The interrogations at the rehab centre were brief and uninformative, as Sherlock feared they would be. No leads reared their heads over the next few days, creating an almost tangible black cloud above the detective's head (and consequently over John, whom, try as he might, could not escape Sherlock's bad moods).
After following a false trail through the bowels of London, the two men sat opposite each other; one with mug of tea in hand, the other drumming his fingers against the leather of his abused chair. They wordlessly agreed through irritated huffs that this case was becoming a pest. It wasn't quelling the detective's boredom, and the lack of action had the doctor on edge, barely sipping at his beverage.
"I am going to snap every one of those fingers if you don't stop that incessant noise." John dropped his head back in frustration. "I swear it on my pension, Sherlock."
The tapping didn't stop.
"Sherlock!"
No developments.
John made an attempt at calmly lowering his cup to the side table, and intertwined his fingers. He stared blankly at his flatmate for a full minute before Sherlock surrendered with a growl and a twist in his seat.
"What have I missed, John? All this information is rushing about up here-" he rammed his fingertips into his temples, "- and none of it gives me even the tiniest clue!" He spasmed where he sat. "I'm going mad."
John sighed and moved to clean up both mugs of cold tea. Sherlock twitched minutly at their proximity when the older man reached across him to grasp at the cup's handle. John frowned at the movement, taking it as a further articulation of frustration.
"Have you never left a case cold? We need a new one; I refuse to sit in this flat waiting for some big break while trying to stop you from pulling out your own hair!" He shook his head in exhasperation.
"How can I leave it alone? It nags at my mind every second! Try living with a head full of information you can do nothing with!"
"I do!"
Sherlock grabbed the open edges of his dressing gown and cocooned himself in it. "Don't make me laugh."
John took a carefully measured step in front of Sherlock and glowered above him intimidatingly. The younger man's expression evolved from bitter to dumbfounded vacancy at the intrusion of space.
"You leave this. You call the Yard, you tell them you've hit a dead end, then you go fishing for something new. Clear?"
Sherlock's adam's apple bobbed as he cleared his throat and nodded once without breaking eye contact. The blogger seemed mildly satisfied with that and turned on his heel. He tugged his coat from the rack and slung it across his arm.
"I'm going for a well deserved pint. Don't follow unless Lestrade gives you nothing."
When the front door rattled, Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He loosened his position and let his dressing gown spill down. The room was silent for mere seconds before it echoed his indignant groan as he pushed himself up and towards his bedroom.
Doctor John bloody Watson. You make it seem as though I have the sexual reactions of a teenager, and I absolutely hate it.
oOoOoOoOo
"Please stop being a prat; the woman's worried."
"I'll stop being a prat when she stops being boring. This isn't even a case, John."
Sherlock reached for a book, studiously ignoring the ginger-haired woman seated across from him. John contemplated hitting him, but decided that wouldn't give off the best impression. He instead addressed their visitor in the most doctor-patient manner he could manage.
"So, Ciara, they hired you as a proofreader; they leave you to work and pay you at the end of the day."
"Yes, in cash." Her gaze flitted between the two men, clearly put out by the detective's lack of interest.
"So, you're getting paid…. Where's the problem?" The doctor clawed around the desk surface lookin for a pen and his notebook without taking his eyes off their client.
"I already said, they told me they hired me for my hair. It was in the papers, that there was a job specifically for somebody with ginger hair. I assumed it was for modelling or something. Not proofreading essays."
"Idiot."
John and Ciara both startled at the word, and looked at Sherlock questioningly. He briefly glanced up from his book and sighed.
"You're a woman of some wealth, yes? Obvious from the earrings and pendant. Your handbag is designer; your dress was professionally fitted. You live on your own, but that's just because you're after having a bad break from a long term partner- your own bunch of keys rattled when you moved your bag, but in the clear side pocket there are two separate house keys, clearly not your own, but not anyone else's because you would have put them somewhere more convenient if you had to give them back to an owner, perhaps linking them to your own set. No, that's an extra pair for your house, taken from a previous lover after you kicked him out and you haven't moved it either because you still hope he'll come back to you, or you never cared all that much about him and had forgotten that the keys were there."
The woman's expression was between amazement and disgust.
"Either way, it wasn't a pretty breakup and the house still has some of his things lying about. To avoid all of that sentimental nonsense you've been working over ten hours a day. They've been able to supply you with enough material to keep you occupied all that time which is impressive but extremely telling, and frankly the whole thing is horrifically planned out. It's obvious. That's not why you're an idiot though."
John turned an extra degree in his direction.
"An advertisement looking for somebody with a specific hair colour? Giving no job description? You could have been tied to a bed in some brothel this moment under worse circumstances. I'd say you got off lightly with burglary."
"Wait, burglary?" John asked before Ciara could form a retort. "Nobody mentioned anything being stolen."
"Don't be an idiot too, John. The job is a cover. The employer keeps her away from home while they move in and take small but expensive things she wouldn't notice. It's been done before." He pulled his book back into his line of vision and disappeared behind the pages yet again.
Ciara spluttered a moment before flabbergastedly asking, "Who would do that? Why specifically me?"
"Con men. Because you're a rich idiot. John, relay this to the Yard and escort her out."
"...Right. Yeah. Thanks for coming Miss Ibbotson, uh, be in touch?"
She stood and was out the door before he even made an attempt to move. A distant "Nope!" was heard before the front door banged.
John sank back in defeat and dropped his notebook onto the desk.
"Well done. She didn't even pay you."
"I don't charge for boredom." He dramatically turned a page.
"We need to be able to eat, Sherlock. Or at least, I do."
"Oh, quiet," Sherlock spoke in an amused tone, "We've got plenty of money. You're only disappointed because you fancied her. It wouldn't have worked; I didn't like her."
John growled inwardly. "Thank you for your opinion. I don't need it. Again."
The detective peered over at him with an amused grin. "Your dating history states otherwise."
The older man gave up and resolved to start cooking dinner early to escape his flatmate's scorn. Sherlock watched him leave, the smile replaced with a determined glower.
So I got a laptop, and as much as I love it, it doesn't have Microsoft Office. Open Office is really not doin' it for me. I need Office 98. I don't rust this new spell check. Don't get me started on Google's awful spell check either. It didn't recognise "fist" as a word. And oh look it's saying recognise is incorrect. I AM NOT AMERICAN.
I HAVE SO MUCH RAGE.
Anyway. The second part of this chapter was inspired by "The Red Headed League". It was actually quite fun to write even though not much happens. The first part was written twice because I made John very RAWR and OOC really. FlameTempest agreed. Isn't it nice to have somebody guiding you in your characterisations and such? I should have started bugging her with this work sooner.
Please, guys. There hasn't been a review since like chapter 6. That hurts. Come on. Plz. I have a mighty need.