"Breathing you in when I want you out, finding our truth in a hope of doubt. Lying inside our quiet drama. Wearing your heart like a stolen dream, opening skies with your broken keys. No one can blind us any longer." - "Spectrum" by Zedd ft Matthew Koma.


"This doesn't make sense. The note had his name scrawled on it in Janine's writing. HIS name, John." The tips of Sherlock's index and middle fingers were pressed into the dip between his bottom lip and chin. He was admittedly lost on where to go from there.

"John. Tea. Add another take of sugar if you don't mind."

Silence met the detective's ears and he flopped over from his position on the sofa. Breaking the steeple hold he had his hands in, Sherlock propped himself up, glancing around the front rooms of the flat. John wasn't there. Growling from the base of his throat, albeit sounding more akin to a smoker's death rattle, the raven haired male stood up to go and put the kettle on. His blogger had vanished and Sherlock no idea when to be expecting him again.

Where are you? SH

The text was short, but the fact that Sherlock noticed at all was a show that he was trying to be more attentive to John and that he cared, right? The consulting detective sat back down on the sofa and stared at his phone. It took near five minutes for the notification LED to flare. John must not have been too terribly busy.

Only just noticed?

Sherlock rolled his eyes sharply as he scanned the text. The older man sure enjoyed to antagonize him through phone messages; sometimes it really was tedious. Maybe a sarcastic text of his own would liven things up.

I asked for tea and I didn't get it. I assumed you were out. SH

The text alert was more hasty now; had it backfired in some way and John was mad at him? That just wouldn't do.

I'm in a meeting with my wife if you must know. We're splitting up the flat and deciding custody issues.

Ah, there was the answer. John wasn't angry with him; lawyers and sociopathic soon-to-be ex wives just seemed to get under his skin. A touch of normal conversation may put him in a better mood then.

Boring. Takeaway? Or are you going to cook tonight? SH

There was a bit of a break this time; near 20 minutes of Sherlock unlocking his phone and staring between it and the telly on the wall had passed. John seemed mildly irritated, it wasn't a good idea to text back.

I don't know, are you actually going to eat?

Sherlock read over the conversation again and rolled his eyes. Marriage, family, it was all quite the complicated mess and it was more efficient for John if the detective just stayed out of all of it. He had to admit that he definitely did feel bad for his friend... His wife and best friend both being sociopaths and having killed people (for their own benefit and not some queen-and-country shtick) in the past; surely that had to put a toll on John's mentality and judgement. Quite frankly, Sherlock had been scared for John and tried to run him, keeping him near constantly busy to, at the very least, momentarily forget the last few years.

Sherlock was of course, selfishly rejoicing in the warmth radiating from the upstairs bedroom in 221B once again. The detective really did hate himself most days. He groaned and ran a hand through his hair before standing up to catch the kettle before it made that awful whistling noise. On the way to the kitchen, there was a bit of loud shuffling and John's cat ran across the table, near knocking over a styrofoam cup from a week ago's order-in.

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock's face was twisted in disgust as he swatted the fur ball away from the garbage litering the table.

He felt a great sigh rattle his chest as he grasped at the scruff on the back of Cluedo's neck. Making sure that he would not hurt the cat, Sherlock lifted her into the air and waited for the beast to curl into a motionless lump before depositing her onto John's chair. Sherlock's nostrils flared as he watched the animal and with a miniscule shake of his head, he picked Cluedo up again and sat her on the sofa. No one was allowed in John's chair except for John, and Sherlock if John was ever gone for too long.

Going back for his cup of tea, the detective added a bit more sugar than usual. Having slept longer than he had planned, the curly haired man was a bit soured at the thought of wasted time; especially with Janine's killer roaming free. Even thinking her name made Sherlock's stomach reel in pity. She wasn't a love interest by any means, nor was she that entertaining to be around but John would have called her a good person.

Janine didn't deserve such a nasty fate, even if those grocery store tabloids were warm with his name. The grip Sherlock held on his mug grew a small fraction tighter and he sighed, sinking down into his infamous leather chair. His back was in knots and the late morning sun pouring into the windows were enough to agitate him something fierce.

Sherlock's tea was forgotten after a few mild sips and he was out of his chair, face down onto the sofa. He could feel the cogs and gears moving and clicking precisely in his head as the physical plane of reality washed away. The fabric of the pillow his face was pressed into felt akin to running your fingers through the morning fog and the silk of his dressing gown licked at his skin like the underbelly of a baby goat. Goats were by far one of the detective's favorite mammals. There wasn't much of a scientific reason behind it, but their square pupils were fascinating and while their bleating was loud and at a minority obnoxious, Mycroft truly loathed them. Wasn't that a proper reason to really enjoy anything?

Sherlock pushed that train of thought aside before it became too deep rooted and analyzed the note with his mind's eye. The slip of paper was like a perfect hologram inside his mind, every twitch of his fingers giving him the control over the hard drive that John teasingly joked had replaced his brain. He wet his lips and analyzed the crinkles in the paper, wondering if he could have possibly missed anything in the shock of finding a friend dead.

The note had a definite crease through the middle, so it had been folded for a while. That meant it was prewritten, planted. Why was it in her handwriting? Where had he seen that lavender shaded paper before? Magnusson was dead, Sherlock had made sure of that... so why would the victim have needed such expensive stationary?

A weight on his leg snapped Sherlock from his thought progress, the facts of the paper glitching away as if there were a short in a screen. With a growl, the hat detective rose from his spot, weight held up on his forearms. Cluedo was laying over his calves, looking at him expectantly. Sherlock swore under his breath and carefully turned, the cat shifting with him easily.

Sherlock's right laugh line twitched, very visibly annoyed, but didn't move to push the feline away. Instead, the genius wiggled his legs free and pulled his knees to his chin. The black and white fur held a distinct pattern, almost as if the cat was forever wearing a suit akin to the ones Sherlock was fond of. Had that been a deciding factor in John's need to bring her into their lives? A loud huff pushed from Sherlock's chest and he felt his grip loosen at the thought.

No. This wasn't okay, he had to work on the case. The ice blue eyes that Cluedo seemed to possess were near scalding his skin; the creature was beckoning his attention.

Maybe talking out loud would help more; there was a warm body in the apartment now, so that was okay, right? Mrs. Hudson would no longer give him that pitying look and inquiry about friends while John was away if he made a habit to speak to this wretched beast. Oh John Watson, you are just a glorious Angel leaving blessings to make his life easier at all twists and turns.

"Janine's death just doesn't make sense. Moriarty's name... James Moriarty... It was written on her hand writing and shoved into her mouth hours after her death. She was bludgeoned to death with a blunt tool and then her head bashed against the cement of the alley way. It was so violent. It was personal. Who, besides me theoretically, would want to harm her so severely? It just seems like an awful set up attempt. There has to be more though... Did she know Moriarty through Magnusson? There are too many open variables and it is so interesting, Cluedo."

Sherlock's shoulders were limp and his lips a hard line after he finished speaking. The new four legged flatmate watched him intently, almost as if she were earnestly listening to him. Those eyes were so captivating, even for an idiotic animal. The stormy light blue, it was so familiar, they were like peering into home after a long day, or greeting the only person you can even platonically love after being "dead" for two years. Was this why Sherlock had decided to speak to this creature? Why did the soft furry animal remind him of his renewed flatmate and best friend?

Pushing the thoughts away, secured deep in a room of his mind palace for later scrutiny, Sherlock stood to fetch his tea. The cat gave off a loud mewl and followed him despite the small distance. "You really are like your owner. Just don't kill a cabbie, we can't afford that paper work at a time like this. Mycroft would have a baby goat."