Chapter Text
John put the kettle on and yawned. He hadn’t slept much last night. Sherlock wasn’t on a case, and as a result, was bored out of his mind. He had spent the whole night either yelling at the telly or playing violin. John used to be able to sleep through anything as a soldier, but he’d been home for long enough that he’d lost that ability. John tried to find some bread in the mess that was the kitchen. Abandoned experiments littered the counters, and beakers of mysterious substances that John didn’t even want to know what they were. He finally found some bread that hadn’t succumbed to Sherlock’s recent mould experiment. He popped it in the toaster and turned to the refrigerator to try to find some jam. John rummaged through the various body parts until he found a jar of his favorite strawberry jam. He knew he had been living with Sherlock far too long when the body parts in the fridge no longer bothered him. The kettle sang and John poured himself a cup of hot water and added a tea bag. He grabbed his toast from the toaster, spread jam on it, and then went into the sitting room to eat.
Sherlock was sitting at the table, doing who knows what on his laptop. He was hunched over the keyboard, typing furiously, his brow furrowed.
“Morning,” John mumbled. There was no response from the detective. John hadn’t figured he’d get one, but it didn’t hurt to try. He ate his breakfast in an awkward silence. After he finished eating, he cleaned up his plate and cup. Then he sat down with his laptop, opening up his blog. He scrolled through, hoping someone had posted a case on there somewhere, but no luck. It had been eight days without a case, and things had gone from bad to worse. Sherlock hadn’t spoken a word to John in days, and he’d taken to locking himself in his room during the day, only coming out at night. And the nights he spent watching crap telly, playing his violin, or just plain sulking. John had hidden his gun five days ago. The walls didn’t really need to take a pounding again. Sherlock hadn’t left the flat in days, and had worn the same clothes for four days now. He hadn’t hardly slept or eaten anything all week. John was worried about what would happen the longer they went without a case. As far as John knew, there were no drugs in the flat, but he made a mental note to search the place later.
John grabbed the paper from coffee table and settled in to read it. About fifteen minutes later Sherlock’s phone rang from its place on the coffee table. Sherlock practically dove for it, pressing the answer call button. “Sherlock Holmes,” he answered. There were a few hmm’s from Sherlock before he hung up.
“So?” John asked, setting the paper down.
“That was Lestrade,” Sherlock replied. “He has a case for us.” He started dancing around the flat like a mad-man. John let out a breathy laugh and shook his head, but secretly he was thrilled. Sherlock needed this. “Unidentified woman found dead in her apartment with no apparent cause of death, no sign of forced entry, and no fingerprints or blood. Crime scene’s completely clean. Fantastic, isn’t it?!”
“Uh-huh,” John hummed. He was used to this by now. People being murdered was Sherlock’s idea of fun, but he wasn’t a freak like everyone said he was. That’s just what interested him, what kept his brain occupied. Sherlock swept into his room, and came out a few minutes later, fully dressed. He grabbed his coat and scarf from the hook near the door, and tossed John his jacket. “Come on, John. The game is on.” John smiled to himself before putting on his jacket and following the world’s only consulting detective down the stairs and into a cab.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at the crime scene. They were at an abandoned warehouse in Brixton. Sherlock jumped out of the cab as soon as it stopped, leaving John to pay the cabbie, as always. John walked towards the building, which was cordoned off with police tape. Sally Donavon stood near the entrance, talking with Anderson. She saw John as soon as he came up.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” she remarked. “Freak hasn’t blown up the flat yet?” John just ignored her, ducking under the tape and walking into the warehouse. Scotland Yard officers bustled around, carrying various supplies. Sherlock and Lestrade were at the far end of the building. As John walked towards them, Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and started examining the corpse.
“Hey,” Lestrade said as he came to stand next to him. “Sorry we haven’t had much in the way of cases for you guys lately.”
“It’s no problem,” John lied. Lestrade was putting a lot on the line, allowing Sherlock so much access to crime scenes and such. Anything they could get was appreciated. “So, what’s the story?”
“Girl was found here by a couple of druggies this morning,” Lestrade started. “We don’t have an ID yet, or cause of death. Scene’s completely clean, so’s the body. I’m completely out of my depth here.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Aren’t you always?” Sherlock remarked from over the body. “John, if you would stop chatting and help me out here?” John rolled his eyes, but moved to crouch over the body anyways. He slipped his gloves on and started examining the body.
“Notice anything odd?” Sherlock asked. John moved over the body, trying to find anything out of place. “No,” he finally concluded.
“Exactly,” Sherlock said. “She looks the picture of perfect health.”
“So why is she dead?” John asked, legitimately confused.
“I don’t know,” Sherlock whispered to him. John was taken aback. Sherlock wasn’t one to admit when he didn’t know the answer. He always just pretended he did.
“Send to body to St. Bart’s,” Sherlock told Lestrade, standing up and brushing his hands on his trousers. “I need to do some further investigating before I examine the body further.”
“Um, okay,” Lestrade stuttered. This wasn’t typical Sherlock behavior. Usually he looked at the body for two minutes and knew everything there was to know about them. “I’ll send it there when we’re done processing the scene.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock said, plowing past him and out the door, leaving Lestrade standing there looking extremely confused. John jogged after his flatmate, catching up with him just as he was getting into a cab.
“Where are we going?” John asked, catching his breath.
“Back to Baker Street,” Sherlock replied, not meeting John’s eyes. “I need to call a colleague of mine for assistance.”