"That's impossible!" Sherlock exclaimed, leaping out of his seat.
John, nestled into the armchair in his bare socks, grinned and sipped his lukewarm coffee. "No it isn't," he said. 'Made sense at the end, didn't it?"
"Michael Clowes was the killer. There's no other person it could be. Clowes had the stronger motive. He had an opportunity. He had a history of violence. He had no alibi, John. Sarah Thomas? I'm expected to believe that that mewling old—"
John sighed and got out of his seat, pointing to the aging woman sobbing her dramatic confession out on the television screen. "That," he said, "is Jane Asher, Sherlock."
"Who's Jane Asher?"
John dropped back into his chair. "She's an actress."
"Oh, very clever."
"She's mainly known for shagging Paul McCartney for most of the Sixties. If you ask me who Paul McCartney is—"
"Yes, I'm familiar with The Beatles," Sherlock said haughtily.
"… So you are human?" John curled his mouth sarcastically, then smiled. "Anyway, so she's worth a fair quid more to hire than these other nobody actors, right? So when she didn't end up dead, it was obvious she was the killer, somehow. I mean, her alibi was okay until you started thinking about it—it wasn't exactly set in stone. Easy."
"But," Sherlock said, "but it doesn't make sense for her to be the killer. There wasn't enough time for her to travel from the village fair, reach the vicarage, bludgeon Phillip Maher over the head, cleanse herself of any traces of blood, and make it back to the green in time to be there in front of half the village to accept a prize for her roses. And when Clowes was revealed to have no alibi whatsoever—"
John shrugged, tilting his head back to better see how Sherlock was taking things. He was just in time to see him disappear into the hall. "Bad writing," he said. "You're overthinking it, Sherlock, as usual. It's just a show."
"Never." Sherlock slammed the bathroom door behind himself by way of punctuation. As the shower started to run, the rest of his words floated out, blunted by the tiles around him. "I am never watching one of these stupid programs ever again."
"Yeah, you are." John went to the whiteboard on the refrigerator and picked up a thick black marker, making a fifth strike underneath his own name. There were two under Sherlock's. "Inspector Morse is on tomorrow night. You did get one of those before I did… once."