Chapter Text
John stared at the tin of jasmine tea-flavoured shortbread Mycroft sent, then lifted the lid and took one out, putting it in his mouth.
"Hey! That's mine!"
John took another and shoved it into Sherlock's mouth.
"Of course it's yours," John mused. "Simple tastes, remember? I didn't even realise they made tea-flavoured shortbreads. I have to admit it's quite nice, though, no wonder you like it."
"Why else would I like it? And my tastes aren't as simple as yours."
"Uh huh, but I have a really expensive one, remember. I bet you don't."
Sherlock huffed. "Get more before it's gone."
John chuckled, putting the lid back on. "My, how little faith do you have in me, Mister Holmes?" he asked. "That was a rhetorical question, by the way. I don't need an answer."
He stood up and went to get his keys. "I'm heading to the shop," he announced. "Tesco, not Harrods. Anything specific you want?"
"No."
"Alright," John said. "I'll be back soon. Don't go anywhere."
"Hmph."
He left the flat and went to the nearest shop. When he got there, the place wasn't crowded, because most people were at work. Another benefit to being Sherlock's whatever-he-was (or maybe just Sherlock's, period) was that he could go run errands when other people couldn't to ensure there wouldn't be a crowd or a big queue.
He was walking towards the tea aisle when he heard someone calling out to him.
"John?"
"Hm? Oh, Molly," John greeted. "It's good to see you."
"You're not with Sherlock?" Molly asked, looking around to spot the tall detective.
"No," John snorted. "Can you imagine him doing something as mundane as going to the shop?"
Molly laughed. "I suppose not," she said. "Ah, I wish I could have my own John too, but... he's special, isn't he?"
John chuckled. "He said that to me before."
"What?" Molly asked. "That I wish I have my own John?"
John shook his head. "That in an ideal world, everyone would have their John," he said. "But then who would John have?"
Molly laughed. "Well," she said, "I don't know about all the other Johns, but you have a mad detective waiting for you at home, don't you?"
John smiled. "I suppose I do."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Sherlock was plucking the strings of his violin, playing some random tunes to keep himself from being bored, when he heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. He put his violin down and started counting the steps. When whoever it was reached the top, he called out, "Come in."
The door opened and Lestrade walked in. "There's a case."
Sherlock shot up in the sofa, but then slumped back down with a sulk. "John's at the shop," he grumbled, reaching for his phone to text John to come back.
"Ah, right," Lestrade said, making himself comfortable in the armchair. "You're not allowed anywhere without John."
"I told you it was excessive."
"You wouldn't know excessive if it hit you in the face," Lestrade sighed. "Considering you were pushed out a window the last time you tried to chase after a killer without John, I'll say it's not at all excessive. You were lucky you fell into a tree."
"It was the second floor! I wouldn't have died!"
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Yes, but I think it's quite obvious that we have an interest in keeping you in a better state than 'not dead'."
"Hmph."
Lestrade ignored the sulking detective. His gaze landed on the tin of shortbread on the table. "Flavoured shortbread?" he mused. "Posh people are different, huh."
"... do you want one?"
"Hm? What's that?"
"You can have one if you want," Sherlock mumbled, his face hidden by a cushion.
Lestrade's jaw fell open. He quickly closed his mouth, his teeth clicking in his haste, and he had to fight the great urge to tease the detective. Instead, he reached out a hand and patted Sherlock's head.
"Thanks," he said. "I'll have one then."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
"Have you ever thought of having a secret code with Sherlock?"
"Secret code, huh?" John mused.
"Yeah, like in spy movies," Molly said cheerily. "It might not be likely, but what if there's a situation where you have to protect Sherlock and another civilian? If he knows to protect himself with the secret code, then you can focus on the civilian too."
John stared at her. "Are you talking about yourself?"
Molly huffed. "Well, maybe?" she said. "It's been a while since I went out with Sherlock. I've been asking him to come with me to a tea room that supposedly has really nice high tea. And! It's having a promotion for the International Women's Day, so women get to eat for free."
"Considering women are their target market anyway..."
Molly nodded. "I even told him I'm shameless enough to third wheel you two now," she said. "So uh, can you ask him about the tea too? Please?"
"Third wheel, huh?"
"I mean," Molly grinned cheekily. "Since you two met, you haven't let him go anywhere alone."
John sighed, aware of the suspicious glares some women who happened to pass by were shooting him. "Don't make me sound like an obsessive and controlling lover, please," he said. "You and Sherlock are going to damage my image beyond repair."
They were interrupted by John's phone beeping. He checked the message and shook his head.
"Well, it was nice meeting you, but duty calls," John said. "I'll ask him about the tea when I get a chance."
"Alright," Molly waved at him. "Don't forget!"
John went to pay for the items and then headed back home to Baker Street. Sherlock didn't say anything other than 'come back now' and he had learned not to ask too many questions. After all, his job was to be there whenever Sherlock asked him to be, even if it was for something trivial.
It didn't take him too long to get back. As soon as he opened the door, he was nearly pushed back out by an overeager detective.
"Oh, good, you're finally here," Sherlock said. "Come on, there's a case!"
"I need to put some things in the chiller first," John said, holding onto Sherlock's arm and pulling him back inside. "Give me a minute."
Sherlock reluctantly went back in and watched impatiently as John unpacked the groceries, then looked at him curiously. "I thought you were going to buy shortbread for yourself."
"I was, but you told me to come back before I got to it," John shrugged, then threw a small packet at Sherlock.
"What's that?" Lestrade asked.
"Sugar-free mints," John said. "He likes having something to bite on when he's thinking sometimes."
"Huh," Lestrade hummed. No matter how often Sherlock criticised his lack of observational skills, he could sometimes notice things too. For example, he noticed that it meant John had arranged his shopping list in such a way that he put his own wants at the end, just in case Sherlock called him back and he had to cut the trip short, so that at least whatever they needed and whatever Sherlock wanted still got bought.
"Must be nice to have John around," Lestrade commented. "Could I maybe interest you in living at mine instead? I'm sure I'm better behaved than Sherlock here."
John laughed. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't think you have enough money to pay me to stay."
Lestrade blinked. He stared at John, then at Sherlock, and back at John. "You're paid to be here?"
"Of course," John said, putting away the last of the groceries. "Why else do you think I can follow Sherlock everywhere?"
"Don't be obtuse," Sherlock huffed. "The cooking, cleaning, and shopping is what interests him, not your hovering."
"Ah," John nodded. "I do it for myself too, but I do get paid extra for it... in a way."
"Oh," Lestrade blinked. "I... see."
John held his silence for five more seconds before he burst out laughing, finally feeling pity for Lestade who looked confused and a little lost.
"I'm on Mycroft's payroll," John said. "But yes, I chose to be here."
"Ah, I see," Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, that makes more sense."
"As opposed to me having a kept man?" Sherlock scoffed.
"You look more like one than me," John said. "Alright, I'm done. Where are we going?"
"Not too far from here," Lestrade said. "It's supposedly a locked room murder, but everything is... too tidy. You'll see what I mean."
"Did you drive here?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade hadn't even finished nodding before Sherlock was off. The two watched him walk down the sidewalk towards Lestrade's parked car before turning to look at them impatiently.
"Look at the brat," John chuckled. "Always so impatient. Did he even ask what the case was about?"
"No, but I figured he must be quite bored and he'll accept just about anything at the moment," Lestrade said. "Maybe even a request to find a lost cat."
John laughed. "Let's not go there yet."
When they caught up to him, Sherlock huffed and got in the passenger seat. The other two followed and got in the car as well.
"Can't wait even just a bit?" Lestrade teased as he started the car.
"Sherlock does what Sherlock wants, after all," John said.
Sherlock frowned at him through the rearview mirror. "What else am I supposed to do other than what I want to?"
Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. "Put your seatbelt on."
The drive over didn't take too long. When they got to their destination, Lestrade went up to knock on the door and an older man opened the door.
"Good afternoon, Andrew," Lestrade greeted. "We'd like another look at the room."
Andrew nodded. "Please follow me."
He led them down the hallway and took out a keychain from his pocket, going through the set of keys to pick the correct one and unlocked the room.
"I hope you don't mind me locking the room," Andrew said, putting the keychain back and wringing his hands nervously. "I was worried someone might come in and, oh, I'm not sure, disturb the evidence? If there are any, anyway."
"That's quite alright," Lestrade said. "We'll come find you if we need you."
Andrew nodded and excused himself. They watched him go before he disappeared as he turned around the corner, and Sherlock and John turned towards Lestrade.
"That's Andrew Wells, the housekeeper," Lestrade said. "He was the one who reported the murder. He apparently went to find Reginald, the master of the house, but he wasn't in his bedroom. He then checked on the study, but the door was locked. He used the spare key to open it and found Reginald dead."
Sherlock looked at Lestrade in disbelief. "And you believe him just like that?"
"Well--"
"People lie, Lestrade, especially criminals!" Sherlock huffed. "Surely this was taught in whichever school you went to."
"So you're saying he did it," Lestrade said.
"No, but it doesn't eliminate the possibility," Sherlock said. "I'll go have a look first."
Sherlock went inside and the two watched him from the entry as he walked around the room; he checked the window, tried to move the bookshelves, crawled around the room, moved the armchair, and inspected the door again.
"It's him," Sherlock concluded. "Whatever his name was."
"You're saying the butler did it," John said.
"Isn't he a housekeeper?" Sherlock frowned. "Anyway, it's not a locked room murder. He killed Reginald, locked the door behind him, and then pretended to be the first one to find him the next morning. He's everywhere in the manor so finding his prints wouldn't make him a suspect."
Lestrade sighed. "I can't believe I didn't think of that."
"Tropes are a thing for a reason," John chuckled.
"What's a trope?" Sherlock frowned.
"Nothing."
"But how are you sure it's him?" Lestrade asked.
"Because the other possibilities are impossible," Sherlock shrugged. He walked over towards the window and the two followed him. "Look. No sign of forced entry, no damage around the lock, the window is intact, and most importantly, the hinge doesn't open wide enough to allow an adult entry."
He then moved on to the bookshelves. "I tried moving them, and it's too heavy for one person. Two people would still be a struggle. Of course, there is a chance that there could be a secret mechanism to move the bookshelves, but there are no marks on the carpet that suggested that."
"You mean the indents on the carpet?" John asked.
"Quite right. The furniture in this room hasn't been moved in a long time, even the armchair. Look. There are deep indentations where the legs are currently, but nowhere else around it. There are no marks around the shelves and the desk, only by the chair at the desk, but that's to be expected."
"I also looked at the carpets for any signs of cuts, but there's none, so there's no secret door under the floorboard," Sherlock continued on. "And even a burglary is unlikely."
"Why not?" Lestrade asked.
"Come," Sherlock said, walking back towards the door to the study. "John, can you pick this lock?"
John bent down to inspect the keyhole, then stood back up. "No."
"I noticed the front door has a similar keyhole too," Sherlock said. "Seems like your victim might be quite paranoid and probably paid extra to make sure the keyholes are ones that can't be picked. Even if you call a locksmith, they would have trouble picking this lock. It seems the housekeeper isn't aware of that. Once you eliminate all other possible entry options, the only one left is him, the one with the key."
Lestrade sighed. "Right," he said. "Well, glad that's done quickly. I'm going to bring him in for questioning. Hopefully he won't realise we're onto him yet."
He went to go out of the room, but stopped and turned back towards them. "Do you kids need a ride back? I can ask Donovan to come bring Andrew to the station."
Sherlock scowled and John looked at him curiously.
"Not a fan of Donovan?"
"More like she's not a fan of me," Sherlock shrugged.
John gasped loudly, looking at him in shock while clutching his chest. "Say it isn't so," he said, blinking dramatically. "How could that be?"
Lestrade snorted and cackled while Sherlock glared at him.
"Well, I'll be going then," Lestrade said. "Don't get in trouble."
The two watched him go find Andrew, lead him to the police car and drive off, then they went to hail a cab to return home.
"Did you enjoy the case?" John asked as they walked upstairs towards the flat.
"Hm. Better than being bored at home, I suppose."
Sherlock sat down in the armchair, taking out a piece of shortbread from the tin, and while he was chewing on it he stared at the sofa. John watched him curiously, wondering if there was something wrong with the sofa, or if Sherlock had somehow gained the ability to see supernatural things.
"Lie down on the sofa, on your back."
John raised a brow, but dutifully lied down on the sofa as directed. He watched in amusement as Sherlock got on the sofa as well, lying on top of him, before he grabbed John's left hand and put it on his own head.
"Scratch."
John snorted. "You are such a cat."
Again, he did as instructed and slowly scratched and massaged Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock had told him that it felt quite nice, and that it distracted his brain long enough that he could relax. John watched as the other began to relax and finally fall asleep.
"Sherlock does what Sherlock wants, indeed."