This story takes place in between Season 1 and 2.
Let me know what you think and if you'd like to see more. Thanks :)
Sherlock paced the floor of his flat, his fingers tapping the pocket where his phone was.
John emerged from the kitchen a cup of tea in hand and sat down his usual plush chair. He set the tea down on the coffee table and picked up the folded newspaper which sat beside it.
It was half past seven in the evening on a Wednesday. The sky outside was darkening and the street lights were flickering on.
John sat back in the chair and began reading, but in less than a minute Sherlock's incessant pacing caught his eye.
Sherlock wore a tee shirt and plaid pyjamas bottoms. His curly hair was disheveled and five o'clock shadow stubble covered his jaw. John narrowed his brows. Sherlock not changing into day clothes was commonplace when he hadn't had anything to do, but to John it had to have been several straight days of this by now.
"You're still in your pyjamas? Have you taken a shower this week yet?" John asked.
Sherlock ignored him continuing to pace back and forth across the room.
John sighed and shook his head. He resumed reading his newspaper.
"How? How can there be nothing John!" Sherlock burst out suddenly.
John rustled his newspaper down and stared at Sherlock.
"For God's sake Sherlock I've been telling you, just find something else to preoccupy yourself with."
Sherlock leapt onto the sofa and lay his head on a pillow. He exhaled looking up at the ceiling and grimaced.
"What else is there to do?" he snapped.
John blinked, his expression going stern in annoyance.
"I don't know, find a significant other, play a game, read a book? Hell you can make a new friend or enemy and let me read in peace for a moment."
Sherlock shook his head resuming staring up at the ceiling.
"God how can so many people be so boring?" Sherlock complained, grimacing and clenching his fists in frustration.
John furrowed his brows.
"Were you even listening to me?" he asked.
Sherlock snapped his head to John, "There's no sort of game or book or person out there to keep my brain interested," he said, pointing to his temple. He exhaled and looked towards the window. "Especially now with Moriarty in the shadows."
"Maybe you could give him a ring then. Ask him out for a cup of tea," John said.
Sherlock forced a furious half sigh, half groan and slumped back against his pillow, looking back up at the ceiling.
"Or better yet why don't you just let Molly take you out somewhere?"
Sherlock paused and sat up, furrowing his brows. He stared across at John. "Is this one of your poor attempts at humor?"
John glared at Sherlock for a moment, letting his irritation fade away.
"No it's not. You know fully well Molly likes you and has offered. Why don't you just indulge her once?"
Sherlock shook his head and resumed looking out the window. "Why on earth would that be interesting?"
"Because, maybe you both share common interests."
"What common interests?"
"You know…you both enjoy…examining dead bodies."
Sherlock turned back to John his eyes narrowed.
"So what we go spend time together in the morgue discussing our love of dead bodies?"
John would have laughed, but he knew Sherlock was dead serious.
"No that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying you take her to a better lit, more lively place like a restaurant or cafe. You know, somewhere where there are other people still alive."
"Okay, and then what?" Sherlock said, shrugging his hands in nonchalance. "Just talk about dead bodies there?"
John blinked, trying not to imagine the shock on Molly's face if Sherlock took her to a cafe just to talk about dead bodies.
"Well you could. Or you could get to know her better. Learn her other interests. Who knows maybe you'll find you have a heart after all."
"I already know everything about her and her other interests."
John sighed, rolling his eyes.
"Alright…well then, maybe you can discuss dead bodies with her."
"Yes, maybe…" Sherlock muttered nonchalantly. He snapped his head back to John and sniffed twice, catching a whiff of a new smell.
He sniffed again, his brows furrowing.
"New cologne," Sherlock commented. "Is it the blonde waitress again?"
John paused, blinking twice in annoyance.
"How…how do you know?" he asked indignantly.
"It's my expertise, I always know," Sherlock said matter of factly. "Though I'm not sure what you see in her?"
"She's funny," John said defensively.
"Funny. Oh yes…a pretty face, large breasts, and a promise of sex. You were practically in hysteria with all her terrible jokes the other night."
"What…that's not what…" John sputtered, his cheeks reddening.
"Oh please, I noticed your voice deepening over past few days. A man's voice deepens with higher testosterone and the longer he goes without sex or whatever it is you do with those naked women on your laptop."
John huffed an exhale.
"So that's why your voice is so deep then is it?" he asked. "Since you've never been with a woman."
"Researchers have proven that semen retention leads to longer lifespans and higher clarity of mind."
"Well I'm sure they'd say the same about your cigarettes and morphine," John retorted.
"Possibly inconclusive," Sherlock said, glaring at John.
"Definitely not." John glared back at Sherlock with equal frustration.
BUZZZ BUZZZ. Sherlock's phone vibrated in his lap. Sherlock snapped his attention to the phone and picked it up. His eyes brightened as he read the name LESTRADE on the screen.
"Oh finally!" Sherlock exclaimed, clicking the phone's screen and bringing it to his ear. "Tell me you have something good."
"Well good evening to you too Sherlock," said Detective Investigator Lestrade in a dry, half-sarcastic voice. "Look. You'll want to get down here. We've got a lot of ground to cover and it begrudges me to say you'll make this go faster. Take a look at this image."
Lestrade's photo popped up on the Sherlock's screen. On it appeared a large baby blue swimming pool with a steel lattice scaffolding overhead the pool. A middle aged man hung by his neck from the scaffold. His dangling legs dipped into the pool at knee height. Sherlock could see a rope around the dead man's neck.
John stared at Sherlock, from his chair his expression still annoyed.
"You see it?" Lestrade asked.
"Yes," Sherlock answered examining the photo. "Have a look John."
John shot a disgruntled look at Sherlock, but set his newspaper aside and lifted himself off his chair.
He walked over to Sherlock and squatted next to him by the sofa.
"Who is he?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade spoke, "Professor of hydrodynamics at Cambridge. Reported dead an hour ago. It appears he drowned in his own laboratory pool."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes examining the image. "No signs of a struggle," he muttered.
"On paper it looks a suicide, but my gut says no. There wasn't any note," Lestrade said.
"What sort of pool is it?" John asked, noticing the scaffolding above the man.
"It's a physical testing machine for model boats. Involves a hell of a lot of science jargon I don't understand, but it looks like the pool creates waves for the model boats to bob in."
"Disgruntled student maybe?" John asked, his brows knitted in intrigue.
"Possibly, but I wouldn't think so. They've barely started first term, so no one's received a poor grade yet," Lestrade said.
"You have any of his students there?" Sherlock asked.
"No none at the moment."
There was a few seconds of silence as Sherlock stared at the image. John glanced at Sherlock, wondering if he was going to say anything.
"Fascinating," Sherlock said still staring at the image.
"So you'll come?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock smirked. "We're on our way," he said, his voice jovial.
John exhaled.