"Good news. There's going to be a homicide."

There was no reply from the man wrapped in a red dressing gown and sprawled across the couch. The disheveled figure plucked aimlessly at the violin he cradled in his arms and stared up at the ceiling. John waited to the count of ten to continue.

"If I find any more body parts in the fridge someone is going to get hurt," he said, holding the plastic bag with its congealing fluids at arms length. "What are these?"

Sherlock moved his bow to point at the bag.

"Severed fingers."

"Yes, but why?"

"You. Tell. Me."

Sherlock sat up, concentrating on John over steepled fingers. Those sharp eyes made John feel like his thoughts were being dissected on a laboratory table. John struggled to form an intelligent reply. Ten hours seeing patients, no dinner, a couple of pints, and he was expected to have this conversation.

He answered, "They're all the same finger - the ring finger. And similar in size. Women's fingers?"

"Precisely," Sherlock replied. There was a warmth in that praise that made John swell with satisfaction. It quickly dissipated as Sherlock fished through John's coat and returned to the couch with his phone. Fingers flew across the keypad as Sherlock went back to ignoring him.

"Could you bother to ask first? What are you doing with that now?"

Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to answer.

"Give that back," John demanded. "Don't throw it! Christ!"

John caught the phone in midair as it beeped with a new text message.

"That's you, isn't it?" John folded his arms across his chest.

John was not playing this game.

Again.

"I'm going to get some food. Want anything?" he tried.

Sherlock pointed to John's phone.

Nothing for me, thanks. SH

John couldn't help himself. He checked the outgoing message.

If wedding ring is missing arrest husband. SH

"I don't know how you managed that but I'm sure it was fantastic like always."

Sherlock's chin tilted up with pride, indicating John's sarcasm had gone over his head completely. John bowed his head and rubbed at his tired eyes. For such a brilliant man you really are an idiot, John thought as he shut the door behind him, about so many things. The lilting sounds of Tchaikovsky followed him as he walked out onto the street.

The next day was more of the same, but with snickers and eye rolling. He knew exactly what Sherlock was reading from behind the computer screen from the new commentary on his blog. His icy stares and huffing were ignored, so he sipped his tea and tried to read the paper. Sherlock hadn't slept at all last night, which meant John had also not slept well. What he really needed was-

Biscuits in the pantry. SH

"Sherlock, how long are you going do this? It isn't funny."

It's not a joke, it's deduction. SH

"It's annoying. And if you don't stop I'll put that picture up on my blog."

Sherlock looked positively alarmed, so John knew he'd scored a point.

"I wouldn't really," he added when Sherlock started to sulk. Sherlock perked back up when his phone got a text. He scanned the message rapidly and was on his feet in an instant, dancing on his toes like a school boy.

You were right. There's been a murder. SH

A car pulled up outside and Sherlock danced over to the window with an indecent grin on his face, excited by the prospect of a new case.

Good thing you're here. SH

"And here I'll stay."

You should come. SH

"No," John replied, trying to stop his lips from tugging up into a smile. With Mary gone at her bridal shower it wasn't as if he had anything more interesting to do.

Sherlock shrugged on his coat, turning up the collar with a quick flick. John watched Sherlock's reflection in the mirror as he tousled that wavy hair and the reflection dropped him a wink. John grabbed his jacket.

Lestrade was outside leaning against an unmarked black car and smoking. Sherlock glanced at the thin white cigarette and Lestrade put it out under his foot. They piled in and headed towards Brockley, a small district a few kilometers from Charing Cross.

"The facts. Briefly if you can," Sherlock said.

"Not this time Sherlock. You need to see this for yourself."

The car pulled up to a small suburban house and Sherlock jumped out before it had stopped moving. He laughed to himself, spinning around to get a 360 degree view of the street. Everything from the cars in the driveways to the manicured lawns screamed ordinary. "The more commonplace the details, the more difficult the case. Where are the bodies?" and he rubbed his hands together like it was Christmas morning.

"This way," Lestrade answered, waving them both inside through the front door.

"Bodies?" John asked. His phone beeped in his pocket and John stopped in his tracks. "Never mind, it's not important. Of course there are two bodies."

Sherlock gave him a look. Not the one that said we both know what's going on here, rather how do you get on with that ordinary brain? Then Lestrade opened a small door into a sitting room and the haughtiness left Sherlock. John felt something like smugness rising in his chest. The great detective hadn't seen this coming.

The crime scene was a small room in a small house that was sparsely furnished and dirty. The ash from the fireplace spilled out onto the brick hearth and cobwebs clung to dark corners. There was a gun and a great deal of blood on the floor, and standing in the middle of the room was a living elephant.