QUOTH THE RAVEN
OR:
NEVER IN A HUNDRED YEARS

"Sherlock, what is this?" John Watson's voice was fairly quivering with strong emotion.

Happily ensconced at the kitchen table and surrounded by experiments in various stages of completion, Sherlock Holmes looked up reluctantly from his microscope to see a plain manila file clutched in John's wildly-gesticulating hand. The blond man looked well and truly upset. "This cannot be good," Sherlock thought. "Here it is two days before Christmas, and somehow I have managed to unhinge my closest friend."

"That is a file, John. Specifically, it is the file containing our case notes for the Livingstone murder," he replied loftily, deciding to feign indifference to the annoyance in his flatmate's voice — at least until he could figure out what John was upset about.

"Yes, very good. And what is this?" the clearly-disgruntled blond doctor demanded, now stabbing a finger at the yellow sticky note that Sherlock had attached to the file cover early that morning while John had still been sleeping. Despite the fact that all Sherlock wanted to do at that hour was shag John through the mattress, the doctor had been so tired and overworked of late that Sherlock had decided to let him sleep. The sacrifices one makes… But then the detective had been bored, so he reached for the case file, which John had been studying carefully the night before.

"That is the solution to the case." Sherlock studied John's perturbed face for a moment, then went on in a puzzled tone, "Why you are looking at me that way?"

"Sherlock, you gave me this case to work on! You complained that it was 'only a three' and said you had other things to do that were more important. This was supposed to be my case!"

"But I figured it out early this morning, and I left the note for you. I don't see a problem, John. We are partners, are we not? We share everything — including, might I add, our bed. What does it matter which of us solves it?"

"It matters because you gave the file to me so that I could get a bit of solo casework experience, and then you went ahead and solved it yourself anyway."

"Really, John," Sherlock said in exasperation, "you know full well that if a case is not solved within the first 48 hours, it is likely never to be solved at all. I just moved things along that much more quickly." Sherlock made little herding motions with his hands, as if to illustrate the point.

"But, Sherlock," John said, voice shaking with barely-suppressed frustration, "I knew who the murderer was! I was going to surprise you with a done deal by working out some of the smaller details so that we could present Lestrade with an iron-clad case."

"Oh, I took care of that, too — in my note there, I connected the dots so clearly that even Lestrade could not fail to comprehend it all."

John pinched the bridge of his nose tightly between his thumb and first two fingers. "Yes, I can see what you did, Sherlock. That's really not the point."

"Of course solving the case is the point." Sherlock stared at his partner incredulously. "In what possible way could solving the case not be the point?"

"Well, Sherlock, the point here is that you gave the case to me for the experience, and then you took the experience away from me by solving it yourself."

"Nonsense, John. You have been coming along quite nicely of late; I've been very pleased with your progress."

"Then you should have allowed me to handle this myself." Slapping the folder on top of one of Sherlock's ongoing experiments, John turned smartly on his heel, stepped stiffly over to the breadbox, and opened it rather more roughly than was necessary. He removed several slices of bread and smacked them down on the counter. Even though steam was practically issuing from his ears, it appeared he was planning to get himself some nourishment before leaving for work. (In fact, Sherlock had never known anyone who felt so strongly about the health benefits of eating. It seemed to be almost a fetish with the former army doctor.)

When John started letting out his frustrations by banging the tea kettle around, the detective picked up his mobile and dialed Scotland Yard. While John slammed angrily around behind him, Sherlock opened the case file and flipped a few pages until he came to the one he wanted.

"What it is, Sherlock? I'm very busy," came the charming greeting.

Sherlock pitched his voice so that it could be heard above the racket John was making behind him. "Yes, Lestrade, I am calling to give you the solution to the Livingstone case." It suddenly got very quiet in the kitchen. "Yes, it was the next-door neighbour having an affair with the victim's wife… Yes, mm hmm…mm hmm…" he flipped a few more pages in the file, "check the neighbour's garage — I, that is, JOHN is certain you will find that the murder weapon is a red shovel. The blood won't necessarily be visible to the naked eye because the shovel is red, but if you run a luminol chemiluminescence reaction test on it, JOHN thinks that…What? No, no; the wife was certainly not involved in the murder — oh, for heaven's sake, her purple nail polish should have told you that much. Yes, of course, I shall give JOHN your thanks."

Feeling even more pleased with himself than usual, Sherlock rang off. He looked up from the file expecting to see John staring at him with love and adoration. That would be the outcome of the call, he calculated, having magnanimously given John all the credit. He was hoping to find that John had perhaps even gone a bit weak in the knees and was now ready for make-up sex; but no. John was not in the kitchen at all, weak-kneed or otherwise. Sherlock stood up to go look for him and suddenly realised that John must have stalked out just around the time Sherlock initiated the call to Lestrade — and that was why it had suddenly gone so quiet in the kitchen. Not because John was listening to the call, but because he had simply left the flat while Sherlock was distracted between paging through the case file and talking to Lestrade. John hadn't even heard Sherlock assign him the credit. In point of fact, all John had heard Sherlock say was that he was calling to give Lestrade the solution…oh. Oh. Well, that may be a bit not good.

And John had walked out without eating breakfast, the detective realised, seeing the clean tea mug next to the dry kettle and the two pieces of bread still lying haphazardly on the counter. Most worrisome to Sherlock was that John had not set out any breakfast for the World's Only Consulting Detective. Usually John's first priority of any day was to try to coax some food into his flatmate. How upset was John, anyway? If he'd known the man was going to react this irrationally, he would have awakened him for sex before putting down that yellow sticky note — perhaps John would not have had the energy to care which of them solved what after an energetic early-morning shag.

Anyway, could it be that John actually had a point?

Sherlock replayed the entire scene in his mind and came to the conclusion that of course he was right and John was wrong. The doctor was simply being stubborn.

The detective was getting ready to delete the entire tedious scene from his mind when Mrs. Hudson slipped hesitantly through the open flat door. Wearing a coat and carrying a bulging string bag, she had clearly just returned from doing some early-morning shopping. She looked nervous.

"I ran into John on his way to work. He was looking rather put out. Is everything all right? Did you two have another domestic?" she asked tentatively.

"We most certainly did not have an argument, if that is what you are asking," Sherlock sniffed.

Mrs. Hudson looked unconvinced, so the detective carefully explained the situation. He gave a line-for-line recap of the conversation — how he had proved conclusively to John that he, Sherlock, was right and John was wrong.

"So you see, Mrs. Hudson," he finished up triumphantly, "we certainly could not have had an argument, because my logic was unassailable."

Mrs. Hudson said, "Sherlock, it's not about logic; it's about how you treat your partner. I know you're relatively new to this relationship business, but…"

"Nonsense. Everything is about logic," Sherlock interrupted decisively. "John is a reasonable man. He'll see the error of his ways, and of course when he does, I shall forgive him."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and left, muttering something that sounded like 'stubborn stubborn stubborn,' referring to John, obviously. Because Sherlock was right and John was wrong. QED.

But nothing played out the way Sherlock had expected. The doctor came home from work while Sherlock was out buying milk. (Just on the off chance there actually had been an argument, Sherlock knew that buying milk was a practically foolproof way to atone.) The holiday crowds had slowed everything down, though, and by the time Sherlock returned from the store, John lay stretched out on the couch, sound asleep.

Sherlock walked quietly to the kitchen to put the milk in the refrigerator — he had learned, much to his surprise, that buying milk and leaving it on the counter for hours afterwards did not constitute a helpful act. Then he went to the couch and stood over his sleeping companion, gently smoothing the hair off John's forehead. The doctor opened his eyes sleepily in a languid, heavy-lidded look that went right to Sherlock's groin.

But then John came wide awake and his expression tightened. He said, "I ate before you got home, and as you can see, I'm really wiped out, Sherlock. I think I'll go to bed early."

Open-mouthed, Sherlock watched John head upstairs to his old bedroom, and it suddenly occurred to the genius that there would be no sex tonight, or possibly ever, until he fixed this. But why should he be responsible for fixing it? He hadn't done anything wrong. Yet, like a naughty child, he was going to end up in his room alone, and without his supper besides!

Next morning, Christmas Eve, John was clearly still disturbed, though at least he made them both breakfast. (Sherlock wondered if it might be pushing things to mention that he'd really prefer make-up sex to breakfast and then reluctantly decided that yes, it would.)

Distressingly, the appearance of the fresh bottle of milk in the refrigerator elicited no reaction whatsoever. John mostly refused to speak except in grunts and was clearly planning to leave as soon as he made sure Sherlock had eaten at least a little something. Which Sherlock had done, if only in the hope that John would be pleased enough to give up his snit. And then maybe they could have make-up sex. But as soon as John was satisfied with Sherlock's caloric intake, the doctor went to the coat stand to retrieve his overcoat.

"I don't see why you have to go in on Christmas Eve," Sherlock said — and was horrified when he detected a little whine in his voice.

"People fall ill more than ever this time of year, Sherlock. And it takes a lot of them until the last minute to realise they aren't going to get better on their own. Then they want to come to the clinic so illness doesn't ruin their days off." He slipped on his coat. "Besides, you hardly need my assistance for anything," he added matter-of-factly and walked out the door without looking back.

Sherlock listened mournfully to his flatmate's footsteps as they receded all the way down to the ground floor and out the street door.

Suddenly his eyes landed on the small Christmas tree in the corner. Though he hadn't yet admitted it out loud (especially not after the scathing remarks he'd made while watching John put it up), the tree looked good with its cheerful decorations and the beautifully-wrapped packages from John to Sherlock beneath it. (The lumpy-looking ones were from Sherlock to John.) The tree looked strangely forlorn now that John seemed so perturbed. Sentiment.

So instead of getting back to his experiments, Sherlock starting thinking about life before John. About the freedom he'd once had to drug himself to oblivion; to starve himself; to turn his lungs into tar pits. About the Alone Time, when he had no one to talk to except the skull. About the time when there were no gaily-wrapped Christmas presents under a tree in his flat. And most unacceptable of all, a time when there was no John in his bed.

Suddenly it no longer mattered to Sherlock that he was correct about the importance of solving cases as soon as possible. John was more important. John was more important than solving a murder. In fact, as much as it pained Sherlock to admit it, John was more important than anything. Sentiment or not, there it was. If Sherlock needed to make amends for being right, so be it.

He grabbed his mobile and called the Yard.

"What, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade, engaging as ever.

"Lestrade, I need an unsolved case right now; say, something fairly recent that's already gone cold; preferably something incredibly tedious which I originally declined to work on…No, I don't care what it's about; pick out any kind of case you like…Hepplewhite, yes, whatever. Perhaps you'd be good enough to send someone over with the case file. Why? Because I require it immediately. Fine, thank you, goodb-" Click.

Soon thereafter the case file was dropped off by an annoyed-looking uniformed officer, mouthing something barely audible that might have been an objection to being used as an errand boy for a poncy git.

"Happy Christmas to you, too," Sherlock said absently, already skimming through the Hepplewhite file. A murder and jewel robbery a few months back: dull. Barely a "two." Not worthy of Sherlock's time, but an excellent tool on which John might further hone his burgeoning skills.

Sherlock carried the case folder directly to his landlady's flat and had already flipped disinterestedly through the entire boring thing before he'd even finished walking from the street door down the hall to Mrs. Hudson's flat. He took a deep breath and knocked. By the time the landlady opened her door, Sherlock had put on the most pathetically helpless face he knew how and held out the file to her.

"Mrs. Hudson, would you wrap this for me? It's a present for John and I want it to look perfect," he said in wistful tones.

"Not your housekeeper," she replied, but (perhaps remembering the condition of Sherlock's presents for John under the tree) she took the file from his hands and proceeded to wrap it beautifully, even neatly tying a ribbon around it and fashioning a bow on top.

Sherlock took it upstairs, wrote "John" on it, and placed it under the tree.

The doctor came home late, utterly knackered from all the extra people cramming into the clinic ahead of the holiday. He said, "Tell you what, Sherlock, I'll make us a quick dinner, but then I'm going to bed early again tonight." They ate the simple meal in relative silence, and afterward John had taken about two steps toward the stairs leading up to his old room when Sherlock said, "I should like to give you an early Christmas present, John." He held out the perfectly-wrapped gift to his flatmate. John shook his head. "Sherlock, I hope you don't think you can just…" but Sherlock said, "Take it. Please."

John accepted the slim package and his expression softened just a bit. "This is almost too pretty to open." Sherlock sighed inwardly. Trust John to get sidetracked by the wrapping paper. "Go ahead, open it."

John carefully removed the ribbon and wrapping, and found himself holding a file containing unfamiliar crime scene pictures and case notes. "What is this for?" he asked warily.

"It's a case that Scotland Yard hasn't been able to solve for months. It was a murder and a jewel robbery. The police had several suspects, but there was no clue pointing particularly to one over any of the others. The stolen jewel, an extremely rare silver-grey opal, was never recovered. It's not the kind of thing that can be cut down like a diamond, so for a long time there was hope that it might turn up somewhere. Notices were sent to all the pawn shops, but nothing came of that. I want you to take the case, John. I promise you that you will be able to work on it without any time pressures and without any help from me, unless you specifically request it."

John no longer looked tired. He looked touched. He looked aroused. He looked…hot. The file fell to the floor as John reached out his arms.

Finally, Sherlock thought, the make-up sex!

Afterwards, Sherlock drifted off into a light doze while John ran his fingers worshipfully over Sherlock's face and into his dark, curly hair. Then the doctor murmured, "Silvery eyes…raven hair," while pressing many light kisses on his eyelids and hairline.

Sherlock's eyes popped open. He raised himself up on his elbows and gazed at his very best friend in astonishment.

"Of course, SILVERY and RAVEN…John, you are, as always, my brilliant conductor of light! The opal had a most unusual silvery play of colour. We'll tell Lestrade to look for anyone involved in the case who lives in an older apartment building higher than, say, four stories, with windows that open and a very tall tree outside his window containing a raven's nest! Because a raven must have taken the jewel; that's why it never surfaced. If they check the nest and the opal is there, we'll have him!"

John glared at Sherlock. "You solved my bloody cold case, didn't you? Damn it, Sherlock!" But he pulled the detective more tightly into his arms, and he didn't sound angry at all.

"I shall never understand John, even if we live to be one hundred years old," Sherlock thought contentedly.

END

I know from nothing about opals or ravens — I just thought this seemed like fun.