"Bored."

John was sitting at the table in the living room, index fingers laboriously picking out the keys as he typed, until Sherlock's complaint broke his train of thought yet again. He huffed out a breath and looked around, casting an exasperated glare at the back of his flatmate's head. The man had been pacing the flat all morning and was now practically vibrating in his armchair.

"No, you're not," he said, before turning back to his laptop.

Sherlock twisted round to regard him curiously, momentarily diverted by the unexpected response. "I may not experience the full range of emotions which you seem to find necessary," his tone was disdainful, "but I believe that I am sufficiently familiar with the feeling of boredom to recognise its all too frequent appearance."

"You're not bored, you're frustrated," John replied, still focused on the screen of his laptop and trying to remember what he had been about to write.

Sherlock said nothing, but he said it in such a way that John found it impossible to concentrate. Sighing, he gave up on his blog for now and turned to meet that inquisitive gaze.

"If you were truly bored, you wouldn't have got dressed," he pointed out, enjoying the slight rise of Sherlock's eyebrows at his deduction. "You're perched on the edge of that seat, waiting for Lestrade to relent and call you in over this 'Week-Ender' case, and ready to leap into action if he does." He smiled at the resultant indignant look. "After the obligatory show of indifference, of course," he added.

Sherlock was torn between pride and petulance, not that he would have admitted to either. He turned back around and deliberately settled more comfortably into his chair, forcing his restless limbs to be still.

That lasted for two and a half minutes.

"One more body should do it," he announced, fingers now drumming against the armrests. "The media are already in a frenzy after three and the police are fobbing them off. One more should tip the scales." He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. "Is that too much to ask?"

John was uncomfortably aware that this sentiment would once have shocked him. Sometimes he worried that instead of raising Sherlock's understanding of acceptable behaviour, their prolonged association was merely diminishing his own.

"So, we're actually hoping for someone to be stabbed to death now, are we?" he asked, feeling that a token protest should be made.

"Hope is irrelevant," Sherlock replied, waving his arm irritably. "Today is Monday. The murder has already happened. We're just waiting for someone to find the body."

"Perhaps there isn't one?" John suggested. "It might have stopped."

Sherlock snorted. "Serial killers do not stop," he advised scornfully. "Really, John, have you learned nothing? And as the police seem to be no nearer, despite having three bodies and three crime scenes to play with, this one is clearly going to be fun."

John closed his eyes and silently counted to five, then exhaled.

Sherlock smiled, without looking round. "You used to count to ten," he observed. "You're getting used to me."

"God help me," said John.

Footsteps on the stairs drew their attention and Mrs Hudson appeared, tapping on the open door as she always did, despite clearly being able to see that both men were looking at her.

"Morning, boys," she said, sharing a fond smile between the two of them. "Peter's just got back and he's popping to Tesco's, do you want anything?"

John's eyes widened and he jumped to his feet, heading for the kitchen. If Sherlock was right - and John certainly wasn't going to bet against him - then they could be off on a big case before long, which would leave precious little time for anything the great detective deemed 'non-essential'... like food shopping.

"How's he getting on, your Peter?" he asked, as he checked the fridge contents. "Any luck finding a job yet?"

Mrs Hudson sighed. In some ways it was nice to have her nephew around; he was company in the evenings and she did feel safer with a man in the house, since Lord knows where these two were half the time. She threw an affectionate glance at Sherlock as she followed the doctor into the kitchen.

On the other hand, it wasn't easy to go back to sharing your living space once you'd got used to pleasing yourself, and having the telly constantly tuned to the sports channel was beginning to wear her down.

"Nothing so far," she replied, regretfully. "It's been a month now since he got to London; I think the poor boy's finding it harder than he expected." She shook her head. "I blame the government."

Sherlock smirked. "I'll tell him," he murmured, and Mrs Hudson gave him another fond, but uncomprehending, smile.

"Milk, definitely," declared John, voice slightly muffled as he rooted around in the fridge, his gaze expertly sliding over the various non-food items without taking in the details. "Also bread. A packet of bacon, and..." he re-emerged and opened the cupboard labelled 'Food Only', "yes, some honey. It doesn't matter what kind."

Safely unobserved in his armchair, Sherlock rolled his eyes. When John had finally noticed that a disproportionate number of the books on their shelves related to apiculture, he had made the completely illogical assumption that Sherlock liked honey, and now made sure of a constant supply.

It was ridiculous. There was absolutely no evidence to suggest that only people who enjoyed honey were interested in bee-keeping, any more than one could assume that dairy farmers were unusually fond of milk. Sherlock had naturally pointed out to John the absurdity of his conclusion, but the man had taken no notice, he just kept buying the damned stuff and whipping it out whenever he determined that not enough calories were being consumed.

The fact that Sherlock did, actually, like honey very much made the whole thing much more annoying.

Unable to sit still any longer, he got up and moved to the window, staring down at the singular lack of police cars in the street below. Behind him, John cleared his throat. "Er, Sherlock," he started.

"Back pocket." There was a pause, during which Sherlock made no movement to get his wallet out himself.

John huffed as he noted the slight bulge breaking the line of Sherlock's suit. The bloody man knew damned well there was no other cash in the flat - he'd probably pocketed it deliberately to see what would happen. It had taken John a while to realise that he was being experimented on between cases; sometimes he looked back on his day and tried to count all the hoops he'd jumped through.

Fine. He stepped forward, yanking up the back of Sherlock's jacket and tugging the wallet out. "Inappropriate!" he hissed, before stomping back to Mrs Hudson, who was smiling widely.

Sherlock's lips twitched, but the amusement faded as he got lost in his head again, dimly aware of the transaction taking place behind him, then of John puttering around the kitchen as Mrs Hudson retreated back downstairs.

The front door banged and he looked down on Peter's dark head as he emerged and slouched off towards the shops. It was hardly surprising that the man couldn't find a decent job; he inevitably looked as if wherever he happened to find himself was the place he least wanted to be.

"Why do you think Mrs Hudson always insists on calling me 'Doctor Watson'?" John asked, dropping down into his armchair. "She calls you 'Sherlock', after all." There was no response and he propped his chin on his hand, thinking about it. "I suppose she's known you longer," he mused, "but what about the neighbours? She's lived next door to Mrs Turner for years and still calls her 'Mrs Turner', but Tim gets his first name and the same went for Adrian, so it's not you that's the exception."

Still nothing. "Sherlock?" he prompted. "Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock glanced round from the window, mentally hitting rewind and registering John's words. "Oh, it's status," he said, turning back to gaze disconsolately at the empty street once more.

"Status?"

Sherlock sighed, then moved back to his armchair. Explanations. Dull. "Ongoing rivalry," he elaborated. "Mrs Turner had a university lecturer lodging with her last year and it was always 'Professor this' and 'Professor that'." He paused. "I'm quoting here, obviously."

"Obviously."

He narrowed his eyes at John, but continued. "When you moved in, Mrs Turner had a hairdresser and a ..." He shook his head. "Sorry, what was the other one? Must have deleted it."

"Adrian worked at Barclays," John replied.

"There you are then," Sherlock finished. "Doctor trumps bank clerk. One up for Mrs Hudson." He got out his mobile, staring at it hopefully. "You would think, after three linked murders, that people would be checking on colleagues who fail to arrive at work on Monday morning," he complained. "So much for humanity."

John rolled his eyes. "That's rich, coming from you," he said. "Anyway, how do you know the next victim should be at work today? They seem to have been selected at random so far."

Sherlock glared at him. "Nothing is random," he snapped. "This killer is organised - just because the police can't see a connection doesn't mean..." He stopped, tipping his head to one side. "Are you being deliberately obtuse just to distract me?" he demanded.

John looked blandly back, then raised his eyebrows. "Is it working?"

Sherlock groaned and leaned forward, ruffling his fingers through his hair. "I should be on this case," he moaned. "Finally, something interesting and I'm just sitting here. It's intolerable!"

"Well you should have thought about that before you pissed off half of Scotland Yard, shouldn't you?" replied John, ignoring the resultant snarl. "Cause and effect, Sherlock, you're not immune, you know."

There was no response and John gazed at the bowed head of the lunatic he lived with. Sherlock looked miserable. There was no 'glass half full or half empty' with him - it was always either overflowing or completely barren. John found himself contemplating ways of getting Lestrade to change his mind, but when Mycroft's name popped into his head he quickly pulled the plug on the whole idea.

He stretched his leg out and nudged Sherlock's foot. "Hey," he soothed. "Like you said, I'm sure it's only a matter of time." Sherlock just grunted; John persevered. "So what's the connection, if there is one?" he asked. "So far we've had an office manager in his twenties, a thirty-five year old legal secretary, and a recovering alcoholic who worked in a call centre. That's a man, a woman and another man, one gay and two straight, two …"

"Yes, all right," interrupted Sherlock. "One white, one black and one verging on yellow - you could go on all day."

"I think the yellow was probably jaundice," John observed. "Either that or it was a really bad photo."

Sherlock groaned again. "That's exactly it, I need accurate information! Even just to see the bodies would be useful." He looked up, hopefully. "Do you think Molly would..."

"You are joking?" John gaped at him. "After your stunt with the organ swapping? Even Molly's not going to succumb to your dubious charms so soon after that effort."

"But I needed a fresh one!" Sherlock protested, throwing himself backwards so that he was stretched out in his chair. "And my charms are not dubious," he added, as an afterthought.

"Try fictitious," muttered John under his breath, then exhaled in relief as the window was momentarily bathed in blue light, which blinked out, then flashed back on again. He looked at Sherlock, who had his head tipped back and his eyes closed; the very picture of despondency.

"Time to wheel out that fake civility," he suggested, anticipation fizzing at the edges of his voice. "You don't want to get thrown back off the case before you've had a good crack at it."

Sherlock opened one eye, and then the other. He sat up, muscles tensing, and John watched as every brain cell suddenly refocused and switched into the 'on' position, energy seeming to crackle under his skin as they heard Mrs Hudson open the front door.

Curbing his urge to jump up, Sherlock instead leaned forward and gripped John's forearm, face alight with unholy glee. "John," he said, and his voice was low and intense as their gazes met.

John nodded, eyes bright but steady. "Play nice," he warned, as Sherlock squeezed briefly then let go and sat back in his chair, wiping his expression just as Lestrade appeared in the doorway.

For a long moment they stared at each other, then Sherlock quirked a brow.

"So, you found her."

A.N.

I'm aiming to update this story every Monday. Grateful thanks to my Beta and friend Ariane DeVere, who improved this chapter significantly.