Doctor John Watson had lost count of how many times he'd been in this particular seat, looking over yet another case on his personal blog. Once again, the veteran was busy staring intently at his laptop. He was quite proud of the name he'd made for himself and his partner online. He looked over their past "adventures" in his blog's archive. He felt so professional, and he was excited. Excited for the next one.

For a moment he paused, wondering for how long he'd remain a detective with Sherlock, but he pushed the thought aside. John had a habit of deluding himself that everything was always going to be okay, without preparing himself for any end to come. He'd learnt the hard way that that good things don't last. But he pushed the thought from his mind.

Instead, he looked back at his work. He had just finished the post entitled "The Hounds of Baskerville" when Sherlock walked in, wearing nothing but his underwear and a thin black dressing gown.

"Have you been up all night?" he yawned.

"No, I woke up early. I wanted to get this exactly right. I had to review it, make sure there aren't any slip ups or anything, and just to polish it. You know how long it takes for me to get things done."

"If you think you have a chance against me for the 'Perfectionist of the Year' award," he sighed, looking in the fridge for something that didn't resemble a human organ, "you must be deluded."

Sherlock made himself a cheese and lettuce sandwich, with the crusts cut off, of course, and sat in his armchair to enjoy his morning snack. John, on the other hand, decided to have a shower before making sure he looked presentable.

Fifteen minutes later, John was showered, dressed, and was drying his hair with a towel. He returned to the living room to find that Sherlock was also in daytime attire, wearing a tight, dark blue shirt and black slacks. He wore a thin, black belt with a silver buckle and his shoes were to die for. You could criticise Sherlock for many things, but his sense of fashion was not one of them.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked Sherlock once he noticed John staring at him in the doorway.

John, who hadn't even realised he was staring himself, was startled before his brain started working on an answer. "Y-yes, I had a few things to keep me going when I was writing the, uh, article."

"Lestrade has 'liked' it, by the way," Sherlock commented, returning his attention to his phone before pushing past John to make his way downstairs.

John followed briskly, used to having to keep up with Sherlock without warning. Sherlock didn't say anything about where they were going or what his motives were, and John had learned by now that Sherlock would tell him when he wanted to. Once they were outside, the sunlight hit Sherlock's cheekbone causing his face to glow. John, who was surprised that he'd found himself thinking such a thing, pushed his mind onto the matters at hand. Where were they going?

They stopped walking suddenly, and Sherlock jumped onto a bus that had stopped near where they were standing. John joined him and they both paid before finding some seats on the vehicle.

"I thought you didn't like buses," John whispered into his ear.

"I don't," Sherlock replied simply.

Two and a half miles away and twelve hours later, in the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, the cast of Phantom of the Opera were taking their last bows for the night. Daniel Christian was sitting in the wings, applauding along with the audience. He was an absolute Andrew Lloyd Webber geek, and this was by far his favourite show. His favourite cast, as well.

"And down goes the curtain," he smiled, taking his headphones off. His thirty-sixth performance had gone down without a hitch.

He sighed. Stage managing was never something that Daniel had aspired to do. It wasn't really something kids dreamed of doing, you know? "Stage Manager" has never, and will never, be on par with "Astronaut", "Princess" or "Actor". God knows he wanted nothing more to be an actor. The trouble was: he was terrible at it. Absolutely crap. His singing was no better, either. So here he was. Stuck managing a stage he'd never set foot on since the tech run.

The actors then began to file themselves into the wings. One actress, who was called Christine onstage as well as offstage, waved goodbye to Daniel. His heart skipped a beat. He had a bigger crush on Chrissy than anyone else that he'd ever met, and it was known to pretty much everyone in the theatre except Chrissy herself. The name "Christine Christian" didn't roll off the tongue anyway, his friends had joked.

He followed the actors up the stairs into the dressing room, but was startled when a shriek echoed down the stairway. Daniel would later learn that Chrissy had just gone to wardrobe with an inquiry about her costume, but instead, all that was there was a dead body.

"That was nice," laughed John as he walked with Sherlock through the dark streets of London. "Though a little disappointed, if I may say so."

"Disappointed?"

"There I was this morning, thinking there was another case, but instead I got a birthday party!"

"People are meant to enjoy birthday parties," said Sherlock with concern. "It was hardly a party, either, it was more of a day outing and a meal with friends afterwards," he sniffed, looking at the closed shop window to his right.

"Yeah, friends," he said under his breath.

"Did you say something?"

"No, it was nothing. Don't worry about it."

"I hate it when you say that. You say something and then you pretend you didn't, just because I didn't hear you the first time. Now it'll be on my mind all night."

John rolled his eyes. There was no point arguing with Sherlock. If there was one person with his logic in check, it was him.

Their conversation just so happened to die out the moment they walked by a pub on Kemble Street. If a passer-by had been passing-by, nothing would have seemed out of the ordinary at all. Then again, Sherlock Holmes wasn't any passer-by.

"…next to face the feat," said a woman with curly chestnut hair, who happened to be outside the pub with a cigarette and a couple of friends as the consulting detective walked past.

"A bit of a paragraph, isn't it?" pondered one of her friends aloud. He had short black hair, a beard, and was definitely in shape. "I mean, I couldn't consider wasting all my lipstick writing that on the mirror."

"Well, you're not a cold-blooded killer, though, are you Kevin?" joked the first woman.

"Touché."

John was about to make his way onto Drury Lane when Sherlock stopped him. He turned, hoping Sherlock would tell him why he'd tapped him on the shoulder, but Sherlock was already halfway back to the pub before he could ask anything. For the second time that day, John struggled to keep up with the detective.

They entered The Royal Tavern quietly and quickly, stealing the first booth they came across. Sherlock said nothing for a few minutes, and John had learned not to try and break any silences. So he waited.

"That man outside, he's a dancer," he said after a while.

Instead of stating the obvious fact that Sherlock sounded like an idiot (which he did fairly often from time to time), John asked, "How can you tell?"

"He's tall and has long limbs, presumably from hours spent stretching. When he dropped his cigarette butt too soon, he bent over to pick it up without bending his knees, which means he's flexible. Another sign of a stretcher. He seems to be in excellent health, with the exception of his lungs, due to smoking, which means he spends a lot of time taking part in physical activities, and yet he has spent no time even peeking at the television, which probably means he has no interest in sports of any kind. My guess is that his physical activities tend to be dance and time spent in the gym, rather than sports games. And I overheard him talking about owning lipstick, so unless he has some hidden interest in being a drag artist, I think I've got a pretty good guess already. Also, his name is Kevin."

Even after knowing Sherlock as long as he had, it still blew him away that someone could take such an accurate educated guess about what someone did. Especially behind closed doors.

"And why is he important?"

"He's not, it's the woman he's talking to in which I have interest," he smiled. Even now, he still liked to impress John for no reason.

"But we can't hear them. They're outside."

"Taking in account of how fast she smoked, the woman had about seven minutes left of her cigarette. She won't stamp it out before it's done, she doesn't seem to have enough money to waste it on cigarettes. I also saw a West-End themed bag on that table there," he pointed to an Irish pub stand close to them, "which I'm guessing is hers. She won't leave without it, so she'll be coming back into the pub any minute now."

As if on cue, the chestnut-haired woman returned to the pub with Kevin and two other women. It just so happened that they continued their conversation right next to Sherlock and John's booth and the Irish pub stand.

"Well, it's not our problem now. The police will figure it out, don't worry," said one of the women. This one was blonde.

"It was just a bit shocking, you know? I think I'll have to be brought in for questioning tomorrow, as well."

"The sooner you tell them everything you know, the sooner they'll catch whoever did this to Janey!" the red-haired dancer consoled her.

"Come on, I have to go now. I need my beauty sleep, there's a matinee tomorrow," the chestnut-haired woman grabbed the West-End bag and went to leave. "Bye."

"Bye, Christine!" Kevin called after her.

Sherlock got up quickly and John followed. They were at Drury Lane again in next to no time.

"So that's it? We're just going home?"

"I, like Christine, need my beauty sleep, John. We'll figure this out in the morning, I'll make sure of it," he said, before stopping. "Christine Appleford is playing the female lead in Phantom, isn't she? I've needed an excuse to go the theatre."

I'm still fairly new to this website and haven't spoken to a lot of people yet, but I hope that changes with this story. This will probably become an M rated Johnlock 50k+ story, but I've rated it K for now just because it's not M rated yet. Please tell me what you think, I find it hard to work otherwise.

I might leave little author's notes on every story. I find them like a charming conversation between the writer and the readers, don't you think?

Oh, and here's the credit for the cover image (if it works, that is):
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