Chapter Title: Boredom

Author: Sam

Story: A Picture Perfect Crime: 01 of ?

Series: Side of the Angels

Rating: M: Abuse, Kidnapping, Violence, Sexual Innuendoes, Language

Summary: "I'm not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one." – Mycroft Holmes

Spoiler: Yeah, seasons 1 – 3 of Sherlock, including the mini-Episode.

Category: Crime-related; Drama; Science; AU

Setting: AU: Just before Christmas, 2015: London

Disclaimer: Sherlock was written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and Steve Thompson and produced by Sue Vertue, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, Beryl Vertue, Rebecca Easton, Bethan Jones, Kathy Nettleship, Charlotte Ashby, Elaine Cameron, and Susie Liggat. It is based on the original series created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am in no way connected with these people, and I do not claim ownership of these characters, lands, or names. I have borrowed them to share a story, and most likely not a story any of them would have written, had they had the time or no. I am making no money from this and it is just for my entertainment and that of free entertainment to a select group. Thank you.

Distribution: Please ask first?

Note: n/a

Feedback: Yes, please, especially constructive.

xxx

'Rain-soaked gusts whipped through the night laden streets, stirring a thick, chill mist round the ankles of the occasional passerby.'

"How tripe. Might as well say 'It was a dark and stormy night.' I thought you'd be a bit more creative by now, what with this daily blogging."

John Watson, late of the British Infantry and practicing general physician, straightened to the stiff creak of new leather upholstery. His brown-touched grey eyes snapped forward, staring at nothing physically visible, and his mouth firmed as his shoulders gave a minute heave of emotion. Without acknowledging the bored-toned baritone accompanying the sound of a leather sole striking hard wood interspersed with a dull thud and sharp click, John reread the opening sentence to his latest blog update. Finally, the grey-haired man slipped his clever fingers from the keys of his laptop and let his worn hands drop limply to his lap. He drew a deep, slow breath and let it out in an equally controlled manner.

In a soft, reasonable-sounding tone, he responded, "well, it was dark - - quite so. And it was storming, too, as I recall. Turned my brolly wrong way out."

Behind him, his best friend and former flatmate stopped his restless pacing and came to stand directly behind John. Taller, lankier, with dark curls, noticeably high cheekbones, and unusually almond-shaped oddly-colored eyes, Sherlock Holmes appeared the opposite of averagely built, comfortable looking John Watson.

Turning his head, John glanced over his friend and frowned. "Just because you've got a walking cast this morning doesn't mean you're to walk constantly." John stood, the subtle squeak of the chair signaling another too-brief quiet session ending. "And when last did you have your medication?"

The taller man frowned at the shorter, tilting his head slightly to the right. He blinked his pale mixed-colored eyes and appeared to puzzle over John's words. They stared at one another for a stretch of time then Sherlock straightened his head, limped two paces to the left, and briskly sat down on a paisley divan. Without a word, he lifted his cumbersome plaster-covered left ankle and carefully placed the foot on the matching paisley ottoman provided for such a purpose, letting his cane lean against the ottoman. Sherlock turned his face up to John, eyes widening slightly, a look of guileless innocence reflected there. "I missed the last two doses." At John's widening eyes and opening mouth, Sherlock added, "I can't think properly on that stuff. I'd rather have the pain."

John snapped his mouth shut and deepened his frown, but did not protest. One had to choose which battles to fight with Sherlock, as one rarely won any battle with the sociopathic genius. Lowering his chin, John cleared his throat with a brief cough. "Well then," he lifted his head, gave a brief jolt forward of his shoulders, and slipped onto a stuffed chair across from his friend. "You're bored then." He nodded once, cleared his throat again and sighed. "But you can't go out on a case with your broken ankle."

"There's always your laptop, John." Sherlock sat at the edge of his chosen seat, hands folded lightly, right foot bouncing quickly in an unconscious display of anxiety.

With another soft sigh, John closed his eyes briefly then reopened them. "You want me," he pronounced slowly, carefully, "to go out in the field with the laptop while you watch from here, right?" At Sherlock's nod, John shook his head. "Can't . . . I can't do that, Sherlock."

Puzzled and frowning, Sherlock sat back and tilted his head, "why not?"

John's eyes widened and he stared at Sherlock, more amazed than ever he was with his friend's magical-seeming deductive abilities, "really?" He shook his head slightly but did not break eye contact, "because I am babysitting, Sherlock. That's why."

"What?" Sherlock tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he processed that statement. Hitting upon an answer to his apparent liking, he shook his head briefly. "Her? She's sleeping . . . never know you were out." He leaned forward a bit, protests met to his satisfaction.

But not to John's. The elder, shorter man turned wide, incredulous eyes on the other. "Sleeping?" He sat back as if by furthering himself from his friend he might understand Sherlock's unexpectedly flawed thinking. John stuttered "never . . . know . . . what . . . uh . . . oh . . . Sherlock!" He leaned forward, hands gripping the armrests of his chair, voice a harsh whisper. "What if she wakes up? What if she needs me?" His voice remained a whisper but rose in decibel with his indignation.

Sherlock spread his hands slightly and offered a minor shrug. "I'll look after her," he said, tone calm, reasonable, even detached.

"No!" John shot to his feet with the force of his shout then glanced to the door with a guilty wince. Modulating his tone, yet no less adamant, he insisted "Oh, no, Sherlock. You can't even look after yourself."

"I can so," came the surprised reply. "I have done . . ."

John spoke over his friend's voice, "No. No you can't." He glanced at the parlor door again then back to Sherlock. "You call running straight into traffic looking after yourself?"

Sherlock frowned, his voice lowering as he attempted to defend his actions. "I was chasing a fleeing . . ."

"Right into the path of an oncoming services lorry," John cut him off, voice hardening, eyes falling to rest on Sherlock's cast. "You're lucky you came out with only a broken ankle and some lacerations, Sherlock!" He sat back down, hands steady on the arm rests. He gave a shake of his head and stated, firmly, "no. There is absolutely no way I'm leaving you to watch over my eighteen month old daughter."

The parlor door swing open with the whisper of well-oiled hinges. In stepped a woman of middle years with neatly groomed short blonde tresses and intelligent, watchful blue eyes. She supported a small blonde sleepy-eyed toddler in pink pyjamas on one hip, an overstuffed nappy sack on the opposite shoulder. Voice tinged with amusement, she frowned at the men and said "thank you, boys, for waking the baby."

Eyes reflecting his sudden remorse, John pushed to his feet and briskly crossed the room. Placing a tender hand on his daughter's back, he bestowed a quick, apologetic kiss on his wife's quirking lips. "Sorry, Mary. Sherlock's bored."

"Aye, I can see that," she nodded, unable to hide her smile any longer. "Can't go running about into trouble or traffic, so he'll wake the house." She shot the injured man a grin of what seemed to be malicious delight. "And just as I'm to pop off for the afternoon, as well." Her voice relayed kind amusement for all her stern words.

Sherlock leaned back against the divan cushions and lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug of detached agreement. John tried to suppress a sigh and avoided glaring at his friend, though it took some effort. Mary laughed in fond amusement.

"Well, you want her awake, Sherlock," she claimed as she strode across to the seated man, "you tend her." Mary passed the child into the unresisting arms of a startled looking Sherlock.

Worry sprang to John's eyes at the delegation of responsibility, but as he opened his mouth to protest his wife of three years turned and added "now you can baby sit them both. I've errands, as planned."

John stammered and Mary's grin widened as she added "won't be long . . . back before supper." Leaning over, she slipped the heavy nappy sack onto the divan next to her guest, patted the head of both her now wakeful baby and a surprised Sherlock, turned to give John a quick buss on the cheek, and strode out the parlor door before the men could gather themselves to respond. "Ta ra," she called and the front door shut with a firm click.

John looked at Sherlock, who stared back, their eyes meeting in mutual bewilderment at the vagaries of a woman's mind. Then both turned their attention to young, industrious Victoria Watson as she made herself busy twisting the top button on Sherlock's shirt. The round fastener popped off amid delighted giggles from the toddler and the men once more exchanged glances, sharing their incomprehension on just how a female mind worked.

xxx

John sighed as he glanced at Sherlock over the auto bonnet. "Right. We're only here for a change of scene, mind. We're not here to take on any clients." He nodded, satisfied he'd made his point to his friend. Reaching into the backseat of the auto, John unhooked Victoria from her carriage seat and fastened her into a carrier. He slid his arms in the arm holes and secured her to his chest then reached for the nappy sack. Glancing across the vehicle once more, suspicion rising at Sherlock's continued quiet, "Well?" John demanded of his friend.

Pulling out his sturdy cane and leaning heavily on it, Sherlock merely studied the front facade of 221 Baker Street, observant eyes taking in every nuance, every minor change.

"Sherlock!" John said and his friend turned his attention to the smaller man. John nodded, straightening. "Right. No clients. We're just popping in to say hello to Mrs. Hudson."

Rolling his eyes and looking back towards the building, Sherlock answered "yes, of course."

John paused, glanced hard at his friend, then nodded. "Right," he drawled, trying to determine if Sherlock was agreeing or merely placating him. With a soft frown, the older man moved around the auto and onto the pathway before the row of buildings.

Sherlock limped forward and John fell in behind him as the taller man used his key to let them into the building. Sherlock led John to the open door of Mrs. Hudson's flat.

An older woman, perhaps in her sixties with a wide welcoming smile on her friendly face, stood up from her seat by the kitchen table. "Sherlock! John! Come in. Come in." She hurried to the pair and threw her arms around Sherlock for a warm hug.

His mouth quirked briefly and a softness came to his eyes, but he pulled away and straightened. "Don't fuss, Mrs. Hudson."

"Of course not," Mrs. Hudson agreed with another smile, her voice light and joyous. She patted his chest. Surprise rounded her eyes as her fingers slipped to the unhooked button hole and she looked at the dangling threads from the violently removed missing button. "Oh. Shall I fix that for you, dear? Just this once, mind. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Mary sews them back on," John offered with a twitch of his lips. "Victoria has some fascination with twisting them off."

"Oh." Mrs. Hudson spun around and moved to hug John briefly. She smiled at the toddler and started fussing over the little girl in delight. In return the child seemed to absorb every flattering coo.

"The curtains are different in John's room." Sherlock's neutral tone drew all attention.

John's mouth tilted downward slightly. "It's not my room . . ."

At the same time, Mrs. Hudson waved a hand and chuckled. "Oh, Sherlock. You have to move on, dear."

Sherlock looked towards the stairs as John stammered "we weren't a couple!"

"Live and let live, I say." Mrs. Hudson soothed, patting John's arm.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.

"Down! Down! Down!" Victoria swung her legs and flailed her arms, reminding John she was getting far too big to be carried like an infant. He release the little girl from her confines, placing her feet on the linoleum floor, but grabbed her chubby little hand before she could wander into mischief.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson turned to Sherlock. "You've got a new flatmate, Sherlock . . . only supposed to be here until something else turns up." She turned to John as Sherlock limped to the steps and slowly pulled his way up.

John nodded and hurried to follow his friend, worried the man would stumble on the narrow steps with the bulky cast and unfamiliar cane. He needn't have worried it seemed. Sherlock navigated the hazard with apparent ease and opened the door to flat 221B.

Except for a good dusting and recent hoovering, the flat appeared unchanged, with Sherlock's incomprehensible disorganized clutter still strewn about in haphazard fashion.

The sound of soft steps came from the stairwell of the upper bedroom. Sherlock didn't shift his attention from studying his flat. Rather he took two limping steps further inside and calmly stated "you had a row with your mother, Doctor Hooper."

"How . . . how did you know?" Molly Hooper, forensic pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, stopped at the foot of the stairs. Her long, medium-brown hair hung loose almost to her waist, and she was dressed in a soft pink, lavender, and cream running suit.

Sherlock turned his head to look directly at Molly. "When your relationship with Tom ended two years ago, you moved in with your mother, as you'd previously given up your flat upon moving in with him. Now you've moved out of her house three weeks ago with plans to only be here briefly." He turned a frown on the woman and lifted his free hand to gesture, "yet you have brought your cat with you. If there had been no harsh feelings, you would have entrusted the cat to your mother's keeping temporarily. In addition, you wouldn't have moved into a temporary lodging situation while looking for a permanent arrangement."

Molly's dark brown eyes widened in her narrow face and her mouth opened slightly. "I've kept Toby in my room. How'd you know he's here?"

With an exaggerated sniff, Sherlock said "freshly showered, clothes recently laundered, by the smell and appearance last night. Cat hair on your trouser cuffs, both legs. Cats often rub their preferred humans in a figure eight around the legs. The cat . . ." he paused and his eyes flicked up the steps then back to Molly, "Toby . . . is upstairs."

"Wait a minute, Sherlock." John broke in, eyes wide in amazement, though by then in their relationship, Sherlock's awareness of a cat in his own flat wasn't the revelation that surprised the older man. As everyone turned their attention to John, and he in turn tried to keep his squirming toddler under control, John asked, "How'd you know it was Molly living here? Mrs. Hudson never said."

At the question, Sherlock appeared to become annoyed. He turned away from his friend and moved to his favorite divan. "I saw her look out the upstairs window when we first arrived." He practically threw himself onto the seat, not hiding the disapproval in his voice. "As usual, John, you see but do not observe. After seven years training, one would think you'd have learned."

Long used to his best friend's derogatory manner, John merely firmed his lips and tightened his hold on Victoria's small wrist. He broke eye contact with Sherlock long enough to dig about in the overstuffed nappy sack, pull out a bizarre seeming jumble of colored objects attached to a large plastic ring, and hand it to his squirming daughter, who promptly sat in the middle of the floor and began to randomly flip through the flat shapes. Finally, John looked up, having to concede at least to himself that Sherlock was correct, if rude: John had looked straight at the flat and never noticed Molly looking out the window.

"We've come for a visit," he announced then added sternly, as Sherlock reached for his long unattainable laptop, "not work."

Sherlock didn't bother looking up, rather opening his laptop and starting it up.

xxx

To Be Continued in Chapter Two: A Thousand Words