Chapter Twelve, in which a strange dinner occurs and John is NOT amused

Sherlock's POV

Contrary to everyone's opinion in general and John's in particular, there are quite a few things that I find really irritating; but these few things, in my opinion, certainly rank as the highest.

Speaking of rank: if somebody asked me to determine the most irritating thing right now (which is highly unlikely, considering that I'm sitting alone in the kitchen), I would've given an answer without any delay.

Waiting. The worst thing that can happen to a man with an extremely active mind and a tendency to get restless when there appears to be nothing to occupy said mind with.

Of course I did everything short of trying to take this annoying house to pieces to quench my constant thirst for activity. There were still a few locked rooms, and I tried to fiddle with the couple of standard locks only to find out that they were not so standard after all. Needless to say, not having my useful toolkit with me (it disappeared from my suitcase, courtesy of Mycroft's intervention, no doubt) didn't help matters at all, but at least I've tried.

Disappointed with my lack of progress, I turned to the one entertainment I had found during my exploration of the second floor – the billiards table in the games room. I can't say that this game is my favourite, but with the alternative of reading some boring and uninformative books my choice was evident.

I learned to play billiards for a case, and put the information about the rules and everything in the furthest room in my mind palace as soon as aforementioned case was finished. There were only two occasions up till now when I had to retrieve that information: first was for John, when he invited me to some club to celebrate the ending of a particularly interesting and complicated case, and the second – to get the better of my dearest brother after he tried to play me for a fool in front of his high-ranking associates. He never could resist a chance to beat me, whatever the competition was, and seeing the baffled expression on his face when he realised that he lost the game was priceless. Oh, perhaps I should add that the aforementioned event took place just before our sudden departure to this island and, as you can probably guess, happened to be the exact reason for said departure.

Note to self: remember to tell John that Sherringford is NOT my middle name. Sure, I have one (two, actually, to be exact), but they are certainly not so exotic. On the contrary, they are too ordinary to mention, so I won't bother you with this irrelevant information.

As for Sherringford, I don't really have much to say on that matter; just that it came into life after one case during which my life was in real danger. The situation was so serious that Mycroft had to wade in, and he found that experience amusing enough to code-name it. Since that moment, it had become his signal for me that the situation was really dangerous, and he never hesitated to use it when he deemed it necessary. Like this time, for example. Not sure it was really necessary, though, but if my brother makes a decision, any argument becomes absolutely pointless.

Which is why for now I'd better stop thinking and proceed to the next stage of my plan, namely explaining my false middle name to John. Preferably keeping some distance between us, because I'm not so sure he had calmed down after my last experiment. John tends to be overly emotional at times, which makes reasoning with him quite difficult, if not totally impossible task. Which is why I need to find a way to keep some distance between us and to face him at the same time. Not so difficult task, if you think about it; all I need to do is walk back to the games room, open one of the windows into the winter garden and call John. Worth a try, anyway.

Five minutes later I lean out of the window, surveying the empty room beneath, and clear my throat. Time to play my round of the game.

"John!" I call out loudly. "John, I realise you may still be angry with me, but I need to tell you something. It's important."

At first, he doesn't answer, and, slightly disappointed, I prepare to step away from the window. But a moment later there's a sound of footsteps, and my friend walks into the winter garden from the main hall and stops near the fountain. Pointedly refusing to look at me, he sits down on the edge of its marble bowl and nods his head, signalling his readiness to listen.

I clear my throat again. "John, I… There's something I need to tell you…"

He interrupts me with a sudden wave of his hand and raises his head, subjecting me to his patented accessing stare. Usually it's followed by a very specific question, and I have no doubt this time isn't going to be an exception.

Ah, here it goes: small creases on his forehead and pursed lips. Telltale signs of the main event.

"Have you eaten since our last conversation, Sherlock?" John's "I'm the doctor, so you'd better tell the truth" mode is full-on, and it's time for me to play my part.

"You didn't provide me with your usual nagging about it, so don't be surprised if I say I haven't," I reply while climbing onto the windowsill and making myself comfortable. "Have you, by the way?"

John rolls his eyes and fishes a pack of crackers out of his pocket. "What do you think?"

"Knowing you – two times at least," I comment lazily, toying with a button on my suit jacket. "You are a man of habit, John, so I made sure to leave enough food in those boxes in the hall. Hope I got it right."

"Absolutely," he breaks the pack open and pops one cracker in his mouth. "I was about to start preparing dinner when you called me here. Care to join me?"

Forgetting for a moment about the separating us height, I habitually raise my eyebrows. "Nice try, John, but did you really think that it would be so easy?"

John furrows his eyebrows in obvious confusion. "What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

"Joining you for dinner requires me to open the door. Certainly not the wisest decision right now," I comment, realising with surprise that mention of meal brings forth strange sensation in my stomach. Its identification takes me a few seconds, and then it finally dawns: all that mindless wandering around the house made me irritatingly hungry. And it IS irritating, because in my life before John Watson I've never paid attention to the needs of my physical body. He changed that, changed me in some ways, although I'm still not sure if I should accept those changes. And he is clever: he never insists, he always just suggests, but those suggestions are extremely hard to ignore. Speaking of which…

"Sherlock!" John raises his voice to attract my attention. "Are you listening to me, or should I just bloody leave you alone with your thoughts and come back later?"

Sounds too harsh – I managed to piss him off. Not good at all. Time for swift and effective measures.

"Sorry, John, just trying to figure out what I would want for dinner," I reply nonchalantly.

"Really?" he's skeptic, and I can understand that: usually I don't tend to be cooperative when it comes to food topics. "Any results?"

"Tea and sandwiches would suffice," as I suspected, he pulls a face. "I'm serious, John. Lack of challenge isn't exactly the best stimuli. Adding digestion wouldn't help matters."

"Fine," he consents. "But on one condition: I need to make sure you've eaten, so I'm going to keep you company down here."

Oh. So he didn't mean…

"Are you saying you want me to have dinner on this windowsill?" I inquire, tilting my head to the side.

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," John chuckles and gets up, stretching his body with obvious relief. "How much time do you need to prepare your sandwiches?"

Turning away from John, I get down from the windowsill, and then lean out of the window again. "Fifteen minutes. Your dinner?"

"A bit longer. So how about meeting here in half an hour?" John suggests, the thoughtful expression on his face speaking volumes. He hasn't decided what he wants for dinner yet, but, considering that his choices are limited, half an hour is more than enough for his cooking efforts.

"Take as long as you need, John, although I'm sure you won't need more that twenty minutes," I comment, and he shakes his head, smirking. "I'm serious, John, you tend to underestimate yourself."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Sherlock," my friend replies firmly, and turns towards the main hall. "See you soon!"

"Of course, John," I call out, taking my own leave in the direction of the kitchen. I have a plan, after all, and it's time to set it in motion…

John's POV

Of course he is right, but isn't he always? Well, on the other hand, he left those boxes with food for me, so he probably knows what I'm going to have. Probably, because Sherlock doesn't like to concern himself with such 'irrelevancies', as he prefers to call them.

All right, John, back on track. Dinner, remember? Sherlock said he's going to have tea and sandwiches; as his friend, I'm compelled to keep him company even in that.

Ten minutes later I'm back in the winter garden, arranging my dinner on the chair which I dragged out of the museum. Sherlock is back too, sitting on the same windowsill and observing me with his usual deceptively disinterested expression.

"Not a word, Sherlock," I warn him, sitting down on the edge of the fountain again. "Because I know what are you thinking right now, and no, my reason is absolutely different."

My friend emits a quiet chuckle and takes a sip of his tea. "Very amusing, John, but you obviously misread my signals. Commenting on your food choices was the last thing on my mind, simply because I have more pressing matters to discuss with you."

"I have no doubt about that, Sherlock, but can we at least finish our dinner first?" I ask, reaching out for my own cup of tea. "Provided that it won't be too much of a distraction for you, of course."

Without saying a word, Sherlock takes a sandwich and proceeds to eat it – slowly and methodically, I might add. Sometimes he tends to act like a child, and this time is certainly not an exception. Although I'm pretty sure he doesn't do it on purpose: it's just his way of dealing with bleak and boring day-to-day life. Who am I to deny him that?

Looking at him with my left eyebrow raised, I reach toward my plate. Challenge announced and accepted, we take time devouring our frugal meal.

Sherlock finishes first and waits for me, tapping his fingers on the window frame thoughtfully. Judging by his distant expression, the stuff that he's about to share with me is a big one, and I can't help but wonder if this has something to do with his strange middle name.

Taking care of my last sandwich and washing it down with the last mouthful of tea, I move the empty plate with cup down on the floor and re-deploy to the now vacant chair.

"My middle name isn't Sherringford," my friend begins and then pauses, waiting for my reaction. I do my best to remain impassive, and he tilts his head to the right. "You don't look surprised, so you obviously had some thoughts on that matter already."

"It's hard not to, Sherlock, considering that you had most of the fun the last two days," I comment. "And Mycroft was too generous with his decision of sending us here together. If he really wanted to reprimand you, he would've separated us."

Sherlock turns on the windowsill so he's now facing the winter garden, and, lowering his legs, starts swinging them back and forth slightly. "Impressive, John. Anything else?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. I was hoping you'd tell me the rest," I prompt carefully, and, judging by the sudden spark in his eyes, my choice of approach is the right one.

"Smart move, Doctor Watson," my companion praises, mischievous smile lighting up his face. "Good to know you've learned something from me. As for your version: yes, my brother sent us here in order to protect me. Your presence was paramount, of course."

"But why lock us up? I mean, we're on a private island, for God's sake! Who's going to attack us here?" too emotional, I guess, but Mycroft's bloody power complex tends to really get on my nerves sometimes.

"No idea, John," Sherlock admits honestly. "But if Mycroft deemed it necessary, then the whole business with treaty must have taken an unexpected turn. Don't ask about the details, though: it's classified."

"Since when Mycroft's interdiction started to mean anything to you?" I reply, trying to provoke him. Things are starting to get serious, and it's time to lighten the mood.

"It still doesn't, but protecting you does," my flatmate replies, ignoring my attempts. "Sherringford is a code name for dangerous situations, John."

"I already figured that much, Sherlock," I respond. "The question is, why are you protecting me when it's you who is in danger?"

"Because I'll be lost without my blogger," Sherlock quirks up his eyebrow. "Speaking of which: I found some interesting documents in the library, and I think you should take a look at them. They are in the folder near the safe. Feel free to amuse yourself."

"A light reading before sleep, Sherlock?" I chuckle, simultaneously trying to stifle a yawn. "Thanks for your kind offer, but I don't think it would be necessary. How about looking them though together tomorrow?"

I'm starting to feel a bit drowsy, which is strange, because apart from my trick with climbing out of the window, this day was uneventful. I'm not tired at all, so why…

Wait a minute. When I asked Sherlock about his dinner, he told me about sandwiches. And I followed him even in that.

What if he planned everything in advance?

Sherlock suddenly locks his eyes with mine and his lips curl up into a devilish smirk. "I was wondering how long would it take for you to clue in. Sorry, John, but our little adventure is starting to get tedious, I need to spice it up a bit."

Doing my best not to fall asleep in this chair, I raise my chin defiantly. "Oh, and you decided that drugging me would be amusing. If that's your idea of protection, it really sucks, Sherlock."

In one smooth move, my traitorous flatmate disappears from my view, calling out lazily: "Get to the sofa while you can, John, and good night".

But his generous advice comes a bit late, and all I manage before sleep claims me is to slide out of the chair onto the floor and curl up, making myself as comfortable as possible.

Damn you and your hunger for an experiment, Sherlock Holmes! And don't think even for one second that I'm not going to get even with you tomorrow…