(Or: prufrocking is a very bad influence)
The game, Anderson deduced, was definitely on, if the headband thrown at his general direction was any indication. It was ping-pong night at the pub- yesterday was darts, and the day before that were pints. Looking at the energetic ex-military doctor now, Anderson swore that the man developed a sort of inhuman metabolism. He and half of the Yarders who took him up against it were still feeling the effects of the bet.
“How far up is John?” he asked as he reached Lestrade, who was scribbling on a pad of paper with a look of a man possessed.
“Five points up on Sherlock,” answered Lestrade without looking up. He waved his arm vaguely to the left. “He’s lost his jacket and shirt; this round’s for his shoes.”
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There were advantages to having the ability to create jumpers out of thin air. For instance, during a chase on an ancient wooden pier, Sherlock not only managed to overdose the person they were chasing on cocaine produced from wood dust and his own hair, but fell into the bay as he was unable to resist having more than a bit of his own concoction. The jumper John wove around Sherlock’s twitching body had patterns shaped like anatomically-correct pancreases. He made the wool especially itchy, just to irritate the insensate detective in his arms, who was currently turning the pebbles embedded in his feet into meth.
(First of two Misfits!Sherlock fic I’m working on <— that is, what if BBCSherlock got powers from the freaky storm that gave us probation workers getting killed, nota cross-over fic. THIS IS NOT BETA’D. At all. There will be a bit of bad grammar, maybe some spelling errors, definitely some death-defying logic/genre-leaps. You have been forewarned.)
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