The door slammed a bit too loudly behind John, and he winced as the sound reverberated through the landing of 221B. He glanced up quickly and sighed before heading up the stairs, trying to make up for his noisy entrance by creeping up them as quietly as possible. Not that that would help. Sherlock knew he was home now anyway. He found said consulting detective in the living room, pacing, fingers to lips, obviously very concentrated on whatever he was doing. Every few seconds he would glance impatiently at his experiments scattered on the kitchen table, and then resume his step.
"What are you doing Sherlock," John smirked at him from the door, and followed his heated stride up and down the room.
"Waiting for it to incubate."
He gestured towards the kitchen, but from what John could see from the entryway of the apartment, 'it' didn't really look like much. John smiled at his consulting detective's impatience and put his briefcase down by the door, before maneuvering around Sherlock on his way to start the tea.
John pulled the kettle out of the cabinet and ran some water through the it. "Want some tea, Sherlock?"
No answer. John turned to glance behind him, and when he found Sherlock still pacing in the living room, shrugged and turned back to the kettle on the stove. A timer went off on the counter and Sherlock rushed to the kitchen table, quickly invading John's personal space. John sighed. The tea was already on the stove, set to boil, so he quickly took the liberty of circling the table and flopping onto the couch. He watched Sherlock fumble with his chemicals and bodily fluids, and wrinkled his nose at whatever it was that he was letting incubate. Probably a mold or blood samples that would have infected his food by the end of the week. John shrugged. He was headed to the store later anyway. Suddenly a small smile burst onto his face. This had definitely become the norm ever since he'd moved into 221B with Sherlock, and he smirked at the surrealness of ever becoming used to this train of thought at all. No wonder Mycroft was constantly checking up on them. Maybe John was too trusting of Sherlock and his insane cases and experiments.
"John, pass me that bottle over there," Sherlock called from the kitchen.
Sherlock's voice broke John from whatever stupor he had fallen into and he made his way to the chemical-ridden table. Sherlock was pointing towards a bottle that couldn't have been more than three inches from his hand, and John sighed before he picked it up and made to hand it to the consulting detective.
"God Sherlock.."
John glanced at the label on the bottle. A name of an acid he couldn't pronounce. He looked up incredulously at Sherlock, who was bent over his microscope, hand out, waving at the air.
"John."
John shook his head and chuckled under his breath, handing Sherlock the small container before making to move back to the couch. Just then the kettle whistled softly and steam seeped out from under the lid. He took the kettle off the stove and leaned back against the counter, running his hand over his face. Long day at work, and too many crying children. Sometimes John just needed a break. He took out two mugs and poured steaming tea into both of them, before taking a long drag out of his.
"How was lunch with Lucy?" Sherlock spoke quietly, but loud enough that John could hear.
John almost spit out his tea. As he choked it back, Sherlock still sat waiting for an answer.
"Um.. Why do you care all of a sudden Sherlock?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Bored."
John nodded. Right. Of course that was it. He felt a slight pressure on his chest, but he couldn't place what the emotion was. He sighed and shook himself, more then used to being a bit stumped by Sherlock and his impossible deductions.
"Never mind. Uh, it was good. Fine. I had a sandwich."
"Yes, I know."
There was a bit of awkward silence as Sherlock looked him over.
"Was she pretty?"
John did spit out hes tea this time. Since when did Sherlock care if a girl was pretty or not? As he composed himself, and tried to dab at his now damp sweater, Sherlock stared down at him, still expecting an answer.
"Um... Yeah. I suppose she was pretty. Why does this matter," John managed to ask between coughs.
"Simply an experiment, really. Your reaction was very interesting. I've not known anyone to spit out their tea like that."
John gaped at the detective and shook his head, more then a bit frustrated at the situation. He huffed in indignation. "You ass."
Sherlock glanced at John, a smile curling at the edges of his lips, before turning back to his slide.
"Was that information relevant?"
Sherlock looked up from his microscope and stared at John intently.
"Very."
He didn't break his gaze for several seconds, examining John's face. Deducing him. After what felt like a bit of awkward silence, Sherlock grunted and turned back to his microscope, all interest apparently lost. John sighed a bit too loudly.
"Do you have a case?"
"No, but I heard tha-"
"Mmm... Lestrade does."
"What?"
Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he fished it out with one hand, the other still focusing his microscope. He stepped away for a second as he flipped it open and a soft blur of words could be heard from the receiver.
"Where is it? Yes, yes. Don't wait up."
Sherlock snapped his phone shut, suddenly, and shoved it back in his pocket. He rushed to the door and pulled on his jacket and scarf. Before John could do anything, Sherlock had shoved John's briefcase aside, knocking several papers out of it, before hurrying out the door. John sighed loudly and stooped to pick up what little he could before he pulled on his jacket as well, and followed Sherlock down the stairs and out into the crisp, wintery air, leaving two cups of tea and a half assembled experiment behind.
The security did little to stop the consulting detective and partner. Their names were well known around Scotland Yard, Sherlock being greatly respected by the force. As such, the security let them through quite quickly, leaving Sherlock and John to maneuver their way through police tape and parked cruisers. John was surprised there wasn't a bigger crowd to block their way, what with crimes involving Sherlock being a fan favorite apparently. As the two men approached the apartment building, Donovan stepped out of a cruiser and called to them, her voice obviously dripping with disdain.
"John. Sherlock."
John shot her an icy glare and simply nodded. He was not in the mood for Donovan at the moment. He'd had enough of her when she tried to prove that Sherlock was a psycho-killer, and he had definitely had enough of her when she berated him with her usual insults, his first case back. Both her and Anderson had come very close to being physically assaulted by John, had Sherlock not been there to hold him back. Instead he had made a point of telling them off, pointing out their utter incompetence and lack of respect for Sherlock. They had had the dignity to look guilty after he had finished, but his anger was still there, and he barely tolerated either of them now.
John breezed past Donovan and ignored Anderson entirely. As John stepped over the threshold of the apartment building, he nearly choked on the dust coating the air. The place used be a college dorm until the college was shut down several years ago. Evidence of such was definitely there. As John climbed the stairs to where Sherlock had headed already, he could see the Yard members ripping down boarded up hallways, knocking dust into the air. John almost broke out into another fit of coughing as he made his way to the landing. Lestrade stood at the top of the stairs, by now, already engaged in a heated conversation with Sherlock. Or, at Sherlock. The detective stood quite still, obviously bored, listening to whatever information Lestrade had for him about the case. John chuckled and stood to the side, listening in on whatever was being said.
"Sherlock, take the bloody case. Three people are dead, and the murderer has completely disappeared. This is exactly the kind of case you look for, right?"
He paused, waiting for a reaction.
"No thank you."
"What? Why, Sherlock?"
"Drugs is a simple enough answer. There was never a murderer, Lestrade. This is why you fill me in on things like this before I get here. Come on, John. Pointless trip."
"Yes, there was, Sherlock! This is murder! There were drugs mind you, but certainly not enough to kill them!"
Sherlock didn't reply and Lestrade sighed loudly.
"Look, Sherlock, if you don't help, people are gonna keep dying, yeah? Whether it be from some new drug or a murderer, so do it for them. "
He stood back and crossed his arms, staring at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock didn't say anything, just stared back. Eventually, he rolled his eyes and sighed loudly.
"Fine. Show me the victims. But you owe John money when they turn out to be overdoses."
"Why me, Sherlock?"
"You need the money, don't you?"
Lestrade pointed at a room four doors down and heaved a sigh of relief. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock had rushed off down the corridor before he could speak.
"Don't thank me just yet Lestrade," he threw behind his shoulder.
John rolled his eyes and followed them down the hall and into a small, dimly lit room, a thick fog lingering above their heads. A row of tables sat facing the door, and two windows covered the back wall. A trio of college students, two boys and one girl, lay sprawled across the floor, their mouths agape, eyes frozen open. The girl lay face up, a mop of electric pink hair covering a small face and several piercings. The two boys lay on top of each other, almost entwined, one with jet black hair and small freckles covering his sickly face, and the other a short brunette with bright blue eyes, his face, probably once pink with life, now left ashy and gray. Lestrade gestured towards the teenagers lying on the ground, a solemn look residing on his face.
"David Madrid, Josh Celio and Mallory St. Claire. 18, 18, and 19."
A couple syringes lay scattered around the bodies, but they were all partially full, not even close to being an overdose. John knelt beside them and did his little medical examination, as was usual, before turning back to the group. He stood slowly, staring down at the dead bodies.
"They did die of drugs, Sherlock-"
Sherlock turned back towards Lestrade. "I believe you owe John some money?"
"-but, the amount here isn't enough for an overdose. Maybe they had more drugs elsewhere, but from what I can tell, these kids didn't die from these drugs alone."
Lestrade smirked at the consulting detective. "See? What did I tell you?"
Sherlock scowled. "Do a full history on these kids. Find where they worked, where they went to school, where they buy their groceries, what they had for breakfast this morning. All of it. Find where they could have gotten their drugs."
He looked up at John and nodded.
"Time to go, John. Lestrade, send us any new information you find, but try to refrain yourself from calling me in for pointless investigations."
He left the room, his coat swishing behind him. John sighed, nodded at Lestrade, and followed after him.
A couple days later, John was awoken by several signs of movement coming from downstairs. It was probably Sherlock. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was way too early to be up, and Sherlock knew it. With that information, John was almost tempted to just ignore him and continue sleeping, but he knew it would be useless, Sherlock would be calling him down in a few minutes, already quite aware that he was awake. John sighed and pulled himself out of bed, throwing on a shirt and some pants at the floor of his closet. He ran his hand through his hair and trudged down the stairs, not even trying to be quiet. After making himself a cup of tea, he found Sherlock at the coffee table rummaging through a stack of papers, an obvious scowl on his face.
"Come help me, John."
"I see some information arrived."
"Obviously. Lestrade's putting all this on me. I owe him a favor. I suppose this is him getting me back for last night. I've got their addresses, but I haven't found where they work yet."
John chuckled. "Did you get any sleep last night?"
"My experiment hadn't cultivated yet, so I saw no need to sleep. Now are you going to help me, or not?"
John rolled his eyes and made his way over to the coffee table. He sat on the floor across from Sherlock and rummaged through the papers with him, trying, in vain, to rub the sleep from his eyes. It couldn't have been more than 5 AM.
"It seems that Josh and David were gay, John."
"Mmm. It's fine."
That would explain the awkward position they had found them in. He skimmed through a particularly long piece of background info.
"It's all fine," John yawned.
Minutes passed. John glanced up at Sherlock, who was staring at him intently.
"Sherlock, I'm not gay."
"I didn't say you were."
"Alright."
"Ok."
John blinked a couple times in response to the odd comment, and Sherlock gave John some pointed looks, but they otherwise resumed their search without a word. After several hours of deafening silence, and a quick breakfast break, John held up a piece of paper, a look of triumph lighting on his face.
"I found something, Sherlock."
Sherlock snatched it from his hands and skimmed over it, muttering under his breath. His phone buzzed just then. He grumbled under his breath, not completely happy with being interrupted, but he flipped it open anyway and sat, silent, as he listened to the person on the other side.
"Goodbye, Mycroft. Try to be nice."
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he put his phone back in its place on the table. John looked at him, expectantly, waiting for him to comment on what had just taken place. When none came, John decided to break the awkward silence that had accumulated in the air.
"So?"
Sherlock looked up, confused.
"What? Oh. Mycroft has people investigating their homes and work. Nothing much there."
John nodded and turned back to the coffee table and the years of information on the three students. After several minutes, a thought occurred to him, an out-of-place thought that grew steadily more intriguing as the moments passed.
"What did they have for breakfast?"
Sherlock looked up then and stared at the wall behind John, his brain probably moving a million miles per hour.
"Indeed."
He pulled himself off the ground and flipped open his mobile phone, paused, thought better of it, and returned it back to his pocket before rushing out the door, jacket and scarf forgotten. John decided not to question the little charade, and followed his consulting detective outside, down the street, and all the way to the door of Scotland Yard, where Lestrade paced the floor, completely out of ideas.
"Breakfast."
Lestrade looked up at Sherlock, tired and a bit too exhausted to be confused.
"What?"
"Breakfast, Lestrade. What did they have for breakfast that morning?"
Lestrade looked around the room, as though the answer lay, hidden, somewhere in the bookshelves.
"I don't know. Where do you expect me to find that information, Sherlock?"
"I thought you were head of Scotland Yard, Lestrade. I assumed you were a bit smarter than average."
"Really?"
"Mm. At times."
"What are you getting at, Sherlock," John intervened before it got too out of control.
"If Lestrade would be so kind as to check their histories, I'm sure he would find that they all had the same thing for breakfast. Thus, opening them up to the drugs that killed them."
"Sherlock, we've been through this. I checked, the labs checked. The drugs that were there didn't kill them."
"Yes they did, John. Don't you see? There are a countless amount of drugs that could go undetected unless we were looking specifically for them. Let me see the toxicology report."
"It hasn't come back yet."
"Well, when it does, send it to Molly. I'll pick it up there."
He flipped open his phone and began dialing a number.
"Lestrade, phone me when-"
His phone rang.
"Yes? Where are they? I'll be there in a few minutes. Try not to start too much trouble, Mycroft."
He shut off his phone and stuffed it back in his pocket, not even bothering to finish dialing the number.
"Come on, John."
"Where are we going?"
John and Sherlock both made their way to the door, John giving Lestrade an apologetic look before heading outside.
"To their workplaces."
"I thought Mycroft had people working there."
"Yes, well. They found what they had for breakfast. And a bomb."
"What?! Is everyone Ok?"
"I didn't ask."
John stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, mouth gaping open. He sighed and ran his hand over his face, directing his attention to the ground in disbelief.
"What did they have for breakfast?"
"Muffins."
"All three of them?"
Sherlock nodded and they continued with their heated stride through downtown London. John hailed a cab, a few minutes into their journey, and they both sat in silence for the next few intersections while the driver made his way through traffic. Finally they arrived at the door of a small bar, police officers and official looking people crowding around the front entrance. Sherlock gestured at the building with his arm.
"Chesterton's Local Bar. The work place of both Josh Celio and David Madrid, John."
John nodded and tried to force his way through the clump of bodies that surrounded them both. Sherlock parted them like the Red Sea and he and John hurried inside, only to be stopped by Anthea and her phone.
"He's through the door."
"Thank you for that obvious information, Anthea."
"Sure thing, Mr. Holmes," she threw absently behind her shoulder.
John paused and turned back to Anthea.
"Um, Anthea? The bomb. Did you guys take care of it?"
She nodded, but didn't look up, or even acknowledge John as she walked off, to some unknown place far on the other side of the pub.
"Ok."
John couldn't seem to get a full sentence out around her most of the time. He shrugged and followed Sherlock through the wooden double doors and around several suspicious stains on the dance floor, Mycroft was indeed through the door, waiting at the corner of the bar, sunlight filtering through the window, making him look older than he probably was. He didn't look at them when they entered the room, and Sherlock did little to make contact with him. They both sat down beside Mycroft, but that was the most that happened for the next few minutes. Finally, John could stand the silence no longer.
"Um... Why are we here?"
They both stared at him, as though he had interrupted a very long and passionate conversation. Sherlock's face was a merge of confusion and annoyance, and by the time Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, John couldn't decide which had won out.
"As I was saying, Sherlock, there is a very small possibility that they were tainted. If they were, it would have to be something extremely rare."
Mycroft tilted his head towards John and stared pointedly at his younger brother. Sherlock paused slightly, as if considering something, before nodding and standing up from his chair, obviously gaining a lot more information from that conversation of deductions than John had. John jumped up too, not entirely content with what had been said.
"Wait. Sherlock. What are we searching for? And more importantly, what just happened?"
Sherlock didn't even pause on his way to the door, and just continued on his way through the morning fog. John glanced back at Mycroft, confused, and he sighed. He looked back outside, at the slight drizzle in the air, and followed Sherlock through the streets of London, once again.