Murder in the Garden

[iety]

This is a little self-indulgent thing I wrote to exercise my deep need for some John sneezes. I realize the title might make it look like this will be a series of length and intrigue, but it's probably just a one-shot. Also, there might be just a teeny hint of M/M slash, but perhaps only if you have the right goggles on. Do enjoy~

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Since when did people commit murders in gardens?

But, no, this isn't a garden; it's a massive courtyard bursting with every flowering plant known to man, thickening the spring air with pollen until every pool of sunshine swam with a yellow haze.

And right in the middle, beneath the central tree laid the stripped and strangled body of victim number two.

Lestrade had given them a few minutes alone with the scene. Of course, they had already exceeded the time limit with all their poking around the greenery, and the encroaching CSI teams had made Sherlock visibly irritated.

He strode up to John, brandishing a florid plume of something purple. "Smell this," he snapped, and pushed the thing into John's face without waiting for an answer. John reeled back, but found himself seemingly caught in a cloud of blooms, all of which shook forth a dusting of pollen.

"No, Sherlock, for god's sake." Finally he managed to duck away and stayed half bent for a moment, taking deep breaths through his mouth, eyes closed, wincing as the horrible itch shivered through his sinus. After a few moments, the feeling abated into the dull ache it had been at all afternoon. "Um," John stalled, resisting the urge to touch his nose, "it smells like rot. garbage." Frankly, he was shocked he could smell at all, what with the myriad of other scents and his quickly filling nose.

"Exactly," Sherlock rattled the branch again, sending off more spores.

"Wait a minute, did you just break that off a shrub?" The place did happen to belong to an old woman who'd won two medals at Chelsea gardens and was incredibly proud of the fact. Not the sort of woman to allow branches to be torn off of her plants, even for the sake of solving a murder.

"Yes, which is completely beside the point." Sherlock had plucked off some twigs and was stripping bark from the branch. "Which is; she wasn't killed here, she was obviously brought here after death, and it's something to do with the plants, some property they have. It's not their smell, otherwise she wouldn't have been placed in full view."

John looks around at all the softly rustling, brightly colored plant life, giving way to the soft carpet of grass, the light and shade cast by the couple of fruit-heavy trees. "Well--snf--there is the obvious parallel with the garden of Eden. Her nudity combined with lack of any evidence of sexual abuse suggests it was done for symbolic purposes so...suppose she'd be Eve."

The look Sherlock gave him in response was saturated with disgust. "Oh, I was hoping no one would say that." He threw the branch down in a fit of pique and pivoted away, rolling his eyes.

"Really." John had felt rather proud of himself for getting that one, and wasn't happy with the crushing of his moment. The itch he'd pushed back earlier was returning, enough to make his breath stutter.

"Yes, really. It's so unoriginal. It's not clever at all." He turned an impassive face toward the garden's exit. The gold of oncoming dusk caught his high round cheekbones and full lower lip. He faced John, now fully in the sunlight. "Is something wrong?"

Interrupted in the middle of a slow, thorough nose rub, John realized how ridiculous he probably looked. "Khm," both hands stuffed in pockets, "allergies." And now that he'd said it aloud, the urge to sneeze was even more apparent. He couldn't start here. Launching into a full blown allergy fit that was sure to continue for a while wasn't something he was keen on doing in public.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes briefly and bent to pick up his stolen branch. "Right. We've all the evidence we need." The branch whipped in the direction of the back gate. "Shall we?"

They began the walk—yes, walk—home. The suddenly pressing matter of the rent had made it rather impossible for things like black cabs to be used very often. Sherlock was in turns lost in silent, immovable thought, and discoursing at breakneck speed. For this, John was glad, as all his focus was on not sneezing. He was sure that even speaking would bring about the inevitable fit. All he wanted to do at this point was get home and lie in bed, or maybe conceal himself in the upstairs bathroom, with something to muffle himself into and enough time to get it over with. He'd just resorted to a couple of curled fingers pressed surreptitiously against the twitching underside of his nose when Sherlock said, interrupting himself mid-ramble, “John, if you're waiting for permission, you are allowed to sneeze in my presence.”

By this point John was very much over marveling at how Sherlock knew things. Besides, he doubted he was all that conspicuous, not by this point. He managed a small, breathless laugh. “Sorry, but. I'd rather wait until we get hhhh'h...home.” The last word was said in a rush, before John quickly fastened fingers to the end of his nose, pinching and rubbing. Still, he could feel his chest jump along with his breath and his eyes slammed shut reflexively. They were blocks from home yet.

“Well, you obviously aren't going to make it.” With a practically audible eyeroll at the unquantifiable actions of other humans, Sherlock rummaged from pocket to pocket in search of, oh he'd just had it—ah, there it was. He thrust the white handkerchief into John's vicinity and it was gratefully fumbled out of his hands. “Here. Relieve yourself.”

Still clinging to the idea that he could get home first, John opted to blow his nose instead, hoping maybe to purge a fraction of the itch. Fitfully, he snorted into the cloth, trundling along next to Sherlock's long strides.

“You do know you look and sound ridiculous right now.” Sherlock informed him.

“Sh'hahh...shut up,” John managed, though it was muffled and sounded more like shud ub. Of course he knew that. Still, he tried to snuffle quieter. Tried to hide the fact that this was doing fuck all and he still was plagued by the unbearable need to sneeze. “God,” he groaned, burying his face further in the cloth and simply holding his nose there in the white, soft sanctum. Slowly, he released just a tiny bit of control, and felt his breath start to hitch to the brink.

“Hh...h'h'heh...”

Just that was a relief. His body seemed to rejoice in the fact that it was finally being allowed to begin to sneeze.

“H'hhih...hheiihhdJSSCHshh!” John groaned quietly. He hadn't exactly meant for that to happen just yet, but it had felt so good. There were more on the way. “HehhhedjssSCHH!” They were terribly wet. He hoped he would remember to thank Sherlock for the hanky later. With intermittent glances over the flower of cloth pressed to his face, John could see they were less than a block from home, now. Another sneeze overtook him and his eyes clouded over with allergic tears. He stumbled a moment, and didn't fail to notice the brief, warm pressure of a hand at his back, setting him right.

“Poor thing,” is the first thing that Mrs. Hudson exclaimed at them, as Sherlock herded a near-constantly sneezing John over the threshold. “What's wrong, dear? Can I make you some tea?” She shut the door behind them and bustled in their wake.

“It's just—tssch!--allergies, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be—be—hehdjSSCHH! Ah. Fine in—tCSSCH! In a bihh...tschESSCH!” John attempted speech and was quickly overwhelmed. Sherlock quickly smoothed through, nodding at Mrs. Hudson and proceeding upstairs with John in tow.

“He'll be all right in a moment, just needs to get it out of his system. A pot of hot tea wouldn't go amiss, however.” He gives her the requisite smile and watches just long enough to see her bustle off.

“Thank you,” John sighed wearily, almost as an admittance, dropping onto the couch. His nose was utterly blocked and he could already feel a sinus headache building. He muffled another sneeze into the now practically decimated handkerchief. “Though this is all suspiciously kind of you.”

“Nonsense.” Sherlock turned from where he was drawing the curtains. “I dragged you into that garden, now I must deal with the results accordingly.” Rummaging in the scree on the tabletop, he shortly came up with a fresh hanky. “Here.” with a slight flourish, it was handed over. “I expect that one's nearly reached the end.”

John took the clean cloth, but drew the line at handing over the used one. “No,” he protested when Sherlock pestered. “This is bloody disgusting. It's covered in my fluids, I'll deal with it.”

“Oh, as if I've never had to deal with your fluids.” Sherlock flitted from side to side around the exhausted John, making quick grabs for the hanky. It was almost playful. “Come on.”

“No, Sherlock.” John's protestations grew ever weaker. Any break in this sneezing fit was always brief, and this one was coming to a swift end. One hand cupped the cloth vaguely over his lap while the other tried to wave Sherlock away. “Please, I...'m—ht'chussch! Yehh'TSSCHussh!” They took him by surprise, and though John tried his best to direct them away, he still missed the hanky and caught the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. The wetness quickly soaked in, creating a dark spray pattern. John froze, face reddening even further. “Oh, god. I'm so sorry. Disgusting.” Apologetically, he buried his face in the cloth, guarding against further rogue spray.

Sherlock plucked thoughtfully at the wetted bit of cloth, almost smiling. “No, not at all.” Absently, he smoothed his hand over the spot, noticed it was still damp, and did it again. He glanced up to realize that John was looking at him oddly. The meaning of his expression, though, was registered only briefly, quickly wiped away in favor of the details of his face. His nose, that lovely slope and bulb, was now perfectly red, the flush bleeding outwards onto his cheeks in swollen capillaries. His eyes were heavy and shining with unshed, irritated tears, and as Sherlock stared one finally overflowed to slip partway down John's cheek and be quickly wiped away. The delicate and even more inflamed tissue of his nostrils was constantly twitching, constantly adjusting as if to fit the tickle inside, though it would inevitably become too great. Even as Sherlock watched, John's eyelids dropped, shoulders jumping as his body huffed out an involuntary, “heh'huhh”. The fresh hanky refitted itself around his face. “Hyehh...HESZtsschh! Uhh...het-SZSSCH!”

the outbursts were getting wetter, tireder. Sherlock glanced back toward the door but saw no Mrs. Hudson there yet. With a sigh, he moved toward the now weakly snuffling man on the couch and seized his jumper hem. John flailed weakly.

“What're you doing? Get off me.” He tried, halfheartedly, to squirm away, but Sherlock had him trapped in his own jumper. It was fastidiously peeled away and popped over his head, leaving John looking even more rumpled. The t-shirt he wore underneath was pulled up over his his hip and belly, showing a pale patch of skin. Flustered, he pulled the cloth down and stared up at Sherlock, trying not to sniffle.

There was a strange, stalled moment as Sherlock stood over him, as he tried to conjure the answer to the question.”I'm,” he stated, then paused. “I'm helping.”

John pulled his legs up onto the couch and huddled automatically into the corner. Even as his breath started to catch again, he smirked upward. “Ah—are you, now? --HESZtsschh! Oh, dear.”

Sherlock smirked down at him, now more comfortable in the assertion. "Yes, I am. And you'd do well to get used to it."

++END++

[VoOs]

Ohoho, this was right up my alley. Very, very nice. *purr* I do love how you spell his sneezes. <3

[swann_ee_song]

Lovely. I don't usually like allergic fic as much, but I was sad when I got to the end. I think the balance was that there was enough care-taking in the end that it didn't matter why he was sneezing or being cared for...

[Tangerine]

Mmm I'm not much one for allergic fics either but this was certainly to my liking! Aaggh stop writing such sexy BBC Sherlock fics guysss! I'll never get my work donnnne!

[TheCakeIsAlive]

*tries to resist temptation to read again long enough to comment*

Awww, poor John. Though well... with Sherlock fussing over him, I'm sure it's a lot less bad for him. ^^

Awesomely written. So very much in style with the series, could totally picture this happening in an episode.

[tma]

Mmmmmmm... Love this. And Holmes giving him permission- and Watson trying so hard not to... SO cute!!

[queenie]

This is amazing. I'm dead, perhaps of joy.

[murphy dee]

He was trying SO hard to keep those sneezes in. I'm glad that didn't last, though. I really liked Holmes giving him permission, that was a nice touch. Poor, poor Watson was so worn out by the end of it. He needs a good rest.

[iety]

Thanks so much, you guys! <3 Love to all of yous~

[LovelyLinda]

Aww, I love sneezy John

Usually I'm not a big fan of allergy fics,

but this one was somehow...different!

In a good way

I really liked it, so thanks a bunch for writing it!

[Lalaith]

This is so great

I don´t know what more I can say. I love it

[Jorm]

I'm so glad this got bumped! I have absolutely no idea how I missed it when it was first posted considering how much I adored 'Sherlock'. This is absolutely fantastic! I can't say enough good things about the way you've written the dynamic between John and Sherlock, it just works perfectly, not too blatant, but still noticeably intimate. Spot on! And I love the sneeze spellings you used! very, very nice indeed.

[SterlingSilver]

iety, this is BEAUTIFUL.. I love the BBC series, and Sherlock and John are so cute when they argue with eachother! The whole scene is absolutely perfect--PERFECT, I SAY! *applause* Brava! <3