The Mute

Sherlock gazed out the window staring out and down to the street below. The flat was deafeningly quiet. Not unusual, John had moved out to be with Mary months ago. No more crap telly, or the sound of slow tapping of keys that came with John's completely inconvenient two fingered typing style, or griping about body parts left around the kitchen...well apart from the occasional visit from Mrs. Hudson who always had something to say about it. She seemed to be coming around more often now. He'd noticed this when she'd entered the flat last week with some baked goods, which Sherlock later used for an experiment involving some preserved stomach bile he'd nicked from St. Bart's. When the acidic liquid had hit the ground with a splat that night, he'd almost instinctively thought he heard John in the next room calling out, "What did you do?" He'd glanced at the green tinted liquid on the wooden floor and surprising himself, cleaned it up, something he normally wouldn't have done without an argument. But, even without his old flatmate there, he'd still kept up John's habits, taking them on as his own. The flat wasn't any messier than it had been when there'd been two people living there, in fact it was probably cleaner now without John's possessions. He at least got out of bed before two in the afternoon like John had always bothered him to do. He remembered to eat...most of the time However despite these facts he still received annoying reminders daily,

Eat something this morning would you?-JW

A small smirk crept up the side of his mouth as he remembered that morning's text,

No cases from Lestrade. Get out of bed anyways you lazy twat!-JW.

He didn't answer, knowing that'd have John miffed. He was always assuming that Sherlock had to have the last word. But, that'd been his only form of entertainment this morning, and without the promise of a new case there wasn't really any hope of more. Or hope of seeing John. He closed his eyes heavily, as if the weight of his boredom made it hard for them to stay open. He briefly considered his revolver on the desk and then forgot about it. What was the point?

John checked his phone. No texts from Sherlock. He better be out of bed, he thought. He immediately pictured Sherlock, probably on the floor next to his bed, on his back, fingertips poised under his chin, technically "out of" bed but not being productive. Mary came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist kissing his cheek and resting her head on his shoulder.

"What does he do all alone in that flat all day?" She mumbled in his ear, voice muffled in the fabric of his jumper. John turned and kissed her.

"Been wondering that for years."

Mary grinned jokingly, "I almost feel bad dragging you away from there. He's like a dog, he needs looking after."

John smiled and looked out his own window. "I told him to get a new flatmate but I doubt he's even tried."

Mary laughed. "Can you imagine him interviewing for flatmates?"

While she was laughing John stopped to look at his wife with the most love and appreciation he could muster. So many girls before her had completely despised his relationship with Sherlock and were out the door faster than the consulting detective could recall their names. But Mary, God, he couldn't thank her enough for immediately accepting him, everything about him. Including his dysfunctional, inappropriate, insane friendship with a sociopath. He could tell that Sherlock secretly liked her as well even if he hid it; her fire, her curiosity, and her biting sense of humor. He remembered the many months ago when she'd finally convinced him to introduce them.

"You talk about him so much, so he must be important to you," she'd said.

"He'll tear you apart," he'd warned.

"I think I can make him like me." she'd replied with another one of her mischievous smiles.

When Sherlock first analyzed her John had braced himself for the offended scoff or a flustered storm-off. But, after Sherlock had finished his monologue on her life story, she stood in silence almost like she was making deductions of her own. She'd then raised an eyebrow and said with a playful smirk, "Very impressive Mr. Holmes. John was right, you truly are amazing." John had seen his lips twitch, and with that small flicker of amusement on that cold face, and he immediately relaxed. Yes, this could possibly work.

John quickly checked his phone again, and stood. "You think I should check on him?"

Mary gave him another kiss. "You just give him what you think he needs, and if he's fine, then at least you get to see your best friend." She turned to head into the kitchen and looked back.

"Make sure you don't get into any trouble..."

John's eyes flicked over to Sherlock as they walked quickly down the busy streets of London. He tried to study him as best he could without him knowing. He looked the same, and surprisingly, so had the flat except for the absence of John's possessions. If Sherlock was feeling any loneliness at all, he was good at hiding it.

"So, the place hasn't gone to ruin in my absence," he'd said when he'd first entered the doorway.

Sherlock, who'd been standing at the window in his dressing gown and pajamas (typical) didn't even turn. "Nothing special John, just another tactic to ward off boredom."

John stepped in further. "Anything new on the website?"

"Study on stomach bile deterioration after death."

He smiled and sat in his old favorite armchair. "Experiments, with no messes? I'm impressed."
Sherlock still wouldn't turn to look at him. "There was one, but it's gone now."

John turned to look in the kitchen. He saw an odd discoloration on the floor near the counter, but other than that there was no other sign of a disaster.

"I told Mrs. Hudson to remind you to find a new flatmate," he said. "You can't pay for it by yourself, remember? That's the whole reason we met in the first place."

Sherlock didn't say anything. Why get a new flatmate? John was a lucky fluke, how likely was it to find someone else who was willing to put up with his insanity?

"Sherlock." He finally looked at John. he had that stern look on his face, the one he used when he thinks Sherlock's acting childish. "I'm being serious now. You need to find a new flatmate, not just for financial reasons."

"And what other reasons are you thinking of?" Sherlock replied cooly.

A smile. "Someone needs to keep you in check when I'm not around."

The detective remained stone faced. "I'm fine on my own. I'm obviously healthy and the flat is still in one piece."

"That's true, and that's wonderful," John said, "but you still need to find one. You're not one to be alone for too long without incident. Mycroft even suggested an alternative."

Sherlock turned again. "What, my big brother watching me through security cameras?" He scoffed. "He already does that anyway and it doesn't make any difference."

"Well then, your choice is easy. You're getting a new flatmate." John announced as he made his way to the door.

"Oh really John," he sneered, "who'd actually become flatmates with me? How likely is it to actually find someone willing to put up with me twice?"

Now in the cafe they were sitting in John studied him again. He's right, most people would hate him the minute they met him and he'd probably think the majority of them were boring just by reading their replies.

"What would a person like you even want in a flat mate?" He asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't restart old conversations John, it's incredibly dull and in turn makes you less interesting."
Ignoring the insult he continued, "What about someone quiet? Or someone clever? Or hell, even someone stupid? Just so you could have someone to kick around."

He saw a flash of a smile. Progress?

"They shouldn't be boring," he said.

"Okay then, we can start there."

Sherlock suddenly stood and put on his scarf and long coat and smiled. The special smile he used to manipulate people at crime scenes.
"Find one by next week, that's when rent's due. But you knew that."

And with a flourish he walked out, leaving John dumbfounded on one side of the booth.

Did he just...?