Short-circuiting the Machine

Sherlock was unaccustomed to having this kind of difficulty. He had a case. It was a good case: a creative serial killer. He should have been able to easily focus on solving it to the point of blocking out all other demands on his time and attention. He'd been following it avidly, soaking up as much information as he could get out of his various contacts and irritating Lestrade long before the D.I. caved and brought him in to help. He wasn't even entirely sure what day it was, as he had been on an odd sleep cycle to begin with due to his other cases and might have lost one from the flips to nocturnal and back he'd done. Even with that complication, the little puzzles he'd been thrown to keep him too busy to bother Lestrade about the two oddly similar suicides had been quite disappointing, then even more so when there were three deaths. Now, there were four identical suicides, there was something new about the last one, and there a mistake to chase down. Nothing should be intruding on his focus.

If you got down to root causes, then really Sherlock's wandering focus was all his brother's fault. Mycroft had been quite irritating all month. If Sherlock wanted to be completely honest with himself, and he tried to be so that he could sort things properly in his Mind Palace unless he had a very good reason to misfile something, his elder brother was not inventing problems to solve. He was overreacting, rather severely in Sherlock's opinion, but there was a little bit to fuss about. Sherlock's previous accommodation had been horrible. The place was run down, infested with vermin and mold that occasionally contaminated his experiments, and built primarily out of paper maché given its structural integrity. It was the fourth flat Sherlock had rented in a year, and he'd been tossed out after the scent of sulfur from one of his experiments disturbed the other tenants. In a fit of anger at being called on the smell when the woman next door filled the hall with a perfume of ripe diapers and boiled cabbage on a far more frequent basis, he'd let loose with the evidence that half of them were breaking laws. He'd intended to use the blackmail on the landlord to keep his place of residence. Instead, the police came in to mop up the criminals after one of the relatively law-abiding neighbors called 999. The arrest ensured Sherlock had a week to vacate instead of being tossed out on his ear the same day in a careless flaunting of tenant protection laws. How anyone living there could have not noticed that the basement had a grow room full of cannabis he'd never understand.

All of Sherlock's flats had been similar: places with the cheapest rent he could find. He would not leave London, he barely made enough to feed himself with The Work, and his trust fund had remained heavily restricted despite having properly gotten out of rehab six years ago. The only drug paraphernalia he kept on hand was for use as barter with his contacts, and there was nothing he was inclined to use himself in that box. He was clean, but if he could not provide for himself according to Mycroft's standards, then he'd be forced to attend a Family Dinner. Whatever well-meaning interference in his life such an event would result in was to be avoided at all costs.

Having too much cash on hand was supposedly "dangerous for a recovering addict" according to the psychiatrists Mycroft was still paying despite Sherlock having attended exactly none of their appointments after his release. As if trading favors for drugs wasn't just as easily done. Sherlock didn't have a strong belief in god, a spouse, a pet, or any other appropriately sentimental purpose in his life to keep him clean - something that had the doctors certain he'd be back under their care soon enough. Even though Mycroft claimed to understand The Work and what it was to Sherlock he clearly agreed with the so-called experts that Sherlock did not have any real motivation to remain sober. To that end, it had been arraigned through dubiously legal contracts for Sherlock to purchase essentials without actually handling any money as much as possible. Instead, he used accounts at shops that had been set up for him to clothe and groom himself despite the fact that going to the posh little shops Mycroft and Mummy picked out for him to get extravagantly priced clothing at times when he was living in a rat-infested hole was grating. The underlying message that he should get a proper career, preferably working for Mycroft, so he could afford such a lifestyle on his own was clear and unwelcome. However, dressing well both felt nice and generally reassured the few paying clients he had that he was competent. There was no good reason beyond petulance to refuse to use the offered luxuries.

Mummy's insistence that Sherlock keep up appearances for someone of his social standing and Mycroft paying the bill to ensure that he could comply worked together to ensure that he received at least one full outfit of high quality each season if not more as well as a selection of personal grooming items. He'd thought of selling some of his clothes a few times, but his odd size wasn't much in demand even without the custom tailoring and Mycroft would probably find a way to make him pay back whatever value he placed on the used things. He'd collected quite a hoard of clothes over the years, unable in his technical poverty to rationalize throwing out something of such high value unless it was properly ruined and too cautious of his brother's surveillance to sell the excess. In any case, the fine clothes and soaps had been something he missed during the two years he'd been completely cut off, and he could admit a great deal of personal vanity factored into his willingness to spend his brother's money on high-end clothing and toiletries.

Sherlock's own trust money had to last his until retirement age and there would be no arguing the merits of short-term losses in pursuit of long-term gains. That he had not been caught using drugs in six years and was a fully functional twenty-seven-year-old man running his own business did not matter, Mycroft persisted in treating him like an incapable child. His trust fund was kept just beyond his direct reach, though he did have his own personal and business accounts. Rather than paying for things directly, to use the bit of his trust fund that wasn't locked down he had to use a credit card that had been set up for him with a "reasonable" spending limit. The full balance was automatically paid in full by the trust each month, so any of his allowance that he didn't use could not be rolled into the next month. It was incredibly restrictive, and despite very reasonably pointing out that the setup encouraged spending as much as possible instead of developing responsible habits on several occasions the ridiculous setup remained. The debit card that was directly attached to his trust was nearly useless. His maximum per-month cash limit via that card was disgustingly small, not even enough for the thriftiest grocery bill, so he took it all on the first of each month. Most of that cash went to his network of informants, but he was able to stash a small amount away in case of emergencies. Emergencies like paying a security deposit on a new flat seasonally.

The flat at Baker's street with its promise of a discounted rent was a tantalizing offer. The location would not scare away clients. The walls were made of solid, thick plaster covered in acceptable wallpaper and pleasant, non-sterile colors. The gas fireplace was deliciously cozy. The furnishings were lived-in and comfortable. The pipes were reliable. The roof did not leak. The landlady adored him. It was right in the heart of the city. It was above a serviceable sandwich shop for when he needed quick food. It was a rather private building on a street with busy neighbors who wouldn't pay him any mind. It was everything he needed in a real home. It was perfect. It would be his sanctuary. It was more than twice the rent he was accustomed to paying.

Mycroft had facilitated Sherlock moving in, letting him take the funds to cover the security deposit out of his usual monthly allowance as a Christmas gift, but he would have to get a flatmate. No amount of wheedling would loosen Mycroft's iron-fisted hold on Sherlock's finances, and the expected increase in clients wasn't likely to help him make the first few month's rent. That was something he'd have to build over time and his reserves were not enough to last more than eight weeks without an immediate influx of cash. Not when he'd just splurged on ready to eat frozen meals that he lost during his unexpected eviction and would never see a penny of his old flat's security deposit despite not leaving any permanent property damage behind this time. Theoretically, he had enough in his monthly allowance to cover it, but Mrs. Hudson didn't take plastic and Mycroft wouldn't let him have a draft set up for the full amount. Housing should not be more than one third his total income, according to his brother, and it was part of his agreement when he got out of rehab to follow certain guidelines. Even when he added his trust allowance as if it was income to stretch the numbers, something Mycroft had not done when he cited the figures, his annual budget was still short by a couple hundred pounds. That Mycroft would not give him even that tiny bit of leeway on the arbitrary rule was hateful. He could afford it if he had proper access to his own money, but unfortunately he did not.

He might be able to convince Mrs. Hudson to take half the rent as a check from his business account and agree not to cash it until he'd gotten a well-paying case or two, but he doubted it. She might adore him, but she was already giving him a discount on the rent and there was only so much she could bend without incurring her own financial difficulties. The flat had been vacant for a few months already thanks to her late husband's reputation, the moldy state of the C flat in the basement, and the fallout after the rather nasty removal of the previous tenants. She was unlikely to evict Sherlock immediately, but she would likely come to the same solution Mycroft threatened him with and procure a tenant for the second floor without his input. Since the second floor was not fully equipped, the majority of the upper floors belonging to Mrs. Turner's 223 ever since the building was cut up into smaller sections from a single estate well over a hundred years ago, whoever lived upstairs would have to share Sherlock's kitchen and bath. With no door between the kitchen and parlor, they would also frequent the space Sherlock expected to host his clients in. Finding his own flatmate, someone he could stand well enough to ignore their presence at minimum, was a far better option than having someone randomly answer Mrs. Hudson's advert or arrive on Mycroft's orders and payroll as a babysitter.

The situation was intolerable. No one liked being around him for long periods of time. He didn't like being around people much, either. He considered Miss Molly Hooper, a pathologist at Bart's morgue, but her apparent infatuation with him would add complications he was neither inclined nor prepared to deal with. Also, the cats were incompatible with Mrs. Hudson's allergies. Lestrade still hadn't left his wife because of their children despite how much of a wreck his marriage was. No one else on the force tolerated him. His various street contacts either didn't have sufficient funds or were unsavory enough that Mycroft would evict them on Mrs. Hudson's behalf. He was quite certain he'd need to find new accommodations yet again quite shortly. Either Mycroft would send someone who would drive him away or he'd drive whoever Mrs. Hudson found away and it would end in disaster.

Then he met an army doctor recently invalided home due to injury. His brain had not been behaving itself since, with incessant stray thoughts jumbling his carefully maintained thought process regularly despite a very clear and rational desire to have John Watson as a flatmate. Even now, instead of going over details of a very interesting set of serial killings, Sherlock found himself reviewing his short acquaintance instead.

Doctor John Watson was genuinely interested in Sherlock's deductions and was not put off or angered by Sherlock's behavior when first meeting him in the slightest, instead expressing a mix of interest and adorable - unacceptable descriptor, correction: polite - confusion. Upon receiving an explanation of how Sherlock arrived at the conclusions he had about the man's history, Doctor Watson found what Sherlock did impressive even though it was directed at himself and contained a few bits of dirty few people would tolerate having the obvious truths they displayed pointed out to them, and Sherlock could not pretend he didn't observe and understand all those little things about everyone he encountered for more than a handful of stressful hours. - Emotional responses outside acceptable bounds, end conversation method: fiddle with phone to look busy. - He was also genuinely interesting: an army doctor wounded in action? The army usually kept such valuable assets as far from the front lines as was feasible. There was something there, some unspoken story, and even if the soldier offered it to him before he'd assembled enough data to deduce it himself, there would be clues in the story leading to deeper layers of this man's life. He was a heap of contradictory evidence just waiting to be teased out into an intricate picture. A perfect flatmate delivered directly to him like a bespoke gift. Sherlock could not let this opportunity pass, John Watson would be moving in with him. - All available data on John Watson to be collected, create new room in Mind Palace main floor for: people/interesting/flatmate tagged for regular review. -

Clearly, the blond had attracted and kept friends for years even with minimal attention paid to them. Mike Stamford had not seen John Watson in years yet treated him as if they were good friends, and there were a few comments on his one-line blog posts from people very willing to reach out and help the struggling man. Yet, he showed every indicator of deep loneliness. Clearly John Watson was depressed to the point of being nearly suicidal, though he was still fighting hard against the impulse, and that may account for part of the symptoms of loneliness on display. Physically he was short and fair, the first hints of prematurely gray hair shining very obviously in the unflattering florescent lights, blue eyes that shifted from dull to sharp in an instant given certain stimulus, clearly recovering from illness but solid and really rather handsome - irrelevant; priority: need to acquire flatmate - accommodating. Yes, John was quite accommodating of Sherlock's scientific apparatus taking up much of the kitchen. His initial displeasure at finding out that all the clutter in 221B belonged to Sherlock had faded quickly. As soon as Sherlock demonstrated a willingness to make room in the parlor for his potential flat mate's things the former soldier visibly relaxed and went upstairs to examine the second bedroom, returning looking satisfied. Perhaps he wanted to display some memorabilia collected from his travels or just a photograph or two of his army mates in uniform. That would be an interesting addition to the aesthetic: a candid shot of fit men in uniform sweating in the sun, or perhaps a proper portrait of his unit in dress uniform from some function. - emotional response outside acceptable bounds, delete - Some photographs would reveal a plethora of data about the man's past useful for navigating their cohabitation for as long as he needed assistance with the rent.

John was even willing to help with The Work, putting in quite the effort not to be left behind despite a less than stellar showing at the crime scene even granting that it was possibly his first time seeing a dead body outside a hospital or battlefield setting. The praise that spilled so honestly and easily out of the man's mouth was incomprehensible. Sherlock hadn't the faintest idea what to do with it, except that when John suggested that he could stop Sherlock felt an urgent need to ensure the man did no such thing. John's psychosomatic limp ensured the shorter man could not properly assist Sherlock's search for the pink suitcase, but the regular texts exchanged between them so his tail wouldn't get lost were both occasionally amusing and rather helpful in ensuring he took the most efficient path in his search by forcing him to consider not only the swiftest path to each darkened alley he could chart, but also to continually recalculate the path someone on a street needed to take. That shuffled some of the likely hiding places down to possible and some of the possible ones to unlikely. It only took a little more than half an hour to locate the dead woman's suitcase, a feat which was noted by John with immediate praise. Praise that lit up parts of Sherlock's psyche that had been left dark and disused for years and that he had never managed to get to work 'normally' according to a hoard of therapists and rehab specialists. It almost made how distracting the man was worth it all by itself.

At the current moment, Sherlock should have been sitting back in the cab quietly and letting the facts of the case stew in his mind so he would be able to immediately sort through the contents and condition of the pink suitcase for further evidence when he reached his flat without missing anything. Instead, he was asking John about being cold despite it being incredibly obvious extraneous data he could do nothing about while his brain replayed the older man's casual and honest praise looking for the exact stimulus required to make John do it again as often as possible whenever convenient. His inability to process John's pleased reactions had the happy exclamations looping through his mind with nowhere to settle. He found himself carefully filing away the relatively useless trivia about the weather patterns in Afghanistan and trying to recall how long it takes a body to acclimatize to different environments. He noted that John had not had leave in Britain during winter in years, meaning he'd not been home for the holidays in some time. Sherlock recategorized the trouble between John and his family to a higher level of dysfunction, with the possibility of no living family beyond Harry. For all their problems, Sherlock and Mycroft still spend a few hours together with their parents at Christmas and their respective birthdays for tea or dinner. To distract himself, and possibly John, from any emotional implications he pointed out the physical comfort the fireplace in 221B would provide.

"I've been thinking about that fireplace longingly for the last few blocks," John said. He had a sheepish tilt to his head and fiddled with the handle of his cane. "Is it a gas conversion or electric?"

"Gas, thankfully, the electric ones are no better than decorative hotplates." Sherlock wasn't sure why he was still talking. "Wood-burning would be my personal preference, but that is obviously impossible to manage in Westminster."

"I wouldn't even know where to go to fetch a stack of firewood for an evening. Not exactly something you can pick up at the shops alongside the milk and bread, is it?" John replied with dry humor. "And, imagine trying to deal with that much wood on the Tube."

There was silence for five seconds as the two men locked eyes, each assessing the other's carefully blank expression, and then they dissolved into inappropriate giggles like a pair of teenagers. Sherlock was just getting himself under control when John made a couple gestures toward the retractable handle of the bright pink case set between them and squeaked out a few half syllables that Sherlock wasn't exactly certain how to fill in, but he was still able to glean the infantile humor suggested by holding on firmly to a pole on a moving train while holding one's own wood in the other hand and the possible arrest that would follow. They laughed even louder. Sherlock hadn't shared such easy laughter with someone else in years. It was wonderful.

"But the Pride parades aren't for months," Sherlock managed to say when they were winding down, hoping to tag on another crass joke to keep the bright smile on John's face and realizing a beat too late that his mind had flown well ahead of his mouth resulting in him voicing a punchline without the necessary setup.

"Good god," John said, breathless from laughter but sobering rapidly, "Harry's going to try and drag me out for that."

"You're still closeted? I was under the impression the military was all about equality these days." Flustered from the fumbled joke, Sherlock voiced his thoughts without filter. The look John shot him was sharp and shrewd, far more alert than he'd seemed even back at the crime scene. It faded quickly into John's usual agreeable expression.

"No, well..." John began to say.

"I didn't mean to..." Sherlock tried to backpedal.

"It isn't about being ashamed," John clarified. "I found that letting women know I was Bi made them stick me in the 'sassy gay friend' category and, well, when you've only got a three day pass it's practically impossible to get over that wall. Whenever word got around, I might as well have been a pot plant for all the attention I'd get, and not just from potential dates. Hard to strike up a working relationship when your co-workers are ghosting you."

"And a similar problem with men?" Sherlock asked slowly. He felt as if somewhere in his Mind Palace the rust was being knocked loose from some disused filing cabinet, the familiar feeling of a puzzle coming together now that all the pieces were available. He looked out the window awkwardly as he tried to figure out what it is that has been itching in the back of his mind for the last twenty-four hours. If he just had a little more time he could think it through, and he wished it would keep until the case was over, but he really needed to secure a flatmate as quickly as possible. John Watson was his best option. People generally took a couple weeks to sort out their old lease and get all the paperwork in order when attaining new premises, so even one more week of searching would likely put him past his deadline. More importantly, there was a good case on. He ought to be concentrating on that. Whatever it was that kept trying to derail his thoughts could surely wait, and in any case, it felt more like a positive than a negative. If it turned out that there was something that made the doctor impossible to live with, he could sort it out once the mystery had been solved and the first month's rent properly secured.

"I just picked a lane, I suppose," John said with a shrug. "Err, you have a girlfriend?"

"Not really my area," Sherlock said as calmly as he could.

"Boyfriend, then?" John asked.

"No."

"So, we're both unattached. That's fine." Sherlock frowned, running over their conversation again, and then straightening up in his seat as Mrs. Hudson's intrusive assumption that he and John would share a bedroom and John's subsequent behavior was added into the equation. Realization ripped through him as the implications behind John's words finally registered. Panicking, his mouth began to bleat out a repeat of what he said the last time the issue came up, though the situation was a far cry from the overly thankful and rather unstable client who very nearly disrobed herself. From a hesitant start, his words sped up until they were nearly overlapping in a panicked babble.

"You should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any kind of..."

"That's, that's fine," John thankfully interrupted the rush of words gently. "It's all fine. Whatever shakes your... boat." A crease deepened between the former soldier's eyes. "I've made it awkward."

"It's all just transport," Sherlock deflected. "The brain is what counts."

"I only asked because, well... Flat mates should know what they are going in for," John said, paraphrasing Sherlock's own words from their first meeting. He was lying, or maybe just withholding something relevant, but Sherlock was too flustered to deduce what it was.

#

A (Suit)case

SofiaDragon / Watson /

The rest of the cab ride was quiet, but not the easy quiet that they had previously. At least not on Sherlock's end, as John looked quite relaxed and used his position closer to the curb to exit the vehicle before Sherlock could disengage his anxiously circling thoughts enough to move. After paying the driver - John could not easily pay for a cab ride, his current lodgings were unlikely to be easily reached via tube from Brixton given that the Doctor had no clear idea where he was or how to get to the nearest tube station let alone one on the right line, obvious, should have realized that from the start - and carried the pink case upstairs behind John's heavily limping frame. Once in his new flat, Sherlock tossed his long coat aside and got to work processing the little bundle of evidence. John hovered nearby, clearly ready to be useful.

He had already checked the outside for anything useful, running a bit of tape on the outside to catch fibers as soon as he could, but that would be a Hail Mary given the amount and type of rubbish the ratty tarp-covered skip contained and the wet mist that worked its way under the bedraggled makeshift cover. Fingerprints would be a lost cause on the textured surface of the suitcase as well. There were no useful marks or scuffs on the outside at all. Sherlock pulled out his cell phone to do a reverse look up of the identification on the suitcase tag and noted the results. The extra pair of hands that joined his when he started shifting the pile of cold case files sitting on the coffee table halved the amount of time he had to wait to get the suitcase open. Then, he carefully opened the case, removing the items within one at a time and setting them aside. When Sherlock finished, he sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers as he ran through various possibilities. The missing cell phone was a glaringly obvious clue, but it would not do to get too distracted by the obvious and not consider the smaller details.

When he emerged from his Mind Palace completely, John was sitting in the other armchair looking through a notebook with a cup of tea at his elbow. Another cup was on the side table closest to Sherlock's chair, the honey pot and a shot glass full of milk next to it. John must have lit the fireplace at some point while Sherlock worked through the suitcase, because the light and warmth flickering from it was comfortable after so long outdoors in gradually worsening weather. The mist was gone from his hair and while he wasn't completely dry his transport was no longer bothering him over the minor irritation of wet trouser legs. It was very efficient, having someone to do little things so he didn't have to stop what he was doing to handle nuisances like that. His usual consultants were only interested in a single task and then compensation. This flatmate idea might just turn out to be the most enjoyable experiment he'd conducted in a while.

"Tea?" Sherlock prompted.

"Mrs. Hudson left the kettle full and the cups and saucers out. You were too deep in thought to notice an air-raid siren, but I figured you kept the honey pot in the box of teabags for a reason," John answered with a shrug. "Couldn't find the rest of the service, but the shot glass is the right size for one cup of tea."

"And also, not wasteful in the instance that I don't take milk," Sherlock said as he dumped the milk into his cup and pried the sticky lid off the honey pot. "The tea service is still packed, one of the boxes under the kitchen table I believe. Can't be certain, I never unpacked it at my last flat."

"Ah, some decorative thing that's a pain in the arse to clean?" John guessed. Not a bad guess, considering, but not accurate in the slightest. "I've got a fairly utilitarian white set." Then, after a pause. "I say set, but I just mean I have enough to make a set. Picked them up here and there as I needed to, whatever was cheap since they were likely to break as I moved around."

"Which is also why they are white, you can get new all-white or mostly white items to replace the broken ones from just about any manufacturer easily and they will match well enough," Sherlock deduced, then remembered his earlier misstep of not having obvious space set aside for John's things. "We will have to sort out what things we are and are not willing to consider part of communal space, though generally speaking anything functional in the kitchen or parlor would be shared with allowances for decorative items of personal value." John was on the verge of laughing at him, so Sherlock shut up.

"I've spent the majority of my life in communal living arrangements of one sort or another," the former soldier reminded Sherlock. Stupid, obvious, John didn't need to be told such things. Why was he even talking about this? There was a case on! Focus!

"Do you see what is missing?" Sherlock asked, pointing at the suitcase.

"Her mobile," John answered immediately. Sherlock twitched to look at John, surprised. The soldier tapped his notebook against his knee. "I've had a few minutes to review things."

"Yes, of course, I mentioned it before. No phone in her handbag or suitcase, but a number on the luggage tag. What use is putting a land line on a luggage tag? None. So, she was traveling with a phone and no longer has it," Sherlock said.

"She could have dropped it somewhere along her way into the building. I was saying to Lestrade, after you left, that if she works in media she'd have something to take down notes or record things. Well, unless she was going on a serious holiday and cutting herself off from all that I suppose, but there isn't enough in the suitcase for more than one night. Like you said while you unpacked it: One office outfit and one dress for going out," John thought aloud. Sherlock didn't remember speaking while he unpacked the suitcase, but he did have a tendency to mumble. "She could have come to London for a night unplugged from work, but..."

"Highly unlikely destination for such a short trip of that nature, and why bring a power suit? No, she dropped the phone somewhere. She's clever, too, wouldn't have dropped it accidentally. That phone was her life and livelihood."

"How do you figure that?"

"As you said, she has to have something to do her work on. No laptop, no sign of one having ever been in the suitcase or any other device electronic or archaic on which she does it other than a phone number on the luggage tag. She had a string of lovers, she has to have a mobile phone and would never leave it at home. Clever, because she would have to be to juggle all those men. The phone was both her work and her entertainment, she would never willingly part with it," Sherlock concluded. "So where is it?"

"They can trace phone calls, can't they? I mean if we give the number to the police, they could find the phone and we'd have another potential crime scene with more evidence to work with," John asked. Sherlock got momentarily hung up on the repeated use of the first-person plural in John's speech. When Lestrade used it, he meant the police force, usually his specific team, and did not intend to include Sherlock within those covered by the pronoun - most people meant it in that manner. 'We' always indicated a group that did not include Sherlock, sometimes with emphasis to ensure he understood the exclusion. Then, he fully processed the nonsense that John was suggesting.

"If they are on, if someone answers the call, if they have the latest software on the phone itself, if there are at least three cellular towers in range of the phone that are also properly modern, then yes, they could. It is a far less reliable option than you might assume to track a cell phone by tracing a call, particularly if the phone is not answered. Those crime dramas in print or film are riddled with future tech and inaccuracies," Sherlock said with a dismissive huff, taking a few swallows of the now tepid tea. John said 'we,' lit fireplaces, made tea, and shared laughter with him. "You have your phone?"

"The battery is a bit knackered," John admitted as he pulled it out. He tapped it to check how badly it was drained from chasing Sherlock using his map. "About five percent left, I think. Fou-oh, three now, sorry."

"You'll have to charge it," Sherlock sighed, deeply disappointed. He didn't have a cable for that brand of phone, and it would be useless to implement his plan without a reliable and unknown cell phone. "My number is listed on my website, there is always the chance it will be recognized."

"You wanted me to call someone?" John asked.

"Send a text, actually, but that would obviously be useless if it died before you could receive any form of answer."

"I guess I'm done for the night then," John said, an acceptable amount of disappointment in his voice. It was quite pleasing to hear for reasons Sherlock was decidedly not thinking about.

"Fetch the cable," Sherlock suggested. Well, he said it with the same matter-of-fact tone he used most of the time when he was pointing out obvious things, which many people found to be demanding. John hadn't seemed to mind it so far, and two-thirds of people object to it on the first exposure, so that was a good sign for how well John understood Sherlock's meaning.

"It'll be a good few hours before I have a full charge, not to mention the travel time back and forth," John said, craning his neck to see the clock in the kitchen. "It'll be midnight, at least."

"Fine," Sherlock said, launching himself out of his chair and taking his scarf off the back of the door of his new flat as he spoke, "we'll go together, use your phone to test a theory while it is plugged in, then you can bring the cable with you when we continue on. There will be a plug so that if you have further need of it as the evening progresses you will be able to use it." By the time Sherlock wrapped himself in his heavy wool coat and turned around, John had taken his own coat off the back of his chair and was ready to go. The smaller man wasn't putting an ounce of weight on the cane he held as they left the flat, which was something Sherlock would have to keep an eye on. He had a few theories about what sort of thing might cure John's limp and it would be extremely convenient if the doctor would be regularly useful and not just a live-in consultant.

A/N: Yes, I changed the voice for Sherlock's inner monologue/mind palace speech completely halfway through this. Yes, he references computers when explaining how he processes information and called his brain his hard drive while the ACD version had an 'attic,' but it felt gimmicky and stupid and awkward to keep track of so I dropped it when I hit present tense. This will be getting some serious edits before it hits AO3 to fix that inconsistency. All of this is just lead-up to the original mystery I wrote for NaNoWriMo 2018, which is in need of editing and a wrap-up chapter, but we've blasted past the bits that are unchanged from the aired episode and are firmly in AU territory now.