AAAH DID YOU WATCH IT DID YOU WATCH IT AAAAAH *combusts*
And in related news, have a happy new year!
John woke up with the strange wakefulness of someone who can't remember when they fell asleep. The laptop had somehow migrated over to the coffee table, and his duvet had been tucked round him. He pulled it off of himself with a shudder at the cold air; he must really have been soundly asleep for him not to notice Sherlock tucking him in. He was glad he hadn't woken; he probably would have had her on the floor with a hand round her throat, which was not a nice way to treat people who were tucking you in.
Tea and toast was his first goal of the day, and he ruffled his already-rumpled hair as he stumbled into the kitchen. Once he'd spread the toast with a generous layer of marmalade and made the tea just right, he headed back out to his chair, enjoying the meal and getting his fingers quite sticky in the process. He considered going back into the kitchen for a napkin, but ended up just wiping his hands on his vest; it was going to need a washing anyway.
He pulled up his laptop as he sipped his tea, bringing up his blog and wondering how far he'd gotten in the draft before stopping. To his own surprise, he seemed to have finished it before falling asleep. He ran over it for spelling and grammar, fixing a couple of things before posting it. It turned out his sleepy self was a passable writer. At least Ella would be pleased before she realized he wasn't coming back in.
He was finishing his tea and checking his email when the door behind him flew open.
"Why the hell aren't you dressed?" Sherlock demanded when he looked up in confusion. "Lestrade's got a case for us, he should have called me in on it yesterday but he's an idiot. Come on!"
She darted out of the room and John got up, setting his laptop and tea on the coffee table and heading for his bedroom.
"Well, are you coming?" came Sherlock's voice from the next room, and he rolled his eyes, tossing his vest on the bed and telling himself it was totally okay to skip his shower just so long as he doubled on the antiperspirant.
"Yes, coming, just give me a minute!" he shouted back at her, and he heard her slam the door and thud down the stairs. He swore and changed quickly, darting down after her with his gun in the small of his back.
He'd never have to worry about what to write on his blog anymore.
"He's a banker," Lestrade said in the lift. "Wondering if this has something to do with that case you had with Dimmock."
Sherlock just gave him a sideways glance (the one that said "wrong") as they exited the lift, and Lestrade sighed and gave a gesture with his left hand. She turned as he directed and soon they were ushered into a bland-looking flat. Sergeant Donovan raised her eyebrows at John as he entered the room, and he lifted his chin, following Sherlock over to the body, neither one of them bothering to stop at the table with the annoying blue plastic pullovers this time.
"So you're following him about now? I don't need two civilians on my crime scene," Anderson said from the corner, coming forward angrily.
John shrugged, trying to look casual as he said calmly, "Not certain veteran status counts as a civilian, really."
Anderson made a face, not that his current one could get much worse. "If I find one ruddy blonde hair on the corpse -"
"I've already made certain the lab has a sample database of John's DNA and hair, Anderson, now do shut up and let me think," Sherlock interrupted, and Anderson got the look of a man biting into a lemon. John decided he didn't want to know how Sherlock had gotten her samples, and barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes before Sherlock looked up at him, nodding her head toward the corpse. "What do you see?"
John crouched next to the body, mirroring Sherlock's position on the other side, aware of a marked spill next to the body. "Well, cause of death is pretty obvious," he gestured to the knife wound gaping in the man's neck. "I'd say it was a thrust down - clean, severed the spinal cord and nicked the main artery - here, entered the core of the body - maybe the higher lobe of the right lung?" he mused as he looked the body over. "Man died almost instantly - it would have paralyzed him and cut off most of the blood to the brain due to that artery being sliced, not to mention fluid flooding the pierced lung -" He became aware that the whole room had gone strangely quiet, and he looked up to find that most of the room was staring at him. He blinked up at them, then raised an eyebrow.
"I've changed my mind," Donovan said after a moment, crossing her arms with a superior air. "You're her perfect match. Who'd have thought there were two freaks in the world?"
"He was an army doctor, Sally, he's hardly maladjusted," Sherlock retorted, and John did roll his eyes this time.
"It's fine, Sherlock. I've been called worse." Sherlock shot him a look and John shrugged. "Being bi in the army never did anyone any favours," he said quietly, so only she could hear. Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment, then they narrowed at him and she nodded quickly once before turning back to the body and standing up.
"This isn't related to Dimmock's case," she said, and Lestrade frowned at her.
"What makes you think that?" he asked, and John once more found himself appreciating the man. Lestrade may not have Sherlock's brains, but he was quick to catch on and willing to listen, and most of all he seemed to have the patience of a saint. John thought about what Mycroft had said and had to wonder about the strength of will it would take to get Sherlock Holmes off of drugs.
"Angle of the stabbing. He's not a small man, he's what - six foot three? Someone ethnically Asian, such as the assassin group we were looking at, would have had to be very abnormally tall for their ethnic group in order to stab from above. No, our killer is, if anything, strikingly tall."
Lestrade blinked twice and nodded once. "Right. What else have you got?"
"Why is there an abacus next to him?" Sherlock asked without giving any regard to Lestrade's question. Lestrade sighed.
"It was on his back when we found him; we moved it to get a good look at the wound."
Sherlock frowned at him, eyes narrowing. "You shouldn't move anything, Lestrade."
"Oy, this crime scene was found yesterday, you're lucky I've been able to put off moving the body for this long."
"Yes, well, you should have brought me in yesterday," she snapped back.
"Right. Any estimate on how long he's been dead?" John asked, figuring he'd better interrupt before Sherlock could start them arguing about inanities.
"As far as we can tell, she was killed about two and a half days ago, sometime in the afternoon."
"So specific, you have to love the competence of the police force," Sherlock muttered. Lestrade looked at her with an expression John normally saw on exasperated, indulgent fathers.
"Right, what have you got, then?" he tried again, and Sherlock rolled her eyes, stepping forward to let her keen eyes flicker over the corpse.
"Mid-twenties, not married - not divorced, either - right-handed. He's got two dogs and a cat, but neither are here so either the murderer let them loose or they live somewhere else, I'd say the latter because the place isn't covered in hair. He plays the guitar but he's not good at it, enjoys his job even though it's high pressure. And -" Sherlock held up a gloved hand holding a phone, prompting an angry cry from Anderson - "he's not cheating on his girlfriend, they have a healthy relationship. The pets probably live at the girlfriend's house."
"Are we looking for her, then?" Lestrade asked, and Sherlock shoved the phone in his face.
"Look at the height difference, Lestrade, I highly doubt that a girl a good foot shorter than him could stab him at that angle and do this amount of damage. Don't be dull." She turned back to the corpse, tossing the phone at Lestrade.
"So what are we looking for?"
Sherlock studied the scene. "Someone tall. Did anyone touch the abacus?"
"No, we didn't do anything but pick it up and set it to the side. Someone tall?" Lestrade said, half-businesslike, and half-frustrated.
"Yes, well, I haven't got much to go on yet, have I?" Sherlock snapped, and John stepped in again.
"Any fingerprints, unclaimed hairs, fibres, anything?" he asked, and Lestrade shook his head.
"Whoever's done this one managed to clean it up pretty well." He seemed torn between sounding impressed and frustrated.
"Let me know of any developments. Do you have a copy of the file?" Sherlock said quickly, turning with a whirl of her coat. John had a split second of wishing he were tall and dramatic before realizing how much it would not suit him.
Lestrade sighed and motioned to Sally, who very reluctantly handed over a manila file. Sherlock left without a word, but Sally smirked as John passed. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
John stopped and fixed her with a glare. "I believe Sherlock can say the same about her warnings of you."
She couldn't - Sherlock had hardly warned him of Sally's inanity - but John didn't really care at the moment. He wondered what that said about him. Whatever it was, it was probably disturbing, and he found he didn't care much. He nodded once to himself before straightening his shoulders and following Sherlock out of the room.
"Right," he said in the taxi with a grin, "Explain it to me, please."
Sherlock looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. "Explain what?"
John nodded back toward the crime scene, which was hard to do since the cab was now moving. "My brain doesn't work like yours, but I'd like to know how you knew all that."
Sherlock frowned at him for a moment, then turned toward the window, opening her mouth to let a stream of deductions out.
"Mid-twenties was obvious, and he was unmarried - no ring, and no signs of a callus or tan line, and he's young enough that if he'd been married there would have been a sign of the ring. He had two colours of coarse hair and one colour of soft hair on his trousers, so two dogs and a cat. Plays the guitar - there was a case for one in the corner."
John looked over at her quickly. "I didn't notice it."
Sherlock's mouth turned up at the edges. "You weren't looking for it."
"And you were?"
"There were calluses on the tips of his fingers, of course I looked for an instrument. He enjoys his job - there are several magazines on the table related to banking and the stock exchange, and he doesn't have to read them, so he's kept his interest in the job - but he chews his fingernails, thus it's a high-stress environment. And he doesn't cheat - his Facebook pictures show a happy couple and his emails, texts and outgoing calls collaborate this."
"Brilliant," John said when she paused, and Sherlock gave him a look, her eyebrows high on her forehead as if she were surprised. John didn't understand why she would be surprised - he seemed to encourage her ego often these days.
"Boring," she said after a moment. "He's boring, John. There's no reason for anyone to want to kill him - he's banally average." Her face was disgusted. Only Sherlock could be disgusted at someone being normal.
John shrugged. "Everyone's got a bad side, right?"
"Perhaps," Sherlock mused, "But I would see it."
"Maybe it's in that file," John suggested, and she frowned.
"Maybe," Sherlock said, fiddling with her phone. "I need you to look up everything you can about the abacus."
John looked out the window, automatically scanning the tops of the buildings as he mused. "What's the plural for that? Abacuses? Abaci?"
"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock snapped at him, and he grinned.