A Week is Just Seven Days Isn't It?

by scifigrl47

When John heads overseas for a week, Sherlock's forced to fend for himself. It goes about as well as anyone could have anticipated. Which is to say, very, very poorly. Don't worry, things'll be fine in just seven days.

2. Chapter 2

Wednesday, Day 3

London

The knocking wouldn't stop.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock willed the sound away, but it persisted, growing ever more urgent. Of course, his attempts to ignore his phone hadn't worked, either, because it was still goddamn ringing.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's familiar, and annoying, voice was now accompanying the knocking. "Mrs. Hudson says you're in there, and I've got a case."

His brain tried to rouse at 'case,' but failed. "Go away!" Sherlock yelled, frustrated beyond coping.

There was a minute's pause, and then the door opened. "Didn't you hear me?" "Lestrade's footfalls were heavy and plodding, just like the man himself, Sherlock thought with a touch of childish bitterness. "I said I have a-" The footsteps stopped. "Why are you lying on the floor?"

Sherlock glared up at the face hanging upside down above him. "It's my floor," he snapped out. "I can lie on it if I want to, and it's really not any of your business, is it?" His voice was getting more staccato, more tense with each word. "Unless it's now illegal to lie on the floor. Is that why you're here? Because it's illegal to lie on the floor, or do you just like to bother me?"

"Do you have a nicotine patch on your forehead?" Lestrade asked, somewhere between amusement and concern.

"It's my forehead and my- OW!" he yelled as Lestrade crouched down and yanked it off. "That HURT, you bloody-"

"Watch it," Lestrade said with a cheeky grin. "What, does John have afternoon office hours today or something? He'll strangle you if you're abusing these things again, you know that, Sherlock."

Sherlock shoved himself to his feet, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "John," he said with precise dignity, "is out of the country."

"Oh, he's on holiday? That's nice, isn't it?" A muscle twitched next to Lestrade's eye, but he held his smile. "When'll he be back?"

"It's not a holiday, Mycroft sent him to a war zone. In bloody Afghanistan," Sherlock gritted out, not really pleased by the bitterness in his voice.

"Well, that'd explain the general alert that went out," Lestrade muttered. "Wish he'd tell us these things, who has to deal with it? Me, that's who."

"Ha!" Sherlock stabbed a finger in his direction. "I knew it! I knew you were taking orders from him!"

"Jesus, Sherlock, everyone takes orders from him," Lestrade said, his voice pitying. "Now are you going to come take a look at a locked door burglary, or are you going to sit on your floor and contemplate the myriad fascinations of ceiling?"

"It depends," Sherlock shot back. "Will you be staying either way?"

"No, I've got a fascinating case," Lestrade pulled his notebook out of his pocket. "Locked museum, missing art, top quality security system, multiple guards, one now unconscious for unknown reasons..." He tapped the pad with his pen. "Just a mess. I don't know how we're going to-"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Sherlock yelled, rolling to his feet and stalking over to grab his coat. "I'm coming, Just for the love of God, please stop talking. I cannot possibly handle listening to your prattle any longer."

"I'm going to tell John that you were mean to me," Lestrade said, his amused grin stretching across his face.

"You know, I liked you a lot more more when you were properly differential," Sherlock told him glaring.

"That was before we became such great friends," Lestrade was clearly enjoying this. "Before I realized that you need me as much as I need you. Also that you're an annoying git."

"Shut up."

"Right-o," Greg said with a grin.

London:

"Hello, freak," Sally said, giving Sherlock a sideways look. "Where's your sidekick?"

Sherlock's teeth ground together. "Hello, Sally. You really should pay your credit card bill on time, and what have you made a mess of this time?"

She rolled her eyes, her upper lip drawing back. "Seriously. Where's Watson? He finally get sick of you?"

Sherlock's shoulders hunched, and behind him, Lestrade snapped, "Enough, Donovan. Go make sure that we've got the employees under control.

"Sir-"

"Don't kick the bee's nest, Donovan. I know it feels good when you do it, when you see it go sailing like a proper football, but when you end up with a mouthful of bees, and go into anaphylactic shock, it's not so much fun, is it?"

Donovan gave him a look. "Sir, have you been drinking on duty?"

He patted her shoulder. "Not a drop. Go. Get statements. Go, go, go." He nudged her along. "Lay off Holmes today, his handler's MIA, and he is off the leash. You won't enjoy it."

"I think I-" She met Sherlock's eyes over Lestrade's shoulder, and whatever she saw there was enough to make her shut her mouth with a click. "Fine." Flicking her hair back, she stomped away.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Ya know, I shouldn't have to treat you lot like my children."

Sherlock gave him a baleful glance. "She doesn't bother me."

Lestrade hitched a shoulder up. "You're a little brittle at the moment, Sherlock. Let's just keep the two of you apart for now, shall we? Best for all involved." He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets, leading the way through the small lobby. "It makes the civilians nervous when the two of you start howling at one another, and half the people here have already started crying on me." He sighed. "Not the easiest group to deal with."

"I will not be responsible for my actions if someone attempts to weep on me," Sherlock said. "I have mace. I will use it."

"Mace and pepper spray are illegal, Sherlock."

"My own personal formula. Legal as sea salt." He gave Lestrade a sunny smile.

"Oh, that's just great. I do not want to deal with trying to figure that out, so..." he paused. "Just... Don't go near anyone, please."

"Wonderful, we can agree that's best for all concerned." Sherlock glanced around. The museum was small, a converted building not really suited for the task, but the security system seemed admirable for the space. "Private collection, I take it?"

"Yes. One of those 'dying bigwigs wanted to stick it to his grandchildren but still resented giving anything away, even if he was dying' things," Lestrade said as they ducked through the metal detectors. They whined at Lestrade, and he ignored the minor annoyance. "So he used their inheritance to build this place to house his collections. Mostly Russian and Asian art and artifacts."

"What's missing?"

"Russian Icon, painting on wood with gold leaf. Six by nine inches. Believed to be from the 15th century, worth enough to have both the head of security and the curator in tears." Lestrade lead the way up the stairs, an Sherlock moved around a stack of packing crates.

"That's it?"

"It's enough. The doors and windows are alarmed and computerized, none of them were opened between the start of the night shift and when the crime was discovered this morning. Guard was unconscious on the back stairwell, but no sign of an attacker."

"Blunt trauma?"

"No, no injuries that the hospital has found, yet. They think it's chemical, but they're having problems pinning down what it was. He's still out."

Sherlock nodded. "Museum has been closed down for today, then?"

"They're always closed on Wednesday, skeleton staff and changeover day, I guess. When they do restoration and cleaning, and switch the exhibits."

Reaching the second floor landing, Sherlock snagged a brochure from the holder below the map an scanned it, then the posted map. Frowning, just a bit, he tucked it in his pocket. "Was this exhibit scheduled to change or move?"

"No, the Russian stuff stays on display all the time, they've got a grant to keep it as an educational outreach by some Russian corporation." Lestrade shoved the doors to the gallery open. "This way."

Anderson was dusting for prints, his face screwing up like he was sucking on a lemon the instant he saw Sherlock. Sherlock resisted the double impulse to make a face at him or just smirk. He settled for pretending the annoyance wasn't there.

"Sir, I am registering my-"

"Anderson, go talk to Donovan about the bees."

"The what?"

"Bees." He held up a hand when Anderson opened his mouth. "No, I haven't been drinking, go ask Donovan about it."

Sherlock stared at the gallery. It was a relatively small space, more an extended hall than a true room. He glanced up at the ceiling, taking note of the three cameras and the two doors, one on each end. A single spot was empty on the wall.

A thin, fragile looking woman in a fashionable black suit was sitting on folding stool, staring at the blank spot. Her shoulders held at a painful angle, her thin neck bent beneath the weight of her head. Her jewelry was subtle, but expensive, her shoes polished with care, every dark hair neat in her precise bun.

Museum curator, Russian emigre, mid-fifties, left handed, recovering alcoholic, from money but a generation or more removed from the source, and sleeping with one of her staffers.

Not the thief. Sherlock dismissed her as unimportant.

"Do the guards walk regular rounds?" Sherlock said, turning his attention back to the cameras, stepping to the left, then the right. He looked at the blank spot and then down at the baseboards.

"Yes." Lestrade handed over a printed page. "They walk in opposite directions, and keep to the same route, but trade off regularly so they don't get complacent. They need to hit regular check in points. None were missed until the time when the unconscious guard went missing."

"Was the missing painting discovered before or after that?"

The woman spun around in her seat, pinning Sherlock with a brutal glare. "It is not a painting," she hissed. "It is an icon. A religious relic."

Sherlock glanced at her. "It's paint on wood. It's a painting." Dismissing her, he looked back at the hall, pacing off the space.

"Sherlock, this is Dr. Svetlana Baskov, the curator. Dr. Baskov, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock nodded in a distracted way, not really listening or caring all that much. He had his mobile out and was flicking through information as rapidly as he could, sorting through the info with ease. He found what he was looking for a moment later and put his phone away. "How much of this floor is modular?" he asked Baskov.

"Almost all of it," she said, "but I don't see-"

"I know." He raised his hand and rapped against the wall, moving down the row, staring at each icon as he passed, tapping with a light touch here and there. He paused, eyes narrowing, in front of on icon, and turned his head to the side, then leaned his ear against the wall, staring at the painting from the side.

His knuckles rapped on the all, and he retreated, crossing the room and trying again, the same pattern, over and over. Done at last, he leaned back.

"I don't understand," Anderson said, and his voice was very loud in the sudden silence. "Did he get dumped?"

There was a moment of stillness, and then Lestrade groaned. Sherlock, his whole body drawn up as tight as a bowstring, swiveled on his heel. He stared at Anderson, his eyes narrowed to bright blue slits, his lips pulling back from bared teeth. "Anderson," he said, his voice soft. "How long have you been here?"

Anderson's nose came up. "I don't see as how that's any of your business," he huffed.

"Four and a half hours." Sherlock smiled at him, and it wasn't a pleasant expression. "Or if you'd prefer I be precised, four hours and twenty-two minutes." He held out a hand towards Lestrade. "You are carrying a knife. I need it."

"How'd you-"

Sherlock's eyes flicked towards the ceiling. "You set off the metal detector, you're not carrying your gun and I am carrying keys and change and didn't set off the detector. Give it."

Shrugging, Lestrade handed it over.

It was small, almost a penknife. Still, it would do. Walking over to a particularly bland version of an icon of Madonna and Child, Sherlock took it off the wall and flipped it over to check the wood panel. Without another word, he turned it sideways in his hand, and ignoring Svetlana's shriek, slammed the wood down into the seam of the heavy frame. With a twist, he ripped the frame apart, splintering wood and finding an hidden seam of painted glue.

"Are you INSANE?" Dr. Baskov screamed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pried the frame free, revealing a second wooden panel hidden below the first. While the visible icon was a poor example of the craft, bland and unremarkable, the one he'd revealed was a stunning work of pristine color and gold leaf, nearly glowing in the fluorescent lights.

"The icon never left?" Lestrade asked, eyebrows arching.

Sherlock opened his mouth, shut it. "You know what?" he gritted out at last. "I cannot even be bothered to explain. I don't care. I really don't." Because John was the only one who really listened. Half the fun of explaining things, as of late, had been watching John follow his train of thought, sharp eyes over that amused mouth, appreciation dawning on his face like the sun rising. Sherlock stared at Anderson. Not an adequate replacement.

He had a brief vision of living with Anderson, and shuddered, his whole body twitching. Not an adequate replacement at all.

"But," Dr. Baskov said, staring at the icon in her hand, "this isn't the missing one."

"I know," Sherlock said, "but I figured you'd want that one, too." He snapped the knife shut and tossed it to Lestrade, who caught it with a snap of his wrist. Sherlock stalked forward, his whole body angled, his strides long and loose. Anderson, seemingly against his will, rocked back a step, trying to get out of the way, and bumped against the wall. "Dusting for prints?" Sherlock said, eyes wide and innocent.

Anderson clutched his kit to his chest. "Yes. Proper scientific-"

"Do shut up now, your voice is like fingernails on the chalkboard of my life." He walked past Anderson, out the door, into the next gallery, where a stack of packing crates was leaning up against the wall. He picked up the crowbar that was leaning against the stack and walked back into the hall.

Everyone was exactly where he'd left them. Without another word, he took the crowbar in both hands, brought it up and swung it, hard and fast, into the wall. Dr. Baskov screamed, Lestrade groaned, and Anderson took off running. The wall cracked like glass, and Sherlock reshouldered the crowbar, reaching into the hole he'd just made in the sliding curtain wall.

He pulled out a small package wrapped in white fabric, and stomped over to Dr. Baskov. "The unconscious guard is your thief, check the fusebox in the basement and you'll find his fingerprints on the flipped fuse for the next gallery." He slapped the package into her fingers and turned on his heel. "Syringe he used to inject himself is probably crushed in one of the interior sharps containers in the bathroom."

Pausing in front of Anderson, Sherlock checked his phone. "Hmmm. Seems I accomplished in 5 minutes what you didn't have a chance to do in five hours." His lips pulled up in a tight smile. "As usual. And this was boring. Staggeringly boring. I would've been better off lying on my floor and staring at my ceiling because then, at least, you would not be there!"

He handed the crowbar to Anderson and stalked towards the door. "And I didn't get DUMPED. My brother sent him to Afghanistan!"

"How's those bees taste?" Lestrade asked Anderson. "Not so good, I assume. Kind of like burning, maybe? Taste like death? Like pennies in the back of your throat?" He patted Anderson on the back. "You got off light. Keep it in mind."

"How was that light?" Anderson snapped back.

"He had a bloody crowbar, Anderson! You do the math!"

"Math isn't his strong point!" Sherlock yelled back over his shoulder as he stomped out the door. "Of course, I don't know what his strong point IS, but I could give you chapter and verse on what it ISN'T."

It took thirty seven texts, sent in rapid succession as Sherlock stalked out towards the front door, to let John know just some of the things that Anderson was not good at. He could've sent more, but he was almost to the street when he put his mobile away.

"Sir? Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock glanced back up the stairwell, over his shoulder. Dr. Baskov was clutching the icons as she leaned over the bannister. "Thank you," she said, with a smile. "Really. It means so much. I-" She teared up, and Sherlock winced.

And John's voice in the back of his brain said, 'Say you're welcome, Sherlock.'

"You're welcome." He managed a tight smile.

She sniffed, rubbing at her eyes with the back of one wrist. "Thank you. Thank you, and, don't worry. I'm sure if you just hold out, your brother will come around to your relationship."

"Why the hell did I leave the flat?" Sherlock asked no one in particular.

"Excuse me?"

"Not talking to you!" He yanked his scarf off, then put it back on, frustrated and annoyed all at once.

"If there's anything I can do for you, please, just name it."

Sherlock stopped, almost at the front lobby. He looked back over his shoulder, eyes narrowed into blue-grey slits. "Yes. Yes there is. Where is your employee break room?"

"Excuse me?"

"The break room," he repeated, a bit impatient. "Where is it?"

"Oh, um, just this way." She waved him back up the stairs, waiting until he caught up before she lead the way through a side gallery and past a door marked, "Employees Only." At the end of the corridor, a small break room overlooked the back of the museum.

Sherlock spied the fridge and headed straight for it. Success. Milk. He turned. "I am taking this milk as payment," he told Dr. Baskov, relieved.

"It's expired," she said, blinking up at him.

For a long moment, he just stared at her. "Bloody hell," he mumbled under his breath. "I'm going to have to go to the store, aren't I?"

Afghanistan:

Now, these were not the files he'd asked for. They, might, however, be just the ones he'd been looking for.

John frowned, just a tiny bit, at the half a dozen folders that had turned up in the middle of his most recent stack. They weren't... Ducking his head, he started flipping through, his heartbeat accelerating. Now, wasn't this interesting?

He glanced up, but Cooper was on the other side of the room, his back to John, working on compiling some of the data John had given him. John took a deep breath, and looked down again.

There was no doubt in his mind that Cooper had given these to him. The question was, why.

"Corporal?"

Cooper glanced over his shoulder at John. "Sir?"

"What's your primary job around here? Are you medical corps?" John knew he wasn't, but certain suspicions were beginning to bloom in his head.

"No, sir, I'm just a glorified paper pusher, when I'm not on the front lines," Cooper said with a faint smile. "We never have the right number of personnel to handle the grunt level stuff, so..." He shrugged. "I'm good at it, so whenever they need a hand, and I'm not in the field, I get the overflow, you know, the stuff that's not urgent. The stuff that they just let sit around for a while, you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do." John studied the file that was open in front of him. It was personnel listings. Who was assigned where, transfers and reassignments. He'd begun to figure out the when and the where, and Cooper had just given him an easy way to figure out the who.

Cooper knew something was going on.

Either he'd hidden that very well, and his superiors didn't think he'd had enough access, often enough, to draw the conclusions that he clearly had, or he'd been assigned to John specifically so he could pass on what he knew.

John tapped his pen against the table, a staccato beat. He would've arrived at the same conclusion sooner or later, he would've been able to cross reference things from the database, but with one 'misplaced' file, Cooper had just made his life much easier. Considering that, John shut the file and put another on top with an idle flick of his wrist.

"Cooper." He gestured the young man over. He came to his feet and crossed over to stand beside John, his expression questioning. John turned the page in front of him over. "Could you help me with this?" he asked, tapping the line item in question.

Nodding, Cooper took it. "This?" he asked, studying the page. It was a rather substantial amount of refrigerated supplies that had been marked as express, and not part of the regular shipment. Cooper glanced up and met John's eyes.

"I'm looking for this kind of shipment." John kept his voice light. "If you can help me go through the files."

Cooper nodded. "Of course." He grabbed his chair and pulled it over, taking a seat on the far side of John's table. He picked up the first stack of folders, just as John's mobile buzzed. His head came up, a smile curving the edges of his lips.

"Yeah, he's at it again," John said, reaching down to pick up his laptop case. Mycroft had provided him with something that looked like a cross between a laptop sleeve and a diplomatic pouch, but he was pretty sure that the damn thing was lined with kevlar, and braced against crush or drop damage. The laptop had also been pre-loaded with all sorts of details, details that weren't matching up with Cooper's paperwork.

"Milk again, sir?"

John took a moment to reach out and check the most recent round of texts. "Disaster," he said, rubbing his hand over his chin, trying to hide a smile. "The local mortuary slash medical school got in a corpse with something that looks like bubonic plague and they won't let him take tissue samples."

"Bubonic plague?" Cooper gave him a horrified look.

"There's still small packets of it out there. Probably a traveler who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I'm glad that for once, bits of him will not be in my fridge."

"If I lived with him, I'd need therapy."

"You say that like I don't have a therapist." John paused, considering. "Of course, she refuses to discuss him."

"Your therapist refuses to discuss the main reason why you need therapy?" Cooper asked, lips twitching. He made a notation on the calendar pages that they'd laid out, showing movements of the shipments between units, and between the central drop points. "Doubled here, on these weeks," he pointed out to John, who took the invoices and flipped them, back and forth, studying the contents, looking for rush notations.

"Yeah," John said, his tone absent. "Oh, yes. Or rather, no. She says I'm in a self-destructive spiral and have made the rational choice to involve myself in an unhealthy relationship, and while she'll discuss the reasons why I make these choices, she will not discuss him."

"It's therapy, aren't they kind of required to listen to whatever you want to talk about?" Cooper asked, chuckling. He took the pages back from John, noting the circled items, and without saying anything, went to work looking for similar quantities of similar items. He'd figured out, very quickly, not to verbalize anything, if it could be avoided. "I mean, if you want to talk about your dog for an hour, you're paying, right?"

"Her contention is that there's no point in discussing Sherlock because he's not going to change, and I'm not going to move out." John nodded at his paperwork. His suspicions looked correct. Someone was hiding things in mismatched boxes, and getting someone else to sign off on the shipment that didn't include the phantom supplies. He checked the unit details and reached for the appropriate stack of folders.

"You could try couples therapy," Cooper said, chuckling.

"Watch it," John said, handing over a file and getting three pieces of yellow paper back, clearly the middle part of a triplicate form. "We did, and it was a miserable failure."

"You went to couples therapy with your flatmate?" Cooper said, turning in his chair to stare at John, eyes dancing.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." John managed to keep a straight face for about thirty seconds. "No, no it seemed like a horrible idea. But at the time, my therapist was insistent. That lasted all of one session."

"He refused to go?"

"Oh, he went cheerfully. That alone should've made me suspicious, but I thought it was a good sign, you know, wanting to grow, all that rot. He went, and he made my therapist cry."

"I thought they were supposed to be able to, you know, not do that," Cooper said. His fingers were flicking through the pages, and he located another two canary yellow sheets, and handed them over to John. "Don't they get special training so that their patients aren't able to get under their skin?"

John wasn't surprised to note that the shipments were exactly the same. Irregular, at the least, outright fraudulent at the worst. "In her defense, if Sherlock wants to make you cry, you are going to cry. He has a special talent for that. He doesn't utilize it often, most of the time, he's just inept with dealing with other people, but it was the worst failure of a therapy session you will ever see."

"I don't think I'm old enough to hear this."

"No, in retrospect, it's pretty funny. I didn't think so at the time, of course, because it's like something out of Dante. The sixth circle of hell, but with a co-pay."

Cooper choked on his tea. "Jesus, sir."

John kept his eyes on the paperwork, reaching for the notations he'd made about shifts and signatures. "I mean, I knew I'd made a mistake the instant the door closed, there's Sherlock, lying on the couch, because he's insistent, that's how therapy works. If you're not lying down, it's ineffective, and I'm telling him that he's getting therapy confused with New Yorker cartoons from the 1980's, and my therapist, who really is a lovely woman, very calming, is writing, because that's what she does.

"Except Sherlock starts talking, and I can tell, with a glance at her face, that he's saying exactly, down to the word, what she's just written, despite the fact that he's lying, facing in the other direction, with his eyes closed. She's used to me reading her paperwork upside down, but this, this is genuinely creepy."

He paused for a sip of tea. "That sort of thing is the reason why he's been hit in the face with holy water six times that I know of." He stopped, considering. "And that one unauthorized baptism, but I don't think that counts when someone dumps the baptismal font on you against your will."

Cooper's whole body was shaking, silent, he was trying to hide it, trying to stay upright, but he glanced at John, looking for a lie, and not finding it, he went into gales of laughter. "You are making this up," he accused.

John held up a hand in approved Boy Scout posture. "I swear, I am not. So, back to therapy, couples therapy, mind, and I'm about an inch away from rolling up a newspaper and smacking him in the head with it, because he's just doing this to be annoying, I can tell by the way he's smirking. And she's pretending that she's not bothered, but she's clicking her pen, over and over, and I want to say, 'he can smell fear, really, he's like a wombat-"

"A wombat? Are they actually threatening?"

"I have no idea, I babble when I'm trying to head off the complete collapse of civil human interaction, it's a bit of a character flaw. And I know, I just know, he's hearing that pen, because his smile is just getting wider and wider, just terrifying levels of 'I've got your number, as well as the square root of your number and I stole your calculator while you weren't looking.'"

John switched the folders around and handed Cooper a map, tapping a marked X on one front. Cooper nodded, still chuckling.

"And that's when I realized," John said, leaning back in his chair and reaching for his laptop. "That he was, um, lying down, like that, with his eyes closed, because he was handicapping himself. He was playing this game in his head, trying to get what he wanted, which was, of course, a complete flaming breakdown, using nothing more than sound and his first glance at the room and what he already knew about her."

"Is there a reason why he wanted her to, um, have a complete breakdown?" Cooper asked, curious now as he went about his work. He was having no problems following the conversation as he flicked through the files.

"Good question." John considered that. "Honestly, I always thought that it was because he doesn't think she's a very good therapist. I like her, she's easy to talk to, and most of the time I feel better after, but he thinks she misdiagnoses me."

"He's a trained therapist?"

John choked on nothing at all. "Jesus, no. No, oh, God, no, that would be the worst idea ever, I am not kidding about that. Wow." He paused, thinking about it, and couldn't hold back a giggle. "All of his appointments would be five minutes long and end with him yelling at people that they're morons who have made a mess of their lives."

"Give him points for efficiency," Cooper pointed out.

"That's true. He could definitely see a lot of patients. Of course, instead of helping them, he'd just add fear of authority, paranoia and trauma to their issues." John pulled up the official spreadsheets of supply distribution. He wasn't surprised that the physical paper copies showed different amounts than the computer records. Not by much, and by numbers that were easily misread or reversed, but still. The notations weren't matching up.

"So he's got his eyes closed," Cooper encouraged.

"Really, you want more of this story? Really, Cooper? You are an absolute masochist, you know that?" John put the pages that were mismatched aside. He'd scan them in later. "So I'm sitting there, and I can see the train wreck coming, but I do not know how to stop it, because my therapist is still certain that she's got this under control, so Sherlock says something snippy, and I tell him to shut it, and she says it's okay, it's good to get these things out.

"So I mean, what can I do about that? I'm looking at her, thinking, and you think I'min a self-destructive spiral, lady, but okay, you want to swim in the deep end, not much I can do about it." John shrugged. "I lean back, cross my arms, and look at my watch."

"You were timing him?" Cooper gave him a mock horrified look.

"It was either that or leave, and that would've been worse." John flipped the folder shut and checked the cover. He handed it to Cooper. "So she asks Sherlock why he feels the need to dissect other people, and he asks her why she feels the need to impose her opinions on others, and she says, 'well, because it's my job to help people' and he goes, 'well, I don't get paid, but I'm better at it than you, so what does that say about the current state of the economy?'"

Cooper snorted on a laugh.

"And it got worse from there," John said. "I tried to block most of it out, but there was stuff about her dog, and the fact that she hated her boyfriend's bird, and a potassium imbalance and something about a failing grade in a freshman level class at Uni because she was too drunk to go to class and in Sherlock's opinion, that was the reason why the rest of her diagnostic skills were so weak, because she was missing that framework and she should've known better than to indulge in Jagerbombs during finals week."

Cooper was staring at him now, pen hovering over his pages, and John shrugged, eyes dancing. "You're making this up," he said.

"Not a word, stop accusing me of lying, or I'll have you brought up on charges." John grinned as he reached for his tea. "So it's seventeen minutes in, and Sherlock is on a roll, just brutal, and I'm looking around for something to hit him with, because this is not funny anymore, but the only things in the room are these huge psych textbooks. And before I can, there's this tiny little sniff, just one, just barely audible. She's got her head down over her pad, and she's stopped clicking her pen, and I just stand up, say thank you to her, toss Sherlock's coat and scarf on top of him, and tell him we're done.

"And he's all smirky, like, ha, victory, until we get outside of the office, and then I"m like, 'wonderful, I'm going to have to find a new therapist, thank you for ruining this, like you ruin everything, you're a horrible person.'" He paused. "That's the condensed version, of course, the real version was longer and had way more swears and involved me flailing on a public thoroughfare like a drug addict while screaming."

He paused. "Not my proudest moment, now that I think about it."

"Did he live through it?" Cooper asked, restacking his files.

"Yes."

"So not your worst moment, either, huh, sir?"

John burst out laughing. "That's a good way to think about it."

"But you've still got the same therapist?"

"I made another appointment, an by some unspoken pact, neither of us ever spoke of it again. That's really all I can ask of her." His phone vibrated, and he reached for it. "And now what are you up to?"

He flipped through the newest round of texts. Rolling his eyes, he replied, "Not in the rice cooker, Sherlock. JW."

"You know what I think?" Cooper asked, handing John a note.

"What?"

"That he doesn't like that there's someone out there that you talk to more than him," Cooper said, grinning.

John stared at him. "Be serious."

"I am! C'mon, think about it. You wouldn't be going to your therapist unless you were talking to her, and that means you're telling her things. Maybe they're things you're not telling him. He doesn't know." Cooper turned in his chair. "Some people just can't deal with wondering what they don't know." He paused. "Yeah, that made more sense in my head."

John considered that. "Cooper, you just may be onto something. When you leave Her Majesty's employ, maybe you should look into getting your therapy credentials yourself."

"Am I allowed to bring my gun?"

"Who's gonna tell you no?" The phone buzzed again, and John picked it up. "Oh, for Pete's sake..."

He texted back, "No, Sherlock, not in the drier, either."

Thursday, Day 4

Afghanistan:

"Good morning, sir."

John paused in the door of his workroom, cup of coffee in one hand, laptop case under his other arm. "Hello," he said cautiously, adding a smile to take the sting out of it. The young man came to his feet as John walked in, unfolding to his full lanky length. He had a sergeant's stripes on his shoulder and a military bearing. "Can I help you, Sergeant?"

"No, sir," the young man said, without smiling back. "I'm Sergeant Robert Moldea. I've been assigned to assist you."

"Nice to meet you, Sergeant, but I've got all the help I need." John glanced at the stack of files on the table, not surprised that he could see, even from here, that his work had been disturbed. "Corporal Cooper has been very helpful, I really can get on just fine with his assistance."

Moldea didn't react to that. "I've been assigned to replace Corp. Cooper," he said, at parade rest.

John stared at him, just for a moment, meeting Moldea's dark eyes. "Is that so," he said, setting his mug down on the edge of the table. "On whose orders?"

That caught Moldea off-guard, enough to startle a blink out of him. "Sir?"

John tipped his head to the side. "On whose orders?" he repeated. "Who gave you your orders, Sergeant?"

He blinked, his eyes sliding from John's. "Col. Larson, sir."

"I see. Thank you, but I won't be needing you." John gestured to the door. "I'd like you to step outside, Sergeant. My work here is in a particular order, and I'd hate for it to get disordered while you were trying to assist me."

"Sir-"

"Step outside, Sergeant Moldea, that's an order."

Left with no choice, Moldea preceded him out of the room. He stopped just outside. "Sir, I was assigned to stay here with you."

"That's fine, you can remain here until I clarify some things with your commanding officer. As long as you remain outside, and don't disturb my work." With a tight smile, John headed down the corridor.

It didn't take long to locate Col. Larson's office, and his aide took one look at him and decided to check the Colonel's schedule for a free moment. John encouraged him to find a free moment right now.

In under five minutes, he was being escorted into Larson's office. The man looked up from what appeared to be a stack of maps showing troop movements. "Good morning, Captain Watson. What can I do for you?"

"My assistant has been reassigned," John said, coming to rest in front of Larson's desk. "I'd like him back."

Larson came to his feet, slowly and easily. "Corp. Cooper was assigned to you because at the time, we didn't have anyone more versed in the supply requisition and distribution network," he explained, his voice holding a note of annoyance. "Now we do. Sergeant Moldea will be of more use to you."

"I've had no issues with Corp. Cooper's work," John said, with a tight lipped smile. "And he's now used to how I work, and what I expect of him. He's smart and efficient and I work well with him. I'm more than halfway through the time I've been allotted for this task, and I have no intention of starting over with a new assistant."

"Captain, this is really for the best."

John's head tipped to the side as Larson leaned forward, placing his huge hands on the desk. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm just trying to be clear. If I'm not mistaken, my paperwork explained that you were to extend me every courtesy, provided it did not affect the running of your unit.

"Now, with that in mind, are you refusing my simple request to keep the assistant that I'm comfortable working with?"

Larson's eyes were black slits in his weathered face, and his nostrils flared as he sucked in a deep breath. "If you think it's necessary," he said, his voice icy.

"I do," John said, with a tight smile.

"As you'd like, Captain." Larson lowered himself back into his desk chair. "Let Sergeant Moldea know that he can return to his usual duties."

"Thank you, Col." John gave him a quick nod. "I'll make sure that my superiors know just how accommodating you've been."

"I'm sure you will, Captain." Larson watched him leave and to John, that gaze was like a physical pressure between his shoulder blades.

Crossing the base, John made a beeline for the mess hall. It didn't take long for him to spot Cooper, sitting with half a dozen other young men at one of the long tables. He had body armor on and a helmet on the bench next to him, and he was bent over his morning meal, his face expressionless as he poked his food.

John cut through the room, ignoring the curious looks that made it clear that he'd become the topic of gossip over the past few days. Two of Cooper's dining companions, a thin redhead and a calm looking man with skin like dark chocolate, looked up as John paused at the table. John gave them a nod. "Cooper, you're late for work."

Cooper's head snapped up as all of the men stood. He scrambled up. "Uh, no, sorry, Captain Watson, I've been reassigned."

"Yes, and I had you re-reassigned. You're with me. Feel free to bring your breakfast, but we've got work to do." He nodded at the others, and one of them, a dark haired man with a complicated tattoo that was visible under the sleeve of his t-shirt, seemed to be struggling not to laugh.

Cooper just stared at him. "Sir?"

John raised an eyebrow. "I had you reassigned after your reassignment. Try to keep up, Corporal. Let's go" He gave a polite nod to the rest of the men and swung by the coffee urns to grab a fresh cup, letting Cooper get his things in order. It didn't take long, Cooper was behind him a minute later, having dumped his tray. Nodding at him, John handed him a cup of coffee and headed out. He waited until they were walking through the open space in the center of the base before he spoke, using his coffee cup to cover his mouth.

"Who pulled you?" he asked, under his breath.

Cooper's eyes slid to the side. "Col. Larson," he said, just as quiet.

"Why?"

Cooper shrugged. "He didn't say, and I didn't ask, sir."

John nodded. "The folders you gave me yesterday. Why?"

Cooper was as close as he could get without it looking odd. "I thought you should see them." His head was down, and he was studying the contents of his cup as if it was completely fascinating. He swallowed, and his shoulders pulled tight. "Was I wrong, sir?"

"No." John smiled at a passing Lieutenant. "I'm going to give you a contact number. If anything happens, anything at all, you can put in a call. We'll make sure that nothing happens to you. Do you understand?" He took a drink from his coffee cup.

"Yes, sir."

"You don't believe me?" John asked, grinning at him.

"I believe you mean it, sir."

"We can work with that." They reached the building where they had been doing their work, and John lead the way down the corridor. He wasn't surprised to find Moldea still standing, his back against the wall, waiting. "Thank you, Sergeant," John said, coming up to him. "You're dismissed. I cleared everything with Col. Larson."

Moldea looked like he wanted to argue, but he just nodded. "Thank you, sir." He gave Cooper a sideways look as he strode off. John waited until he was out of sight before he slipped in the door. He could feel Cooper's tense form behind him as he took in the disordered work.

"Cleaning crew did a lousy job in here," he said, and it was trying to be a joke, but when John looked over at him, he saw the pallor behind the young man's freckles. Cooper looked at him with slightly panicked eyes.

John leaned his laptop sleeve on the table and unzipped it, tilting it just enough for Cooper to see the edges of the files he'd tucked in there, along with the laptop, the night before. He gave Cooper a slight smile. "Luckily," he said as he watched the tension drain out of the young man, "I live with a messy flatmate. Anything important, I make sure it's somewhere safe." He zipped the case back up as Cooper all but collapsed into a chair.

"Now, where were we, Corporal?"

London:

"But that wasn't the price on the sign."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, feeling a muscle twitch beside his left eye. He reached up and pressed his fingers against it, taking a deep breath. All he wanted was a pint of milk. That was all. Milk. Simple. Easy. He had exact change. He'd torn himself away from his experiment because he was sick of opening the fridge and seeing the empty carton and shutting it again.

No matter how many times he checked, it was still empty. And he'd caught himself yelling for John three times. The feeling of pathetic moping wasn't one he wanted to acknowledge, but there it was.

Milk. A bloody pint of bloody milk, that was all he wanted, all he needed, how was he still standing here, staring into space, wishing he could light this woman on fire with his mind? Oh, how he wished he could light this woman on fire with his mind.

The girl behind the register was repeating, for the sixth time by Sherlock's count, "No, ma'am, that price was for the 12 oz package. This is the 16 oz package." She seemed to have unlimited patience, or she'd been lobotomized. It was hard to say.

Sherlock considered moving to another line, but the way his day was going, he would only end up with a fresh, new hell. At least he understood this one.

"No, that's NOT what the sign said." The woman tapped the package of frozen peas, which was now well on its way to mush. "I want to speak to your manager, this is false advertising."

Sherlock stared at her, stymied. He looked down at his milk. Why was he still here? And at what point was it acceptable to just... Throw his money in the air and make a run for the door? He could almost hear John's voice in the back of his head, chiding, 'Never. I have to shop here, Sherlock, so behave.'

He sighed. Maybe he could stop on his way home and buy a bottle of scotch. A big one.

The girl at the register had waved over a tired, stoop-shouldered man in a pink and yellow polka dot bow tie and a blue blazer. It wasn't the sort of ensemble that really inspired confidence on Sherlock's part, but the the woman latched onto him. "This is false advertising," she said, her voice rising to a painful pitch. Sherlock winced as the woman launched into an explanation of the situation. Sherlock tuned her out, categorizing the candy bars by the register by price, by content, by color, by maker in his head, just to have something to do.

As if he was used to this sort of thing, the balding manager pulled a walkie-talkie off of his hip and said, "Justin, are you in frozen foods?"

A moment of delay, then a crackled response. "Yes."

"Could you grab the sign off of the third case on the left and bring it up front?" the manager said, with a pleasant smile at the shopper.

Pause. "The pizza one?"

"No, the veggie one."

Sherlock resisted the urge to slam his head off of the checkout counter. There was not a big enough bottle of alcohol in the world.

"Okay, sure. On my way."

It took another few minutes for the teenaged boy to reach the registers, carrying a piece of yellow and blue paperboard. The manager took it, glanced at it, and held it out to the woman. "The sale price," he explained, his voice kind but firm, "is in the 12 oz bag. Not the 16 oz bag."

She stared at the sign, her lips pursed. "That is not the sign that was on the cooler case before," she said, with a firm nod, and Sherlock gave up on patience, social pretense and John's continued ability to do their shopping here.

"Get out of the way."

She glanced at him, blinking in shock. Then, as if realizing she had an audience, she drew herself up, her cheeks puffing, her eyes narrowing. "I beg your pardon," she snapped.

"As well you should. You are in the way," Sherlock said, setting his milk on the counter with careful precision. "Just the milk," he told the girl behind the register, who was staring at him with wide, startled eyes.

"I haven't finished my transaction," the other shopper squawked at him, and Sherlock turned on her.

"Yes, you have. You just haven't acknowledged that you have. You see, things cost money. It's unpleasant, I understand, but things have prices. You have two choices here, madam, you can pay the price that the item costs, or you can leave without purchasing it. They-" Sherlock waved a hand at the assorted employees that were now gathered around, "have told you what the item costs. Your continued harping on what you, in some state of delusion, believe the item SHOULD cost, has little to no bearing on reality!"

He leaned in. "Pay. Or get out of my way."

In the background, someone laughed, and it was a strange counterpoint to the muzak that was going in an infinite loop of auditory hell, and the silence that had fallen all around them. The woman's eyes slid from one side to the other, her cheeks taking on a mottled pink quality of frustration or embarrassment, Sherlock wasn't sure, and he didn't care.

"Don't you try to intimidate me," she snapped at him.

"You are amazingly stupid, and I need to buy milk."

"How DARE you," she hissed out.

"Oh, I'd dare much more." Sherlock leaned a hand on the counter. "You have two children, both girls, or an unhealthy addiction to Disney Princess fruit snacks, could be either." He gave her a disdainful glance. "Could be both."

"You have a job in an office, probably an accountant specializing in either audits or tax prep judging by the fact that your grocery list is written on the back of a discarded bookkeeping page, and you hate it, judging by the sheer amount of stolen office supplies in your purse, seriously, who steals whole boxes of pens? There's also red ink below your right ear, meaning you're right handed, and you tuck your pen behind your ear when you're working, which means you're stealing whole boxes of cheap pens, which is both stupid and pathetic.

"You're on a diet based on your lousy disposition as well as the obvious orange cast to the palms of your hands; please keep in mind you cannot replace every meal with carrot sticks, and the nicotine stains on your fingertips mean that you're mixing huge doses of beta caratine with a serious two pack a day habit, so you're risking a intracerebral hemorrhage, lay off the carrots, it's not worth it. Your diet's not going well based on the fact that you ate an entire packet of HobNobs in the third aisle, the container's in your jacket pocket and there's crumbs on your lapel, and I do hope you were planning on paying for those."

"Mostly," Sherlock said, leaning in, eyes narrowed and teeth bared, "I know that you are annoying me and I would like to buy my milk. You are impeding me from doing that, so I am curious, why are we still here?"

Now the muzak was playing on its merry way alone in the silence, and the woman's face was a very unhealthy red color. No one in the other lines moved, no one spoke, and Sherlock stared the woman down. "How much is the difference in the price?" he asked, his voice soft.

The girl at the register cleared her throat. "Thirty pence," she said, and Sherlock lost it.

"You are wasting everyone's time over less than a half quid?" he said, his voice rising to dangerous levels. "I am standing here, losing life, losing braincells, bloody bored out of my mind while you squabble over thirty bloody pence?" Fumbling in his coat pocket, he pulled out a pound coin and slapped it on the counter. "Here. MAY WE GET ON WITH OUR LIVES NOW?"

The stock boy snorted on a laugh, and Sherlock turned a gimlet look on him, only to find that the boy had, at some point, pointed a camera phone in his direction. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That is just-" he managed before the woman slammed a loaf of bread off the side of his face.

Startled, he looked at her. "There's no call for-"

With a shriek, she lunged at him, swinging the loaf like a club, and the bread wrapper gave way with the force of an explosion.

Afghanistan:

"Well?" John asked as Cooper stared at the text.

"It's from someone named Lestrade? DI Lestrade?"

"Oh, that can't be good." John looked up from his postmortem examination. "What's it say?"

"S. arrested, YouTube link included. Something about milk? Lestrade.'" Cooper looked up. "That's gotta be a joke. Right?"

"Doubtful." John sighed through his mask. "Play it." He leaned down low, considering the surgical work on the abdomen. He ran the edge of his forceps across the sutures, neat and precise. Someone did good work.

"Are you mad?" Cooper said, eyebrows sky high. "Do you have any idea what that kind of data transfer will cost you out here?"

"I know someone who can fix that sort of thing," John said, grinning. "And let's not pretend that you're not curious."

"Oh, God, I am, I mean, what kind of YouTube video ends up with a man arrested for milk?" Cooper was still staring at the text as if it held far greater meaning, as if he could determine something just by studying the placement of the letters.

John finished up his examination, zipped up the body bag, and peeled off one glove, reaching out to flick the link.

"Really, this is stupid," Cooper said, taking a seat, staring at the screen as the video loaded. John, grinning, stepped up behind him, leaning against the wall.

He watched in half horror, half amusement as Sherlock berated some poor woman that got between him and his rightful milk purchase. When she slammed a loaf of bread into the side of his head, John choked on a laugh. She was still shrieking and wielding the sadly crushed and ripped bread bag when the police came running in, and Sherlock had moved on to berating the store manager, his shoulders and head covered in bread crumbs and chunks of crust.

Through the speaker, the sound was tinny and uneven, as if the person filming was trying to hide, though from the police, the manager, or Sherlock himself, it was impossible to say. "This is rubbish!" Sherlock was yelling, and it was enough to confuse the police, because they'd clearly never dealt with Sherlock, John knew it was tough the first time to figure out that he was just an overly loud bystander and not the threat.

"The blond stock boy in the cereal aisle is stealing beer, and the girl on the sixth register can't count worth a damn, so even though you do think she's stealing, she's not, she's just dumber than the average employee, and her drawer is going to be off at least sixteen pounds a shift, the crisp vendor in the blue and black uniform is changing the expiration dates on the product, and you should stock a better selection of pasta sauce, you're losing a 1.3% profit margin, what with your pasta-"

At this point, the police and the manager and Sherlock were all circling each other and Sherlock was only getting louder, his frustration with the situation mingling with what John strongly suspected was a lack of food and probably a lack of sleep. John groaned, one hand on his forehead, wanting to not look, to block his view, but it was like watching a car accident in progress, he just couldn't look away.

"Fine!" Sherlock was yelling. He fished a fistful of coins from his pocket and all but threw them in the air, stalking for the door, bottle of milk clamped under his arm like a rugby ball, and he was just LEAVING, and for some reason, the girl at the counter was the only one who didn't seem bothered or terrified by the whole thing. She just rang up Sherlock's milk and counted out the change on the counter.

"You're three pence short, sir," she called.

Sherlock paused, giving her a look, but he was reaching in his pocket, and it was too late, some overzealous officer, shaking off his confusion to figure out, yes, he knew how to deal with a shoplifter. And if Sherlock was a shoplifter, then he knew how to handle that, finally he knew what to do.

He probably didn't need to tackle Sherlock, but John didn't really blame him. Of course, one he moved, so did the other two officers, like, oh, thank god, someone knows what to do here.

The milk hit the wall and went in all directions, and Sherlock's voice came from under the pile of officers. "THIS IS WHY I DON'T GO GROCERY SHOPPING."

The video ended, and John stared down at the phone. He took a deep breath. "That," he said to Cooper, "that pretty much is why he doesn't go grocery shopping." He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Jesus, I'm going to have to find a different store. I will never be able to go back in there again."

"What the fuck did I just watch?" Cooper asked, staring at the screen, blinking. "This is a put-on, isn't it?"

"I really wish that was the case," John said on a sigh. He checked the hits on the video and groaned. "Oh, wonderful, it's gone viral."

"I cannot imagine why," Cooper said with a straight face. "That was brilliant. Absolutely loony, of course, but brilliant."

"Sorry, I need to use this." John sighed as he took the mobile from Cooper's hand. "The fact that Lestrade texted me means that it's already been handled, but still, I'd like to check."

"Does this happen often?"

"Not really. I mean, I blame you."

Cooper blinked at him. "Sir?"

"Well, you are the one who gave him directions to Tesco's..." Grinning, John leaned against the sinks as he sent a quick reply.

"Sir, that is just uncalled for." Shaking his head, Cooper tried hide a smile. "Can you sign off on these?" He handed the paperwork over to John, who paused for a second to sign the documents. "Thanks. I'll get them to Lieutenant Adams."

"Mmm." John finished his text and sent it off.

'You have my bank account info. Savings account marked bail. Let me know if he gets mandatory jail time. JW'

"Captain?"

John looked up, and tucked his phone in his pocket. "Ah, Lt. Adams, did Cooper find you?"

"No, I must've just missed him." Adams paused in the doorway. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes, thank you." John stripped off his surgical gown. "Thanks for allowing me access."

Adams looked around, his expression blank. "Your clearance is all access. I admit, though, I wasn't expecting your request." His lips quirked up. "Most people do their best to stay out of here."

"It's not my favorite location, I'll admit, but I needed to check on some things. I appreciate your discretion."

"This isn't about missing supplies, is it?" Adams asked.

John's pocket was vibrating, and he pulled it out. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but it's not something I can discuss." Checking the text, he added. "By the way, thank you for assigning Corp. Cooper to me. It's proved to be quite... Invaluable."

He glanced up, and met Adams' eyes. "I'm glad to hear it, sir," Adams said, his face expressionless. "Corp Cooper's a reliable soldier. A true asset to his unit."

"I am getting that impression." John nodded. "I'm sorry, give me a second." When Adams gave him a nod, he reread Lestrade's text.

'Mycroft's been by to pick him up. Didn't look happy. Will keep you appraised. Lestrade.'

John typed back, 'Thanks, please try to keep him away from the magistrate. It won't go well. JH."

And to Sherlock, he sent, 'We will discuss this when I get home. JW.'

Putting it away, he smiled at Adams. "Sorry about that."

"Gotta keep headquarters up to date," Adams said.

"Yes, I'm not looking forward to the paperwork that's going to be waiting for me when I get back," John said, smoothly. He spent so much time with the damn thing, it wasn't surprising that people would think he was doing something other than reminding Sherlock where the replacement light bulbs were.

For the sixth time. If he had to read one more snarky text about keeping the hard drive clean, he was not going to be responsible for his actions.

"I'm not even looking forward to the paperwork on my own desk," Adams said. "But I'm here to see if you'd like to take a break for a meal. Col. Larson would like you to join us."

Wasn't that interesting? John gave him a nod. "Thank you." His phone vibrated, and falling into step behind Adams, he checked it.

'We need milk. SH'

End chapter 2