"And how exactly would a biography benefit me, John?" Sherlock asked, sitting in his armchair while eyeing the skull on the mantelpiece.
John knew this question would come and thusly was prepared. Sitting at the table in front of the window, he looked up from his laptop and answered, "As I said, I think it would boost your popularity, which in turn would mean more clients. Furthmore-"
"Furthermore," Sherlock interrupted, "you are an author out of luck and success, whose brillant works have so far been painfully ignored by both the dumb public and the misjudging critics?" There was a mischievous grin gracing his lips, garnished by unmistakable sneer in his voice.
Sherlock Holmes, the grand detective, who solves even seemingly impossible cases in his sleep, could turn grumpy in the blink of an eye without proper intellectual exertion. The banal, everyday life tired him, did not exert him. John Watson, his loyal assistant and best, because only friend, knew this all too well. He did everything he could to gain new clients. Unsurprisingly, they did not have this discussion for the first time, nor would it be the last. On a day like that, when nothing at all happened, at least this was a way to keep Sherlock somewhat entertained. He knew Sherlock did not want to hurt him. That was just how he expressed his friendship, John kept telling himself.
Nevertheless, he hoped for a knight in shining armor, who would grant them a new case. The longer he had to endure Sherlock's boredom-fueled grouchiness, the more he tried to remember the murder cases Sherlock had solved. 'A Study in Pink', 'The Blind Banker', The Long Rod'. At the end of the day, Sherlock had done more good than bad.
Reminiscent of the galloping of a gallant gray horse, there was a knock on the door, cutting through the thick air in Sherlock's apartment as if it were a well-placed strike of a sword.
"Come in!" Sherlock called. He was uncertain whether to be happy about the potential activity, even if it was just Mrs Hudson with the mail, or to be irritated already by the banality most likely awaiting him – e.g. the mail.
The door swung open and Lestrade, soaking wet due to the ongoing heavy rain, and slightly out of breath, as usual when he came to Sherlock. An effect Sherlock seemed to have on many people.
"Sherlock, we need your help with a case. Come, I'll brief you on the way," Lestrade said. "No time for tea!" he shouted towards Mrs Hudson.
Finally, both Sherlock and John thought. On the way outside Sherlock asked, "How long will this take?"
"Long," Lestrade answered between two deep breaths.
Sherlock thought for a moment. "Mrs Hudson, expect me back soon."
During the drive to the crime scene, Lestrade clarified the circumstances of the case. In an abandoned warehouse in a suburb of London, the body of a young woman was found, apparent cause of death was a broken neck. However, there was no further evidence of another person to be found anywhere on the crime scene or in the near vicinity. The only traces were left by the victim, muddied footprints over large parts of the compund, and the night guard who found her. The distance between each of the victim's footprints gave rise to the hypothesis that she was in a hurry, possbily fleeing from someone or something. She had nothing on her besides her clothing.
"There is no further evidence?" John asked doubtfully.
"Yes, there is," Lestrade let them know, sitting in the driver's seat, "a camcorder. But there's only one video saved on it, and that's just white noise. Nothing else."
Sherlock's curiosity kept rising steadily, he instinctively knew when he was presented with a special case.
"Any idea who the woman might be?" John wanted to know in his strife to look professional.
"Not yet, but we're working on it." Lestrade was visibly confused, he almost seemed clueless. "We'll let you know right away once we find something."
The rest of the drive was spent in awkward silence, until they finally arrived at the crime scene. As it turned out, Lestrade told them everything there was to tell. A dead woman, no supsicious traces. A welcome challenge for Sherlock's sixth sense of deduction. No lint or animal fur on the body, as would be expected if she had gotten there by car. A lot of mud on the boots, and her hair and clothes were still wet, indicating that she had been outside of the warehouse for an extended period and that the probable murder occurred not long ago. Her fingernails were clean and intact, her clothes were not torn, no blood or traces of a fight anywhere – so no fight with the culprit.
Lestrade broke the silence, "And?"
Sherlock was bewildered, a few seconds later mumbling, "Nothing."
Not the answer Lestrade had hoped for, who started aimlessly walking around in a circle, folding his hands behind his head. "Nothing?" he asked, unconvinced. "There's got to be something. You always find something!"
"Not this time. Not yet, at least." After some consideration, Sherlock's expression lit up to an almost imperceptible degree. "Lestrade, show me the video."
"I already told you, there's nothing on it. But if you insist..." Somewhat reluctantly, Lestrade went to a colleague of his, who gave him a laptop. "There you go. We... copied the video, I think. Just watch it."
Sherlock pressed play, and the video started with the expected white noise. It was exactly five minutes and 38 seconds long, with the white noise persisting throughout the whole video, no noticeable changes. "Thrilling," John added.
"Told you so."
"Maybe," John felt he was on to something, "maybe it's twins." His glaze wandered from Sherlock to Lestrade and back again, full of hope to have cracked the first part of the puzzle, to have brought them one step closer to the culprit.
"No," both Sherlock and Lestrade shattered his dream.
John sighed. "So all we have is a video that's completely useless. Great."
But Sherlock sensed that there was something to the video. He could not say what exactly, because he did not know what it was, he just had an intuition. Even after the seventh rewatch, it seemed impossible to declare why the video had such a captivating effect on him.
Slowly he rose from his armchair and wandered to the fireplace. Oh, he thought, I am back home. This insight, however, only briefly made him forget about the video's static and flickering, which he had absorbed for a full 40 minutes at that point. He looked around the room. John sat in front of his laptop, writing, probably one of his usual glorifications of the cases Sherlock had solved. How could a man his age be so desperate for a hero, an idol? A riddle for another day, Sherlock decided. More urgent matters awaited him.
Why was the video so fascinating for him? There was nothing to see on it, nothing to hear. Or was he the only one who was able to perceive what everyone else was oblivious to? Should there be anything noteworthy, anything at all, he possessed the abilities to notice, he reassured himself. Apparently, then, it had to be something that was not apparent. A subliminal message in the static or the flickering of the black and white dots? A suppressed memory, cautiously scratching on the surface of his mind? Or did he miss some form of evidence on the crime scene, that would explain everything? His thoughts were racing, his head was trembling on the inside, it felt as if he was about to-
"Sherlock!" He heard a voice over the loud beating of his heart. Only a few seconds passed, it seemed, since he had gotten up. His reflection was as dapper and immaculate as always, his inner turmoil was nowhere to be seen.
He put on his usual slightly bugged face. Turning around, he asked, "What?"
"I asked what we should eat. Only breakfast is a bit sparse for a whole day. So, I was thinking French."
"French?" Focusing on that conversation was tough for Sherlock. "Yes, French sounds delightful. I... like French. Did you have anything specific in mind?"
"I have indeed." With a pleased smile, John turned around his laptop. On its screen was a recipe for 'Avocado-French-Toast'.
"Sounds good, why not", Sherlock exclaimed. "Do we have avocados?"
"Yes, astonishingly you do. Let's hope they're ripe."
A proper challenge! "That's easy to test. Follow me, I'll show you."
Together, they went to the kitchen. Sherlock picked up one of the avocados readily lying on the counter. "If it's generally soft, it should be ripe. So first of all, you should firmly, yet also carefully squeeze it."
That was exactly what he did. John observed fascinatedly how Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the avocado, delicately grasping it, before resolutely squeezing. With great care he sensed every bulge the fruit had to offer, every soft and hard spot. Under Sherlock's tight grip, John expected there to be more hard ones, considering his finger movements there seemed to be more soft spots, however.
"It appears to be ripe," Sherlock said.
"Apparently." John swallowed heavily, his hunger rising more and more.
"Let's be absolutely certain. We don't to waste our time with premature fruitlets."
Sherlocked picked up a toothpick. What was he planning to do with that, John wondered in excited anticipation. This slight confusion was more than visible, so Sherlock further explained, "I will now insert this toothpick under the avocado's stem. If it's ripe, this should be a smooth operation, just as pulling it out again afterwards."
Once more, he did exactly that under John's mesmerized glance. Carefully, Sherlock pushed the toothpick into the avocado, close to its stem, as he had announced. It slipped in without any resistance, merely a few squishy sounds. Sherlock slowly pulled out. To be absolutely sure of the avocado's ripeness, he stopped moments before the toothpick exited the avocado entirely and moved it in the opposite direction. After several more repetitions, the toothpick slipped out almost on its own. Stringy, viscous cream dripped out of the avocado. Cream was on the toothpick, dripping on the floor in front of Sherlock. Unnoticed, John opened his mouth in silent admiration, greedily looking after every drop hitting the floor. A small amount of cream leaked onto Sherlock's fingers, which he cupped with his mouth and licked with much delight.
"Ripe avocados are surprisingly tasty," Sherlock broke the ecstatic silence.
"That's the reason why I recommended avocado-french-toast. Do we have all the other ingredients?"
They did, and so they made and ate avocado-french-toast all night long. On the kitchen table, in the armchairs in front of the fireplace, wherever they wanted. Sherlock was certain that he would not be able to taste such a fine meal for quite some time, thus savoring every minute, not wanting it to ever stop. Consequently, the next morning the whole apartment was reeking of avocado, mixed with cheese and toast. Sherlock lied blissfully in his armchair, before being woken up abruptly by static.