A month later, a mysterious package arrived at 221B.
It had no return address, and had only Johnny Boy written in spidery black script. After deciding that it probably wasn't rigged with explosives, Sherlock loomed like a vulture as John opened it. It was awkward work one-handed, as his right hand was still in a sling. Sherlock eventually grew impatient and batted John away to rip open the packaging instead.
Inside was an authentic tiger skin rug.
Sherlock exhaled gustily behind John.
It unfurled with a leathery snap and a soft spray of traveling dust. It was in beautiful condition, and gleamed bronze and orange in the lamp light. The tiger's face had been reconstructed into a silent eternal roar at the front of the rug. An expert taxidermist's touch disguised the stab through the cheek.
As John lifted up the heavy pelt, a slip of paper fell out. Sherlock snatched it out of the air.
“What's that, then?” inquired John mildly.
Sherlock looked down his nose at the paper clasped delicately in his large, graceful hands. “... 'To my dearest Johnny boy: I was wrong! You're not a puppy dog at all.'”
Here, Sherlock paused. John waited.
Sherlock sighed, clearly resenting the drama of it all. “'You're a wolf.'”
“Mm, charming,” said John. He began the tedious process of rolling up the tiger-skin rug one-handed.
“What are you doing?”
John tried to stuff the pelt back into the box, wincing as the motion pulled the stitches on his back.
“Binning it,” replied John with a grunt.
Sherlock gasped, “Don't!”
John stared at him.
Twin spots of pink bloomed on Sherlock's pronounced cheekbones and he pursed his lips peevishly.
“It's just that... I think it would go rather well with the wallpaper.” Sherlock gestured vaguely in the direction of the fireplace.
John started to smirk.
Sherlock was definitely blushing now, and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed.
“Honestly, John, you'd think you're the first person to ever kill a tiger with your bare hands.”
John's smirk widened.
Sherlock's expression gradually transformed into a tiny smile. And then, suddenly, they were both laughing together in the familiar warmth of 221B.
Re: Due to some absurd game of Moriarty's, John has to kill a tiger with his bare hands.
It had no return address, and had only Johnny Boy written in spidery black script. After deciding that it probably wasn't rigged with explosives, Sherlock loomed like a vulture as John opened it. It was awkward work one-handed, as his right hand was still in a sling. Sherlock eventually grew impatient and batted John away to rip open the packaging instead.
Inside was an authentic tiger skin rug.
Sherlock exhaled gustily behind John.
It unfurled with a leathery snap and a soft spray of traveling dust. It was in beautiful condition, and gleamed bronze and orange in the lamp light. The tiger's face had been reconstructed into a silent eternal roar at the front of the rug. An expert taxidermist's touch disguised the stab through the cheek.
As John lifted up the heavy pelt, a slip of paper fell out. Sherlock snatched it out of the air.
“What's that, then?” inquired John mildly.
Sherlock looked down his nose at the paper clasped delicately in his large, graceful hands. “... 'To my dearest Johnny boy: I was wrong! You're not a puppy dog at all.'”
Here, Sherlock paused. John waited.
Sherlock sighed, clearly resenting the drama of it all. “'You're a wolf.'”
“Mm, charming,” said John. He began the tedious process of rolling up the tiger-skin rug one-handed.
“What are you doing?”
John tried to stuff the pelt back into the box, wincing as the motion pulled the stitches on his back.
“Binning it,” replied John with a grunt.
Sherlock gasped, “Don't!”
John stared at him.
Twin spots of pink bloomed on Sherlock's pronounced cheekbones and he pursed his lips peevishly.
“It's just that... I think it would go rather well with the wallpaper.” Sherlock gestured vaguely in the direction of the fireplace.
John started to smirk.
Sherlock was definitely blushing now, and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed.
“Honestly, John, you'd think you're the first person to ever kill a tiger with your bare hands.”
John's smirk widened.
Sherlock's expression gradually transformed into a tiny smile. And then, suddenly, they were both laughing together in the familiar warmth of 221B.
His left hand did not tremble.