The case was enough to occupy Sherlock's agitated mind. A man whose name was unknown seemed a plausible suspect however Sherlock had found, as the case progressed, that he was often distracted by the presence of John. On normal occasions, John would sit in the room while he was working or even mindlessly talk at him and Sherlock would not give him more than another thought; now, however, it seemed things had changed. Therefore, to keep his mind focussed on being properly distracted, he had sent John off to uncover the name of the obvious suspect. Sherlock knew, of course, that there were more pressing things than knowing the man's name, he merely wanted John out of the house – until he returned at nine o'clock in the evening, that is.
'Sherlock,' said John, unable to fight the grin of triumph tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Sherlock, as expected, did not look up from his computer screen and his hands remained clasped underneath his chin. The blue-white light emanating from the screen washed his face in a somewhat sickly pallor, though John couldn't help but notice how it threw the contours of his cheekbones into complimenting definition.
'Sherlock,' John repeated. 'I've found out his name, and it was right under our noses!'
'Oh yes?' inquired Sherlock, his sharp eyes flicking to John's ecstatic face.
John's voice trembled slightly with excitement as he announced, 'His name is Darling, Justin Darling, and the woman who lives with him who we thought was his lover is in fact only his attendant – she was merely addressing him by his last name.'
Sherlock's expression remained completely passive as the bombshell of information dissipated into silence. John's smile flickered slightly as the possibility that Sherlock had figured this out already occurred to him – in fact, of course Sherlock knew this, he probably knew it days ago and just didn't bother to tell him. Why would he bother to tell him? Come to think of it, he was probably thinking John a moron for taking so long. Oh how depressingly predictable this had all become. Moments ticked by as the two stared as though fixated at one another, John waiting for something to happen, Sherlock immersed in his whirring thoughts that had promptly gone into overdrive.
Suddenly, he got to his feet, pushing the chair roughly aside, and began pacing furiously up and down the length of the cluttered room.
'Sherlock –,' John began, but Sherlock's intermittent muttering silenced him.
'Of course,' Sherlock murmured to himself. 'Of course, it all makes sense, how didn't I see it before? Edith has been calling him Darling for weeks merely as a polite title for her employer. If the man is Justin Darling then he couldn't have been at the crime scene on Tuesday night due to the fact that his name was enlisted in a reserved restaurant booking which he attended from seven forty pm until ten sharp after which he returned to his guest's apartment for wine – no, his lover's apartment, a lover who had just returned from the Canary Islands but three days ago yet obviously Mister Darling had not cared to see her –'
'Yes, but how do you –'
'Because you and I both know he isn't interested in her, not really,' Sherlock continued, firing off thoughts as they came into his head. 'If he was he would have seen her earlier or even picked her up from the airport, and he only ate lightly and skipped dessert –'
'He could be on a diet,' John suggested dryly.
'No, he was in a hurry, he didn't want to be there because clearly he's only in the relationship for sex so he was quick to finish the meal so that they could return to her apartment; that and he is clearly more in love with his job than with any woman. But then why would he call the other woman as often as he does?'
'Which other –?'
'You know what I'm talking about, the woman that he so abhors yet keeps on the bell despite his legitimate lover's stereotypical physical appeal –'
'Sherlock, stop – just stop it!' John burst out suddenly, and Sherlock immediately stopped pacing.
Under Sherlock's half-sharp half-inquisitive gaze, John's frustration fizzled into embarrassment and that familiar feeling of inadequacy crept into the edges of his mind; however, his face was set as he looked resolutely up at his partner.
'You know you have to talk me through these things,' John continued, in a more measured tone. 'I – I can't keep following when you're sprinting off along a – mind tangent, you're too fast for me.'
'"Mind tangent"?' Sherlock repeated, and his eyebrows raised as he flashed a smirk at the term. He resumed his pacing. 'Apologies, John,' he said indifferently. 'I am afraid, as you are well aware, that my thoughts have a habit of running away with me.'
John sighed and fell back into the squashy armchair.
'I know,' he said softly, and something in his voice made Sherlock's ears prick.
The detective's gait slowed as he looked at John who appeared especially small and somehow depleted in the armchair, dejection written all over his face. Dejection why? Dejection from his friend's dismissal of his hard-won information, for the lack of praise or acknowledgement – the lack of appreciation. For some reason, some slightly alarming reason, Sherlock found himself regretting his attitude and wishing he had at least had the heart to clap John on the shoulder and say "well done". Why was it always John that could get under his skin so? It was always John that could make him feel regret, and self-directed anger and disappointment. It was always John that could make him believe it was worth it, that completing these cases no matter how seemingly trivial or pointless was worth all the effort just to be able to work by his side, as a comrade, a partner, even as a friend.
'It's always John,' he whispered aloud.
'What?'
Reality suddenly pinged into high-definition and Sherlock humbled himself to sit opposite John by the fire. His back was erect and trepidation rippled between them. John frowned slightly.
'I am sorry,' said Sherlock boldly, though it was a little too forced. 'That was very clever deduction on your part, and I thank you for your contribution.'
John's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
'Are you mocking me?' he asked brusquely.
Sherlock bit back a sigh of exasperation and got to his feet again, feeling more agitated due to his foolishness than before. John shook his head to dismiss his strange behaviour as being ordinary and, too, got up.
'Tea?' he asked.
'Please,' nodded Sherlock.
