Title: Get Your Epitaph Right
Characters: Sherlock, John
Rating: T
Summary: Sherlock attempts to cook. Chaos ensues, and perhaps a new case.
Author's Note: I'm glad I did a little research for this. Otherwise John would be walking about in knickers instead of trousers. :P Google if you don't get it. And this chapter is a little fluffy. I hope not to the point that Sherlock is completely out of character.

querty: It was my understanding that both were used in the EU. If I'm wrong, sue me.
The Beth midgit: Here you are! At least part of the plot.

John woke up to the darkness.

Had all of what he'd experienced been a torturous dream? Unlikely since he'd seen no images of Sherlock dead…

The screeching of the violin told what was the truth… that terrible sound that made him have to remember where he'd put the earplugs.

But he didn't fetch them. Not tonight.

The violin stopped abruptly. Then a crash that sounded like glass breaking. A soft curse.

Was Sherlock trying to be quiet?

John threw his legs over the small mattress. There was no use trying to sleep now. Besides it was nearly daybreak. His usual time to rise, or more accurately, when he usually gave up on sleep. Started breakfast, texted Mary and headed to the clinic.

How was chaperoning last night?

He turned into the shower, which was quick - John had become used to those.

He selected a jumper and a pair of trousers, then walked downstairs to the main room. Sniffed the air, it smelled as though one of Sherlock's experiments had gone awry again. That might explain the cursing.

"Ah, blast it!" He cursed again, throwing the frying pan at the sink.

"What's going on?"

"You're out of the shower - oh, never mind." Military meant three-minutes was normal, ten was "a long shower". Sherlock should have remembered that.

"What happened?" John was curious. "Smells like burnt toast."

"That's because it's what that is!" Sherlock huffed, tossing the blackened mass into the bin, as though to fling it as far away from his person as possible.

"Did you delete toaster operation from the memory palace?" John was jesting, of course.

"Of course not!" Sherlock snapped. "Why don't you cook breakfast since you're so good at it?"
He wrapped his scarf around him. Flung on his coat.

"I'm going out." The door slammed, he was gone.

John looked around the messy kitchen. Half-poached eggs sliding off the frying pan in the sink. Had Sherlock attempted to cook breakfast?

Shrugging, he grabbed a sandwich from the icebox. Holding it between his teeth, he glanced at his phone.

Normally Mary had replied by now. But his phone was silent.

He phoned her. It rang five times before she picked up.

"Yes?"

"Mary. It's John."

"Oh." Nervous laugh. "Hi, John."

"I texted you but you didn't answer? Are you tired from last night?"

"Er, yes. I suppose I am." She was shushing someone in the background.

"Is everything ok?"

"Yes, of course, why wouldn't it be?"

"It's just a question…"

"I'm fine, John. I will call you back later." There was a click without a goodbye.

"That's weird."

He heard the door unlocking downstairs. Probably Sherlock again.

"Did you forget something?"

"Bloody phone -" Sherlock pulled it off his desk and looked as if he might leave again. He stopped suddenly eyeing John critically. "What's wrong?"

"Hmm?"

"You're holding that phone as though it's a lifeline. Who was it, Lestrade?"

"No, it's - it's this woman I've been seeing…. Mary Morstan. She's a primary school teacher."

"Very nice, probably not someone I would like. Probably someone who wouldn't particularly enjoy my presence." He was using those off-putting remarks again.

"I wouldn't say that. Nice, yes, but these other conjectures…"

"What's happened, John?"

"She seemed… off…"

"Repeat the conversation."
John did so. Sherlock stopped him in the middle of several sentences, asking if there was emphasis.

"Alright, you've made your observations. What's your conclusion?"

"She's cheating."

Sherlock hummed. "Can you really conjure that from one conversation?"

"She seemed strange day before yesterday. Rushed out as though she had an appointment."

"Ah. Anything else?"

"She seems skittish. Probably afraid I'll find out."

"Ah. See. There. You didn't need me for that then, did you? I'm going to see if Lestrade has our case. Watch Donovan twitch a little."

"Sherlock?"

"What, John?"

"She seemed scared. As though she was afraid to talk to me." He didn't like that analysis. She had no reason to be afraid, so it had to be something else.

"Well, it's obvious though isn't it? Have you seen her palms?"

"What? Er, no - not lately."

"Fingernails, anxiety. She's likely dug her hands into her palms making her shaky. She doesn't want anyone to notice so she takes the day off. Call the school see if she's taken the day off."

John stumbled to get the phonebook. He dialed the school. "Yes is Miss Morstan in? She called in. Well. Thank you."

Sherlock smirked. "I think it's easy dismissal to think she is cheating, John. I mean for Lestrade, it's blatant. But for you, not so much."

He did not tell John that he would rather it was dismissed as cheating. It would make it look as though he felt the same about everyone.

Everyone will die if you don't jump. He closed his eyes, shutting out the memory.

"Well, the only thing else probable is that she is being held against her will somehow," John said, concerned. "I better go call on her and see." He grabbed his coat.

There was only one other thing that came to mind. "Did you and Mary cause anything that might explain her mood changes?"

"Sherlock, Mary was - we were - just waiting."

"Oh. So. You'repurists." It was easier to mask his admiration for values with scorn.

"You've probably not gone through the process that you'll do anything for the one you love. Now are you coming with me or not?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm seeing Lestrade first about what he might have. Then you can see weather she's left her flat."

John stared after him. He could not recall Sherlock being so "manic". He would keep an eye on it. Perhaps he was noticing new quirks with Sherlock's long absence.