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The Boy Who Cried Murder

By Emily Claus

Thriller / Humor

Chapter 1

"…said they didn't know whom did it, but—"

Sherlock halted in the middle of a sentence and got a strange expression on his face. John curiously looked his friend over. "You okay, mate?"

"Who," Sherlock whispered.

"Who what?"

"It should've been who and not whom. Oh, God, I'm an idiot." Sherlock put his head in his hands.

John had to bite his lips together to keep from snickering. "I really don't think using 'whom' wrong means you're an idiot."

"For normal people, maybe! But I know how to use it, and I messed up." Sherlock groaned, slumped across the kitchen table, and went limp. "Leave me here to die."

The doctor couldn't help it—he burst out laughing.

"Shut up," Sherlock said.

John doubled over and clutched his stomach.

"Shut up," Sherlock repeated.

"I have to put this on my blog," cackled John. He then proceeded to do so, after which Sherlock refused to speak to him in favor of stealing John's laptop, curling up on the couch, and leaving a sassy comment on the post.

John sat beside him and pointed at the screen. "Shouldn't that be 'its' and not 'it's'?"

Sherlock stayed still for a very long time. "Leave."


"Get out." When John didn't obey immediately, Sherlock chased him off of the couch by wiggling his toes up the other man's jumper. As soon as the space was free, Sherlock stretched out along the entire piece of furniture, rolled onto his stomach, and buried his face in a cushion.

"At least give me my laptop back," John said.

Sherlock closed it and shoved it under his own crotch in response.

"You are a child."

Unfortunately for Sherlock, his subtle attempts to train John not to fear intimately touching another man were beginning to bear fruit. After only a few seconds of deliberation, John hefted Sherlock's thigh up and wedged his laptop out from under the detective. He then let Sherlock flop back into place and returned to his own seat, flipping the computer open again.

He reread his Tumblr post and what Sherlock had responded with and gave another chuckle. Sherlock immediately leapt back onto his feet at this, shouting, "Stop it! It's not even that funny!"

"It's a little funny."

"Piss off!"

But despite his best attempts to shut the man up, John was already well into his gigglefit and showed no signs of stopping. Eventually John had to pause and catch his breath, taking big gulps of air in and out along with the occasional wheeze. "I love you," he sighed and rubbed the back of his hand against his eye. It wasn't until John had completely recomposed himself that he noticed Sherlock was behaving oddly. Well, even more so than usual.

The detective looked sort of stiff, as if he were trying to hold perfectly still for a photograph, and his eyes were wide and unblinking. John waved his hand about with a concerned look. "Sherlock? Yes, hello, are you still with us?" The doctor paused. "Good God, I've broken him," John sighed.

Sherlock rocked back on his heels once, twice, and then tipped over not entirely unlike how a wooden board would, collapsing on the rug. Suddenly in a panic, John slammed his laptop shut and set it down on the nearest surface. He ran to Sherlock's side and touched the other man's face.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John begged. "Are you alright? Can you breathe?"

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath almost like he'd forgotten that was a thing he needed to do sometimes, and then his mouth opened and uttered a few random syllables.

"Your face is red. Are you hot? Do you feel feverish?" John gently cupped the back of Sherlock's skull and bent to press his cheek against the detective's forehead. Sherlock squeaked and went numb all over.

Despite his degree, John couldn't seem to figure out what was the matter with Sherlock. Luckily the man was still breathing, but if he didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock was currently mid-heart attack. With a look of grim determination John pulled out his mobile and quickly dialed 999.


"Well Mr. Holmes, the good news is your vitals all look okay," announced a doctor who was obviously paid better than John. "Cause of the heart attack is still rather unclear, but it didn't bring about any damage, so we can be thankful for that." He glanced up from the clipboard he'd been holding to smile at Sherlock, who was currently lying in a hospital bed and wearing a matching hospital gown (both of which more than likely against his will). They had him hooked up to a heart monitor, which kept up a continuous stream of beeps as he breathed.

John was seated in a metal chair at Sherlock's side. He placed a loving hand on the detective's shoulder. "And don't you ever give me a scare like that again," he instructed.

But Sherlock didn't relax just yet. "And the bad news?"

"We'd like to keep you here in order to survey your heart rate. Double check in case we missed anything and be sure that it doesn't become an issue again. Once we see twenty-four hours of regular heart activity you're free to go."

Sherlock jolted upright. "I'm not your prisoner!" he objected.

The doctor shrugged. "We'd prefer it if you thought of yourself as our guest."

"Guests are allowed to leave when they feel they've overstayed their welcome."

"Sherlock…" John tried.

"No, I'm sorry, but as far as I'm concerned there's nothing wrong with me and I will not be held captive just because some guy in a white coat wants to use me as a lab rat!"

The doctor gave John a knowing look like, can you do something about him?

"Sherlock, listen, this is for your own good," John said sternly. "I won't have youdying of something that could have been prevented by spending one night in the hospital, alright? Imagine how I'd feel."

Sherlock pouted as hard as he could.

"Don't give me that look," John said. "I'll bring some of your stuff over so you can entertain yourself, and then you're going to be a good boy for the nice doctors for a full twenty-four hours, alright? And if nothing's wrong I'll come pick you up and we can get whatever you want for dinner." John waited until Sherlock nodded reluctantly. "Good," he said, and then he stood and pressed a kiss against Sherlock's forehead.

The heart monitor promptly flatlined.

John gripped Sherlock's hand, terrified, while the doctor yelled for a nurse to bring a defibrillator. The very next second, though, Sherlock sucked in a breath and his heart started back up just like normal. The doctor stopped and glanced between Sherlock and the heart monitor, giving the former a suspicious glare.

Sherlock's face flushed pink. "W-What?"

"I see," the doctor said vaguely. "Twenty-four hours, I insist."

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