Happy New Year! Thanks for reading and reviewing! Sorry for the small break. I was busy with holiday stuff and trying to seek inspiration. Abutterflymind thanks! And yeah Penelope is also me cooking. Her clumsiness is modeled after me a bit :P And thank you Anonymous reviewer who gave me the motivation to get off my butt and write this chapter.

Estella Jean

p.s anyone else excited for the Christmas episode?!

The room Penelope led them to had the same floral wallpaper as in her flat except in a soft yellow tone. There was an electric fireplace on the left, a very ancient looking armchair, a shallow balcony, a forest of stacked books creating a labyrinth on the floor...and only one bed.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows drawn together in concern, "One bed? Is this a joke?"

They turned to Penelope but she appeared flustered, her cheeks reddening by the second. She had clearly not expected this to be a problem.

"But you said that one bed sounded appropriate…" she stuttered awkwardly, shifting her feet and looking quite like a child.

"No we didn't," John began before a frustrated looking Sherlock exploded, "We didn't even know the plans until after they were made," then he stopped himself as he realized. A low chuckle came from him, but not an amused one, an aggravated one.

"Donovan," Sherlock spat the name. He began pacing around the room with rage, his expert feet easily finding the spots of carpet between the stacks of books, "She's not even human. That woman is-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, "There's a lady in the room," he reminded him.

Sherlock gave an annoyed look to the girl and then let out a sigh, silently cursing Donovan instead.

Just wait until I get back to London, he thought grimly.

Penelope tried her best to find a solution to the uncomfortable problem but she didn't have anything else for them to sleep on unless it was the ground or the armchair.

"I have a sleeping bag if that helps any," she attempted, "and that armchair does recline..."

The three turned to look at the mentioned armchair, angled between the window and the fireplace. It was so filthy that it was almost brown but Sherlock could see that at one point it was white. The style hadn't been popular for several decades and while the whole 'vintage is in' position still holds true, this had passed fashionable vintage and entered the 'put it out of its misery' zone. It's her grandmother's, he concluded.

Even Penelope shared the same slightly disgusted look as the men, wrinkling her nose at the furniture.

"Well I'm sure John would love to sleep there. He knows that if I don't stretch out at night I end up with a sore back in the morning," Sherlock said quickly.

The consulting detective then proceeded further into the room, lifted his suitcase onto the bed and began unpacking. John watched him carefully unfold his shirts on the duvet possessively and knew the time to protest had already passed, but he hadn't even known when. He sent a disgruntled look to the back of his curly head.

"Well that's great then!" Penelope said positively, "So I was planning on making you dinner tonight, but...well that didn't really work out. We're going to have to go out to dinner. There's a tavern downtown that has really good sandwiches-"

"Sounds perfect. Well let's go John," Sherlock said, cutting her off. He walked rigidly over to his friend and began tugging his sleeve toward the door. John planted his feet firmly and gave him a shameful look.

"I'm sure Penelope would like to come too. Would you like to join us Penelope?" John asked her politely. Her face glowed with excitement.

"Really?" she asked to be sure she was not imposing.

"No not really. We have work to do," Sherlock practically growled.

"Sherlock can I speak with you for a moment," John requested, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration and embarrassment. Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked closer to his flatmate.

John cleared his throat and looked up into his blue eyes in that commanding way he always did when Sherlock was in trouble.

"This woman is very sweet and she is our host for our time here. We deserve to treat her with respect and if you refuse to, then Penelope and I will go to dinner and you can stay in the room and sulk about," he threatened.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John but said nothing.

"Alright," John told Penelope cheerfully, "Ready to go then?"

…

"So you're actual detectives?" she asked with wide green eyes, spoon mid way from her bowl of soup, mouth open in amazement. They had followed her recommendation to eat at the popular tavern in town which did indeed serve amazing sandwiches.

John chuckled at her excitement and nodded.

"Well, technically no. He's a consulting detective and I'm just his partner. We assist DI Lestrade, who will be here in a few days to work on the case."

"Assist," Sherlock scoffed, poking his salad around his plate, "We practically do his job for him."

Penelope raised her eyebrow at the brunette and then looked back to John, speaking confidentially over the table.

"He's a bit of a grump isn't he?" she whispered.

John sighed and shook his head slightly, "You have no idea Penelope."

"I'm not a grump," Sherlock snapped, "Everyone else is just too...happy."

"You're a grump," Penelope told him, "But tell me about the case John! I've always wanted to meet real detectives. You have no idea how many mystery novels I've read! The Big Sleep, Rebecca, the Woman in White, practically every Agatha Christie and Dashiell Hammett book."

"Sorry Penny-"

"Penny?" Sherlock muttered snarkily at the sound of the nickname.

"-But we're not aloud to talk about it with anyone," John broke the news to her and took a bite of his ham sandwich, savoring the flavor. Penelope dropped her spoon in her bowl, clearly no longer interested in soup when such a captivating conversation was at hand.

"John, you simply can't do this to me! You have to tell me! I promise I won't tell a soul. I'm good at keeping people's secrets. Once my friend Jeannette told me-"

John smiled and shook his head, "We can't. We promised the lady we are working for. What if I tell you about some of our old cases."

She stuck out her lip in a pout but conceded with a sigh, "Alright, fine."

John told her about their first case together, A Case in Pink. When he got to the point where Sherlock and the cabbie were in the room playing russian roulette with a poison pill, she was hanging off his every word.

"Please tell me you saved him!" she exclaimed.

"I'm sitting right here!" Sherlock growled.

"Shhh!" she told him absentmindedly with a wave of her hand in his direction.

"Sherlock was just about to put the pill in his mouth. The arrogant git predictably fell for the psychology trick, believing he was smart enough to choose the fake. I was staring at him, screaming his name, but he couldn't hear me."

"Why?" she gasped.

"Because I was in the wrong room. I was stuck looking at him through the window but no matter how loud I screamed he couldn't hear. So I took my military gun and shot the cabbie through the window."

"Yes! Wait, did you get caught?"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, "I covered for him. I hadn't seen him but I could deduce it was John easily. I made up an elaborate story that led suspicion away from him, but knowing Lestrade, they wouldn't have been able to figure it out anyway."

Suddenly Sherlock's ears picked up on something and he turned around in his seat. The light from the tavern's fireplace lit up his curious eyes. The other two continued talking but he was no longer in the same world. He had just found a surprising clue in the case and was instantly thankful they had decided to listen to Penelope's dinner recommendation.

"What?" John asked, trailing off from his story when he noticed Sherlock's abrupt change. He knew whatever it was must be case related. He followed his partner's eyes.

Sherlock watched as the bartender served a beer to a man who had just walked in. The man thanked him and took off his gaudy orange wool scarf, noticing Sherlock's concentrated stare on him as he did so. He awkwardly waved but obviously did not recognize Sherlock.

"You're welcome Leo," the bartender told the man who Sherlock deduced was a regular and thus, a local.

"Leo Christanza," Sherlock mumbled, swinging around to look at John with eagerness. It took a minute for the gravity of this revelation to settle into John's mind.

"Leo? The artist Leo?"

Sherlock nodded, "Precisely."

He turned back to stare at the man drinking his beer.

"That cannot be a coincidence," he said with a low tone and narrowed eyes.

"Jooohn, please tell me what's going on!" Penelope begged. Sherlock gave him a look and John knew they needed to get back to the room so they could discuss this new twist in private.

"Sorry Penelope," John told her, "We need to go."

…

Sherlock was once again pacing back and forth between the stacks of books in their room. He accidentally knocked over a stack of cookbooks but it didn't slow his stride at all. John sat in the ancient armchair, watching Sherlock's motion, and trying to think about what this meant to the case.

"I knew there was a connection between them," the consulting detective muttered.

"Excuse me what? What connection?" John interrupted his thoughts, his forehead creased in confusion.

Sherlock stopped in front of him, his eyes wild.

"Isn't it obvious!" he shouted, bringing his arms up dramatically, then returning to pacing.

"Um, no. It isn't," John said frustratedly.

The curly headed man stopped in front of the armchair again.

"Bruce!" he shouted.

John churned this around in his mind, rubbing his hand over his forehead.

"Bruce and Leo?" he asked finally.

"Yes! Please John catch up."

John formulated the best theory he could. Art director out of business. Famous new artist. Uh...Leo went to Bruce for a job and then he turned him down, only to go out of business soon after because of the bad decision?

"Leo went to him for a job...and he didn't hire him?" he tried.

Sherlock shook his head, "Not necessarily. For all we know he might have worked for him before Meredith. But when we were in Bruce's office there was a painting above his desk that was unlike the others. It was one of Christanza's."

John seemed taken aback from the information, even offended. He looked at Sherlock with anger on his features.

"Exactly when were you going to tell me this?" he snapped.

Sherlock ignored him however and continued pacing.

"As of now, those two men are our top suspects. Bruce has the motive, Leo has the access. If the two have any kind of alliance formed they could have been capable of sabotaging the gallery with the crime...though I don't know how the women are connected."

John hadn't listen to his partner's mumbling and was still focused on the fact that he had been withholding vital information from him.

"You are unbelievable. 'Keep up John,' you say but then you don't bloody tell me anything. Have fun with your theories. I'm going to bed. We need to wake up early anyways to go to the police station first thing tomorrow."

John got up, brushing past Sherlock to grab a blanket from the linen cupboard by the bathroom, then took one of the pillows from the bed.

"Goodnight," he grumbled as he curled up on the reclined chair, turned makeshift bed. He turned off the reading lamp beside him, leaving Sherlock in darkness.

The doctor sighed as he got positioned comfortably and prepared to sleep. He didn't know where Sherlock had gone but was too annoyed to care. He can stay up all night with that stupid genius mind of his if he wants. It's fine with me. I'm going to sleep.

Rustle. Rustle.

John groaned, hoping his partner would finish whatever he was up to and leave the room silent again.

His wish was granted and a few minutes later the room was left in glorious silence. John started to drift into unconsciousness.

And then the violin music started.

…

"How did you sleep?" Sherlock asked over their breakfast. They had gone to another restaurant on Penelope's advice. This one was much pricier than the last however.

John cut up his lox and cream cheese crepe violently, looking up at his partner over dark circles and a menacing gaze. Sherlock sat up straight eating his eggs benedict as if there was nothing wrong.

"Really?" John asked unamused.

"Oh John you can't stay angry at me," Sherlock smirked.

"Watch me," the doctor replied and stabbed a bite of his massacred meal.

"You're not really upset. You're just being stubborn. I know you too well John," he smiled.

John was even more upset by this. He found it infuriating that Sherlock knew so much about him. He was always under examination. The waiter came by to clear their plates and Sherlock stopped him before he left for the kitchen.

"It's my friend's birthday today. Could you get him free dessert?" he asked.

"Of course," the waiter agreed without suspicion and went away.

Sherlock grinned at him.

"Will you stop doing that! People don't even have dessert for breakfast," John groaned, feeling deja vu from their night at Angelo's.

Sherlock frowned, "Why not?"

John looked at him disapprovingly but couldn't really find a good explanation.

"Because it's just a social rule. And clearly you don't understand those."

"Clearly I don't care," Sherlock rebutted, leaning his chair back, still smirking.

John scowled at him until the waiter returned with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. There was a candle in it and a swirl of chocolate on the bowl reading 'happy birthday John'.

John fought the smile that threatened his lips. He was stubborn. He was stubbornly holding on to being stubborn.

"Don't worry it gets better," Sherlock told him. John wondered what he meant until the chef and two more waiters came up to the table and began singing happy birthday in robust italian accents.

Sherlock swayed to the tuned and John couldn't help the laughter any longer. The whole restaurant clapped as the partners teared with amusement.

"The catch is you have to share," Sherlock told him as he dipped a spoon in the ice cream.

"Silly rule," he mumbled before taking the spoon in his mouth.

"Agreed," John chuckled.

The Cresmere police station was small, as was expected for a small town. It was located only a street away from the place where they ate breakfast so they were able to walk there. As they neared the brick building, Sherlock abruptly stopped. Outside of the police station was a telephone poll covered in pictures of young women. The pictures had been up for a very long time. They were tattered, wrinkled, and smudged by the rain. Some were in an unrecognizable condition.

Sherlock frowned at the papers and began ripping them off. John felt a pain in his chest as he looked at the smiling faces of the victims, back when they were filled with life. It was hard to imagine these faces becoming the gruesome 'wax' statues from the gallery and from the horrific dream he had the night they were assigned the case.

"Sometimes this is a tough job," John said softly.

Sherlock said nothing but nodded silently. He didn't have much of an emotional spectrum except for the few people he called friends, but by the way he gingerly held the papers as he removed them, John could see there was a flicker of sadness inside him. He was never quite as concrete as he acted.

Sherlock threw the papers in the trash bin on the street and then the partners walked the three steps up to the police station.

The station was cramped with desks that were pushed much too close together but it was warm inside and rather cozy compared to the sterility of Scotland Yard.

"Can we help you fellows?" an officer holding a cup of coffee asked as he leaned against one of the desks. Sherlock walked over to him.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. This is Dr. John Watson. We are working with DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard on the art gallery case," he explained impatiently.

"Oh yes, the detective inspector called yesterday morning. Thank god you're here. We've been kind of at a loss with this case. As you can imagine, murder isn't a typical thing around here," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked tired, not in a physical way, but in a mentally drained way. He was a young man, in his late twenties, Sherlock judged. Yet, the wrinkles under his eyes told a story of a life of stress.

"We'll do whatever we can to help. That's why we are here," John smiled. The officer smiled back.

"I'll let the sergeant know you're here."

"Alright," John nodded. The officer disappeared

Sherlock's eyes scanned the papers on the walls, the profiles created on the victims, but they contained no new information than what he had received from Lestrade. His eyes trailed to John subconsciously and he noticed from his posture and resting expression that he was no longer upset, and the exhaustion which seemed apparent earlier had dissipated. He gave him a peculiar look when he caught him staring. Sherlock didn't know how to respond so he returned his peculiar look. This is how they appeared when the sergeant arrived, a slightly graying man with defined dimples when he smiled.

"Sherlock! John!" He greeted them with hearty handshakes as if they were old friends.

"I'm ."

"Nice to meet you," John said kindly.

"Yes, alright, we've gone over the niceties. Now let's get on with case. We have seven emotional families to see. Let's get it over with," Sherlock groaned

John sighed and immediately apologized for his partner's behavior which was practically an automatic reaction. Grady didn't seemed phased at all by Sherlock's rudeness, which made John breathe easier.

Perhaps the day wouldn't be too awful. Perhaps.