By the time Sherlock phoned Lestrade and returned home it was around 8:04 pm. The flat looked recently deserted; still maintaining a warm touch of presence, but cooling off quickly. From the flurry of smells Sherlock determined that John, highly inconveniently, decided to go on a date that night; there was the heady smell of cologne, the sobering whiff of tea, and an almost imperceptible aroma of flowers John had picked up on his way home from work. Still, rather hopefully, Sherlock decided to call out the name of his flat mate (in case his date cancelled and John was now brooding in his bedroom); before any sound could escape his lips, however, he turned around abruptly – floorboards emitting a single creak – and inhaled fully, closing his eyes momentarily.
It was a faint smell that brought smile upon his face, pooled heat in his stomach and caused his heart to stutter momentarily. Now that it had been discovered, the damp walls of the flat seemed to reek of it; Sherlock hastily took off his glove to smell the inside of his wrist. As he suspected, the smell in the flat matched the aroma of Sherlock's shower gel.
Moving quickly, Sherlock put his coat on a hook by the door and ascended the stairs in three great strides. In a second he flicked the switch in the bathroom and was greeted with a wet shower curtain and a dripping faucet. Tightening the handle quickly he noticed that John's shower gel was nowhere to be seen; an extraneous doubt started worming itself into Sherlock's train of thought. Perhaps John had simply run out of his gel.
Market, Sherlock thought, John went to the market yesterday. He was in the kitchen in the next 20 seconds, going through the trash; recovering the shopping list, Sherlock saw John's shower gel's brand name scribbled in. He could not have just forgotten, for toothpaste was underneath and he definitely bought that; then he did not get it deliberately. Sherlock allowed himself a smile of contentment.
The next clue came an hour later, when Sherlock was passing John's bedroom. The door was ajar, Sherlock could see a slither of John's bed sheets; a small black rectangle lay there, beckoning Sherlock to investigate. It was oddly familiar, with silvery writing on it; Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his hand snaked around the doorframe, fingers tentatively toyed with the switch. In an instant he decided and the room lit up, the door opened widely and Sherlock picked up the rectangle – it was made of cardboard; to his (almost) surprise he recognized the tag of his favorite brand name.
Sherlock's breath caught when he flipped the tag and realized that whatever article of clothing John bought was two sizes smaller than what he usually wore. Not trousers then, that would be much too uncomfortable; and the price suggested that it was a shirt. Fascinating; Sherlock's free hand snaked into his pocket and felt the contour of his mobile. Deciding to confront John face-to-face instead, Sherlock pocketed the tag and, with a final look around, left John's bedroom.
At 9:34 Sherlock's fingers hovered over the keyboard of John's laptop in a rare moment of indecision. John's inbox opened instantaneously as the computer loaded, and Sherlock was now confronted with pre-date emailing between John and his girlfriend. He did not intend to spy, but in the end he flicked through the emails briefly, finally closing the laptop in 20 minutes and immersing himself in thought.