A/N: Well, sometimes a bit of logic sequence between plots won't go amiss . -csf


First.

I huff up those last flight of stairs to the very top of the building. The attic window is open ajar, from where ragged, dirty curtains flutter to the open air. I lean over the window sill and find my mad friend Sherlock at the end of the slanted roof, holding a sizeable mallet in his hands, whacking the head off the ornamental Edwardian stone statue that stood brooding over the street, undisturbed, for over a century.

'Sherlock, what can you possibly be doing?'

'Oh, there you are, John!' he beams at me, never lowering his weapon. 'You're late', he suddenly reproaches in theatrical disdain. 'I'm collecting—' he drops the mallet by the stone fragments of his destruction work '—a hidden clue to a lost treasure, put here by the mason who crafted this... whoever-he-was.'

I blink. 'That's solid stone! Solid! How did the mason insert a copper tubing holding a parchment with the vital clue inside solid stone?'

Sherlock grins. It means I'm being clever, according to his standards.

'Clearly by suspension of disbelief?'

'What? No! That's not— It doesn't work like that! Science does not allow for that', I point angrily, 'in there!'

'Obviously he chiselled a tunnel to drop the message cylinder inside the granite?'

'I guess', I say, unsuredly. 'He was very handy, though, if the tunnel didn't damage the integrity of the statue that has lasted until Sherlock Holmes took a personal grudge against it.'

'I did not. I am indifferent to this decapitated statue, John.'

I sigh, and finish:

'What old hidden treasure, mate?'

'Finally! I knew you couldn't resist it! Come along, John, it takes two people to operate the draw bridge! I'll explain it all on the way!'

.

We all know Sherlock Holmes is full of a brilliant, hard to understand, type of personal extravaganza. It's what sets him apart from the mere mortal, whom he likes to call "boring" and "idiot" at any opportunity (and he can find himself plenty of opportunities). His genius can be as unpolished and raw as his brutal honesty and killer critiques. But if you look beyond the surface, the flash and bang of a public figure larger than life, and notice his actions, his choices, where his true kind heart shines through, you will then catch a glimpse of the truly great Sherlock Holmes, who the tabloids and even the Yard never really get to know.

I can tell you Sherlock's heart is as big as they come. He's just a bit wary of admitting to it, exposing his vulnerability like that, too tarnished by bad people who, throughout his life, took advantage of him when he let his guard down. I sympathise with his need to keep a part of his gifts hidden away in his comfort zone. But I often think it a shameful waste.

So I try to incentivise him to try out new things.

I'm proud that that is exactly what the detective is now trying. I softly walk across the flat towards his bedroom, where I know I will find him packing. Just a small carry on would usually suffice, but this is Sherlock, so obviously he needs three full suitcases. Always needs to look his best, my friend does. It gives him an aura of inaccessibility he basks on.

He is checking out a small corner office in a periphery town's University campus. You will forgive me if I keep which specific setting a secret for now. Although the University counts on my friends name to attract publicity, the secret services would actually rather prefer if the news did not spread quite as fast as wildfire. Surely they did not account for the students and staff. Not much luck there then.

I don't think my friend is fully convinced yet, of his plans to become a boring academic on the forensic field and to train young new impressionable minds to follow his footsteps along the path his beloved Science of Deduction. However, long before I came along, Sherlock must have already had an inkling that was what he wanted to do, that is to show the world they're all idiots and he knows best when it comes to dead people.

He gets a narrow window chance to do that now.

I'm eager to follow, just for a while, before I must turn my attention to my own, demanding work. I'm Sherlock's training wheels, before he can ride on his own.

Those students can't possibly know how lucky they are. I mean, having professor Holmes in their lecture room, teaching them to observe and deduce? Surely it doesn't get any better than that!

I shudder to think what assignments my friend will set for his eager students. In fact, I think I'll just ask—

.

John has been overworking his active imagination again, I can tell. He paces the corridor to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and closes it without removing an item from the cold storage, he ticks on the kettle and forgets to make his tea – once he made a cuppa of boiled water, no tea bag, in this awkward frame of mind – and seems endearingly akin to a lost parent on their child's first day of school.

'Sherlock', he finally blurts out my name as a puffed exhale. I see he's gone past whatever bothersome moral restrictions he self-imposes, to be the honest, straightforward John Watson I know. How can he not see societal norms are useless constraints we all impose on ourselves? Who cares if I say Good Morning or Good Afternoon, if I wait from a green light to cross an empty road, or even if I am naked when I take out the rubbish (since taking up John as a flatmate, I haven't been called on that particular antisocial behaviour, really John will do most anything to protect my professional name, even the boring task of taking down the dissection remains in a timely fashion. Actually I could time the putrefaction of—

Best left for when John is not around.)

'Sherlock!' he calls again, quite firmly, as if I had been distracted. Preposterous, surely not. I make my work to always pay attention to the slightest detail around me.

'It's still my name, John...'

'Okay. Hmm, you know, I thought I should, hmm, warn you, your students won't go grave digging.'

I blink, stunned. John's mind is a deep pit of unpredictability. How he navigates his thought processes an indecipherable enigma of the most impenetrable type.

'Not very proactive, are they?'

'And you realise, surely, that you can't, hmm, poison them?'

Oh, I see where this is heading. John's uncertain tone is utterly endearing. Would he really expect me to do that? Sometimes it's so very hard to live up to John's expectations! I'll add mass poisoning to the new job chores, if I must.

'I promise I won't poison spare students when you are not available in the room, John.'

'No, don't mock me, and – hmm, you can't deduce them in front of their peers, especially if it is likely to reduce them to tears.'

'That is hardly fair, as it is the most frequent consequence of my deductions. Completely unplanned, I assure you, I'm not the sadist you paint me to be on your ill-concocted blog.'

He smirks, a full captain Watson smirk that sends shivers down my spine. John can be a dangerous man under those excessive layers of wool, tea, and polite smiles. Alright, I'll do as he asks. This time. He mustn't get used to it.

'I'm getting to you now, am I?' he taunts, humouredly. 'Good, you'll remember, that way. Sherlock, you have incredible gifts, and teaching them to the world is the least you can do. The world needs to learn from you. But be patient. You've perfected your skills for years, these students are barely starting.'

'Don't remind me of their sheer incompetence, John. I barely tolerate you, and you are not an idiot, John.'

'Is that a compliment?'

'I take it back. Clearly it was precocious and ill-conceived. You are an idiot, John; but that's alright, you're my idiot.'

'You talk in riddles, mate', he snaps, as the common man would say "whatever".

I just smile. Behind his back.

.

Sherlock extends his lean form to plonk my backpack onto the train's overhead luggage rail, dutifully followed by his posh, fake leather carry on. I'm looking around in the carriage, checking out the other passengers, wondering if any of these eager young adults are also heading to Sherlock's university. Maybe some staff? I'm playing this parent role, as if I was trying to find my friend some new friends.

'I don't need new friends, John', he tells me, morosely.

Did he really read my mind?

'Of course you do.'

'I've got you and you are sufficient and plentiful, John.'

'Flattery will get you nowhere, mate. You need more friends.'

'Don't be silly.'

Why is Sherlock so averse to meeting new people, making fresh friendships? It really is a mystery to me why the stoic detective keeps so tight inside his shell. His façade is hard as nails, but on the inside he's as vulnerable as anyone else.

Then it hits me. 'Sherlock, did you ask me to come along so I could be there as your assistant?'

He blinks, as if the thought was foreign and new to him. I feel more reassured.

'Naturally not, John', he states. 'You'll be there as my best pupil. The teacher's pet. Isn't it obvious?'

I groan inwardly.

'I need a spy, John', he tells me upfront, in sudden earnest.

'I denied Mycroft's offer.'

'Yes, and that is why you do nicely', he says in his own Sherlock-logic, smiling.

'Hmm?'

'Do you really believe my brother won't place his own spies in there?'

I sigh, my patience tried.

'He probably just wants to live up to your expectations, ever thought of that?'

'Nonsense, he's the clever one.'

No, Sherlock, that is absolutely not the case.

.

TBC