Sharp – What's that odd buzzing sound. Oh, yes, it's Sherlock...

DISCLAIMER: We all know this by now, they are not mine. Can you imagine the fun I'd be having if they were?


John's coat was dumped unceremoniously on the pile of outdoor wear behind the flat door. The coat stand was overloaded as it was and he did not intend to waste any of his remaining reserve of energy trying to jam his jacket onto it. Sherlock was home, perched stiffly on the edge of the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees, his fingers twitching in the air in front of him.

John frowned suspiciously. He was practically buzzing. Knees bouncing with ill-contained energy. A few further steps added to his concerns. His smooth forehead was damp with sweat, a condition Sherlock would never knowingly tolerate. And one look at his eyes, pupils blown wide into dark pulsating pools, confirmed John's fears. He was high as a kite on a windy autumn morning.

"Christ!"

"John?" Sherlock looked shocked to see him. He had been deep in the basements of his mind palace, apparently. He waved him away casually, swatting at him like an errant fly, "Not now."

John's own eyes narrowed. One sleeve was rolled slightly more unevenly than the other. That was surprisingly lax on the other man's part, but informed him that it was injected this time. "Where is it?"

"John, I only have approximately twelve minutes left of this. Don't ruin it with your inane questions."

John looked around, as if Sherlock would have been stupid enough to leave any other evidence that he could spot. His eyes came to rest on the note on the table. The smart italics scrawled across the expensive weighty paper. The clue, the threat, the trigger for Sherlock's momentary relapse.

"What is this, an evil genius free-for-all? You bring down one and he tag teams another?"

Sherlock seemed to ignore him, swirling a triumphant hand in the air, "What we need is a butterfly net!"

"What I need is a break." John huffed and shuffled tiredly towards the kitchen, his usual determined march subdued. Apart from registering his presence and initial question Sherlock had paid no attention to him whatsoever. Or so he thought.

"It's in the bathroom light switch."

"Eh?" That was even more cryptic than usual.

"Your break." Sherlock swept from the sofa and slipped his coat on in one smooth practised movement. "A fool, this one, not a genius."

"You can't go out; you're off your face!"

"Really, do give it a rest." And he was gone.

John wrestled a chair along the hallway and used it to reach the bathroom light switch. Ridiculous really, who knew what the maniac had been talking about? If it had anything to do with butterfly nets John would eat his hat. Or he would if he owned one. Hats never really suited him.

The switch was a plastic compartment on the ceiling with a long cord hanging. The screws were easily twisted out, and as he gently lowered the cap, even he had to admit the genius of the hiding place. The bag of white powder was folded carefully into the plastic shell. It was alone, there was no other paraphernalia, but it was enough for John. Why on Earth had Sherlock given this up to him? He must have more, this was probably a tiny portion of his stash and he was surrendering it to keep John happy. And quiet. He re-fixed the switch and returned the chair to the kitchen table before sitting on it and staring at the packet in front of him.

A cup of tea later he was no closer to a decision. He should dispose of it really, wash it down the sink or something. But would that be an abuse of the trust Sherlock had shown telling him of the location? Or was that what he wanted John to do, get rid of it? Though there was quite a lot of money's worth there...

"John?" Sherlock was there behind him then, looking a little worse for wear. And a tiny bit ashamed.

"Did you sort it out?"

"The note? Yes."

"With a butterfly net?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Well, erm, that was more of a metaphor really..."

John snorted, "You mean you were completely flying and had no idea what you were talking about?"

"It made sense to me at the time. And it worked, so there you are. That's what I was aiming for." Sherlock sat down opposite John and slumped his head onto his arms on the table.

"Why did you tell me where it was? Is this all of it?"

"Yes." Muffled.

"And again, why did you tell me?"John pressed.

"Because you asked. Because I knew I'd done something terrible from the look on your face and that it mattered to you."Sherlock's head twisted at his words and John could tell what face he was pulling. The one that meant he thought John was ridiculous for caring.

Regardless he relaxed a little at the admission. "It does matter to me. I know you must have thought you needed it, but if you'd just been a bit more patient you would have got there without it."

Sherlock peeped up over his forearm, one eye focussing tiredly on John through a flopping curl dangling over his forehead. It was a sheepish eye, if eyes can be sheepish on their own. Then it was joined by a sheepish voice, "Actually, it was you that solved it for me."

John's eyebrows almost met his hairline.

"It was your tag-team comment..."

"And this?" John pointed to the cocaine sitting between them.

"Oh, flush the damn thing down the toilet if it pleases you, John." Sherlock sighed and closed the sheepish eye.


Seem to be slowing down with this one a little as I get lots more ideas for other things. But will keep it going, as I am totally in love with the idea of Sherlock's little surprises...

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