John awoke around 10:30 the next day, and lazily stretched an arm over Sherlock.
Or rather, the empty space where Sherlock was supposed to be. He groggily opened his eyes and frowned at the rustled sheets that were clearly lacking a certain detective. John sighed and reached over to the beside table to retrieve his phone. He flitted quickly through the contact list and found Sherlock's number. He opened a new message, then paused to think about what to say.
"Missing: One consulting detective. 6'2, drop dead gorgeous and great at lie ins. Reward shall be administered upon return." John smiled to himself and sent the text. He had just settled back into the pillows when he heard a text tone sound off in the living room.
"What's he doing in there?" John thought. He was a bit offended, because in his opinion, he was a lot more interesting than whatever Sherlock was getting into. His ears picked up on not one, but two voices and John groaned.
"Mycroft."
Annoyed, he willed himself to push back the blankets and leave the bed. John wobbled a bit on his feet but steadied instantaneously. He pattered over to the full-size mirror and looked himself over. An old t-shirt and a pair of red briefs were all he wore, and John sighed as he walked over to the dresser to pull out a pair of loose pants. A good portion of John's wardrobe had migrated into Sherlock's room now, and having to go up to his room for clothing was uncommon. He pulled on the bottoms and briefly wondered whether he really wanted to see, let alone converse with Mycroft at this hour. Sherlock's clipped, annoyed tone floated to him and John sighed.
It wasn't really fair to make Sherlock suffer alone.
He opened the otherwise ajar door and stepped through, shivering at the cooler temperature. The chill was nowhere as bad as it was last night when the windows had been shattered, but it was still quite uncomfortable given the thin material of John's pajamas. He walked down the hallway in out into the kitchen, stopping at the edge of the living room. Sherlock's eyes flicked to him and Mycroft took notice, turning around in the armchair to give John a subtle smile.
"Ah, good morning Doctor Watson." he greeted. John smiled tightly.
"Morning." he replied, looking past the older Holmes to Sherlock. The detective's brows were furrowed and his long fingers picked irritably at the strings of his violin.
"I can't." Sherlock said, looking at Mycroft. His older brother frowned.
"Can't?"
"Yes, Mycroft." Sherlock nearly spat out the name. "The stuff I have going on his just too big. I cannot possibly spare the time."
Mycroft sighed at his younger brother. "Never mind your usual trivia, Sherlock. This is of national importance." Sherlock studied his fingernails and made a face, as if they actually interested him.
How's the diet?" he asked, sending Mycroft a pointed look.
"Fine." Mycroft sighed again. "John, perhaps you can get through to him?"
While the brothers were waging war against each other, John had walked closer to the window to inspect the damage. He jumped at his name being said, and nearly stepped on some glass.
"Huh?"
"My brother can be very stubborn and childish. Especially when he's in a sulk." Sherlock plucked a string loudly and glared at Mycroft.
"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Mycroft looked scandalized at this proposal.
"No, no, no! I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so..." his voice trailed off as if he suddenly realized who he was talking to. John looked at him in surprise and Sherlock even stopped plucking the strings.
"Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" he smiled humorously and the message to forget what had just been said hung heavily in the air. Besides, a case like this, it requires..." Mycroft grimaced in distaste. "Legwork."
Sherlock misplucked one of the strings and sighed irritably. The elder Holmes now turned to John and smiled a bit.
"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became..." Mycroft gave John a knowing look, and the doctor could've sworn he saw something close to gratefulness flash by. "Pals." Mycroft settled on that word and Sherlock tried to smite him with a dark look.
"What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."
"Oh, I'm never bored." John looked at Sherlock and smiled a bit. The detective didn't smile back, but his sour expression softened a tad.
"Good! That's good, isn't it?" he replied, smiling condescendingly. Sherlock glared at him and John let out a small sigh. Mycroft now rose from the chair, and Sherlock picked up his bow then whipped one end down through the air. The government official gave him a pestered look, then picked up a folder. He offered it to Sherlock, who did nothing but give him a stubborn look. Mycroft grimaced and resisted the urge to say something very impolite. He now turned to John and held out the folder.
"Andrew West. Known as Westie to his friends."
John looked startled as he took the folder
"A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."
"Jumped in front of a train?"
"Seems the logical assumption." Mycroft said. John turned his head and quirked a brief smile.
"But?"
"But?" Mycroft repeated. Sherlock looked over in interest.
"You wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." Sherlock smirked to himself as he applied rosin to the bow with a small cloth. John quirked a brow at him and Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system. The Bruce-Partington Programme, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."
"That wasn't very clever." John said, sniggering quietly. Sherlock smiled in agreement and shot his brother a proud look.
"It's not the only copy."
"Oh:"
"But, it is secret." He glared at Sherlock." And missing."
"Top secret?" John asked. Mycroft nodded.
"Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." Mycroft turned around to Sherlock and gave him an irritated look.
"You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."
Sherlock took a sharp breath in through his nose and raised the violin to his shoulder, ready to play. He gazed calmly at his brother.
"I'd like to see you try."
Mycroft leaned down to his brother in an attempt to look more threatening. "Think it over."
Sherlock stared at his older brother, unimpressed. Mycroft sighed and turned back to John. He stuck out his hand.
"Goodbye, John." They shook hands, and Mycroft smiled at him. John saw how it didn't reach his eyes, but returned the gesture.
"See you very soon." John attempted not to look nervous as Mycroft headed back toward the chair to pick up his coat. Sherlock's eyes connected with Mycroft's and the detective grab to repeatedly play a short irritating sequence of notes. John frowned at him, but he continued on until Mycroft had left the room and was descending the stairs. Sherlock scowled at the door, then laid down his violin. John stayed silent until Mycroft reached the ground floor, then sighed.
"Why'd you lie?"
Sherlock looked over at him as the front door slammed shut.
"You've got nothing on, not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?" Sherlock shrugged and slumped down in his chair. Despite what he liked to believe, Sherlock did keep up appearances when Mycroft was around, whether is was maintaining perfect posture or speaking in a more distant manner.
"Why shouldn't I?
"Oh!" John said, nodding. "Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."
Sherlock opened his mouth the retort, but closed it when his phone began to shrill. He whipped the bow down and retrieved his phone from his pocket.
"Sherlock Holmes." he snapped, not caring whoever was on the line. He went quiet, then a small smile dawned on his lips.
"Yes, of course." He jumped from his seat and went over to the coat rack, then looked back at John.
"I've been summoned by Lestrade. Coming?"
"If you want me to." John replied. In truth, he was fine with staying home on this one. Although, he wouldn't object to going out with Sherlock either. Sherlock looked shocked at his answer.
Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger."
One quick cab ride later, John and Sherlock were at Scotland Yard, currently in the main office as they followed Lestrade. The DI led them to his own office as he spoke about the case.
"You like the funny ones, don't you? The surprising cases?"
"Obviously." Sherlock sighed. He rolled his eyes and sent the older man a look. Lestrade ignored this and continued on.
"You'll love this one then. So the explosion last night..." Sherlock blocked out what Lestrade was saying long enough to exchange glares with Donovan. He picked up on what Lestrade was saying at the last second.
"Ah, yes. Gas leak, correct?"
"That's what we thought." he replied. "But no."
"No?" Sherlock repeated, raising an eyebrow. Lestrade shook his head.
"No. It was made to look like one."
"What?" John said, turning and staring at him. By now, they were in Lestrade's office and he led them towards his desk. Sherlock stopped and stared at the white envelope that was lying on the surface.
"There was hardly anything left of the place after the explosion, except a strong box. And a very strong box at that. This was only the only thing inside."
"You haven't opened it yet?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade gestured at it.
"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" he said. Sherlock reached for it and ran his fingers over the paper.
"We x-rayed it. Not booby-trapped of anything."
"How reassuring." he muttered. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then picked up the envelope. He walked across the room to another table with a lamp on it. He held the envelope up close to the bulb and examined both sides carefully. His eyes flickered over his name, which was elegantly written on the front.
"Nice stationery. Bohemian."
"Bohemian?"
"From the Czech Republic." He turned to face Lestrade. "No fingerprints?"
"None."
Sherlock turned back to the envelope and aquifer as he looked at it. His eyes studied the penmanship closely.
"She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold – iridium nib."
"She?" John repeated. How could Sherlock possibly know her gender? All he had was his name on a piece of parchment!
"Obviously." Sherlock replied, and John struggled not to sigh. Sherlock picked up a letter opener from the desk carefully began to slit the envelope open. He carefully looked inside, and John saw his mouth open a bit in surprise. He reached in and drew out a pink phone.
"But that's...that's the phone, the pink phone." John said, shocked.
"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded.
"Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like ..." Sherlock stops when he realized what Lestrade had just said. He turned and faced him with a peculiar look on his face.
"The Study in Pink? You read his blog?"
"Course I read his blog! We all do. Do you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?"
Sally, who had stopped in to leave some files on Lestrade's desk sniggered loudly. Sherlock glared at her as he took off his gloves and John pursed his lips in embarrassment, not daring to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sally left the room and Sherlock turned his concentration back to the phone.
"It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new." Sherlock said as he inspected it. He looked at the connection sockets and saw that none of them had scratches around them. Obviously taken right out the package before being sent.
"Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership." He looked at John with an accusatory look, who did his best to ignore it. Sherlock switched the phone on and waited as it started up. As soon as the screen was illuminated, a voice alert sounded.
"You have one new message." The recorded voice said. The message went on to play, but what was heard was far from what they expected. The unmistakable sound of the Greenwich Time Signal filled the room and left everyone confused.
"Is that it?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head and continued to stare at the phone.
"No. That's not it." A photo had been uploaded to the phone and Sherlock opened it. Lestrade walked across the room to look over Sherlock's shoulder, while John pressed in close to the detective The picture was of an unfurnished room with a fireplace on one wall. The wallpaper was peeling, and a tall mirror was propped up in one corner. A smaller mirror sat on top of the mantlepiece.
What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade exclaimed. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"
Sherlock stayed silent a moment, gazing off thoughtfully into the distance. "It's a warning."
A warning?" John repeated. Sherlock nodded.
"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's going happen again." Sherlock looked down at the photo once more, then threw the phone at Lestrade. He caught it and Sherlock walked out of the office.
"I've seen this place before."
"H-hang on." John said, following. "What's gonna happen again?"
Sherlock turned around to John and raised his hands dramatically.
"Boom!"
As he and John headed off, Lestrade sighed. He grabbed his coat, stuck the phone in the pocket, and hurried after the pair.
After a mildly cramped ride where the three of them had shared a cab, Lestrade, Sherlock and John exited out in front of 221. Sherlock bounded up the steps and unlocked the front door, then lead the way inside. He bypassed the stairs and headed along the corridor to Mrs. Hudson's front door, then stopped. He turned to the left and John really noticed for the first time that there was a door there. It read 221c, and the doctor suddenly remembered Mrs. Hudson fretting over how it remained empty. Sherlock turned back to their landlady's front door and opened his mouth to let out a yell.
"Mrs. Hudson!" A minute went by before the woman opened her door and smiled at the men in front of her.
"Ah, hello! What do you boys need?" She asked.
"Keys, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock muttered. "We need to to be let into here." The detective was busy inspecting the padlock on the door and scowling. John offered Mrs. Hudson a small smile as she went off to retrieve the keys. Sherlock looked back at John, who's annoyance was clear. Really, John had not expected, nor wanted to spend the day like this. After the brilliance of the previous night, he was more inclined to repeat it, and lounge around. But then again, this was Sherlock he was in a relationship with. And Sherlock's work meant a lot to him, for it was one of three things that helped stop the crazy, frantic sort of buzz in his mind. The first was John himself, and the last was drugs. And Sherlock was definitely not going to rely on drugs. While Lestrade was occupied looking at some of the photos Mrs. Hudson had on the wall (one being of John and Sherlock themselves, the two somehow caught smiling and looking like total morons), Sherlock pulled away from the door and turned to John. He took the man's hands in his own and squeezed slightly. John ran his thumbs over the top of Sherlock's hands and sighed slightly. Leaning down a tad, Sherlock kissed John lightly. The gesture was quick and over in a flash, but John understood its meaning. Sherlock knew how John felt, and what he would rather be doing, but he needed him. Sherlock needed John to be here by his side and help solve this case, perhaps saying "brilliant" and "amazing" a few times. When Mrs. Hudson came back with the key ring, Sherlock had gone back to the padlock and John was fighting the urge to kiss his boyfriend one more time. Sherlock took the keys and began to unlock the door.
"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat." Mrs. Hudson said to the detective who was clearly tuning here out. He inspected the keyhole carefully and frowned.
"The door's been opened recently."
"No, can't be." she replied. "That's the only key."
Pulling the padlock off, Sherlock selected another key and put it into the keyhole.
"I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements." she sighed. Sherlock turned the key and pulled the door open. He immediately went inside and John and Lestrade followed, taking little notice of Mrs. Hudson as she continued to ramble on.
"I had a place once when I was first married. Black mould all up the walls..." She trailed to a halt as Lestrade closed the door behind him. Exasperated, she turned back to her flat.
"Oh! Men!"
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock slowly pushed open the door to the living room and walked inside, followed by John and Lestrade. The room looked exactly as it did in the photograph on the phone, but with one exception.
There was a pair of trainers placed neatly in the middle of the floor, their toes pointed towards the door. John stopped and looked at them.
"Shoes." he said, stating the obvious. Sherlock nodded and began to walk towards them, but John held out a cautionary hand towards him.
"He's a bomber, remember." Sherlock stopped for a moment and made eye contact with John, then continued slowly towards the trainers. He crouched down, putting his hands on the floor and leaning forward. He lowered his body down he moved closer to the shoes and just as his nose was almost touching them, a phone began to ring. Sherlock jumped and closed his eyes momentarily as he breathed out, startled by it. He stood up and pulled off his glove, then took the pink phone from his coat pocket and looked at the caller I.D.
"NUMBER BLOCKED" it read, and Sherlock's brows furrowed. He paused for a second, then answered the phone.
"Hello?" he said softly. In response, a female voice drew in a shaky breath before speaking tearfully.
"H-hello ... sexy." John and Lestrade exchanged puzzled looks as the woman sobs echoed in the room.
"Who's this?" Sherlock asked slowly. The woman drew in another quivering breath and held back a sob.
"I've ... sent you ... a little puzzle ... just to say hi."
"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"
"I-I'm not...crying..." she said, her voice shaking. "I'm typing...and this...stupid... bitch...is reading it out."
Another sob broke from the phone's speaker and Sherlock gazed off into the distance.
"The curtain rises." he said quietly.
"What?" John asked, frowning.
"Nothing." Sherlock replied quickly, straightening his already stiff posture. John shook his head.
"No, what did you mean?"
Sherlock half turned his head to look at John. "I've been expecting this for some time."
"Twelve hours," the woman sobbed. "To solve ... my puzzle, Sherlock ..." John and Lestrade looked at each other again, both men's face set into hard frowns.
"... or I'm going ... to be ... so naughty."
Another cab later, John and Sherlock were at St. Bart's. Lestrade had insisted that he must go back to Scotland Yard, saying something about a massive amount paperwork. John had nodded and expressed his sympathies, but Sherlock knew the real reason behind. Yes, it was true that he had paperwork, since Lestrade kept on touching the pen he had in his trouser pocket and frowning when he did. But more than that, he rather wanted to be able to text in peace. Giving a case to his boyfriend's little brother when said boyfriend already had one he wished solved wasn't the wisest choice in the book.
But Sherlock said none of that and Lestrade drove off while John and he entered the hospital. Sherlock had asked Molly to secure a lab for him, and she didn't disappoint. Within 15 minutes, Sherlock was in his lab and pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He looked closely at the trainers, picking them up. Sherlock examined the laces carefully, then peered at the shoes from different directions. He dug out mud from the the treads in the soles of the trainers, then placed it in a dish. Finally releasing the shoes, Sherlock let out a little sigh and stared at them thoughtfully.
Later, he was sitting at a bench and looking a microscope as the computer next to him ran tests. John wandered up and down the the bench in slight boredom, watching Sherlock work.
"So," he said. "Who do you suppose it was?"
Sherlock's phone trilled from a text alert, but the detective didn't acknowledge it. He glanced up at John.
"Hmm?"
"The woman on the phone." John replied. "The crying woman."
"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage. No lead there."
"For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads!" He said in exasperation. He clenched his fists as annoyance began to build up again.
"You're not going to be much use to her." Sherlock told him. He glanced across to the scanner as it continued to throw up "NO MATCH" results, then looked back into the microscope.
"Are...Are they trying to trace it, trace the call?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.
"The bomber's too smart for that."
Sherlock's phone went off another time and Sherlock sighed. He looked up at John with a fleeting glance.
Would you pass me my phone?" he asked. John looked around for the device but didn't see it anywhere.
"Where is it?"
"Jacket."
John straightened up slowly, his entire body going rigid in disbelief. Turning to his right, he marched stiffly around the table, slammed one hand onto Sherlock's shoulder and roughly pulled his jacket open with the other as he began to rummage in his inside pocket.
"Careful." Sherlock snapped, holding himself still against John's movements.
John just about held onto his temper as he pulled out the phone and looked at it.
"Text from your brother." he said tightly. Sherlock made a face in disgust.
"Delete it."
"Delete it?"
"Missile plans are out of the country now." he said. "Nothing we can do about it."
John looked at the message again, silently reading it.
RE: BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS
Any progress on Andrew
West's death?
Mycroft
"Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important."
"Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?" Sherlock said, raising his head in exasperation.
"His what?" John asked as he let out a tired sigh. Honestly, he had enough of the Holmes brothers foolishness for one day. John made a silent prayer of their mother, wondering how the woman ever managed them.
"Mycroft never texts if he can talk." Sherlock said. "Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?" He huffed and turned back to the microscope again and John sighed.
"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die."
"What for?" Sherlock looked up at John. "This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"
John couldn't bring himself to look at Sherlock, unbeliveing that those words had just left the man's mouth. He held his mouth in a tight line and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. God, he fucking hated Sherlock when he was like this. He turned into such a god dammed self centered, nearly emotionless moron. John understood that you were supposed to love a person even for their worst qualities, and no matter how much it occurred-
Wait.
"Love? Oh bleeding Christ, there it is." John thought. "Can I say that I love Sherlock? For godsakes, we've only been together for 2 months!" He let out a furious sounding breath and struggled to get a hold of himself. "This isn't the proper time to think about this. A woman might be dead in less than 10 bloody hours and Sherlock is being such an uncaring fucking prick. Sod this." John felt a bit of a headache coming on and he sighed, still not looking at Sherlock. The detective had returned to his microscope with furrowed brows, but looked up again when the computer beeped with a result.
"Ah!" he said, delighted. Sherlock looked across to the screen which was flashing "SEARCH COMPLETE". In the same moment, Molly entered with a small smile.
"Any luck?" she asked. Sherlock nodded triumphantly.
"Oh, yes!"
Molly came over to look at the screen just as a man entered. He was young, with dark hair and eyes. He wore a pair of slacks and a slim fitting v neck shirt.
"Oh, sorry. I didn't ..." he began. Molly perked up immediately at his presence and her smile grew.
"Jim! Hi!"
Jim made as if to leave the room, but Molly stopped him.
"Come in! Come in!" she told him.
Sherlock glanced up to look at her briefly, running his eyes down her body. He made an instant deduction, then looked back into the microscope, uninterested.
"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." Molly introduced, turning to look at Jim as he closed the door and walked back to her.
John turned to look at them and suddenly Molly's face went blank. Her smile turned apologetic.
"And, John...erm, John..."
"John Watson. Hi." he finished for her, giving Molly a small smile. He didn't think that they had really been properly introduced to one another, and he doubted Sherlock would have ever used his full name if he spoke about him. Jim smiled at him slightly.
"Hi." he replied. His focused was back on Sherlock within a second, staring at the detective. He gazed at him admiringly and his smile grew.
"So you're Sherlock Holmes." he said. "Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" He walked closer to Sherlock, forcing John to step out of his way. The army doctor stiffened and frowned.
"Jim works in I.T. upstairs." she told them. "That's how we met. Office romance." She and Jim giggled and John smiled. He truly was glad that she had found someone, and more so, had finally stopped pursuing Sherlock. The detective glanced briefly at Jim before returning to look into the microscope.
"Gay."
"Sorry, what?" Molly's smile faded as he spoke. Sherlock raised his head as he realized what he had just done.
"Nothing." Sherlock quickly said. "Um, hey." he looked at Jim and smiled falsely. Jim smiled admiringly at Sherlock as he lowered his hand. He knocked a dish off the the edge of the table and horror spread across his face as he scrambled to pick it up.
"Sorry!" Jim giggled nervously as he picked up the dish. John turned away, putting a hand over his face in second hand embarrassment as Sherlock looked at Jim in irritation while he put the dish back on the table. He looked over at Molly as he scratched his arm and wandered back towards her.
"Well, I'll better be off." he said. "I'll see you at the Fox, about six-ish?"
"Yeah!" she agreed, smiling. He stopped beside her and put a hand on her back, then looked back towards Sherlock.
"Bye."
"Bye." Molly said softly, looking at him affectionately. His gaze was focused on Sherlock and he paid no attention to his girlfriend.
"It was nice to meet you."
Sherlock ignored Jim as he continued to gaze at him wistfully. John shifted on his feet then broke the uncomfortable silence.
"You too." he replied. Jim blinked at him, looking awkward, then turned and left the room. Molly waited until the door was completely shut before turning to Sherlock.
"What do you mean, gay? We're together."
Sherlock looked across to her with an eyebrow raised. "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."
"Two and a half."
"No, it's three."
"Sherlock..." John warned.
"He's not gay!" Molly exclaimed furiously. "Why do you have to spoil...? He's not." she finished firmly.
"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock snorted. John gave him an odd look.
"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair!"
"You wash your hair." Sherlock replied, turning to John sharply. He settled back into his seat with a sigh. "There's a difference. Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."
"His underwear?" Molly echoed.
"Visible above the waistline." Sherlock replied. "Very visible; very particular brand." Sherlock stretched and reached for the dish that Jim had knocked over.
"That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here..." Sherlock picked up the card and flashed it to Molly. "Well, I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."
Molly went silent, her brows furrowed and a shaking frown on her face. She stared at Sherlock for a moment, then turned and ran out of the room. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise at her reaction.
"Charming. Well done." John muttered, shaking his head. Sherlock looked at him in confusion.
"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"
"Kinder?" John repeated. He made an exasperated noise. "No, no, Sherlock. That wasn't kind."
Sherlock looked fed up with the conversation and put Jim's card back onto the table. He sighed, then slid one of the trainers on the table closer to John.
"Go on, then."
"Mmm?"
"You know what I do." he said. "Off you go." Sherlock sat back and folded his arms expectantly. John made incoherent, negative noises and looked at his watch.
"No."
"Go on." Sherlock urged. John shook his head.
"I'm not gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and disseminate-"
"An outside eye, a second opinion." Sherlock interjected. "It's very useful to me."
"Yeah, right."
"Really."
John turned back to him and their eyes connected. Sherlock's gaze was steady, and it showed John that yes, he was sincere in his wish for a second opinion. Frankly, John wasn't in the mood to talk to Sherlock, let alone deduce for him. However, John figured that if it could help Sherlock get on with this case, and they might be able to save this poor woman, he would do what Sherlock asked of him.
"Fine." John said, caving in. Clearing his throat, he picked up the shoe and looked at it and its partner lying on the table
"I dunno, they're just a pair of shoes." John said. "Trainers." he corrected immediately.
"Good." Sherlock looked away and picked up his phone as John continues looking at the trainers.
"Umm...they're in good nick. I'd say they were pretty new...except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while."
Sherlock, who had started to look frustrated when John said they were new, breathed out a silent sigh of relief that his boyfriend wasn't that oblivious.
"Uh, they're very eighties, probably one of those retro designs."
"You're on sparkling form." Sherlock praised. "What else?"
"Well, they're quite big, so a man's."
"But ...?"
John looked at the insides of both shoes and noticed blue smudges at the sides.
"But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip. Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid."
"Excellent. What else?" Sherlock said, sounding delighted. He looked at John proudly.
"Uh..." John frowned as he looked again at the shoe he was holding, then put it down. "...that's it."
"That's it?" Sherlock repeated. John nodded and looked at him.
"How did I do?"
"Well, John; really well." Sherlock told him. John gave him a look of surprise and a smile poked at his lips from the praise.
"I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know..." Sherlock lifted his hand and slowly rotates his wrist to turn his palm up, his expression full of sarcasm. With a look of frustration and annoyance, John picked up the trainer and shoved it at him. Sherlock looked at it closely as he went into deduction mode.
"The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discoloured. Changed the laces three...no, four times."
John put his hands on the desk and lowered his head in despair.
"Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old."
"Twenty years?" John asked, straightening up.
"They're not retro, they're original." Sherlock showed John an image on his phone. It was of the shoes, confirming their suspected year of debut.
"Limited edition two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine."
"But there's still mud on them." John pointed out. "They look new."
Someone's kept them that way." he replied thoughtfully. "Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."
"How do you know?"
Sherlock nodded over at the computer screen. "Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me." Two dots were flashing on a map of Britain, one around the borders of East and West Sussex and the other to the south-east of London.
"South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."
"So what happened to him?" John asked
"Something bad." Sherlock replied simply. He looked up at John. "He loved those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets..."
Sherlock trailed off, staring at the air in front of him. His features softened with understanding. "Oh..."
"What?" John looked across the lab, trying to see what Sherlock was gazing at.
"Carl Powers." he said softly.
"Sorry, who?"
"Carl Powers, John." He continued to stare into the distance, his lips parted slightly in thought.
"What is it?"
Sherlock swallowed and his posture relaxed as things clicked in his mind. John could see something dawn on his face and the detective nodded slightly
"It's where I began."
