Outliers

Disclaimer: I obviously don't own these characters.

Note: This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. It's also my first general fanfiction in quite a while. Bare that in mind. I would appreciate any comments, questions or criticisms.

Note 2: I've been getting a lot of views for this, which I greatly appreciate, but I haven't gotten too many reviews. I would love to hear what you think, good or bad, so please, please review! Thank you. :)

Where is he?

An hour and thirty-six minutes. That's how late he was. One hour, thirty-six minutes and forty-two seconds. What was the game here? Did John expect him to be worried, waiting for him? Did John expect to waltz in and find him pacing the floor, ready to wag a finger the minute his partner's feet alighted the stairs? Or perhaps John was just late. People could be late, it was entirely possible.

But not probable. John had been late in coming home exactly twice since they'd met, and both of those times he'd been detained against his will. Explanations raced through Sherlock's mind, but none of them seemed likely enough. None of them fit. His fingers twitched over the fret of his violin, the bow bouncing methodically over the strings. He had to decide which melody to play next. Was it to be hauntingly beautiful, or jarringly dissonant? That depended on when John was coming home. Sherlock had to be sure to save the ugliest melodies for his colleagues' arrival.

It had to be her. She was detaining him. It was Saturday, nearly two in the morning, and John had been wearing his best jacket when he'd told Sherlock "I'm out for a bit. Be home by midnight." What a lie that had been. Sherlock's arm swept back and forth, drawing out one cord over and over from the strings. He felt the vibration in his fingertips and closed his eyes for a moment, forgetting his thoughts amid the sound.

If he concentrated on the sound, the vibration, he could forget about his partner and his lateness, and focus instead on the case at hand. The letterbox killer, as the police were already so fond of calling her, had killed five so far. It had already been two days since the last victim was found, and Sherlock could feel the itch building inside of him, welling up in his chest, telling him he didn't have much time.

Sherlock glanced at the empty chair across from him, and the note from his violin died away with a whimper. How had he allowed this to happen? How had he let himself get so comfortable with having a partner that he could no longer think without John to bounce ideas off of? What was he supposed to do if John didn't come home? Who would hear his ideas besides the walls, the television, possibly Mrs. Hudson? Most importantly, where was John?

These thoughts, louder than any of those struggling for space in his mind, were interrupted when his phone rang. Private Caller the screen told him. Sherlock smiled, this would most certainly be good.

"Hello." He said, calm, emotionless.

"Sherlock Holmes?" The voice on the other line was distorted, but obviously female. So he had been correct in that at least.

"You have him." Sherlock bent down and placed his violin and bow in their case with his free hand. He had to think about the movement, his hand unsteady with excitement.

"Not quite." The woman replied, her voice suggesting a smile. "But soon enough, I hope."

Sherlock smiled back, "Really? Shall I wait for you here, then?"

"Are you all alone tonight, Sherlock? Or is your confidant on his way home?"

"I'm not sure. Will that affect you plans?" Sherlock stood up, looking around. He had just checked the flat for cameras this morning. If she was watching him she was either very close, or an outside surveillance system was working against him.

"I don't have any plans for tonight, Sherlock. I believe in taking things slow."

"Old fashioned, then, are you?" Sherlock stood near the window, body against the wall, only the smallest sliver of his face visible between the curtains. There were no signs of activity on the block. "How refreshing."

"Sleep well, detective," said the woman, her voice gentle even through the distortion. "We'll speak soon."

"No doubt."

And so the game, so irretrievably dull and fruitless a moment before, was on once again. Sherlock sat back down in his chair, two long fingers resting on his lips. He would have to analyze everything the woman had said, the way she had said it, and under what provocation. It would take time, but information could most definitely be gleaned from this.

But now the outside door was slamming downstairs. Heavy footsteps reached him, tearing his thoughts away from the case, the woman. There were many distinct footsteps, meaning there was more than one person about, probably two, and judging by the thumping, faltering pattern of the sounds, the two people were drunk. Sherlock tried to block them out, to keep the woman's voice in the front of his mind, but the couple merely got louder, both laughing, whispering and telling each other to be quiet, as the ascended the stairs and approached the door to the living room. Sherlock took a breath in, closed his eyes, and braced himself.

John spoke first, only his head visible as he leaned in through the doorway. "Evening Sherlock," he had managed to force most of his face into a serious pose, but his bright eyes betrayed him. Past him, on the landing, there was a snort.

Sherlock didn't speak immediately. He made John wait, balanced on one foot, clinging to the door frame. "You should be saying 'morning, Sherlock.' It is just about two o'clock after all."

John looked down at his watch, pitching forward a bit at the movement. "So it is. Lord, I'm sorry. I hadn't intended to be out so...so long." He looked up at Sherlock and, with genuine concern in his eyes, stepped forward into the room. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know you've been working this whole time. I intended on being here. Helping you."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand that stopped John in his tracks, "Let's not dwell on mistakes. It's best if you just sleep this off. I don't want you hung over for tomorrow. We have a few places to visit."

John smiled with one corner of his mouth and nodded. He wished Sherlock a shaky goodnight, saluting him casually with two fingers before turning to go. Sherlock heard a few moments' heated discussion between John and Sarah before John seemed to break away from her and head upstairs to his room. Sherlock stared down at the floor in front of his chair, and out of the corner of his eye he caught Sarah looking in on him, her eyes boring a heated stare into his skull. Then they were gone, and Sherlock was alone again, suddenly very aware of the emptiness, the silence.