The quality of the silence in the flat meant that John was gone when Sherlock awoke. Unlike Sherlock, John could never deduce this properly – the detective had no idea why, since it was a relatively simple matter of observation. But John had never been good at knowing if Sherlock wasn't at home or was simply not making any noise.
Sherlock didn't really mind. It wasn't an indication that John was less interested in him or loved him less. He knew this for two reasons: John expressed his feelings verbally on a regular basis, as if Sherlock needed the reminder (not that he minded, he just didn't need it because he did remember) and because when John was uncertain if Sherlock was home, he would search the whole flat until he'd found him. Or, presumably, until he failed to find Sherlock and satisfied himself that the detective was not at home, but Sherlock could not establish this accurately, since he was, obviously, not home at those times.
He toyed with the idea of installing a camera to see if his hypothesis was correct, but it was too reminiscent of Mycroft.
Instead, he got up, went into the bathroom yawning, then wrinkled his nose at himself for being so typical. Since when did he require this much sleep and respond so normally to it? Of course, he was getting significantly more exercise on a regular basis since he and John had become partners.
He shaved carefully, remembering how John had teasingly told him he was surprised Sherlock could grow facial hair. Hardly his fault his skin didn't show his facial hair very readily, despite the darkness of the hair on his head. He wasn't about to let himself go scruffy, even though he thought John looked rather attractive that way. Not with a full beard, but if he missed a day of shaving, Sherlock enjoyed the look of it, if not entirely the feel. But John was not a scruffy man by nature and by military training, and he only let himself look that way if they got too wrapped up in a case.
He showered and dressed before wandering into the kitchen, wondering if he should schedule in some time to be bored today. He had nothing pressing to do and the wall had been eyeing him in quite an offensive manner lately. The only thing that prevented it from getting its due was the fact that John disliked having the it shot. Oh, Mrs. Hudson too, but she could simply take the damage out of his rent. John would be cross and refuse to be in the mood, which was contrary to Sherlock's general idea of how things should go in their life together.
He found a note from John stuck to the fridge under the small Union Jack magnet.
Went for a run before work. See you this afternoon. Love, John.
Sherlock wavered between the ridiculous warm feeling that came from John leaving him a note (which he did not really need to figure out where John had gone; he'd noted the lack of trainers and John's gym bag as well as his regular shoes and coat) and annoyed that John was on a weekend shift.
Couldn't he just quit his job and do whatever Sherlock wanted him to do? He said he needed to feel useful. But he was useful – his assistance on cases was invaluable, even if was wrong almost all of the time.
Sherlock put the note back so he could routinely reread it during the day – he'd never tell John he did this, and always made sure to toss them in the recycling before the doctor got home. Sherlock glanced in the fridge, checking that John hadn't moved the fingers he'd carefully bagged and labelled, and pulled out the milk.
He filled the kettle, got out a mug and the tea, then paused, biting his lip on both a curse and a smile, staring at the small empty space where the tea sugar tin should be.
The early morning run was explained. John had wanted to be out of the flat before Sherlock discovered the missing sugar.
Sherlock pursed his lips against a smile, pretending to be annoyed, if only for his own benefit.
But he wasn't really – not by a long ways.
He had yet to pin down when John would do this. They had been partners for just almost three months now, and hiding the sugar tin had become something of a passion for John.
It was where everything had started – even if it hadn't originally been hidden, just invisible in a pile of dishes because it had been empty and needed a wash and a refill.
Sherlock firmly believed it had been invisible, not that he'd simply glanced over it because it had been with the dishes.
John had left another little note on the yellow sticky notepad paper.
The game is on!
Sherlock grinned.
"Very well, Doctor Watson," he murmured. "Let us see if you can't best your own record."
The longest Sherlock had had to search for the sugar had been one hour and seven minutes.
John was extraordinarily inventive about hiding spots and it was made more difficult when John wasn't there. There were no small clues from his partner's body language or expression to guide him – although John was getting better at suppressing these.
Sherlock started with the obvious – the tin was not in the pile of clean washing up that John must have done that morning before he left, nor was it in any of the other cupboards, nor the refrigerator. Sherlock was relieved – it would have been thoroughly disappointing had John's imagination given up on him that quickly.
He went into the living room, sharp gaze searching for any indication that something was out of place, moved even the smallest amount. John's chair at the desk was somewhat askew, but a careful examination led to the conclusion that was likely from John having sat there this morning.
He ran through the list of other places John had previously hidden the sugar and checked those, if only to dispense of them. Their flat was not so big as to present an overwhelming challenge, but the sugar tin was small, and finding a snug place for it was relatively simple.
He hadn't seen it in the bathroom while shaving and showering, but it bore another look. His initial suspicion was confirmed so he climbed the stairs to the spare bedroom. The first time John had truly hidden it, that was where it had been, secreted in what was John's room at the time. Sherlock hadn't had to hunt for it, only ask. John hadn't set it up as a game, but had been trying to get a reaction out of him. He had likewise been trying to get a reaction out of John – without quite understanding (or perhaps admitting to himself) why.
Sherlock prowled the room, searching the dresser that John kept up here, the closet, which Sherlock had appropriated for his own storage, and the bed, even lifting the mattress before sprawling himself on it to check for lumpy, uneven spots. The closet took the longest, but he didn't have to go through each box. Cultivating a thin layer of dust was good for something.
He checked under the bed, in the beside table, in the little secret compartment where John kept their passports and then opened the window, removing the screen and peering out onto the small ledge curiously. A pigeon stared at him with the mad stupidity of a city bird, but the sugar tin remained hidden.
Sherlock went back downstairs, humming to himself. He tore apart the living room with practiced ease, checking everywhere he could think of – which was just everywhere altogether – but came up short again.
He stopped and checked the time, and considered how much time it would take to right the living room again. No, that wasn't part of the game. He could tidy up later. It had been forty-five minutes now, and he was getting fairly desperate for a good cup of tea. Sherlock noted the time in his mind and took a break, fixing the tea with honey, which remained a barely acceptable substitute, consoling himself with the promise of a proper cuppa once he'd found the sugar.
Having sipped his tea, checked the news and deleted several emails from Mycroft, he set back to work, checking places he had never though to check before: behind the curtains, in the linens closet, in his coat, in his shoes, in John's boots, on the window ledges in the living room.
The tin remained resolutely hidden.
Undaunted, Sherlock swept into their bedroom and began tearing apart the drawers – in part to annoy John when he got home, since he would be irritated at the haphazard way Sherlock intended to return his clothing to the drawers.
He searched the closet, patting each of his dry cleaning bags carefully, checking John's jumpers to see if any of them were knotted up in a way that would indicate the tin had been tied into them. He lit the dark recesses of the shelf with a torch, and did the same to the floor.
Nothing was out of place, no hint of the red tin with the tartan pattern anywhere.
Sherlock shut off the torch and made his way mentally through the flat, trying to gauge what he'd missed.
Under the couch or chairs?
He went into the living room, shining the light under the furniture, and came up with nothing. Frowning, he made his way back into the bedroom and glanced about again before his eyes lit on the laundry hamper.
Aha! he thought, grinning to himself. He'd checked that, but only cursorily, since John was a doctor and was not about to put foodstuffs in with dirty laundry.
But he hadn't checked the washer and dryer on the ground floor.
Sherlock clattered down the stairs, grinning in victory, and headed for the two old machines that Mrs. Hudson kept promising to upgrade. He pulled open the lid on the washer, glancing inside, then the dryer, crouching down, looking into the round bin.
Both empty.
Had John taken it to work with him?
No, that would hardly be fair. Sherlock couldn't be expected to find it there. That would ruin the game.
Thoughtfully, he made his way back upstairs and considered the flat, before turning to the mantle, intent on conversing with the skull on this problem.
It was gone.
"Blast!" he snapped. Mrs. Hudson had nicked it again.
Sherlock turned on his heel to go retrieve it from her, then froze.
Oh, surely not?
He clattered back down the stairs and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door, awaiting a reply. When he got none, he knocked again, more forcefully.
"Mrs. Hudson! Are you in?"
Silence greeted his voice.
Sherlock growled and stood facing the door, torn.
Oh yes, John thought he was so clever, didn't he? Hiding the sugar in Mrs. Hudson's flat, the last place in the building Sherlock would think to look.
And she wasn't home.
This presented a dilemma.
He stared at her door, chewing on his lower lip, unable to decide between entering her flat without her there or waiting indefinitely until she got home – if she was out for the day, John may even be home before she was.
And if John came home and Sherlock hadn't found the tin, John would have Won.
Unacceptable, he thought – of both options.
He stood, agonizing over his choices. This was Mrs. Hudson's. There were limits. He couldn't very well barge into her flat when she wasn't home and rummage through her things. It scarcely mattered that she did this to them and the skull was probably in there right now. She was their landlady – technically the house was hers, so she could go into their flat if needed.
But this was unfair. Her flat was her own space, in which she felt safe and at home. This wasn't the same as having gone through John's room when John had still had a separate bedroom, looking for things to borrow – a shirt, his laptop, medical supplies. It wasn't the same as having gone into Mycroft's room when they'd been younger and having helped himself to whatever his older brother wasn't using at the time – books, elements of his chemistry set, his camera, his money.
This was Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock chewed on his lip, raking his fingers through his hair.
He did not want to do this. But he could picture, quite clearly, the expression on John's face if he Won.
Sherlock wavered another long minute, then fetched the spare key Mrs. Hudson had given them for emergencies and let himself into her silent flat, feeling like some common burglar invading her home and sense of security. He glowered to himself, leaving the key in the door, and headed quickly into the kitchen, making a rapid search of the cupboards.
The tin was there, beside the small ceramic sugar pot in which Mrs. Hudson kept her own sugar.
Sherlock snatched it, uttering a low growl, and nearly ran from her flat, feeling uneasy until he'd locked the door again behind him and pulled the key out.
He glared at the inoffensive wood a moment before going back upstairs, shutting his own door slightly louder than necessary.
He was going to have to have words with John. There were certain things that would not be allowed. John should know this.
Sherlock put the tin back after making himself a proper cuppa and considered his options. With a real cup of tea in his hands and his incursion into Mrs. Hudson's flat complete and unnoticed, he felt somewhat less at odds with himself.
But he wasn't going to let it go. He was going to retaliate. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, deciding on a course of action. Not immediate action, no. Let John think that the little snit he was planning on pulling that evening would be the sum of it.
There were so many more interesting ways to get John to pay attention. Not least was John's response to Sherlock's touch, and the fact that Sherlock had far, far more capacity for patience than John gave him credit for. And self-control, when it came to John. He simply didn't exercise it.
He planned on starting.
In the meantime, to make a very clear point, he tidied the entire flat until it was gleaming. John was used to things being in disarray when Sherlock sulked. Sherlock fully intended to sulk – he enjoyed sulking, because John was so susceptible to it and it always got him what he wanted – but he also wanted to make it quite plain that he was really displeased. He sipped his proper tea as he tidied, made himself another cup when that one was empty, and made sure the flat was spotless for when John got home.