The next morning, Sherlock struggled to stumble out of his bedroom, the light filtering through the windows of the flat proving to be too much for his sensitive pupils. He squinted his eyes and attempted to shield them as he made his way to the curtains, but his clouded mind miscalculated the distance between his foot and the rug and in seconds he was laying face first on the floor. He let out a groan as pain shot through his head like bolts of lightning.
"Sherlock?" came John's drowsy but concerned voice from somewhere in the distance. Sherlock groaned again as his partner's voice rattled in his skull. He gave a muffled sound in response, not wanting to lift his head from its place, buried in the fuzzy carpet. John tripped on the last few stairs down to the flat and barely caught his balance in time. He rubbed his eyes harshly, as he walked in, to clear the fog from them.
"I heard a loud thump. Are you al-" he was cut off as the sun hit him at full force and caused him to stagger.
"Oh Jesus that is bright," he mumbled and rubbed his eyes again. When he finally got the courage to open them, he noticed Sherlock in his robe, lying on the floor like a stiff plank of wood.
"Wait, why are you on the rug?" he asked with slight confusion through narrowed eyes. Sherlock turned his head to the side, his eyes screwed shut.
"Wine, John."
John chuckled and shook his head. Apparently they were real light weights if half a bottle of wine each was enough to give them a decent hangover the next day. He wasn't exactly surprised that was the case with Sherlock, after all, the man hardly ever drank because according to him, it impaired his mental deductions. John, on the other hand, did drink on occasion, and having after effects was unusual for him. Frequently, he went to bars to pick up girls, and rarely did he end up with a pounding headache in the morning. Except he wasn't drinking with a casual flirt last night, he was drinking with the consulting detective. Nothing about that could be measurable with a standard, too many variables were involved, as Sherlock would say. For example, they were incredibly tired and physically worn out, which could have easily been a factor. Also, what kind of wine Angelo chose to serve was completely unknown, and for all they were aware it could have been a bad batch. But, even if it had been a normal bottle, Sherlock could have slipped some kind of drug into it for the name of science. The doctor was uncomfortable with the last theory and really hoped it wasn't true. He really hoped their relationship had some kind of proprietary boundary, at least to the point where experiments must be participated in knowingly and voluntarily.
He ignored his theories and his throbbing head, persevering towards the windows so he could draw the curtains closed. An audible sound of relief came from Sherlock as the darkness comforted him. John walked over to the man and smiled as he nudged him with his sock clad foot.
"C'mon Sherlock, get up," he commanded but it came off as more of a gentle coaxing. There was a heavy sigh from the tall man, his body tensing and then going limp as he inhaled and exhaled the breath. The doctor pulled up on the back of his robe and Sherlock stumbled backward onto his feet. Immediately after, he fell into John's armchair, a scowl on his face.
"Oh don't give me that look. Stop being so moody. I'll make you something for your hangover," John told him as he walked into the kitchen. Sherlock continued to scowl but mostly out of stubborn habit. He watched John out of the corner of his eyes as he made coffee and opened the fridge to look for breakfast ingredients. The doctor let out a gasp as he saw a decayed face staring at him and slammed the door of the fridge shut. John pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head in frustration. Sherlock smirked.
John had finally had enough of the joke and calmly stomped over to the man in the armchair, his posture stiffening into his military pose. He stood directly in front of the curly headed man, who looked at him blankly. John's face was stony, he refused to blink which frankly scared Sherlock. He furrowed his brows in response, challenging the doctor. That seemed to break him.
With a steady voice, John lowly uttered, "If that...thing, isn't out of the fridge by the end of the day, there's going to be two corpses in this flat."
Sherlock stared at John's lips as he threatened and then looked away indifferently, rapping his fingers on the armrest.
"I still have a hangover," he replied blandly. John huffed, straightened up, and headed back into the kitchen. Since most of the ingredients for his hangover concoction were sitting on the kitchen table with a strange odor emanating from them, he decided to stick with very dark coffee as an alternative. He made sure to make as much noise as possible when he grabbed two mugs from the cupboard, dropped them on the counter, and slammed the cupboard closed again. Sherlock winced at each sound which made John smirk in satisfaction. To him, the pain was worth getting back at the smug bastard. He brought the steaming mugs over to the armchairs and handed the man his coffee before sitting down across from him.
"Lestrade sent me a text last night, about the bodies," John told him over a sip of coffee. Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed in response, clearly not in the mindset to think about the case yet.
"He said to come down there as soon as we can, so finish your coffee and get dressed. I want to grab a bite to eat on the way out."
Sherlock groaned with annoyance in response.
"Lestrade is not my keeper," he grumbled.
Oh not this again. He's going to directly defy Greg to make a silly point, John thought, There's no purpose to arguing against it. He'll just be rude when he does arrive.
"Alright, fine, what are we going to do then?" he questioned his partner seriously.
"Hartford," he mumbled. John furrowed his brows in confusion.
"Sorry?" he asked. Sherlock sighed, opened his eyes and sat up. He took his phone from his robe pocket and pulled up a picture.
"Bruce Hartford, the art gallery director who mysteriously showed up at Meredith's grand opening," he clarified and showed the picture to John. His partner narrowed his eyes as he studied it. The man in the picture had dark hair, turning silver. He appeared distinguished, as could be seen in his fitted suit, but somehow...brutish. Perhaps it was his stature, or perhaps it was his grim expression, but it made one uneasy.
"Yes," John nodded, "I recognize him. I looked him up yesterday. His gallery is undergoing renovations."
"Interesting," Sherlock said and put his mobile away.
"But we are going to see Lestrade just after, right?" John asked in a tone that suggested it was not a question. Sherlock gave a single nod and stared in the direction of the covered window.
"Right," he agreed simply and drank his coffee.
After getting ready and leaving the flat, John persuaded Sherlock that they should walk a few streets to a cafe before taking a cab to Bruce's office. The grumbling in Sherlock's stomach forced him to agree, although his mind protested. As they walked, John warmed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and Sherlock wrapped his blue scarf more tightly around his neck. The air had a biting chill to it that morning.
Sherlock observed the pedestrians they passed with critical eyes. John looked towards his partner and noticed the way his eyes darted over the men and women, in business attire, making deliveries, looking for addresses, talking on the phone on busy street corners. He smiled and Sherlock took note of it. The next passerby was a man with glasses and a satchel slung over his shoulder.
"He's an investment accountant," Sherlock said effortlessly.
"How?" John asked curiously. He must be getting used to Sherlock's deductions because he wasn't surprised at all, in fact, he suspected him to come to such a conclusion.
"He wears a suit so he works for a company, either banking, investment, or business. He has poor eyesight from constantly reading small figures. Bankers carry locked briefcases to hold their papers, it's more secure. But he carries a satchel because it provides space for other items, calculators, eyeglass cases. Notice how he counted the change in his pocket just by the feel of the coins? It's a habit. He's probably determining how much he should spend on food, therefore determining where his destination is, which is why he is looking at street signs, because he hasn't decided what shop to go to yet. He avoids eye contact with people in public because he is self conscious. It's easy to assume then that he is an accountant but his position requires limited people interaction. He probably doesn't work with large groups of people, so instead he must work with single clients at a time. Most likely an investment accountant," Sherlock explained.
There was silence for a moment as they walked in step.
"Show off," John mumbled under his breath. Sherlock gave him a smug look in response, then led them down another street. Suddenly, John accidentally bumped into a woman walking the other direction.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" John told her apologetically, she pardoned him and they resumed. Sherlock raised his brow at the incident and looked at John questioningly.
"How do you feel this morning John?" Sherlock asked finally.
John shrugged.
"The hangover must still have a hold on me. The headache is gone but I feel a bit out of it," he told him.
"I see. How does your stomach feel. Do you have cravings? Any kind of odd pains?" he asked strangely.
John looked at him suspiciously, "No. Why do you ask? Those seem like very specific questions."
"Hm," Sherlock hummed in response, then checked the watch on his wrist. He calculated something in his mind and John watched his expression critically.
"Wait a minute...you did slip something into the wine last night, didn't you?" John exclaimed. Sherlock looked ahead and ignored his accusation. John looked at his partner with fury and astonishment, growing more frustrated with the man as the day progressed.
"I can't even believe you. 'Free wine' you said. Ugh, you have no sense of conscience. You can't do that to me. I'm your friend, not a lab rat," he growled, feeling his face grow redder.
"Friends should let friends experiment on them if it's imperative to a scientific investigation," Sherlock replied as they crossed the street.
"You didn't even tell me!" John exclaimed angrily. Sherlock looked at his partner as if he was dumb.
"John, you know that would open the experiment up to the possibility of placebo effect."
John groaned and knew that despite his efforts, he would never win this argument. Sherlock clearly did not have the capability of understanding.
Soon after, they arrived at the cafe. A familiar paint pallette sign struck out from the side of the building, with the words 'Local colour Cafe' printed on the front. The pair had gone to the cafe a few times in the past, typically on days like this when they were in a hurry for a quick morning snack before stopping at Scotland Yard. They pushed the door open and entered, a small bell ringing as they did so. Immediately they were hit with pleasant smells of pastries and a variety of coffee and tea drinks. Between the sweet aromas, the warm air, and the gentle yellow wall colors, the place had a very comforting feel about it. They made their way to the ordering line and although the cafe was packed, Sherlock predicted which seats would be open by the time they were ready to sit down. John admired the art on the walls as they waited. The cafe was well known in its own right, for displaying paintings from local artists, which definitely seemed to attract a certain type of customer. While most coffee shops were occupied by people working, reading, or on the go, Local colour was mostly frequented by more creative and social people. When they finally got the chance to order and sit down with their drinks, at the exact table Sherlock suggested, they took off their extra layers to cool down. As the consulting detective took off his overcoat and his scarf, he noticed the person sitting behind John and nudged his partner urgently.
"What?" John asked, alarmed. Sherlock gestured to a table behind him. John turned the swivel chair he sat at, and tried his best to be casual about it. He turned his head slightly and saw what Sherlock was referring to. There was a blonde sitting at the corner table, a cup of tea in her hand. She appeared to be stressfully going over a schedule. It was Meredith.
"Should we go talk to her?" John asked. Sherlock nodded in response.
"You go," he told the doctor, "I am waiting for our food."
John knew that was code for 'It's early in the morning and I don't want to interact with other humans', but agreed to it anyways. He took his hot drink with him as he approached the woman's table. He cleared his throat and she looked up.
"Oh, hello, Joseph isn't it?" She asked not quite recognizing him. She closed the folder she was reading. He smiled politely at the art director as he replied.
"John. I'm Sherlock's partner," he reminded her. She looked at him with sudden uncharacteristic warmth in her blue eyes. Her voice lowered with a tone that was drifting towards emotional.
"John! Oh I'm so grateful that you and Sherlock found my statue... I don't know how you did it but you saved my gallery. You saved all of my hard work that I've put into it in the last five years of my life."
Suddenly she was on her feet and hugging the doctor and he was too stunned to respond. He and Sherlock had received such gratitude in the past, but from her attitude last time they spoke, she didn't seem like the type to hug, especially not a stranger. She seemed so stuck up and detached, but apparently they had struck a sensitive cord. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he saw the interaction and quickly stood up. He smoothed over his suit and strutted over to Meredith's table just as she pulled away from John with tears in her eyes. She noticed Sherlock and gave him a hug as well, which was even more shocking, given the tension they had at first meeting. John grinned at his partner teasingly, and he scowled at him from over her shoulder in response.
"Thank you," she told him, and let go, to Sherlock's relief.
"Did they deliver it to you already?" John asked her. She wiped away a tear and nodded.
"Yes, this morning. I'm even trying to schedule another opening, as soon as you find out who killed the women. When do you think that will be? By the end of the week?" She asked, her voice had already changed back to it's usual serious tone. She looked at the two men eagerly.
John looked at Sherlock and back to the woman again.
"Possibly. We definitely can't promise anything. It could be a week or it could be a few months honestly," he explained to her. She didn't appear to like that news.
"What am I going to do for a few months? My investors are pulling out one by one as it is. They think…" She trailed off and looked down at her lap.
"...they think someone at the gallery could be involved," she explained. The partners looked at her with confusion.
"Who?" Sherlock asked. She looked back up at him critically.
"No one. It's just, they want to be sure. It's all about reputation when it comes to these wealthy people. I think it's simply ridiculous. Nobody at the gallery would have done this. I know them all very well. Cara and Leo are dear friends of mine. Even the caretaker. Mr. Eisenheim was like a father to me," she told him defensively, "If there's anyone that you should be suspicious of, it's that man that spoke to me during that night."
"Bruce?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes! That was his name I think," she agreed.
"We are actually on our way to talk to him now," John told her. She seemed slightly more relaxed at the information.
"That's good news at least," she said, attempting to stay positive, but not being entirely successful with the task.
"I'm sorry," John said delicately, "We will do all we can, but we can't make any promises that it will be soon."
She sighed and nodded in understanding, looking down at the closed folder.
"We will check in with you later," John told her.
"Of course," she said and then they separated. The partners finished up with their drinks and ate their pastries in a hurry. When they were done they immediately went to search for a cab to take them to Bruce Hartford's office.