Chapter 7

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock; all rights go to the BBC and Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss. I do not intend to be in breach of copyright.

A/N: HIYA! 2 chapters in 2 days aren't I wonderful! I hope you enjoy this, guys!

CAUTION: Violence, language, slight Johnlock and some angst.

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Sherlock was bored. Not the usual form of boredom, but he was bored all the same. John and Mycroft hadn't let him out of the flat for two weeks. It was the only thing the pair had agreed on since Sherlock's return. The detective smiled as he replayed their first encounter...

There was a sharp rap at the door. John peered over his newspaper before sighing and heaving himself out of the armchair. I think I had been composing some music, though John was refusing to let me play, headaches are not cured by 'screeching violins', apparently. I watched as he plodded to the door and pulled it open.

"Ah, John! How are you?" my brother's voice washing over me. I hadn't heard him properly for years, only brief phone calls, and they weren't nearly as much fun as seeing the cake-swallower in person. He sounded like he had just spent a few hours ranting at Anthea about something. Probably me. Or Mother. I turned around from the window just in time to see John's arm lash forward. I heard rather than saw the semi-satisfying sound of knuckles on flesh.

John's face was a mixture of pain, pleasure and disgust; luckily not directed at me this time. He shook his arm and rubbed at his knuckles gently, soothing them after the blow.

"You know what Mycroft, I feel a lot better now." And with that, John stalked off into his bedroom, surreptitiously trying to sneak a glance at my reaction; though why he would be bothered, I'm not sure. I suppose he needed reassurance that I wasn't going to yell at him for punching my brother. If anything I felt an overwhelming sense of jealousy. I'd wanted to punch Mycroft for years.

A soft groan directed my attention away from my still fuming flatmate. Mycroft had crawled on to the sofa with his hand cupping his cheek. I had never seen my brother looking quite so dishevelled. What was left of his hair was rumpled; his shirt had blood stains, and his ever perpetually present umbrella was unleashed from its bindings.

"Get me some ice, Sherlock."

"No. You know where the freezer is."

"Get me the ice."

"Nope."

"SHERLOCK!"

Mycroft had been wary around John ever since. I think he underestimated the army doctor's right hook.

Sherlock launched himself up from where he had been laying on the sofa, and started pacing around the flat. John had left about an hour ago; he had gone to the shop for 'vital supplies'. Though what was so important about biscuits and jam, Sherlock would never know.

"BORED!" The detective roared the word, saying it like it was an expletive. He started muttering about how Lestrade should have sorted out the stack of cold case files, and that John should at least taken him out to the park, just so he could do some simple deducing. There's no fun in deducing things around the flat, they're so BORING! Oh sorry skull...

After pacing around the flat several more times, Sherlock decided that he wasn't going to wait for John any longer. Grinning like a maniac, the detective whirled around the stairs, abruptly coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.

"Going somewhere?"

Sherlock groaned. Damn it, John!

"Please let me go outside! Please!"

"Nope, not until Lestrade and your bastard of a brother give the all clear. Besides, if you were going outside, don't you think it would be a good idea to put some clothes on?" John sniggered at the detectives crestfallen face, as he realised that John might actually have a point, as he was still in his blue silk dressing gown and pyjamas. "Oh, and as you're going straight back upstairs, you can help take in the shopping."

Sherlock groaned again, making sure that his displeasure was clear. He snatched the bags from John and stormed back upstairs. When he reached the kitchen he slammed the bags on the side.

"There were eggs in there!"

"'Were' being the operative word in that sentence, John. You should have thought about that before you forced me back inside." Sherlock huffed, before resuming his normal position on the sofa, though he did guiltily check that John wasn't truly angry. When he ascertained that John was more amused than cross, he laced his fingers under his chin and began his most favourite activity in the world.

Deducing John.

"So, was she pretty?"

"Huh?" The articulate reply came from the hidden depths of the fridge.

"Was. She. Pretty?"

John waltzed slowly to the entrance to the sitting room and leant against the doorframe. "Go on."

"What?"

"I know you're dying to tell me exactly how you knew."

"You know, you take the fun out of it, when you invite the deduction. I keep you around for the obligatory 'brilliant' and 'amazing'. But if you're not going to play ball, I shall simply try and repeat the sulphuric acid experiment."

John's eyes widened in terror, that experiment had left the flat reeking for weeks. "Sorry, let me remedy my original statement." He coughed, before beginning again. "How did you know that?" There was only a small trace of sarcasm hidden in John's voice, but the detective let it slide.

"Well, firstly I saw the hair on your jumper; far too dark to be one of yours and far too long to be one of mine. Next it was the red wine and steaks that you had in the carrier bags; you only buy red wine when you're expecting company and steaks to make you appear more masculine – that doesn't work by the way. And you have pushed your sleeves of your jumper up to your elbows, exposing more skin in order to show that you are tougher than the average male. Again that doesn't work; the entire fact that you are wearing a jumper contradicts the display. Finally, you have put your phone into your back pocket, which is different to normal, you only put it in the back pocket after talking to women, I think it's some sort of mating ritual to show off your muscular chest."

"Amazing." This time, John was legitimately impressed with the detective's skills. Sherlock grinned at the praise and closed his eyes in satisfaction.

"So, was she pretty?"

"I didn't really think that this was your area, Sherlock. But yes, since you insist on asking, she's pretty. And she's a primary school teacher."

Sherlock felt something akin to disappointment at the doctor's words. The fleeting emotion was only there for a moment, it was almost gone too quickly for Sherlock to grasp it. But he held on to it with two hands, before realising what the feeling was. His eyes flashed with shock before pulling the walls up again.

John, being uncannily attentive, noticed the fleeting look, but he interpreted it as shock that John could get the number of a good-looking woman. He narrowed his blue eyes at Sherlock, who was now horizontal on their sofa, and returned to putting away the shopping.

"John?"

"What now Sherlock?"

"Did you get any jam?"

...

"Oh fuck it!"

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Lestrade was just putting the final cases in a large cardboard box when there was a knock on his office door. He whirled around, ready to yell at the person who had disturbed him this time. I specifically told Donovan not to let anyone in!

"Lestrade, have you finished with that box yet? I don't think that I can make him wait any longer. God knows that I can't. He blew up the toaster, again."

The familiar voice immediately calmed the Detective Inspector. He shot John a weary smile, "He must be driving you nuts, and being cooped up in the flat must be a nightmare for him."

"That is probably one of the biggest understatements I've ever heard. We've gone through five toasters and two microwaves in the past three weeks. I'm sick of all the damn experiments mucking up my kitchen!" John shook his head at the memory of some of the wilder experiments Sherlock had been insisting on recently.

"Luckily for you, I've just finished putting together a whole stack of the toughest cold case files we had." Greg smiled at the look of relief that crossed the man's face. John definitely looks a lot happier; I've missed all the sarcastic remarks about Sherlock. He looks almost whole again, now that he's back. I could never have made things any better. I never expected to but... I hope that John can find it in his heart to forgive Sherlock for leaving. God knows if he has forgiven me for my part in it.

"So has he told you anything yet?"

The Detective Inspector regretted the words as soon as they'd left his mouth. John's entire demeanour became wary and distant. The face of the depressed John Watson returned, the hurt in his eyes clearly visible.

"No. I haven't asked. I can't... I just..." The army doctor trailed off, unable to voice the desolation that hid just behind the heart.

"I'm sorry John. I shouldn't have said anything."

John nodded at Lestrade's apology, ran his hands through his hair, in an attempt to shake off the dejected feeling. He held out his hands for the box, all of a sudden wanting nothing more than to get out of the Yard. Lestrade complied, feeling John's need to escape the horrid atmosphere that had blossomed suddenly.

"Thanks, Lestrade. It'll mean a lot to him." And with that, John Watson walked out of the office.

The D.I. watched the back of the infamous army doctor retreat down the hall, worrying about how broken John really was. Out of sight, behind the joyful exterior, Lestrade had seen the desolation that lurked there.

He feared that it would never leave.

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A/N: Please review as always. I thought it was time for some Lestrade. And I've always wanted to see someone punch the British government. :D