[Sherlock is back and so am I. Sincerest apologies for the long hiatus but I'd never really abandon this story. Here's a mini chapter for you while I finish the next. Ta to everyone who is still reading. Every review and follow is what made me return and see this through. From here on I'll be trying to keep to a chapter a week schedule as much as life allows. In the interim, enjoy this little teaser.]


Chapter 9

"I thought you wanted to come. In fact, I seem to remember you being disappointed that you weren't invited in the first place." John said, straining to keep his voice calm. What he lacked in volume and vitriol he made up for in gesticulation, standing in front of his seated flatmate and waving his arms like a madman.

"Offence, not disappointment, Watson." Sherlock corrected coolly. Her use of his surname rather than his given name did not escape John's attention. "And just because I took note of the fact that I was pointedly excluded from your little gathering doesn't mean that I, in fact, want to attend."

"Then why did you say yes?!" John's voice rose with his temper. Everything about her was exasperating in that moment, from the way she sat in her armchair, feet curled up beneath her as though nothing about this argument was the least bit troublesome, to the pyjamas that seemed to childishly proclaim 'I have no intention of leaving, you can't make me'. Most infuriating of all, though, was the fact that his sister was just behind the door no doubt listening to every word exchanged.

"Equal parts boredom and curiosity. I thought that I would have nothing better to do than attend—which as it turns out was a grossly pessimistic assumption—and I was interested to see if you would, in fact, follow through with bringing me into yet another social situation rife with embarrassment for you. It appears that old dogs and middle-aged soldiers have much in common." Sherlock said in her trademark quick, biting fashion. For once she had absolutely no interest in analysing why she felt no satisfaction in goading John to anger.

"This—you—I don't fucking believe you sometimes, Sherlock. I thought..." John pinned his chin to his sternum and chuckled at himself mirthlessly, "I am an idiot, isn't that right? I thought we were friends and that just maybe you might want to act like a normal human being for one night and, even more wildly optimistically, that it might be because you had a shred of care for me. Or hell, anyone on this planet." He looked up again. "Yeah, I know. When I hear it out loud it sounds stupid to me, too. Enjoy your evening, Sherlock." John said, turning on his heel in a way that broadcast his military experience loud and clear for anyone who cared to notice. He opened the door and gave his sister a look that dared her to speak. Just this once she didn't rise to the challenge.


"Why am I doing this, again?" Sherlock asked, ceasing her pacing and turning to face Lestrade in the living room of the flat she shared with John.

"You're going to miss the party." Lestrade said with more patience in his tone than was usual when he dealt with Sherlock. He was holding up his mobile and filming her as she prowled restlessly around the room.

"Of course I'm going to miss the party. There will be people." Sherlock drawled. She had phoned up the DI shortly after John left, desperate for something to distract herself with. Instead of a case she was treated to Lestrade's version of therapy. He had incorrectly assumed that being around alcohol would be difficult for her, something that she didn't contradict because it was far neater than attempting herself genuinely. 'My brother can simply never be right if I can help it' just sounds childish, doesn't it? Well, he started it. 'I approve,' honestly. Anyway, it's simpler this way. Can't let John go getting a big head and thinking that I care more than I do. Which is very little, obviously. Certainly. Empirically. Yes.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade said to the woman's back.

"How can John be having a birthday party, anyway? All of his friends hate him and he hates his sister." Sherlock said with a huff as Lestrade snapped her out of her thoughts. The DI frowned at her and she rolled her eyes. "It's true. You only need to look at their faces. I wrote an essay on suppressed hatred in close proximity based entirely on his friends. Well, and my brother. He had his own subheading, actually." She looked away thoughtfully.

"As insightful as this look into your seriously frightening family life is, at least one of us should actually go to the party." Lestrade said. "What was your excuse again?"

"I said I had a thing." Sherlock said non-committally, avoiding the details of the one-sided fight that had resulted from her refusal to go.

"You might wanna elaborate on that." Lestrade said, still following her with the camera.

"No, no, no. Only lies have detail." Sherlock said dismissively, straightening a loose curl and looking straight into the small camera on Lestrade's mobile. She opened her mouth to speak but then sighed, turning away again. "Right, I just...I need a moment to, um, figure out what I'm going to do."

"Take your time. It's not like I have somewhere to be." Lestrade sighed quietly.

"Okay." Sherlock said after a long pause, looking back at the camera before changing her mind and sitting herself nervously in her worn armchair. She arranged her robe for a moment, trying a few different positions for her hands before returning her attention to the camera. "Okay, I'm ready now. Hello, John. I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment." Her tone was almost sincere, Lestrade noted. "I'm very busy. However, many happy returns." Sherlock said after composing herself, her expression now placid and unreadable. "Oh, and don't worry. I'm going to be with you again very soon." She put on a smirk, sly and mischievous and very well rehearsed.

"Well, that's probably the best we're going to get, innit?" Lestrade said, tapping his screen and slipping the device back into his pocket. "I'll tell John you were very busy with your...thing."

"Don't strain yourself trying to keep facts straight, Detective Inspector. I'll manage just fine." Sherlock said, springing out of her chair and walking him to the door. "You're quite certain no one has been murdered in an interesting and puzzling fashion tonight?"

"You'd be the first to know." Lestrade dead-panned. "Evening, Sherlock."

"Mmm." She hummed, shooing him out the door and resuming her pacing. "Mrs. Hudson!" She shouted abruptly. The older woman rushed into the room, clutching her dressing gown around her.

"What is it? Is everything all right?" She said breathlessly. Sherlock ignored her obvious alarm and dropped down onto the sofa, draping her arm over her eyes and crossing her ankles.

"Make us a spot of tea, will you?" Sherlock asked. "And don't disturb the beetle larvae while you're in there this time, if you don't mind."


[Thank you again for those of you who are going to stick with me. I'll try not to disappoint. If there is something specific you want to see going forward, don't hesitate to drop me a message. Cheers!]