Of Scarves and Lipstick

by WildPraise

How could something as simple as returning a lost scarf start such a cataclysmal event? It doesn't seem fair, that one woman's accessory could leave such a baffling presence - especially on his favorite blue scarf. Sherlock Holmes ponders the case that is the woman of 221C, and examines just exactly how she fits into their lives on Baker Street. All over a bloody scarf.

"Mrs. Hudson, have you seen my bloody scarf? Mrs. Hudson!?"

It wasn't entirely uncommon to hear the booming blather of Sherlock Holmes in the middle of the early morning, especially in regards to missing items of clothing. It wasn't even entirely uncommon to hear the blathering of Sherlock Holmes really any time of day, as his frequent musings tended to leave him prone to muttering spells more frequently than not. Whether rain or shine, summer or fall, apocalypse or not, very rarely did one find Sherlock Holmes not in the middle of some mind-bending, world-upheaving case.

Such as the one now, it seemed. The bloody scarf had been hanging behind the door the night before, as it always did, the second hook from the left, drying out from the light drizzle that had befallen London later that evening. Of course, no one in their right mind would've been out bustling in the rain at 2:00 a.m. except he and his trusted companion, John Watson – though, London had seen stranger things then the lot of them sulking around, so the idea of a wet pair of flatmates wasn't all too difficult to imagine.

Regardless of circumstances, he'd hooked the scarf at a little after four in the morning, where it had slowly set to dripping dry beside his Milford coat, which was equally damp. Or, he thought he had, but whether or not he was certain was beside the point. While his favorite scarf and coat, he hadn't really ever found an overwhelming need to watch after them, as his articles of clothing – ones of these importance, anyway – hadn't ever been in the habit of keeping a status of "missing in action." Not that scarves and coats were items of action – the point itself was still clear.

He slammed the door closed with a strong wave of his arm, irritability seething through his blood like chilled fire. Now, that was an oxymoron, if he'd ever conceived one – how could one be so unbearably cold while also seething with hot anger? It didn't seem to make much sense – but, however, Sherlock imagined that if he had his bloody scarf, he wouldn't be nearly as cold as he thought he was, and his temper wouldn't be so stoked, either. Matters only seemed to worsen as he paced in front of his door, looming over the missing scarf, with his fingers pressed tightly together, steepled beneath his nose in thought.

He stopped short when a series of two knocks sent a shiver of annoyance racing down his spine like a bolt of lightning. The last thing he needed was company of any kind, given the circumstances he found himself in. An outside mind of lesser intelligence and lesser observation would only hinder his efforts in attempting to locate his favorite accessory of warmth, though he wouldn't deny the company of tea which was almost certainly promised behind the door with Mrs. Hudson's arrival.

Spinning on an irritated heel, he crossed the flat's living space in three long strides and grabbed the cool knob in a possessive fist. Turning it left, he yanked it open with a strong arm, only to be met with the raised fist of the visitor, whose nose was stuck in the pages of a worn novel, fisted hand poised as if to continue knocking.

At sight of the visitor, his shoulders slumped and he sighed greatly, making every effort not to roll his eyes in pure irritation – of course it would be her, the newest occupant of 221C, coming to bother him in the middle of such a situation. Surprisingly enough, they stood there quietly, space sucking the air between them, until she seemed to register the fact that the door had opened. No doubt, his shifting posture, and his crossing his arms over his chest had triggered her peripheral vision.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said, her sweet tenor, accompanied with a smile that was more than beaming for the gloomy London morning, raked across his irritation in an attempt that almost made him relax. "You're home." Her brow fell into a confused wrinkle, scanning him once fully, from feet to top in a manner which indicated the light-haired brunette was confused. "And still dressed for bed, I see."

Huffing, and in no mood to entertain her mediocre observations, he pinned her with a slighted look of annoyance, his brow carefully piqued over his left eye. "Whatever could you possibly need at this hour of morning?"

She grinned, slapped her book closed with a characteristic thump, and extended an arm in front of her. Immediately, his eyes shot to observe the gesture, only to find the navy-colored upset in the fabric of her shirt, which didn't match the black cotton fully. His eyes snapped up to see her smiling at him, book now pulled to her chest securely, one arm wrapped around the front in a protective hold. Instinctively, he lunged for his blue scarf, which was nestled around her arm.

She pulled back, taking a step away from his door. "You dropped this on your way in last night with John," she commented, her brow raised now to her hairline. The black-rimmed glasses around her eyes contrasted the icy blue pools nicely, and added to her rounded facial features decently, as they were slightly square in shape. He immediately noticed she had a full face of makeup on, red lips not that subtle, though not entirely unattractive to the trained eye.

Before she could add, he reached again for the accessory, frowning fully now. Compared to her made-up state, he must've looked like quite the dolt standing in his sleeping clothes and robe, hair messed from hours of running thinking fingers through it. He'd been on a dreadfully busy case and hadn't slept more than a few hours in days, and he was fully aware of the dark circles under his eyes. They matched the sunken features which malnutrition had left behind.

Not a stranger to failing to keeping himself healthy, Sherlock was obliviously aware of the fact that the woman before him, since she had moved in, had gone above and beyond to keep up appearances. He and John had met her the day of her move, when John had insisted they assist her with her furniture, versus hiring a service. So, since he had insisted, of course they'd found themselves at 221C, just down the steps, knocking on her door to offer their services. Then, she'd been just shy of looking like a hired hand in jeans and a shirt which was knotted at the waist, curls pulled back into a wrap and thongs on her feet.

However, she'd changed since getting to know them, into someone whom Sherlock had decided was decently polished and acceptable socially. Her profession as a professor of history demanded she be presentable, given that she frequently lectured at collegiates across London university's and museums. More often than not she wore her hair up into an intricately messed knot, with curl flying around her face in an oddly-flattering frame, with light makeup, and simple clothes. Fashionable boots, heels of any kind, and "wedge" shoes, as he understood, were her preferable choices for footwear, though he'd observed on one or more occasions that she kept flat, practical shoes in her oversized shoulder bag. Most days she dressed in a wide-leg business pant, with sweaters in colder weather, or simple button downs and blazers or cardigans, though some days she alternated with dresses or skirts.

Overall, she was a picturesque London career woman – Sherlock had instinctively remembered being thankful that she wasn't an unkempt muff that lived below them.

She'd been residing on Baker Street for a little over a year, and had nudged her way into their lives by happenstance. More than once he had consulted her for help regarding records or historical murder cases, of which she'd been happy to oblige him and look into. He'd been down to her office, not all that far from St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and they'd shared countless hours of research in the London archives. While overly nice and bright, and also passionately colorful in personality, this neighbor of 221C was tolerable. John had liked her immediately, while it had taken work on her part to wiggle her way into a sustainable acquaintanceship with Sherlock, as he had the notable reputation of keeping anyone new at bay for long periods of time.

Overall, she wasn't an unpleasant neighbor. She came for tea every so often, and surprisingly enough, they exchanged polite conversation at the bottom of the stairs when crossing paths. She was always interested in a good case, and extended whatever services she could offer to them on most occasions. She was everything he and John's opposite – smiling and bright, happy and cheerful, while robust and full of life at the same time. She was one of those people who could prattle on for hours, which was more than annoying, but at the same time, she was…useful.

Like Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson, or even at times his dear brother, she wasn't all that terrible as he liked to think about everyone. She was slightly more intelligible than most, especially in her given field, and wasn't blind to observational deductions, though she was no Einstein by any means in any given area, even her own profession. She was a pleasant person, whom if given the choice between an otter and a person to speak to on a deserted island, wouldn't be a worse choice.

Considering her statement again, as well as the smirk beginning to twitch in the corner of her mouth, he hesitated in reaching for the scarf again and raised his chin a few inches, in a superior pose that denoted the surprise itching through the back of his mind. So, she had been awake last night when they had come in late – or early, depending on one's viewpoint. He had always suspected, since her arrival, that she was a night-owl as compared to an early-riser. It was more than once he'd noticed the faint traces of light beneath her door as they'd come home from late nights in the dark morning hours, so it had always been a reasonable suspicion, though John had never agreed, assuming she kept a light on overnight or something else that was ridiculous.

He gave her a slightly wrinkled look before it turned to a side glance of speculative hesitance. She was being tricky, and her voice was laced with an undertone of suspicion. "How could you possibly know when we were in?" was the challenge he issued, curious to hear her response in both word and body language.

She shrugged, very flippantly. Surprising. "I heard you tromping about while I was in the middle of Hamlet," she raised the book in her hand, nodding at it with a light jerk of her head. "You're not the most graceful of pairs, I'll have you know, Mr. Holmes."

Oh, how he hated when she addressed him by his surname. It was a ploy at toying with him and making cheeky, and an attempt to get a rise out of him. John had said he made quite the face when he was riled, and she had agreed, and sense then, a large part of their interaction was spent trying to remain calm and not appease the others' underhanded barbs. She was a lot easier to upset, even in the most entertaining ways, though he tended to lapse into frustration on more frequent occasions.

He gave her a narrowed glance. "I'm afraid the business of investigating murder rarely calls for issues of grace. I am, however, appreciative of your rescuing my scarf from the foyer." After a pause, he extended a hand, "Now, if you wouldn't mind, Professor."

She smiled at him, a slight dash of red popping to life on her cheeks. He'd noticed this about their downstairs neighbor, too. She blushed quite frequently upon being complimented, especially from him, and he'd noticed that she had taken quite a shine to his friendship. Of course, he didn't necessarily blame the poor girl, but he didn't exactly share the interest – with anyone. Relationships, in any realm of the romantic, were unforgiving in the lifestyle of a consulting detective, and presented more problems than answers in said realm. While not overly unattractive, but by no means beautiful, the idea of her friendship was at least tolerable, if not welcome already. Anything more than that was simply beyond the question.

She glanced at his hand, then at him, sighing in what sounded like a chuckle. He noticed that she ever-so-slightly had managed to cock a challenging hip. "I suppose you would miss it," she dropped it into his hand with a fleck of her wrist, "it is a very nice scarf. The embroidering on the inside is quite sophisticated, for a consulting detective."

At that, she grinned brightly and went to turn on her heel, Sherlock not unnoticing of the fact that she had winked at him good-naturedly, which meant her insinuation hadn't been stated in an offensive manner. Or, at least, she hadn't intended it to be offensive. Granted, while consulting detective work didn't always keep food readily accessible in the icebox, it did come with occasional perks – very occasional, nonetheless. Her point did have some validity, though it was meant to be a good-natured barb. He had to refrain an amused quirk at her jibe. Before he could even think, he called down the hallway after her, stepping through the door.

"Are you busy this afternoon for lunch?"

The blurted words sounded so foreign, though not entirely unwelcome in hindsight, as they rang down the hallway, mingling with the chipped paint and curling wallpaper, as well as the dust. He stopped short, gripping borht his scarf and the banister in the same hand, not quite certain what had propelled him to ask the question. After a few moments of thought, he realized he had meant to ask her for help on a case, though not in such a casual manner. Was that the primary reason?

She was already at the bottom step with a hand rested on the banister when she turned to glance up over her shoulder at him. Hair pulled back nicely, dotted with what were elegant pearl-like pins, the simplicity of her gray pant and dark sweater contrasted nicely with yellow heels which he likened to the color of canary. She looked quite nice, and professional, as a matter per fact. However, he'd come up with the idea to have lunch with her would haunt him to the grave, given that he'd never inquired after a woman's afternoon eating plans before. Really, he'd had a mind to ask her some questions regarding a case, though oddly enough, that wasn't the first reason why he'd thought to have lunch with her.

She giggled again, shrugging a shoulder. "I might have plans. Why do you ask, Sherlock?" Now she addressed him by his given name, which was an odd switch, though not unlike her character. She often bounced between jibing and seriousness, but now, she blended the two tones so expertly that it only slightly fuzzed his head. Perhaps it was a female thing – John was never like this.

He was at a loss of what to say – sort of. Strange, strange indeed. "Well, I assumed if you were unscheduled I could inquire as to some questions regarding the Langley case. If you are preoccupied, I withdraw my –"

Before he could finish, she whirled around and exclaimed, "No!" so loudly that it stopped his statement dead in his mouth. If he'd been a right sot his mouth would've slackjawed open, but instead, he stared at her with slightly widened eyes, curious as to her sudden outburst. The silence between them was thick as the thieves of propriety that they were, and twice as deafening. A few awkward beats passed between them before he opened his mouth to finish.

She beat him too it, red face and all. "I mean, no, there's no need to withdraw. I don't have plans that are important if you need to exchange ideas for the case." The way she referred to it as the case hinted that to her, the case was firsthand in her mind, as compared to a side note on his itinerary. All he needed was a few conformational statements for his records to give to Lestrade, not much else.

"I would be grateful for your help," was what he stated quickly, his jaw setting only slightly in an effort to still the nagging statement of observation that was pulling around his mind like a team of bolstering oxen. He wanted nothing more to mention the blush in her face, or the fact that she was sweating, or even that she was fidgeting. Her fingers thrummed along the back of Hamlet so rhythmically that it was like clockwork. She was nervous, and caught off guard, while also mildly…flattered?

Batting aside a curl from her face, she looked up at him and nodded her understanding. "Of course. I have meetings until eleven. How would you feel meeting me at Theodore's, across from the university, around twelve o'clock?"

He nodded, stepping backwards towards the door. "Should be fine and well," gesturing to the scarf, he offered her the blankest expression he could manage. "Many thanks for this," was all he managed before she stepped off the bottom step, moved around the banister, and smiled brightly at him.

"You are most welcome. I will see you around noon, Sherlock Holmes." She said, her tone bright with a girlish giggle that wasn't necessarily unwelcome, but not entirely appealing. She flashed him a "thumbs-up," and moved around the corner to her flat, and he didn't move until he heard her door close with a confirming thump. Only when he was certain she wouldn't exit again did he turn and move back into his own flat. Hanging the scarf in its proper place, he checked on it twice after having closed the door on the Professor from 221C.

No sooner had he closed the door than Mrs. Hudson was standing in his living room, welcoming herself into the flat. He was in the kitchen, preparing tea, while mulling over what he wasn't quite sure was a date or not, when she stood in the threshold with her hands on her hips, head cocked to the side with a contemplatively confused look on her face. She tapped a light finger against her chin, in an effort of thinking.

"Sherlock? Did you call for me?" her slightly erratic, but mostly shaky, tone was per its usual, as she fidgeted her hands together in front of her, looking quite pale in a washed-out shade of a yellow and brown sweater and skirt set that did no favors for her dwindling frame.

He shooed the landlady off with a wave. "Not now, Mrs. Hudson. All has been taken care of. If you'd excuse me, I was in quite the mood, and my thinking is deep at the moment. I shall call if I need you again. Cheers."

Slightly flustered and ruffled, the poor woman retreated from the flat, mumbling about being a landlady and not a housekeeper, which made little to no difference to him in the moment. After making tea, he plopped down into his chair, which was vacant across from John's empty one, as the man had left early for a scheduled therapy session an hour or two ago, whichever was longer. More so now than ever, he could've used John's company, for clarification of the events which had just transpired.

He pondered for an hour or so, until he figured it was time to get ready for the afternoon. His thoughts had soon transferred from his scheduled affair to other matters, primarily the case of which he'd be discussing this afternoon. It had been a midnight murder, one that had proved difficult to the police, though had involved a zookeeper, a performing monkey, and a set of stilettos serving as the murder weapon.

Apparently, the monkey's handler had deprived the animal of food and had mistreated it, and had ordered it to murder the handler's wife with her abandoned stiletto's. She had bolstered in adultery on more than one occasion with a zookeeper, which had stoked the man's rage. Evidence had suggested the wife's body to be found in the corridors of the zoo's administration building, and he'd needed historical data on the zoo's background and infrastructure, where were housed at the university, as the zoo had been built as a part of a joint endeavor.

He'd gotten the information from the professor who had just happened to be his neighbor, and the case had been solved two days after the plans had been examined. She'd ushered him into her office after he'd sent her his usual text message, only to find a mountain of information regarding the project piled on her desk, front and center. He'd been tempted to ask if she'd dropped everything just to help him and John with the case, but he had the brains to think better of in the inquiry. Instead, he'd taken a seat, grabbed the first file of information, and had absorbed the knowledge, she across the room sitting on the floor of her office.

It wasn't difficult to determine that their neighbor was more than attracted to him – her cheeks flushed quite often while she exchanged barbs with him that weren't all that unintelligble, and she always made an effort to look nice, as he'd noted once or twice. John had even mentioned that she seemed to shine a few clicks brighter when he was around, which made absolutely no sense – one's persona need not change in the presence or absence of another human being, otherwise it defeated the purpose of self. The idea of changing for a person almost made his skin crawl, though he didn't immediately think that his brunette acquaintence put up a facade.

She was rather interesting, and provided somewhat stimulating conversation. Whereas John attempted to keep him anchored and down-to-earth, this woman did the exact opposite – she challenged him on his own level, in a sense, and didn't feel the need to keep him in the realm of the ordinary. She encouraged his behaviours, and asked questions that, while from many seemed dull and unimportant, seemed genuine from her. Sherlock, certainly, saw in her a willing student, and a woman of knowledge – someone who strove to fill their harddrive with knowledgable information versus worldly rubbish.

As much as he wanted to resent her presence on Baker Street, he couldn't. She bode well for Mrs. Hudson, too, as a female outlet, and their landlady had taken in her somewhat of a daughter, and did well to check up on her just as she did John and himself. Actually, she was always quite aware of her presence, chiding him with his language or the vulgarity of a case. Of course, the woman in question never really made a fuss – if anything she was more gaged with the gruesome cases – but in Mrs. Hudson's mind, she was a London socialite; all the things he was not. And, of course, when Mrs. Hudson's pleas fell on deaf ears, she often times retreated from the flat, more than once whisping away the company of the woman in 221C.

It wasn't that she was difficult to read – he'd picked up on a number of her attributes the first day they'd exchanged words. Approximately twenty-three years old, American heritage, midwestern roots, given the fact that she had a slight accent that hadn't quite fallen away in the London scene. Roughly a size 16, with simple features, and a tendency for newspapers, as the ink on her fingers were testiment. She didn't make much money, as many of her clothes were a few years out of date, and she didn't regularly manicure her nails, or care for her hair much outside of washes and product. Her makeup was dime-store in most areas, though she invested a lot of time in the appearance of her eyes, which were her favorite feature, while her hair was the least of her favorites. He'd guessed she was a coffee drinker instead of taking to tea, as her teeth were just the slightest bit yellowed, and he'd noticed traces of scrubbed coffee stains on a number of her blouses.

What the kicker of the woman was that she continud to surprise him. While she was born in the midwest, she was raised in the north, on a farm, not far from the Canandian border. At twenty-three, she was one of the youngest professors he'd ever met, having started university early in the eleventh grade, and had a list of credentials and experience that would make any dull person's head spin. She'd been to Spain, Israel, China, and South Africa on teaching escapades, and had studied abroad in Germany before accepting her current position as a young professor of history, though she had lectured at a number of places in London. Her thesis, he'd discovered, had been on Joan of Arc, and she'd written a seperate thesis for a scholarship on the travelings of Paul the Apostle, a study in biblical history. And, while she drank coffee, she prefered lighter blends, and took cream and sugar, despite the once-dark stains on her clothes.

He couln't quite peg her, much like Irene Adler. Now there had been a woman that had thrown him off kilter in every area that was frustrating, and equally rageful. This woman, though, sublty surprised him, in ways less aggressive and forward, but in little statements and tidbits that were almost like personal factoids. He never knew what she was going to say, or how she would say it, or how she would barb him with a playful jibe or good-natured challenge. She was, in a sense, her own mysery – one that he was neither overly inclined to solve, but not all-together ignorant of.

As people went, she was fine.

Sherlock pulled himself into his signature coat, the heavy material fitting in all the right places and immediately trapping heat against his body as he worked the collar up over his neck. Brushing off the shoulder, he reached for the scarf on the door, and paused, hand still mid-air as he spotted the intrusion to his favorite accessory. His brow wrinkled as a million questions raced across his mind, egging him to his mind palace, but not quite anchoring enough to be able to be cultivated.

In a swift move, he yanked the scarf from the second hook, and turned it over in his hands, until he spotted the upset in the fabric. He raised it to examine the spot further, and sure enough, it was there and not a figment of his imagination. It was red, slightly damp, and somewhat shimmered, while glossy at the same time. He took his thumb, pressed it into the spot without even thinking it could be actual evidence, and examined the spot which had transferred onto his skin. Rubbing his index finger and thumb together, the consistency was thick, and almost sticky, but not altogether unpleasant.

Sherlock lifted to smell it – it smelled oddly familiar, like something from a dream, or a past thought that was in the archives of his mind, but a small detail lost to oversight. Not that he deliberately lost things to oversight often, but this was something he didn't have immediate experience with, of his own doing and desire. Narrowing his eyes, he fisted the scarf, before a curious wrinkled danced across his forehead.

Liptstick, he thought to himself, blinking twice to get the thought fully wrapped around his reasoning. He slowly rubbed this thumb and index finger together, before the thought clarified. Not lipstick. More specifically, lip gloss, "...a bright but not overly obnoxious shade, thicker consistency, with a shimmer. Not inexpensve, but not designer, given the transfer." Now he was thinking out loud, and looking down to the scarf. He'd seen the shade a few times, on his downstairs neighbor, and had often had the mental thought that it complimented her eyes nicely, though now it was a hateful thought, but not all that unwelcome.

His mind flooded with a range of thoughts immediately after: had she kissed the scarf? No, it couldn't be, because the stain wasn't a full mouth print. Or, had she stained it in hopes of luring his mind to think she'd kissed it? Maybe she'd tossed it on the table, next to an open tube, even though that sounded far-fetched. Or maybe someone else had worn the exact same shade and was simply trying to leave a message? Or, she'd simply dripped lipgloss onto the accessory in her rush. All were plausible explanations, but none of them stuck.

Then, Sherlock had a thought. He lifted the scarf in both hands, and buried his nose against the soft fabric, closing his eyes to inhale deeply. Usually, the scarf kept the lingering aroma of soap, must, and his preferred cologne, but now it was oddly laced with the scent of gardenias, hairspray, and faint hints of must, as if the thing had been aired out and not simply stuffed behind the door of a musty, dusty flat like his.

That was it, he realized, looking down at the article of clothing. She'd smelled the scarf, and, having gotten lost in the moment, her glossed lips had brushed against it. It explained the presence of lipgloss entirely – it lacked the print of her lips because she hadn't kissed it directly. The thought made his brow drop into a frown, before he released a satisfied huff at his deduction, while also looking to his thumb and index finger, where he'd rubbed away the gloss but stained his fingers with its lingering color.

It suddenly explained her odd behavior around him, all the blushing, and the laughter and the probing into his professional life and areas of interest, as well as the substantial questions and unrelenting assistance. This slight trace of lipgloss on his scarf told Sherlock Holmes everything he needed to know about his neighbor – the woman in 221C was more than just physically attracted to him. She liked him.

He swung the scarf around his neck and tied it appropriately, his hands going through the motions fluidly from practice, until he fished his gloves from the pocket of his coat and worked them on, pulling the fingers for emphasis as he stared blankly at the mantle over the fireplace. Immediately, he was surprised again, because he saw a simple brown frame slightly holding up an abandoned blueprint of the London tube. All at once curious, he crossed the room in two strides, stepping up onto John's chair. He knocked aside the blueprint, which fell to the floor in a rush of flittering papers, and snatched the frame.

"The bloody hell is this?" he said to the emptiness around him, face now pulled into a wrinkled frown. "Who took this thing?"

He gripped the frame tightly, staring into the three backs of those photographed – he to the right, John on the left, and their neighbor in the middle, glancing over her shoulder to whomever was taking the photohraph. All three of them were walking away with collars pulled up, hands in pockets, in a light drizzle of rain. The yellow post-mark dated the photo six months ago, and Sherlock immediately knew where and when this photo had been taken – they'd been leaving Bart's, after examining ground evidence, and that only meant one thing. Molly Hooper had taken this picture, and had given it to John.

And John had framed the blasted thing. He couldn't stop frowning at it – he did not keep one framed photograph in the flat, especially of people. The only photograph he possessed that was not case-related was that of his mother, father, Mycroft, and himself at a Christmas not that many years ago, and that was kept in a box in his closet. Photographs were far too personal and dull to keep around the flat, and he couldn't believe John had framed this one of all things!

"It's quite a nice picture, if you ask me."

At the sudden intrusion, Sherlock whipped his attention to the door, where he'd failed to realize the pending presence of another body. That never happened. He was always aware when someone had entered the room, the sheer shift in atsmophere was enough to always be conscious. However, he'd been so consumed by the picture that he had faltered in his observation, and he frowned at the smirking John Watson, now standing in their doorway, flat door left open. He rocked back on his heels, and nodded to the photo.

He scoffed, slightly disgusted with himself. "Regardless, you framed an object of nostaliga. Far too dull and oridinary for people like us, John." Stepping off his friend's chair, he marched across the room, yanked open a drawer to the desk in the corner, and dropped the photograph in it before kicking it closed for emphasis. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, giving John a satisfied - and final - look.

"Like us?" John put a hand to his chest, brows in his hairline, now. "Sherlock, we're human just like the next chaps."

"Yes, but we aren't ordinary," he raised a finger as if it were a lightbult moment expected to illuminate the dark ordinances in John's head. He went for the door, pulling his gloves a little tighter, and then whirled on his counterpart to frown at him, in confusion. "Aren't you supposed to be out?"

John gave him a flattened smile, before patting his back pocket firmly. "Forgot my wallet, I'll have you know," he moved towards the door, "just leaving again. You're going out alone, I see. Plans?" They both moved for the stairs, but Sherlock pulled to a stop when John continued, weighing his next words.

When he didn't follow, and given the look on John's face upon examining Sherlock's muted expression, the corner of the doctor's mouth twitched with delight, before he raised a curious brow and pointed a finger at him, knowingly. "You have plans for lunch, don't you?"

"Whatever do you means 'plans'?" He tromped down the stairs, making quotes with his gloved fingers. Stepping off the bottom step after a pause for dramatic effect, as if it would make his point, he tightened his scarf a bit more and stepped for the door, reaching for its knob. "I am simply having lunch with a cohort to discuss a case."

John snickered, followed him out, and closed the door with a characteristic thump. "Cohort? Sherlock, it is rare you eat anything, or speak to anyone for that matter. Who could you possibly be having lunch with?"

Sherlock paused, glanced beyond John to the door of 221C, and then looked down as John looked between he and the door, a look of stupid realization riddling his face now. Bullocks, he mentally chided himself. John was getting better at picking up on subtle gestures – and he hadn't even meant this one. He would make a mental note and make sure to be more aware of his faculties.

He didn't find John's question immediately pressing enough for a response, so instead, he flew out of the foyer and flagged for a cab, waving his hand as John came up to bat it down beside him at the curb, unsatisfiedd with Sherlock's hesitance to answer his inquiry. Sherlock gave him an irritated look, before making a face and lifting the other hand to signal the approaching cab. When John's face flashed a hint of annoyance, Sherlock felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and wrapped his hand around it.

"You're having lunch with her?" he thumbed over his shoulder towards the fading door with 221B bolted in thick, gold letters on the front above a heavy knocker. Sherlock glanced at the man from the corner of his eye, watching as the cab slowed and began to pull alongside the curb, obviously having spotted his signal.

"I don't see the issue," Sherlock said plainly, moving towards the cab, which pulled up a little short. "We are discussing a case, John. Not so unusual to warrant that surprised and stupid look on your face."

John beamed at him, a look of pride crowning him as if he'd been christened in glory. He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels a bit more excitedly, and dropped a look to his feet. When he looked up at Sherlock, he was nibbling on his bottom lip anxiously, and nodded to him when he pulled open the door.

"What?" he demanded, suddenly irritated with John's nameless gestures.

"I think it's bloody marvelous," he shrugged a shoulder. "You, having lunch with a woman. It's a good sign I think. You're growing as a person." At the last statement, he waggled a telling brow, which made Sherlock scoff again and yank open the cab's door with a bit more aggression than usually necessary.

"That means nothing," he brushed at the scarf around his neck, noticing the material catching slightly. Not taking note of it, he brushed his thumb under his nose, and immedaitely felt the smear of a thick, glossy subtance leaving the leather of his glove and sticking to his nose. Sighing, he closed his eyes, and waited for John's notice, which he knew would becoming - the bright, red lipgloss was evidence of that enough.

In two steps, John stepped up, and Sherlock felt the air move as the man went and rubbed the substance from his nose, smelled it, and then licked it from his thumb. His eyes slowly fluttered open, in an attempt to remain as neutrally irritated as possible. Making a contemplative face, knowledge donned on him, and he nodded slowly, in a knowing way as a smirk crossed his features. Yet again he shoved his hands into his pockets and raised his brow, giving Sherlock the classic "I-told-you-so" look.

John was attempting to curb his laughter, but it was stifled attempt that failed. He reached up to fist a hand over his mouth, as if it would stop the snort that escaped him. He looked back to Sherlock, bending at the waist to let out a deep, baritone laugh, and Sherlock sneered down his nose at him with a superiorly raised chin.

He snorted, again. "It's a lovely shade on you, Sherlock," he managed through his laughter, John now shaking his head and trying to stop the joy that was etching across his face. Utterly irritated and slightly humilated, Sherlock ducked into the cab and rolled down the window, finding John now looking in at him with a ridiculous smile on his face.

"Have a good time," John clapped a hand on his shoulder, reaching through the window. "And don't get too carried away." At Sherlock's pointed look, he burst out laughing again, and the consulting detective sat back in a huff, fisting his hands on his lap while casting a narrow look to the driver.

He caught a glance of himself in the rearview mirror as they pulled away, leaving John Watson still laughing on the curbside – he was pink in the cheeks, and slightly baffled-looking, as if he was entirely undone and witout sense. Like a common moron, which was everything he had worked his entire life not to be. The simple act of a woman and the fact of having lunch with her had unraveled a lifetime of social depression and isolation, as well as genius.

The regret in his gut rattled around like kicked can down an alleyway, empty and hollow and completely unwelcome.

All of this over a bloody scarf? Dull.