Sherlock belongs to the BBC (and so we consent to pay our license fee), Moffat, Gatiss and co. Not to me. If anyone was thinking of paying me for this, then send your money in a brown envelope to the BBC, so they can buy Martin Freeman another fluffy jumper.

1. Doctor Watson Observes

It wasn't that he was really that unobservant, John thought ruefully. He was, after all, a doctor, trained to notice illness before even his patient. His time in Afghanistan, too, had made him alert; there was nothing like the ever-present threat of death to make one notice the details. After all, it was on details that survival would so often depend. No, he was, compared to most of the population of London, a very observant man. So what was it about Sherlock that made him feel like he wouldn't be able to notice his own name if it had been tattooed onto his forehead?

Something to do with the eyes, he thought. The way they studied so briefly the object of the detective's enquiry, but saw things that he, with all the time in the world, never would. The way they changed so suddenly from penetrating and sharp to oddly absent as Sherlock vanished into his own mind, only to return moments later to the present with the answer he had sought, and normally several other answers as well.

Or maybe it was to do with the voice, John thought, that Sherlock used to explain his conclusions as if they were the most obvious things in the world. And the note of wondering disbelief that no one else had noticed what he had so clearly seen. It was the tone of voice, John mused, which marked the place when most people would roll their eyes; but oh no, eye-rolling was for lesser mortals, not the great Sherlock Holmes!

So it was with a jolt of surprise that John, surfacing from his internal monologue, was met with something other than the familiar feeling of inadequacy. Was he seeing things, or was there a sparkle in those perceptive blue eyes, a smile twitching on the corners of that mouth?

"You know, John, I really am very impressed! I mean, you missed the fact that the footprint on the windowsill was a fake, placed before the time of death as a decoy (meaning she really was alone in the room when she died), but noticing the powder on the far side of the ventilation shaft was surprisingly well done!"

John grinned at his friend. "Well, there we are then. Maybe I'm not entirely useless after all…"

"When did I ever say you were useless?"

"Oh, piss off, Sherlock!" John joked, as the sound of the two friends laughing floated out of the open window and into the busy London street below.

A/N: This is my forst foray into the world of Sherlock, and I'd like to put in a thankyou to the BBC Sherlock team for being epic, to all the fanfiction Sherlock writers (especially twilightmask, Aktress, queenoftheoutlands and LittlePippin76) for inspiration, and to Crave Kashmir for the excellent writer's block advice! If you like it, please review. If you don't, please review anyway. ConCrit always appreciated!

Owl