A/N: Not much of a plot. Need to come up with better next time. Sorry. -csf


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Mostly housebound during the worst of the virus outbreak, Sherlock was in need of distraction – almost constant distraction – so his ebullient brain cells wouldn't crumble to dust.

It's not just painful to watch his bouts of depressed inertia, that thug at my heart strings. According to the great genius himself, without brain food, my friend's mind starts to consume itself in a way. Sherlock's brain will have a unique tendency to migraines if he hasn't been keeping it oiled and running like a race car engine.

In a desperate attempt at finding Sherlock something in which his knowledge is not yet above mankind's average, I settled upon the age old "the Earth revolves around the Sun" debacle. I ordered Sherlock a telescope so he could study the Solar System, the entirety of which is a giant black hole mystery to him. That should keep him busy for a while, and I thought little more of that.

The gift arrived weeks layer and was promptly dismissed as insensitive and hurtful.

'Did you really not like it?'

'Oh, just drop it, John! My genius is clearly misunderstood by lesser minds!'

I flipped him off, making sure he could spot it in the fireplace mirror. He smirked, amused; the prat.

The astronomy gift stayed in Mrs Hudson's hallway for days. That is, until one morning I came downstairs for breakfast and found the boxes and wrapping strewn all over the landing. I carefully trailed upon to the living room and, sure enough, there was Sherlock, bending slightly to peer over the telescope.

'No, Sherlock, you're supposed to watch the stars at night, not the neighbours during the day!'

'If it were a nocturnal use piece it'd have come with a light', he dismisses.

'What?'

Sherlock grins wickedly at me. Oh, he's just messing with me. Not all that oblivious. However, this spying lark seems to run in the family.

His brother Mycroft is just the same. Two genius that set themselves apart from the common human, but who secretly desire to understand and mingle with society, and as such as prone to the voyeuristic analysis of mankind from their ivory towers.

What have I just done?

I sigh and start tidying up the mangled cardboard boxes.

'Leave the bubble wrap, John', he demands, without even taking his gaze from the eye piece.

I frown. 'Experiment?'

'If you must call it that', he mutters.

Oh, he wants to pop every single bubble. He likes to do that with a tenacity he otherwise keeps for hunting down triple murders.

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'Any gruesome murders yet?' I mutter after my morning shower, my wet hair still dripping unpleasantly tickly water droplets on my neck. I roll my shoulders to abate the weird feeling.

Sherlock is not fooled. He smirks and retorts: 'Not visible from where I stand, no. I may need to borrow one of Mycroft's helicopters...'

There's a new type of tourist sightseeing altogether.

I find myself tugging at my undershirt's neck hem, uncomfortably damp. 'You've already found all our neighbours' probable murder suspects, should they croak suddenly, right?'

Sherlock waves off dismissively. 'One needs to pass the time', he says, drawing his speech with ennui.

But I notice better. The detective won't turn away from his new toy, it seems.

'Has anyone spotted you yet?'

'No one, alas... It's amazing what people do without the constraints of society, when they think no one is looking.'

I glance up our bookshelves, where Mycroft once kept his spy cams to trail an intense eye on Sherlock. Mordor style.

'Or once you get used to onlookers', I add, thoughtfully. I know I have.

The tag on the back of my neck, sewn into my undershirt, is annoying me now. I know there's a pair of scissors somewhere in the kitchen.

'I suppose you would', Sherlock weighs in at that. 'You have very little to hide, John. You are an open book, an honest man. A rare and exotic breed, these days. What you do not tell me, I can read off you like pages in a book. But out there, across the street, there's a cross section of society. It must be representative of the whole. If I have enough angle to watch a relevant number of neighbours, statistically at least one of them should be a murderer, two supermarket clerks, and point six bank robbers.'

'That's why you don't see all those many bank robberies anymore. The robbers cone in decimals now', I interrupt.

'At any time there will be seven to nine crimes in progress, most of them bland and nearly innocuous. Like filling in incorrect tax statements or parking incorrectly. But then there are the other ones, sudden bouts of violence, enemies vying for a prize, astonishing crimes being carried out. A reason to study mankind, John, from a Baker Street window. Forty-five percent in our block will have been exposed to great violence in their life time, however punctual of an instance, but only four percent will carry the marks of violence in them—'

Sherlock's voice dies down just as I'm donning that undershirt again. I turn around. 'I'm listening. Four percent, you were saying.'

I rub the fabric over my war wound scar, absent minded.

He grumps. 'Let's say three percent for the sake of the other ninety nine citizens in a hundred, shall I? John, why can't you get me a nice murder?' he pleads, all round eyes and adorable puppy look.

Oh, phase three. After the dejection and abandonment, then the obsession with odd idée fixe, now comes the hustling for something to fill Sherlock's mind.

'Get you a nice murder? You want me to murder for you?' I confirm, patient as a saint.

He rebels at once. 'No, of course not! Where would be the fun in that? If you weren't going to do it voluntarily, you may as well not do it at all! No, John, why can't you get me a client?'

'Where do you reckon I can go find one? Lost and found section at the Tube station?'

He bursts at that. 'Oh, you're useless!'

Oh! Gee, thanks, mister!

I turn around abruptly, wondering why I put up with this. I lower my head and sigh into my palm.

Next thing I know, there's an awkward "I'm sorry" mumbled just next to me. I almost jump out of my skin.

'I didn't mean it', he adds, soft eyes trembling and vulnerable green orbs.

He's even abandoned that telescope.

I'm the only one he's got; a truth exacerbated by lockdown. That's alright, he's the only one I got too.

'You aren't useless, John. In fact, you are quite handy at making tea', he adds the hint, further pressing the teabags box in my hands.

This is Sherlock through and through. Uncomfortable with vulnerability, he needs to have the last haughty word before turning briskly, towards his violin.

The beloved violin being his ultimate consolation, and his true expression in a foreign musical language I'm still learning to decode.

'Fine, tea', I grumble without feeling. Lately we've been clashing more, too consumed by each other's peculiarities in a tight, constant space. We're wearing each other out.

It's already proof of a great relationship that we're surviving this far.

'You do know', I start, in a desperate attempt to get those brain gears rolling, 'that a telescope is only an upside down microscope.'

He blinks. 'That's preposterous.'

He looks genuinely indignant in the name of Science. Oh, got his attention now.

'Prove me wrong, then', I taunt.

'Where am I going to fit a microscope slide?'

'You can turn it around and—'

'What is it, John?' he follows my stunned gaze towards the window and the parked telescope.

I tilt my head sideways, not even fully aware of my tell.

Sherlock's full attention snaps to that window, onto that row of houses across the street and a ribbon of grey sky above.

'Nothing. I thought I saw something', I add, snapping out of it. I go grab that kettle as if nothing had happened.

The detective rushes to the window and stares out at once. Immediately he drags the telescope by the metal tripod, and he positions the telescope in feverish detail.

'John, I see it too.'

I nod, but he is not looking my way, all his energy focused on the long distance version of his magnifying glass; how could this gift be anything other than a success?

'What do you see?' I whisper, so not to collide with his quick mental processes.

'Architectural plans on the wall, guns, ropes. John, it's a robbery being prepared across the street!'

I smile. That should keep Sherlock busy. The microscope thing was just a distraction. Sherlock is getting too good at spotting my methods.

Honest men only have a handful of tricks.

Like he said, statistically there would be a few crimes in progress at any such cross section of a street, on any given time. As an extension of that rule, at any cross section of a street you should find a few ongoing crimes at any time.

Sherlock just needed a little extra incentive anyway.

It's all really great. Because I didn't see a thing, I took a chance, and it paid off. Big time.

'That building, four stories, central stairs and the even number of windows, that's a historical building, converted to a department store. But why would anyone choose now to rob a department store, they are closed, the merchandise is stranded in hope there are still some viable sales. Clearly not a fashion matter, as fashion has been made to wait. But the walls separating from the next door building are plaster and wood, a cheaper alternative used in the historical period of the building. Really bad for fire spreading. In modern society with constant use of those buildings, no one though to correct the structural weak point and easy access to next door, but with the bigger stores closed to commerce for weeks... Alas, the time is running out, they will soon reopen. Departmental bosses are returning to implement changes to the layout and revising stocks. Our burglar needs to make his bold move, asap.'

'What's next door, then?' I ask.

Sherlock allows my question to permeate his monologue naturally, as if my voice had free access to his deductions any day.

'A restaurant, John. But it's not any restaurant, it's one with an inner patio area that faces the back of a jewellers. John', he turns to face me with those intense eyes, 'we have to stop a robbery.'

I nod. 'Can I finish my toast first?' I ask, bringing him one too, with a cup of tea. Breakfast is important.

He again peers through the telescope. 'Yeah, plenty of time. The architectural blue prints have been pinned upside down on the wall. Right now our robbers are planning to infiltrate a crockery and home decor store.'

I smirk, taking a seat on Sherlock's armchair, just propped on the leather arm, watching him work, with the usual feverish and jittery energy of genius.

Crisis averted. For the rest of the morning, if we're lucky.

I take a bite of that piece of toast. I'll have to think of something else to follow. Can't have Sherlock shooting up the walls again. The plaster behind the wallpaper is cracking ominously already.

Of course the Solar System will have to wait. Sherlock is a bit busy right now, doing what he does best. Perhaps I'll need a new mnemonic to teach him the names of the planets in order.

My Very Eloquent Mate Just Sleuths Ungodly New Puzzles.

No, wait. Pluto's no longer a part of the ensemble.

My Very Extravagant Mate Just Stalks Unknowing Neighbours.

Ah, yes. That's more like it. Keeping up with the times.

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