Disclaimer(s):

The following characters all belong to the Arthur Conan Doyle estate. The alternative personalities and events are based upon the BBC series Sherlock.

This is a work of fiction. Any persons, events or places portrayed within are in no way intended to represent those in the real world. Any coincidences are entirely coincidental.

Dripping

Watson had to admit; it was one of the more… noisy wedding presents he had gotten after marrying Mary. Yes, they had gotten the news from Sherlock about… well; you know what … and that best man speech. There were given ornate wind chimes and whilst those were quite bad, this thing just didn't… shut…. Up…

But I digress. John Watson was just randomly sitting in 221B, Sherlock present, following the whole Magnusson palaver, and waiting for Moriaty's next move. In all fairness, it wasn't the nicest Great Revival about someone thought dead for more than a year. Twice in a row as well. And just randomly, at one point, Mary - as a slight apology to Holmes, one thought - just passed on one of their wedding gifts to him. After all, it wasn't like they wouldn't be able to appreciate it. And it fit in better in 221B in the first place.

Thinking back, Sherlock actually seemed… thankful, for the present, which was definitely unlike him. What, was it that great, dysfunctional, minds often thought alike? He'd started playing the violin during cases a lot less too. Sure, when he was composing between cases, he was as loud as ever, but other than that… not much at all.

"Why do you use that present Mary gave you, Sherlock?" Oh, he was fully aware that trying to engage in idle conversation with the sociopath, but… well, Watson was curious.

"Hmm?" Ah, Sherlock was in his own little world – mind-palace thing again. Did his little… visit to Buckingham have any effect on it? Ah, it was likely better not to ask that. Instead, John indicated the object. "Oh. Well, it wasn't a replacement for the skull if that's what you're asking." John couldn't really picture Sherlock just conversing with the thing during a case.

"Isn't it a bit…" Sherlock grunted as he paused. "Loud?" … No response. "Maybe? Possibly?"

"You're forgetting Miss Hudson." As if in response, an argument suddenly arose from the café below.

John allowed himself to smile. "Wouldn't have thought it would suit you."

"You don't think many things suit me."
"Including having your collar up." Sherlock sighed, exacerbated, and flicked his collar down. He proceeded to shoot John a glare that could only express, `There, Happy? `. Who even wore a coat indoors anyways?

John turned his attention back to the object. Okay, it wasn't the loudest thing in their wedding present parade, but it definitely seemed like it at the present moment. Just a continuous, regular sounding rhythm, although if one were to look at it, it was obviously just a random drumming. In such a quiet flat, it rang out loud and clear, barely quelled by conversation. All of a sudden, the door opened, and a solid foot clattered against the floor up the stairs. Sherlock visibly rolled his eyes. Sibling rivalry once more.

Mycroft strode heavily in the room, expression stoic, yet somewhat relaxed. John checked the calendar… after all, Mycroft visiting with that expression really did happen once in a blue moon. "What is it this time, Mycroft?!" Sherlock was obviously already bored with his entrance.

Mycroft sighed before starting. "Sherlock. You committed murder for goodness' sake. The British government - and the Americans got in on this as well – want me to keep a close -"he stopped, pausing for emphasis "- very close eye on you."

Sherlock gave the most fake smile of all eternities before settling back into his seat. Used to the lack of attention, Mycroft surveyed the room. His eyes fell upon the object, and the furthest parameters of a complimenting smile appeared on his face. "Well… at least you're not completely done for." He used his cane to indicate it. Sherlock just grunted again. Mycroft raised his eyebrows in response.

Sherlock didn't know why they were all clamouring about it - it was only a simple water fountain. No more shape than a number of varying sided cubes stacked upon one another. To them, anyway. It was quite a complex object, however, if one thought about it carefully. Engraved down the side, faintly, and small enough not to be noticed unless it's presence was known - and angled away from John's chair- `A. `. The one puzzle he was actually unwilling to solve - both him and John. It also was meant, in a strange way, to remind him of that moment where he `died`. If he focused enough on the fountain, on the individual droplets - he would hear those... voices, again. Molly, Moriarty - that dog… it made his mind palace seem a lot more unnecessary. Both were still extremely useful though. And then, there was the gentle sound it made- just enough to distract him from the clamour of London life.

And, naturally, its design was a perfect symbol of their relationship, by proxy of one John Watson. Darkly coloured stone, mixed with glass shards. One wore a mask of emotion to cover who was, in actuality, a rather stoic woman, although capable of love. The other wore a mask of emotionlessness, but actually cared about a wide variety of people, but- in the end, didn't actually `love` anything. Well, other than a murder case, but again, I digress.

Sherlock sighed. "It's distracting. Like you, right now." Mycroft, thoroughly satisfied with the fact he was no longer needed, gave his regards to John, before turning on his heels and leaving. John would never understand those two now, would he? It was simpler to not even try. Not that had ever stopped him before, but… well, you get my point.

He glanced over to the clock. "Well, it seems late enough in the day to say we're not having any clients today… Sherlock?"

"Hmm… Oh?" He glanced over at the clock as well, noting the lateness. "I… wouldn't know…"

John laughed. "No. No you wouldn't." He walked out the door, allowing it to click closed behind him.

Sherlock exhaled loudly. Well, he definitely was safe in a sense, now. He flicked the fountain off, and slid away the back panel. Inside it was a phone. No matter who tells you, anyone must realise one thing- no matter how broken and sociopathic you are, you really enjoy symbolism. Three people were describable as the closest to understanding Sherlock… Mary Morstan, who understood his emotions- John Watson, who understood his loneliness- and one Irene Adler, who came the closest to understanding his mind. To an extent there was Molly as well, but that was a story for perhaps another time. John had his spot- also within the object was a single bullet from the unfortunate- if you could say that- dog. But this phone- well, he knew full well he could set of the fire alarm with it, that was for sure. He unlocked it, rigidly. On it was a single new message:

`Heard you're back in the country. Let's have dinner. `

Sherlock smirked. He knew it wasn't like him, but… well, since Mycroft had a tight leash on him, he texted back- Psychopaths get bored after all.

`Why? Then again, why not?

SH`