Disclaimer: still not owning a single thing. A.N. A Gravel Gertie is a type of bunker designed to provide containment during the nuclear weapons assembly process, specifically to contain nuclear materials in the event of a catastrophic "low order" detonation of a bomb being serviced. The design specification called for an ability to "sufficiently contain" a 1 kiloton fizzle. (You'll see why it matters.)
John can't stop smiling. Sherlock has been so compliant all day – really. He expected a stubborn reaction at his proposal to decorate the flat in a seasonal proper way, but apparently the sleuth has elected his flatmate as Chief Party Organizer, and so they've mooched some fairy lights and garlands from their landlady (God bless Mrs. Hudson, always), and the detective has spontaneously taken over the chore of putting them up. Without even a single teasing peep about John's height (or lack thereof).
The doctor, instead, has claimed preparing the refreshments – they don't want any accidentally poisoned acquaintances. Much less purposefully, should the bored consulting detective decide that willingly entering 221B works as signing a consent form to be experimented on.
When evening comes, Lestrade is the first guest to arrive, apologising with a quip about not having any decent crimes to offer for Christmas. He's pleasantly surprised to see John there, that much is obvious – there's a minute relaxing that the boys will later fight over, John already knows. The boffin will argue that the DI was relieved not to have to endure an unchecked sociopath, while his friend will try to point out that Greg is clearly happy that Sherlock has not spent the day all by his lonesome.
Lestrade brings them the Police Academy movies collection. "Cops actually as stupid as you deem us to be," he explains to an unimpressed sleuth.
The blogger knows that, if things got dire, Greg would probably ditch his wife (in the process of becoming ex-wife, anyway) and make sure Sherlock watched these and got a laugh out of eviscerating them verbally if nothing else instead of moping all day. God bless him and his staunch, mostly unacknowledged friendship when John couldn't – by way of not knowing him yet or being otherwise busy – be there for the world's only consulting detective.
The DI accepts a drink and his gift with a smile, admitting it might come in handy. Sherlock sends John a smug look that clearly says, "See? I was right. Told you so."
The doctor offers a tiny, lopsided smile back, conceding that obviously the man is always right – even though they know it is not true.
Well, to be perfectly honest saying Greg has been their first guest is a lie – but Mrs. Hudson is not a guest as much as family, even for John, and she's always up and down the stairs, despite her hip, to look after them. John might have taken over the refreshments, but the baked goods are out of his competence, and when he mentioned buying some, their landlady tutted in mock outrage and declared that no industrial sweets would contaminate her house.
Sherlock is smiling, relaxed, and his happiness is simply contagious…until Jeanette arrives. She kisses John's lips as he greets her, and he blushes, mostly because of his landlady's silent glare. What's the matter with the dear old woman, anyway? He's told her there's nothing between him and Sherlock until he's gone hoarse.
His girlfriend smiles at everyone, despite the polite but somehow less than warm welcome. Thank God for Greg who's the most normal of everyone in the room. Perhaps because of the slight awkwardness, she hugs him and invites him to ditch this so called party later tonight to go dancing… and one does not need to be a consulting detective to deduce that she does not mean to do it only vertically.
John agrees eagerly, Sherlock is probably not going to wish for the party to continue till the wee hours of the night, and after being cockblocked just yesterday there's no reason not to accept. The betrayed look the sleuth levels at him surprises him. It's so quick that the doctor would miss it if his eyes weren't lured back to his flatmate all the time, even with his arms full of enticing girlfriend. John refuses to be guilted into changing his decision, though.
This is supposed to be the cheer-Sherlock-up party, however. Since his silly, silly flatmate refused to tell him in advance that yes, he would like very much if John kept his provisional girlfriend away from the revelry, the blond has to take quick action to remove, if only for a minute, the offending guest. And why did he think provisional just now? That's not a good mindset, John, stop it, he mentally scolds himself.
Instead, he sings the praises of Mrs. Hudson's baking and prompts Jeanette to taste it, which requires her moving to the kitchen, where the feast is laid out. She smiles and agrees…and then turns, with a puzzled raised eyebrow, when he makes no move to follow her, but he affects being too comfortable where he is and just waves her away, blowing her a kiss. She turns and marches into the kitchen, head held high and annoyance visible, but he'll patch things with her later. He's confident that he can seduce her on the dance floor.
Immediately, he turns to Sherlock with a request for him to play, because he's learned months ago that a bit of ego-stroking will do marvels to get his friend out of the dumps, and he needs an excuse to heap praise on him. His music is certain to offer him the occasion.
Mrs. Hudson joins in, going so far as to request a Christmas carol, and for a moment John worries this will upset their artist. God knows that Sherlock's music follows only his mercurial moods, with no regard to the comfort of anyone else, and when he does play actual songs it's usually classical pieces, not holidays junk. But he's underestimated how fond his friend is of their landlady – or how far he's willing to go to ensure she'll forgive him a million disturbances – because their private violinist takes the bow with a flourish and executes a perfect rendition of the piece.
Nobody dares to breath, much less talk, during the music. The detective has everyone spellbound, and John can't help but look at him fondly and ponder that his flatmate might have missed his calling. Any orchestra would be honoured to make him first violin, certainly. Then again, he smiles to himself, not many professional orchestras work at 3 AM. And Sherlock is saving lives by helping to put criminals behind bars. It is certainly better for the world that he picked his career as consulting detective. Still, what a loss for the arts. The blogger can't help but feel keenly privileged to be in their very selected public.
When the song ends, and the violinist offers a bow that would not be out of place on any stage, John is not the only one singing his praises. Of course he isn't – anyone with ears can't help from acclaiming such prowess. The blogger half expects the married ones next door to knock wishing to offer their applause.
Sherlock's eyes shine with happiness now, and the knot that his pain tightened in John's stomach loosens. Mission accomplished. Mrs. Hudson quips about the antlers, and the detective replies in good humour. Honestly, his blogger is happy that the sleuth took his gift off before the party. Sharing with him something that his friend won't allow anyone else to see (but Mrs. H., and she's practically family) makes him feel special.
Jeanette comes back from the kitchen, apparently having decided that she's not letting the situation irritate her beyond measure. Honestly, John is baffled that she didn't wander back in immediately after the consulting detective started playing, like animals and even plants followed Orpheus in the myth. Maybe he has annoyed her more than he suspected.
She brings a peace offering, though. A platter full of Mrs. Hudson's delicacies, and a smile painted on her lips. But of course, things aren't so easy. When she offers it to Sherlock, he doesn't just refuse. He refuses by calling her the wrong name. Better yet, calling her the name of the first girlfriend John had since he lives in 221b.
The doctor tries to diffuse the situation, but the sleuth won't be so easily deterred. Is he consciously trying to piss Jeanette off? With the way the git seems to be unaware of the most basic social cues, and at other time manages to manipulate flawlessly people into doing whatever he wants, John has still not figured out if and when his flatmate's rudeness is totally deliberate or not…and probably never will, to be honest.
Offering Jeanette the full list of John's lovers in the past year, Leporello style (they agreed that Sherlock would endure John subjecting him to pop culture education if he could reciprocate with classical music trivia), is bad enough. Mentioning them not by name but invariably by some flaw leaves her with no possible doubt about the sleuth's opinion of her and all her precursors. Only John knows that apparently the detective hates her more than any of the rest. Boring is the most severe invective in the man's book.
Implying that she certainly won't last long is the last straw for her. John is tempted to tell her to consider him one of her unruly children – as a teacher, she must be used to dealing with them. She can't exactly give him a demerit, though.
Thank God that the awkwardness is broken by a new arrival. Molly is, simply put, gorgeous like that. John notices, even if he shouldn't, and God knows that Greg notices too – he's practically picking his jaw from the floor. The only one who does not seem to deem the getup worth of an appreciative smile or a lingering look is Sherlock. Of course, he's too busy flirting with Irene these days, but still…poor Molly.
Apparently the sleuth has decided that the earlier concert means that he's done his part to be involved in the general merriment, and he's escaping from the situation by checking John's blog. As if the number of readers – recorded or not – might prove something. True, the doctor has dangled his wider public in front of him when Sherlock was particularly annoying, a couple of times – or twenty.
But the point of today is proving that people enjoy his company. If he hides behind a screen it's hard to do that. The consulting toddler is determined to be cranky, though, and is clearly searching for any excuse to complain. Maybe John should have been smart and told him to invite Irene, too. But to be honest, he'd very much prefer not to have to watch the two bloody geniuses flirt.
The blogger can even shrug off the detective's protest against publishing his hat photo (it's everywhere, it's not like he's divulged some embarrassing secret), but when Sherlock chides Molly for her open-mouth-insert-foot routine, well, that's rich. John's glare clearly says, "Pot. Kettle. Black," but berating him publicly is not on today's agenda.
He doesn't need to defend Molly, though, because she can do that herself. She immediately lets accidentally drop how the consulting detective has been moaning to her about his flatmate's upcoming absence. True, the man's glower cowers her into correcting her choice of verb, but the truth is out.
And no, John refuses to be guilted into changing plans. Harry's finally off the booze, and she needs his support now. She needs to be encouraged, and praised, and helped – and there's simply no way that Sherlock is correct deducing that she's insincere when she claims she's clean simply by the tinny voice he could hear over John's mobile phone. The conversation wasn't even on loudspeaker, for God's sake, and if the consulting detective's sense weren't the keenest in the universe, as well as his mind, he shouldn't even have heard it. What data can the man glean from that? He's bullshitting, certainly.
Thinking they've just teased each other and can put that behind themselves, Molly moves to properly greet her crush and give him a gift. But none of them has realized exactly how much the party itself, or John's looming absence, or maybe Jeanette's presence (in a word, John – it's all his fault, for making things worse when he was trying to cheer the man up) have riled up the consulting detective.
Clearly, Sherlock is not done venting. He tears into poor Molly, deducing her to an inch of her life… that's really meaner than he usually is, and everyone in the room, besides Jeanette, who doesn't know poor Molls at all, cringes inwardly.
The doctor is tempted to cut in, say anything to stop him, but he keeps silent. He knows the sleuth enough to realize that any attempt to stop him now will only make him go on in a louder voice. When his friend gets like that, he's like a freight train. You cannot stop him without explosives. To everyone's surprise, the sleuth's voice suddenly tapers out, just after his most vicious insinuation. John knows that look on him. It's a mix of 'Oh shit' and 'I missed something!'.
Only he can't have missed that, can he? He's manipulated Molly using her crush on him more than once, for God's sake. Don't tell him…he's deleted it? But it would make no sense. He still needs Molly's cooperation. He wouldn't delete the best way to persuade her. (Unless he decided to delete it because John somehow persuaded him that Molly is a friend, so he thinks he doesn't need to manipulate her. Anyway, this disaster is really John's fault.)
To John's shock, Sherlock immediately apologises. So he didn't mean to hurt her. At least, not that much. Does he know how awful it is to be sneered at by your crush for your infatuation? Surely not, right? After all, Irene is very much open to whatever he wants, and before…well, who would be stupid enough to reject him? Just look!
Yeah, yeah, people keep insinuating that the detective never had friends, but this has nothing to do with romantic/sexual relationships. Someone as gorgeous and brilliant as him must have been hit on all the time. He wasn't married to his work in his teen years, was he? Sherlock can have anyone he wants. He just has to wink.
The doctor's synapses can fire in a flash too, if not as hastily as the sleuth's, because all these thoughts take no more than a second. And then…as if the day hasn't been awkward enough…another fucking text comes. And adjective has never been more proper.
Of course, their guests are aghasts, but the consulting detective waves it away. As if it's nothing. It's not nothing, very much not, and John blurts out the figure. 57. Sherlock had fifty bloody seven chances to change his texts ringtone, but he didn't. So there's no way he can be casual about it. He's doing it because it gets him hard or because he likes making people uncomfortable – or both. Personally, John would bet on both. Neither of these options are acceptable behaviour in polite company. Once again, the blogger has to curb the urge to explode in a furious ranting.
With a quip that seems spiteful but actually confirms that the consulting detective likes riling him up (yeah, he's counting, of course he's counting!), his friend takes a gift that nobody has put on their mantelpiece and flees to his room. Way to fail a day. Sherlock just ran away from his 'friends', and someone sneaked in their home and left things around – they might have as well left a bomb. Well, they know who, and she's fucking dangerous and possibly insane, who drugs people without a second thought like that?
John's hairs stand on end – Moriarty has invaded the basement, but now their own flat has been violated, and even if his flatmate might love the idea of the Woman letting herself in and doing whatever she pleases, John is actually considering changing the locks.
He tries to discuss Sherlock's relationship with the dominatrix with him, but the madman locks himself in his room – and everyone else, John included, out. Brilliant. Just brilliant. He cares about his friend. He's concerned about him. God knows John has bedded a few inadvisable girls, but he eventually dumped them. And more than once, friends opened his besotted eyes. If he can't even play his part as the detective's friend, what good is he?
It's the phone. The bloody phone that started all this trouble. The phone Irene had drugged him to recover. The one she declared – loudly and repeatedly – was her life. Sherlock might make mistakes sometimes. Overlook details. But he knows what it means when you casually put your life in the hands of a stranger. Especially a stranger that does not necessarily have your best interest at heart.
You've already given up on it. You don't care whether you live or die. Hell, you're probably hoping for the latter. And with the people Irene has after her, it's likely that her wish will come true. Hers isn't a proper goodbye text, but he can read through, "There's a gift for you on the mantel. Sorry about dinner." Hell, John could too, if he showed it to him.
He can't help but be disappointed. She was his expert in hurting one's partner for pleasure, and now she's gone. He'll never get to have a serious conversation about what, and why, and what ifs, and so on. True, there are dozens of her colleagues that would take his money and talk his ears off if he asked.
But Mycroft sent him to her door. Nobody would have questioned why they met. If he looked for someone else, Mycroft would know (he knows everything, always), and possibly John would know – oh God please no – and questions would be asked. He might be thirty, but people can't just stay out of his effing business.
If she didn't try to goad him into sex with her almost-harassment (how many times does one need to ignore unwanted avances for the other party to get it? Fifty-seven, apparently), they might have enlightened one another. What a waste.
Well, at least one person is going to be relieved. Happy, even, if the annoying git is capable of such a feeling. The least he can do is inform his brother of the threat's demise. Of course, the call is not pleasant. They have dispensed with the niceties of 'family' long ago, so Mycroft knows this is either work-related or Sherlock is in a bad place (one awful enough to make him reach for help), or possibly both. Still, his brother can't help but be sassy. It's their own way to lighten the mood, but right now, it's not what he wants to hear.
The sleuth doesn't realise that what he wants (needs) to hear is John – apparently the man loitered at his door – softly asking, "You okay?" Or anyone asking it, really. Someone caring about him. Yes, these people have agreed to come, celebrate with him, but when he ignored them and hid away, they were quite happy to ignore him and keep getting drunk.
Then again, it's not like he answers well to anyone's caring, is it? He's curt and snappy at his concerned flat(soul)mate. But the man has his…paramour in the fucking room. Why is he concerned about any texts Sherlock might or might not be getting, or how they make him feel? How anything makes him feel? It's a contradiction, and honestly, quite frustrating.
Half an hour later – he's holed himself in his room, and everyone has left him be…probably enjoying his absence, at that – Mrs. Hudson knocks on his door. He wants to yell at her to go away, but she might be upset, or she might decide he needs a lecture (she's way more like his mummy that any landlady, or former client, or really any human being has any right to be).
So he opens the door – just a crack – and glares ineffectually at her. Going by her healthy flush, she's not laid off since before. Someone might want to accompany her down to her flat when she finally retires, lest she stumble on the stairs.
"Your brother is here, Sherlock! Come out and wish him a happy Christmas, at least," she announces.
Oh God. As if the day hadn't been bad enough until now. What does Mycroft need? He should be celebrating the good news by gorging himself.
Before he can shut the door on her face, his brother appears behind her, murmuring, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I'm not here for the seasonal greetings. I need you, Sherlock." It's a shocking admission – usually his smug brother likes to pretend that he's doing the sleuth a favour by requesting his assistance. Without thinking, the detective opens his room's door entirely.
"Thoughtful of you, but your assistance is required in the field, brother mine. You'll have to make your excuses and leave the party, I'm afraid," the British government explains, nodding at him to come out.
What might have prompted this? Not that he's against leaving, it's actually a relief, and now he will look like the busy consulting detective rather than the sociopathic nutjob at least. Not that his brother would ever rescuing him from merely being uncomfortable in his own home. But the Irene matter is closed. Is it possible that their inept politicians have got into another spot of trouble requiring his assistance when the royal scandal has just vanished? How are they picked out, honestly?
John asks if he might be of assistance, his girlfriend glaring darkly at him, but Sherlock waves him away. The man can enjoy the party he's wanted to organise…and the rest of his evening. Dancing (does John even know how to dance? Why has he never showed off this talent in his presence), fucking, whatever. The sleuth doesn't want to know. He has another case to solve. Whether it is Mycroft's twisted version of a Christmas gift, getting him more work, or particularly lucky (for him) timing by a spy or terrorist, it doesn't matter, ultimately.
It is an extra gift from Irene, instead. The Woman got herself so horribly bashed in the head that they are pulling him in to identify her. He supposes asking her illustrious client would have been too awkward, if probably more effective.
To his surprise, there's Molly in the morgue. She's changed out of the elegant dress, opting for a Christmassy jumper (looking for the comfort of the embrace of the soft wool?) and is even more mousey than usually. At least, this last deduction he doesn't voice aloud. There's no need. Mycroft sees as much, too – probably even more.
Kindly (at least he hopes – John has made him discover that his idea of kindness can be a bit…skewed), he tells her that she shouldn't have come to work. They're probably not even acknowledging her overtime. She could be drinking away the sorrow he caused, pulling someone to prove that she's perfect and desirable (if one is inclined towards women, the sleuth supposes she could be), marathoning silly TV shows, or whatever else people do to make themselves feel better. Not going to work and face the clueless idiot who just humiliated you in public.
Quietly, she points out the holiday, implying that other people are too busy being happy with friends, family or whatever the day implies, while she, feeling already miserable (thanks so much, Sherlock!) would not be annoyed by having to leave her activities. He's already told her he's sorry once. He's not going to repeat it in front of his brother.
Given the status of the dead woman's face, Sherlock asks curtly to see the rest of her. The quicker this ends, the happier every one of the people present will be. The pathologist startles at this, but complies. The consulting detective assures his brother that it's her. The body measurements match.
It's unlikely that he'll ever forget them. The burst of panic he felt when the CIA men threatened to shoot John have branded that moment into him, and while he would want nothing more than delete this whole Adler fiasco entirely, facts involving John in any way are carefully collected. Even if it is irrational, he's loath to forget anything about his soulmate.
But is it truly irrational? Horribly sentimental? Can't he justify himself with the need to hold all the data necessary to solve the conundrum of the man's contradictory behaviour? If he hates being Sherlock's soulmate, if he wants nothing more than find someone else to spend his life with, why does he stay? Even admitting that his blogger might like to be involved in cases because of his adrenaline addiction, who's forcing him to live with Sherlock when it entails body parts in the fridge? He didn't even take Mycroft's money! Is it only because of the low rent? Would John put up with him only for the pleasure to live in central London?
He's derailed from his own pondering by Molly's urgent whisper. He doesn't exactly mean to pay attention. But he's still there, and she knows, so it's not eavesdropping. He quickens his pace, rushed by the surge of annoyance he can't help but to feel. She's questioning why and how he can recognise the cadaver from her body? Fine, she has a crush on him, that's established. But does she feel like she has the right to question his actions, or be jealous? He has never promised het anything.
By all means, she should rejoice. Even assuming that the Woman was a rival – and that demonstrates a rather worrying lack of imagination in someone who's supposed to determine cause of death, there are at least five options for him to see Irene naked off the top of his head – she's a dead rival. Isn't that the best kind?
He would like to see Molly deal with what he's going through, day in day out, having a parade of people, very much alive and breathing, and talking and kissing, that the man you love has absolutely zero compunction to introduce to you and gleefully disclose his intention to 'get a leg over' with.
Yes, he's been abominable to her today – the only reason he doesn't chastise the pathologist now about minding her own business – but even meek doctor Hooper might lash out at any convenient target if tormented long enough, he suspects.
After all this time, his brother can still surprise him. Mycroft offers him a cigarette. For all that the man smokes too (how do you think Sherlock started?), which makes him an insufferably hypocrite – regular Mycroft, then – he's always tried his level best to keep his little brother away from all and any addictive substances.
There must be a trap behind. Some sort of catch. But hey, the sleuth is not so stubborn as to refuse free tobacco – especially now that John is not around to look disappointed about it. And yet, just the thought of his soulmate's disgruntled face is enough to make him almost sick, draining the pleasure of sweet, sweet nicotine.
He looks for an excuse not to indulge, and if that isn't a sign he's utterly messed up, he doesn't know what it is. He would rather please his soulmate, who isn't even effing present, than satisfy his cravings with a proper cigarette instead of a number of patches. The man is the ruin of him…or the salvation, maybe. Cigarettes are bad for your health, aren't they?
Anyway, they're in a hospital, he realises suddenly. He's pretty sure smoking inside one is frowned upon. Maybe he can get out of taking it and go back home, tell John and be praised by him? …Oh, right. John won't be home. He'll be dancing with tart number…what is it, ten? twelve? And the corpses won't really have adverse effects from passive smoking, as his smarter brother points out. Fuck it all (not that he says it aloud), he's smoking. Blissful nicotine in his lungs.
Despite the unexpected indulgence, of course his brother wants the details of the case. And just because, Sherlock refuses to disclose them all. His brother wants the mobile phone? He can wait a while. He shouldn't suspect him of all people to intend to continue the power play/probable blackmail with the royal family. But he wants to get into the phone and see the files it contains on his own. He never managed to have that hopefully enlightening conversation with Miss Adler. Maybe he can deduce what he needs from the images of her sessions.
So, instead, he changes subject. Well, not much. Not from the matter he's obsessed over for months. The fact that circumstances give him a pretext to ask is lucky chance. "They're being so loud when it's clear that the parents weren't soulmates – there isn't another death looming close, or having to fend for themselves, or anything," he says quietly, mentioning the huddled family who's vehemently mourning the dead father. "They simply care for him – that much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" After all, his big brother always claimed to know better. Maybe he has the answer to this, too. Sherlock is desperate enough to seek any insight, at this point.
The reply is haughty, sententious, typical Mycroft…and completely misses the point. No, the sleuth isn't asking if they're defective because they do not care as much (God knows he cares, even if he's trained himself out of showing it), he's asking what's effing wrong with them that nobody finds them worthy enough to care for! People who could be friends hate his guts, and his soulmate can't bring himself to go beyond friendship – and he denies even that (case in point: with Wilkes). As for Mycroft, the fact that his brother's favourite haunt enforces silence is the only clue you need to determine how friendly and caring his relationships are. Somehow, he doesn't seem troubled by this, unlike the sleuth. (How can he not be?)
Disgusted by everything – the lack of much-needed insight, the fact that he gave into addiction, if the milder of his long list, the fact that John won't be angry at him for it because he'll be busy having sex with whomever her name was – he complains. Not about any of that, obviously. About the quality of his cigarette. If Mycroft had to make him fall into temptation, the least he could do was provide high quality tobacco. Low tar isn't worth breaking his good record for.
But apparently, he didn't know Miss Adler well enough to deserve a decent smoke. Well, if – according to his brother's skewed morals – he needs the death of someone close to him to deserve a proper one, he'd stick to patches, thank you very much. Not worth it.
To close the conversation, and give Mycroft no chance to get back to talking about the case, he stalks away, throwing his way a casual, seasonal good wish.
His brother replies with another – out of pure reflex, the sleuth suspects…but he lets him go. Apparently Mycroft's Christmas gift is to let him have the phone until the British government truly needs it. Good enough.
To his surprise, John is home. The sleuth ruthlessly squashes down the enthusiastic cheers by his teen self. Why is John home? A quick look is enough to tell. Whatever little dust survived the party arrangement is gone. There's been an utterly thorough search here. Mycroft, he deduces bitterly. John might not be on his payroll, but his brother would know how to play up on his doctorly instincts. And indeed, the first words out of his flat(soul) mate's mouth, beyond the greeting, are, "You okay?"
Why wouldn't he be? It's not like he cared for the woman. Does John think he does? Exactly how blind can the man be? He's more likely to relapse because of his blogger (that, at least)'s line-up of girlfriends that because of Irene's passing.
He grumbles something about his sock index before slamming the door to his bedroom…only to open it ten minutes later. "It's perfect," he announces, puzzled. "How did you learn?" Why, is the thing he doesn't dare ask.
"I didn't," John replies, shrugging. "But I remember you moaning for a whole afternoon when last month – after doing your laundry, I should add, which I'm not grumbling about because we ended up both in the Thames and washing things separately seemed like a waste of water – I thought I'd be kind and put it away for you. You obviously care about it, though, so I had Mrs. Hudson look it over – she's more likely to recognise subtle shades of colour and percentages in mixed fabrics. Glad to hear she managed."
Without really meaning to, Sherlock huffs a laugh. "Oh John, Mrs. Hudson is more likely to refill my drugs' stash than confiscate it. Well, maybe not with cocaine, she's been very clear on that, but still…"
"Ssssh! We don't talk about Mrs. Hudson's 'soothers'. It's a se-cret. Like about my gun. And anyway, you would never ask her for some," the doctor replies in a hushed tone, but with exaggerate air quotes.
"John? I know you drank a bit tonight, but are you sure that you are not that one who partook of recreational substances tonight" the detective queries, frowning. True, it's not John's style, but…
John shakes his head. "I am terribly sober, for an after-party. I just wanted to make you laugh again. God knows I need a good laugh now."
Sherlock looks him over, paying attention this time. "Oh. She dumped you, didn't she? What did I do?" he queries, sighing.
"Why would you be involved at all?" his blogger challenges, but he's not denying it yet.
"It seems I always spell the doom of your relationships somehow, John. I don't mean to," the consulting detective counters quietly. Not that he doesn't enjoy his soulmate being single, but what he means – what he can't voice – is, "please don't hate me".
"Well, I refuse to pin this on you," John declares – which means it could be. "This breakup is on her for being an idiot…and on me. I forgot that she didn't have a dog." He laughs at his own foolishness, and Sherlock joins him. The day just became tolerable.
"Maybe I should teach you to build a mind palace," he offers.
"Let's not get ambitious. I'd be happy with a mind bunker," his blogger quips. After a few seconds of consideration, he adds, grinning, "Rather, given the life we lead, let's make it a Gravel Gertie."