'Another case solved!'
'Yes indeed. Very observant. Maybe there is hope for you after all.'
Doctor John Watson turned to glare at the man he was walking with. His flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, was tall with pale skin and dark hair. Dressed in his signature dark grey trench coat he was an impressive figure. Even on a night like that one, when he had just participated in a cross-London car chase in the pouring rain, he looked hardly the worse for wear. His hair clung damply to his forehead and his clothes clung to his skin, but John was sure that he had not lost his ability to scare information out of people.
'I have never questioned my inferior intellect. You are, have been and always will be several million times cleverer than me. There's no need to rub it in!'
'Indeed not. But would you deny me that opportunity?' John threw another glare in Sherlock's direction, but it was only half hearted. Holmes was smiling indulgently, as John had known he would be. John too broke into a smile, but only after allowing himself a satisfactory eye roll.
The two men were in high spirits as they walked along Allsop Place towards their home; 221b Baker Street. The half-hour city sprint at gun point had left them full of adrenaline, and catching a serial killer had been the icing on the cake. Another case solved, as John had said. For the rest of this evening they would remain good humoured, and John knew that there would be laughter at 221b Baker Street. However, he also knew that Sherlock had no other cases at the moment, and therefore that the cheerfulness wouldn't continue for long.
He would just have to enjoy the good atmosphere while it lasted.
'You did really good tonight, Sherlock. Well done!' He clapped his friend on the shoulder.
'I 'did good', did I John? Glad you think so.' Sherlock said whilst grinning and jokingly wiping down his coat sleeve. Sherlock would never stop pointing out John's many grammatical flaws. It was too deeply ingrained. However, recently John had started to notice an air of fondness in his friends tone. He wondered if Sherlock was beginning to count him as a friend. And quickly dismissed the thought. Sherlock was... well... Sherlock. And Sherlock didn't have friends. Or at least he'd never admit that he did.
'John,' said Sherlock, his tone disturbing John's musings, 'Do you know the owner of that motorbike?'
'Motorbike? What motorbi-... Oh. Oh God.' John stood, staring in what Sherlock perceived to be horror at the door to their flat. Propped against the worn black door, and blocking their path into the house, was a large, black and serious looking motorbike. Its handles, Sherlock noted, were digging into the wood in a way that would produce scratches when the bike was removed. He turned towards John, waiting for an answer to his question, and was shocked to find him still staring with rigid shock at the door.
'John? John, are you all right? Stupid question. Why are you not all right?' Sherlock was starting to get slightly worried by his friends trance like stare. Not that John would ever know that. 'Doctor Watson!' Sherlock all but shouted, hoping to jolt at least the military part of John's brain into action.
'What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course, Sherlock. Hello. What was the question?' John continued to stare at the bike, only his mouth moving.
'Who owns the bike?' Sherlock paraphrased. It was obvious that whoever's bike it was had entered their flat. And was still there now.
'I think it would be wise if we were to enter the flat. With fire extinguishers, if at all possible. With all haste.' John turned to look at Sherlock, his gaze conveying the same urgency as his voice. 'Please.'
'Of course John. Let's go.'
