Another day, another case, and so went the life of John Watson. It's been a couple of years since the return of Sherlock and the loss of Mary, and the two were living in Baker Street again, with Rosie as well now. It was almost as it was before, except John was more often woken by crying in the middle of the night than violin now, and the flat stays tidier and there's less body parts and unattended experiments due to the baby.
They were at a crime scene in London, for once; Rosie was at nursery and Sherlock was, as usual, rattling off observations that John had mostly tuned out, knowing Sherlock would call his name when he was required.
"Is he always like this?" one of the policemen asked John, his name plate said Davids.
John only barely registered the question, "I'm sorry, I missed that," he replied.
"Is he always like this?" Davids repeated.
"Aah," thought John, "I thought I didn't recognise this one. He must be one of the new ones." Before answering, "Yeah, usually."
"And you two share a flat?"
"Yes, Sherlock, myself and my daughter share a flat," John responded, wondering just where this line of questioning was going.
By this point Sherlock was trying to locate John for some medical fact he needed quicker than he could be bothered to look for it internally.
"How do you live with it? The constant chatter? It's only been 20 minutes and I'm not sure how long it'll be before I see about swapping with a tape guard," Davids enquired, quite honestly.
"Well," John started, if had been anyone else, he told himself, he wouldn't have done it. But the newbie would be totally unaware if it was true or not. So John leaned into his ear and whispered.
Judging by the look on his face, pupil dilation, and blush, Sherlock knew whatever had been said was a) inappropriate, b) probably sexual, and c) very unlikely to actually be true. He decided to play along with John's game, so just half smiled and shrugged a little, in a way which suggested 'Well, can you blame me'.
"I'm…," Davids stuttered, before calling out, "Lestrade! I'm gonna go swap with Anderson on tape guard."
To which Sherlock just said, "Aah, not Anderson. I'd much rather you stayed. You're… quiet."
But Davids had already left.
"Ah, John, a question. Now that you've finished," Sherlock began, before enquiring about body temperatures and relation to weather and gender. As soon as he had his answer the case was solved and they left, Sherlock teasingly winking at Davids as the two passed under the tape with Lestrade.
Later that evening Sherlock finally asked John about it.
"So Davids, he's a quiet one," Sherlock observed.
"Yeah, I think he likes the quiet too. He was asking about if you're always so… chatty," John laughed.
"I noticed his reaction to whatever you whispered, care to tell me what you said?"
"Oh, it's nothing to worry about," John said nonchalantly, "And looking at the time, I should be worrying about get Rosie, and myself to bed. Night."
Sherlock relegated the incident to the 'Home' section of the Mind Palace and decided to get some violin practice in.
He didn't even think about it again until a week later, when he was working a case with Davids again. The young man's face turning to blush the moment he saw Sherlock and John.
"What did you tell the young, blushing officer over there last week, John?" Sherlock asked.
"Just how I keep you quiet at home," John offhandedly replied, before heading over to find Lestrade.
Sherlock decided to just get on with the case, he'd interrogate John later. Though he did offer a small wave of acknowledgement to the officer, who just turned redder and swapped with a tape officer again outside.
It was the gardener. It was so obviously the gardener. It was always the gardener. He didn't even know why he'd been called here.
"They don't have a gardener," Lestrade called to Sherlock, as he saw him about to stand up and speak.
Back to the observations.
The officer that replaced Davids was fidgety. Never stood still, and it was driving Sherlock mad.
The post was by the victim's hand, narrowing down the time of death. He called john over to estimate it better.
The cause of death was quite obviously the gaping gunshot wound to the back of the man.
Overall conclusion: Not enough to go on yet.
Then Sherlock's phone buzzed. Text. Mycroft? What does he want?
Brother dear, could you buy some milk on your way home? You appear to have run out.
"John, we're leaving. There's not enough here now," Sherlock announced standing, "Lestrade, could you let me know when the autopsy is done, and I can help more then."
And then, grabbing John's hand, before he could even say bye to the Detective, "John, we need to hurry," and all but dragged him out. Straight past Officer Davids.
Sherlock hailed a cab instantly, John hadn't yet asked him how he manages to do that every time as he's worried that if he does, the magic will stop and they'll be stuck waiting for cabs the good old fashioned way. Once sat inside he spoke.
"What's the rush, Sherlock? And if you keep grabbing my hand like that, people will talk."
"People do little else. And you're hardly helping. But the rush is, Mycroft is in our flat."
They stopped at the little shop on the corner for the milk, John picked up some biscuits as well.
"Mycroft," John greeted, "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"Pleasure? You do realise you're speaking to my brother, right?" Sherlock sneered.
"Yes, and he's a person, I'm British, so I'm going to be polite. Now be a dear and put the kettle on please, I would kill for a cuppa," John answered.
"Hmm," noted Mycroft, "I'm afraid this is a somewhat of a social call. And I'm never quite sure how to proceed in those instances.
John observed Mycroft's pristine as always, three-piece suit and joking replied, "Well I could go put on a suit if it makes it any easier?"
"That will not be necessary. I merely wish to know if the rumours are true," Mycroft enquired.
"Lots of rumours surround myself and Sherlock, almost too many to keep track of, so which one is this?" John asked.
Sherlock just called from the kitchen that he didn't see why it was Mycroft's business anyway.
"I refer to the latest one to come from New Scotland Yard, about a week or so ago I started hearing it," Mycroft explained, "About how you keep Sherlock quiet at home, John."
Sherlock started paying more attention now, he still didn't know what had been said.
"Oh, sometimes," John answered.
"Well, as I said, that was the main purpose of my visit. I shall be leaving now, I know Sherlock dislikes my being here," Mycroft concluded, standing and heading to the door. Just managing to hear Sherlock shout, "If you know that why did you come anyway?" before he left.
John headed to the kitchen, where his tea sat cooling. He knew Sherlock had finished it a while ago and was just waiting for Mycroft to go.
"So," Sherlock started, "Am I allowed to know what you said yet? Or is it a State secret?"
"Oh I merely commented that even you weren't rude enough to talk with your mouth full. So I just made sure it was filled often," John stated, "It's not my fault that he seemed to take it inappropriately."
Sherlock laughed at the absurdity of it, "You wanted him understand it like that, making sure to mention the daughter living with us."
"There's no harm done, half the press is printing that sort of stuff about us weekly."
"Yes, but the press printing it doesn't result in my brother investigating."
"Well there's two courses of action from here," John decided, "One, we tell Davids that I was pulling his leg."
"And two?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, two is that, since we've got a while until I need to pick Rosie up, we make one or two rumours come true," John smiled.
"I think I'll pick two."