John walked into 221B, rolling his eyes when he saw Sherlock in exactly the same position he had left him in. The consulting detective looked up, sniffling, from the sofa where he was curled up. "Well?" he demanded. "What happened? What data do you have? I should have gone, I should have been there…"
John raised a hand, cutting him off. "You've got a cold, Sherlock. And the case is fine."
"Transport, John, transport! My body is only…what did you say?"
John sat down in his chair, opening a newspaper. "The case is fine. It's solved. The doors were locked from the inside because the killer never left the cellar. He made a brick wall and hid behind it, then died naturally. It was a subtle suicide."
"What? Lestrade, solved a case?"
John's mouth twitched. "Not exactly…"
"Don't tell me it was Anderson!"
"It wasn't."
"Who, then?" Sherlock demanded.
"It was me."
He paused. "You? You solved a case?"
"Yes, Sherlock. It's not impossible."
There was another pause. "Right then." Sherlock frowned, then turned away.
John grinned to himself behind the newspaper.
A voice spoke from the other side of the room. "Are you sure you solved it? By yourself?"
"Yes, Sherlock. I saw the clues at the scene, and I solved it. It's not impossible. Even with my useless little brain."