Chapter Text
It was fucking cold.
John stomped his feet up the steps to the door of the flat, hoping it would do something to restore circulation. One of these days he'll learn to wear sturdier, thicker shoes if he's going to walk home from the clinic. At the door to #221, he rummaged in his coat pocket for his keys. Then he tried the other pocket. Then he tried the first one. His keys weren't there. He was sure they had been there when he left. He'd used them to lock the door, then put them in his pocket, and they'd been there all day, even when…
Oh. Fucking Sherlock.
No wonder he'd stopped by the clinic in the early afternoon. He hadn’t come to bring John the extra half of his sandwich from lunch. That should have been suspicious behaviour in the first place, but it was nearly Christmas and John was filled with goodwill to all men. Even Sherlock.
Well, he had been until now, when he realised it had just been a ruse to steal his keys.
Standing ramrod straight on the stoop, John phoned him. "Sherlock. Pick up the bloody phone," he muttered.
Just before it went to voicemail, he finally did. "John!"
"Don't sound chipper at me. Where are my damn keys?"
"I have them."
"Yes, I know that, Sherlock. Why do you have them?"
"I needed them."
John counted to five. "May I have them back, please?"
"Of course."
"Now?"
"That depends. Are you out on the front stoop?"
"Yes, Sherlock. I am out on the front stoop. Waiting to get in the house.”
"Back out to the pavement, please."
"No, Sherlock, I will not—"
"Please, John. I don't want to hit you on the head."
"Hit me on the—" Like a star in the east, out of the gloaming came a shimmering, spiky star. It rose high and fell with a hard clink onto the step next to John's foot. "SHERLOCK."
"I did ask you to move."
"Did you just launch the fucking keys out the—No, never mind." He hung up the phone without waiting for Sherlock's response and stabbed the keys into the lock to let himself inside.
There was a curious rustling noise from upstairs as John stomped up the steps, and a thumping and the scrape of furniture, but when he got to their sitting room Sherlock was shutting the window with an innocent expression on his face. It didn’t look as if anything were on fire, so John immediately disregarded the sounds in favour of being cross.
"Sherlock. What the fuck are you on about? Throwing keys at my head in the dark? Stealing them while I'm at work? What—" He stopped dead and had to sit down. "You decorated."
"Just the usual."
Sherlock had somehow recreated the decorations over the mirror which had been up during his only Christmas at 221B, before he…left. John's vision felt a little swimmy. "The usual?"
"Mrs. Hudson had some photographs, and knew where everything was stored. It wasn't nearly as trying as I expected it to be, even with the lights in a ball. I really don't understand how you managed to tangle them so badly last year."
"I didn't…" John buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe. "I didn't use them last year.”
"Oh." John heard Sherlock take a step closer and then stop. "Right." Sherlock coughed awkwardly. "You didn't decorate at all, did you?"
"No, I didn't, Sherlock. Or the year before that."
"Right." Sherlock shifted his feet. "Would you like me to take them down?"
"No, that's…That's fine." John finally lifted his head from his hands and forced a smile. Sherlock twitched back slightly.
"John, don't do that with your face. It's insulting."
John sniffed a laugh and looked away. He didn't want to give in, but this is what it all came round to these days: Sherlock's fucking charm, wielded like a weapon.
The tension softened, Sherlock sat next to John on the sofa. "I'll take them down if you really don't want them there."
"No, Sherlock, they're fine. I promise."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. It had almost become comfortable when John felt the words boiling up. "I can't believe you fucking stole my keys."
"I needed them."
"The sandwich thing was just a ruse?"
“No. Well, not entirely. It’s true I didn't want the rest of it. We usually share them."
"I usually buy one and you nick half, you mean."
"Isn't that what I just said?"
John glanced sideways at Sherlock, his lips pressed tightly together to hide his smile. "Why did you need them?"
"I can't tell you."
"Am I going to break out in a rash from touching them?"
"Unlikely."
"I can't believe you."
"Yes you can."
John blew out a breath. “I’ll try.”
He got up to go make some tea, but stopped when he noticed a pale pink scarf with various colours of blue stripe knitted into it piled in a heap on the shelf next to the entrance to the kitchen. "What's this?" John asked.
"Ah." Sherlock gestured grandiosely at him. "A scarf."
John's eyes nearly rolled from his head. "Yes I got that, Sherlock. What's it doing here?"
"You know my methods. Deduce it."
"Deduce— Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood." Sherlock frowned. John stared at him a few seconds then capitulated. "Okay, fine. It's…okay. Woman's scarf, likely. No tag, so probably hand-made. I'd guess young woman, teenager or twenty years old. Dirty— Sherlock, did you find this on the ground?!"
Sherlock looked immensely pleased. "You're doing well, John. Please continue."
"You…" John cast him a look, "found this on the ground. Probably just outside the flat, or you wouldn't have bothered bringing it home. Which…why did you bring this in, Sherlock? She might have come back for it and been sad it was missing. She'd probably think someone stole it."
"No one did steal it. She dropped it."
"So?" John sighed and handed it back. "How did I do?"
"Excellently."
John smiled.
"I mean, you missed all the important things, but apart from that, really excellently, John."
"I despise you."
Sherlock grinned. He stood near the window, where the fading sunlight cast the pink scarf in pinker relief. "See this right here? Grey hair. More than one, so probably belonging to the owner. Likely an older woman. Dirt, yes, from falling to the ground. Not commercially made, no, but made on a loom nonetheless. Larger-scale operation, then, store-bought, but not at a large chain. And the smell—" He put it to his nose and inhaled. "Smells like the sort of perfume women wear to make themselves seem more rich than they actually are. Probably service industry, upper scale. Travel agency, or hotel. No other stains, no pulls, so it's either new or she expends effort not to ruin it. It might mean something to her. This tassel here… John? Where are you going?"
John had given up. He trod heavily up the stairs, stripping off his coat as he went. "I'm too tired for this game, Sherlock. I had a long day, and someone threw keys at me." He dropped the coat on the railing and continued up to his room. "Let me know if you've found Shergar." He imagined he could see the frown on Sherlock's face, and it gave him a bitter thrill of happiness.
In his room, John sighed, mulling over the churn of his stomach then dismissing it. He smelled of antiseptic hand wash and industrial cleaner, as usual. He stripped off his jumper and emptied out his pockets. For the first time in a while he focussed on the container into which he threw his loose change; it was a pint glass he’d won at a work party two Christmases previous, dusty and emblazoned with the name of what he remembered as a loud and cheesy venue. It seemed like a very, very long time ago. He’d been about ten years younger, he thinks, and still reeling from Sherlock being gone.
On the other hand, was it so different now? Time had passed, and Sherlock had been back nearly a year, but sometimes the ache still rose up in John’s throat and invaded his dreams.
John changed into more comfortable clothes and tried to calm down. This was what happened, all the time; Sherlock would needle him, bring all the blood up to the surface, and the smallest bit of irritation would sting. It was as if his life with Sherlock were still marred by a raw nerve that got in the way at unexpected times and made John suddenly furious. He knew all about grief, and knew it was going to take time to be fully healed, but he’d have thought he’d be fine by now. It had been ages, after all. How long was he going to have to wait? What was going to have to happen before he could fully relax again?
Sherlock was still pouting about the scarf when John wandered back downstairs wearing one of his warmer, more-comfortable jumpers and a pair of thick wooly socks, feeling more able to take on the evening. Now that Sherlock wasn’t sidetracking him with decorations and scarves, he wondered about the strange shifting noise he'd heard when he came in, but he didn’t bother asking: Sherlock was bound to give him some run-round nonsense, and still nothing was smouldering. It wasn’t worth the aggravation.
Ignoring him, John went into the kitchen to throw together something for supper based solely on whatever they had in. He needed to get down to the shops, so it ended up being rice and broccoli and a bit more cheese than was probably good for them, and Sherlock only consented to eat a small bowlful once John also handed him a bottle of hot sauce to go with it.
They'd just settled in to watch some season-inspired rerun of The Supersizers when the doorbell rang. John looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock looked back. Neither moved to answer it. The battle of wills continued until Mrs. Hudson eventually led up Lestrade, who was looking at the both of them from beneath a raised eyebrow.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said to her, a smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. She smiled at decorations on the mantle before disappearing downstairs. Lestrade snorted and sat himself at the desk. "What, neither of you could be arsed to answer the door?"
John left that alone. “Want a drink?"
"Oh, now you'll stand up?"
"Sod off," John said, but he chuckled anyway.
He went in to grab something for both himself and Greg, and he heard Sherlock from his seat in the sitting room. "Well?"
"Well, what?" Greg said.
"What's the case?"
"There is no case," Greg said, and John wavered between the Double Chocolate and Pride. "Not for you."
"What."
John grinned and, just for that, brought them both back the former.
"Can't I just stop by and say hello?" Greg said.
"No," said Sherlock.
"Well happy Christmas to you too." Greg clinked his drink with John's and took a sip.
"Why are you here, Lestrade?" Sherlock was working himself into a strop, and John was entertained to see it.
“Christmas, you prat. Although actually…" Greg leaned back in his chair in an overly-casual manner. Sherlock immediately sat to attention. "There was something weird two days ago. Not my case, though."
"What?" If Sherlock leaned any more forward, John thought he might spill out of his chair.
"What, are you that bored?" John asked.
"Shh," Sherlock hushed him. "Lestrade?"
"John, do you have any crisps in?"
Sherlock growled.
"Fine, fine." Lestrade chuckled. "You are so easy to wind up today. What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing."
"He's out of sorts because I wouldn't play his deduction game earlier."
"That's not why."
"It's entirely why," John said, handing Lestrade the last of the crisps.
"Lestrade, do you have something of substance to add to this conversation?"
Lestrade cleared his throat. "Ah, right. The case. It's a little weird."
"Sherlock likes weird."
Sherlock shushed him again.
Lestrade grinned. "So two days ago, a woman gets home from work to find that her home has been burgled. Someone has broke in and stolen—get this—just the kids' Christmas presents. Nothing else. Not the telly, or the opened Xbox, or the jewellery on her nightstand. Nothing."
Sherlock's brow was furrowed. "Had they been wrapped?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
"Most of them, yeah."
"The ones that were taken?"
"As far as I know, yeah, but I'm not sure. Not my case, remember."
"Hmm." Sherlock sat back and steepled his fingers. "Interesting."
"Weird, right? I thought you'd enjoy that."
Sherlock stood up and swung his coat on.
"Where are you going?" John asked.
"Well, let's go," Sherlock said to Lestrade, who blinked up at him.
"Go? Go where?"
"To the Yard. I need to see the evidence."
"Sherlo— No. This isn't my case."
"They need my help."
"No, I don't think they do."
"Why did they send you over to me, then?"
Lestrade blinked at him again and scrubbed his hand over his eyes. "Sherlock, nobody sent me over. I came over to… Well, here." He dug into his coat’s pockets and came out with two small, brightly-wrapped parcels. "Happy Christmas. Might as well have them now. I was gonna just leave them here when I went, but…" He shrugged. "Didn't want a fuss."
John was touched. "Greg, thank you. That was…thanks. Here." He ran to grab Greg's gift from the stash up in his room. He came back down just in time to see Sherlock in his chair, flipping through a book on serial killers, his coat still on.
"I don't have this one."
"I know," Lestrade said with a cheeky grin. "You do now."
Sherlock gave him a strange look. "Thank you. I'm afraid I don't—"
"Yes you do," John said. He handed Lestrade his gift. "From both of us." He ignored Sherlock's assessing stare.
Lestrade opened up the wrapping to reveal a watch. "What the—"
"It's a Dick Tracy watch. You know, like in the—"
"Comic." Lestrade cracked up. "Excellent."
"I know it's a little silly, but I thought you might be entertained."
"Are you kidding? I love it. It'll drive Mycroft spare."
"Oh ugh," Sherlock piped up.
"Hush," John said, and clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. "Happy Christmas."
"Thanks. Oh!" Lestrade handed the other parcel to John. "For you."
John smiled and opened it up to reveal a Richard Castle novel. "Oh, this is terrific. Thanks, Greg."
“You seem to have read all the Grisham and Patterson and Clancy I saw, so I figured this might be something new.”
“For christ’s sake,” said Sherlock.
"It's not for you," John said. Sherlock crossed his arms and started to pout. John wondered what had crawled into his knickers and died; he was being even more of an annoying dick than usual.
"Anyway," Lestrade said, and braced his hands on his knees as he pushed up from the chair. "I really just came by here to drop those off. I need to get home and make supper." He upended his drink and handed John the torn wrapping from his gift. "Thanks again."
"No wait," Sherlock said, and he stood. "I need to know more about that case."
"Maybe tomorrow," said Lestrade, and he gave John a cheeky grin. "I've got some more gifts to give tonight." He winked.
John grinned at him. "Go get him, Santa."
Sherlock made a disgusted noise and threw himself back down into his chair. "You're both revolting."
"And a very Happy Christmas to you too," Lestrade said, and he trotted down the stairs with a skip in his step. John heard him wish Mrs. Hudson the delights of the season before the bottom door slammed shut.
John had just about decided to waste his breath on giving Sherlock a talk about thankfulness when Mrs. Hudson came back up.
"That was nice of him, coming back and giving you two presents. What did you get, let me see…"
"Books. Sherlock got…something about serial killers, and he got me a murder mystery.”
"Oh, Sherlock, do you have that one? Those both sound right up your street.”
“They are.” The spirit of goodwill was back, and John gave her a one-armed hug just for being there. She hugged him back then patted him on the chest. "I'll be saving mine for you until Christmas, just to be proper. You two will be here, yes?"
"I will be," John said. He looked at Sherlock.
"Yes, yes," said Sherlock, still grumping.
Undeterred, John turned to Mrs. Hudson with a smile. "See? We can have a do. The three of us."
She seemed delighted at the thought. "I'll put together a little something for us to eat, and we can open presents, and maybe Sherlock will play something for us. Doesn't that sound nice?" She looked at Sherlock, received a complete lack of response, shrugged, and smiled at John. "What's happened?"
"I have no idea," John said, and walked her out, preparing to lock the house and get ready for bed. If Sherlock was going to be in this sort of mood, he'd rather go upstairs and read before sleep instead of sitting down here and subjecting himself to Sherlock's sulk.
But when she was gone, Sherlock shifted in his chair, curling his legs up into his coat and looking so goddamn miserable that John sat back down to see if he could suss out what the hell was going on.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me. What’s happened?"
"You know perfectly well."
"I really don't."
Sherlock rolled over to look at him. "Why wouldn't you finish deducing the scarf?"
"Ah-HA. I knew that's what was wrong."
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Because, Sherlock. You only do that so I can get everything wrong and you can feel superior. Sometimes I'm not really feeling up for that sort of game."
"It's not a game."
"It is when you're trying to decide which of us will win."
Sherlock's brow furrowed. "That's not what's going on."
"Then what? What's going on, Sherlock." John crossed his arms over his chest.
"I like…" Sherlock cleared his throat, that particular sound that heralded him saying something that made him uncomfortable. "I like to share that with you."
John blinked and let out a derisive laugh. "You like to share it with me?"
"Yes." Sherlock stared at a spot on the far wall.
"You like to share…deduction with me."
"Yes."
John scanned him, his brow furrowed. "Sherlock, all you do is watch me do it poorly, and are visibly pleased when I've done it wrong. And frankly, I'm sick of it."
Sherlock's adam's apple bobbed.
"I'm not an idiot. And…god, I can't believe I forgot while you were…gone…how much you made me feel like one." John's heart was racing all out of proportion, and he forced himself to take a calming breath and blow it out from between pursed lips. "Anyway, I'm finished with it. From now on, you make the deductions and I'll just…I don't know…be the backup. The man with the gun. I'm through being thought of as stupid." He found himself staring at the soft white glow from the fairy lights on the mantel, at the way they haloed Sherlock's hair, and he shifted his stance. When it was clear Sherlock wasn't going to respond John turned on his heel to put their dishes in the sink. The washing up could happen in the morning.
When he walked through to the staircase, Sherlock spoke. "It's not to make you feel like an idiot, John."
John stopped still, and his head dropped. "Well, it makes me feel like one," he said, and he went up the stairs to his room.
John was eating his lunch and absently scanning the paper: gold prices were wavering. There’d been a theft at a ritzy hotel. There would be a Christmas parade the next morning. He was so lost in skimming that he jumped when the doorbell rang. He set down his spoon to see who it was, but before he could even rise from the chair Sherlock had finally emerged from his room and was bounding down the stairs like an overexcited schoolchild.
"Peterson," he heard Sherlock say at the bottom of the stairs, and he heard two sets of feet coming back up. "A burglary, I expect? Interesting. Good enough to deign to speak with me?"
"Oh, don't give me that ‘said the spider to the fly' crap," Peterson said. They both entered the sitting room, and John abandoned his breakfast to see who it was. His face was vaguely familiar, and slightly reminiscent of a Basset Hound’s, but he seemed friendly enough when he reached out a hand toward John. "Inspector Peterson."
"Not a murder?" John asked, shaking his gloved hand. The leather was still cold from outside.
"Not my area," Peterson said. "I don't usually get cases I'm stumped on, but this one…" He pointed a finger at Sherlock. "This one is for you."
"Tell me," Sherlock said. He lowered himself into his chair and steepled his hands in front of his mouth.
"Tea?" John asked them both. Sherlock ignored him, all his attention focused on Peterson. John assumed he wanted tea anyway.
But Peterson shook his head. “No, thank you," he said, and sat down in John's chair as if he owned it. Behind him, John frowned. He could see Sherlock trying not to smile; anyone else would have missed it, but the signs were clear as crystal to John. Feeling suddenly a bit grouchy, John started the water for his and Sherlock's tea.
"Begin," Sherlock commanded.
Peterson cleared his throat. "Begin," he said, a clear mimic of Sherlock's voice. Sherlock frowned this time, and John’s short-lived grouchiness transformed into amusement. He crossed his arms across his chest and leaned against the door jamb in between the kitchen and the sitting room, trying not to laugh. He passed his hand in front of his mouth to hide it. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to the movement, caught him, and he frowned so hard he looked like a caricature. John checked on the water.
“So here’s the deal. There was a break-in three days ago now. Residence. Thief tossed the house, but only nicked wrapped Christmas presents from where they were hid in the master bedroom.” John expected Sherlock in his impatience to interrupt and say they’d heard this already, but he said nothing. “There were valuables all round, since they seem to have a bit of money, and there were plenty of unwrapped toys about, but the thief only took wrapped and hidden ones.”
He’d stopped, so Sherlock prompted him. “But there’s been another.”
“This morning. Guy came home on his lunch break to find that somewhere between when he and his wife and his kids had gone for the day, someone had broke in and stole the presents from underneath their tree.”
“Christ,” John said. The poor kids.
“All of them?”
“Not all, no,” Peterson said. “Only certain ones, like last time.”
“Wait.” Sherlock sat forward. “Only specific presents?”
“Yeah. Not all the gifts were taken. Some, the thief left there. I’d figured he didn’t have a lot of room in his bag or something. Like a reverse St. Nicolas.”
“And which presents did he take?”
Peterson blinked. “Which did he— Oh. Yeah, I have a list.” He dug around in the inner pocket of his jacket and came out with two sheets of paper. “They’re both there, last time and this one.” He handed them to John, who shuttled them four feet to Sherlock like their postal carrier.
“You haven’t cross-matched them yet?” Sherlock asked, incredulous.
“No, I’m an idiot,” Peterson said. Sherlock blinked at him. Peterson rolled his eyes. “There are two gifts that appear across both lists. One is a that Tamarind Spy book that everyone and their aunt has been going on about, and the other is the giant version of those goth dolls the girls are going mad for these days. Apparently this one is rare. Principessa Puddleglum or some such bollocks—no, it’s called Freakenstein Fran. There have been massive queues in the shops for this one in particular.”
“Do you think they’re trying to sell them?” John asked.
“I think so,” said Peterson. “Guy figures out who bought the dolls, goes round when they’re out, steals them, and sells them off the books for a pretty penny. It’s a neat trick. We just need to figure out who’s doing it.”
Sherlock had stood and was sweeping on his coat. “Well. Let’s go.”
“Where’s that?” John grabbed his own coat from the bannister.
“Obvious. We’re going to ask the victims exactly where they bought those dolls.”
Sherlock refused to take Peterson’s car, so they rode over in a cab separately. John stared out the window at the cold, flat, winter-grey world as it whizzed past, and tried to ignore the tension between them. He wondered if he’d been forgiven for the scarf argument.
“If I gave you something to deduce, and didn’t correct you, would you prefer it?” Sherlock said.
And there was the answer to that question. “What? No. I don’t… No. That would be pointless.”
“I’d just like to know how best I can ask you to deduce something without.” He cleared his throat. “Without making you feel like an idiot.”
John blinked out the window. “I don’t… I have no idea, Sherlock. It’s not one of those things I can predict. I mean, don’t call me an idiot?”
“I don’t call you an idiot.”
“You’re always calling me an idiot,” John said, as he swung around to look at Sherlock. The tension broke into quiet laughter. John watched Sherlock look out his window. The bob of his adam’s apple was clear in profile.
“I was being serious last night.”
“About?”
“I do like to share it with you.”
John continued to stare at Sherlock’s profile. There was that raw nerve again. John had almost forgotten what it had been like not to have this sort of strange, unsettling tension weaving its way around them at the oddest moments. He felt it settling in his stomach, a dense ball of energy pulling all his organs as if it had its own gravity, sending out flashes of lightning into his fingers and his toes. He felt it electrify the air inside the cab, and John half expected the cabbie to look in the mirror at the two of them and ask what they hell they were up to back there.
He was acutely aware of the shift of Sherlock’s body as he leaned his shoulder against the window and took out his phone.
“Did you think of something?” John asked.
“Hm?”
“Did you have an idea about the case?”
“I don’t know anything about the dolls. Or the book.”
“Really?”
Sherlock tore his gaze away from his phone just long enough to shoot John a look from under a raised eyebrow, then went back to his flurry of thumbs.
“Right. Of course not. It’s only been all over the telly and the magazines for weeks. Two of the most popular toys this holiday season.”
“So it’s not out of the ordinary to find them in the group of stolen presents.”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Hm.” Sherlock continued to research, and John propped his head up to stare out the window again for the rest of the ride.
The Levingers’ house was large and clean and looked like it had been featured in a magazine. John supposed it might have been. If their children played with toys, there was no sign of it; the sitting room was all spotless white rug and smooth beige upholstery and not a game or book in sight.
They sat in the gigantic black granite kitchen and drank tea and listened to Janet Levinger’s bitter description of the burglary.
“I don’t know who would do such a thing. Before Christmas. Stealing presents. It’s a horrible thing to do,” she said, her already-pinched face tightening, and John made sympathetic noises. “I suppose we’ll have to go out and buy all new things, but I tell you. Ginny was so awfully looking forward to that Fran doll. It will be tough to find another one at this late date.” She heaved a sigh. John marvelled that she seemed less perturbed at the expense than the hassle. Then again, looking around the size of the house, possibly that shouldn’t be much of a surprise. “You will catch the criminal who did this, right? I told Jimmy I saw someone skulking around the bins last week, but he wouldn’t believe me.”
“I promise, we’re doing all we can,” Peterson said.
“You’d better be. Candice Pitt is in my book club, and I wouldn’t want to have to—“
“I promise,” Peterson said again, and patted her hand. John was already irritated with the woman, and she’d only just name-dropped the wife of the Superintendent. If she did it a second time, he might lose patience with her—unlike Sherlock, who was being strangely, worryingly calm. John looked at him from the corner of his eye: Sherlock was giving her his best “shamming normality” expression, the version that looked like placid understanding. John forced himself to take a turn about the room instead of rolling his eyes.
“Could you tell me where you bought the items that were stolen, Mrs. Levinger?”
“Erm, sure I guess. If you think it will help you catch the man. You’ll make sure you do, right? Ellie over the road had someone break into her garage, but the police never—“
“I have an interest in this case, Mrs. Levinger,” Sherlock said. “I will solve it for you.”
John looked just in time to see her bat her eyelashes at him. This time, John did turn his back and roll his eyes. Figured. Everyone fancied Sherlock. If Sherlock been of the persuasion to care about…any of that, he could have had anybody. Unlike John, who had started out with something like a 50% average and whose stats seemed to be getting worse the more he hung round Sherlock. Jealousy burned in his stomach.
Mrs. Levinger wrote out a list of where she’d bought each present, and then they were on their way to interview Mr. Ahlcrona, who had told Peterson he couldn’t possibly get away from work.
“I need to finish up with a client before Christmas,” he explained, leading them into the break room of the small software company he managed. “What can I do for you?”
Peterson answered. “We were— We were wondering…” The radio in the corner was playing some cacophonous version of Carol of the Bells, and it looked like the sound of it was causing Peterson’s brain to stutter to a halt. “Look, can we turn this off?” Before waiting for a response he leaned over and flicked off the sound. Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed, and John wondered why Sherlock hadn’t said anything if the sound had been bothering him so much. To be so diplomatic was immensely out of character. Peterson went on. “We would like you to write down for us where you purchased each present that was stolen. Can you do that for us?”
While Peterson was corralling Ahlcrona’s attention, John’s gaze fell upon the paper strewn across the break room table. He skimmed past the article from that morning about the parade and a write-up about a famous gemstone to focus on another headline. “Sherlock. Look.” He pointed to a tiny mention, three column inches in a sidebar about a robbery that took place two nights ago over in Wolverhampton. The thief had only taken presents and no other valuables of any kind. Sherlock read the article and pulled out his phone to begin researching, then walked straight out the door without saying a word. Peterson blinked after him.
“Here,” John said, and handed him the article. “You’ll…er.” He looked through the door at Sherlock’s back, then back at Peterson, torn. “Listen, you’ll text me the list of shops, right? Or text him.” He glanced back to Sherlock again. He was already at the lifts. “Get the number from Greg if you don’t have it… Mr. Ahlcrona, it was nice to…er… Thanks.” John sped out the door and straight onto the lift before the doors closed.
“What the hell, Sherlock.” Sherlock ignored him. John sighed. “Well, are you going to share what’s going on?”
“Thank you, John.”
“No, I’m not— No, Sherlock, I’m not asking to be thanked, I’m asking for you to tell me what the hell is happening. That’s clearly the same robber, right? Are we going to Wolverhampton now?”
“Obviously.”
“Peterson didn’t know about it because it was in a different jurisdiction.”
Sherlock lifted his gaze from his mobile just long enough to blink at John in disbelief and then went back to doing whatever the hell he was doing.
“Right.” John folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Right.”