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One of these days, Sherlock Holmes was finally going to accept the idea that his flatmate would never cease to surprise him.
The journal was only slightly hidden when he found it during one of his routine bug-checks (though some could argue that “buried under a pile of postcards, photographs, and newspaper clippings in a locked metal box at the back of John’s closet, shoved between the wall and a collection of his most hideous jumpers” might constitute as a tad more than “slightly”). It was a dull brown, faux-leather bound notebook that had clearly seen better days; its cover faded, the pages slightly yellowed around the edges, and a clear tea stain on the first few pages; worn, basic, resilient, predictable.
What was most decidedly not was ensconced within the hollowed-out part beginning on page 42.
Sherlock blinked as he stared at this second book, the words “DON’T PANIC” in large red-and-yellow print on its smooth back. Curious, he pulled it out, and set the journal aside with the photos. The other side was just as enigmatic, a metallic, round-ish symbol with what appeared to be a hand, its only adornment. It was quite thin, only about three-or-so centimetres thick, and the spine was more like a hinge than a binding.
He soon saw why; rather than pages, the book’s interior was composed to two screens and a wide selection of buttons, brilliantly lit with what Sherlock assumed must be the thing’s title: “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”. As he watched, the screens began to change, thousands, millions of files flying past in the blink of an eye, words blurring together with brightly coloured images faster than even the detective could begin to process. It was mind-boggling.
***
Sherlock was still reeling when John came home an hour-and-a-half later. Distantly, he could hear his friend moving around the flat downstairs, recognise the familiar sounds of the doctor’s mildly irritated (but mostly amused) huffs in the kitchen, the crinkling of plastic takeaway bags, the whistling of the kettle, the weary footfalls on the landing…
Oh, shit.
***
The sight that met him when John Watson opened the door to his bedroom was almost enough to make him laugh. Apparently Sherlock had never bothered with proper clothes today, likely due to their prolonged dearth of cases, and his blue silk housecoat was puddled around him on the floor, open and slipping from his left shoulder. The Guide was open where it rested against his tucked-up knees, somewhere about the early “B’s”, from the looks of it. John winced; he’d tried reading the Guide before too, obviously, but never straight through, and the glazed look on Sherlock’s pale face was enough of a disincentive not to try. He cleared his throat from the doorway.
“Ah.” The glassy eyes flicked towards him. “Right. Um, no new cases today, then?” Normally, a question so easily answered as this would get him, at the very least, a quick Idiot glare or snort of derision. The somewhat-vacant stare was more than a little unnerving, if John was honest.
“’Course not. Is this going to be a thing, me coming home to find you nearly catatonic on the floor, or are you going to say something?” Silence, coupled with more intense staring. Hell, had the man blinked even once this whole time? John sighed. “… I’ll be back in a minute, then. The Thai’s going cold, and I haven’t seen you eat since yesterday morning; this won’t be a short conversation, and I’m bloody famished.” He turned without another word, returning a few minutes later with a bag of paper cartons slung over his arm and a pair of steaming mugs. The smell of food and hot tea seemed to bring Sherlock back to himself a little bit, lids finally closing as he inhaled deeply. John gently took the Guide from Sherlock’s lax grip, closing it and holding out a box and fork in exchange. The detective blindly accepted the proffered noodles with a tilt of his head, eyes suddenly glittering from beneath his curls as they focused on John’s face.
“My dear John, somehow you continue to be chock-full of interesting surprises.” John chuckled around a bite of food.
“I do my best. ‘S nice to know you’re not bored of me yet.” Sherlock huffed quietly, reaching out with his fork to snatch a piece of John’s chicken, but the slight quirk of his lips belied his amusement.
“I doubt I will be any time soon, either. From what I’ve seen,” he waved lazily at the Guide in John’s lap and the box of mementos beside him, “there is a lot more to you than even I know about.” The doctor grinned.
“You have no idea, mate.”
***
By the time they’d exhausted Sherlock’s most immediate questions, the forgotten tea was stone cold and both men had gotten thoroughly sick of the hardwood floor, relocating to John’s bed. The interrogation had stretched on for ages: Was John human? (He was.) Was his name even really John Watson? (Well yes, but it depended on who you asked. It was complicated.) Then what was his other name? (Arthur Dent. And don’t laugh, it was a perfectly respectable name.) How many different planets had he been to? (Bloody hell, Sherlock, you don’t even know our own planets! Why does that matter?!) And on, and on, in that manner for well over two hours. After a while, the questions began to veer off in more peculiar or personal directions before finally drifting off altogether. John knew Sherlock would keep what he learned to himself, and Sherlock knew that John would only answer whatever new inquiries he wished to; just at that moment, nothing else needed to be said between the two friends.
And if the Guide simply showed up one day by Sherlock’s bedside, neither felt any urge to mention it.
And if, many long and heartbreaking months later, John realised that its last-viewed entry was “Flying”, he sure-as-hell wasn't going to thank God for granting him his graveside miracle; it wasn't divine intervention, just infinitely, wonderfully improbable.