More important than this remarkably dull case, he had to decide how much he was willing to disclose. How much he needed to clarify. Moriarty knew- the sole item he chose to take and the alias had made that perfectly obvious. He was mocking him. Sherlock didn't really care what a crazed psychopath thought of him. There was only one person whose opinion he cared about.
And he wanted his beloved back.
He could lessen the impact of Moriarty's inevitable disclosure if John already knew. This was a risky proposition. They'd been through all kinds of hell together. Sherlock had faked his death for John, had actually died for John, and then had... lived for John. If anyone could understand, well, no that was expecting too much... to understand. If anyone could accept him as he was, it would be John.
Many times he had considered mentioning it. Post-case, when he felt infallible, he longed to tell him. Imagined explaining it. Imagined the response. Something like: 'Maybe your skills cause you to notice things, Sherlock. It's your bored brain reaching out for more input to save itself, tuning into things others simply don't. I'm not dispensing judgement. I've seen some pretty odd things happen in the field and I don't pretend to understand how everything in the world works.' His relationship, that was another thing entirely, though he did occasionally feel brazen enough to attempt disclosing that as well. Sherlock sighed.
The last time someone (Sally) skirted the edges of this discovery on their own, she had called him a freak. I know your lips aren't moving, but I could swear it looks like you are actually trying to talk to that knife!? Up until that time, he had almost considered her a friend. Their sardonic wit meshed well, until it was directed at him. Anderson had just gone off nonstop on the unprofessionalism of his contaminating a crime scene by refusing to wear a hazmat suit...a barrier between him and the objects at the scene. If he could pick up on anything, he wasn't about to hamper it by presenting any emotional or physical obstacles.
He hadn't tried to actually explain this in a very long time. Not since Mycroft. Not since the time when he thought everyone had a beloved object and had simply asked his brother which his was. No, Myc, that's just a toy. I don't mean what's your favorite plaything... I mean... And his world changed.
"Two glasses, one removed, note the mark on the table. The wine is drugged. I highly doubt there are fingerprints on the glass, but it is possible. Search nearby dumpsters for a blue silk tie similar in colour to this scarf. You might find a wine glass, too. Interview male coworkers, same age as victim, possibly younger. Hipster fashion sense. I'd check those working in IT first."
"I suppose asking how is..."
"I don't run a remediary school for detectives, Lestrade. And I have far more pressing concerns than a four. Good day." John followed him out.
In the cab, John continued to gaze at him with a mixture of wonder and admiration.
"The scarf was wrapped oddly, but the fibers were key. Very close to the same colour and material as what she was strangled with, but not precisely right. She was not originally wearing a scarf. The colour scheme was all wrong, and that entire flat was perfectly coordinated. It wasn't as if she had brought in a fashion designer either... even the fresh flowers were the right colour. Everything she was wearing was red with white accents. Adding blue just made her look like a ridiculous parody of the flag. The scarf was musty, was removed from the back of her closet and wrapped around her neck, the murder weapon was removed from the room, the same colour and fabric would mean bright blue silk menswear which suggests a tie and a rather garish one at that, so a bolder fashion statement... a younger man of eccentric taste." And the scarf also told me it didn't belong there. But it didn't matter. I already knew that. Even in his own head that confession sounded worthy of Sebastian's dismissive "parlour tricks" comment.
