The Science of Deduction- A Study in John's Taste in Women

"John, where did you put my harpoon?"

He stood in the doorway in the baggiest clothes John had ever seen him wear- apart from a bedsheet.

"Going fishing, then?"

"Pfft." Sherlock strode over to his chair and sat opposite his friend, who looked quite at peace with his teacup and newspaper, and didn't look like he needed to get up to do anything, thank you very much. "I'm going down into the sewers. Can't bring a gun down there, as I'm sure you're aware."

John folded the paper and reached for another bite of toast. "And what about the sword you had under your bed? Isn't that a little less conspicuous?"

Sherlock seemed to twitch ever so slightly. "How do you know about that?"

John set down the newspaper completely. "I made a record of your belongings about a month after you decided to piss off."

Sherlock threw his head back at this, and sprung out of his chair to avoid more poisonous stares. "Harpoon! Really, John, where is it?"

"I got rid of it."

"You got rid of it?"

"Yeah, I didn't want something like that in the flat. For crying out loud Sherlock, you hadn't even cleaned it."

Sherlock exhaled loudly. "Well now I have to buy a new one."

"You could just bring the sword."

"I'm not bringing the sword. And it's a scimitar, anyway. Really John, get your facts right."

John rolled his eyes and drained his cup. He could see where Sherlock was going to go from here. And he honestly was not prepared for crowds of people after all the running they had done yesterday. 'Damn murderers,' he thought, 'Why do they always run so fast?'

"You're buying me a new harpoon."

"No, Sherlock, I'm not. I'm saving my money." The taller man deflated. "You and your saving money. What's it for this time? Oh no wait, of course, you must have met up with another girl. Taking her out for a meal? Yes, of course you are."

Somehow, it came to pass that Sherlock tagged along to the dinner after tricking John into getting him a new harpoon. The sewers, he decided, could be seen to in the morning.

"I really would prefer if you would just leave us to ourselves this one night, Sherlock." The pair were facing the door of a quiet Indian restaurant as John fixed his shirt. The younger watched him thoughtfully.

"You aren't wearing a jumper."

"No. I want to look somewhat classy. Problem?"

"No."

"Good." John bunched both hands into fists in anticipation. "Ok. Ground rules. You don't make snide comments. You don't make rude observations. You know what, just don't talk at all." He made for the door handle and stopped, turning back again. "I also would prefer if you sat at a completely different table." He moved off, but did another double take. "And for God's sake Sherlock don't do the staring thing."

He tilted his head to the side and his eyebrows creased in thought. "What staring thing? I don't stare. I observe."

"That's the same thing with you."

Things began to look up from then on. John's date wasn't a complete idiot, as normal people went, Sherlock noticed. She actually understood John's bad jokes, puns that he made of a point of holding back on in Sherlock's presence. The blogger smiled goofily as this girl told him her life story (awfully tedious stuff in Sherlock's opinion) in between mouthfuls of fried rice and exotic sauced meats. All the while Sherlock gazed wistfully in their direction, barely touching his own food, his new harpoon lying dejected on the floor behind him.

After the main course, the woman excused herself and made for the bathrooms, leaving her handbag on her seat. Once she had closed the door to the short corridor at the back of the restaurant, Sherlock sidled over to their table and shamelessly began routing through her bag.

It had got to the point in their relationship where John knew telling Sherlock to stop would be a waste of time, so he didn't bother. He settled instead with rolling his eyes and stabbing a foreign-looking vegetable with his fork.

"Find anything interesting, then, you nosy git?"

He ignored John's verbal punch in the face.

"Of course I have. She left her phone." He whipped it out, turned it over in his hands, and got to work on finding the pass code. Easily done in ten seconds. Scroll, scroll, scroll. A slight raise of the eyebrows. Phone shoved back in the bag again.

"She's a lesbian."

John's mouthful of rice flew across the table like snowy bullets. "WHAT. Tina is not gay!"

Sherlock seemed quite unfazed by his blogger's explosion, and nodded slightly with that "really John it's quite obvious" face that annoyed him every time.

"I noticed when we first arrived that she wasn't wearing make-up, and yet her skin was very clear. She never wears it, then. Her clothes aren't in fashion, but they're not quite out either. In her bag, there was no sign of contraception, even though she's being brought to an expensive restaurant by somebody who is clearly very interested, and bordering on desperate. Not expecting to spend the night then. " John shot him a look that would traumatise small children. Ignored. "She has also smiled at the mention of any female acquaintance or yours, which in retrospect could be a display of pride at winning you over others, but judging by the frankly repulsive texts messages she's been sending to another woman by the name of Lucy, we can assume otherwise."

John placed his cutlery down beside his plate and took a deep breath. "Right. Sure." There was a long pause, during which he thought back over everything Sherlock had just said, processing it and finding that yes, all of that did make an irritating amount of sense. One thing, however, elicited a chuckle from the depths of his disappointment.

"So women have been "winning" me, eh?"

"That is what people say, isn't it?" He found nothing wrong with the use of the verb in this situation. John looked at his plate again.

"I suppose it is."

The door to the bathrooms swung open, causing John to kick Sherlock under the table in an attempt at moving him. The detective hissed aggressively as pain seared through his calf, but ever the spiteful one, he stayed routed to the spot, as if it was his right as supreme ruler of the restaurant to take this seat and defend it with his life.

John's date approached with caution. How had this terribly dressed pointy-faced man managed to replace her in the space of five minutes? Oh, and now he was extending a hand of greeting- Go on, take his hand then…

"Sherlock Holmes, you must be Tina! John's been telling me all about you."

"Oh… Has he?"

"Yes, quite," he folded his legs, quite at home, "And you know I'm sure I've heard about you before… Now who was it from? Oh it might have been Lucy, actually, yes! Well she was saying how her new girlfriend was pretty, but I was not expecting this!"

John nearly fainted with embarrassment. Tina shuffled awkwardly on the spot, her secret exposed.

"Should I leave?" The doctor was about to insist otherwise, but Sherlock suddenly stood and extended his hand once more. "It was wonderful to meet you, really."