Right. Some housekeeping things:

A) This is a sequel to A Small Change and Nightmares, so if you haven't read those... you may want to.

B) I changed my upload days to Saturdays. Probably best if you check back on Sundays. Or subscribe!

C) I got sick of trying to figure out chapter titles without being cheesy, so I'm going with the old standard of one, two, three.

D) Enjoy! All comments, etc. are treasured and loved.


"So," John said when he got home the next day. "Enjoying your days off?"

Sherlock glared at him from the sofa, then flopped her head back into the very picture of despair. "I'm so bored, John!"

"Yes, well, not all of us actually look forward to murders, thanks, Sherlock," John said, hanging up his coat and toeing off his shoes, then shivering and rubbing his arms. "It's freezing in here, didn't you think to light a fire?"

Sherlock gave him a look and he shook his head. "Of course you didn't. The fireplace is a whole two metres away, it would be too much for you, of course." She scowled at him and turned toward the back of the sofa and curled up.

"Haven't you got an experiment going, or something?" John asked as he grabbed a log and opened the flu.

"Finished that," Sherlock said morosely. "It was a good one, too. The effects of acid when pumped into the lungs."

John nodded, then looked up and blinked for a moment. "That - oh, god, that's what that pink stuff was in the sink, wasn't it. You couldn't keep it to your own kitchen, could you?"

"I needed a control sample," Sherlock replied, and John sighed, setting the log in the fireplace and pulling a lighter off the mantle, flicking it on to start the paper wrapping ablaze.

"Hold on," he said as he stood to put the lighter back on the mantle. "Is that a skull?"

Sherlock didn't deign to reply to that.

"It's a real skull. You've put a bloody skull on my mantle."

"Our mantle," Sherlock said, and John sighed again, rubbing his forehead and turning to glare at her.

"Couldn't you text Lestrade? Ask for some cold cases?" he offered, realizing slowly that Sherlock off a case was going to be far worse than Sherlock in the midst of one.

"Did. He won't give me any," she said, tugging on her curls.

"Why not?"

"He was being an idiot."

"And you told him so," John said, and tilted his head back, then shook himself and walked to the kitchen. "Tea. I need tea to handle this."

"Two sugars!" Sherlock called after him.


"We could go on another walk."

"No."

"I could get you started on Doctor Who."

"No."

"You could hack into Mycroft's accounts and spend half the UK's budget on cherries?" John said sarcastically, but Sherlock's eyes were bright as she turned to look at him.

"Really?"

"No," he said quickly, and her face fell.

"You could see what happens to worms after you inject them with HGH," he finally said after a moment. Sherlock flopped over onto her other side and gave him an appraising look.

"What would be the point of that?"

John shrugged. "Find out what happens, see if less complicated life forms can process human hormones, and if they have the same effect."

"Worms aren't less complicated, John. That's like saying an iPad is less complicated than a computer in the early sixties, just because the computer was as big as a room and the iPad's all small." Sherlock rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

"Yes, well, in a way the computer was more complicated, just because it was less efficient," John pointed out, and Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of her eyes.

"Are you saying worms are more efficient than humans?"

Frowning, John thought it over. "From a purely biological perspective, I suppose they do all the same things humans do - digestion, respiration, circulation - in a much smaller space."

"Yes, but one might argue that humans have the same degree of efficiency, because it takes more work when the being is larger," Sherlock argued back. "With the added benefits of cognitive thought processes and opposable thumbs."

"Touché," John conceded. Sherlock hopped off the couch and went into her room, slamming the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked when she came out, tying her scarf over her coat.

"To get some worms," she said, and swept out the door. John sighed.


John was regretting having suggested the worm project with every fibre of his being.

Worms in the sink were fine. Hell, worms in the refrigerator and freezer were fine. But when some got loose and he was finding them under his bed, or in the shower, he drew the line.

"Sherlock, I hate your worms," he said on the third day, walking out of the bathroom with a towel round his hips and his hair dripping suds down his back, holding a large, frantic earthworm between two fingers and dropping it on her lap. She frowned at it and the wet smudge it was making on her trousers.

"Not much of a change," she muttered. "I need to find a different method of application. It seems injecting some didn't work; perhaps putting them in a box of soil that is moistened with a solution of it?"

"I don't care," John told her, "Just keep them out of my bedroom, and away from my shower."

Sherlock looked up at him. "You've got some soap, there," she said, and gestured around her whole head to demonstrate, and John nearly growled as he stomped his way back into the shower.

When he came back out, dressed and washed thoroughly this time, Sherlock had found a large storage container and was dumping worms into it, along with a couple of bags of potting soil.

"Where'd you get the dirt?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"Called Mycroft and told him you were threatening to move out if I didn't have a place to keep my worms. He came by with this stuff."

John pursed his lips and looked at the box, then at the woman who was rapidly filling it with squirming animals, still in her jim-jams. "You seem fine with calling him when you want something. Wait, why would he care if I moved out?"

Sherlock gave him a look as she dumped another box of worms into the container. "Because you talk to him and keep me in check, probably. Hand me that watering can?"

John looked behind him to see that there was, indeed, a watering can on the floor next to him, and he passed it over, watching as Sherlock poured several vials of what looked like HGH suspension for injections into the water that was already in the can, and sloshed it around a bit. The worms she'd dumped into the container of dirt were burrowing into the soil frantically, and he pitied them for a moment before Sherlock began to 'water' them enthusiastically with her mixture.

"I'm not certain this counts as 'keeping you in check', Sherlock," he admitted as she got impatient and turned the watering can all the way over, soaking the worms in the middle.

"Don't be ridiculous, John, I was much worse before you came along," she said dismissively, and tossed the watering can behind her as she stared at the small animals with intensity, as if expecting them to suddenly swell to twice their size within a minute.

"I don't want to imagine it, god," John groaned, and collapsed on the sofa to pull his laptop close. To his surprise it was already on, and he frowned. "Sherlock, this is my laptop. Yours is right there," he emphasized, pointing at her laptop, which sat on her table in her lab.

"Yours was closer," was all she said, bouncing up to look over his shoulder. "Why, did something new pop up?"

"I don't even know what this is," he complained, and Sherlock grabbed his hand, batting it away from the trackpad and leaning over him so she could click on something.

"There's been a murder in Belarus," she exclaimed. "I'm going."

"Right," John said, and settled himself back into the sofa. "I'm not."

"Of course not, John, there's no point to us both going until we know whether it's worth our time. I'll go and if it's good I'll text."

"What? Who says I'd come?" John asked, and Sherlock rolled her eyes.

"You'd come, John, don't be obvious. I'll see you tomorrow," she said, and John ignored the way her door slammed firmly behind her as she went to go get changed, because John had no doubt that when she'd said she was going, she meant now, and she'd be hailing a cab to Heathrow within the next ten minutes.


John decided he didn't like the quiet when Sherlock was gone, and found himself an impressive playlist of cello music online, putting the volume high. He tried typing up their latest case, but got stuck on the title. Killed in Sequence? Alphabetically Anhillated? An Orderly Obliteration?

He stared at Sherlock's worms and frowned, then got up to put on a jacket and send Greg a text.

I'm bored, you wanna meet at the pub?

Sure. There's been no new cases and I'm tired of paperwork, was the reply, and after a moment of negotiation they'd figured out where they were meeting and John could get out of the far-too-quiet flat.


The pub was noisy. John looked around, blinking a bit at the change from silent flat to boistrous pub, and saw Lestrade waving him over with a hand. He forced his way through a couple of groups and finally made it over to the corner booth where Greg sat, sitting across from him and smiling. Lestrade pushed a beer at him. "Drink. I've been waiting for you to show before I started on mine."

"Long day, was it?" John asked wryly, and Greg chuckled and groaned at the same time, rubbing his hands over his face.

"I've had nothing to do but paperwork for the past four days, if I have to sign my name one more ruddy time my hand's gonna fall off... how are you holding up?"

John shrugged, taking a sip of his beer before replying. "I was doing fine until the worm experiment, and then - well, not so much."

"Found your blog," the DI said, and John nearly spat out his next sip of beer. "Oh, shut up mate, it was good! Interesting. Is that what it's like on the other side, then?"

"Other side of what?" John asked, and Lestrade grinned at him, eyes twinkling.

"On the other side of Sherlock. All we get is the prickly side."

"Hey, she behaved for you the other day," John protested, but Greg shook his head.

"Only cause you told her to. She's a sight worse than that most days, it's like she actually cares about you or sommat. Anderson and Sally have a bet that you're shagging."

John set down his beer, realizing this was a talk where drinking would most likely lead to either choking or covering Greg in beer, and he didn't fancy either option. "We're not together."

Lestrade nodded and took a swig of his own beer. "Yeah, I know that, but they don't, and it's not like they're going to believe me, are they?"

Groaning, John let his head thunk against the back of the booth. "Brilliant. My life has been demoted to a Scotland Yard soap opera."

"Oh, be good to yourself, you're at least a crime drama," Lestrade teased, and John whacked him lightly with the drinks menu.

"Shut it. At this rate I'm never gonna get a boyfriend, Sherlock's already scared one off."

"Yeah, Dimmock told me about that. Swing both ways, do you?"

John shrugged, looking down at his beer, more than aware how his preferences could be taken by others. "My sister's gay," he confessed. "Makes you think outside the box. Not that I don't like women," he hastened to explain. "I've just always gotten on better with blokes." Greg grinned, and John smiled back, feeling comfortable enough to confide, "I think Harry scarred me, really."

Lestrade's eyes held their normal twinkle as he replied, "Eh, no judgements here, mate. I liked a girl, and look where it's got me." John tilted his head, and Greg sighed, setting his drink on a coaster. "It's nothing, sorry I brought it up."

"Right, yeah, sure," John said, shaking his head. "Let it out. I've already half-strangled you once, I owe you a beer night and sob story at least."

Lestrade gave him a quick, appreciative smile before sighing. "Found out - before this last case - my wife's been - ah - enjoying - her friendship with a bloke at work, even after the counselling."

John knew saying nothing was sometimes better than saying anything at all, so he stayed quiet while Greg stared into his glass for a bit, then he took a long gulp before continuing, "And it's just that I thought we'd finally had this figured out, you know? But then I get this unexpected time off, and she's getting all frustrated because it means I'll have a night home on 'book club night', and I asked why she couldn't stay home, and, well, that was a mistake, because then it all blew up in my face. I've spent the past two nights at Scotland Yard, and I think I'll probably have to get my own flat soon, because I'm a bit worn out, to tell the truth of it."

Draining his glass, Lestrade let his head rest against the panelled wood of the booth, and John pushed his own glass - still mostly full - across the table. Greg raised his eyebrows. "You don't want it?" he asked, and John shook his head.

"Sister showed up pissed at my place a couple days ago. Mostly came out for the company, not the beer."

"Where's Sherlock? Not that I can't see reasons why you'd want company aside from her," Lestrade asked, pulling John's glass into his hand and tracing a hand down the condensation on the side of it.

"She's in... Russia. I think. I forget. She got an email and rushed off."

"Huh. Must have gotten a private case," the DI said. "Cheers to her, then. She's probably thrilled." He lifted his glass and John nodded back to the toast.

"Makes it a bit quiet, it's weird. I'm used to her being up at all times and playing her bloody cello. And there's a box of worms sitting in the middle of the sitting room," John elaborated, and Greg raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, did you ever get her to move her stuff into her own place?"

"No," John said morosely, "Her brother came in and remodelled the place. It's all one large flat, now."

Lestrade gaped. "You're kidding. The fit fellow in a suit?" John raised an eyebrow at him, and he grinned. "What? You're not the only one who can play for both teams." John shuddered.

"All the same, it's Mycroft," he said, and Greg snorted.

"Their parents must have had some kind of vendetta," he said, chuckling slightly, and John grinned, just glad he'd gotten the DI's mind off his wife for a moment.

"I know, the names sound like Bond villains. Speaking of which, I got Sherlock to watch Bond the other day."

"You didn't." Greg's eyes widened, impressed. "How'd you manage that?"

Shrugging, John answered, "Sat down in the same room and started watching. Knew she'd get curious enough to start looking over my shoulder after a bit."

Lestrade chuckled. "You know her far better than I do already, mate."

John didn't really know what to say to that.

Eventually John had to go home and Lestrade went back to the office to avoid his wife. He'd invited the DI home, but been refused because "You keep talking about ruddy worms, mate, and I'm not gonna risk it. Bloody hell, what if that growth hormone works?"

Which John had to admit was a pretty frightening, if improbable, thought.

Still, the flat was too quiet, and even with the music it was hard to get to sleep, so he made a fire and curled up on his bed with a book, feeling the flat slowly warm and trying to distract himself from the utter loneliness of being alone, and, after a couple of long hours, fell asleep.