A Study of Equivocation
By sensitivelass33
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of Arthur Conan Doyle's characters. Also do not own the incarnation as interpreted by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the BBC.
This fic takes place between "The Great Game" and "The Reichenbach Fall," with some post-Reichenbach at the very end.
Boredom and Sherlock Holmes were two things that brought about nothing but property damage.
"Rubbish," muttered Sherlock to himself as he let the door to the front of the building at 221 Baker Street shut behind him. "Shoot a wall a few times and your landlady hides your gun."
John would say he mustn't be so harsh with Mrs. Hudson. Always so conscientious. Sherlock was too busy to be conscientious; besides, one seldom found the truth by being like that. He had considered his options to retrieve the firearm - "I could break in and find it without her ever knowing I had been there, I'm sure of it," he mused, "but John would probably not agree with that either, it being Mrs. Hudson's flat and all."
Since he had begun sharing a flat with John Watson, Sherlock had not really had free rein to do whatever he wanted. Why was that? It certainly wasn't that John had told him not to do certain things – it was the fact that, when he did something John disapproved of, it was always clear that he disapproved. And for an inexplicable reason, this disapproval upset Sherlock. It gave him a nagging feeling, as if someone was continuously stabbing him in the side with a pin. An annoyance he would rather live without. Caring about another's opinion of him – what a new sensation. So theft was out.
"You should try what other people when they get bored," she had sighed, and he knew for sure that she had nearly said 'ordinary' people. Bless her, but Mrs. Hudson knew he was far from ordinary. "Go outside, walk a bit, maybe down to the park. It's lovely out, at least for now, and you won't need a coat." One thing Sherlock hated about the warmer weather of May and June – no weather for wearing a scarf or a long coat. It was harder to be inconspicuous when you weren't enveloped in wool tweed.
She knew a suggestion without a rationalization would get her nowhere with Sherlock – "I love to watch people. And you could undoubtedly see things the rest of us can't."
There was no way to win this except take her suggestion. But it wasn't just as simple as that for Sherlock. He wouldn't just "go for a walk." That would be so mundane he might as well watch the telly. No, he would make himself as undetectable as possible. He was usually able to deliberately avoid drawing attention to himself, but that was when he was on the go. A moving target was hard to hit. But he would end up far enough that he'd have to take the tube home if he walked for as long as he was able. No, instead the walk could have a destination somewhere close. Yet, if he sat somewhere for an extended amount of time, some curious bystander might recognize him from the bloody papers, or even, heaven forbid, stop to talk to him. So, he must make a distinct change from his normal apparel.
John couldn't believe he actually owned denim trousers when Sherlock revealed his plan to him.
He was answered with the knowing smirk so common to Sherlock's interactions with others. "I should think denim trousers are a staple of most men's wardrobe, John. The probability I would own jeans is exponentially higher than the probability I would own blue velvet track bottoms with words written across the bum," Sherlock laughed to himself, at the same time thinking of the horrid things he so often saw young women wearing.
John looked a bit speechless. *Didn't know the Earth went round the Sun, but knows that? Nothing should surprise me anymore.*
The look was still distinctly Sherlock, albeit with a casual flair. He wore his customary navy blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up past his elbow, the denim, and a dark pair of trainers, the other part of his wardrobe that surprised John.
"Anything's better than a deerstalker," Sherlock commented and chuckled a little to himself.