Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: I'm slightly nervous about posting this. I've tried to write Sherlock's deductions realistically but, not possessing the genius of Moffat and Gatiss (or of course that of the great Arthur Conan Doyle), I think I might have failed. I hope, despite its shortcomings, this makes an enjoyable read. If you have the time, please leave a review to let me know what you think of it.

"Sherlock, John's here to see you," Mrs. Hudson called.

It was nearly the afternoon but Sherlock was still in his pyjamas. He was lounging on the couch, that Saturday morning, a blue satin dressing gown flung around his shoulders. He didn't look up when John came in.

"Hello," said John. "Anyone home?"

Sherlock simply sat there without replying. His eyes were shut and his hands, pushed together, were resting under his chin. Suddenly, without warning, his eyes shot open and he jumped up from his chair, letting out an exasperated cry.

"Oh well. Hello again. I'm fine, thanks for asking," said John.

Sherlock turned and stared at him for a few seconds before speaking. "There's no case, John. I've been bored out of my mind with nothing to do."

"Yes, and I've come over to visit you to see how you were." He paused, watching as Sherlock started to pace the room agitatedly. "Guess I've got my answer."

"No case in months," Sherlock growled. "What is London doing? Is no one murdering anyone anymore?"

"You know, you could stop saying those things so you sounded just a bit more like human being," said John.

Sherlock whirled round. "So, when are you moving house?"

"What? How did you...Oh, right. No we're not doing this again." John shook his head to emphasise his point.

"I'm not doing anything at all. Simply pointing out what I observe," said Sherlock. The ghost of a self-satisfied smirk flickered over his face.

"How did you -"

"The sole of your shoe has cement on it. Since it's unlikely you've been at a building site recently, you must have been plastering walls. You aren't very good at any form of DIY, so it's not a favour that you've done for someone else. Therefore, you are working on your own house.

Your house isn't in bad repair, so why would you be plastering it? You must have a good reason to be so careful. It obviously wasn't a small job. If it had been, you wouldn't have any on your shoe. The fact that you haven't changed your shoes suggests that you want to do it quickly, so it's probable that you don't have much time in between your repairs and the sale of your house."

Sherlock paused for a moment. "There's also your watch, of course," he said.

"My watch?" John let out an infuriated sigh. When Sherlock didn't respond he said, "Oh, just tell me, Sherlock."

"Well, it's at the wrong time. It's out by nearly an hour. The fact that you haven't noticed this suggests that you are under some considerable stress. One of the greatest minor stressors is moving house. This added to the evidence of the cement suggests that you're moving house. Of course there's also the fact - "

"Okay, okay. Enough. I get the picture. Clearly, you've been missing the chance to amaze with your deduction skills," John said crabbily. He checked his watch. Sure, enough it read eleven o'clock. Checking the new clock hanging on the living room wall - Mrs. Hudson must have bought that, as Sherlock would never have bothered - he saw that it was nearly twelve. "And now I know that I need to change my watch. Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock slinked back over to his armchair and sank back into it. His smirk was replaced by a rather glum expression.

John frowned. "Why don't you come and visit me and Mary? After we've moved house that is," he asked casually.

"John, it's really not worth the inconvenience it would cause," Sherlock replied, stretching out his legs so that they pointed straight out in the air.

"Oh, really? Who's it inconvenient for? You?"

"Obviously," said Sherlock seriously.

"I think Mary would like it if you came and saw us more often. I certainly would."

"Err...no, that's not true," said Sherlock carelessly. He sat up straighter and let his feet fall, so that they were placed firmly on the ground.

John sighed. "And why's that, Sherlock? Not that I really want to know."

"The last time I saw her, she tried everything she possibly could to keep us apart. Her body language was jealous and it was defensive whenever I approached you. She put up a physical barrier around you, particularly when I was around, which also of course means that she is concerned about whether or not you are being faithful - "

"Okay, Sherlock! I get it!" John shouted. "I'd forgotten how INFURIATING you can be!"

Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled. "You did ask, John. I was merely answering your question."

John laughed. "You don't get it, do you?"

"You're impatient to leave," Sherlock said. Well that had come out of nowhere. And it wasn't a question; it was stated as though it were a fact.

"No, I'm not." John dug his hands into his pockets and shifted on his feet.

"You haven't sat down, John. You don't like to stand. You prefer to sit. That suggests you're anxious not to prolong this visit."

John looked at Sherlock, trying to work out where this was coming from. He didn't look hurt or angry. In fact, his face was pretty much expressionless.

"Well, you've ditched my seat, so what do you expect? Where am I supposed to sit? Over on the sofa?"

"Hmm..." Sherlock was pressing his fingers against the sides of his temples. It was something he did when was he was going to his 'mind palace'.

"You aren't even bloody listening are you?"

Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes, his hands dropping back to his side. "What were we talking about?"

"We were talking about what you did to my damn seat," said John grumpily.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said vaguely. "I already told you. I couldn't see through to the kitchen with it there. It was an inconvenience, so I got rid of it." A pause. "Sorry, did you want it for some reason?"

"No, of course not. I don't care about the damn chair. I just...Sherlock, I don't want us to fall out of touch. You're my friend, much as I regret the day I realised that. I want things to stay the same. I haven't seen you for months, for God's sake." John stopped himself from saying more, waited for a reaction.

"I haven't had any cases for months. There's been no reason for you to be here, " said Sherlock coldly.

"Sorry, Sherlock. Did you miss the word 'friend'? I'm not just here to help you solve your bloody cases. I'm your friend!"

Sherlock didn't look at him, seeming to prefer to give the floor his attention.

"Look, Sherlock, if you're not going to say anything then what am I supposed to do? You don't talk to me for months. Half the time, I didn't even know where you were. I tried to visit before, you know. You weren't in, and Mrs. Hudson said she didn't know where you were. Don't tell me I've not fulfilled my half of the friendship. I've done bloody loads to keep in touch with you!"

John knew that he had been shouting all of this and, although it didn't do any good to shout at Sherlock, it did feel good. Yes, it felt good to let out all the anger, frustration and hurt that he'd been feeling over the past couple of months.

Still, Sherlock said nothing. "Right, I'll just go, shall I? God, Sherlock, you could at least give me an answer."

At that moment, his phone rang. It was Mary. "I'd better...take this," he blurted out, before wandering into the kitchen.

"Hi," said Mary's voice.

"Hi, Mary. Why are you calling? What's up?"

Mary laughed nervously. "Oh, nothing much. Just calling to see if you could arrange for a plasterer to come and do things up."

"Oh, Mary. I said I'd do the job," said John wearily.

"I know. I know and I'm sorry. You've been great, but I think a professional should finish things off. Do you...think you could arrange it?'"

"Right, sure, Mary. Of course. I'll get onto it."

"Okay," Mary said brightly. "I'll let you go now. Bye."

"Bye, gorgeous. I'll see you later."

He hung up and went back into the living room, where he found Sherlock – now considerably more alert – typing busily on his laptop.

"Considered anything I said there?"

Sherlock didn't answer, continuing to type. Whatever he was doing, he was clearly engrossed. There wasn't much point trying to talk to him when he was like this, John reasoned.

He crossed over and sat down on Sherlock's armchair. An untouched cup of tea lay on the coffee table. Picking it up, he took a sip. He grimaced. It was cold and had stewed.

Suddenly, Sherlock slammed his laptop shut and jumped up."Nothing!" he screamed.

"Okay," said John. "I think there might have been a few people on the other side of the world who missed that."

"What? Oh..." Sherlock tilted his head curiously, looking at John. "Comfortable?" he asked.

"What?" John was puzzled. Then he realised. "Oh, yeah. Your chair is rather comfy. I never knew before. I used to have my own, you see." John was starting wonder at himself. Why did that one little gesture bother him so much?

"I can...give it to you, if that would be preferable."

"No." John looked away, and he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. "I don't want the old thing. Just surprised you could be bothered to move it. That's all."

"Mrs. Hudson moved it." Again, Sherlock was perfectly serious. He paced a few times, scratching his head. "If only I had a case!"

"Well...I'm sure you'll get one soon," said John. "Maybe I should just head off."

"Yes, yes, whatever." Sherlock waved his hand.

"Maybe we should meet at the cafe. You know, grab a coffee or something?" John said hopefully.

"Yes." Sherlock was fidgeting with his hair again.

"Okay. Meet at half five?"

"Of course." Sherlock sat down at the laptop and drummed his fingers.

"Well, bye," said John awkwardly.

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock had opened the laptop again and had his brow furrowed in concentration as he looked at the screen. Whatever he was looking at, it interested him more than this conversation.

John called it quits and left.

At five-thirty (on the dot), John found himself sitting in the cafe just next to 221B Baker Street, where they'd arranged to meet. He had ordered a pot of tea, and took a small sip from his teacup. It was good: hot, fresh and just strong enough.

He checked his phone – no texts. That was just typical, he thought. Sherlock never bothered to let anyone else know what was going. He'd just gone and left John in the lurch again. Where the hell was he?

He drummed his fingers on the table. The waitress walked by and flashed him a smile. He smiled back and then checked his phone again. There was no point in doing that really. If Sherlock – or anyone else, for that matter – had texted, he would have heard a text alert.

What was keeping him? He'd probably forgotten that they were supposed to be meeting in the first place. Or maybe Mycroft had dragged away on some urgent mission to save London from an imminent terrorist attack, all in the space of one afternoon. He smiled at the thought.

Ten minutes or so later, his mobile rang. It was Sherlock.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you?" John said, before waiting for him to say anything.

"John, I'm sorry. I can't talk."

"Well, okay," said John, somewhat mollified by the fact that Sherlock had bothered to call. "What's going on?"

"I've got a case!" Sherlock sounded positively gleeful, and John could just imagine his delighted expression – totally oblivious, as always, to the fact that someone had died.

"Good for you," said John. "Can I come and see – "

"Sorry, John. I've got to go." With that, the line went dead.

John sighed. He couldn't even be bothered to be annoyed about things like this anymore. He finished off his tea, paid the bill and got a taxi home.

Just as he got in the door, Mary called to him.

"Hi, John." She bustled out to the hall, wearing an apron. She had a little flour on her nose. John smiled. Obviously she'd been baking.

"Hi." He gave her a kiss. He indicated her apron. "I'm guessing you've been baking."

She widened her eyes and smiled. "Yeah, I just thought I'd give it a go. It's a bit of a practice for our little one's birthday."

She put her arms around his waist. "Lucy's agreed to babysit her for the evening. I thought we could go out."

"A night out sounds good," John replied, slipping his arms around her waist reciprocally.

"Yeah, no offence, but you look like you need it more than me." She laughed and gave him a kiss before turning. She sniffed. "Do you smell burning?" She asked.

Her widened and, without waiting for an answer, she ran to the kitchen. John couldn't help but laugh.

"Stop it!" she called from the kitchen. Then a second later, he heard her shouting, "Oh God! It's ruined!"

He came to the kitchen and found her standing over a blacked cake. He noticed that she still had her oven gloves on her hands.

She looked. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry," she moaned. "This is my third attempt."

"Well, it...doesn't look that bad," John lied. "I mean, it's just a bit over-done."

"Try as black as coal!"

"Mary," said John gently. "It's alright." He put his hands on her shoulders. "Now I think you've just been getting a bit too stressed lately. Go and relax. I'll tidy this up."

Mary's shoulders slumped. "Are you sure you're okay with that? You don't have to. I should really. I mean, I made the mess."

"Yeah, but you've been doing enough today. Come on. Go and put your feet up."

She looked doubtful.

"I'm serious. Go!" he said.

She grinned. "You're a star! I'm so lucky!"

"Don't you forget it," he said playfully. "You have an amazing husband. Now go and see what's on the TV."

"I'll just go and check on Beth first," she said and, after giving him a quick kiss, she left the kitchen.

The mess proved not to be as bad as it looked, and John finished it all in about twenty minutes. He went to find Mary in the living room. She was sitting watching some game show or other.

"When's Lucy coming to pick up Beth?" he asked.

"Oh, at seven," said Mary. She checked her watch. "About an hour from now."

"She'll be pretty easy to babysit," said John confidently. "She sleeps all the time, doesn't she?"

"She won't be like that for long. Hope you're prepared for a lot of sleepless nights."

"Yeah," said John grimly. "She's beauty, isn't she?"

By way of reply, Mary just smiled, and John noticed her eyes were a little wet.

Making sure Lucy had everything she needed to take care of Beth had taken longer than they'd planned. Still, they arrived at the restaurant at eight o'clock. As they hadn't booked, service had been a little delayed. Eventually, though, they were shown to their table and the waiter produced two menus.

"What do you want?" John said.

"Hmm...Don't know. The chicken sounds good. What're you thinking?" She bit her lip in thought.

"I love it when you do that," said John suggestively.

Mary looked up, surprised. "What?"

"When you bite your lip...I love it."

Mary's cheeks flushed ever so slightly. "Oh, it's going to be that kind of evening is it?"

"What do you mean by that?" said John.

"Oh, you know. You flattering me so you can" – she lowered her voice – "get me into bed."

John smiled lasciviously. "But I don't need to flatter you. Remember? I know you're going home with me."

"If you start being this cheeky I might reconsider," Mary teased.

"Who's being cheeky?" said John innocently. Then he was serious. "You look beautiful, Mary – really." He reached over the table and took both her hands.

"You're looking pretty handsome yourself, mister." Suddenly she smiled. "Hey," she whispered. "You don't reckon Sherlock's going to turn out to be our waiter, do you?"

John sniggered. "Complete with the pencilled on moustache."

Mary giggled. "That was terrible, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, mind you it wasn't worse than the one I was sporting at the time."

Mary burst out laughing. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. "We've got to quieten down," she said looking around.

"Sorry." John cleared his throat and his laughter died down into chuckles.

The waiter appeared at the table. "Are you ready to order?" he asked.

John felt a smile that threatened to turn into a laugh, but he straightened his face and said, "Yes, I'll have the...err...fish please."

"And for you?" The waiter turned to Mary.

"Oh, I'll have the chicken."

"And to drink?"

John knew what was coming next. "What do you recommend?" he asked.

The waiter answered by suggesting a few varieties that John couldn't even hope to pronounce. They settled for picking the cheapest one. Promising the wait would not be long, the waiter left.

"So, about the plasterer," Mary began, but John interrupted her.

"Can we not talk about things like that?" he asked. "It's just...I want a chance to just relax."

"Yeah, absolutely. Sorry."

"Don't apologise."

Around ten minutes later, the meal arrived.

"Enjoy," said waiter.

"Lovely. Thank you," said John. The waiter smiled and left.

"Smells nice." Mary smiled and began her meal. "Mmm...tastes amazing." She nodded toward his plate. "Tuck in."

His mobile rang before he even had a chance to pick up his cutlery. It was Lestrade. Why was he phoning? "Can I take this?"

Mary nodded. "Go ahead."

"Hello," he said, confused as to why Lestrade would be phoning him now. Was it something to do with this case that Sherlock was working on?

"Hello, is this John Watson?" came Lestrade's voice from over the line.

"Of course it's me. You know it's me. What's going on?"

Lestrade paused a little before replying. "Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, John, but it's bad news."

John started to panic. He could see Mary frowning at him in concern. "What's wrong?" he said.

"Well, there's no easy way to tell you this, but I'm afraid Mrs. Hudson has been found dead.