»»──────　SH　──────««

A veil of darkness was sitting on Baker Street by the time they were getting out of the taxi. Sherlock fished the keys out of his pocket and made his way to the main door, letting John pay for the ride.

As soon as the detective huffed and puffed up the stairs to their flat, he stripped off his coat and threw it gently across the backrest of the armchair. Then, he seated himself at the table by the window, turned on the laptop, and opened his mailbox. He drummed his nails on the desk, eagerly awaiting an email from Lestrade.

"What's taking them so long?" Sherlock grumbled, staring at the glowing zero next to the 'Received' folder as if the innocent number was to blame for the lack of emails.

He had to do something; he couldn't just lounge around here! He has already done that long enough!

"I don't mean to burst your bubble or anything, but staring at the monitor won't magically make the email arrive, you know..." John shouted from the kitchen. Sherlock gave an irritated snort and continued to tap the carpet with the tip of his feet.

"Here, have some tea..." John continued as he stepped into the living room. He reached out his hand with a mug, handing it to his friend.

Sherlock looked at the offered drink and accepted it gratefully. Ah, yes, the traditional English tea was something John considered a cure for almost anything. For a cold, headache, fatigue, mood enhancement, and even boredom. Well, everyone believes in something, so why not...

Sherlock wrapped his still stiff fingers around the mug and raised it to his mouth. The strong aroma of black tea, softened by a sweet flavor, melted on his tongue as he took a gulp. The warmth that slid down into his chest and subsequently into his stomach didn't come just from the toasty drink.

After his return to Baker Street, Sherlock stopped taking sugar. After all, it was stupid and pointless to pop even more sugar into his system than was necessary. Yes, he might not enjoy the drink as much as before, but he did his best to resist the temptation and get used to the bitter taste.

When John took charge of brewing the tea, he made it exactly the way Sherlock liked to take it: black, neither too strong nor too weak, enhanced with two cubes of sugar.

As a very competent doctor, John had to know that Sherlock should cut down on sugar consumption. The daily intake of saccharides, according to the studies, should not exceed 150 kilocalories, or about nine teaspoons. One stupid tea has two teaspoons of it.

An excess energy Sherlock didn't need...

So either this is some kind of nasty experiment in which John is testing how strong Sherlock's willpower is (which seemed highly improbable; John was far too kind for that), or he was trying to imply the opposite—pretending that nothing has changed.

He was sincerely hoping for a third, and for him, an even more unlikely possibility—that he wasn't faking anything, and he genuinely didn't care.

"Thanks," Sherlock smiled and took another sip.

The situation felt so familiar, yet simultaneously so new that they both had to get used to "riddle-solving" again. Neither said much, naturally, and the room fell into calmness.

Relatively...

At first glance, it might seem like any other evening on Baker Street. Of course, any other evening for Sherlock and John; one with a cup of tea and digging into evidence.

Those who had never heard about this famous duo might not even tell, but their friend, or acquaintance at least, would have noticed right away that there was something different about today's atmosphere.

Sherlock's eyes were roving way too fast across the monitor, and his nails were tinkling into the porcelain much too restlessly as he was awaiting the email from the police. He felt like he was about to jump out of his skin if it didn't arrive soon!

He was bursting to solve the whole thing, but not only to find the murderer and punish them for their actions. Not even for his own pleasure.

The detective wanted to prove Anderson wrong. To show all of them that he can do it. That he isn't as useless as many of them believe. That he can prove that, despite his physical flaws, he can still hold the title of Consulting Detective.

Sherlock glanced at his flatmate. If John noticed his unusual behaviour, he didn't comment on it, for which Sherlock was genuinely grateful. What was the point of discussing it, anyway?

Frankly speaking, he would like to know what John thought about all of this. But would he be able to handle it if he discovered that John saw him as a burden?

He decided it would be better not to concern himself with thoughts like these and turned his attention back to the screen, checking on incoming emails. The number on the "Received" folder changed from zero to one, and Sherlock's mood improved a notch.

"Finally!" he exclaimed and jumped up on his seat, almost knocking over the cup of tea onto the keyboard. He opened the email message from Lestrade with an impatient double-click and beckoned John to come closer to the table.

John leaned over him and propped himself against the desk. His head appeared only a few inches from Sherlock's as he read through the message.

Goosebumps sprouted all over Sherlock's skin. Only John's mere proximity was enough to distract his attention from the text. And when he felt the soothing warmth and musky aroma of John's aftershave and shampoo radiating from his tanned skin, his mind wandered to who knows where. His heart pounded in his chest twice as fast, and the blood circulating in his veins was as intense as the water in the gardening hose.

What has John done to him? He couldn't afford to have himself distracted like this, especially when working on a case!

'Come on, concentrate!' Sherlock scolded himself, forcing his mind to cooperate. He ran his eyes over the text in the email.

Gregory Lestrade

Today 19:36

To:

Hello Sherlock,

We've been to Paddington Academy and spoke to their headmaster. He identified the man unequivocally—the name is Luke Williams, born in 1971, with a permanent residence in Kentish Town.

He's been teaching PE and History for eight years. The headmaster described him as a hardworking and polite man. Nevertheless, he said that Williams had been neglecting his work a bit in the last few weeks. We also spoke to his wife. She claims he had changed quite recently—that he had become taciturn and secretive. He used to go somewhere regularly. Those errands were usually the subject of their frequent arguments. Mrs. Williams accused him of infidelity. He kept denying it, but he had never explained what the reason was for his frequent absence.

Please take a look at the attached list of his contacts and all his texts.

Sincerely,

GL

Sherlock took a breath to contribute a deduction, but John, who has never ceased to amaze him, didn't disappoint.

"He hadn't been cheating on her, had he? I mean, if he had been, he could've turned the arguments in his favour so he could leave and live with his lover. He must've truly loved her to let himself be accused like this...."

Sherlock's lips curled into an appreciative smile. "Quite a good point, John," he said, pleased with his conclusion. It could hardly be considered a praise, but Sherlock has never been fond of pretentious acclaim. His heart, though, swelled with pride; they do grow up so fast...

"You can send him to the crime scene instead of you, he'll be able to replace you soon... Even if he limps a little, he'll be faster than you..." a cracked voice murmured in Sherlock's head, and his smile faltered.

He shook his head to drive his enemy out of his mind. There were other things to do, of greater importance than his personal problems. They will be there for him when his brain decides to torture him again. The killer, though, might not...

"No, no infidelity. He's been hiding something, though. We have to go through all of those contacts and see if we can find any on the internet. You can look at his texts. Perhaps they could guide us somewhere..." he said, turning back to the computer and opening the attached PDF file.

The list of the names and phone numbers popped out on the screen. Sherlock clicked the 'print' button, and the printer started to transform the page into paper form. Then he got up from the chair so John could take a seat at his own computer he had sneakily borrowed, walked over to the printer, and grabbed the printed list.

He glanced through it with a swift look. Some names could be struck off right away—it was highly unlikely that Williams would have saved the contact under the first name or nickname. Nonetheless, the list has shrunk only slightly. Quite a full phone for such an inconspicuous man...

Sherlock pulled out his phone and set to work.

The surname they were looking for had been hiding in the second position in the alphabetical order, so luck seemed to be on their side. It didn't even take ten minutes, and the necessary contact and address emerged from the browser.

"Got you..." Sherlock whispered under his breath. He took a black marker from the table and circled the name and the phone number.

All he had to do now was make an appointment. And to his great fortune, he knew someone who could arrange it for him.

"Sherlock? Look," said John as he pushed the laptop towards Sherlock. "Last night, he was texting with some Alan bloke. He was probably the last person Williams spoke to."

Sherlock raised his eyes from the phone, fixed them at John, and then at the document John had pushed towards him.

To: ALAN
18:33
Al, are you free today? Gotta talk to you about something.

From: ALAN
18:40
Where and when?

To: ALAN
18:41
Let's say around half past seven at Lambeth Bridge? It's really important.

From: ALAN
19:43
What time does "around half past seven" actually mean to you?

19:50
I'm not in the mood for jokes...

20:03
Luke, where the hell are you? At least answer your bloody phone.

20:11
Sorry, I can't wait here all night. I'm going home. You'll tell me next time.

Sherlock looked up from the message exchange between the deceased and their first suspect and patted John's back. "Excellent, you'll pay him a visit tomorrow..." he decided.

"Wait, what? You're not coming with me?" John asked, surprised.

Sherlock put on one of his most innocent-looking faces and shook his head. "I don't have to if I send my best assistant out there..." he explained as if it was the most obvious thing under the sun.

And it was, sort of; John had come across this answer several times, so he must have known who Sherlock had meant by the assistant.

However, it wasn't just that Sherlock had other plans. He was kind of testing whether John remembered what Sherlock's methods were like. That he doesn't expect Sherlock's approach to investigating to change in the slightest. That he realises Sherlock will not show even a hint of sympathy during the cases. Not because he would be so insensitive; life with John had taught him some tact. But if he were to cry over every corpse, he wouldn't solve a single case. Not to mention that he'd probably go insane.

"I see you quickly remembered those quirks of yours..." the doctor chuckled, playfully elbowing Sherlock in the ribs, or precisely in the places where they once had been.

The tone John had used didn't sound reproachful or admonishing. He probably must still be blinded by the joy of Sherlock being alive. Sherlock dreaded the day this joy wore off, and John realised he didn't find life with him fulfilling anymore.

He rolled his eyes theatrically and smacked his forearm, but the corner of his lips twitched in a minuscule smile. "It's just a case—five at most. No need to take it so sentimentally... I have something planned already... Well, almost," he added as John teasingly raised an eyebrow at him. He bowed his head and dialled Mycroft's number.

The phone beeped once, twice, and put Sherlock through.

"Good evening, brother dear..."

»»──────　★　──────««

"Hello, I have a session with Dr Bennett scheduled for today," Sherlock introduced himself at the reception desk, wearing a wig and a stick-on beard.

The front desk was a mess—loaded with an absurd amount of papers, a cup of coffee, one framed photo, and a child's drawing, drawn at least 15 years ago.

A middle-aged woman sat behind the table, playing with a recently cut brown fringe that hid almost her entire forehead.

She raised her head from the guest book. "And you are Mr...?"

"Vernet. William Vernet," Sherlock replied, the name falling from his lips as naturally as his own. How could it not when this surname belonged to his grandparents?

"Of course," she replied, returning her gaze to her notebook. Judging by how long it took her to find the appropriate box, she hasn't been working here long, Sherlock figured.

The ballpoint pen clicked, and she wrote down the detective's arrival in swift but neat handwriting. "Go to the end of the corridor. Dr Bennett's surgery is behind the last door on the left...."