A/N: It's running away from me a bit, what I thought would be an anecdote at the beginning of this story, so I ended up with a long chapter as I shifted the storyline to accommodate it. Not a writer! -csf


2.

The atmosphere has become awkward in the police car's backseat that Sherlock and John share. Too small of a space for Sherlock's long legs and stiff posture, radiating covert anger and latent hurt. John has the grace of looking abashed, at least. The army doctor has tried to strike conversation with his flatmate a few times, valiantly enduring the wilting look that would have reduced weaker men to tears. Still he couldn't coax a word out of the wronged detective, no expression of anger, surprise or anything. Just brooding at its best. Well, multitasking while brooding, the driver supposed, because to Greg Sherlock did speak, if the tone was clipped and short.

'The Green Herring case, yes. Your field sergeant is an idiot.'

'How come?' the inspector asks, glancing at his trainee. Oh, well. It's not like he could keep up for long the pretence that Sherlock Holmes is not a vital part of his success rates, making them significantly above the rest at the Yard.

'Unless some doctor has manufactured his own evidence in this case, the victim's callouses clearly indicate that the man was a two finger typist. Please see the backseat's other occupant for illustrative purposes. Ergo, it couldn't have been the victim plagiarising the famous author and coming up with the unpublished masterpiece. I would look into the upstairs neighbour, a young mum of a three months old, a vivid imagination and short on both sleep and socialising. I hear some people living very close to us can be quite deceitful and concoct something short of a fairy tale.'

John squirms in his seat, his dirty blond hair contrasting with the beetroot tones on his ears and cheeks. 'Now, hang in there, Sherl...'

'It's Sherlock, use my full name, John. Or better yet, refrain from using it at all,' and with a huff he crosses his arms and stares out of the window.

Greg clears his throat, rightly guessing it is going to be an awkward crime scene with those two at odds. Still, it's a good sign that they are still taking cases together, he supposes. Just too bad it's been a long ride to a up-and-coming residential neighbourhood with terraced houses and manicured gardens. A bit of a labyrinth, as many of these places tend to be.

The trainee squeaks: 'Take the next right, chief. There's a quiet street where we can park. My girlfriend used to live in this area. I know where the best cafés are too, there's a cluster a mile off, they do takeaways.'

'We won't be needing snacks, Chandler. It's a crime scene, show some respect!'

'Err, yes, sir!'

Greg can almost hear Sherlock's loud eye rolling from the back seat. Maybe the inspector still has some icing sugar from his earlier donut on his jacket lapel.

The engine dies and they get out of the car. The police tape is already in place, but enough time seems to have passed to dignify the neighbours' curiosity, now veiled behind twitchy curtains and repeated passing by while dog walking.

Sherlock and Chandler lead in the front, towards the crime scene, neck to neck. Greg lets himself slow down to ensure that he matches his strides with John's.

'You're an idiot, John,' he whispers candidly between them.

John nods curtly, stiff shoulders and staring straight ahead. 'Am I? He contacted one of his underground network men, one who is always strung up to his eyeballs on illegal highs. I noticed it by chance on his phone when he asked me to get it, and when I confronted him, he played dumb. Sherlock is never dumb. I'm not saying Sherlock was going to relapse, I have no proof, but I wasn't going to wait to find out. He needed a mystery. You didn't reply. Molly had nothing for him. His fan base is on holiday. Nothing popped up on our blogs... He needed a mystery, I gave him one. If that is devious, then I'm proud. I rather have an angry Sherlock than a Sherlock tearing himself to pieces in front of my eyes.'

Greg is sure there is genuine sadness in John's tired voice; tired as if he'd been sparing with his friend in the backseat for the entire journey.

'Yeah, but bluffing with yourself as the target...'

Was John really not aware of how much he meant to the lonely detective?

'Who else would I choose to make him care? Mrs Hudson? You? Sounded crap to make threats against either of you. It had to be me, can't you see?'

Greg shook his head, feeling a bit bad for John. 'Mate, you're a better story teller than Sherlock there gives you credit for, remember that, and don't ever do that again to us. We care about you. Think it was all intellectual challenge to the lanky genius there? Look at him and think again.'

John briskly looked away at that. Ashamed, good, thinks the inspector. Now if they could only make up; for the inspector isn't sure he can cope with John's sad, dejected puppy vibes much longer. Even if John is clearly trying to hide them under a façade of bravado, John is too transparent when it comes to his emotions.

They catch up with the others at the crime scene. Sherlock and Chandler are revving to go, swarming about the sprawled body – deep wound to the head, dead approximately eight hours ago, in the middle of the night – and the congealed blood pool around it. They perform some gory dance of analysis, taking in the body's position, the alley's evidence and a lot more. Greg is, by experience, a lot more contained he knows he's got access to technical expertise that will be reported back to him. He doesn't need to— is Sherlock sniffing the dead body's socks?

'John,' he hurries to cut in, 'give us what you can on the body, will ya?'

The short doctor glances at the consulting detective as if half-expecting to be barred from the task by an irate man. As he sees he's not being prevented from the task, his demeanour brightens up a bit as he kneels by the dead body to study it.

'The CoD is consistent with blunt force trauma to the head. Cracked the skull, damaged the cortex and severed an artery. He would have bled out quickly.'

'A vein, John,' Sherlock corrects sharply.

'No, an artery. I agree the blood spatter pattern seems off. Not large spurts everywhere, more of a puddle, but see here, the cranial bone acted as a shield for the spurts, concealing the pattern. The blood instead trickled down his neck and pooled around him.'

'Hmm.'

John tilts his head, studying the body's positioning. He does not notice that Sherlock is studying him and not the victim.

'He was hit while already down. No signs of defensive wounds, either. He could have been unconscious already.'

'Why, John?' Sherlock asks, his voice inflection changed. Again John misses the cue and answers instead:

'His fingertips and palms are clear, you know this, Sherlock.'

'Why write those vile things against yourself?'

John dry swallows and looks up. He wasn't expecting the interrogation to come over a dead body at a crime scene. He hesitates just a moment, but that's when Sherlock's head whips to the side, identifying Chandler's incoming presence. By silent agreement they postpone the private conversation.

'Chief,' Chandler starts, scratching his head, 'is it an actual crime to swap garden gnomes?'

John blinks rapidly, Sherlock's eyes narrow in intrigued amusement.

'Come, John, I need you to interrogate a witness for me.'

'Is that the lady or the gnome?'

John's posture is minted in relief, as he quickly gets up to follow Sherlock to the edge of the crime scene tape, where a local middle aged woman awaits with an impertinent attitude. Sherlock smirks, he's hooked already. John doesn't quite follow, but after their blow out, he couldn't be less bothered.

.

Seemed a bit mean, to the seasoned detective inspector's eyes, but he was Sherlock-On-a-Tiff-With-John, so Greg expects a bit of the old Sherlock pettiness to come through.

After all, Sherlock is actively pursuing this local woman's claims that in the last few nights someone had been licking gnomes – that's teenager slang for thieving, but who knows if actual licking was involved – from front gardens and then playing a Pass The Gnome game along the gardens. Gnomes popping out of here to appear there, and the respective gnome going on some joy ride to yet another ruddy garden, randomly. Kids, clearly. But here is Sherlock Holmes delighted with the unexpected, chasing wild gnomes races. And who else would follow? (Well, John of course, anyone who knows them would expect no less.) Bloody Chandler would follow, that's who, the new fan boy for Sherlock ruddy Holmes, who would have thought.

Greg should really have kept those two apart. Does this count as dereliction of duty should Chandler's parents ring the Yard looking for explanations?

I'm afraid, Mrs Chandler, that I've exposed your son to a lunatic, a madman with a cunning ability to solve fiendish crimes, with the exception of a massive blind spot when it comes to emotional clues. Right out of a Victorian novel, this one. Jules Verne would have him around the world in thirty days, this one. Twenty one, if he really tried. Just air balloon or submarine the whole thing, and Sherlock Holmes would manage to look bored at the finish line.

'You know, for someone who is "not obsessed" with me "like John is", you think about me a lot,' a deep baritone voice purrs next to the inspector, making him jump.

'Jeez, Sherlock! What— Why do you say I was thinking of you?'

He shrugs, and smiles goofily. 'You were shaking your head a lot, seemed highly probable.'

'Yeah...'

'And now your posture changed to defensive. You're going to pointlessly talk to me about John.'

'I should, shouldn't I?' Greg refuses to be disarmed like that. 'He's an idiot, but he's still your friend.'

'You're all idiots to me.'

'Manners, Sherlock!'

Sherlock doesn't 't even register the admonishment.

'A useful idiot. I've got John interrogating the neighbours and coming up with a Gnome Map. Your minion is with John, learning the ropes. I believe that's what trainees are supposed to do, shadow someone patient to their uselessness.'

'You're not taking it seriously, are you? No, wait, are you just getting payback from John, acting up this Gnome thing?'

'Funny, John never put that into question... and no, inspector, I'm not messing with John. Not this time, at least.'

The both of them take a couple of deep breaths for a moment.

'So, how did you find out?' Greg asks, tonelessly.

'The fibber transfer. Amazingly, not many people are known for wearing oatmeal jumpers of 65% acrylic, 25% generic wool and 10% polyester. A very specific blend, easy to catch on a microscope slide. I have had many instances where I used John's jumpers fibbers as comparison to crime scene samples, after all.'

Callouses, this is just like those callouses, innit?

The inspector reminds himself to be patient and that this step-by-step is for Sherlock. 'And what did John say when you confronted him?'

'He said sorry. And that he hoped I had taken a bit longer to solve it. And he tossed the next couple of poison letters in the bin. He had then all ready to go, hidden inside the washing powder box. He knew I would never find them there!' he hisses.

Greg works hard at keeping a straight face.

'For what it's worth, I think he's sorry, mate.'

'He better be.'

Too fast, not enough bite.

'And it kept you distracted a while, didn't it?'

'Which side are you on now, inspector?'

'Take it easy, I'm not even trying to take sides.' All Greg knows is that Sherlock is more human when John is around him, and he is fairly sure Sherlock is happier too.

'You may still have to choose a side, Lestrade. John and I have a truce going on for now.'

'A truce?' Uh-oh.

'In giving me a fake mystery, John has given me an insight into a deeper mystery.'

The inspector frowns.

'What mystery?'

'What sort of man defames himself in the vilest terms for a friend, or the case of John's extreme self-deprecating streak. In manufacturing a fake mystery he gave his own game away, did you not notice?'

'Ugh, he wanted to be sure to get your attention, wasn't it?'

'You see yet you don't observe! Those words were too fluent, too ready to spill out. John didn't invent them over his bedroom desk, surrounded by newspapers and a pair of scissors I used to unscrew a cupboard door.'

'How do you unscrew a cupboard door with scissors? And why did you need a cupboard door?'

'Focus, inspector! Those words, they weren't new to John. He fished them from the depth of his memories. He's heard them before, likely from a significant person in his life. He's heard them more than once, and that's why they came out so fluent, still fresh as the day he first heard those tirades.'

'Someone who was very angry at John. And mean.'

'I'm angry at John and I – the unfiltered sociopath here – did not say words like that to John! Ever!'

'Calm down, Sherl, it's no big—'

'That's the other thing,' Sherlock swooped right in. 'Don't go copying John with that absurd nickname.'

'You mean Sherl?'

'What else? Of course I mean that! John uses that absurdity when he's hiding something from me. In this case, fake poison letters. John doesn't know he gives himself away and I will keep him that way. Even a genius needs a hint sometimes.'

Greg smirks, thinking it's a grave admission from Sherlock. John makes Sherlock more human even when he's not around to influence him directly.

That's when John and Chandler make their way back to the crime scene, John fiddling with a pen and notebook as is usual for him to take notes of the case for Sherlock. The consulting maniac still accuses John of dismissing everything of actual importance, but John likes to use those notes when recounting the case on his blog.

'How many gnomes did you find?' Sherlock asks with the utmost straight face. 'Did you bring them? Where are they? Did you just leave them there?'

The way Sherlock is getting all riled up has John recoiling instantly. The inspector wonders if their fight is all smoothed over after all. He decides to take pity on John and volunteers: 'Chandler, collect every garden gnome as evidence for Mr Sherlock Holmes. Tell the owners we will give them back in a week's time.' Sherlock huffs in contempt. 'Less than a week,' Greg corrects, accordingly.

John flashes a puzzled look to his flatmate, but turns to mentor the trainee on a mission to go gnome hunting. As they walk off, Greg glances at Sherlock. The odd man is smiling.

.

TBC