Sherlock arrived at Scotland Yard twenty minutes later. He paid the driver and approached the tall building. He had mixed feelings about this place: he enjoyed that it was a goldmine of criminal investigations but he despised how it was crawling with incompetent idiots. Anderson, Sergeant Sally Donovan, and the Dim of the Yard Detective Inspector Dimmock were the most notable of those imbeciles (especially Dimmock; how did he even get into police academy?). At least Lestrade had some potential, since he was the only one who had enough common sense to call him whenever an investigation became too complex for their simple minds. The consulting detective wondered what they would ever do without him.
The Yarders were running left, right and center all round him as he made his way towards the elevators. He caught bits and pieces of conversations: some were about weekend activities, others about relationship problems, while most addressed the topic of business. Each was too dull for his attention, Sherlock thought as he waiting outside an elevator. The doors opened and he froze. Donovan and Anderson stepped out and they paused in their tracks to glare at him. Sherlock gave them the iciest stare he could muster, not in the mood to deal with them.
"Look, the freak's here," Donovan sneered.
"Good morning, Sally," Sherlock said sardonically. "And to you, Anderson."
"What are you doing here? Don't say Greg called you here; we know he didn't," Anderson said, eyeing the consulting detective with suspicion and dislike.
"Once again, Anderson, you are lowering the IQ of the entire street by speaking alone. I am perfectly aware that Lestrade hasn't called me. I'm the one who's paying a visit to him."
"He's busy, freak. Don't bother him."
"He's never too busy to see me. He knows when I come around he has to listen."
"What do you want from him?"
"That's none of your business, Donovan."
"He's my boss so it is my business."
"Aren't we touchy this morning? This beats the time Anderson was furious about his wife discovering his one-night stand with you."
"Now just wait a damn minute!" Anderson exclaimed indignantly as Sherlock walked passed them and into the elevator.
"Here's a little piece of advice for you, Sally: might I suggest you start sleeping with unmarried men? That way you will not be kicked out of their house the second the sun has risen and you would be much more pleasant to deal with," Sherlock said bluntly. "Good day."
The elevator doors closed on Donovan and Anderson's scandalized faces and Sherlock leaned against the wall. He must have lost at least ten percent of his intelligence by just talking with those two. He prayed Lestrade had something remotely good in store for him.
Sherlock reached the detective inspector's floor and had to press himself against the wall as he stepped out of the elevator. A group of Yarders nearly ran him over as they went to deal with whatever emergency that was calling out to them. The consulting detective wondered if it involved Lestrade's division.
He soon got his answer as he reached his destination. Lestrade was sitting at his desk, munching on a bagel and drinking a steaming cup of coffee from Starbucks while going through some files, clearly having nothing to do with the crisis. Sherlock let himself in and sat in front of the detective inspector and waited for his presence to be acknowledged. It did not take long for Lestrade to realize he was no longer alone.
"Good morning, Sherlock," he said evenly, not taking his eyes off his work. "I don't recall calling you here. To what I owe this visit?"
"I need work, Lestrade," Sherlock said.
"I don't have anything that would interest you. I have some wannabe criminals who didn't do a very good job at trying to commit a crime – you know, like those stupid robbers you see on the telly – and a whole lot of petty crimes that are barely worth looking into, even for a regular police officer. I have nothing complex."
"I'll take whatever you can give me. I can solve all those commonplace crimes for you."
Lestrade looked at Sherlock in surprise. "Are you being serious? You actually want these, as you say, commonplace crimes?"
"Isn't that what I just said? I have been idle for weeks, Lestrade; I can't take it anymore."
"You are serious. Well, in that case, Sherlock, help yourself. I have a cabinet full of recent criminal activity right next to me."
The consulting detective nodded and approached the cabinet Lestrade had identified. He began to rummage through the first drawer and saw that Lestrade had not been kidding when he had said there were some really stupid criminals out there. A person with a pickup truck had tried to pull an ATM machine from a wall with his vehicle and in result the back of the truck had ripped off. In their panic the criminal fled while leaving the license plate behind; the police had found them in no time.
Another person had tried to steal several cell phones. They would have been successful too, if they hadn't turned every single one of them on. The police found them within an hour and they were able to arrest the crook without a fight. Sherlock could not believe how weak and incredibly moronic people could be
The next criminal had been less cooperative. He had tried to rob a bank but the clerks set off the alarm, triggering his panic. According to the security footage, he tried to leave the bank but kept pushing the door the wrong way and was unable to escape. He wasted so much time trying to open the door that Scotland Yard was able to arrive on the scene while he was still there. The criminal tried to shoot the police through the doors but he missed with each shot. The officers forced their way inside and they disarmed him and pinned him to the ground, where he tried to put up a fight. He was heavily outnumbered and eventually gave up.
Sherlock turned to Lestrade to stare at him incredulously. "These people can't be real, Lestrade," he said.
"Sadly, they are," Lestrade replied amusedly. "These crimes are just too stupid to make up. I warned you, didn't I?"
"You did," Sherlock mumbled, turning back to the cabinet.
"Try the lower drawer. They have what you're looking for."
The consulting detective nodded and complied. He was relieved to find the unsolved case files and pulled them all out, closing the drawer with his hip. He looked over his pile and found the detective inspector watching him with interest.
"Planning on solving all of those?" Lestrade asked.
"Obviously."
"Well, the meeting area is clear for the day as far as I know. Why don't you settle yourself there and report back to me when you're done?"
"Fine."
Without another word, Sherlock made his way out of the office and down the corridor. He could feel the curious glances being cast his way but he paid them no mind; he was used to being the object of scrutiny in Scotland Yard. But usually the staring was for a less positive reason.
Sherlock entered the meeting room and placed all the files on the table. He then turned around and locked the door. He had no wish to be disturbed, and if Anderson or Donovan (or, God forbid, both) suddenly came in he would probably do something he might regret. He could not be held accountable for them making bad decisions, especially while being in the heart of Scotland Yard out of all places. He was not certain if he would be able to worm his way out of the calamity it would cause.
The consulting detective sat down and opened the first file. He didn't know how much time it would take for him to resolve each case but he prayed that it would prevent his mind from crafting another dream like the one he had the previous night. One dream like that was enough to last a lifetime.
Sherlock was more than halfway through the files when a knock on the door made him jump a foot and a half in the air a good two hours later. Wondering who would dare to break his concentration like that, he turned around and his eyes widened to the size of small plates at the sight of John staring at him through the glass walls. The doctor made a sign for him to open the door and, after a small moment of hesitation, Sherlock complied. He didn't know whether he should be pleased or not at the fact his friend had managed to track him down but he let John come inside and indicated that he should sit down. John chose the chair next to Sherlock's and he watched on silently as the consulting detective returned to his seat. Uncomfortably aware of the doctor's eyes on him, Sherlock returned to his work.
"You found me," he said quietly. "Congratulations."
"It took me a while to do so. I honestly didn't think that you would coop yourself up in here out of all places," John replied, a hint of irony tingeing his tone.
"Well, I have. Now why are you here?"
"I came to find you, obviously. I was a little worried."
"Why? I always leave without warning."
"Not like that! Something's bothering you and you're trying to run away from it. Mind telling me what it is?"
"Nothing is bothering me, John. You can stop worrying."
"I'm not so sure that I believe that. Did you have a nightmare last night, just like Mrs Hudson said?"
"No."
"Then what's wrong?"
"What part of 'Nothing is bothering me' did you not you not understand, John?"
"I don't believe you."
"Really? I haven't noticed."
"I'm serious, Sherlock. You were very agitated this morning and, well, you were more eccentric than usual. I understand that you're different –"
"A high-functioning sociopath, thank you very much," Sherlock mumbled.
" – but even you can behave out of character. What went on this morning was definitely unlike you. You know you can tell me anything, right?" John said with an encouraging smile.
I do know that but that's not the problem, Sherlock thought, hating where this conversation was going. He refused point blank to tell John about the dream. God only knew what that would do.
"Sherlock, you can trust me," John said, placing a hand on the consulting detective's arm.
The electric current passed through again and Sherlock tensed. It took all of his self-control to not react the way he did earlier; it was so tempting to bounce away. There was a strange sensation in his stomach and his mind was once again unable to process a coherent thought. Clearly, working on petty cases was doing nothing to help his brain. Sherlock should have known it wouldn't work but it was worth a try, he supposed.
John was eyeing him closely. It was apparent that he had felt Sherlock stiffen underneath his touch. The consulting detective tried to come up with an excuse to give him despite the crazy thoughts that were interfering with his muddled logic.
"John, I've had no work for the last few weeks. I am literally going out of my mind," Sherlock managed to say, a little breathlessly. "You know how I get when I become idle; can you blame me for behaving a little erratically?"
"So that's all it is, then? You're bored and it's driving you up the wall?" John asked uncertainly.
"You've just repeated what I said."
"If you're sure that's what's going on…"
"I'm positive, John. Now can you drop the subject before I make you?"
"Why? What are you going to do? Kill me and make me one of your scientific experiments?"
"If I have to," Sherlock said, catching the amused glint in John's eyes.
"All right. So what are we working on?" John said, leaning over to read the file the consulting detective was concentrating on.
"The murder in Kensington that was announced this morning in the paper. Dull stuff; hardly worth noticing."
"Why do you say that? Murders are your favorite type of crimes."
"You make me sound positively sadistic."
"Probably because a small part of you is."
Sherlock grabbed an unopened file and lightly hit John over the head with it. The doctor winced at the impact and he glared at the consulting detective, who was regarding him with a sense of satisfaction.
"What was that for?" John wanted to know, rubbing the top of his head.
"I am not sadistic," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "Murders are just more complex."
"You whip corpses, you insult people beyond measure and you once walked in the flat with a ginormous spear while covered in blood because you repeatedly speared a pig," John reminded him.
"The first and the latter were dead. And is it my fault that everyone is stupid?"
"There's still some pain inflicted there, and you have fun doing it. Oh, and like you're a proper genius, Mr. I-Like-To-Risk-My-Life-For-The-Thrill-Of-A-Chase."
"All right, you've made your point. Anything else?"
"Yes, there is. Do we need to go down to Kensington to solve this murder?"
Sherlock smiled. Leave it to John to be so willing to help.
"I think I can resolve this without doing so. We only need to look at the data the Yarders have gathered and we can deduce where our murderer is hiding," Sherlock said quietly.
"You can do that without examining the crime scene in person?" John asked in awe.
"Does that surprise you?"
"Only a little bit. I don't doubt your talent, that's for sure."
The consulting detective's smile widened as he slid the file towards his friend. Despite the madness the dream was causing it was nice to be working in close proximity with John: having a friend to team up with was something Sherlock had learned to appreciate. The madness was still making itself vividly known, however: the slightest brush of the hand when exchanging sheets of papers would send Sherlock's heart racing; whenever John would lean forward to grab something that was on the other side of his friend his close form would send shivers down the consulting detective's spine; if Sherlock looked into John's eyes for even a second too long he would have to look away, his cheeks burning ever so slightly. That dream was still affecting him and it was about time John would also notice and resume asking annoying questions. Sherlock had to do something, before he was driven to a breaking point.