"Or you can be completely silent and disregard every word I say. Go ahead. You're the genius."
The detective frowned. He didn't like that John was aggravated. What's more is that he recognized this. He could usually disregard people's feelings fairly easily. They were such inconsequential pieces of data that they simply didn't register. But with John, things were different. He found that the doctor's emotions directly affected his own, and that very fact was jarring.
"We are going to go to back to 221B. I need to do some research. What about that package that Mrs. Hudson was telling you about? Do you know which lady friend dropped it off? "
John shook his head, not even bothering to ponder how the detective had figured that out. "I haven't the slightest."
Sherlock nodded, peering out the window of the cab. The rest of the ride was spent in silence, neither man looking at the other. As they pulled up in front of the flat, however, Sherlock made a show of getting out. He paid the cabby, opened the door, and took John's hand to help him out. The doctor was blushing furiously by the time that they reached the door.
"Sherlock." John whispered, slipping into the hall of 221B. Sherlock stopped walking, turning instead to face the doctor. They were nearly pressed together in the narrow corridor.
"Yes?"
The doctor swallowed. His proximity to the detective was wreaking havoc on his body. His mind doing little to control his raging emotions. He struggled for something-anything- to say, before turning and walking quickly up the stairs. Sherlock walked leisurely behind, observing. Processing.
The evidence of John's attraction to him was nearly insurmountable. The evidence of his own attraction was growing. Sherlock shut the door to their flat, heading straight over to John's laptop. Indeed the case of his apparent relationship was intriguing, a true mystery waiting to be solved.
However, murder takes precedence, and the detective simply could not afford to be distracted from a good murder.
John puttered around the kitchen, bent on making something edible from the sparse supplies available. That would be a sufficient enough puzzle to keep him from thinking about his emotions. A quick survey of the cupboard revealed various pickling body parts, and a jar of peanut butter. A small container of honey was mixed with the dried tongues in the drawer.
The doctor let out a triumphant whoop when he discovered that the bread was not only mold-free, but nearly fresh. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
He slapped the sandwich together, happy to finally have something in his stomach. His gaze fell on the package, clearly out of place amongst the various test tubes and lab equipment on the table. The doctor took another bite of his meal before reaching down and picking up the parcel.
It was a small cube, fitting easily in one hand, with only his name and 221B scrawled across the top of it. Mrs. Hudson had been right: it was obviously a woman's handwriting. The loop's and swirls were beautiful, but disconcerting for the doctor. No woman that he knew of wrote like this. Few of the women that he knew had any idea where he lived, and of those even fewer would give him the time of day, let alone a gift. He sat down, twirling the box around in his hands. It couldn't be Harry, her handwriting was nearly square, and Sarah's was the trite scrawl of a doctor.
"Don't know who it's from?"
John jolted, the package falling to the floor in his surprise. "God, don't DO that!"
Sherlock looked over at the doctor, confused. "Do what? Ask you rhetorical questions?"
"No, sneak up on me like that. You could have given me a heart attack!" John huffed indigently.
Sherlock smirked. "I hardly think so. You are fit enough that such stresses would not induce a heart attack."
The doctor wanted to say something, but the soft flutter in his stomach kept him still. Had Sherlock just complimented him?
The detective swooped down, plucking the box off the floor and examining it himself. "Interesting."
Without waiting for the doctor's approval, Sherlock ripped the box open. John made no motion to stop him, opting instead to watch the detective's mind work. A Chinese puzzle box slipped from the package and into the detective's hands. Without a moment's pause, he had the delicate wooden creation shattered against the kitchen floor. John was startled.
"Sherlock! What the hell was that about? Could you not have just puzzled through it? It was a gift!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, swooping down to retrieve a slender black piece from among the wreckage. "It wasn't a gift, John."
He held the device up, spinning it around nimbly in his fingers. It was blipping red on one end, with what looked like speaker ports on the other.
John clamped his mouth shut, recognizing a bug when he saw it. He pantomimed for the detective to follow him. Sherlock obliged, setting the device onto the table and following the doctor to his room.