A/N: As always, pay attention to the small details.
"Stamps."
The word was leaden, Sherlock's bored, polished baritone emphasizing the 'm' and the 'p', lips pursing and releasing in a way that might have distracted John under other circumstances.
The young man sat in the client's chair nodded nervously, casting a quick glance at John as though for explanation or support, and the doctor could see the words "how did you know?" forming, but Sherlock – as usual – ploughed right into the explanation.
"Thin, pale," the detective began, and John resisted pointing out that applied to Sherlock just as much, "don't get out much and when you do, it's only travel to go back indoors. The hunch to your shoulders suggests you spend a lot of time sitting and looking at something – something small, perhaps through a magnifying lens or a microscope. Could be both. Steady hands – very steady – an important trait for your… pastime. You work a lot with your hands, and one might expect evidence of dryness or washing, but of course not, because you wouldn't risk getting all those oils on something so valuable, so gloves. Cotton, though, given the state of your skin and the possibility of abrasive damage – even ever so slightly – from latex or nitrile."
Sherlock paused for breath – a rare feat, John thought, and he could see the astonishment on the younger man's face, the rush of surprise and admiration lining up to be voiced.
"But your lips," Sherlock continued, and John watched the stamp enthusiast deflate a bit as he was pre-emptively silenced. "Dry, cracked, used to being licked. You're a purist," Sherlock spoke the word as if he were holding it at arm's length, "none of the self-adhesive variety for you. And that's not where the interesting ones are anyway, are they? All the new ones are rubbish, so few flaws, no real character.
"You're fastidious, but it doesn't extend beyond the collecting… why waste your time? Friends all the same bent, no girlfriend, visit the family only on holidays or when pressed into it, job is good enough to support your interests without being too demanding or involve too much work with the public. Or with anyone. Something equally as finicky, numbers – accounting, most likely. Not for a large firm. Nothing that would require too much reporting of your time, as long as you get the job done, no one asks any questions or cares too much about your whereabouts. Quiet of course, but your other living habits… cluttered, at a guess – and not much of a guess – not much consideration for anything else, easier not to cook because it takes time and takeaway doesn't. Workspace kept neat out of necessity, nothing else gets the same consideration. Don't socialize much beyond your circle of fellow collectors, but aren't bothered by noise around you – probably don't notice. Excellent concentration skills, to the exclusion of all else.
"Oh, and your sister works in a flower shop somewhere near here."
The younger man started, eyes wide behind his glasses.
"How did you know that?"
John couldn't resist rolling his eyes, pursing his lips to contain a sigh.
"You mentioned it in your initial email," Sherlock replied, waving a hand vaguely, projecting boredom, but John could see him congratulating himself internally on being so clever.
"But not the other stuff!" the young man protested.
"Elementary deduction, really," Sherlock sniffed. "We'll let you know."
"But I haven't even seen it!"
"Oh," Sherlock said, blinking, nonplussed. "Yes. Of course. John?"
John pushed himself to his feet, shooting Sherlock a pointed look that was, as usual, completely ignored, and beckoned to the potential tenant to follow him downstairs. He showed the young man – whose name he hadn't bothered to remember – dutifully around the flat. Given Sherlock's assessment of their visitor, John wasn't really surprised that there were no exclamations of delight at the space or the lighting.
"Is there a form I need to fill out?" the young man asked after the brief tour was complete. John gave his head a shake, putting on his best reassuring doctor's expression.
"No," he said, all false encouragement in his tone. "Sherlock's brilliant at this sort of thing. Well, you've seen. We have a couple more people coming to look," that was a familiar refrain, and a lie, "but we'll let you know by the end of the day tomorrow."
There was a thank you, an awkward handshake (which John always found annoying), and a rush of relief when he was able to close the front door behind the soon-to-be disappointed prospective tenant. He lingered near the door, half wondering if he was listening for the young man to walk away, half lulled by the sound of traffic from the street outside. Something in the atmosphere had lifted, and he hated that it felt like this every time he saw someone out, knowing full well that Sherlock had found a reason (or reasons) for denying them the ground floor flat.
It was relief, pure and simple, and John avoided thinking about what that meant, distracting himself by trying to work out what Sherlock would be up to on the floor above him. The sound of footsteps wasn't a good enough indicator; Sherlock always threw himself into something after a viewing, but it was never the same thing. As it deliberately avoiding a pattern of activity could stop reality from encroaching.
They needed to let the ground floor flat. They'd needed to let it for months. John knew that. He knew Sherlock knew that. They'd placed an advert, they'd interviewed a handful of people.
All of them rejected by the detective's caustic insight.
And the flat still stood empty.
No, John told himself. Not empty. Because it had never been properly cleared out. Oh, the furniture would stay with the flat, but there were still things there that were hers, things neither he nor Sherlock were willing to give up.
As if that would make it finally real. Inescapable.
John closed the door to their flat, shutting out that contemplation, grateful for the familiar irritation of Sherlock tearing the living room apart in search of something.
"Sherlock–"
"Boring!" his partner snarled, flinging an angry glare John's way, grey eyes glinting. "How can they stand it, John? To be so bloody boring?"
"I bet he doesn't think he is," John sighed, folding his arms, playing the game willingly.
"Stamps," Sherlock spat, still-short curls bouncing as he shook his head once, vehemently. "Why? What's the point?"
"You mean, what's the point of being obsessed with something to the exclusion of everything else?" John asked.
"Precisely!" Sherlock snapped, flinging his arms wide, and John had to bite down on a pointed remark, knowing if Sherlock caught it in his expression, the detective would ignore it. His talent for self-deception was almost as great as his talent for the observation of others – and John didn't quite let himself follow that train of thought into what it might say about him.
"Stamps," his partner muttered again, overturning a couch cushion and making a disgusted noise when whatever he thought he was looking for failed to materialize.
"I'll just get them, shall I?" John sighed.
"I don't want a cigarette!" Sherlock snarled. John arched an eyebrow; that probably meant he did, but wasn't willing to cop to it because John had suggested it. It was – the doctor had discovered – an effective way of keeping Sherlock off nicotine.
When it worked.
Which wasn't always.
Reverse psychology was tricky with Sherlock, who was wont to recognize it being used against him at inconvenient moments.
"Tea, then?" John asked.
"Fine," Sherlock muttered without pausing in his apparently futile search. John considered asking what their flat had done to deserve such treatment, but he recognized Sherlock's moods from long experience, and there was no humour in this one. He made tea without comment, earning only a glare for his efforts when Sherlock snatched the proffered mug from him.
He sank into his chair, watching as Sherlock redid the sofa enough to flop himself onto it, long legs sprawled in front of him, and somehow managing not to spill tea all over himself.
"Stamps," the detective muttered again, eyes casting away from John's.
"At least he'd be quiet," John pointed out, without any real conviction to his words.
"Hateful," Sherlock said against the rim of his mug, and John allowed himself the moment of distraction watching full lips close over the porcelain. He wondered where Sherlock's mood dropped him on his personal physical tolerance spectrum. John usually had a very good idea, but there were times – these times, after interviews – where he found it difficult to judge.
A good shag could be just what Sherlock needed to relieve some stress, or the suggestion of it could shut him down completely.
The lines of tensions that jutted against his partner's neck answered the question for him. Sherlock probably wasn't even aware of his own response, although he may have been aware of the line of thought behind John's gaze.
John shelved it, watching Sherlock relax minutely. He wondered, passingly, if he should do up a catalogue of Sherlock's reactions to him. Comparing it to the mental catalogue Sherlock kept of John's responses might distract him.
For five minutes.
"Well, he was better than the last one," John offered. Sherlock didn't deign to answer, curling his lip and slumping further down, resting the tea cup precariously on the arm of the sofa. At John's slight wince, the detective huffed an aggrieved sigh and snatch the mug up again, shooting John another glare.
The doctor pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room to sink down beside his partner, who stiffened and pulled back when John dipped his hand into the pocket of the blue silk dressing gown. Grey eyes flared a warning John had already read, and he held up Sherlock's phone as reassurance before scanning through his email.
"Art theft?" he suggested, earning a pointed look in return. "Cheating spouse?" Sherlock huffed a sigh, managing to slump down even further, long toes pulling at the rug. "Missing dog?"
"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock muttered. "Does it glow in the dark?"
"Doesn't say," John replied, smiling slightly. "Insurance fraud?"
"Who does these people think I am?" Sherlock snapped.
"The man in the Sherlock Holmes hat," John replied.
"Hasn't there at least been a murder?" Sherlock demanded, snatching the phone from John, scrolling through the messages himself. "Liar, liar, adulterer, liar and adulterer, thief, delusional, making it up, hysterical, and another adulterer."
"What is the world coming to?" John asked, unable to repress the small smile quirking on his lips despite the dark glower Sherlock threw his way.
"Peaceful and law abiding," the detective snorted, pitching the phone onto the coffee table with a clatter that made John wince. "I can calculate angles and force accurately, John."
"That'd be the third screen you shattered, right?"
"Your inability to observe never ceases to amaze me," Sherlock said, and John kept a comment to himself about his skill at observing his partner's moods. "The screen's fine."
"If you keep that up, it won't be," John sighed, pushing himself to his feet. Sherlock waved the empty tea mug at him.
"Words?" John suggested.
"Please, John, may I have another cup?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.
"Make it yourself, genius."
"You're going to the kitchen," Sherlock pointed out.
"To put mine away. Why don't you get yourself dressed? I could use a walk."
"What is your obsession with air?" Sherlock muttered, folding his arms, mug buried in the crook of his elbow.
"Breathing's boring till you stop doing it," John replied, leaning down to press a kiss against his partner's forehead. Sherlock squirmed, but not enough to make John think he was serious.
"You don't know that," he pointed out.
"Nor do you," John replied.
"Unwise to theorize without all the facts."
"This isn't an experiment either of us gets to undertake," John said, putting a steely hint in his tone – he never really knew, not with Sherlock. "Are you coming, or are you going to sit there and sulk all day?"
Sherlock huffed, rolling onto his side, back to the room – and still holding his mug, John noted. He waited a moment, then leaned down, pressing another kiss against Sherlock's warm skin. Grey eyes slitted open, flickering his way, muscles relaxing slightly under John's lips.
"I won't be long. An hour at most. I've got my phone if you want to track me and join me."
Sherlock grunted, burying his face in a cushion, and John knew he'd be on his own today. Occasionally, the need for company won out over Sherlock's strops, and the detective would catch him up in the park. John never commented on it – Sherlock needed his space too.
And, if he was completely honest with himself – something he liked to avoid when it came to this topic – each of them was still working out how to deal with Mrs. Hudson's death. John found it easier to leave before the emptiness of the downstairs flat became a physical sensation.
He wasn't sure Sherlock had found a particular method for dealing with it, but he was sure it didn't involve drugs, and was happy have that bit of knowledge.
He made his way to Regent's Park, wandering the paths without any real destination in mind, watching boaters on the lake and the other pedestrians with only vague interest. Sherlock would be picking apart the details of their lives within seconds, but John enjoyed the anonymity sometimes. It was nice not to be immediately recognized, too. When he was on his own, he often went unremarked; Sherlock's fame (or notoriety, John supposed with a faint smirk) had grown after his return from the dead and the three days missing in Wales.
John didn't mind the work that brought in, but it was relaxing not to have people stare.
When the sensation that had driven him from the flat eased, he settled at a café, ordering himself a tea and something small to eat, and pulled up a book on his phone. The sun was warm enough to offset the cool breeze, and the quiet murmur of voices and traffic faded into a pleasant background hum as he read. The moment of relaxation was so perfect that John wasn't the least bit surprised when his phone buzzed, showing Sherlock's number and breaking the peaceful silence.
"Paris, John!" Sherlock exclaimed before John could even say hello – not that the daft genius he called his partner ever bothered with conversational norms when it came to speaking with him.
"Um, nope. Still in London," John replied, lips quirking into a smile.
"What?" Sherlock demanded. "Not you, John, don't be absurd."
"Ah," John said. "You're taking me on a romantic holiday then?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line, the suggestion of held breath – John could practically smell the smoke as Sherlock raced to switch mental tracks and figure out a way to placate his partner without disappointing him.
He grinned.
"What's the case?" he asked.
"You need to book us tickets." John was sure he caught a hint of relief behind the order, although it might have been wishful thinking. "Use Mycroft's card, I don't want to be sitting in the cramped section."
"Don't you think he'll notice?" John asked, the smile still playing on his lips as he gathered his things to head home.
"And a hotel," Sherlock continued as if John hadn't spoken. "I'll send you a name; who knows where you'd put us if left to your own devices."
"Somewhere we can afford?" John suggested. In Paris, in August, last minute? he added to himself.
"Don't be ridiculous, John; use Mycroft's card for that, too."
"Does he have some account just for you to keep you happy?"
There was a derisive snort on the other end of the line.
"I'm sure he'd like to think he does," Sherlock sniffed. "That's not the account we'll be using. I'll pack your things."
"Oh no you bloody won't!" John snapped back, picking up his pace. "I'll be home in five minutes. I don't even want to think what you'd bother packing for me – or what you'd leave out."
"I'm a genius, John," Sherlock replied with feigned coolness. "I can be relied upon to pack a suitcase."
"Yeah," John said with a grin, still keeping up his quick stride toward Baker Street. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"