"Angus helped."


"When is Ms Hudson coming back?" Watson blew on the library fireplace mantel and watched the dust dance in the afternoon sunlight.

"The answer is the same as it's been the last three times you asked," Sherlock said, not looking up from the microscope.

She sighed. He knew it was a rhetorical question, and she decided not to follow up with another about where all the dust came from. Thinking about the answer still made her skin crawl decades after Oren had exuberantly informed her of the digestive habits of dust mites. That family vacation in a musty lake-side cabin was one of the longest weeks of her life. She was quite certain Sherlock would offer a similar explanation, most likely supplemented with audiovisual aids. She fidgeted where she stood, trying to ignore the tickle of itches rippling across her back.

"Hey, where's Angus?" The layer of dust where he usually sat suggested he'd been absent for some time. Sherlock scowled then, looking over at her. "I'm sorry! What with no need for a fire and such a light case load these past few months, I haven't really looked at this wall in a while. I'm a terrible detective, all right?"

"Hrm." He pushed back from his desk and went over to the bookcase on the other side of the fireplace from where she stood, finger tapping on a couple of spines on the chest-high shelf.

"I retired him to keep company with the bees. In July," he said, tipping one book partway off the shelf before sliding it back into place again. He pulled another half off the shelf and left it balanced on edge, frowning at it in concentration before pushing it back.

"He's retired." She pushed her finger through the dust on the mantel surface, zig-zag lines.

"Since July." He pulled a third book off the shelf and took a wide step sidewise toward her, extending his arm to slap the book down on Angus's former perch, narrowly missing her hastily removed hand. "Your next assignment," he said, returning to his microscope.

She picked up the book to see the title, Attention and Pattern Recognition, and laughed. "Yeah, okay, that's fair. Tell Angus I'm sorry."

"I think he moved on once it became clear that I wouldn't be needing his input on cases anymore."

She smiled at the place where Angus had been, and Sherlock tucked his chin down, staring into the depths of tiny spaces between.


A/N: Charmingnotdarling put out a call for Joanlock, which I am constitutionally unable to produce in accordance with the traditional definition of shippy fic, so I wrote this instead.