"Bored!"
John heard the word before he was through the front door and instinctively flattened himself to one side of the stairs. "Don't shoot!" he called up.
"Borrrrred!" It rumbled down the staircase like thunder.
"Sherlock? I'm coming up the stairs. Please, put the gun down."
"Don't be an idiot, John. I ran out of ammo ages ago."
John let out a huff of air and gathered the groceries back into their sack before taking the stairs two at a time.
"No shooting?" He asked as he slowly entered the living-room where Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, one foot finding the tiniest space between the half-a-dozen tea mugs that covered the coffee table.
"No shooting."
"So," John hesitated on his way into the kitchen, "should I not open the fridge? Please tell me now, because I'm looking forward to a nice cuppa and the last time... well it put me off for the whole evening."
"No, no, the fridge is fine." Sherlock dismissed the idea with a wave. "I had to throw out that last arm this morning."
John set the groceries down on the table. "OK, so no shooting, no body parts... what else should I be worried about?" He looked around the kitchen for a chemistry set or suspicious bucket.
Sherlock sat up all at once knocking over a mug that he just managed to catch before it hit the floor. "What are you going on about?"
John walked back towards him and leaned casually against the wall pointing an accusing finger. "You are bored, you haven't had a case in days," he pointed at the wall, "no bullets," he pointed at the fridge, "no experiments... this can't be good."
"Ah," said Sherlock in that way that suggest he's heard far more than John said. "You are concerned that, without a case to occupy me, I will turn to some sort of destructive diversion."
"Well, something like that. You have to admit, you are dreadful when there hasn't been some midnight run through London, hot on the heels of a killer." John chuckled, shaking his head. He turned to put the kettle on. "You're like a kid who needs a new toy every day or he'll throw a fit."
"I'm not the one with nightmares," Sherlock mumbled under his breath before curling up on the sofa again.
John froze, mid-step. "What was that?" He turned back to the sofa.
"Hmm?" Sherlock's face was buried in pillows.
"What did you just say-" John's voice was low and accusing, "and don't pretend you've forgotten and are already thinking about something more interesting..."
"I'm not pretending," Sherlock sulked into the pillow. "I am thinking of something vastly more interesting."
"You said 'nightmares' – how do you know I – damn it all, I don't want to know. I'm not going to sleep now, thinking you're spying on me."
"I hardly need to spy on you, John," Sherlock finally twisted around to face him, though upside-down. "Really, the sweat rings on your night shirt and the bloodshot eyes would probably be enough, but on four separate occasions you've awoken yelling. You get up a few minutes later, come down to the kitchen, make a cup of tea and spend the rest of the night staring out the window only to shuffle back up just before you expect me to arise."
"I did recently come back from a war you know."
"But that's not it. That's not it at all. You're fine, as long as we have our occasional 'runs through London' as you call it. It seems that I am the one better able to cope with my boredom." He couldn't kept the hint of triumph out of his voice. "I imagine that, if this dry spell goes on any longer, you'll be asking for your cane back."
"Now Sherlock! That's just too much. You can't say something like that – I don't care how brilliant you are, there are limits to what I can take." He turned and headed out the door to his room, leaving the kettle boiling in the kitchen.
"John!" Sherlock righted himself and tried to follow, "Damn it, John, I didn't mean..."
Just then his phone rang. He threw one more frustrated look after John before pulling his mobile out of the dressing gown pocket.
"Sherlock here. What do you have for me?" He headed for the hallway while listening intently. "We'll be there in 20 minutes. Do not touch anything."
He waited until he had his coat and gloves on before yelling up the stairs. "John! That was Lestrade. He's got something for us. Will you come along?"
"No."
"John, I..." His face worked for a moment, trying to process the correct tone and expression, "would really appreciate having your assistance."
"No."
"Bloody hell," Sherlock muttered. "John, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Should you change your mind, I'll be at 400 Cartwright Gardens, just down from Euston Road." He waited a few beats before shaking his head at the pettiness of it all and heading down the stairs to hail a cab.
It was another brisk night. He tucked his scarf tighter around his collar and raised his arm high. A cab pulled over almost immediately. He only hesitated an instant – though he knew it to be totally illogical, he'd found himself reluctant to take taxis these last few weeks. But he shook off the feeling – it was highly improbable that there was more than one serial killer taxi driver about in the city. He sat down and pulled the door shut, only it wouldn't go. He looked up to see John with one hand on the door, his coat still open, scarf in hand.
"Fine. I'll come – but I don't want to hear another word about what I do or don't do in my sleep, OK?"
The taxi driver sneaked a glance in the rear view mirror clearly wondering when the bickering couple was going to shut up and sit down.
"Of course," was all Sherlock said before scooting aside to let John in.
John waited until they were underway to say anything. "So what is it this time?"
"A string of murders," Sherlock did his best not show any pleasure at the thought – apparently it was unseemly and possibly insensitive, in any case, John clearly disapproved. "Previously thought to be unrelated but tonight, tonight John, a clue!" He lost his half-hearted battled, his teeth flashing in a wide grin.
John just shook his head and pretended to look out the window, but Sherlock could see the smile playing around the corner of his mouth in the reflection. He decided not to point it out; John was so touchy this evening.
They sped through the London night without any further talk, both lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock caught John tapping his fingers against a knee just as he made note of his own increased heart rate. We'll both sleep better tonight.
John had the door open as soon as the cab slowed at the curb. Sherlock tossed a couple of bills towards the driver and shot out behind him. They were on a smallish street, part of Bloomsbury, with a half-circle park off to one side and a row of neat townhouses. Across the way were a couple of larger buildings, part of the University College Dorms. Down the road you could just see the lights of Euston Square shops.
"Not a bad neighbourhood," said John, looking around. "No our usual squats and train yards."
"No," agreed Sherlock, "though it tends to be overrun with students in the winter months and, worse, yet American tourists in the summer." He wrinkled his nose.
Sherlock headed to number 400. A police car sat double-parked but dark in front.
"They better not have muddled up my crime scene," he commented as he strode across the street.
"There's no police tape," John noted as the pushed the door open.
"No, they're trying not to draw attention to the scene."
"Maybe not to upset the neighbours?" Offered John.
"Unlikely. More likely they're trying to keep the press one step behind their stumbling trail. If even the police have been able to link the murders, than the journalists will not be too far behind."
"Sherlock, there you are." Lestrade turned from where he was speaking to several men in full-body clean suits. "John," he gave a half-nod towards the doctor.
"So this is the fourth? Where is he?" Sherlock asked.
"Back through there, in the courtyard." Lestrade waved a hand towards the back of the house. "Man, mid-thirties, shot in the back of the head, no ID of course..."
John's phone rang and Sherlock shoot him a look of irritation. John looked at the number, brow furrowed. Sherlock raised a finger to stop Lestrade from continuing and watched John intently.
"Yes? Yes, this is Dr. John Watson – I'm no longer in service." He listened for a moment, his expression flickering between surprise and concern. "Susan, yes, of course. No, it's no bother at all... I'll be right there. OK. Goodbye."
He flipped the phone closed and looked up to see Sherlock staring at him. "I've got to go. Something's come up..." he stumbled over his words as he backed out towards the door.
"But John, we have a case! You can't just leave..." the door slammed shut behind him. "Oh, bother."
"Well, don't expect me to be your assistant," Donovan commented as she passed.
TBC
