The Science of Deduction A Study in John's Taste in Women

"JOHN. Hurry up! We need to get to Trafalgar Square within half an hour and you're busy blogging, for God's sake, you'll make us miss our chance!"

John shut down his laptop and shrugged on his coat, half-laughing at his flatmate's impatience.

"Sherlock, the cabbies are on strike. We're either taking the bus or the underground, and we certainly won't get there in under thirty minutes."

The detective intensified his livid expression and pulled his friend out of the apartment, stopping only when John managed to fight his sleeve free of his grip, and march along on his own in a most military fashion. The first "screw you Sherlock, I can do things on my own" of the day.

These little displays of independence had become routine ever since Sherlock had randomly arrived home after being dead for three years. Needless to say, John hadn't been the happiest of campers at the idea that his best friend had abandoned him, causing him to spiral into a vortex of emotional turmoil, only for him to turn up out of the blue and announce his apparent state of being alive after all.

They were on the underground. Sherlock glanced around at the other people invading his personal space with an almost-hidden distaste. Some schoolgirls (obviously mitching) tittered with a volume that competed with the detective's uncomfortable, irritable aura. They flew speedy looks in his direction, which were almost ignored…

"Hey." He had directed this at the loudest of the hive, a girl no more than sixteen, with the most outrageous, untidy pile of frizz for a hairstyle.

John froze. Oh dear God what is he doing.

"I know your father. He told me to tell you that he's leaving, mainly due to the fact that his daughter is extremely problematic and his lover has far more pleasant children. Now please shut up."

John stared.

The victim stared.

Pretty much everybody on the carriage stared.

Then, out of the corning of his eye, the doctor noticed a woman shifting in her seat, and peer more closely (not really staring, in contrast to everybody else), at Sherlock, and smile slightly. Her gaze moved gradually over to John. He saw her breathing deeply before she moved and deposited herself in a free seat beside him.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! My God, this is amazing!"

She beamed enthusiastically at the pair. Sherlock's attention withdrew from the shocked eyes of those surrounding him and looked the new arrival up and down, eyebrows slightly raised.

"I'm in the media business, you know. I know all about you. Not, I mean, all the rubbish that was printed about you when you, you know, topped yourself and whatnot, but… Um, anyway, I'm a big fan." Sherlock simply blinked at her. John on the other hand, beamed. "That's very kind, thank you. Not often we find somebody who still believes in Sherlock." Which was true of course, but the taller man began to notice that this conversation had gone on longer than any other fangirl's interview had with his friend before. It was usually an uneasy "thanks," followed by a quick departure. This made quite a difference. Which could only mean one thing.

The doctor straightened out his back and turned towards her more. "Hey, do you like coffee? Ever want to, I mean only if you want to, we could, perhaps meet up at some point and have… coffee." He wore his "curious" face quite openly, as if this wasn't a proposition for a date, no, not at all.

She eyed him more intensely, peacocking flirtatiously. "That depends," she began in a far smoother tone than she had started the conversation with, "On whether you know anywhere that does a good frappe we could share."

By this time the eerie silence caused by Sherlock's previous outburst had risen again to a healthy buzz, and it was only John and his new interest who heard him scoff.

John twisted around at the noise. "What."

Sherlock chuckled. "She doesn't work in the media." John confusedly scratched his eyebrow and replied with the usual, "Care to explain then?"

The detective leaned back comfortably and crossed his arms, ready to impress.

"She got onto the train with her earphones in, then took them out and went to switch off an ipod nano. Anybody working in any part of the media industry keeps their phone to hand above all else, not their mp3 player. Her phone, however, is at the bottom of her bag, as we can see through the rectangular bulge in the fabric of her shoulder rucksack, which is far too heavy and big to be a journalist's handbag. There are clearly some A4 books, more than likely textbooks and notebooks, in said bag, and no laptop. Any ordinary journalist would simply use a notepad to take notes, and type up the full article later. To add to all this, she has a prominent callus on the left side of her middle finger on her right hand, meaning she writes far more than an average journalist, probably essays. On a side note it also reveals that she's right-handed, but that's not important. The smell of alcohol on her clothes is also telltale of a rowdy night out with friends, not colleagues. She likes frappes, rather than proper coffee. In summary, college student. More than likely a first or second year, judging by her lack of concern for attending lectures by arriving in late with a stink of booze."

She gawked at him in disbelief. John looked her over, and drew his eyes back to her face. "But come on Sherlock, she doesn't look any younger than twenty-five, at least."

She got off at the next stop.