Not beta'd, so forgive me any mistake I've made in this piece. :) Enjoy!

John was angry, and he thought he had the right to be so. It's not as if he loved Sherlock, that would be plain ridiculous. Okay, the man's fingers across his chest that morning, buttoning up his shirt, had send some shivers up his spine. But hey, Sherlock could be rather intimidating sometimes. It's just… When your best friend says you are repulsive, it's not a very nice thing to hear. So John just stuck with that thought. Best friend.

So when his phone beeped and he read Sherlock's text, he remained angry. Couldn't the man just say for once in his life he was sorry he hurt his best friend? Just. Once. That was all John was asking, knowing his friend never would. When he would see Sherlock again, both of them normally would carry on like nothing had happened, but John was resolved this time to not let that happen. Sherlock had to apologise, and nothing else would do.

Sherlock, in the mean time, entered the attic, his eyes darting around the room. Mud. There was an awful lot of mud. On the floor, on the boy's clothes, everywhere. So when he pointed it out to Lestrade, the DI shrugged.

"Well, John, what kid is not covered in mud?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but kneeled down beside the victim, and examined the strangulation wounds with his magnifier.

After a minute, he knew all there was to know, and he got back to his feet.

"Well, John? Have you found anything," the DI asked wearily, not really expecting the blogger to come up with conclusive evidence.

"Well, Lestrade, I think," Ha, that was weird. I think. I know would have been better, BUT he was John now, so he'd better remain polite. A little. "Well, I think the kid was murdered by one of his playmates, as you can see by the height and angle of the strangulation, and by the tiny traces of mud here, and here," Sherlock continued with pointed finger.

"Okay.. how did a kid of 10 years old drag his murdered playmate all the way up here?"

"He or she didn't. I think it's a she, because of the force of the lines around his neck. The person to bring the boy here must have been…" he turned around to see better, "the father of the girl, because of the footprints. The girl has blond curling hair, rather long, wore a red jumper and a skirt, shoes with a tiny high heel. The father wore… a dress shirt and boots. Will that help?"

"Good grief, John!" The DI looked at the small doctor with surprise and admiration. "You're as good as Sherlock, and not even as arrogant. Can't you take over his job, you're a far pleasanter man to work with. Anderson!" Lestrade exited the room, leaving Sherlock alone. Sherlock shook his head. Of course, nobody really liked him, he was the arrogant sod. But still, somehow it hurt.

Putting aside the feelings, he exited the room to, greeting the other officers, and hastily leaving the building. He really had to find John.

John opened the door of Starbuck's and entered. He really needed a strong, dark coffee, and with a sigh of relief he sank down in a chair, as soon as the paper cup was handed to him. When he was about to take a sip, his eye fell on some ink. He rotated the cup and read a girl's name and telephone number on it.

Inhaling deeply, he turned towards the bar, and saw the three girls who stood behind the counter smiling shily at him. He crossed his now very long legs under the table and closed his eyes. Ah, coffee.

"Do you mind if I come and sit here?" a vaguely known voice asked. It sounded familiar, but somehow John couldn't quite place it.

He opened his eyes, and saw his friend standing beside the table, also a paper cup in hand.

"Sure," John said, waving his hand dismissively.

The blonde man sat down and layed his hands flat at the table, leaning slightly towards John.

"John," he started, but John interrupted him.

"How was the crime scene, Sherlock?"

"Oh, dull. But that;s not what I wanted to talk to you about."

John put down his cup and leaned a little towards Sherlock. "Well, tell me. It seems important."

"It is important. I'm… sorry, John. I didn't mean it that way. I was frustrated and arrogant and annoying, and I'm sorry."

John blinked twice. "You're apologising."

"Yes, good deduction."

John smiled, a sign for Sherlock he accepted the apology. But the blogger wasn't quite finished. "Why are you apologising this suddenly?"

The man across the table smiled too. "Let's say I had some sort of revelation at the crime scene. I was think-" but again, the tall man interrupted him.

"Sherlock, look, over there, isn't that the Chinese from yesternight? The one who gave us the cookies?"

Both men's eyes locked in each other, and in perfect synchrony they stood up and ran outside, startling the Chinese who began to sprint away.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked.

"Ready when you are," John answered, feeling the thrill already.

"Good. Let's catch a Chinese!"