John Watson arrives at 221B Baker Street with Rosie sleeping soundly within her papoose. Not wanting to wake his precious bundle, he quietly opens and closes the door only to be assaulted by the thundering footsteps descending the stairway. His quick turnabout and intended lecture was immediately deflected before he makes it pass the first utter when John was swiftly push around and manhandle until his precious bundle was lighten and taken by none other than Sherlock Holmes. The resident self-diagnosed high functioning sociopath, aka the famous hat detective, aka his best friend, aka Rosie's godfather.
"Bloody good timing," Sherlock stage whispers by way of greeting. He then gently taps on the door of 221A and hands over Rosie, papoose, nappy bag and all upon opening to Mrs. Hudson without a by your leave before stage whispering again, "Let's go."
Mrs. Hudson's nimble facial acrobatics began with curious to surprise to alarm to delight until it finally settled on one of acceptance when she shakes her head at both of them and closes the door with a soft click, unlike her usual protesting door slam. Also within that short duration, John resigns himself with a sigh and a look well-worn to the dictates of his friend for the remainder of the evening.
He follows Sherlock out the door and queries as they stood at the curb to hail a cab, "Were you…actually waiting for me?"
Sherlock doesn't answer him immediately, too occupied with scowling at his mobile to begin with. So enraptured was he, the detective doesn't even bother to look up as a black car pulls up. Instead he automatically opens the back passenger side door and plops himself down with an address thrown at the cabbie. It was only when John was seated, the door closed, and they drove off did Sherlock drew his attention from the device long enough to provide an answer several minutes pass due, "Of course not. A landlady was found dead beneath her balcony three stories down. No force entry nor signs of foul play."
With the small talk over and a new case beginning, John squares his jaw and takes a gander at deduction himself.
"Suicide?" the Captain throws out knowing it won't stick.
"Nope," replies the consulting detective in quick repartee.
John's lip quirks up as he glance out the window briefly afore announcing, "Course not, would be too easy for you to leave the flat."
He then turns to eye Sherlock's smug demeanor, "Come on, what is it then?"
Eyes dancing with pure mischief now, the detective offers up the first clue, "She raised the rent several weeks ago."
"Ah, right. Raising the rent, committing suicide; makes no sense at all," muse John with mild sarcasm.
"Precisely," said Sherlock with enunciated conviction.
Upon hearing that, John wonders whether he's missing something and goes fishing for a second clue, "Sounds like a five at best. What's the hook, Sherlock?"
Ever the drama queen that John had labeled him to be, Sherlock times his clever reveal just as they arrive to the scene of the crime, "Within the past half hour, all scathing reviews including death threats posted by all her tenants the last month or so on Twitter, Facebook, and what have you, has been deleted. Unfortunately for them, I saved them all."
"Well that was certainly a waste of time," declares Sherlock as soon as they finished the tour DI Greg Lestrade walked them through from the corpse below then up the stairs to the flat above. The Detective Inspector was about to escort them to interview the quarantine tenants when he stalled his tracks, stricken by that announcement.
Given Sherlock's previous excitement, John thought it was a very strange thing to say without observing and hearing all the facts first. Never mind the appalled look on Greg's face upon hearing that. Sherlock practically shouted as if he was the one offended. He had his own suspicions of course. After so many years he can boast of learning a thing or two. Be it from clever detectives, the British Government, consulting criminal mastermind or long lost psychopathic sister of a best friend.
John cuts in rather patiently, "I thought you said it was at least a seven?"
"Oh, please. Even Greg can connect the dots from here," scoffs Sherlock offhandedly, enrapt by his mobile once again.
"I can?" says Greg lightly, not quite sure whether he's flattered by Sherlock's continued remembrance of his name or the obvious insinuation of his lesser IQ. Considering this scenario was just like old times, his jovial manner prevails as he waits for the consulting detective's grand reveal to his team.
A minute pass, then two.
Only, nothing happen. Rather, Sherlock's mounting agitation over the contents of his phone made him miss his cue. He looked paler than normal. In fact, the clever detective seem lost for a moment before he clumsily stows his phone away and refocus on the room at hand. Though perhaps, less focus more like as his brow creases in confusion at the faces staring back at him. Sherlock opens his mouth but no sound came out.
Sergeant Sally Donovan, who's always lurking nearby and not caring two straws of Sherlock's wellbeing, looked ready to pounce with a derisive remark when John immediately intervenes, "Save your breath to cool your porridge, Sherlock. I think I got this."
Sally transfers her disdain to John, a raised brow clearly mocking his abilities.
Given he'd solved many cases on his own merit, Greg noticed Sherlock's odd behavior as well and decides to play along, "Be my guest."
Sally shakes her head and literal braces both hands on her hip for the oncoming drivel she expects from the freak's partner.
Too much of a professional to have cold feet at this juncture, John clears his throat and tries on his version of clever for the first time. He diverts their attention to the flat at large, pointing at references to his observations, "There, there, and there! The pile of junk throughout the rooms: two toasters, four fans, twenty or so silk scarves, and worn clothes not her size? Most likely, discarded or stolen; nicked from her tenants no doubt. Her own furnishings are dated, broken or need repair. She's a hoarder, greedy but stingy as well."
John steals a glance at Sherlock, in part out of worry yet found a nod of encouragement when his friend had regain his composure during the short diversion.
"What does all this have to do with her murder?" cuts in Sally impatiently.
Building a bit more confidence, John carries on, "Now, now. I'm not done yet."
He signals them to follow him out to the balcony, where stacks of broken pottery large and small, airing laundry, and other knickknacks litter the small opening.
John nervously points at a few objects as he continues, "So, she dries her laundry on the balcony and um…was just collecting her erm—lady things when she notices something that caught her fancy…"
He points to their right, at the adjacent balcony. There, blowing in the breeze towards them at an off kilter angle, was an embroidered Gucci labeled silk scarf, stretched beyond useable. That, along with the few items that were there hanging, were either wrapped or tied in an intricate knot upon its hanger and was further fortified by stainless steel clothespin ensuring its secure attachment.
John waves at the largest upended broken pottery closest to the other balcony before pointing at the evidence on the floor. There it was. A shiny metal clothespin stood out like the ugly duckling amidst the cheap pink plastic the landlady uses.
He then infers, "She obviously had done it before and her neighbors either caught on or suspected foul play. So, this time around, the landlady had to work a bit harder to pilfer things. She overreaches, probably loses her balance and tips right over."
Greg considers the idea while Sally remain skeptic. As for Sherlock, he looks like a proud papa at a child's first recital. John shakes his head at the notion and concludes with, "You did say there was no sign of forced entry or an altercation."
"And the evidence?" prod Sally.
"Erm…" John was stump at that one and look to Sherlock for help.
"You'll discover red powder beneath her slippers. She obviously prefers to use that red one there. Her repeated usage of that pot has refined the chipped pieces. You'll also find traces of it on the flat of the pot and the railing when she placed her foot there for leverage. Furthermore, if you bother to look at the balcony to our left, the tenant has done the same and uses wood clothespin to secure her garments. There is a ring of red powder on that side of the balcony as well and three snapped off pieces of wood. Her fingerprints, if your lucky, could be found on the scarf. If not, oil residue from her hands may be a match via transference. Her neighbors can corroborate for their stolen goods," chimes in Sherlock.
He then turns to Greg and said with a flourish, "In fact, one can say, her neighbors set up a trap and she fell for it."
Simultaneous groans emitted from Greg and John. Sally merely rolls her eyes before motioning the rest of the investigative team to take pictures and gather the evidence the freak pointed out.
"Pity though," starts Sherlock and pauses for dramatic effect as everyone stops what they're doing to see what clever thing he has to say next.
John shakes his head at the captive audience and make to exit. Thus, he only heard the title end as it fades out when Sherlock said, "A conspiracy murder by tenants makes a bet…"
The doctor bypass a few sentinel constables on the way down and waits for Sherlock at the second landing. He didn't have to wait long. Like clockwork, Sherlock's longer limbs make quick work of the steps and they both descended the rest of the stairs side by side.
"Well done, John. Why don't you open up your own consulting firm? You can be my main competition," said Sherlock showing no indication of what bothered him earlier.
John was tempted to ask but has learn throughout the years when and how to do so. Wading in requires the perfect opening after all. So he perpetuates the mood his friend was striving for, "Ah, no. I have a day job. It actually pays me to be there."
They had exit the building and reached the streets when John continues, "Besides—who are you checking on?"
Perturbed by this even stranger than normal behavior, John forgo niceties and went for broke, "You've been checking text alerts and even scrolling through old messages religiously, haven't you?"
Looking like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, Sherlock put his mobile away and comments drolly instead, "Your observational skills has improved significantly, John."
"Flattery isn't going to distract me, Sherlock," admonish the doctor as if to any one of his patients.
When Sherlock refuse to come clean, John then adds, "Is it a hot date? Have you finally made up or moved on from Janine?"
Sherlock readjusts his Belstaff coat before waving off that stupid conjecture, "Janine was a means to an opening. I used her to get to Magnussen, she sold me to the tabloids. End of story."
Upon the heel of that lengthy dissuasion, John narrows his eyes on the target, "Hedging, Sherlock."
In recognizing that all too familiar dogged tone, Sherlock finally relents on the mystery that had captured his attention all evening, "It's Mycroft, if you must know."
Surprise by the mentioning of the other Holmes brother in a long while, John states the obvious, "Oh, big case."
"No."
John tries again, "Your sister?"
"Nope."
"Family gathering?" That last was a stretch but then again, John couldn't fathom what else Mycroft related could it be, "Just tell me already."
Although sulking in general was unbecoming of any adult or person for that matter, on Sherlock however, John finds it rather endearing especially when his normally clever friend are at lost for words.
It took them hailing another cab and on the ride back to Baker Street for Sherlock to open up, "We…have been conversing…cordially? Yes, cordially via text for three months now despite his aversion to this particular mode of communication. I had thought—that perhaps we could—"
Then Sherlock releases a frustrated huff before deriding his obvious show of sentiments, "Never mind. I had texted his PA instead and received a rather cryptic reply earlier. 'Lord of Misrule no longer presiding. Evening cancelled.' For a moment, I feared the worse before I remembered. Old habits die hard. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Yada yada; so forth and so on."
First and foremost, that was news to John. Ever since the whole Eurus debacle, the good doctor had heard little of Mycroft. The last time he could recall was when Sherlock mentioned in passing that he was to visit Eurus at Sherrinford for a Holmes family reunion. Thus, to be told differently and repel with such scorn now meant more to Sherlock than his friend was letting on. Certainly, the brothers had their ups and down throughout the years he'd witness. Yet John was happy for them that they had manage to bridge their old grudges and animosity somehow. That is, until Mycroft screwed things up.
And speaking of the devil, just as their cab pulls up a bit far from the curb of 221B, John notices the three unmarked cars and half dozen men in tailored suits securing the perimeter.
After paying the cabbie, they exit the vehicle and was immediately approached by two of them.
"Not Mycroft?" John queries in all seriousness as his fight or flight instincts kick in.
Sherlock's response was a frown marring his brow.
The suited men escorts the duo to a heavily tinted car. It didn't surprise John one bit that Sherlock knew who it was before the window rolls down completely.
"Lady Smallwood," greets Sherlock with false cheer.