Yet he did; the next day he was there early. John ducked out for a minute to check the phone in the main office for messages, and came back to find Sherlock already in his usual spot on the sofa, although this time he was curled against the right arm with a notebook over his knees.

"Carl Powers."

John was still hesitating in the doorway when he spoke, but Sherlock didn't look up.

"What?"

"I've been following the case since I was eight."

John shut the door slowly behind him and the click of the catch was loud in the room. He stayed pressed against the door as if he wasn't sure if he was actually supposed to walk into the room- which was ridiculous, because this was his office. "Sherlock, what're you talking about?"

The boy finally looked up from whatever he'd been writing. "Carl Powers." His eyes narrowed when John continued to look confused. "I've told you about this."

"No, you haven't." John moved slowly as if any sudden movements would cause Sherlock to disappear just as quickly as he had the other day. He wasn't entirely sure if they'd chosen to forget about yesterday, or if Sherlock was working up to talk about it, but for now John would go along with it. He was Sherlock's therapist after all, not his teacher or parent.

Sherlock unfurled his legs and turned to face John as the man sat uneasily on his chair. "Carl Powers was eleven when he was found dead in a swimming pool London. He drowned, apparently."

Sherlock's focus was fascinating, John thought; it made him seem so much older and more intimidating and brilliantly clever. John could see now why people stayed away; it was odd to see a human to look so terrifyingly mechanical with such complete devotion and concentration of thought. It wasn't human for his eyes to darken the way they did, the way he didn't seem to see anything in front of him while he thought, when he appeared possessed by his own mind. John couldn't begin to imagine the level of discipline Sherlock needed in order to keep from completely falling under the weight of it without the drugs he'd depended on for so long.

John settled back and tried to relax a little. Sherlock was too distracted to notice, but John was at least going to try and act less tense. "Apparently?"

"Something bothered me," Sherlock muttered, tapping his pen against his lips as he leaned his elbows on his knees.. "He was a strong swimmer, so why would he drown?"

He wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock was listening, but John tried anyway. "Something in the water?"

"Nothing. He shouldn't have drowned, but he did. The water was clean, no one else in the pool was affected, yet he died and by the time someone got to him, it was too late...and then there were his shoes."

"Shoes?"

"Missing. Everything was left as it was, yet his shoes were...but why would they take his shoes unless it had something to do with his death? Or maybe he was poisoned? But how would his shoes be involved?"

Sherlock continued until his voice was mostly an unintelligible mutter and he stopped paying attention to everything else around him.. John noticed that he didn't pick up his pen again other than to tap it thoughtfully against his lips, and the man waited patiently until Sherlock had thought himself out of his reverie to speak again.

"You said you've been following this since you were...eight? If the police think the case is as good as closed, why are you coming back to it?"

It took Sherlock another minute to fully process the information, although he didn't look entirely concious when he answered. "There was a small article in the paper this morning," he murmured, tucking his pen into his notebook and closing it. "In remembrance or..." He waved his hand dismissively. "I hadn't thought about the case in a while. Granted, it's not like the police will listen to me if I tell them any of this now." He looked up finally, a little more present than he had been moments ago. "And if you told them for me, they wouldn't believe your source."

John frowned. "So you'll stay quiet and let a murderer run free?"

"I could be wrong, John," he said, although the man knew he didn't believe that. "It could be nothing at all."

The man shook his head as Sherlock tucked himself back into the corner by the armrest. "So this is how you spend your time."

"Outsmarting the police, yes. God knows they need all the help they can get."

And there was that grin again, the easy smile that the man hadn't thought he'd see again for a good long while, starting at one corner of the boy's mouth and spreading until it reached his eyes again, and John smiled back unthinkingly.

But unlike last time,, their smiles faded naturally; the painful tension from before was gone now that they knew how to deal with something like this (and it was so insignificant, it seemed now- it had only been a smile, after all). It was good this way, this ease between them, and John realized that it was because Sherlock was...happier. John had succeeded, and although Sherlock was far from completely 'fixed', he was okay now. It was obvious in the fading shadows and the absence of the bruises, the restfulness in his shoulders and those smiles.

And then there was that silence that John had been dreading, where they didn't meet each other's eyes at all and the man waited for Sherlock to demand another answer from him.

Sherlock's voice was quiet though, calm and deliberately careful. "Are we going to talk about yesterday?"

"Do you want to?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkled a little. "Not really."

John shrugged. "Then we won't."

Sherlock met his eyes just to make sure, and then nodded slowly and John let go of the breath he hadn't known he was holding. The strain caused by their disagreements was so heavy that it almost felt tangible, and John had never felt something so intense before. He'd never wanted anything so consuming and unpredictable, but he strangely wanted it with Sherlock.

Which of course was a terrible thought to have and he cleared his throat suddenly as if that would cover up the thoughts that no one had heard in the first place. Sherlock threw him an inquisitive look but thankfully spared him any questions.

But when he thought about it later, John wished he had hadn't been so naive as to think that it was ever going to be this easy.