*** Author's Note***
Towel Day prompt: "See first, think later, then test. But always see first. Otherwise you will only see what you were expecting. Most scientists forget that." -Douglas Adams
"C'mon, Sherlock. It's obvious none of the suspects even had access to this room." Holding his pen like a cigarette between two fingers, Lestrade tapped it impatiently against his lips.
"It's not obvious, Lestrade. What would you even know about obvious?" Sherlock threw up his hands in disgust. "Do you have somewhere more important to be?"
"Now that you mention it," Lestrade checked his watch.
"What in your predictable, boring existence could possibly be more important than this?" Sherlock motioned to the evidence spread before them.
"Sherlock," John hissed. "Not good."
"No, John, it's not, is it? Graham's professionalism is abysmal. It reflects poorly on his character, his division, and the MET as a whole."
"Now, hold on!" Lestrade smacked his notes down on the table and leaned close to Sherlock. "You, of all people, do not get to call my character into question." He grabbed Sherlock's lapel. "I've got a dozen reasons at the ready to have you in handcuffs right now."
"Greg, just… Calm down. This really isn't worth it." John raised his hands in an attempt at being placating.
"I'm tired of… of this" Lestrade stammered and motioned to Sherlock's smug smirk. "Never any consequences because I always let him do whatever he bloody well pleases. Not any more." He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "And my name is Greg, for godsake. I know you know that."
"Finally showing some passion, Gavin? It's about time. You should really take more pride in your work." Sherlock reached across the table for the case file, but John swatted it out of his hand with a stern frown.
Greg was seething. "Oh, you bastard."
"Let's just get through this, and we'll get a pint." John picked up Greg's notes and handed them to him. "First round's on me."
Sherlock laughed, a high, derisive thing, and turned on John. "Just get through this? I was perfectly content with my experiment. If I'm so unbearable, it's your fault."
"That was not an experiment!" John tried, he genuinely tried, to rein in his building frustration. " You were simultaneously trying to overdose on nicotine patches…"
"Sounds divine," mumbled Lestrade. He shared a brief understand sidelong glance with Sherlock.
"...And destroying all the produce in the flat with a hammer. I was going to use those vegetables." John pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Fruit." Sherlock corrected with a smirk.
"Excuse me?" John's eye twitched as he stared, unblinking, back at his flatmate.
"Tomatoes are fruit, not vegetables, John." Sherlock tsk'd. He opened his mouth to continue, but snapped it shut when John held up one finger and glared.
"One. Piss off. And two." John held up a second finger. "Solve the fucking case."
Sherlock growled in frustration. "Then shut up and let me think." He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin.
Lestrade huffed. "That's not actually going to…"
"Christ, just let him." John started shuffling through his own notes.
"But that's not how…"
Sherlock turned his back to them, slamming the mind palace door to block out their incessant noise, and imagined the manor house, and each room he'd observed overlaid with party guests. People. Potential suspects. Touching things, tracking footprints, moving the most random, meaningless objects around. Predictable as livestock. And all of it absolutely pointless.
"Useless. Every last bit." Sherlock swiped the evidence off the table. "Red herrings and lies."
"What the hell, Sherlock?" Greg tried to restore order to the mess, but only made it worse by slamming things down and knocking his own coffee over with his elbow. "Damn it!"
"I've already given you my conclusion. We could have avoided all of this if you'd have just listened to me to begin with." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, unmoving, as John and Lestrade scrambled to clean up the coffee.
"Your conclusion is wrong." Lestrade grumbled. "It's not possible."
"You didn't even try to look in the cellar!"
"It wasn't allowed!" Lestrade shouted. "You have to understand, there are rules when it comes to these things."
"Besides, I really think…" John shook the coffee off his notes.
"You think what John? Blunt force trauma? Please. You're a doctor. Have some dignity." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"What? How did you?" John's face was a complex mixture of awe and flabbergasted.
"You mouth your words when you're concentrate." Sherlock paused, and softened his tone. "It's usually endearing." Lestrade snickered, and Sherlock glared. "Except today. Today it's frustrating, and distracting, and christ. Why can't you both just think. The answer is in the cellar. That's where he did it."
"Sherlock, I'm serious, you need to let it go." Lestrade growled.
"Why is this so difficult for your idiot mind to grasp?" Sherlock grabbed Lestrade, one hand on either side of his head.
"Sherlock." John's warning came too late as Lestrade shoved Sherlock off of him.
"This has been a long time coming, you pompous arse." Lestrade took a swing just as John tried to break them apart.
Sherlock swiped the mess from the table into the bin and swept up the bits from the floor. With a frown he picked up the flat cardboard box, with the rule booklet still inside, and tossed it in the fireplace. Glancing around, he grabbed the antique letter opener and stabbed it through the gameboard and into the wall above the mantle. As a reminder.
A stark warning for future generations.
John stepped out of the loo, freshly showered, dressed in pyjamas and wrapped in his robe. His nose and both eyes bruised deep, unnatural blues and purples.
"Bleeding finally stopped." He looked miserable and sounded even worse.
Sherlock winced and dug a couple bags of peas from the freezer. "Anything broken?"
"Don't think so." He pressed lightly under one eye then the other. "But it'll look a lot worse before it gets better." He glanced around. "Did Greg go?"
Sherlock didn't make eye contact as he handed John a glass of water and some pain medicine. The closest he had ever looked to contrite.
"What did you do?"
"I might have threatened him." Sherlock took the glass back and handed John a pack of peas wrapped in a towel. John looked at him expectantly. "With an antique letter opener."
"God, Sherlock." John shook his head and laughed, then stopped abruptly.
"All right, John?" Sherlock was at his side in an instant.
"Just need to lie down for a bit."
Sherlock led John to the sitting room and sat at one end of the couch, carefully settling John so his head rested in his lap. Tucked under the tatty quilt from the back of the couch, with frozen peas carefully arranged and Sherlock's fingers in his hair, John finally settled.
"We should think about dinner." Sherlock's lips quirk into a small smile. "Something tells me Lestrade will be more than happy to buy. And deliver."
"It'll be a long time he's buying drinks on pub nights." John sighed.
"He felt guilty."
"Yeah?" John opened one eye. "Good."
Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Things got a bit out of hand."
"A bit?"
"If you would just let me explain…"
"No," John tried to sit up, but Sherlock held him firmly in place. "It's not possible for the victim to be the murderer. Read the rules!"
"Ah... I may have burnt them." They stared at each other until John giggled. Sherlock huffed a laugh.
"Just as well." John yawned. "Never playing Cluedo with you again."
"Never, John? I must admit, it did alleviate my boredom quite thoroughly. I thought that would please you."
John closed his eyes and smiled. "You're out of your fucking mind if you think we're doing that again."
***A/N***
Fun fact: According to the official rules, you need three people to play Clue/Cluedo, something Mofftiss clearly chose to overlook. That being the case, if John and Sherlock played Cluedo with just the two of them, they had to have been playing under their own parameters, which means, technically speaking, the victim could have actually been the murderer. ;-)