The Best Souvenir

John, upon stepping inside the door of 221b Baker St, almost immediately regretted missing the petty squabbling into which practically any conversation with his flatmate deteriorated. In fact, he regretted it exactly immediately.

"Never mind about your weekend, John," greeted Sherlock, who lay unmoving on the couch. "There'll be better weekends to cavort about in Paris."

John dropped his suitcase from one hand and placed a handwritten postcard on the table with the other, before making a beeline for the kitchen – a decent cup of tea was well overdue. "So you noticed I'd left this time, I take it," he said as the kettle boiled, to which Sherlock grunted in response. "And my weekend was just fine, thank you, except for some irritating sod who kept phoning me every hour of the bloody night."

Sherlock tilted his head – minutely, mind – in John's general direction. "My brain doesn't keep reasonable hours, John," he said, "and neither do interesting cases."

"You phoned me at two in the morning to ask where I'd put the formaldehyde and Thursday's leftover pasta salad," the doctor retorted without missing a beat. "I think it's safe to say you did not have a case."

With a sweeping movement, Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the sofa into a sitting position. "You're developing considerable deductive skills of your own," he said. "I'm impressed, but that's hardly the point here. It's not like you had anything better to do."

"I went to Paris with my girlfriend, you do realise."

"Well, yes," said Sherlock, waving his hand flippantly, "but you left with her as your ex-girlfriend." He avoided John's pointed glare with practiced ease. "I wouldn't worry, John. That French billionaire she ran off with doesn't have much you don't have."

It was hardly new to John, having his life read like a neon sign flashing above his head but it still irritated him. Almost to the point where he didn't want to know how his flatmate knew those things. And yet still...

"Ask, John," Sherlock pressed, leaning forward onto his knees. "You want to ask. I want you to ask."

John cleared his throat, defeated. "Fine. How did you know that?"

"Well..." The consulting detective jumped to his feet, unable to sit still. "Those brochures of the Louvre you left lying around before you left were a dead giveaway. A new exhibit's just opened – that there's a nice romantic date waiting to happen." His hands gestured in sharp, broken movements fuelled by the fusion of the tiniest particles of information. "You were shown around by a rich art enthusiast who could stand to lighten up on the cologne; even after a day in bad weather, you still reek of it. Don't say anything." The question of how Sherlock could possibly tell he was rich lay unasked on John's tongue and answered on Sherlock's. "That cologne's about 100 quid an ounce; of course he's rich. Your girlfriend, Amanda, was impressed by his knowledge; naturally, he probably was one of the investors in the exhibit.

"Then there's the birthday gift you bought and wrapped but obviously didn't give to Amanda – I can see the ribbon hanging out the side of your case. It hasn't moved an inch – she didn't even stay until dinner, it seems. You stayed in the hotel room and ordered Chinese food, a chow mein judging by that sauce on your trousers. I'm nearly finished." John sipped his tea and raised his eyebrows – neither snow nor drug bust nor small nuclear blast would stop his friend at this stage. "And finally, you complain about my 2am phone call but despite being in a bad mood, you were well and truly awake and onto your fourth lager. Am I wrong?"

John balanced his empty teacup on his knee and pulled a newspaper from the crease of the chair cushion. "It was Guinness, actually," he contradicted coolly. "And Miranda."

Sherlock pulled a face – he'd been so close! Again! - and began to pace the living room, huffing like the indignant child he was at heart. "All that is so boring, John! How is it that absolutely nothing interesting is happening out there! Or in here! Or anywhere!" With a dramatic shout and tug at his hair, Sherlock ran to the window and threw it open, bellowing, "Why aren't you doing anything interesting for God's sake?" into the street below. The brick buildings hustled his exclamation of boredom along, but it remained disregarded as it were swallowed by the traffic of the closest intersection.

John looked steadily at Sherlock over the top of his newspaper, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. "You might be interested to know about the souvenir I brought you from Paris?" he said.

"Pfft," scoffed the consulting detective. John returned to his newspaper, brushing off his friend's blunt dismissal.

The room lapsed into a momentary silence – for all his aloofness in this area, John's reaction had not gone unnoticed by Sherlock. He cleared his throat. "Thank you, John," he amended. "So, ah...What is this souvenir?"

John nodded towards the table; Sherlock followed the doctor's brief direction. Sitting idly on amongst the used beakers and Petri dishes was that handwritten postcard – an unexceptional, very generic photograph of the Eiffel Tower on the front. But on the back...

Sherlock's eyes widened.

To be delivered to Mr. Sherlock Holmes

RE: Rare diamonds lost in transit to London.

"A case!"

Thanks for reading!