Chapter 4

(A/N: I am so sorry for the extremely delayed updates! I had been super busy with work and then I realized I was typing up the wrong story so I had to go and redo EVERYTHING! DX Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Sherlock franchise, much to my disappointment. But, I do own all the extra characters and the plotline so please be respectful. Enjoy! I'm sorry if it's boring. I have a hard time writing in the mind-set of John and I always make him seem like Sherlock instead. I might change the point of view permanently soon, but tell me what you think! Reviews will be responded to!)

"So," I started as I walked towards the area that I assumed was a kitchen, even though I barely used it. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, thank you." Sherlock said, looking around my flat with what looked like disinterest on his face. "No milk or honey."

"Alright." I reached for the kettle, having to push myself up on my toes to actually reach it, and put it on the stove. "Thank you for, you know, bringing back my things."

"No thanks is necessary. I doubt you could've done it, considering your drunken state."

"Er...yeah..." I had no idea what to say to that. It was kind of blunt, to be honest, and not something someone would actually say out loud.

I walked back into the front room, having the wait in the tea to boil, and observed the man in front of me. Yes, he was tall from a glance, perhaps taller than normal, but if you actually looked at him and saw that he was slightly muscular, he wasn't as tall as you would originally think. His curly black hair hung in front of his cold and calculating blue eyes, his sharp cheekbones and pale complexion making his eyes stand out. He walked with the confidence of a politician and had a sense of authority around him.

"So what are you studying, Sherlock?" I asked, the awkward silence making me rather uncomfortable.

"Criminal Justice." He said in a distant voice. "Although, to be quite honest, me being here is a complete waste of time. Nevertheless, it is mandatory."

"Why is it a waste of time?"

"I don't need to be here. I've already solved numerous cases for Scotland Yard. I practically do all the work for those amateurs. But, as I said before, it's mandatory I be here because," He paused, taking a breath before continuing on in a disgusted voice. "I'm a minor." He sounded as if he had just swallowed poison.

I didn't know what to say. I hadn't expected him to say that much about himself. I assumed he would provide the usual answer like, "Oh, it's just a piece of paper. What's the use?" or "My parents wouldn't let me pursue my real interest, interpretive dancing." Okay, Sherlock didn't seem like he enjoyed interpretive dancing, but its not any stranger than, "I'm better than Scotland Yard."

"You? How old are you, Sherlock?"

"I'm 19."

"So, you're just coming to Uni?"

"What? No, I transferred from Oxford."

"Oxford?!" He was 19 and he transferred here from Oxford? "Why the bloody hell would you leave Oxford?"

"Don't make it sound like I wanted to, John. You have just only met me. Do not make assumptions." He narrowed his eyes and I had to take a deep breath to control my mouth from making any more outbursts.

"Sorry," I apologized. "Go on, then."

"I had a full ride to Oxford when-"

"A FULL RIDE?!"

"JOHN!"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, go on.!" Jeez...

"I had a full ride to Oxford once I graduated from my A-levels*. So I attended there and I met a man, Detective Inspector Dimmock. He didn't trust me at first, when I offered him information about a case involving the murder of a young man named Carl Powers. But, eventually, he learned that I was right and soon began coming to me for help. Now-"

Sherlock was interrupted by a piercing whistle in the air, startling me from where I stood at the entrance to the kitchen. I had completely forgotten about the tea! Red from embarrassment, although I hoped Sherlock couldn't tell, I rushed into the kitchen and quickly got out two cups for the tea and rushed back into the front room where Sherlock was waiting, staring out the window onto the street.

"Here you go, then." I said, setting his cup in front of him. "Careful, though. It's hot."

"Obviously." Sherlock muttered. I ignored it, though, and sat down on the sofa across from Sherlock. I looked at him expectantly as he sat down as well. "You were saying?"

'Yes, well, I helped Dimmock for a while before we hit a bit of a snag. Then my brother had me brought here and transferred me to this place."

"Well, what was the snag?"

"I don't believe that that is any of your business." Sherlock snapped, not bothering to touch his tea

"Sorry, didn't mean to intrude." I mumbled, lifting the cup to my mouth.

"You used to play rugby."

My hands hesitated as I went to put the cup down. It wasn't an abnormal thing to say, but it was the way he said it. It wasn't a question, it was a statement, as if he had read a fact from a file or a history book, all with the same bored tone. I looked around the flat, but there was nothing that could possibly give away the fact that I had played rugby.

"How...how did you know that?" I asked, my eyes snapping to his to meet his gaze, my face contorted in an expression of confusion.

"It's what I do. That's why I'm valuable to Dimmock. It's why Scotland Yard always needs my help."

"But how could you tell? There was nothing here to even hint that I used to play rugby."

"Oh, but everything is here, in plain sight."

"What the bloody hell are you even talking about?" He was an absolute loon! Was he a stalker? Just my luck! This is what I get for going to parties to have some stranger drive me home. I've learned my lesson. No more drinking. I'm sorry, Oh Lord, please forgive me. Just...don't let me die at the hands of a stalker.

"Calm down, John, I can see the panic in your eyes. You're one to jump to conclusions, I see. A stupid habit, but I guess its human nature."

"Did you just call me stupid?" My eyes were wide.

"No, I said you had stupid habits. There's a difference. Now, I know that you played rugby because of your tan lines. You are tanned above the wrist, see? A clear difference. Stop scratching at it, it wont make it go away. So, where do you get a strange tan like that? You're fit, obviously, so you must've played a sport. There aren't many sports to play where you would have to train as much as you had and wear gloves, so I obviously went with rugby."

"So, you guessed?"

"No, I deduced. It's not a perfected method yet, but I'm still working on it."

"You just guessed! You could've asked anyone on the way here who knew me and they could tell you! And why do you say 'used to'? What makes you think I don't play rugby now?"

"If you played rugby now, you would be at the practice field." Sherlock glared at me. "You used to play rugby, but you don't now because you injured your leg."

"How did-"

"Oh my GOD, John, we've been through this!" When I didn't respond, Sherlock groaned and started talking again. "Fine. I know you hurt your leg because when you walk, you limp. You don't use a cane, even though it seems pretty serious, and you don't ask for help when your hands are full and you're pretty competent at running from the way Charlie tells me you ran to class the other morning. So, you have a psychosomatic limp. Your therapist says it's due to the constant stress in your life. Could be true, but never trust therapists."

"Okay, HOW did you know I had a therapist?" He couldn't possibly know that. Not even my mum and dad know that I visit a therapist. Yet, even though it was a valid question, Sherlock looked at me incredulously.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist."

Of course...

Okay, I will admit that that is pretty cool. I can see why he would go into Criminal Justice and be an asset to Scotland Yard. But I doubt he really solved any cases. I mean, he's only 19. Besides, he probably just got lucky. Figuring out someone played a sport is different than figuring out who had committed a murder.

"But you're just 19."

"So?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"So? So how can a 19 year old solve cases for Scotland Yard? Police don't consult amateurs."

"Please, I'm not an amateur."

"Knowing why I don't play rugby anymore doesn't make you a great detective."

"No, it doesn't. May I see your phone, please?"

"My-my phone?" I asked, confused once more.

"Yes, John, your cell-phone!"

What was he getting at? I narrowed my eyes and offered my cell phone to him. He snatched it from me without hesitation and looked it over once, barely a minute in his hand, before he was handing it back to me with a smug smile.

"What?" I asked, glaring at him. "What is it?"

"No wonder you have an alcohol problem."

"Wha-I don't have a bloody alcohol problem!"

"You accepted a ride with a stranger last night and forgot most of your things at a party. I'm surprised you didn't wake up naked."

"What are you getting at, Sherlock?" I was beginning to loose my patience, and I could tell Sherlock knew it. He smirked, a cold flick of his lips, and clasped his hands in front of him.

"I can read your family relations in your phone, John. You have an expensive model, fairly new and hardly used. You obviously can't afford that, you're living in this cheap flat. So, it must've been a gift. But a gift from whom? This is a young man's gadget. So, most likely not an uncle or father. Perhaps a cousin but you're a military family so you aren't especially close to any distant relatives. I know you're military from the way you hold yourself, military training, but you never enlisted, otherwise you wouldn't be here, so that means your father or mother was in the military. But, I digress. So, if it wasn't a cousin, father, or uncle, it leaves a sibling. You want cheap accommodation, but you aren't living with a sibling? That probably shows that you don't have a really close relationship with said sibling. Maybe you don't like their drinking, or maybe you liked Harry's wife."

"How-"

"Further inspection shows an inscription that reads 'Harry+ Clara'. Now, whose Clara? Obviously, it's your brothers wife. Her name came second. If she had gotten it, her name would be first. It was probably a gift to Harry, since his name is first. A brand new phone and he's just giving it to you? Something must've happened. Trouble in paradise, you might say."

"Okay, how could you possibly know about the drinking?" I sighed.

"Well," Sherlock smiled. "It was a lucky guess. Good one, though. There are scratch marks around the charger outlet, which means he was disoriented while plugging in his phone to charge at night. never see a sober mans phone with those marks, never see a drunks without them."

Sherlock finished with a deep breath and looked at me, pensively, as if I might bolt out of my spot on the sofa and throw my forgotten tea at him. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak. It seemed to obvious to me now that he explained it that I feel utterly stupid for not realizing it before!

"That was..."I took a deep breath and broke out into a smile. "Amazing. Absolutely incredible!" Sherlock looked stunned for a moment, scrunching his eyebrows up in confusion and opening and closing his mouth as if he hadn't known what to say.

"Really?" He asked, his voice rumbling as he tried to say it quietly.

"Yes, of course, it was absolutely amazing."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

I laughed. I laughed because I didn't know. I didn't know how much my life would change at this point or how much trouble we would get in. But with every door that closes, another one opens.