Title: The Case of the Expensive Picture Frame

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Rating: K+ for thematic elements and brief language

Disclaimer: Don't own BBC Sherlock. While I'm fairly certain that Sherlock Holmes in itself is public domain, this particular show is owned by the BBC and created by Moffat and Gatiss, and they're both much better writers than I will ever be. Everything outside the show is mine.

A/N: This is set between The Blind Banker and The Great Game.

The Case of the Expensive Picture Frame

John could tell that Sherlock was getting dangerously bored. I mean, really dangerously bored, the kind where Sherlock would spend days lying on the couch bitching and moaning about everything under the sun, and John would spend his time alternatively with Sarah and guarding his technology zealously (John had taken to hiding his laptop around the flat in a vain attempt to keep Sherlock from finding it. Of course, Sherlock would always find it within the day, and so John would have to find a new hiding place. It had almost become a game with them).

These were the days where there would be a new body part in the kitchen every other day, and Mrs. Hudson refused to come up until all the mess was cleared away. John would apologize profusely, promise to make Sherlock clean it up, then spend two hours yelling at Sherlock before finally giving up and cleaning it himself.

It was only after John found a fully dissected pig on the kitchen table, it's organs residing in every appliance in the kitchen (John didn't even know you could fit a pig spleen in a toaster, and was not keen at all on figuring out how Sherlock did it), that John drew the final line.

He marched into the living room, where Sherlock was lying on the couch in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and said, "Sherlock, you need to get a case."

Sherlock flicked a bored look his way, then went back to staring at the ceiling.

John continued, "I'm serious. This is getting out of hand. Mrs. Hudson will kick us out if you're not careful."

Sherlock gave a disdainful snort. "She would never. She loves us."

"She might not when she finds the pig's liver in the blender. Are there seriously no cases for you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled himself up, pulling out the laptop that John had sworn he had brilliantly hidden behind the toilet.

"It's all a bunch of dull, stupid people with their dull, stupid problems," Sherlock said petulantly, "Are there no real criminals out there in London these days? Not one?"

John sighed and sat in his chair, giving a dour look at the laptop. Maybe next time he'd hide it behind the television instead. "What about that 'Moriarty' thing the cab driver said? Have you learned anything about that?"

Sherlock gave the irritable glare he always gave when he couldn't figure something out right away. "If he's really out there," Sherlock said, "He's covering his tracks very well. I can't find anything."

"So there's nothing?" John said, beginning to get desperate. He wasn't sure how much longer they could last in this purgatory of boredom.

Sherlock snorted, then tossed the laptop carelessly over to John. John scrambled to catch it and pulled it closer to him. He definitely needed to find better hiding places for this thing. He opened it, and found Sherlock's forum already up.

The newest entry read, Need your help badly. Missing a very valuable picture frame. It might be stolen. Can we meet? Jerry Davis

"Well, why don't you meet him?" John said, thanking whatever deities were out there (he was sure there had to be one who was specifically assigned to keep Sherlock from getting killed) that there was finally a case, no matter how petty.

Sherlock shot him a 'why are you so stupid?' glare, and said, "A picture frame? Hardly worthy of my talents. He's probably just lost it behind the sofa."

"But why is he so worried about a picture frame?" John insisted, desperate to get Sherlock out of the flat by any means necessary. "I mean, maybe it's really valuable. You should at least check it out, right?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

Sherlock finally agreed to meet Jerry Davis at a café half a block away. Sherlock had argued that they could just as easily have Davis come to the flat, to which John had responded that they still had the dead pig in the kitchen and they didn't want to scare him off.

To which Sherlock had respond that only John didn't want to scare him off and Sherlock couldn't care less, which had evolved into an hour long argument that culminated in John storming off to his room and finding that Sherlock had taken his laptop out from underneath the mattress.

Anyway, they were now sitting at a table in the window, staring out at the rainy street. Sherlock was lazily circling his spoon in the cup of tea that he hadn't taken a sip of, and John was poking at his unappetizing pastry with a pretentiously small fork.

The door to the café opened, and a small, timid-looking man wearing thick-rimmed glasses walked in, dripping wet and without an umbrella. The owner of the café shot him a dirty look which he didn't notice as he scurried over to the table and sat down with a squelch and a sigh of relief.

"I am so sorry I'm late," he said, with a rather flat-sounding accent, "I got caught up in traffic."

"Yes," Sherlock said disinterestedly, still circling his spoon, "I would imagine it's difficult getting used to driving on the left side of the road again after spending close to- what, ten years in America?"

"Ten years exactly," the man said, his gaping mouth making him look quite like a fish on a plate, "But how-"

"Your accent," Sherlock said, "As well as the fact that you don't have an umbrella, which also tells me that you live alone, since anyone with an ounce of sense would have told you to bring an umbrella when they're calling for rain."

"Oh," said the man, and John smiled to himself.

Sherlock finally deigned to look at the man, an eyebrow raised. "I assume you're Jerry Davis," he said.

The man gave a nervous little cough. "Yes, I am," he said, "And you're Sherlock Holmes?"

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled. Davis shot nervous look over at John (honestly, the man treated everything as though it were about to kill him. John was certain that if there was a sudden loud noise Davis would have a heart attack).

"This is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said by way of explanation, "He's a friend of mine."

"Colleague," John corrected.

Sherlock ignored him, as per usual. "Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of him."

"Of course, I understand," Davis said, looking as though he didn't understand at all.

After an awkward minute-long silence, in which Sherlock seemed content to stare unblinkingly at Davis, and Davis seemed too terrified to say anything at all, John said, "So, Mr. Davis, what can you tell us about your missing picture frame?"

Davis gave another nervous cough, and began. "Well, as soon as I moved back to London, my wife left me."

John opened his mouth to offer condolences, but Sherlock shot him a 'don't interrupt the exposition' look.

Davis continued. "I had a picture frame among my private possessions which my mother gave me. It isn't very valuable, but…it's sentimental. Anyway, after she left me as I was unpacking, I noticed that the picture frame was missing."

Sherlock's eyes had lit up, and he was looking at Davis with genuine interest now. He leaned forward in his chair, getting almost uncomfortably close to the other man. Davis leaned back a little and cast an imploring glance at John.

"Sherlock-" John began, hoping to distill at least a little social propriety into Sherlock, but he was interrupted by the detective himself.

"What was the picture in the frame?" Sherlock asked, sitting so far on the edge of the chair that if he moved forward even a little bit he would fall off. Not that that would happen. Sherlock seemed to possess an almost supernatural grace that prevented him from looking uncool in any situation.

Davis cast another imploring glance at John, then replied, "A photo of our wedding. It was in Los Angeles, and the photo was taken near the sea. But-but since my wife left me, I don't care about the photograph, just the frame. I think she stole it."

"Do you?" Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up even more, "That's interesting. That's very interesting. Do tell more."

John didn't think it sounded that interesting. It sounded like a fairly ordinary domestic squabble to him, but then Sherlock had always had peculiar tastes in what interested him. Hence the dissected pig on the kitchen table.

Davis looked, if possible, even more nervous and agitated than when he had walked in. "There's really not much more to say," he almost whispered, "My ex-wife now stays at a hotel downtown. Erm, her name is Irene. Irene Adler, since she's using her maiden name now." He scribbled the address on a napkin, and handed it over to Sherlock, who ignored it completely. John picked up the napkin instead and placed it near his plate.

Sherlock gave one of his trademark 'I'm cleverer than you' smirks, and abruptly leaned back in his seat. "Very well, Mr. Davis," he said in an obnoxiously self-satisfied manner, "I'll get to work on your case right away. Thank you for your time."

As soon as Davis scurried out the door with a sigh of relief, John heaved a sigh of his own and looked over at Sherlock.

"You seem overly interested for a simple domestic issue," he remarked, finally taking a bite of the soggy pastry in front of him. It was disgusting.

"I'm not interested in a simple domestic issue," Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up in the manner they always did when he had found something really juicy. "What I am interested in is why he lied to us about everything he said."

"What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, in the typical way he did when John was being particularly obtuse (in Sherlock's opinion, of course). "He said he had a wife, but there was no ring on his left ring finger."

"Maybe he took it off. She did leave him, you know."

Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering manner. "There wasn't even a mark, John, that he had been wearing a ring. The finger looked like it had never had a ring on it in his life. Also he said the photograph was of his wedding in Los Angeles. We know he wasn't married, and he certainly has never been in Los Angeles, he's as pale as alabaster. He probably spent the majority of his time in America in a cloudy area, most likely somewhere in Washington state."

John gaped in astonishment, the way he often did when Sherlock went on one of his tangents. Sherlock finished up his explanation with, "A man who would lie about so many things, especially having a wife, wouldn't care about sentimentality. So, if he doesn't want the picture frame back for sentimental reasons, what does he want it back for?"

He stared at John expectantly. John blinked. "Erm," he said, "Because it's valuable?"

Sherlock gave a brilliant grin and said, "Excellent, John! We'll make a detective of you yet."

John said, "Thank-" but Sherlock had already grabbed his coat and scarf and raced out of the café.

John sighed.

A/N: This is going to be fairly short. Short-ish. Maybe. I have no idea.