|JumpTo|19122010|Play|

Timothy Charles Deighton and Angela Rose Deighton have been found shot dead at their home in London in the early hours of this morning, the 19th December. It appears that quite the struggle took place here and the house has been turned upside down. The bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Deighton were discovered by a friend of the family, Grace Jameson, who immediately informed the police. The 25 year old daughter of the couple, who still lived in the family home, Evelyn Freya Elizabeth Deighton is nowhere to be found. The police have got their best people on the case-

"Well they have now," Sherlock says as the doorbell rings out around the flat, cutting off the news reporter.

"Are you going to get that?" John asks, shutting his newspaper and raising an eyebrow. "Sherlock. Doorbell."

Sherlock shows no sign of having heard either John or the doorbell and instead presses his hands together, long fingers touching at the tips. He sits there, as if in prayer leaving John to heave himself to his feet, calling,

"I'm the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, too brilliant to get off my backside to answer the door," as he goes.

Sherlock hears Lestrade before he sees him- the inspector's slightly gravelly voice and the heavy footfall of his worn shoes against the wood of the stairs. Although his steps are heavy, they are significantly lighter than Johns, a sign of a man who is always on the go, one step at a time, never placing anymore than the ball of his foot on each ledge.

"You know why I'm here Sherlock, let's not waste time with pleasantries," he says in greeting. To anybody else, it could be seen as blunt, rude even, but Sherlock is thankful. Small talk has never been his forte and never will be- he knows Lestrade is there for a reason and the reason will not be unveiled if they waste their time with pathetic hedging devices.

"You don't need me Lestrade," he says, looking straight at the older man, "you don't need my help."

"Sherlock, the daughter-"

"Is missing. So file a missing persons report, that isn't my problem. Why are you here?"

"They were shot dead, Sherlock!" Lestrade says, his voice strong as if he is scolding a small child, "shot dead, in their home and their daughter is missing. These are two of the most famous musicians of our day and they were just shot. We don't know who did it, we don't know why and for all we know, it could have been the daughter."

"What a stupid assumption," Sherlock spits, rising to his feet and looking at Lestrade as if he has just said something personally offensive.

"It's actually a perfectly sound assumption," Lestrade retaliates, "the parents are dead, the only other occupant of the household is Evelyn and she's fled the scene! Her parents might have been hiding something from her, something she wanted or-"

"It is an assumption, and therefore not sound in the slightest," Sherlock says, his bored and slightly monotonous tone back in place, "I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that. I know what you're trying to do and it's not going to work."

"I don't know what you're trying to do," John pipes up from his armchair where he has been surveying the two men in slight disbelief, "and I'm still here, you know."

Sherlock turns to look at him then and begins to talk before Lestrade can even begin to process John's words.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade is trying to perform reverse psychology on me," he explains slowly, "even though he knows it won't work. He wants to pique my interest in the case." He turns back towards Lestrade now, stepping forward into his personal space, eyes flicking across his face as if speed reading a book.

"He isn't stupid," Sherlock continues, "he knows that the daughter didn't shoot her parents and he knows that I know that he knows which only leaves one option: he is being purposefully obtuse so I will follow him out of this flat and prove him wrong."

Lestrade takes a step back, shuddering slightly.

"I hate it when you do that," he says with a glare, "talking about me like I'm an object to be read."

"Aren't all people?" Sherlock asks with a nonchalant air.

"No, Sherlock," John answers, "No."

There is a heavy silence following John's blunt reply, and Sherlock knows he has said something that falls under the class of 'not so good' or 'inappropriate.' He shifts his gaze from one man to the other before finally heaving a dramatic sigh.

"I'll do it," he says with the tone of one who has just accepted something that with it comes a great burden, "consider it my Christmas present to you."

Lestrade smiles then, really smiles and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Oh don't look so pleased with yourself," he says drily, "if something better comes along then you're on your own."

"You should feel flattered," John tells Lestrade, "Sherlock doesn't believe in gift giving. I don't think he's got anyone else a present, so you should consider yourself special."

Lestrade left not long after, with the promise of getting in touch over the next few days.

"There's no point in going up there now," he had said, "there are so many people trying to extract whatever they can from the house that we won't be able to get a word in edgeways. I'll give you a call when things have quietened down."

Then he had taken his leave, stepping into the police car that had been waiting for him on the street outside.

Sherlock watches the car drive away, blue lights flashing as it disappears around the corner and out of sight.

"So, I guess you won't be bored anymore?" John tries, dropping his now crumpled newspaper onto the coffee table, "surely that's a good thing?"

Silence. Nothing but a silence that stretches on- John hovering awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen and Sherlock standing by the window, saying nothing and hardly moving.

"I'll just put the kettle on then, shall I?"

And that is the phrase that John seems to be using more often that not; the phrase that fixes everything, that snaps Sherlock out of his reverie when nothing else will.

"Tea," he now says, speaking slowly as if the word is brand new on his tongue, never said before, "yes."

"Or coffee?" John ventures, "coffee is always good if you're feeling a bit tired. I actually went shopping yesterday, there's a brand new jar in the cupboard."

"Tired, John?" Sherlock asks, turning to face his friend, "what gives you that idea?"

"Nothing," John replies quickly, "nothing, I didn't mean anything. Do you want that tea?"

"You said I might be feeling a bit tired… why did you say that?"

"It was nothing!" John holds his hands up in surrender, "It was just…" he trails off, looks at Sherlock and is unnerved by the lack of emotion he sees there.

"I'm not tired," Sherlock says quietly, "just thinking."

"Yeah," John agrees, unwilling for this conversation to go any further, "tea."

Truth be told, Sherlock's health is a constant worry to John, however hard he tries to deny it. It starts with the lack of sleep for days on end: one, two, three, four days, sometimes even more where the other man will dance around on a diet of caffeine and nicotine. When he isn't working on a case his eating patterns are slightly more acceptable, but there have been nights where John has left him hunched over his laptop, only to rise the next morning to find him in exactly the same position. The Doctor in him makes him want to say something, makes him want to voice his concern, anything to let Sherlock know that he isn't alone. But then he remembers that his words will most probably fall on deaf ears, and that it's Sherlock, he knows what he is doing.

He puts the kettle on as a reflex. He has made so many cups of tea in this kitchen, so many cups of coffee that he could do it with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back. Tap, water, kettle, boil. Mugs, tea bags, water, milk. Stir. It is the only thing that stays the same day in and day out. It is such a small thing, such an irrelevant thing, but John grasps it with both hands and holds it close. He revels in his life with Sherlock, loves the thrill of the chase, the cases, the feeling of achievement, but there are times where he needs routine. He believes this is what keep him grounded, what keeps him human and it saddens him that Sherlock finds repetitiveness tiresome. He sighs. Living with Sherlock is like nothing he had ever imagined and like nothing he will ever imagine again.

Behind him, the silence is broken and the violin begins to play.