A few weeks after the events at the bank, Sherlock was visiting a prison in Minsk, Belarus.
"Just tell me what happened, from the very beginning," Sherlock instructed.
The man sitting in front of him was Barry Berwick, a prison inmate in the usual bright orange jumpsuit. They were sitting at a table in the prison visitor's room, which was empty besides a guard at the doors. The room was so cold that their breaths steamed, but Sherlock barely noticed it, focusing on the case instead.
"We'd been to a bar- a nice place," Berwick answered. "And... I got chattin' with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren't 'appy with that... So when we got back to the 'otel, we end up having a ding-dong, don't we?" Sherlock sighed deliberately, not attempting to cover up his annoyance, but Berwick continued talking. "She was always gettin' at me, sayin' I weren't a real man."
"Wasn't a real man," Sherlock interrupted.
Berwick blinkedin confusion. "What?" he asked.
Sherlock glared. "It's not weren't, it's wasn't," he corrected. Sighing, Sherlock gestured for him to continue. "Go on."
Berwick nodded. "Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands," he told Sherlock. "And, y'know, my old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives. He learned us how to cut up a beast."
"Taught," Sherlock stated.
"What?" Berwick demanded.
Sherlock shot him a look. "Taught you how to cut up a beast," he said.
The look on Berwick's face said that he didn't care. "Yeah, well then... then I done it," he continued.
"Did it," Sherlock muttered.
Losing his temper, Berwick slammed his fist angrily down on the table. Sherlock didn't flinch. "Did it!" Berwick shouted angrily. "Stabbed 'er, over and over and over, and I looked down and she weren't-"
The look on Sherlock's face was enough to cause Berwick to pause, and he sighed, regaining control of his temper. "... wasn't moving no more," he said.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"... any more," Berwick amended.
There was a moment of silence, but then Berwick sighed. "You've gotta help me," he pleaded. "I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident. I swear."
Sherlock looked at him, not saying a word. Then he stood and started walking away.
"You've gotta help me, Mr. Holmes!" Berwick called. Sherlock paused, but he didn't turn around. "Everyone says you're the best. Without you I'll get hung for this!"
Sherlock just glanced over his shoulder to look at the young man. "No, no, no, Mr. Berwick," he said. "Not at all."
For a moment, Berwick sagged in relief, but then Sherlock smirked. "Hanged, yes," he declared.
He continued on his way out the door.
000
Max was not having a good day.
It had started off when she slept through her alarm and she woke up an hour late. After getting thoroughly scolded by Simmons, she had rushed off to a meeting with a client to review some possible designs. It turned out that they didn't like any of the various choices that Max had offered them, so she now had to come up with a handful of more ideas by the next day. After the meeting she had worked on a few new designs and tried to print one, only to find that the printer was out of ink; so she had changed the cartridge, and ended up spilling some ink on her clothes in the process. Now, after doing her best to wash out the stains, her computer froze.
"How's it going?" Max asked anxiously.
The IT guy who was looking at her computer shrugged. "It's going, alright," he answered. "This might take a while."
Max groaned. "How long is a while?" she replied. "I need to get these designs done before tomorrow and-"
"I'll try," he interrupted. "No promises, though."
She let out a pained sigh and sat down in her chair, trying not to show her annoyance. "I can't-" she started, but then her phone beeped.
Come to Baker St.
SH
Max glanced around to make sure that nobody could see her; when she was certain that none of her coworkers were paying attention, she texted back a quick reply.
I'm at work. Is it an emergency? And aren't you in Belarus?
Sherlock didn't reply right away as he typed out his reply, and then four rapid-fire texts came in.
Just got back.
Yes, it's urgent.
I'm bored.
How do you people keep yourself occupied when you have nothing to do?
Max sighed wearily. Throughout the past few weeks that she had known Sherlock, she had become more familiar with his eccentric habits. The most prominent one seemed to be that, when he wasn't solving a case, he was constantly in desperate need of something to keep his mind busy; otherwise he would usually either attempt some experiment that would leave him covered in blood, or he would annoy her and John.
Mostly just her, actually.
Normally Max would humor him, and they would carry on a conversation until she got off of work. After a while she found herself looking forward to his daily texts, but today...
I'll drop by after work. Do crosswords or something.
Sherlock didn't reply, and Max hoped it meant that he was following her instructions and doing crosswords. But if she was going to be honest with herself, she doubted it. She could practically hear Sherlock scoffing. Dull, she imagined him complaining.
Honestly, sometimes she didn't know what to do with him.
000
A few hours later, Max had arrived at the Baker St flat. By this point, the cozy building was like a second home to Max. She was familiar with every brick, every small crack and dip in the steps leading up to the door. Just the sight of it managed to make her forget all the stress from the day.
Max knocked on the door, and within a matter of seconds Mrs. Hudson was letting her in. "Hi, Mrs. Hudson," Max greeted.
Mrs. Hudson smiled in relief. "Oh, thank goodness you're here, Max!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "Sherlock's upstairs, he mentioned that you'd be coming over." She leaned forward and whispered softly so that nobody else could hear. "He's been in a bad mood ever since he got back. Been pacing back and forth across the living room."
Max sighed. "I guess that means he wasn't doing crosswords," she muttered. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."
The landlady waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, you're a doll," she said. "Just get him to stop pacing, will you?"
Max laughed. "No promises, but I'll try," she replied.
Mrs. Hudson gestured her up the stairs, and within a few seconds Max had reached the flat. As usual, the door was open, and just as Mrs. Hudson had said, Max could see Sherlock walking back and forth in the living room, wearing his pajamas and a blue dressing gown. He seemed to be too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice her yet; rather, he was scowling at the air, as if something was wrong with it.
"Hey there," Max greeted.
Sherlock stopped pacing and glanced in her direction, his eyes skimming down her figure. "You should have waited until the carriage was still to take out the ink cartridge," he told her.
By now, Max was used to Sherlock issuing blunt statements like this, so she just raised an eyebrow. "What gave me away?" she asked dryly.
He gestured to her clothes. "The ink stains on your shirt," he answered. "The type of ink is clearly from a printer- you can tell by the coloration- and the pattern of the stains only happens if you try to take out the ink cartridge while the carriage hasn't settled." He was normally enthusiastic when he explained one of his deductions, but right now he sounded utterly dismal. It didn't take a genius to realize that he was in a bad mood.
Max nodded. "Right," she said. "Now, what's wrong?"
Sherlock groaned and threw himself down onto his armchair. "I'm bored!" he complained.
She sat down in John's chair, which was now under joint custody between them. John had protested at first, but eventually he had decided that it wasn't worth it. "What happened to the case in Belarus?" she offered.
He scoffed. "Remarkably unremarkable," he told her. "He killed his girlfriend. He'll be hanged, undoubtedly." He shook his head. "Emotions. See what they do to people?"
By now Max had heard this speech a thousand times, so she just nodded as she kicked off her shoes. "Right," she agreed. "Sherlock-"
"You never answered my question," Sherlock interrupted.
Max blinked. "Huh?" she asked.
He shot her a look. "How do you people live like this, with nothing to do?" he demanded. "How do you keep your tiny minds from falling to pieces?!"
She shrugged nonchalantly. "Look up something random online," she suggested. Sherlock looked at her doubtfully, but Max continued talking. "Start watching a new show. Read a book. Eat chocolate. Oh, and apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Get a girlfriend." Sherlock scoffed, clearly not convinced. "What? It's a thing."
He rolled his eyes. "Of course it is," he agreed in a tone that said he didn't agree at all. Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his armchair. "Continue, please."
Max shifted in her seat. "I don't know, Sherlock," she said. "Play a sport? Learn how to knit? Draw?"
"Draw a smiley face for me," Sherlock suddenly requested.
She blinked in surprise. "What?" she asked.
Sherlock reached under the table between the two armchairs, and he held out a spray paint can. It took Max a second to recognize it as the can that she had given him a few weeks ago. "Draw me a smiley face," he repeated.
Max scoffed. "On what, the wall?" she replied. But the expression on Sherlock's face told her the answer, and her eyes widened in disbelief. "No way. No, I'm not... not... graffiti-ing on the wall! Mrs. Hudson-"
"Oh, she'll take it off the rent," Sherlock interrupted flippantly. "It doesn't matter, I need something for target practice."
She gave him a look. "What target practice?" she asked.
Instead of answering, Sherlock held out the paint can. Max looked at him doubtfully, but when it was clear that he wasn't going to budge, she sighed and took the can.
"Right over there," Sherlock told her, gesturing to the wall across from the fireplace.
Max rolled her eyes as she shook the spray paint can, then walked up to where Sherlock had pointed. She eyed the wall for a few seconds, then sprayed two eyes and a smile. The bright yellow of the Michigan paint stood out against the black and white wallpaper.
"With the head," Sherlock instructed.
She sighed wearily. "One head coming right up," she said. She sprayed in a circle around the eyes and mouth, then stepped back to admire her work. "How's that-"
BANG! BANG!
Max ducked down in a panic, too familiar with the sound of gunfire after the night that they had spent at the museum. But then she saw the two bullet holes in the smiley face and the gun in Sherlock's hand, and she pieced two and two together.
"You could have warned me!" she exclaimed.
Sherlock looked at her in confusion. "Why?" he asked. "I wouldn't have hit you."
Max glared at him as she straightened up. "Yeah, but-" she started, but when she realized that she wouldn't get anywhere by arguing with him, she cut herself off. "I didn't know you meant target practice literally!"
"As opposed to metaphorical target practice?" Sherlock replied sarcastically.
Without warning, he fired another shot. Max flinched, then glanced at the wall to see that the new bullet hole was right in the middle of the circle. "You missed the eyes," she told him. "Or the mouth, if you were trying for that."
Sherlock scoffed, then fired again. This time Max was prepared, but she still grimaced at the loud noise. "I was making a nose," he replied.
"... Of course," Max agreed sagely. "A nose. What else could it be?"
Suddenly there was the sound of someone hurrying up the stairs, and Max whirled around to see John running up the stairs, apparently just returning from work. His eyes were frantic, clearly having heard the gunshots, and his hands were over his ears. "What the hell are you two doing?!" he demanded.
Sherlock crossed his arms sulkily. "Bored," he muttered.
John blinked. "What?" he asked.
"BORED!" Sherlock shouted.
Angrily, he fired off another shot at the wall, then twisted his gun arm around his back and fired at the wall again. "Bored, bored, bored!" Sherlock yelled.
Obviously confused, John glanced at Max, who shrugged. "He's bored," she said simply.
Before Sherlock could fire off another shot, John hurried forward and snatched the gun from him, who didn't put up much of a fight. "Don't know what's got into the criminal classes," Sherlock grumbled as he walked towards the wall. "Good job I'm not one of them."
John quickly slid the clip out of the gun and put it away in a small safe on the kitchen table. "So you take it out on the wall," he stated.
Sherlock ran his fingers down the painted smiley face. "Ah, but the wall had it coming," he replied.
John frowned. "Where did the smiley face come from?" he asked.
Max raised a hand sheepishly. "Guilty as charged," she said. John gave her a look, clearly saying I thought you were better than this. She shrugged. "He wanted target practice."
John shot Sherlock an exasperated look. "What about that Russian case?" he asked.
Sherlock settled onto the couch, laying down and kneading the arm of the sofa with his toes. "Belarus," he corrected. "Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."
John sighed. "Ah, shame," he muttered. He headed over to the kitchen and momentarily glanced at the mess at the table, but seemed to decide that it wasn't worth it and headed to the fridge instead. "Anything in?" he asked. "I'm starving. Max, do you want-" He opened the fridge-
- and instantly slammed it closed.
Max frowned. "What's wrong?" she asked.
John turned around, his face blank. "It's a head," he answered. "A severed head."
"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock said.
Max groaned. "Oh, God," she muttered.
John walked back into the living room. "There's a head in the fridge," he stated.
Sherlock looked at him calmly. "Yes," he agreed.
"A bloody head!" John shouted.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" he challenged.
Max shot him a look. "Somewhere else, maybe?" she suggested.
Sherlock looked from Max to John and back again, clearly confused. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked.
John just stared at him blankly.
Max glanced at the fridge. "A tad bit, yeah?" she answered.
Sherlock shrugged. "I got it from Bart's morgue," he explained. "I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death."
John and Max shared a look, both of them clearly thinking He's insane. But then, nothing was new about that.
"I see you've written up the taxi driver case," Sherlock commented, clearly oblivious to the fact that Max and John were still hung up on the head in the fridge.
John blinked. "Uh, yes," he agreed. He glanced at where Max was sitting in his armchair, then sighed and sat down in Sherlock's chair instead.
Max glanced from Sherlock to John in confusion. Of course, by now she had heard the story of the first case that Sherlock and John had solved together, when Sherlock had managed to track down a taxi driver who just so happened to be a serial killer based on the fact that one of the victims was dressed in all pink. But that wasn't the reason that she was confused. "Wait, he wrote it up where?" she asked.
John groaned. "Nowhere, really-" he started.
Sherlock gestured to his laptop, which was laying off to the side. "Oh, he has a blog," he interrupted.
Max looked at John, her eyes going wide in surprise. "No way!" she exclaimed. "You have a blog?!"
John sighed, stubbornly not making eye contact with her. "... Yeah," he admitted.
She grinned at him. "That's a good idea!" she exclaimed. "I thought you didn't like writing!"
He shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with her praise. "I don't, really," he replied. "It's just... I don't know, after telling you about the case and seeing how much you liked it I figured that other people would want to hear about it too."
Sherlock reached over to grab a magazine from the coffee table next to the couch. "You called it 'A Study in Pink,'" he said.
John nodded. "Well, y'know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone... There was a lot of pink," he explained. "Did you like it?"
Sherlock flipped open the magazine, and for a few seconds it covered his face. "Erm... no," he answered.
John looked at him sharply. "Why not?" he demanded. "I thought you'd be flattered."
Sherlock snapped the magazine closed angrily and glared at John. "Flattered?" he repeated incredulously. He raised his index fingers in mocking quotation marks. "'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'"
Max raised an eyebrow at John. "Seriously?" she asked.
John sighed, knowing that he was in the minority here. "Now, hang on a minute," he requested. "I didn't mean that in a-"
"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way!" Sherlock exclaimed sarcastically. He shook his head. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's the Prime Minister-"
John grimaced. "I know," he muttered.
Max frowned. "Isn't that important, though...?" she asked.
"... or who's sleeping with who-" Sherlock continued.
John nodded wearily. "Whether the Earth goes around the sun..." he added.
Sherlock shot John a look. "Not that again," he snapped. "It's not important."
Max blinked, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that there was actually somebody who didn't know that the Earth went around the sun- and that he was sitting right here in the same room with her. "You're kidding, right?" she said. "People found that out, like, centuries ago."
John nodded, gesturing in Max's direction. "Exactly!" he exclaimed. He shifted in his seat so that he could face Sherlock better. "It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?!"
Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, clearly impatient with the way that the conversation was going. "Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it," he answered.
Max and John shared a confused look, both of them clearly lost. "...Deleted it?" John echoed.
"As in, deleted it off the computer?" Max added.
Sherlock swung his legs off of the couch and sat up so that he was facing the two of them, his eyes shining furiously. "Listen," he said. He pointed to his head. "This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kind of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"
Both John and Max were silent as they stared at Sherlock, trying to comprehend what he had just said. Max nodded slowly, and for a second it seemed like John was going to begin accepting the fact that he was just going to have to put up with this.
Only for a second, though.
"But it's the solar system!" he protested.
Sherlock groaned. "Oh, hell, what does that matter?!" he exclaimed. John looked at him in frustration, and Sherlock started flailing his hands around beside his head in an attempt to get his point across. "So we go around the sun! If we went round the moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots." He glared at John, angrier now than Max had ever seen him. "Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." With that, he laid back down on the couch, turning his back on John and curling up in a ball.
The flat was dead silent for a few seconds as Sherlock faced the wall, John glared at him furiously, and Max looked back and forth between them as she wondered if she should say something. Then, without warning, John stood up and started walking towards the living room door.
Apparently hearing him, Sherlock turned around in alarm. "Where are you going?" he asked.
John glared at him as he pulled on his jacket. "Out," he answered tightly. "I need some air."
Max frowned. "Hold up-" she started, but he had already headed out the door. "Wait, John-"
"Let him go," Sherlock interrupted.
She shot him a look. "And you!" she exclaimed. "Don't even get me started on you!"
Sherlock blinked in confusion and sat up again. "Me?" he repeated incredulously. "What did I do?!"
Max scoffed. "A fair bit, I'd say!" she retorted. "You could have handled that better!"
He looked at her curiously. "You're angry," he stated.
For a second, Max was tempted to snap at him; but the earnest look in his eyes made her anger fade away, and she sighed wearily. "No, it... it's fine," she said. "It's just... he did it for you, y'know, writing that blog. He wanted to impress you. The least you could have done was to show him some respect."
Sherlock was silent as he stared at her, trying to wrap his mind around what she had just said. Max didn't try to break the silence, just let him dwell on that by himself.
"Have you and John had a little domestic?" Mrs. Hudson's voice asked. Max and Sherlock glanced towards the door to see the landlady walking in, carrying bags of groceries for them.
Max got to her feet and took some of the bags from Mrs. Hudson. "It'll be fine, Mrs. Hudson," she reassured her. The two of them headed over to the kitchen and dumped the bags on the table. "Don't worry. John just needed some air."
Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there," she remarked. "He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."
Sighing loudly, Sherlock stood up and made his way towards the window on the far side of the room. Instead of going around the coffee table like any normal person, he walked over it as if that was an everyday occurrence and stopped in front of the window, staring out at the streets of London. "Look at that, Mrs. Hudson," he said. "Quiet, calm, peaceful... Isn't it hateful?"
Mrs. Hudson brandished a receipt at him before putting it on the kitchen table. "Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock," she reassured him. "A nice murder- that'll cheer you up."
Sherlock scoffed. "Can't come too soon," he answered.
Max sighed. "You need a hobby," she declared. She gathered up the shopping bags and passed them to Mrs. Hudson. "Here, Mrs. Hudson. Thanks for shopping."
Mrs. Hudson smiled at her. "Oh, it was nothing," she replied as she took the bags. She headed towards the living room, and she was almost out of the flat when she saw the smiley face. "Hey, what've you done to my bloody wall!"
Sherlock smirked as he turned to admire his and Max's handiwork. Max, on the other hand, groaned.
"I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" Mrs. Hudson accused, then turned and stormed down the stairs.
For a few seconds, they were silent, but then Max sighed. "Y'know, I've heard people say that if you hit a wall, the next logical step is to not bang your head against it," she commented. "Figuratively, of course." She stood up. "I'm going to see if Mrs. Hudson needs any help."
Sherlock scoffed as she walked out of the flat. "Who said anything about figuratively banging my head?" he called after her.
But then there was a very literal BANG! from the street outside, shaking the entire building. Max whirled back around just in time to see the wall where Sherlock had been standing by only moments ago explode in a gust of glass and dirt, and before she could even react, he was sent violently flying forward and to the floor.
He didn't get up.
"SHERLOCK!" Max cried.