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John groaned as the morning light pierced through his eyelids, stabbing directly into his skull like a very smug, very bright ice pick.
He buried his face deeper into the pillow and tried to recall… anything. Last night had been drinks. Definitely drinks. Possibly tequila. Maybe a toast to King and country. Then… the front door? A vague memory of tripping over the welcome mat and declaring it an enemy of the state?
That was it. Blank after that.
His door creaked open.
“John,” came Sherlock’s voice, calm and casual, like this was a normal Tuesday and not the aftermath of John’s worst hangover in six months. “I need you to do that thing again.”
John cracked one eye open and tried to lift his head. Failed. Tried again. Failed harder.
“…What thing?” he croaked, voice barely human.
Sherlock stepped fully into the room, hands folded behind his back like he was addressing Parliament. “You know. The thing. Last night.”
“Right.” John swallowed, trying to sit up. His body protested. “I don’t suppose this… ‘thing’ involved me threatening Mrs Hudson’s cat again?”
“She doesn’t have a cat.”
“Oh. Good. Then maybe it was… fixing your violin? Rewriting your thesis? Punching Mycroft?”
Sherlock tilted his head. “You don’t remember.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a diagnosis. John sighed and rubbed his face.
“I don’t remember anything past the kebab shop. Did I… do something stupid?”
“Stupid?” Sherlock repeated. “No, no. It was inspired. Ingenious, even. Unexpectedly… helpful.”
“Well, that’s ominous.” John looked up. “Can I get a tiny clue? A syllable? A mime?”
Sherlock paused. “You came home, walked straight into the flat, stood in the middle of the room, announced you had ‘solved everything’, and then—without hesitation—rearranged my entire crime wall into a new configuration.”
John blinked. “…I what.”
“You moved all the strings. Switched out three photos. Used a kebab skewer to draw new lines between suspects. And then—this is the truly impressive part—you stuck a post-it note that said ‘THIS GUY DID IT, OBVIOUSLY’ on Leonard Gregson’s photo.”
John stared.
Sherlock nodded solemnly. “And you were correct.”
There was a very long pause.
“Christ,” John muttered. “I drunk-solved your murder board.”
Sherlock stepped closer. “Which is why I need you to do it again.”
“I don’t even remember doing it!”
“Then I suggest you start drinking.”