Chapter Six
Sherlock had spent the past half an hour in his mind palace. The woman was in her forties. She was called Cara Lewis. She was a photographer- there was a spare memory card in her jacket pocket. The killer had known her schedule or he had tailed her. Therefore the killer must've known her. She was expecting to be alone. There was a mobile in her pocket. The mobile had no texts from anyone under the name Will. If Will was the killer they weren't close. Too many ifs and buts. Sherlock stopped thinking for a second and opened his eyes, it wasn't this dark when he'd shut them. He considered getting up to put on a light, but John would be home soon (with takeaway if Sherlock was lucky) and getting up would mean his thought process was completely over and- Oh! Oh! Why hadn't Sherlock thought about it before? Neighbours! That was a hopeful possibility. Of course!
Sherlock rose from the couch and went in search of biscuits in the kitchen. He successfully found the spot where John had attempted to hide the biscuit tin from him and took three jammy dodgers to munch on as he watched crap telly. He considered making tea but he could never make it the way John did it so he ignored the kettle (stupid new thing, it wasn't as nice as the old one. He'd wired the old one to make cat noises when it finished boiling) he made his way back to the sofa, remembering to smile at… what was the skulls name this week? Ah yes Herbert. Remembering to smile and offer Herbert a biscuit. Not that it ever accepted a biscuit, Sherlock was fairly sure it was ignoring him this week anyway, probably because he'd shot a bullet into the wall above the mantel piece a little too close to the top of the skull's, well, skull.
He checked his watch for maybe the sixtieth time that day as he waited for John to come home. Things were never as nice on the John's work days. Partly because John got up and made the bed cold and partly because there was no one to show off in front of. And of course because John was nice. Cuddly. Warm. He wore those (that on anyone else would be considered ridiculous) jumpers. He put up with the mess. And for some unknown reason he actually loved Sherlock back. That was something. Something new, and nice. And something Mycroft didn't have which was always going to be a positive addition to the entire arrangement.
"Sherlock I'm home. God, have you been sat here with the lights off for the past hour? It's a wonder you haven't turned nocturnal. It's freezing outside; can you put the fire on? Actually, on second thoughts, I'll put the fire on. You blew up the kettle last week and that's not something I'm about to risk with the whole house. For a start Mrs Hudson would kill us." John entered the flat and hung up his coat before turning the light on (because of course, Sherlock was completely incapable when it came to doing normal things at home) and leaning down over the couch to give his partner a kiss, "I thought I hid the biscuit tin?"
"Oh John, it works in the same way as your laptop password. I will always work out the answer in the end." Sherlock grinned, "Welcome home by the way. Shall I order takeaway?"
"Nice try Sherlock, Mrs Hudson made us lasagne, I'm heating that up and we're having that. I'm impressed though, you wanting to eat two days in a row, especially on a case."
"There's not much happening right now though."
"It'll pick up."
"It better."
"It always does, don't worry Sherlock, you'll have your moment to humiliate Anderson once more."
"The killer is probably this second victim's neighbour." Sherlock mentioned offhandedly.
"Sounds like we've got our Saturday planned out then."
"Are you doing that lasagne?"
"Yes, want to give me a hand?"
"Really, you're still asking that?" Sherlock chuckled to himself, quickly followed by the sounds of John's laughter next door. John rolled his eyes as he dug the lasagne out the fridge, avoiding the tub of what he knew was not Ben and Jerry's cookie dough ice cream and actually a tub of thumbs, whether or not they were cookie dough flavoured was not a question he was going to ask, took the tinfoil of and shoved it in the oven. Oh how he loved not actually cooking. Everything was so much easier than cooking for himself and Sherlock and trying to distinguish between proper flavours and not burnt, salty, sugary and ketchup after years in the army when they were the only four flavours of food you got. And if Mrs Hudson was not their landlady she definitely made a very good second mother when it came to them both (or 'her boys' as she liked to refer to them) although they'd made it clear that she was more than welcome to become their personal chef if she felt like it (she didn't).
Half an hour later John flops onto the couch, a steaming plate of lasagne in his hand. He smirks to himself as Sherlock watches him take a large mouthful of gooey cheesy pasta and chew slowly before swallowing. He goes to take another mouthful when Sherlock ends the silence in the room.
"Where's mine."
"Where do you think Sherlock?"
"On that plate with yours?"
"Wrong." John sings out, "Try again."
"In the kitchen?"
"Correct."
"Why's it in the kitchen? I'm hungry."
"Why do you think?"
"Because you're mean?" John laughed at Sherlock's comment the consulting three year old had returned.
"Because you didn't come help me."
"I never help you."
"Hence why your food is next door." John replied with a smile. Sherlock huffed and stomped off to the kitchen to get his food.
"I hate you!" Sherlock yelled from the other room.
"Oh course you do." John called back, "It's okay Sherlock, I love you too."
"I didn't say I loved you!"
"That's fine, I know you do really."
"No I don't."
"Yeah right." John laughed.
"Boys are you alright? I heard raised voices; you aren't having a domestic are you?" Mrs Hudson poked her head round the flat door, a look of worry on her face.
"No, no we're fine Mrs Hudson, the very pinnacle of domestic bliss. Sherlock was just telling me how much he loves me, weren't you sweetie?" John yelled, a huge grin crossing his face.
"No I wasn't!" Sherlock hollered from the other room.
"Yes you were!" John called back.
"Boys, you're going to irritate the whole street." Mrs Hudson sighed, "And I thought Mrs Turner's married ones were bad."
"That's because Mrs Turner's married ones are not as happily married as she'd like them to be." Sherlock interjected.
"Yes thank you Sherlock, we'd rather you didn't ruin another marriage this month." John called back, "Honestly Mrs Hudson I promise we're fine. Sherlock's just being his usual self but it's okay I love him anyway."
"Fine John. I love you too." Sherlock offered grudgingly as he re-entered the living room with his plate of food.
"Oh Sherlock, I'm so proud of you. You managed to serve yourself dinner without being a lazy arse." John teased.
"Don't make me take what I just said back."
"I wouldn't dream of it." John laughed putting down his plate and crossing the room to kiss Sherlock's cheek, "As you can see Mrs Hudson, the very pinnacle of domestic bliss I promise." Sherlock laughed and wrapped an arm around John's shoulder making them look like a family portrait from the Victorian era; the effect however was slightly ruined by the grins across the faces of both men as they tried to convince their land lady (and house keeper, which was true, no matter how many times she denied it).
Like John said, the very pinnacle of domestic bliss.