Within the week, Sherlock had a mental list of every change in John's character, tiny as they were. He'd gotten faster at deductions, catching up with Sherlock himself, and at this point Sherlock had started to think John was holding back insights so Sherlock could say them.

His sleeping patterns were different, though that was probably a side effect of the three years Sherlock had been gone. John was up until all hours, and Sherlock was fairly sure he'd been on the phone multiple times.

But what mostly got him, was this seemed deliberate on John's part. A catch me if you can, if you will. He was leaving these clues on purpose so Sherlock would catch on.

Which begged the question, what wasn't he seeing? What was he missing from the puzzle, what was John actually trying to hide from him?

Sherlock sighed, pulling out his flatmate's laptop, guessing the laptop password correctly within a matter of minutes (it had been Sherlock's name when he had returned, and though it was fairly useless for protection, Sherlock had taken a mental note on the meaning of that action, though he didn't have much to go on).

Clicking around a few files, Sherlock opened the main browser to look up the internet history.

There wasn't any.

Sherlock double-checked every browser on the computer.

Nothing. No bookmarks, no history, no recent downloads... Sherlock allowed himself half of a sigh. John had long-since stopped caring what Sherlock saw on his laptop, and usually sufficed with leaving threatening messages on a few files so Sherlock knew he should stop messing around (Not that he was going to stop, of course, John wasn't going to act on anything. Well, there was that one time John had smashed an egg on his head, but that was different).

As always, it was labelled READ ME and sat in the center of the desktop. Sherlock smiled slightly, wondering what ridiculous threat he was going to be faced with this time.

As soon as he read the words on the page, the smile dropped from his face.

There they were, four simple words sitting in the upper left corner of the document. Taunting, unsettling.

'Figured it out yet?'

This was a puzzle, a game, and he'd just missed how much John was onto him. Yesterday, the computer wasn't like this. It had a silly threat in this document, and as always he could've read anything John had done recently.

Sherlock checked the clock, before pushing the computer to the side and heading up to John's room. Clean, as always. Hideous jumpers in their drawers, as well as every other piece of clothing. Some were strewn about where John hadn't bothered to pick them up after taking them off, but it was mostly fairly well taken care of. His gun was in his nightstand, as well as—

Sherlock stopped, forgetting his goal for a moment, sliding out the piece of paper. It had been crinkled, and carefully smoothed out, multiple times. It wasn't anything important, just a note about missing groceries that Sherlock had stuck to the fridge.

Truthfully, Sherlock had forgotten he'd written it. Or rather, he'd erased from his memory. But it was the last thing he'd written in 221B, the last piece of writing John must've had when he jumped off of that roof.

Sherlock bit his lip, tucking the paper back where it was. It had been two months since he'd returned, and he was still finding things like that, little clues around 221B of how much he was missed.

With a huff, Sherlock left the room. Nothing he was looking for, only a useless bout of sentiment over an event that had already gone and passed.

Sherlock checked the clock again. John should be home from work soon, and so he flopped down on the couch and closed his eyes, thinking about the problem as a whole. This had suddenly taken precedence over the double-homicide they were dealing with.

John was revealing only what he wanted, just enough information to get across what he wanted, which meant there was something he was keeping to himself soon. John wasn't easy to read, but he wasn't hard to read either. But if Sherlock was missing something (and all evidence pointed that way), then that added a whole new level.

Breathing heavily, he sunk deeper into his mind, considering more, taking in all possible connections, and he was close to something, and—

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he huffed at John, sitting up straight. "I was thinking, John," he said irritably, rubbing his temples. He knew he'd be able to retrace his thoughts as soon as he got a few moments of silence, it wouldn't take too long.

John raised his eyebrows. "You're been thinking for a good couple of hours since I got home. And I was home late."

"It was a difficult problem." He looked up at John. "Have a seat, I need to discuss something with you."

John gestured to the kitchen. "Can it wait? I was just going to make—"

Sherlock waved his hand. "More important than food."

Slowly, John sat down across from Sherlock as he grabbed the blogger's computer and flipped it around, showing him the document he'd seen earlier. A slow smile spread across John's face as he read the words. "Oh, so that's what we're talking about. I can assure you dinner is more important." He stood up, heading to the kitchen, but Sherlock caught his arm.

"John. Sit down."

John looked like he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes and giggle at the same time as he sat back down. "So, have you figured it out yet?" Sherlock didn't answer, and John laughed. "So that's a no, I'll take it. I also take it you were thinking about this and not the case. Too bad, the man behind it seems fairly competent."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "You know the perpetrator's gender, then?"

John leaned back in seat, not answering, only grinning. It was taunting, and he'd only seen that sort of grin a few times before, worn by people he'd already outsmarted.

It was not pleasant at all coming from John.

"If you're suggesting you are the killer, that's impossible, you have not had nearly enough time."

John nodded. "Alright, true." After pause, he added, "Do you want a hint? Because I don't mind."

Sherlock growled in frustration. "Oh, fine, John, I'll play your silly little game. Now, what's the hint?" His voice was full of sarcasm and scorn, which stemmed right from not understanding. He had no idea what he was getting into, and it was something he didn't like at all.

"Every fairlytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." The words were nonchalant, as though it was a phrase you said everyday, but they caused Sherlock's racing mind to stop, just to process it.

John wasn't there, couldn't have heard it, there was no way.

Unless...

As if reading his mind, John added. "Though with this action, I'd hardly call myself old-fashioned."

And suddenly everything snapped into place, the connections between the crimes, John knowing much more than he should, the purposeful late-night phone calls, the computer, and Sherlock's mind was going full-tilt, as though it was a train heading off a cliff—

"Moriarty?"

"There it is!" John stood up, looking rather proud. He wandered off to the kitchen, looking through the food. "We're out of milk again Sherlock, did you know?"

A/N: In which I can properly be specific here now. Someone's probably already written this somewhere, but I do not care.

So when I say, "Contains Johnlock" that also technically means Sheriarty... [shrugs] hopefully what I mean should be evident within a chapter or two. Probably two.