Work Text:
You didn’t get much more civilized than afternoon tea. Which was unfortunate because it was rather spoiled by Sherlock taking a running leap and tackling their hostess to the ground just as she was setting a tempting plate of tea cakes on the table by John’s elbow.
Still, it was the most civilized panic John had ever seen. They were supposed to be having tea with a charitable group of middle-aged ladies who were concerned about the way their funds seemed to be draining away like water out of a leaky sieve, and, while there was still a fair amount of shouting and running about, they had mostly taken the situation in stride. Even the inevitable 999 call was brisk and efficient, though John had a hard time eavesdropping since he was occupied by trying to haul Sherlock off a respectable-looking woman in her fifties with a kick like a mule.
It was not a good look, especially when it turned out that most of the women were retired emergency room nurses. John supposed it was possible to look more like a complete arsehole, perhaps by kicking an orphan or punching a nun, though it did explain the efficiency and why most of them were wearing their watches upside down. He fully expected to be thrown behind bars until Lestrade or Mycroft or God saw fit to let them out, but the struggling woman had blurted out something about almost having gotten away with it. This was compounded with another lady finding a brochure for a condo in the Bahamas amongst the papers on the mantelpiece and someone else emerging from the kitchen with an open box of rat poison.
You did not mess with nurses. John would go toe to toe with another doctor, argue about diagnoses and patient care until he was blue in the face, but he knew where he stood when it came to nurses who’d been practicing long before he’d set foot in medical school. By the time Lestrade showed up (it was his day off but Sherlock has asked—nicely—for him to be on standby) it was more a matter of preventing the death of Mrs. Colebarr at the hands of a well-organized mob rather than keeping her from killing anyone.
“Fortunately, she’s an embezzler, not a murderess.” Sherlock speared one of the shiny tea cakes with a fork and held it up. The sultanas and mixed peel peeking through the crust fairly glistened in the afternoon sunlight. “The poison’s in the glaze, see? Less work for her than having to make an entirely new batch, and it had the happy side effect of being a useful mnemonic when it came to serving them—you’ll notice that the tea cakes on the other side of the room are a homelier dull brown.” He dropped the tea cake and fork into an evidence bag and handed it to a passing scene examiner who, apparently used to this sort of thing by now, took it, labeled it, and put it aside for proper storage and disposal later on. “Of course, there isn’t enough on a single bun to kill a man, but you can never be too careful with strychnine.”
“And that’s why you had to knock Mrs. Colebarr to the floor and keep her pinned down until the police got here?”
“I knew you were hungry.” Sherlock treated John to one of the rare smiles that lit up his entire face. He was enjoying himself today, despite the pronounced lack of grisly murders. “Couldn’t have had you wandering off and taking a bite of something deadly while we were waiting.”
“You could have just said.” John laughed in spite of himself. “Don’t eat the tea cakes, they might kill you. I would have listened.”
“I wasn’t sure if she’d poisoned anything else until a few minutes ago. And, unlike most of her friends here, she was a medical biller—I doubt the kitchen was thoroughly decontaminated.” Sherlock shrugged. “I may have panicked. Shall we stop for dinner?”
Coming from Sherlock, that was an open and ostentatious declaration of love. John beamed. All was right with the world: Sherlock loved him, the criminal had been arrested, they were in the nurses’ good books again, and this time, everyone lived.
“Sounds good to me,” he said, handing Sherlock his coat and shrugging on his own jacket. “I could murder a kebab.”