothing.

And the line of sight just fell on a word: Suicide.

He shivered.

Finding that he could no longer read, the doctor closed the newspaper, threw it aside, and took a deep breath.

"Sherlock?"

"how?"

"Promise me," he said solemnly, as if discussing national policy, "don't try your best, whether you want to feel the weightlessness of free fall or the fear of taking a step—or anything else, I know your damn curiosity It tends to make you run wild and do anything."

Sherlock's smile deepened. "I said, John, it was just a joke. A little joke."

The doctor walked over to Sherlock, knelt down, and twirled the leaf, which the detective thought was worthless, from under the sofa.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock sounded like the doctor had just done something out of the ordinary.

"This is our visitor," John replied.

He put the withered leaf into a book, didn't read the title of the book carefully, just picked it up casually.

John's observation of people can't be said to be subtle, but he has some experience after getting along with Sherlock for a long time.

"You know," said the doctor, rather uneasily, "you never tell jokes."

"It's always good to try something new."

Sherlock winked at John, walked past him nonchalantly, then turned his head:

"The Suicide," Sherlock pointed to the ink-printed headline, "read it, let me hear it."

"Actually, that case is quite interesting. How about we go and take a look? Calvin Evans? If I remember the name of the deceased correctly."

"Wait, that's not Lestrade's commission, and it's already been solved, and it's suicide that you disdain the most—how could you be interested?"

"John, your opinion of me is really limited," Sherlock continued, crossing his arms over his chest, "Can't the consulting detective take the initiative to investigate the cases he is interested in?"

"But this is suicide! Obviously, it is also what you call 'not worth mentioning' cases, you say they have no investigative value."

John looked at him and added, "You told me yourself."

He thought of the suicide case about a year ago, and Sherlock had been very disdainful of suicide ever since.

"Are ordinary people so fragile?"

After the case was over, they wandered the streets casually, holding paper cups from a small coffee shop on the way.White smoke billowed up, Sherlock asked an incomprehensible question, and John really didn't know what to answer.

"Why do you think they are vulnerable?"

"Emotions can easily destroy them. Seriously, John, if one day alien species from other planets want to invade the earth, human beings are absolutely capable of self-destruction."

"Such a sci-fi statement has never been seen on you before."

"A request from Jerry: Mr. Holmes, I found a suspected alien body in my backyard, and I seriously suspect it was murdered! Oh, my God, the murderer was the one you hid in the bottom of the TV cabinet !"

"Okay. Then let's compare, the alien hallucinations caused by overdose or the couple's relationship being hindered and running to die in love. Which case is more boring to you?"

"Of course it's—"

They returned to the door of 221B, and Sherlock shook the snowflakes off his windbreaker, only to find some in his hair.He shrugged nonchalantly, but it was John who stood on tiptoe and brushed off the white patches for him clumsily and somewhat rudely.

"Oh, take it easy!" Sherlock protested in a low voice, but didn't duck.

"You haven't answered my question yet."

"John, the coffee you make is more fragrant."

"Thank you for the compliment. But you know I hate when you change the subject for no apparent reason."

Sherlock raised his arm and caught John's with a leather-gloved hand, letting it leave his curls and let it rest on his shoulders.

"John, this is just an if, just a hypothesis - will one day, you also become an ordinary person...those, trapped by love...ordinary people."

It was difficult for him to say the last few words, but Sherlock's eyes looked straight into the depths of John's heart—as if he wanted to find and uncover some ulterior secret.

This kind of annoying behavior usually only occurs when handling a case, John feels uncomfortable, although he has nothing to hide, but the sharp and cold eyes opened a hole in his chest like a sharp knife, Mind all at a glance.

John cleared his throat, "So, what is the definition of an ordinary person?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and that was the end of the memory.

"'Pure suicide' is not worth mentioning. Most of them are forced by circumstances, but who knows? Maybe it's a murder! Okay, John, are you coming?"

"I have no reason to refuse."

John can actually use various reasons to refuse.Unlike in the past, Sherlock didn't point out the many suspicious points of this case, it seemed that everything was not as simple as it appeared - John was very disturbed.And the more disturbed he was, the more he wanted to stay with Sherlock.

"John, if you don't want to, I won't force you."

This is nonsense. John thought faintly, no one had ever forced him, so he was willing to stay with Sherlock all the time.

"I'll go with you, Sherlock, but I have conditions."

"What is it?"

"Don't lie to your bloggers."

A sudden laugh sounded in John's ear, and he closed his eyes, unwilling to look directly at Sherlock's expression, he would never get used to him like this.

John had seen Sherlock many times, armed and disarmed.

But this one, he'd never, never guess—

"How could it be?" It was full of hypocrisy.

John didn't expect that he would come to this luxurious place in his lifetime.

No matter how you look at it, he is not the kind of dandy who spends money like water. John thinks that his character may not be as noble as the outside world's evaluation, but John always stays away from eating, drinking, whoring and gambling.

He was wearing a well-kept suit in the closet, and Mrs. Hudson had kindly ironed it for John, and the three-piece suit was now snugly on him.The crystal chandeliers are colorful, dealers, chips-basically all new things that rarely appear in John's life.

"Essentially, once you're in that place, you're there for the rest of your life—otherwise Evans wouldn't have jumped into the Thames."

Those were Sherlock's exact words this morning, "We've got to go to the casino."

"why?"

"Evans is in a lot of debt, John, and this kind of case is too common and boring. Those gamblers are happy when they win a few dirty money..."

"You already know why he committed suicide?"

"Of course, it's obvious."

"Then—the case is solved."

The half body supported by John fell back into the sofa again. Since it is a closed case, why bother to investigate it?

"John, don't miss this opportunity!"

Sherlock seemed to be in high spirits, but John couldn't see a single part of the suicide that appealed to him, nothing unsolved, nothing absurd - but John believed that Sherlock had a meaning in everything he did.In the end, his answer was:

"How can I help?"

Sherlock led John upstairs and demanded that he find the most formal outfit in his wardrobe.The doctor pondered for a while, and then took out the clothes hanger from the dark corner on the far right of the crossbar.It was a suit, very ordinary cut.Even though he wore it so infrequently, John still had it hanging there.

That suit was bought for Harry's wedding. John thought back, and he couldn't remember the exact moment.The original idea was just: Marriage is a major event in life, but this time it is my elder sister, so naturally she has to dress decently.Although they don't get along very well in normal times, in some respects, they still have similar views.If it is family members, we should pay special attention to it. This is the simplest truth.

Not long after the wedding, Harry announced the end of her married life, which left John speechless.

He still remembered that in the middle of the night, the doorbell of John's original single-person apartment rang suddenly, and the sound became more and more urgent-John took out the gun from the drawer, and walked to the door lightly.

Came to collect debts?Damn the bill!Haven't paid off last month's arrears? John thought hard about the details of his income and expenditure, but he couldn't even remember a little bit of information.

He hid behind the door, loaded the bullet, and aimed the muzzle at the forehead of the visitor when the door opened——

"Oh, John!"

"Harry...!" John couldn't help rolling his eyes.

"I bought a half-dozen of beers, how about you? Let's go wild now and then, good soldier?"

"...I can refuse, right?"

"Don't be so unfeeling, my brother. Well, besides coming to see you... I have other things to talk to you about. Now, you won't refuse, will you?"

"You'd better tell me if you really have something important to do, or I'll see you off directly."

John turned sideways, letting Harry into the room.

"Look at you, you are so indifferent to your dear sister, no wonder you can't find a roommate. I said a long time ago that you can come and live with me, but I can't help it if you insist so much."

"That's an attitude only aimed at you." John glanced at the can of beer in his hand, but never moved. "Clara...how is it?"

"You didn't ask me about my recent situation, but asked about her? Forget it, it's almost the same... Brother, there are some things you still don't understand."

"What?" John watched Harry swallow a sip of beer, his face seemed not as good as when he entered the door.

"I am divorced."

"..." John observed his older sister, blond hair cut short, neat and capable.It also makes her emotions invisible, unlike other women who can hide themselves in waist-length hair.

She looks sad.

John thought what he really had to do, and he gave Harry a hug.The man strangled him hard, reminding John of a ginger teddy bear he had when he was a kid, and he would hug it like this every night before bed.

Harry sobbed quietly in his ear.She may have wailed countless times at home, otherwise, according to Harry's hysterical personality, it would definitely not be just sobbing.

"Brother, you haven't grown up yet, you don't understand anything... don't understand, it's too hurtful."

"You know that's impossible...and besides, I'm almost thirty."

"I just want to protect you. If...you really meet a girl who makes you fall in love...don't make her sad like me..."

"..." John bit his lip and said nothing.

Sherlock doesn't often tell Mrs. Hudson their whereabouts, but today he said bluntly: "John and I are going to the casino tonight, and we may just stay out for the night. This is John's suit, can you pack it for him?" Do you want to sort it out?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled, nodded, and went downstairs.

"I remember you were having a hard time financially," said the detective. "Actually, you could ask me for help."

"What you don't know is that I have properly collected the promissory note or remuneration given to you by the client. Otherwise, where do you think your money came from?"

"Oh." Sherlock shrugged, disapprovingly.He'd thought Mycroft had stuffed his drawer with bills while he wasn't looking.

"Seriously, is money really so important? It's not easy to make people jump into the river."

"Sherlock, you're the most ignorant fellow I've ever seen...not everyone has an older brother who's in the government 'at the end of the line' like you."

"Really?" Silence followed.

Sherlock brushed his fingers over the fireplace, checking the accumulation of dust, "So, do you envy me?"

This question doesn't seem to be specific, it's more like a soliloquy.It wasn't until Sherlock turned his head to stare at John that the doctor realized that the detective was actually asking him a question.

"Do you know how lucky you are? To be able to do a job you love without financial pressure."

"My question is, do you envy me, John?"

"Of course, I'm extremely envious!"

Sherlock snorted coldly and stopped talking, his eyes fell on the dust flying above the fireplace again.

In the evening, Mrs. Hudson delivered the suit, "Mrs. Hudson, thank you very much." John took it, put it on his arm and went back to his room to change.

He stands before the mirror.It's been too long since I've dressed formally, it's natural that I'm not used to it, but I feel uncomfortable at the thought of standing next to his roommate dressed like this.Surely like a waiter?Although the way I usually get along with Sherlock seems to be like this.

"John, what are you doing?"

"Sherlock...! I have locked the door!"

The detective flicked the key in his hand without guilt, and there was a sound of metal clashing. As he approached him, his sharp eyes swept all over John's body, and then he gave a malicious smile.

"I've never seen you dressed like this before."

"Yes. Actually, you don't have to hide your surprise. If I see you wearing a short-sleeved top and jeans one day, I will directly express my shock."

"Actually, I like it very much."

"I'm going to block all your criticism—wait, what did you just say?"

"I like it very much."

"...Anyway, this is for investigation."

John returned to the mirror, and Joe undid Joe's tie, only to see Sherlock come around behind him in the reflected image, reaching out to stop John from moving, and then undoing the tie he had just put on.

"do what?"

"That's fine, but I want to see..."

Sherlock's fingers touched John's collar, reached down to the first button, and undid it.

The doctor saw in the mirror that the detective's hands stretched from his back to his chest, almost embracing him. Seeing that John didn't resist, Sherlock went on to undo the second button.

Finally, on the third day, the doctor suddenly woke up.He shook off his roommate, hurriedly and shyly buttoning his clothes back to their original state.

"What do you want?"

"I see that you are holding back."

"No, I'm not you. You don't need to unbutton the button to reveal most of your chest."

"That's very airy."

"no need."

John felt that his body was hot for no reason, and what he wanted to do most now was to rush to the street to blow the cold wind.

"Are we leaving?" he asked.

"at any time."

They went around the casino a few times, Sherlock shuttled among the gamblers, seeing their maddened appearances because of winning or losing, but smiled strangely.

"So? What's your conclusion?"

"No conclusion. This is a closed case."

"Then why did you bring me here tonight?"

"Come and relax. See how a person is driven to death. This is the intersection of heaven and purgatory, a two-way passage or a fork in the road. What has been thrown cannot be taken back. Most of the time, you can only watch them go down the drain. "

"That makes sense."

"Always."

Sherlock seemed to be in a good mood, his shirt unbuttoned to the third button, and John glanced at it, then looked away.

"John, let's find a place to sleep."

"Actually, we can go directly to 221B—"

"This is a trip to relax," Sherlock said slightly dissatisfied, "Isn't it nice to escape from your original life once in a while?"

I really don't know what's wrong with him. John thought, but followed Sherlock anyway.

John found that he only had enough cash on him to pay for a room.

A few days ago Sherlock took his card for no idea what to do.He tossed about at the counter for quite a while, until Sherlock came quietly across the hall with a half-smile on his face.

"What did you do with my card?"

"Going to test the automatic checkout machine at the supermarket. I want to find out what's wrong."

"Very good, I don't have the money to pay for two single rooms, you pay for it."

"I don't have a wallet with me."

"So we still have to go home! I'm going to get a taxi now—"

Sherlock took a credit card out of his pocket as the doctor spoke and placed it on the counter.

As if trying to make John hear it, Sherlock emphasized his tone, "A double room, oh, please arrange a room on a high floor for us, thank you."

"You said you didn't go out with your wallet—"

"It's true that I didn't bring it. I only have a card."

"So, you made a slip of the tongue just now?"

"not at all."

Sherlock took the key and strode toward the hall.

Thoughts were in John's mouth, but he could only cling to him.

Their room was on the nineteenth floor, and Sherlock set a suitcase on the table before turning directly to the bathroom. "I need to take a shower first."

John is baffled by everything that happened tonight, going to the casino to relax?It was odd enough, and there was no point in going to the casino, since neither of them spent a dime.

Escaping from life - why?Why escape? Sherlock had always loved his job, why would he want to run away? John sat on a chair, looking through the floor-to-ceiling glass at the downtown London at night, remembering the first time they met, that unforgettable street chase.

"It's definitely the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"You're a soldier who invaded Afghanistan."

It was a memory that lasted forever, and every time it made John laugh.

"Sherlock?"

John found that there was no movement for a long time after Sherlock entered, only the sound of running water could be heard.He pushed the door panel and it unlocked.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

No one answered.

What's going on here? John frowned, "If you don't say anything, I'll just open the door."

There is no sound. John pushed the door open, and the bathroom was full of fog. He saw Sherlock sitting in the bathtub filled with water, still wearing a shirt and suit pants. The wet clothes were tightly pressed against Sherlock's body, with clear outlines.

"..."

"Isn't that very polite?" said the detective lazily.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I told you before I entered the door that I want to take a shower."

"You're still wearing your clothes."

"I'm just too lazy to take them off."

"what?"

John felt as if he was also confused by the moisture around him, and he asked aloud again: "If you are going to take a shower, why are you still wearing your shirt?"

"If you have any objections, you can help me undress."

Sherlock walked towards John, dripping from his hair and cuffs, he opened his arms, "How? Help me?"

"My role tonight is indeed a waiter! I knew it!"

John's voice echoed in the bathroom, and the fog made his train of thought unclear, "Then I'll accompany you to the end! Fuck you to the end!"

He grabbed Sherlock by the collar and unbuttoned the man.

John almost resignedly ripped the soaked shirt off Sherlock's body, good job, the detective's sexiest time in front of the military doctor was the ridiculous encounter at Buckingham Palace, and Sherlock still turned his back to it - now, John could clearly see his dripping body, just a few centimeters in front of him, still steaming.

His hands were on the man's belt buckle, ten fingers clenched tightly, and he realized he'd almost stripped Sherlock naked.He lowered his head, or raised his eyes upwards, and there was no place where his eyes met. John simply backed away, leaning his back against the door panel, and said:

"Are you satisfied?"

"These pants make me uncomfortable."

"Solve it yourself!"

So, a military doctor returning from Afghanistan ran out of the bathroom in a panic after seeing his roommate's naked body.

This will definitely be a good joke in their lives in the future.

"John."

Sherlock walked behind the doctor with the drenched clothes in one hand.He didn't care if he didn't get a response to the call, so he opened his mouth.

"Why do you think a man commits suicide?"

Forced by circumstances.

For property, for reputation, for fault, for conscience.

For love.

That's what John answered.

He had been prepared for Sherlock's sharp sneer, but the man just nodded and walked back into the bathroom.

Everything is fine, and the following days haven't changed, peaceful and stable, Sherlock is busy with work, picking and choosing from nearly a hundred unread emails, finally finding one he likes, and forgetting to eat and sleep again.

He was so busy that he almost forgot John was there.

The conversations between the two of them have been inconsistent recently, and John is used to it, after all, Sherlock had already reached an agreement with him when they first met.

It's just that John happened to walk behind Sherlock and caught a glimpse of what was on the man's screen - he stopped and looked closely.Then, hold your breath.

"John," Sherlock sighed, "I knew you would make such a fuss."

"I thought you were at work. Sorry."

"I'm actually at work."

John confirmed for the second time that the words and photos he saw just now were not dazzled by himself, and pursed his lower lip.

"So, your case has something to do with special workers?"

"It's complicated."

"Have you been watching this for a while?"

"...This is part of the investigation."

"In order to end my misunderstanding of you, it's better for you to explain."

Sherlock cocked his legs, the way he would when he was impatient, "Irene Adler, sex worker, nicknamed the Dominatrix Queen. She was involved in a lot of political scandals a while ago - all this information is useless."

"Then what are you doing browsing her profile?"

"John, what you don't know is that she's Moriarty's—"

"Girlfriend?"

"Female partner, partner, partner," Sherlock added.

"She's a sex worker. You mean Moriarty has a kink?"

"John!" Sherlock exhaled, "God, this has nothing to do with that woman's occupation, the point is—why does she work next to Moriarty? That guy has always been strict in employing people, and once he is no longer useful, he will be eliminated directly. What can she do? Did Moriarty use her, or did she use Moriarty? Although the former is more likely, we cannot rashly rule out the latter."

"So, you mean Moriarty has a second-in-command?"

"Exactly."

"How can you be sure that Irene Adler and Moriarty are not in a transactional relationship?"

"John, like I said, this has nothing to do with professions. Also, Moriarty doesn't need those things, probably."

"how do you know?"

"He doesn't need it. What he needs is a well-crafted puzzle, and seeing those idiots at Scotland Yard scrambling like ants on a hot pot, scrambling, gets what he needs—spotlight, attention, newspaper headlines There are newspaper reports, international manhunt lists, everyone knows his name, but they can't catch him."

"But you did it."

"Who knew he would take out the gun and kill himself? Another suicide."

"Since Moriarty is dead, why are you still investigating?"

"Destroy his criminal network."

"So, do you need help?"

"John, make me a cup of coffee."

"..."

John only remembered bits and pieces of that night.

The rest of the time is tedious, Sherlock doesn't say a word, John doesn't even bother to speak, silence, suffocation, silence.

He's just too busy, and when this time passes, everything will be fine. John couldn't help telling himself, even though he didn't want to care that much.

As if it was too quiet, the raindrops were beating on the window, and the wind could still be vaguely heard.

The raindrops changed from dots to lines and flowed down the pane like dragging. John moved closer to the glass, and from the blur, he recognized several houses on the opposite side that were still lit. A man was hurrying with an umbrella. Under the illumination of street lamps, there were a few glimmers of light in the dark night.

He suddenly remembered that there was another rainy night.

At that time, the client they met was an art collector. He came to ask for help in a hurry, saying that a famous painting in his home had been stolen.

Naturally, it took Sherlock less than a day to close the case.This embarrasses Lestrade, and Scotland Yard has been clueless about the theft.

This is not surprising.

A few days later, Sherlock asked John when he was writing his blog, "Do you want to hear an opera?"

"what?"

"A thank you gift from a client," Sherlock explained. "Two."

"You...and me, two people?"

"Otherwise." Sherlock looked calm.

"Maybe you can find Molly Hooper? She should want to join you?"

John saw Sherlock frowned, "Don't you want to?"

"I didn't want to, I just—"

"Okay then," the detective clapped his hands in satisfaction, "the show starts at six o'clock in the evening, let me let you know first, although the two of us will go there together."

John wanted to say more, but it seemed like he was trying to cover up.It's been a while since Sherlock and I act together, and John has to admit, he's starting to miss those days of running around.

"The Phantom of the Opera" is a classic, and the content should be familiar to the public, and John is no exception.But the feeling of being there in person is different. The affection in the singing makes people tremble, crazy about love or taking risks. John guesses that Sherlock will definitely not comment on this.The soprano made waves in his heart, but penetrated into his heart like an electric drill.

Love can shake a person, can destroy a person, and it will do anything for it, but it is willing to keep away from it.

"I don't believe that man can live in the underground labyrinth for so long," Sherlock murmured casually next to John after the show, "No one has discovered such a huge underground structure? Just judge from the sound of the floor being knocked." .No, someone knows the truth! Why didn't she go to the police? Maybe she can get a handsome reward..."

"Sherlock." John rolled his eyes upwards, "you know it's an opera, adapted from a novel, don't use your precious and hateful analytical skills here. And - don't ruin such a good evening ,May I?"

lovely night.It was raining on such a beautiful night as they spoke.

"What are you doing...!"

John was a little helpless, although it was common in this country to get a little rain, but he didn't want this shower to spoil his spirits.

Suddenly, he was pulled violently.

"come over."

It's Sherlock.He took off his overcoats to shield each other from the rain, and John was pulled into the detective's arms, but it took only a few minutes for them to hail a taxi.

Sherlock put away his clothes, their hair inevitably wet from the rain.But the man smiled, quickened his pace, stopped in front of John, looked back, and took brisk steps to get into the car.

"John."

The doctor turned his gaze back to the room, and there were stacks of materials in a mess on the table, among which were a lot of sheet music, handwriting was scribbled, some were crumpled into paper balls, some were scratched by knives, and some even left traces of burning with the smell.

"Do you need help?"

The pause in John's words was a yawn, already twelve o'clock?Time always passed while he was in a trance, almost like a robbery.

He saw Sherlock shaking his head, "No, you're sleepy already."

"If you really need to—"

"I know," interrupted the detective, "I've never been polite to any of your demands, have I?"

After hearing this, the doctor smiled wryly, "That's right."

Sherlock took a long stride, and it took only a few seconds before John was in front of him.He looked down at him condescendingly, but was silent.

He turned him over.The detective stroked the tip of John's eyebrows with his slightly rough fingertips, all the way down to the cheekbones and cheeks, trying to get the