'Oh God, he's bloody done it again.' thought Dr John Watson as he walked into the room. He had been dreading this entry. Ever since he left the flat half an hour ago and left him by himself. Left him alone. In 221B Baker Street. He had again been dreading it when he was at the supermarket with those stupid self-serve check outs. Bloody stupid machines. And again he had dreaded it as he got out of the cab in front of 221 and walked in the front door.
As he ascended the stairs, John listened for signs of life upstairs. He was still asleep when John left at midday. With any luck he was still in bed or perhaps in his room in front of his website. Alas, no. He was well awake. And this time the table had suffered from his boredom. The great yet unoccupied mind of Sherlock Holmes did many things, including torturing the inanimate objects inside the flat.
John walked over to survey the damage. Spread across the table was beakers, cups, containers and more scratches now joined the one that was already there (that one which had mysteriously appeared during another of John's outings). At least, for now, he had stayed away from the new windows.
Sherlock now sat on the couch with his knees close to his chest and his hands occupying themselves by playing with his phone, flipping it over and over in his long, delicate fingers. The one bit of solace John could find in this was that Sherlock was now still. He was still in his dressing gown, the blue one with the hole in it. He remembered how that hole had gotten there. John's eyes wondered to the wall on which was adorned the yellow 'Michigan' and bullet hole face smiling at him and he internally congratulated himself for taking all the bullets out of his Browning after that episode.
He made to move some of the cups off the table. "Don't touch, John", Sherlock warned, still sitting on the couch, "I'm experimenting".
"Couldn't have experimented the effects of using a coaster between the table and the cups, could you?"
"John as always your wit astounds me, but don't touch. They have to stay there for a while yet."
John couldn't be bothered arguing or even asking what the hell the experiment was. He walked away, that was the only answer. "Lestrade hasn't rung yet, has he?" John hoped aloud.
"Yes. He did call once about a possible case. Boring. Wasn't worth going down to the Yard, they could do it themselves. Of course, I would solve it quickly but better leave them something to do." Sherlock replied, plainly and simply. "Can't do all the work for them", he added.
That man, thought John Watson, that bloody arrogant man. One of these days he would have to get a real job. Or start actually accepting jobs whenever they came up but instead, for the time being, he would sit day after day on the couch, on his bed, in front of his computer, on his phone doing nothing and complaining about it.
The only upside of Sherlock not having a case to work on was that he would get out his violin, an old, slightly beaten up one but nonetheless one that made gorgeous, rich sounds, and he would play. Stacked upon one part of the wall, alongside newspapers from nearly six months ago and hundreds of other clippings, printouts and general rubbish, was numerous music books and, when he felt like it, Sherlock Holmes would pick one up or play from memory some of John's favourite pieces. If he wasn't a consulting detective (or whatever else one would like to call his profession) he could be a world class violinist. But then again, he could be many things. He could be an actor or use his skill at martial arts or boxing.
As John was unloading the shopping in the kitchen, into the near empty fringe and pantry, Sherlock finally moved he walked past his violin case much to John's dismay and straight past his computer to join John in the kitchen. He turned on the kettle and went to lean against the wall.
"How was the charming Miss Morstan today, John?"
"Should I even ask how you knew?"
"Either you have changed to a more feminine deodorant or you paid her a visit while you were out" Sherlock explained with an almost bored voice, "I have to admit, I do like her perfume more than Sarah's. Mary's is a little bit different. She was very interesting woman. I do like her."
Watson felt a pang of guilt at the mention of Sarah. That didn't end so well. The relationship had its issues from the first date (with her almost being impaled by possibly the largest arrow John had ever seen) and continued much in the same way. It came down to a choice, she told him. Either he gave up his adventures with Sherlock, which she so often got in the way of annoying Sherlock to no end, or they were done. It wasn't a fair choice.
The thing Sarah always failed to realise was that John needed those adventures. Once a soldier always a soldier and as Mycroft had put it being around Sherlock showed John the battlefield of London, a place that not so long ago had been bleak which now held for him infinite wonder and adventure with the mind of Mr Holmes as his guide. Even after being put at Moriarty's mercy in the pool, an experience which was still very fresh in John's mind, this detective work wasn't something he was willing to give up yet. So, with that, he and Sarah were over and his toothbrush left her bathroom and Sherlock once again had his partner's full and complete attention.
When Mary had walked into the rooms at 221B around a month ago now, Watson was immediately intrigued by her. She held herself with a dignity and a poise that completely hid the fear that she held inside. She came to Sherlock with a case and the thing that John found most remarkable was that Sherlock was interested in her too. He noted everything about her and came to the conclusion that her case was worth his attention. John remembered the relief that he had felt when Sherlock took on the case without saying anything too personal to Mary. Nothing that would offend her (although John was sure that Mary Morstan would have taken much offence to anything Sherlock said to her, he was gratefully nonetheless).
When she walked in at four in the afternoon a few Wednesdays ago, declared herself as Mary Morstan and sat herself down on the couch with Sherlock opposite, sitting on the coffee table, and John against the wall where Sherlock was now, John instantly wondered and then worried what the detective would deduce about her. He had the habit of being very blunt.
"Ah, Miss Morstan, welcome. I was hoping it was you in the cab but I couldn't be sure. About our chat the other night on the website, your case does sound interesting."
"Well, Mr Holmes…"
"Sherlock, please"
"Okay, Sherlock, as I told you the other night my father has disappeared and I couldn't come any earlier than this. I hope that isn't a problem."
"Not a problem at all. I suppose school has finished?" He checked his watch. "Yes, it has. You're a teacher. You have walked from the school part of the way, definitely past Queensway Market at least. Let me see, there are three schools near there. All three are primary schools." He noted, "You're a primary school teacher then."
"I could have told you that, Sherlock" Mary replied, although she was a little impressed. Mary went on to describe her case. Apparently the Police weren't interested and thought it a waste of time. John knew that even if the case was a little dull Sherlock would take the case anyway. He could be petty sometimes as well as blunt. She smiled politely at John as she left the flat, leaving Sherlock thoroughly interested.
"So Sherlock, how did you know about her being a teacher? What set off that mind or yours this time?"
"Chalk on her skirt." He said, matter-of-factly. "Some also on the cuffs of her jacket too from where she has been rubbing off work on the board all day. She is a left-hander. There is red ink on the side of her hand, probably from correcting the mediocre work of the minds of tomorrow. There are two reasons of a long list"
"But that could mean anything, Sherlock." John teased. "She could have been a secretary?"
"No, John, she couldn't have." And he left it at that.
"Okay, what about narrowing down the schools?"
"You didn't smell her as she walked in?"
John had. She smelled of musk and something else John couldn't put his finger on. But he did know that she smelled wonderful. He didn't say this.
Sherlock continued without an answer, "She had been past the Queensway Market. A Chinese restaurant is the smell you can't figure out." John just looked at him, unimpressed. "Before Queensway there are three primary schools from which it would take around an hour to get here." He left John against the wall and walked to make himself a cup of tea.
John was brought back to the present. Sherlock was looking at him with an almost pitying look. "John, if I zoned out like you do sometimes, the cases of London would never be solved" And with his cup of tea, he gracefully walked across the room, up and over the coffee table and back to the couch. When he sat down his mobile rang. "It's Lestrade".
Thank God.