Summary: "Why did you never tell me about your little brother, Martin?" asked John, gesturing to the exhausted pilot sleeping on their couch.
"I tried to you," replied Sherlock, "but when you're here...you take over my mind."
Sometimes it takes an extraordinary event to make two people fall in love, in John and Sherlock's case it takes and extraordinary pilot: Sherringford "I-go-by-Martin-Crieff-now" Holmes.
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Anthea, Martin/Molly
When morning finally made itself known by the sounds of traffic and birdsong filtering through the old sash windows, John wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped up under Sherlock’s warm duvet. Sherlock’s usual insomnia seemed to have been cured by their night together and the detective was currently breathing gently beside John in a deep and peaceful sleep.
The hazy morning sunshine illuminated the clock on the opposite wall, and John was content to see that he would not have to leave the wonderfully warm bed for a very long time. John would have been happy to just lie there and marvel at his new found love but a thunderous crash from the kitchen made him sit bolt upright with shock.
“Seriously, Sherry,” muttered Sherlock almost incoherently, “That shade of pink is not fluorescent enough...Mycroft’s umbrella...more paint...”
Sherlock had a tendency to ramble nonsensically in his sleep but John wondered for a moment whether Martin had really painted Mycroft’s umbrella pink or if Sherlock was merely having a particularly satisfying dream about defacing his brother’s most prized possession.
A muffled curse came from the kitchen and then the sound of a chair being plonked back into place echoed through the otherwise peaceful flat. John rolled reluctantly out of bed, taking care not to disturb Sherlock, and padded out of the bedroom to assess the carnage.
Martin was standing in the middle of the kitchen covered in wet blotches of flour and milk. He was furiously trying to wipe the congealing mess off his pilot’s uniform with the last of the kitchen towels. When he spun around to see who was standing behind him, one foot landed in a puddle of split milk and Martin went flying backwards into the kitchen counter. There was a nasty crunching noise as a dozen eggs were flattened.
“Martin,” muttered John, not sure whether to be amused or exasperated.
“I’m sorry,” said Martin as he peeled himself off the kitchen counter and looked dismally at the sticky mess of raw egg, flour and milk that was covering the bench and his clothes.
“Are you always such a disaster or do you only do this on purpose to annoy your brothers?” asked John with good humour, but the question brought flush to Martin’s pale cheeks.
“I’ve always been clumsy,” he conceded, “But how was I to know that there was a precariously balanced jar of raw acid in the top cupboard? I only jumped off the chair to avoid getting burnt. I’m sorry about the milk...It seems that buying it last night wasn’t such a great idea.”
“Well, I’d prefer you to be covered in milk than first degree chemical burns,” replied John pragmatically, “Maybe if I scrape that stuff off the bench, it would make a passable pancake mix...”
Surprisingly, Martin did not look disgusted at the idea, but embraced it wholeheartedly and he did an admirable job of getting the eggshells out of the mixture, whilst John heated up the frying pan, still clad in his boxer shorts.
The smell of freshly made pancakes was wholly irresistible even to the most food-adverse of detectives and it was only a matter of minutes after the first steaming pancake had landed on a plate that Sherlock came wandering into the kitchen wrapped in his silk dressing gown.
“Why did you leave a jar of acid lying around?” demanded John as he expertly flipped the second pancake.
“What acid?” asked Sherlock nonchalantly as he picked up John’s first creation with his bare hands and stuffed it unceremoniously into his mouth.
“Forget it,” said Martin as he rummaged through the draining rack looking for a second clean plate, “I shouldn’t have let my guard down. Living with normal people for the past nine years has really dulled my Sherly-senses.”
“Your what?” asked John whipping his head back to look at Martin.
“Oh, you know how Spiderman always goes: my spidey-senses are tingling? I’ve got Sherly-senses, they tingle when a Sherlock-related disaster is about to happen.”
John burst out laughing at the idea but Sherlock remained completely oblivious to the cultural reference; he had most likely deleted any information regarding comic book superheroes before he left primary school.
“I’d like to have some of those,” said John as he tossed the second pancake onto the only available clean plate, “It would greatly increase my life expectancy.”
Sherlock, having devoured one pancake, moved over to stand by John’s shoulder, whilst he poured another batch of rather lumpy batter into the pan.
“Your method of pancake production is highly inefficient,” stated the detective as he reached out his lanky arms to grab the second plate, “If Martin were to heat up a second pan the production rate would increase by forty five percent.”
“Give it a break, Sherlock,” said John languidly, “It's the weekend, there’s nothing on...”
“Wrong!” snapped Sherlock as he succeeded in stealing another pancake, “We need to go to the morgue - Martin, go change before you are arrested for public indecency.”
“I’m not the one wearing a dressing gown,” protested Martin, “And how many times do I have to say I’m not going to the morgue with you! Honestly, every time I come to stay, all Sherlock wants to do is to drag me to see dead bodies.”
“He does spend a great deal of time there,” said John, “He drives Molly insane.”
“Molly?” asked Martin in a tone that was more angry than curious, “Who’s Molly?”
After two seconds of fierce suspicion, Martin apparently reached a very unsavoury conclusion.
“This is another one of yours and Mycroft’s ridiculous attempts to set me up with someone!” snapped Martin indignantly as he pulled himself up to his full, but rather unimpressive, height.
“Hardly,” retorted the detective in his most apathetic tone, “She’s just a mortician who happens to have no social life.”
“Stop,” said John decisively as he sensed another argument of Holmesian proportions brewing on the horizon, “Sherlock, unless you have a legitimate reason to visit the morgue, shut up and stop eating all the pancakes – Martin, you seriously do need to clean yourself up before you single-handily bring the piloting profession into disrepute.”
“I’m not eating all the pancakes,” protested Sherlock as he slid the empty plate he was carrying onto the kitchen bench, “And I do have a case – Lestrade texted me this morning.”
“I’m not meeting this girl – I do not need my big brothers playing matchmakers in my life!” protested Martin sounding very much like Sherlock when he was on the verge of entering another epic sulk.
“Okay,” replied John trying to placate Martin, “You can stay here and clean up the kitchen.”
“I –” Martin looked set to disagree but then his conscience seemed to get the better of him.
“No time!” snapped Sherlock, suddenly shedding his apathetic attitude and regaining his usual frenzied energy, “We need to leave now.”
John could do very little defend himself when, out of the blue, Sherlock shoved a jumper over his head and tried clumsily to force his hands into the sleeves.
“Sherlock! I can’t see!”
“Seriously John, I don’t understand why the day of the week should have such a large effect on your general efficiency. You should be dressed by now and out of the flat,” grumbled Sherlock as John waved his spatula furiously in the air whilst issuing muffled threats from under the thick woolly material.
“Drop the spatula,” advised Sherlock, as if he was not the cause of John’s hilarious predicament.
“I’m doing what you said but only so I can punch you more quickly,” snarled John but his face was completely swallowed up by the light blue jumper and the only effect of his threat was to make Martin start laughing.
By the time John had struggled into his jumper, Sherlock had wisely retreated into the living room and Martin, after one murderous look from John, sobered up impressively quickly.
“Martin can have the last pancake,” said Sherlock swiftly as he pretended not to be affected by John’s glare, “Just make me a jam sandwich instead.”
The spatula, which John had temporarily relinquished, came flying towards Sherlock’s head with deadly accuracy and astounding speed. The detective did not try to duck; he picked up John’s laptop and allowed it to be splattered with pancake mixture instead.
When they finally left the flat, John was giving Sherlock the cold shoulder, but the detective appeared not be phased in the slightest; he spent much of the taxi ride relating the finer – and more gruesome – points of the police case he had been given.
A young woman, barely out of her teens and most likely a prostitute, had been murdered in Whitechapel in the early hours of the morning just metres away from the entrance to a crowded pub. It was a community support officer who had found her mutilated body. According to her statement, the victim had had her throat cut so deeply that the bones in her neck could be clearly seen.
Martin looked distinctively uncomfortable at Sherlock’s fascinated tone as he described in great detail each and every cut mark the victim had sustained. By the time they arrived at the entrance to Bart’s morgue, John was almost at the end of his tether.
“Hurry up,” said Sherlock sounding far too excited about the prospect of examining a corpse, “We need to inspect the corpse before those meddlesome pathologists get their incompetent-“
Before Sherlock had the chance to use a more colour adjective, Molly Hooper came charging around the corner clutching a precariously stacked pile of medical notes. Ever the agile detective, Sherlock merely stepped aside with feline grace, allowing Molly to collide spectacularly with Martin. Coloured sheets of paper burst into the air and then fluttered down gently around the dazed pair.
“I’m so sorry,” squealed Martin as he dusted himself off in his usual flustered manner.
“No – no it was my fault,” said Molly as she scrambled about on the floor trying to retrieve her fallen notes.
Martin gallantly dropped down onto all fours to help but only managed to make things more difficult by getting in Molly’s way. It was only a matter of moments before Martin’s forehead collided with Molly’s nose. There was a particularly nasty crunch and a cry of surprise as Molly went tumbling backwards onto the floor. A stunned Martin stared incoherently at her prone form, whilst a large red mark started to spread across his forehead.
“Jesus, Molly!” exclaimed John as he rushed to her aid. She was clutching her nose with pain; a small trickle of blood had escaped through her fingers.
“I’m – I’m” stuttered Martin, “So sorry.”
“It’s not broken,” reassured Molly, although her strangled tone suggested otherwise.
“I’ll take you to the hospital,” offered Martin hastily.
“We’re at the hospital,” stated John, trying not to sound too patronizing, “You can take her down to accident and emergency.”
“Yes, yes, I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologising,” snapped Sherlock, who was standing to one side, watching the drama unfold with disinterest.
“It would help if you actually lent a hand,” said John pointedly, as he produced a packet of tissues for the still bleeding Molly.
“There are two of you, I think it’s more than enough. Now, Molly, give me your card, I need to see the -"
“Just stop right there!” exclaimed John. It was amazing that after three years of living with the detective, Sherlock could still horrify the doctor with his sheer callousness. “Molly is injured and she needs our help. This is not the cue for you to ransack her morgue.”
“I don’t mind,” muttered Molly though her voice was now almost incomprehensible, “Go ahead, Sherlock, the door’s propped open.”
“No – just wait a moment-" protested John.
“Come, John – we have a case to solve,” said Sherlock imperiously as he strolled casually past Molly and Martin without a second glance.
“You’re unbelievable,” snapped John “just utterly-"
He didn’t have a chance to properly upbraid the detective because Sherlock grabbed the back of John’s shirt collar as he walked past and physically hauled his flatmate through the open doors.