"Arg, I need a case!" Sherlock yelled in frustration, his animosity for petty cases apparent when he continued to turn them down no matter how much Detective Lestrade begged him to.
"Still nothing?" John asked the seething man as he walked into the flat, shrugging his overcoat off his sweater-clad shoulders. He preferred to stay aloof from Sherlock's childish temper tantrums, but it had been two weeks since their last big case and he was starting to worry about his friend's mental state.
The consulting detective turned from his laying position on the leather couch and glared at John. His mouth contorted into a scowl, accusing eyes boring holes through the former army doctor.
"Well aren't you so wonderfully altruistic today?" Sherlock huffed out, sarcasm dripping from his words, "Why don't you go out and become an advocate for animal rights or something?"
"I know that you probably mean that-"
"You know perfectly well that I meant it" Sherlock interrupted.
"But," John ground out through gritted teeth. He stood back and let out a sigh, trying to push down the frustration that Sherlock was now causing him. "Maybe you should go for a walk, get some fresh air. Perhaps you'll find happiness in the park."
"Happiness is an abstract idea, john, one cannot simply find it in a park, I thought you knew better." He said with amusement dancing in his eyes which quickly dissipated when he realized he was bored once more.
"I need something tangible, something real that can hold my attention. What I need, John, is not a walk, I need a bloody case!" Sherlock flung himself off the warm cushions and towards the window where the afternoon light streamed in, his piercing blue eyes searching the streets of London below him.
His attention was instantly drawn to a truck parked in front of the building across the street, a young woman unloading the paintings from the back of the car. His eyes followed the one she was carrying at the moment, he knew the shade of red on that painting and he knew there was no other paint that could simulate it.
"On second thought, a stroll does sound nice. Care you join me?" Sherlock turned around, shed his bath robe and wrapped himself in his signature scarf and trench coat. He faced John and smiled at him, gesturing for him to come along.
John stood puzzled for a moment before deciding to acquiesce to his friend's request, seeing that Sherlock always had an affinity for interesting situations.
Sherlock walked into the windswept streets, eyeing the few civilians padding along the road with their faces tucked into their coats. He quickly crossed the street, heading straight towards the truck with John trailing behind him.
As the woman walked back out of the door, Sherlock approached her with a smile on his face. It was times like this, with Sherlock's ambivalence, that scared John the most when he saw how easily his friend could turn from an angry flat-mate to a smiling, almost normal British bloke.
"Hello there, I couldn't help but notice you unloading some artwork, would you like a hand?" Sherlock walked up to her and began to help her with the next large painting.
She looked at him suspiciously, the three of them walking in silence into her flat. After a short hassle with fitting through the door, the three of them made it into the living room where there were many more paintings scatter around, all of them leaning against the wall or a piece of furniture.
"Thanks for the help; at least you guys didn't rip a hole in it like the last guys I hired." She spoke, patting the framed canvas fondly.
Sherlock's mind was already analyzing the woman, his mind whirling with excitement.
Paintings, obviously hers by her paint stained hands and the way she looks that them, clearly aesthetic. Most likely throwing a party judging by the amount of plastic ware that she just bought, he eyed the grocery bags set out on the kitchen table. But for who, a family member perhaps? Maybe for an achievement she won for her artwork, seeing how she's displaying it, or maybe someone who loves her art.
"Or instead of analyzing her," John's nudged Sherlock's side, beginning his admonishment. "We could just ask."
Before the taller man could complain how absurd John's idea was, he was already off towards the brunette lady.
"Hello, I'm John, nice place you've got here." He stuck his hand out, the introduction alleviating the awkwardness caused by Sherlock's staring.
"Hi, I'm Jane Doe. Now before you start, yes that's my real name, my father is John Doe, figures." Jane smiled, enthusiastically shaking the doctor's hand.
"Who's the party for?" Sherlock interrupted, striding up to the two and instantly breaking their handshake apart.
"How did you-"
"I noticed the plastic ware on the table, far too much for yourself, unless there was a giant sale on all that and 50 pack trash bags. Also, the place looks newly cleaned with everything laid out clearly in the open. The counters and the refrigerator have all been wiped clean, so are the windows. So this isn't a casual party or you wouldn't have gone through the effort to clean everything up. Obvious, really"
The two of them stood there staring at Sherlock in disbelief, John not believing the rudeness, though he should be by now, and Jane impressed by the man's observation skills.
"Um, yeah, I'm throwing a party for my brother for his aggrandizement in his law firm. He's very fond of my artwork, so I took them out of storage and plan to hang them up." She motioned towards the various paintings, all of which having an un-godly amount of red.
"Wait, you don't mean Dwight Doe from Dear's Law firm?" Sherlock asked, more cheerful this time even though it was slightly strained.
"Yes, do you know him?"
"Yes, quite well actually, we went to law school together."
"Oh that's wonderful," Jane exclaimed, clapping her hands together, "Well I'm sure he'll be looking forward to meeting you tonight, the party starts around 7pm, formal wear. If you'll excuse me, I need to tidy up and hang these pictures for tonight"
She ushered the two men out and shut the door behind them with a click, signifying she locked it as well. They both looked at each for a moment before heading towards their own flat.
"So, did you actually go to law school with this Dwight?" John asked, sticking his hands into his pockets to protect them from the chilly wind.
"Of course not, I didn't even finish high school. Not that they could teach me anything useful. I did enjoy the countless anatomy courses I took though." Sherlock mused, his aberration leading him to think about the many frogs and the occasional cat he had dissected.
"Then how did you-"
"The newspaper, he was in a small article about him winning a big case which I helped in. I thought you read the newspaper." He stopped at the stairs and looked down at his companion.
"I would if a certain someone didn't blow up the microwave every other second. Honestly, Sherlock, your tendency to blow things up is analogous to that of a certain coyote." John growled out, pushing past the man and into the warm building.
"Why did we go over to help her? I thought you're pledge of abstinence concerning the human nature of helping ended when you died." He shouted behind him as he climbed the stairs and opened the door, shedding off his coat once more.
"The paint on those painted was too red to be paint, I would know." Sherlock caught the shorter man's eyes, "The only thing that can achieve that color is blood."
"Are you serious? Sherlock, colors these days are ambiguous, mulled over and made to look like colors we see in other objects. How would you know-"
"John! It's obviously blood, I expected you to know seeing that you were once an army doctor!" He raised his voice, infuriated that his own colleague would question his capabilities.
"What's weird is how, how is she able to preserve such a rich color when the rest of the paint is obviously months even years old." Sherlock plopped himself down onto the couch, running his hands through his wild curls.
"The truck."
He looked up to see John at the window staring outside.
"What about the truck, it was a plain movers truck, nothing else instead. What about the truck, John?"
"Sherlock the truck is gone I didn't hear it drive away when we got back."
"The truck… Oh how could I have missed that," He leaned back and pressed his long, slender fingers to his temples, rewinding his mental video-tape. "It was gone when we walked across the street back here. There wasn't anyone in the driver seat though."
"What does it tell us? Maybe the driver was inside and we didn't see him. It doesn't matter who drove the truck away, does it?"
"Oh it matters, I just don't know why at the moment." Sherlock mumbled out, leaning back and allowing the cushions to engulf his body.
"When you do, call me, I'm going to take a shower before we head over." John got up and left towards the hallway, leaving the consulting detective to his thoughts.
When John came back down wearing a suit, he saw Sherlock lying on the couch with four nicotine patches plastered to his arm. He claimed he used the patches in order to ameliorate his mental capabilities. The curly-haired man let out a sigh and looked at him, his pupils fully dilated.
"Sherlock, its 7pm, you ready to go yet?" John asked, fixing his red tie.
"We can't arrive too early; it'll make us look too eager and suspicious." He stated plainly, shifting his eyes to a blank stare at the ceiling.
John sat in the chair next to the sofa, pulling out his laptop from underneath the couch and opening it.
"Well when you're ready, tell me and we'll head over." He said, turning his attention to writing up his day for his blog.
"Why haven't I heard of Jane Doe, the painter?"
"I don't know," John replied, tapping away at his keyboard. "Maybe she prefers to paint in anonymity?"
"That's unreasonable, why would anyone of that talent want to keep her name away from taking the credit. Unless she doesn't want us to know where she gets her blood supply…" Sherlock murmured aloud, everything he was saying he had already thought about in the last two hours.
"Well that titles of her paintings are strange, on them was named 'Steve Collins'"
Sherlock snapped into sitting position, angry eyes falling on john once more.
"You knew this and it didn't occur to you to tell me of this information? Where did you see it, how could you have possibly spotted something I missed, something so important that-"
"I didn't, you can keep your ego intact. I just googled her and some of her works of art popped up." John shifted his laptop for him to see the website he found, each of the pictures have the painting title under it.
"Mark Yardon, Sally Termin, Paul Guthaford. All of these are names of people." Sherlock continued to scroll down the page, all the paintings bearing a name for a title and displaying plenty of red splashed about. Some paintings were of everyday things, like a hot dog stand named 'Mark Cooper'; the others were just splashes of color and abstract shapes.
Sherlock began to chuckle to himself, the sound alienating John from the inner workings of the man's mind. He shifted uneasily as the other continued to chuckle to himself.
"What's so funny?"
"What's so funny?" Sherlock closed the laptop and expertly slid it under the chair, clasping his hands on the shoulders of his friend afterwards.
"It's not funny now, John, but just thinking about the fun I'll have at our acclaimed artist's party is making me just giddy with excitement." He let go of John and bounded down the hall to change into something more formal than his pajamas.
John stared at the stop where he used to stand, slowly bringing his face into his hands.
"This is going to be a long night."