John woke with a start. Sherlock, who was wide awake and lying horizontally on the bed (with his head rested on John's stomach and the newspaper outstretched before him) said, "You sure are good at sleeping."
"Well," said John, rubbing his eyes, "We all have our talents."
"And what are mine?" asked Sherlock. And John felt, rather than saw, Sherlock grinning.
"You know very well what your talents are! Being an insufferable git seems to be your particular favorite though."
Sherlock laughed and set his paper down on the bed. For a while it remained like that, the weight of Sherlock's head heavy on John's stomach and the smell of pancakes lingering from somewhere in the house.
"While you wasted time sleeping, I did some research via Facebook and found out that the girl in grey's name is Elena Salvada and her ex- boyfriend, who she broke up with four days before the murder, is named Burt Johnson."
"I didn't know you have a Facebook," said John.
"I don't. I used yours. By the way, that Jane girl sent you a friend request which I took the liberty of declining."
"What?!" barked John, sitting up.
Sherlock rolled off of him, crumbling his paper. "Oh please, John. She had a huge book in her bag with the bookmark right beneath the front cover, which means she's the type of girl who just tries to appear intelligent by needlessly trotting around with giant hunks of literature!"
"Or maybe she hadn't had the chance to start the bloody book!" said John.
"Well you can always add her later and send flirty I.M.s until the end of time," said Sherlock dismissively. "But as for now, Darcy is making breakfast."
"Who's Darcy?"
"The cook," answered Sherlock.
"Should have guessed that."
The pancakes were enough to make every moment of enduring Sherlock's arrogance or his classmates insults worth it—simply amazing. John hadn't really had too many decent meals since his mother died, and today, he had several plates.
Sherlock (who was actually eating for once) simply looked at his friend with a close-lipped smile. "You really like pancakes."
"Lovely deduction," John replied. "So what are you doing for the holidays?"
"Avoiding Christmas carols with a passion," he said, and they both laughed. "You?"
"Um usual family stuff, you know."
"I don't know," Sherlock clarified. "My family isn't the celebrating type. I mean, Mycroft gets me presents each year, but for as long as I could remember they've been things like school textbooks or electric toothbrushes. Does that count?"
"No," said John, scooping the remains of the maple syrup into his mouth. "Doesn't count one bit."
Sherlock shrugged. "Are you finished? We have some interviews to conduct."
"Yupp," said John.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You've got… oh, let me." He grabbed a napkin, reached his hand forward, and dabbed with surprising gentility on the corner of John's mouth.
John's ears went hot. "I, uh, thank you."
…..
They walked from the high school to the trailer park. The heat was aggravating, sending drops of moister down the back of John's neck, as they traced the streets repeatedly in search of clues.
Sherlock muttered to himself, his eyes darting back and forth like some overexcited puppy. He didn't seem to notice John at all until about their fourth lap around the fountain, when Sherlock suddenly clasped his slender fingers around John's swaying hand.
"What are you—"
"See that guy over there? Don't look long," he whispered close to John's ear.
John glanced over. A kid who couldn't be older than a sophomore was watching them from across the park. He wore a striped shirt and held a curious air of self-importance.
"He's been watching us. I suspect he's wondering why we've been circling the park for an hour. So I'm holding your hand. A couple strolling through on a sunny afternoon might throw off his suspicion."
John couldn't keep himself from blushing.
"We're across town, John. Nobody you know will see you."
"I know," he replied. Their hands swayed together, awkwardly at first until they feel into a gently rhythm. "So we're just going to walk around here all day?"
"Of course not, John. As usual you saw but failed to interpret the obvious. Elena Salvada is our next move."
"The girl in grey?"
"Indeed."
"Why? Because she broke up with her possibly violent boyfriend? That's hardly anything to go off of."
"You didn't see her, John. You didn't see the anxiety in her eyes or the nervous habit of twisting her hair. There's something to this boyfriend of hers, something we don't know, something to be feared. Plus he lives near the victim, and the bracelet, oh it it's all so obvious. I'll have Elena in your house this afternoon."
"What? How?"
Sherlock came to an abrupt halt, taping on the pole of a telephone wire with his index finger. "You can read ancient sonnets but not babysitting flyers?"
He moved his hand aside, and John saw an ad for Savada's babysitting services along with many others of its kind. Her phone number was printed on tabs across the bottom, which Sherlock swiftly took. He also ripped the tabs of a few others and slipped them into a separate pocket. "Wouldn't want to draw suspicion from our spectator," he whispered.
John chanced another quick look. The boy was just watching them, with no intention of hiding a thing. "Maybe he's just a homophobe and we're feeding his discomfort by the fact that you're holding my hand."
When John's attention returned to his friend, Sherlock's hand had risen up to caress his cheek. His fingers played nimbly with the tips of his hair and the curves of his skin. "People really ought to stop speculating about us eventually." With that, Sherlock leaned down to press his lips to John's forehead.
John's body went rigid. "Well, they won't if you bloody do things like that!"
"It worked though, didn't it? Don't turn now but I think I've scared the little bliter off."
True enough, the striped-shirt boy had disappeared, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the park with a warmth no longer caused by the sun.
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