AN: The standard disclaimer applies- any resemblance to ACD's characters is his, and not mine… etc.


Chapter 1

This was the best way to spend a Saturday morning. I was curled up on my living room couch with a book and blanket, laptop on the coffee table, and Charlie Parker's saxophone riffs covering the mundane hum of the air conditioner. I remained like this the entire morning, until I heard a rapid succession of knocks at my door around noon.

"It's open," I called out, refusing to budge from my comfortable position.

"You know Watson, you really need to lock your door. What if it happened to be a criminal of some sort?" My friend Jake Holmes remarked as he let himself in, carefully closing the door behind him before proceeding to turn down the music.

"Then I would have to call you up." I laughed, a bit thrown off by Holmes' immaculate appearance. His usually messy hair was slicked neatly back, and he was sporting a healthy tan, a direct contrast to his usual pale complexion. "How've you been, stranger?" I had not seen nor heard from Holmes since we returned to Los Angeles after the Moriarty incident. We had gone to the opera the night we got back from San Francisco, and he was called away by Lestrade on an undercover sting operation the very next morning. Perhaps his new appearance was a remnant of that investigation.

Holmes collapsed into the nearest armchair, long legs dangling over an armrest. "Nothing but busy work, I'm afraid. Ever since Moriarty has left us, Los Angeles has become a very dull place. So dull that Lestrade's lot have been able to crack all the cases."

"Afraid you'll be out of work?" I teased. He could be so melodramatic sometimes.

He smiled wanly. "Afraid of being bored to death. Nothing interesting has come through the morgue by chance, has it?"

My face scrunched. "Nope, just a ballpoint pen stabbing in the eye last night, which Anderson took. It's been quiet."

Holmes groaned half-heartedly, sinking further into the plush chair. "That's it. I will just have to rot here."

"Suit yourself. I'm going out. You can come with if you like. Or stay here and vegetate." Holmes' drama queen antics were starting to grate on my nerves. I needed a break from the apartment- and him. I grabbed my bag of swim gear from the floor near the door, and proceeded to head out before Holmes stopped me in my tracks.

"No thanks, Watson, swimming at Y is not my cup of tea. And don't look so shocked, it was a very simple deduction," Holmes smirked at the surprise on my face.

"You know, they would have burned you at the stake back in the day."

He sat up, smiling broadly. "It doesn't take much to notice the highlighted YMCA pool schedule posted on your bulletin board. That, combined with your swim goggles hanging out of your bag, and the size of the towel draped over your shoulders, there is no other explanation."

"It's all so simple when you explain it."

Holmes had sank back into the chair, placated. "Of course. Perhaps I should stop explaining it, or else I will become a magician without his secrets. And tell me, Watson, what good is a magician without secrets?"

I rolled my eyes. He was still fishing for compliments. "Holmes, you'll always be magical to me," I reassured in a sickly sweet voice, trying to suppress my snickering as I let myself out, not waiting to hear his reply.


After swimming laps, I ran some errands, not returning to my apartment until the sun had set. Holmes had not budged from his place in the armchair, even though I was making a deliberate ruckus putting away my groceries for the week.

"Want to grab some dinner?" I asked, trying to rouse him.

He finally opened his eyes. "Only if we can go to Pedro's. My treat."

Little Pedro's Blue Bongo was a little hangout near the city courthouse that cops, attorneys, and federal agents favored. I groaned inwardly, knowing that Holmes had suggested that place not because of the food, or infamous pool tables, but rather, the conversation. (Or perhaps the ability to overhear others' conversation). But anything that would get him off of my armchair and working again would be fine by me. It made me rather uneasy that every time he got into one of his moods, the only thing that could budge him was the promise of an interesting, and usually grotesque crime.

"Sure." I plastered a smile on my face, wishing for a brief moment that I had normal friends, who I could do normal things, like shopping, with.

Then again, given my line of work as a medical examiner, and friendship with one very interesting consulting detective, how could I expect normalcy? I glanced at Holmes, who was already waiting expectantly at the door.

I smiled to myself, before getting up and following him out. And at least, unlike Holmes, I could never say my life was boring.


Pedro's was bustling when we arrived. It was always pretty crowded, and tonight was no exception. Tonight, however, the atmosphere was extremely festive and celebratory; usually, the place was just full of people complaining about how the law gave suspects way too many rights. I was glad to be out, even if the guy with me was the only one who wasn't celebrating; rather, he was sulking quietly beside me, thumbing through the obituary section of the paper, lamenting under his breath about the horrors of boredom. I ignored his mumbling patiently while we waited for the hostess to seat us, but I was so hungry by the time they had an open table I almost ate the menu.

We had just ordered when a fat, balding, rat-faced man plopped himself down next to me, reeking of alcohol. Good old Lestrade. "So, Dr. Watson," he slurred, "Did Jake tell you how we shut down that bastard Ricardo Ramirez? Drug lords, they really don't know anything about how to deal with us Homicide guys. We cleared four murders and managed the biggest drug bust this decade. Narcotics is royally pissed that we stole their thunder, aren't they Jake?"

I scooted as far away from Lestrade as possible without being blatantly rude. Not that Lestrade was any condition to notice. So this was why the place was rocking tonight. "Congratulations, detective," I smiled politely.

Holmes' eyes twinkled with amusement. "Congratulations, detective," he parroted sarcastically, winking at me.

Lestrade didn't notice. "Come on, celebrate with me." He gestured to the waitress. "A round of whatever's on tap, for me and these two. Put it on my tab."

He then turned to Holmes, his demeanor serious, his usually boisterous voice an octave lower. "Good news, Jake. I'm leaving the LAPD."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, taken aback. "What?"

Lestrade nodded solemnly. "Yeah. The feds called. The Moriarty business, plus this latest drug best…, they came up with a good offer. Plush office, less field work, great benefits, no more LAPD brass bullshit."

Holmes stiffened noticeably. "You're in the big leagues now," he drawled.

Lestrade pounded the table with his fist. "You damn right I am," he announced.

He was about to say something else when the waitress interrupted with three beers.

Lestrade lowered his voice again. "About our arrangement… does it still stand?" The arrangement Lestrade was referring to was the basis of Holmes' relationship with him, where Lestrade would consult Holmes unofficially in his cases, allowing Holmes to participate in difficult investigations. Normally what would happen was that Holmes would solve the case for Lestrade, and Lestrade would take all the credit. And Holmes, it seemed, never minded.

"No," Holmes replied curtly.

Lestrade seemed rather surprised, almost hurt. "Why not?" he probed.

"Because I don't work with the FBI," he spit out. Lestrade and I glanced at each other, both stunned at the vehemence in Holmes' voice.

Holmes noticed our unease, and managed to compose himself. "Lestrade, really. You don't need my help. With your skills, you'll do fine," he said soothingly, reaching over the table to pat Lestrade's shoulder. He raised his glass to Lestrade. "Cheers."

Lestrade sat back, reassured. "All right, Jake. Cheers."

I raised my glass too, and we drank to Lestrade's big promotion. I was still troubled about the whole situation. Why did the mention of the FBI set Holmes off? Lestrade then spotted another officer, gave Holmes a pat on the shoulder, and bid us good night.

Our food had arrived shortly after. One glance at Holmes stopped any attempt on my behalf to initiate conversation, and we began eating in stony silence.

AN: Thanks for all of you who've been following the storyline (One of Those Nights, The Future Past, and now this…).