AUTHOR'S NOTE: Late update this time. I didn't want to sacrifice quality to have it up on Friday. Lots of stuff happens in this chapter, so I hope you guys like it!

To say that Sherlock Holmes has difficulty dealing with stagnation would be, quite possibly, the biggest understatement of the century.

Sherlock likes planning. He likes watching the plan come to fruition, too. It's that period in between the two, that canyon of dull dull dull that invariably follows the creation of a plan and precedes its execution. John had once described it as "waiting for an airplane. You know? You're just sitting there, and you know when the plane's supposed to arrive and what will happen when it does, but you're still wishing it would just hurry up and get there."

At least one part of the analogy is correct, Sherlock thinks, climbing into the back of a cab. He certainly knows what's going to happen.

He's chosen a turtleneck dress today, soft, dark cashmere and tight enough to cling in all the correct places. The dress goes down mid-thigh, and the rest of his legs are covered with thick, black tights and modest pumps.

He barks the address of the Milton Estate to the cabby and settles back into his seat, recounting his predicted series of events in his mind for the fourth time. Arrive at Estate. Earn good favor of gardener. Manage entry into house. Destroy Camilla's email account, then computer. Rub victory in her face.

He knows exactly how things will play out, yes, but what until then? God forbid he stare out the window at the passing scenery and think. What Sherlock does isn't really thinking; it's deriving. He takes the most base, most valuable information from the world and plants it like a seed in his mind, allowing branches of predictions and blossoms of probability to flourish. Idle thoughts are almost impossible for Sherlock. He deletes most of his memories before they're even encoded, and rarely anything is important enough to think about twice, anyway. Sherlock doesn't understand how people can just sit and talk about their day, about things that have happened to them that have no consequence on their lives. It's insufferable. It's dull.

He settles for rattling off the periodic table in numerical, then alphabetical order. He's halfway through the table going from most to least soluble when the cabby makes a poorly executed left turn and stops abruptly at the front gates of an enormous house, barely visible through elaborate hedge work and row upon row of aging trees, their leaves dyed warm colors in the autumn season.

He pays the fare and steps out onto the driveway. Approaching the gate, Sherlock observes beautiful squares of garden in between the ribbons of greenery. Agapanthus, he recognizes upon seeing the deep purple blooms. Amaryllis, too, their bright white petals shot through with streaks of bright red. Zinnia, oncidium, eucharis, godetia; he can name almost all of them. These are all September flowers, he notes. This garden is obviously very well loved.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees something move behind a patch of hydrangea. There is a man bending down with a trowel (tall stature, average face, coffee stain evident on collar, hands already caked with dirt; conclusion: hard worker, been here since early morning) and Sherlock, recognizing he's got about five seconds before the man stands up and sees him lurking outside the gate, takes matters into his own hands.

"Excuse me!" he yells in a distressed feminine voice.

The gardener unfolds himself from the ground. Even at this distance, his height still appears rather intimidating. At least it would, to anyone besides Sherlock. "Er, can I help you?"

Sherlock presses himself against the gate, clutching a bar in each hand. "Sorry to bother you! It's just…well, I'm on holiday from London, and I got a cab from the hotel to visit my cousin, but I guess I got the currency exchange rate confused. I didn't bring enough money for the cab, so he dropped me off here and I was just wondering…can I use your phone? I mean, if it's alright…"

Disgusting, Sherlock thinks as he finishes. He sounds so pathetic right now. It's an attribute to his acting skills, he supposes, that he can make himself irritated. It means he sounds like a normal person, for once.

For dramatic effect, Sherlock gives a frightened little shake, and the gardener positively melts before his eyes.

"Of course!" he says a little too enthusiastically. "That's rough, about the taxi. I'll unlock the gate for you, just a sec."

The gardener thrusts a hand into his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys. He strides over to the gate, and in a matter of seconds, there is a satisfactory click as the lock opens.

"There we are, Miss…" He looks at Sherlock expectantly.

"Athena," Sherlock says with a (fake) gentle smile. "And you?"

"Andre," he says. "Nice to meet you. Although these certainly aren't the best circumstances. I can go get the phone for you, if you like, but if you want to walk up to the house with me…"

"You don't have your mobile on you?" Sherlock asks. Of course he doesn't. Obvious.

"Nah," Andre replies with a light grin. "I don't like to be distracted while I work." He starts walking towards the house.

"Oh, I can tell!" exclaims Sherlock girlishly, flashing a bright smile. "You have such a beautiful garden."

"Not mine, unfortunately," Andre sighs. "Miss Milton owns the Estate. I'm just the gardener. She's out for the day, though, and I don't think she'll mind me letting you in to borrow the phone."

"I don't want to impose," says Sherlock.

Andre pats Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, she's real nice."

Wrong, thinks Sherlock, but he follows Andre up the winding path to the manor anyway. Sherlock pays close attention to which key he uses for the side door; the silver one. He'd used the large brass one for the gate. Sherlock will need both to break in to the house.

"And…we're in," announces Andre, shaking Sherlock from his thoughts and stepping into the house. "I'll go and get my cell, if you wouldn't mind waiting here for a moment."

"Of course not," Sherlock replies curtly. The gardener offers a shy nod, eyes lingering on Sherlock just long enough to be noticeable, before striding into the hallway.

His absence will be brief, Sherlock knows, and so he takes the opportunity to scan the room for anything relevant to the case. The space is rather bare; a shoe cubby and a coat rack well stocked with expensive looking outerwear, and a bulletin board, cork face barely visible under a collage of photographs and greeting cards. One card features Camilla and an elderly couple (grandparents; just look at the shape of their ears) looking out over the edge of the Eiffel Tower, the black of Paris' nighttime sky brilliantly juxtaposed with the yellow flicker of streetlights below. Each of the three has on a pointed hat, and there is a tiny and very odd paper shape attached to the back of Camilla's jacket. A sudden idea surfacing in his brain, Sherlock pockets the picture.

"Here we are!" chimes Andre, bounding cheerily into the room and proffering his phone. Sherlock takes it, careful to brush Andre's hand ever so slightly. He draws back at the touch and folds his arms defensively across his chest, grinning sheepishly. "I'll just, er, let you make your call then."

Andre leaves the room, but Sherlock knows he's still listening. Rapidly, Sherlock sends a text to John telling him not to answer the phone. He calls John a minute later and leaves a message on his voicemail. "Um, hey John, listen…I didn't have enough money for the cab fare, the driver dropped me off at a house. When you get this message, could you maybe send a cab to pick me up? I'm at 18 New Garden street…It's, er, the only house with gates in front of it. I'll wait there. Thanks! Oh, and send me a text when you get this. Okay, bye."

Sherlock waits a devastatingly long thirty seconds (honestly John, get your act together) before receiving word from John that a cab is on its way. Andre chooses this moment to reenter, and Sherlock holds up the text triumphantly.

"I'm being picked up," he says. "I told him I'd be waiting by the front gate. Mind escorting me back?"

"Not at all," replies Andre, beaming.

If only he'd had more time, Sherlock mentally curses as they traipse across the dewy September grass, he could have found the room where Camilla keeps her computer, all her financial information, all the blackmail letters and incriminating evidence. And he wouldn't have to keep dealing with this insufferable idiot, clearly too thick to notice the wicked nature of his employer, and too easily swayed by a pretty face.

"Athena?"

Sherlock snaps from his thoughts. "Ah, yes?"

"I asked what your favorite flower is," says Andre. "If you have one, I mean, not every-"

"Orchids," says Sherlock, and for once, he's being completely honest. "I like their shape; complex, layered, but symmetrical. And there are so many different kinds."

Andre adopts a strained expression, his face flushing lightly. "Oh, orchids, is it? Some have just started to bloom around the garden. I could show them to you if you'd, uh, like to come back…tomorrow?"

They've reached the gate. As Sherlock steps onto the other side of the massive iron contraption, he flashes his most charming smile and says, "I'd be honored."

Andre gives Sherlock a little wave as he climbs into the cab. The gardener had proven quite knowledgeable regarding flora, and Sherlock had spent the twenty or so minutes waiting for his ride asking questions he already knew the answer to. In taking on a role normally, the most difficult thing for Sherlock was resisting the urge to bang his head repeatedly against a brick wall; in talking with Andre, Sherlock found it most difficult to avoid correcting his subtle inaccuracies regarding the average length of a tulip's petal or the planting season for butternut squash. Altogether, Sherlock decides, Andre is slightly less annoying than many of the other idiots he's had to deal with. He's still an idiot, but, well, who isn't?

He tells the driver to head to Irene's condo, and then sinks low in his seat with his knees above his head. His next move is to investigate Camilla's dressing room, and he'd need John for that so—

Wait.

Something doesn't make sense. Since when has he needed John? Since when has he needed anyone?

Sherlock steeples his hands, resting his fingertips against pursed lips. In his mind, there are three categories of need. There are Human Needs, those inconvenient requirements of being alive; breathing, eating, sleeping. All tragically, irritatingly necessary. Then there are Sherlock Needs, those powerful addictions that seem to be pertinent only to him; the need to have an occupied mind, for example, and the need for intellectual stimulation. The final category is labeled as Other People's Needs. These are the needs that everyone but Sherlock seems to feel; desires for socialization, activity, sexual gratification and, in most cases, affection.

But John doesn't fit into any of these categories does he, wonders Sherlock. John is certainly not a human need, nor does he fit into the Sherlock needs category. That left the classification in other people's needs. But Sherlock isn't other people. Sherlock is Sherlock. What would he need John for? Sherlock decides to do what he does best and make a list.

Trust, he agrees grudgingly. He looks down on most people for something or other, generally intellect. But he finds John's blind faith in his abilities somewhat…endearing? Partnership. John can keep up with him physically; more than that, he's willing to do so, willing to follow him endlessly and offer, if nothing else, his good humor. Honesty. John's one of the few people who knows him well enough to insult him. Expertise. Tolerance.

Companionship.

But that last one can't be right, can it? Need for companionship is positively normal, and Sherlock is pretty certain nobody would think of using that word to describe him. Did that make John an exception to the rule? Yes, thinks Sherlock, it rather does.

And John isn't a grudging need, Sherlock admits further. He's a want as well. Just like people enjoy eating, Sherlock enjoys John's company.

Well.

This is new, thinks Sherlock. He's never acknowledged need for a person before. That isn't to say he's never needed a person before; he's certainly relied on Mycroft or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson on numerous occasions; it's just he's never admitted it to himself that they were necessary. But John, well…for some reason it doesn't bother him to admit it. He doesn't even have to question if John feels the same way because, obviously, he does.

And there it is. Sherlock needs John. That means that, somewhere deep inside him, there's a part of him that must be just the tiniest bit human.

Ugh, thinks Sherlock. Disgusting.

Sherlock never came to bed last night, and John knows it's a symbol of just how much shit he's in that he considers this a good thing.

It used to be he'd try anything to coax Sherlock to sleep so he wouldn't play that infernal violin at three in the bloody morning or attack the wall with firearms. He'd also been worried about the health of the detective; surely nobody could function without sleep for that long?

But now, well, John isn't sure what to think. He's certainly still worried about the man, but not enough to risk a repeat of the previous afternoon's nap.

It would be one thing if Sherlock were just attractive; John could just say that he's so sexually starved that he'd dry hump the nearest attractive human be they man or woman. Why did Sherlock have to be so fascinating as well? John is sure he wouldn't be having this problem if Sherlock were brilliantly intelligent and three hundred pounds.

But he's not, John curses, he's bloody beautiful. Irene, too, is admittedly very pretty. With her and Sherlock's combined intelligence, they would be an unstoppable team.

Yes, thinks John, but he has an advantage over Irene, one that even she acknowledges. John and Sherlock are already a team. Now all John has to worry about is keeping his leg up over the dominatrix. He couldn't just give up after his admonition of war, could he?

Finally deciding to get out of bed, John positions himself cautiously in front of the makeup mirror. Looking back at him is an old face, worn, experienced, lined with years of living with the same dull expression. Surely, Sherlock could never come to love this face? He brings a hand above his nose, tracing the thin but visible wrinkles on his forehead.

"Are you ill?"

Sherlock can apparently walk through walls, because John doesn't hear him walk in. The doctor turns around in just enough time to see Sherlock, dressed once again in men's clothes, storming towards him with unprecedented urgency. Before John can even react, one of Sherlock's hands is on the back of his neck, arching his head forward in a mirror image of his actions the day before. This time, however, Sherlock presses his own forehead against John's. He's checking for a fever, John notices, but he can't help being overly aware of Sherlock's icy, thin fingers pressing into his skin.

As quickly as he had come, Sherlock pulls away, looking satisfied. "You don't have a temperature."

"Your hands are freezing," says John.

"People with cold hands have warm hearts," recites Sherlock, and in a few seconds both of them are giggling.

"Right," says John breathily. "Well, you're here, so I take it I'm needed for something?"

"Needed, yes…" Sherlock eyes him with caution. "Up for a little trip to the theatre?"

"As long as it's not a rom-com," jokes John, and Sherlock smiles enigmatically.

"Oh no," he says. "A detective movie."

As it turns out, Sherlock was referring to the Milton Opera House, a quaint, charming little theatre that grants some antiquity to the bustling urban town it occupies. Naturally, Sherlock has determined that Camilla Avril Milton will have placed cameras all around the outside, and he's somehow managed to sort out a spontaneous path through several less than sanitary back alleys to get to an entrance unobserved. As soon as they enter through a door labeled "PERSONEL ONLY", the two attract strange looks from some young women wearing stage makeup.

"Can I help you?" says a girl with gold ringlets, her dress an alarming shade of indigo.

Sherlock, of course, has a solution for this too, adopting a sincere voice and replying, "Yes! I was looking for Camilla?"

The girl's eyes immediately soften. "Oh, you're another one of her boyfriends?" She exchanges a sympathetic look with the other woman, who is wearing green eye shadow and a flapper's dress that likely dates to the early twenties.

John glances at Sherlock in just enough time to see his surprisingly realistic pained expression. "Yeah," Sherlock says, grimacing. "I just found out about the other boyfriends last week, actually, and I was hoping I could get my mobile from her dressing room. If she's not here, I can come back, ah, tomorrow, I suppose…"

"Oh, you poor thing!" exclaims the flapper. "I've got the key, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. How come I've never seen you around here?"

"Camilla liked to keep it private," Sherlock says. "I didn't really understand why, but now that I know I wasn't her only one, it was kind of obvious, wasn't it?"

John fights the urge to roll his eyes as the two women swoon.

"Well if I were her," says the blonde, "I'd have kept you, but…looks like you've already got someone." She motions towards John.

"Ah, yeah," Sherlock smiles, wrapping an arm around John's shoulder. "John here has been my rock lately. He's helped loads through the breakup. I wouldn't have had the courage to come here today if he hadn't cheered me on."

John starts to feel hot around the collar, and he's immensely thankful when the flapper calls from the hall to tell them she's opened the door.

"Ah," Sherlock says to her outside the dressing room. "I've only just realized I've never…been in the room without Camilla. Would you mind getting it for me? It's in the safe behind her mirror."

"She has a safe behind her mirror?" says the flapper dramatically. "I knew she got special treatment, being the heiress and all, but…wow." She hastily agrees, and steps inside. John can hear the sound of a large piece of glass being lifted. "Ah, it's got a code, know what it is?" she calls from inside the room.

"Zero four zero one" answers Sherlock, and a series of beeps follows, ending with a musical chime.

"I think I'm in," says the woman, but I can't seem to find a handle."

"Ah, it's okay," Sherlock replies. "It's a bit tricky, she's got it well hidden. I'll just…I'll do it from here."

The flapper reappears at the door. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm alright," says Sherlock. "I've got John here with me."

The two women chortle under their breaths, looking over their shoulders at John and Sherlock before they round a corner and disappear from sight. Once their laughter dies away, Sherlock promptly shuts the door and begins scanning the room.

"Alright," says the detective after a minute's pause, not looking at John. "Go."

"How did you know Camilla had multiple boyfriends?" John asks.

"I didn't," is the reply. "I figured it would be plausible that she would have a boyfriend, and went from there. Next?"

"How did you know she'd have a safe?"

"She doesn't have a safe," says Sherlock, rustling through a stack of papers.

"Then what was-"

"The security system for this room," Sherlock interrupts. "There are cameras. The number pad behind the mirror turns them off."

"And you knew it would be behind the mirror-"

"Where else would it be? It's a dressing room." Sherlock takes a brief glance at a coffee mug and pockets it.

John wonders if he should even bother asking anymore questions. "Alright. How did you know the code?"

Sherlock turns to him and smirks, but not before snatching a small ornamental figure from Camilla's desk. "Ah, that one was easily the most difficult. Still pathetically simple, though. Do you know how many people use their birthdays as pass codes?"

John responds with a blank stare.

"Oh, of course, I forget sometimes I actually have to explain myself. I found this," he produces the picture of Camilla and her grandparents, "in her house. What can you tell from the photo, John?"

"Er," John squints at the picture. "Well, they're in Paris."

"Obviously."

"And they've got on party hats, so, a birthday? But how could you get the date from-"

"Look at her jacket." John does so, and spots a tiny paper shape on Camilla's back, the shape of…

"A fish?" John questions.

"Oh, yes, but not just any fish, John!" Sherlock says excitedly, and John knows he's having fun. "It's a poisson d'avril."

"A what?"

"An April fish! It's the equivalent of April Fool's day in France. The prankster plays a trick by attaching a paper fish to the victim's back. And April fool's day is on-"

"April first. Brilliant!" exclaims John. Sherlock acknowledges the praise with a sly smile before turning back to Camilla's desk and examining a paint chip before pocketing it as well. "But, if you knew there'd be cameras, how could that girl get in to turn them off? Wouldn't that arouse suspicion?"

Sherlock whips his head around and looks at John incredulously. "This is a battle of brain versus brawn, John, and anyone on the brawn side probably doesn't have too much brain to brag about. She's resourceful enough to put cameras in her dressing room, but do you honestly think she'd put in the effort to watch the surveillance footage herself? No, she more likely has a surveillance team and gave them my picture and told them to watch out for me. But she probably didn't think anyone else would try to get into her dressing room, so they aren't watching for women. All I had to do was get someone else to shut of the security for me." He snaps his head back to the desk, picking up a small wallet and observing its contents before stowing it in his coat.

John opens his mouth to speak but finds himself unable to think of anything to say that won't sound like a proposition. Sherlock, still rooting through Camilla's things, says, without looking back:

"Cut that out. Someone might mistake you for an idiot."

John claps his mouth shut. He is fairly certain that Sherlock's remark was meant to be a compliment of sorts, but he's too afraid to ask.

Forty minutes later finds Sherlock and John clambering out of a cab and onto Irene's driveway, arguing boisterously about musicals. John isn't sure how the conversation ended up there, but then again, with Sherlock, anything can happen.

"Nothing Rodgers and Hammerstein ever produced is the least bit interesting. It's all predictable, John! Every last one!"

John sneers as they walk up the front steps. "You just don't like that they all have happy endings!"

Sherlock scoffs. "I like my musicals with a bit more substance, thanks."

"Look, I'll admit not everything they produced was a gem, but what about Pirates of Penzance? What about The King and I? Sherlock, you can't watch Anna singing "Shall we Dance?" and not feel…something, you just can't!" John pauses for a second just before they trudge through the front door. "Besides, how do you even know about musicals? You didn't even watch telly before I met you."

Sherlock shuts the door behind them. "Television actors are mediocre. Live performance acting takes stamina, control, prowess. Mummy used to take me and Mycroft to the corner theatre when we were young."

"Alright," says John. "Who's your favorite playwright, then?"

"Sondheim," Sherlock replies instantly, hanging his scarf and coat on the rack by the door.

"Sondheim!" John parrots. "Tell me you're not just saying that because of Sweeney Todd?"

"And what if I am?"

"Sherlock!" John exclaims, following the detective into the kitchen. "It's a musical about baking people into pies and selling them to the unwitting public!"

Sherlock gives him a look.

"On second thought, I see exactly why you like it." The doctor looks around. "Where's Irene?"

"Out, I expect," Sherlock replies, removing from the kitchen cabinet a teapot and two mugs. "Tea?"

"Love some."

"I need your laptop."

"It's upstairs."

"So's mine, but you won't find it."

"And if I refuse?"

Sherlock promptly removes one of the mugs from the counter. John has to fight the urge to giggle; how old is he? Four? Begrudgingly, John heads upstairs.

Why does he do these things for such a giant child, John wonders, and then answers himself. Because you love him, you dolt.

This is the last thought that flashes through John's head before he opens the door to his bedroom and his mind goes white with shock. Standing before him, decked in a stylish gray suit and brandishing a police baton, is one of Camilla's bodyguards.

AUTHOR'S NOTE II: Did you like it? Drop me a line if you did; reviews are my encouragement! Next chapter will be an...explosive development.