"I would do it, if I were you."
John startled. Sherlock had been engaged in one of his aggressive silences for a while now, his attention focused entirely on the tablet he'd propped up against the coffee pot. But clearly he'd finished whatever he had been working on, because when John looked up, he found Sherlock looking directly at him with that sort of half-amused, half-questioning expression he always wore when he'd just done something 'trivial' but nonetheless impressive.
John was almost tempted not to take the bait at all, just to spite him. Almost.
"Do what?" asked John.
Sherlock smiled, and rolled back his sleeve to apply another nicotine patch. Which, frankly, was excessive, but there were worse things he could be doing, so John didn't comment.
"That is such a typical question, John. Honestly, the only reason people think I'm clever is because you're always standing at my side asking that sort of thing."
"Really, now."
"What is it called when people go to a bar or club with someone more approachable, to look better by comparison?"
"A wingman?"
"Yes, exactly. Or a foil, I suppose, although that doesn't quite get across the point I'm going for."
"Right. Well, I may be dense, but I really can't see how you've managed to figure out that I was… I was…"
"Asked to help out at the Edinburgh University fundraiser?"
"Yes, that. I only got the email earlier this morning, and it's literally been days since we've talked."
"And yet, I know not only that you've been asked to help, but that the point of the fundraiser in question is to raise money for improvements to the cricket field."
John's bewilderment must have made it all the way to his features, because Sherlock's eyes danced with silent laughter.
"Oh, don't give me that look," said Sherlock. "Truthfully, you're a wonderful subject. You respond instantly to external stimulus, and even though you're a bit slow at times, you're never irrational. At breakfast, you were easier reading than this article." He gestured to his tablet.
"Well, I'd be happy to hear how."
"Well… I mean, these days I feel like I'm just giving everything away. It's hardly impressive once I break it all down, and my reputation will probably suffer for telling you. Honestly, the facts were so obvious that I can barely even…"
"Sherlock…"
"Very well. When you came into the room, you had a thoughtful expression on your face; no doubt you were debating something. Last night you weren't in any such mood at all, and so clearly, whatever you were debating was something very recent."
John nodded. "Alright…"
"You sat down across from me for breakfast, and the first thing you did once you had made your coffee was check your email. So, clearly, whatever had caused the change in your mood was some sort of communication."
"Obviously."
"Well, of course you say it's obvious now, after I've told you. But, so, the first question I asked myself was naturally what sort of thing you could have received in an email that would trigger that sort of emotional change. Now, the email had a crest in its signature: the same one I've seen on that old college cricket cap you keep on your dresser, which meant that it was from the University–"
"But how did you–"
"Oh, your screen was reflected on the coffeepot. Too distorted to read, but the crest was easy to recognize. At around that point, you closed your computer and paced around in the living room for a bit, and then spent some time staring off at one of those photographs on the mantelpiece, which is what you do whenever you're trying to make a decision."
John wasn't sure if he should be comforted or disturbed by how acutely aware of his movements Sherlock apparently was, even while engrossed in an unrelated article. It was nice that Sherlock even bothered to take the time to notice that sort of habit, he supposed, but then, that was probably just the default setting – Sherlock was always noticing, always categorizing.
"Alright. What next?"
"Well, from the brief glimpse of your screen I had seen, I noticed that the email in question had no subject line. University officials are always very anal about that sort of thing, so clearly the email was not any official correspondence. The font and use of colors was very typical, though; not at all the way clubs tend to advertise to their main body, and the use of the crest in the signature suggests that the sender was not a close personal friend. So, the email was an unofficial communication from some club officer, but not a general announcement. The obvious first guess would be something political, but there's been nothing scandalous in the news recently about Edinburgh University, which makes that unlikely. So, an event then, and one which you were being asked to help with."
"Alright."
"When you came back to the table, you still retained more or less the same expression, which meant that your photograph-gazing hadn't done anything to clarify your thoughts. Which, I should point out that it rarely does; I'm not sure why you even bother. But when I glanced over at the mantel, I noticed that one of the photographs had been moved slightly; the dust around it had been disturbed. You don't usually disrupt those photographs and so clearly this one had some relation to the subject matter at hand, and the photograph in question was one of you in your university days and several of your classmates at the cricket field. This, combined with the crest and the hat, confirmed my suspicion that the event was for the Edinburgh University cricket team. Cricket teams are basically always in debt, so any important event was likely to be a fundraiser. When you came back, you sketched something or other on a scratch envelope, which indicates you were trying to visualize something; in the context of a fundraiser, clearly that would be physical improvements to the cricket field. But you still looked unsure, and so I was able to break in and make my suggestion, which, incidentally, I still stand by."
John couldn't help smiling at that. There was something perversely endearing about the simplistic way in which Sherlock broke his analysis down. "Well, I guess it was all pretty obvious, after all. You're hardly the genius I thought you were, Sherlock."
Sherlock bristled, and the laughter left his eyes in an instant. "And also, just to add: the particular help you were asked to give was that you would write in their album, and you just now decided that you're going to write about this particular conversation for it."
"Wait, how–"
"Oh, it's completely obvious. I'm sure you can figure it out yourself; it certainly doesn't take a genius. In the meantime," he said, picking up his tablet as he stood, "I have a number of articles about the trees of Cremona still on my queue. If you'll excuse me–"
"Trees of Cremona?"
"They make excellent violins. Sometimes I occupy myself with that sort of thing when nothing of interest is happening. Anyways, I think I'd like to be left alone again for a while. If you don't mind." He was already halfway out the door.
"…You know I was just joshing with you, right?"
"Excuse me?"
"About it being obvious?"
"It was obvious."
"No, it wasn't. It wasn't even obvious to me once you'd spelled it all out. And you knew that; that's why you told me."
"Yes, well." Sherlock made his way into the living room, his movements just a little bit sharp. "It was all irrelevant anyways, and if you weren't entertained by my reasoning, then I guess I'll know better than to bother you with it in the future."
No, you won't, John almost said, but he doubted Sherlock would see the joke in that either.
Sherlock had already made himself comfortable on the couch, and was busying himself with the article on his tablet. It was almost like he'd blocked out any awareness of John's presence in the room. Except, of course, that John knew he hadn't.
It was strange how Sherlock clung to his brilliance, like he was afraid it would desert him at any moment. He was obnoxious, positively arrogant at times, and yet… Sherlock knew that he always dazzled everyone, but he somehow actually seemed to attribute part of that to John – his intellectual wingman; his foil for those better-by-comparisons. John was the person he put down constantly, not because he meant anything by it, not because he thought any less of John… but just because he seemed afraid not to. Afraid of those rare moments where John pretended to be his intellectual equal, even in jest.
"God, I want to strangle Mycroft, sometimes."
Sherlock started at that, glancing up at him questioningly. "What?"
"No; it's nothing. Ignore me."
"Strangling is a terrible way to murder someone; it takes ages. I don't see why you'd want to–"
"It's just an expression, Sherlock. Like I said, forget it."
Sherlock gave him a puzzled look, but went back to his reading. John settled down in a nearby chair, and fired off a quick reply to the University cricket team. Then he closed his laptop, and just observed Sherlock for a time.
Nothing about his bearing was tense, but there was still something there. The lightness Sherlock had had before was gone like it had never existed, buried under the mask of indifference that he'd had years to perfect.
"Think you could tell me about that case you worked on without me?" John said, finally. "The one with the disappearing train? I've never heard the full story."
Sherlock barely even glanced up.
"I'm sure Lestrade has already given you all the relevant facts, or else he would if you asked."
John smiled. "Yeah, of course. It's just, I bet you tell it better."
Sherlock paused in whatever he was reading and looked up. "I doubt it. People tell me that I'm bad at recounting things in an entertaining way – no doubt because most people like their stories dreadfully slow, but still. Lestrade would certainly do it justice."
John shrugged. "Personally, I like the way you explain things. Wish you'd be a little less abrasive about it, sometimes, but you always present things incredibly clearly. I'd rather hear it from you than from Greg."
Sherlock paused for a long moment. Or rather, he paused for a totally normal length of time that John knew was, for Sherlock at least, practically an eternity. Finally he snapped the tablet case shut, and set it on the table. He didn't quite smile, but something was back in his eyes – something hesitant, but still fiery and so very alive…
"Right. Well, on June 3, a gentleman who gave his name as Monsieur Louis Caratal arranged an interview with one Mr. James Bland…"
John grinned.