John returned to the café the next day. The day was as miserable as the previous one and he found himself drawn towards 221B. He told himself it was because of the coffee.
As he pushed open the creaky door and walked in, he heard the coffee-maker whir to life.
John sat down in the patchwork chair just as Sherlock walked around the bar holding his cup.
"Wh-? Actually I'm not going to ask. You probably memorized my footsteps or something." He laughed.
Sherlock winced.
"Oh my god, you didn't!"
"Did you know you favour your right leg and drag your left slightly?"
"I did not know that, thank you, Sherlock." John smiled.
Sherlock paused as though he wanted to say something, shuffled his feet and turned back to the bar.
"Want to sit?"
It came out before John realized what he was saying, but something about the fact that Sherlock practically knew his life story made John want to get to know him better.
Sherlock turned and stared at John, frowning as he tried to figure out if John was kidding or not. He seemed to decide that John was being genuine and sat rigidly in the chair across from him. John smiled at how Sherlock's graceful limbs folded into place as he sat.
Silence ensued.
John wracked his brain for something for something to say.
"So, Sherlock, why's this place called 221B? A bit unusual don't you think?"
The taller man relaxed back into his chair, obviously glad that the uneasy silence had been broken.
"When Mrs. Hudson bought the place, it was number 221 Baker Street, so she decided to name it "221 Baker" despite being idiosyncratic." He replied.
John laughed. "God, Sherlock, did you swallow a thesaurus?
He would have missed Sherlock's miniscule smile if he hadn't been looking properly.
Awkwardness over, they slipped into easy conversation, discussing anything from different types of fatal poison to Sherlock's lack of knowledge of the Solar System("I can't believe you don't know that the earth moves round the sun!"). Sherlock even tried to get Mrs. Hudson to refill John's coffee ("Not a waitress, dear!"). With each passing minute, a little bit of steel would melt from Sherlock's eyes.
It was early evening when Sherlock's phone buzzed and he leapt out of his chair, read the text and ran out of the cafe and into the downpour outside.
He stuck his sodden head back through the door and said, "Well? Aren't you coming?" He sounded irritated.
"Coming where?" John was genuinely confused.
"To see Lestrade of course!" The dark haired man exclaimed as though John was being blatantly ignorant.
Despite the fact that he had no idea what Sherlock was talking about, John found himself placing a couple of pounds on the table and throwing on his coat. He grabbed a coat off the hook at the door that could only have been Sherlock's and followed him out into the rain.
They had been walking for a while in silence before John asked, "Sherlock, who on earth Lestrade?"
"You saw him at the cafe yesterday. He's a detective inspector in the loosest of terms for Scotland Yard. He comes to me when he needs help solving cases, which is always." Sherlock had a way of making everything he said sound exasperated.
"So why does Scotland Yard ask you for help? It's not often they ask amateurs."
Sherlock snorted. "I am not an amateur, John. I'm a consulting detective."
That didn't sound much better than amateur. John walked ahead of Sherlock and turned to face him, walking backwards, the rain soaking his coat
"A consulting detective?" He laughed.
"Yes." Sherlock sniffed. "I'm the only one in the world. People come to me when the local criminals become too much to handle. Which is always."
"Obviously." He replied, shaking his head. "A consulting detective slash waiter. Are you a ballerina on the side?"
"Don't be daft John."
John laughed. "Okay then, Sherlock, what are we going to see then?"
The change in the detective was immediate.
"It's a locked room homicide! It's Christmas!" He sounded a bit too cheerful to be talking about a murder. John didn't have much time to dwell on it though, as Sherlock had hailed a cab and he was bundled inside before he realised what was happening.
The rest of the cab ride was silent with Sherlock constantly texting and John not knowing quite what to say to the possibly maniacal genius sitting next to him.
They arrived at the a scene, a two story redbrick building blocked off by police cars and yellow tape.
Sherlock hopped out of the cab.
"Come on, John!" He sang (yes sang, John couldn't believe it either). There was a notable spring in his step and an unnerving grin on his face.
Sherlock was holding up the yellow tape for John when they heard a woman say, "Freak's here."
John looked up to see a willow mixed-race woman with a cloud of black hair staring daggers at Sherlock.
"Ah, Donovan. Been borrowing Anderson's cologne again?" Sherlock smirked.
"Oh don't pretend you worked that out!' The woman spluttered.
'Of course not. And judging by the state of your knees, you washed his floors as well?"
John snorted.
The woman, Donovan, shot him a venomous look. "And who are you?"
"John, you have just made the unpleasant acquaintance of the questionable Sergeant, Sally Donovan. Donovan, John Watson. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a case to solve."
With a swish of his ridiculous coat, Sherlock swept up the stairs and into the house.
"'Scuse me." John mumbled, pushing past the Sergeant, into the house.
After climbing two flights of stairs, he arrived at the door of a room inhabited by Sherlock, Lestrade and a ratty looking man fiddling with equipment. He passed unnoticed due to the raging argument taking place inside. The fact that the three were arguing over a body made the entire seen surreal.
"You can't just bring civilians in here, Sherlock! I'm pulling enough strings just getting you here!" Lestrade shouted.
"He's a medical student! It's both of us, or none!"
"How much did ya pay him to come?" The ratty man sneered. John hadn't realised it was so easy to hate a person you hadn't even met.
"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street." Sherlock spat.
John couldn't help laughing. That was when they noticed him in the doorway.
"Ah, John. Take a look at the body, will you?"
"Sure, Sherlock." He sighed, walked over to the corpse. The body was of a middle-aged man, lying on his back, holding a cigarette. It was one of the ones that one rolls themselves with tobacco and paper. He had blue lips and extremities, showing signs of asphyxiation.
All the time John was inspecting the body, Sherlock whirled around the room, checking drawers, flinging documents in the air and checking behind picture frames. Every so often he would utter a little "Ah" of surprise or excitement.
"Well, there are signs of asphyxiation, but no sign of a struggle." John announced.
"Good work, John. I had already noticed but it doesn't matter." Sherlock replied, smiling.
He bent over the body and took some saliva from its mouth, and some tobacco from the cigarette. He moved to Anderson's equipment and dropped the tobacco into a solution he had been preparing. The liquid turned dark red.
"Well, that solves it." Sherlock breathed.
"Care to enlighten us, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade.
"I wouldn't want to undermine your intelligence."
Lestrade huffed. "Just tell us what happened so we can all go home."
"The tobacco leaves in his cigarette were infused with a poison that when inhaled, causes the lungs to fill with fluid and drown the victim. The poison, when placed in the solution I made earlier, causes the liquid to turn bright red."
"That doesn't tell us who killed him." Anderson sniffed.
Sherlock grinned maniacally and held up a cell phone and multiple pieces of paper. "This man here is Mr. Sebastian Moran." Sherlock dropped a passport onto the table. "He defaulted on his payments on a his payments to the Black Lotus Bank, who are notorious for seeking out any individual who do not pay their bank charges, due to the fact that they are actually a criminal support unit specialising in securing stolen merchandise for an exorbitant cost." Another document dropped to the table, showing a statement containing all of Mr. Moran's defaulted payments. Then Sherlock held up the cell phone. "Recorded on this cellular device are transactions that took place between Mr. Moran and the Black Lotus Bank. The man you're looking for is the owner, Mr. James Moriarty, as indicated by every document Anderson failed to uncover. Thank you, gentleman, and goodnight." With that, Sherlock swept out of the room and down the stairs, leaving a spluttering Anderson, Lestrade furiously taking notes, and John, who followed after the detective.
"Sherlock!" He called, chasing after the taller man.
Sherlock spun around.
"That was... That was amazing." John breathed.
Sherlock smiled. Not a crazed grin like the one he had been sporting throughout the investigation, but a gentle angling of his lips, and a softening of the hardness in his eyes.
"All I did was observe, John. You could do it too, if you looked at the world more carefully."
"No, Sherlock, I couldn't." John said, walking over to the dark haired man. "Only you."
Sherlock looked away.
Lestrade walked over to the pair. "Well, Sherlock, we'll need you over at the station to get the whole explanation again. It was good to meet you, John." He said, shaking John's hand.
"Goodbye, John." Sherlock said, climbing into the squad car that had pulled up.
"See you, Sherlock."
The ever present drizzle was not enough to dissuade John from walking the rest of the way home to his apartment, grateful for the time to ponder on the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.