Cold Storage (Working Title)

Introduction

As this is a work in progress, tags may be added. Any suggestions for a better title are welcome, as are comments, guesses to the outcome of the case or suggestions for better desserts. As of writing, I have no clue really how long this will end up being.

---

Chapter One

He closed the door behind him awkwardly, his arms full of groceries. He had always believed in using paper bags, though it was a shame these had no handles, and the last time he regularly did groceries he'd had a car to transport them in, and none of this walking distance. As his arms ached, he reconsidered his stance on plastic bags, provided they are reusable.

He nearly dropped one of the bags within his first few steps to the kitchen, and shuffled carefully through the rest of the living room.

"No need to help," he mumbled as he inched past Sherlock, sitting in his favourite chair with his laptop, reading some sort of scientific article by the looks of it.

"Oh, good," was the answer from a disinterested Sherlock Holmes. He didn't even bother to look up.

John ignored his urge to throw a fit and continued shuffling towards the kitchen. The night was bad enough without him getting into a fight with his roommate. As he was passing through the door, ever so close to putting down his burden, Sherlock asked: "Brought any buttons?"

John glanced over his shoulder, nearly losing a bundle of carrots and two cans of soup. There was no sign the man had even moved. Watson dropped his two bags on the kitchen table and started unpacking. He stuffed the bag of Cadbury Buttons in his pocket.

By the time he made his way back to the living room, however, and flopped down on the reasonably vacant couch, Sherlock was watching him with interest. John resolutely opened his book on chapter one, but the other man cheerfully ignored the hint.

"Do you know what I just read?" Without giving him any chance to reply, Sherlock steamrolled on: "the main reason people are constantly so unhappy is because they can't focus. They are unable to think of one thing at a time, but are always worrying about half a dozen unrelated issues."

Faced with impossible odds, John laid down his book and resigned himself to listen.

"The only time most people think of nothing but the present moment," Sherlock continued, "is during sex."

"Oh," said John. "That's nice."

Sherlock carefully perched his laptop on the pile of magazines threatening to overtake the table and walked up to the couch. "Are you unhappy, John?" he asked, looming over the other man.

John looked up into Sherlock's face, an expression of detached curiosity gracing the man's features. "What?" he said.

Sherlock sank to his knees in front of the couch, sitting in a sort of crouch that took him just a little too low to be eye to eye. "You seem distracted, John."

"I'm sorry, what?" he answered again. In response, Sherlock laid a hand on his knee, and the sheer absurdity of the situation was too much to ignore. John started laughing, loud and hard before he clapped his hand over his mouth.

Sherlock just sat there and watched him, his hand sliding off of his leg.

When he could breathe enough to talk, John said for the fourth time: "What?" And: "Are you suggesting...?"

Sherlock got to his feet and brushed off his trousers. "I'm bored." He glanced over to the back wall. "And I think Mrs. Hudson would gut me if I took it out on the walls again."

"Yes," John mumbled, "there is no telling what she would do." With a longing glance at his book and the chance of a quiet evening out the window, he added: "I thought there was a new case?"

"Oh, the email." Sherlock plucked his laptop from the teetering pile and flopped into his chair. "No, I figured that out in three minutes and forty-two seconds."

John shot him a look.

"I timed it," said Sherlock.

"No doubt you have. Was is the butler?"

"No." Sherlock tapped on his keyboard, the light from the screen flickering on and illuminating his face. "It was the elderly landlady."

"Ah," said John. "Must have been a surprise for Lestrade."

"When they find out, I'm sure it will be."

John sighed. "So you solved the case, and decided to keep it to yourself? You know, you might get an interesting case sooner if you let them know you've figured this one out."

"John," said Sherlock, shaking his head. "I could never do that. I would only be encouraging them to give me boring cases. Next thing you know they'll want me to track down their missing car keys through my powers of deduction."

John slung a leg onto the couch and pried his shoe off. "So you choose to go bored and assault anything from buildings to people."

"You're absolutely right, it's uncalled for. Though I'll be honest with you, John, I could use a moment of undiluted focus myself."

"Really?" John watched the other man and for a moment it seemed there was a wistful expression on his face.

Then he smiled and said: "Yes, I often get my best ideas in those moments."

Midly disappointed, John fished around for the remote control and flipped on the television. He managed almost two minutes of QI before Sherlock made him turn the channel to the news.

---

"I can't imagine you're still bored, now." John pulled his coat closer around himself. Never mind it being early spring, the English weather had decided on freezing sleet for the day. On top of that, the crime scene of the moment was inside a cold storage room. Of course, Sherlock was absolutely excited. The usual analogy of the kid in the candy store was all the more appropriate given that he was running around the remains of a giant custard and jelly sculpture.

Sherlock stopped frantically pacing around the scene long enough to remark: "Of course I'm not, just look at his hands." He bent down carefully and pointed.

John took another step into the room, crouching next to a familiar face in police uniform. The man was watching Sherlock with undisguised awe. "Err," John said, "his nails look regular. I assume he wasn't a manual worker. An office worker?"

Sherlock let out a short and infuriatingly smug chuckle. "Look again, John. His skin is rough and chipped around the knuckles. He obviously works with chemicals."

"Obviously," mumbled John, and straightened up.

There was a commotion in the doorway and a woman in a plastic suit, an obvious forensic expert, waved her arms in the direction of the exit, saying: "Out, you lot. This needs to be photographed and recorded before anyone leaves any dirty footprints on the scene. You," she gestured at Sherlock, "will have to make do with the photographs, I don't want to see you anywhere near here tonight."

---

Outside, it was unfortunately still wet, and still cold. Within two streets of the crime scene, John could feel his feet squelching around in his shoes. He stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets and said: "Well, you can always request the photographs."

Sherlock stopped his irritated mumbling to answer: "Photographs are nothing next to the real thing. They have no smell, no texture. You can't see the light as it falls from different angles. Photographs are all well and good, John, but only by witnessing the real thing can you tell the important details." He waited as John unlocked the door to 221b Baker Street. "And besides, I have enough to work with. If only I can figure out the pattern." He fell back into mumbling, brushed past John and disappeared into the apartment.

John followed, slower and dripping rainwater over the carpet. After shedding the worst of his soaked clothes and finding himself a dry pair of trousers, he settled into a chair with a blanket to find Mrs. Hudson fussing over Sherlock.

"You'll catch the death of cold like that," she was saying, while Sherlock paced up and down in front of the fireplace, rainwater plastering the hair to his skull.

"She's right, you know," said John, "and perhaps a cup of tea will help."

"I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper," said Mrs. Hudson, and bustled out of the room. Before she closed the door, she called after her: "You make sure he takes off those wet things," and was gone.

John shook his head and rubbed his face in the towel. When he looked up Sherlock had stopped pacing, and stood watching him with crossed arms.

John looked back at him, noting the way the dim light glinted in his eyes. "She has a point," he said. "You can't solve cases when you're dead."

"Making sure I get undressed, John?" said the other man. "How thoughtful."

John eyed him wearily. "Is this another one of your games?"

"It's no game." Sherlock uncrossed his arms to scratch his head. A drop of water slid down his chin. "I'm perfectly serious."

"I thought you weren't bored anymore," said John, furiously trying to think of a way to excuse himself and go to bed. Alone, preferably.

"I'm not bored, though I admit I am frustrated."

"Is this going to happen every time?" It was an effort not to wail, as he was starting to feel like a cornered animal, possibly a puppy or a small baby seal.

"No," said Sherlock, "just three times."

John blinked. It took him a moment to come up with an answer, and when he did, even he had to admit that "Why three?" was probably the most obvious question he could have chosen.

Sherlock simply shrugged and said: "It's a good number." Apparently cured from his restlessnes, he sauntered over towards the bathroom, leaving John alone with nothing but his thoughts. More specifically, the question whether that was number one or two. He felt strangely compelled to know.

---

John pushed his fork around on the tablecloth. The tablecloth was plastic, the fork slightly tarnished, and it made a soft sqeaking noise as it slid along. He glanced at his watch, then looked out at the window. Outside the chinese restaurant, people filed by in the late evening. It was starting to get dark, and John wondered about the chances of rain tonight. Just when he decided that there was probably going to be some, Sarah dropped back into her chair, still rubbing her damp hands on her trousers. The hand dryer must be broken again, John thought, unreasonably pleased with himself.



Sarah rearranged the cutlery on her empty plate and said, with a cheerful tone that suggested she'd planned the remark all along, and perhaps had spent a while in front of a mirror, practising: "Well, do you want your coffee here, or at my place?"



She smiled, and John returned the smile. "Don't you want a desert?"



"No," she said, "I'd rather get home. Get an early night, or," she looked him straight in the eyes for a moment, "or not."



A sort of low-level panic settled over John. They had not been dating for very long, and those times she had allowed him to stay the night, he'd spent it on the couch. It wasn't that he hadn't thought of it, of course, but theoretical musings in the shower were a whole different thing from seeing the possibility in the very near future. In a matter of hours, in fact.



"John?" said Sarah. She was looking a little worried, and John wondered if he looked like he'd swallowed his tongue. He also wondered if pretending to choke on his drink was a viable tactic for getting out of the situation. Probably not, since he didn't have an actual drink at hand.



In the same moment, he also managed to wonder at his own reluctance. He couldn't figure it out, but all he really wanted was to wrap this up, maybe with a kiss and a hint of further dates, to go home and have a quiet cup of coffee, alone. Well, perhaps with Sherlock. He was hard to avoid, and in any case, John was anxious to hear how the case was coming along.



"Why don't we have a cup of coffee here, and we can walk together up that corner with the bus stop," he said brightly, opting for the ignorance tactic.



"Oh," said Sarah. "Well, in that case, I think I'll make it an early one."



"That's a shame," said John, and added: "Why don't you go ahead, then. I'll handle this." He waved vaguely at the empty plates on the table.



Sarah shot him a look, and to his relief, she nodded with a smile. "I'll owe you one," she said. "Thanks."

"I'll remember." John waved at her as she walked out, and disappeared down the street, out of sight from the restaurant. He paid their bill and waited five more minutes to make sure she was well on her way before he made his own way back through the streets. It wasn't quite raining yet, but there was a damp fog hanging between the buildings, surrounding streetlights with a dim glow. To his annoyance he could feel something nagging at him with every step, and by the time he turned into his street, he was almost ready to admit he was feeling guilty. Guilty, but determined.



Before he entered the building, he stood and stared up at the cloudy night for a while. He took out his mobile phone and dialed Sarah's number. She probably wasn't home, he thought, but against all odds, she answered the phone, sounding slightly out of breath. Unlike him, she had probably had the good sense to take the tube.

"Sarah," he said, "this is John. I need to tell you something." There was a definite silence on the other side of the line, broken only by the sounds of muffled breathing. "I'm sorry about tonight, you see, I, er. Well, I've been a bit off. I think, maybe we should," he took a deep breath, "maybe we should put this on hold for a while."



There was a shuffling sound on the other side, as of someone shuffling out of their coat one-handedly. "If you think that is best," came the answer after a moment. It sounded resigned, but not angry.



"Maybe we could talk about this in person tomorrow," John said.



"Yes, maybe," said Sarah.



"I'm just not sure if," John reached into his pocket, found tonight's receipt and started methodically crumpling it. "I'm not sure if this is what I want, and," he tore the piece of paper into pieces, "and it wouldn't be fair, lying to you."



"No," said Sarah, and it was quiet again on both sides of the line.



"I'm sorry," John started to say, but Sarah interrupted him: "Don't do that. We'll talk tomorrow." A hint of laughter creeped into her voice. "Like responsible adults."



John smiled. "Alright," he said. "I'll save my apologies for tomorrow."



"You do that," she said, and: "Good night."



"Good night," said John, and waited for her to hang up. He stuffed the torn receipt back into his coat pocket and got inside.

---

The scene waiting for him was reassuringly predictable. The living room chronically underlit and occupied by a Sherlock with laptop, presumably working away at the latest case.



"How was your date?" the man said, not looking up from the screen.



John hung up his coat and pulled his sweater straight, and said: "Mrfh."



There was a short frenzy of tapping keys, and then, casually: "Did she dump you?"



John leaned against the wall, watching the other man work. "I think I dumped her," he said quietly.



Sherlock swiveled around in his chair. The look on his face was one of intrigued surprise. "Why did you do that?" he asked.



"You know, most people offer their sympathy at something like this."



Sherlock waved a hand, dismissing the distraction. "Yes, most people. But do tell me why, John. I am dying to know."



"She asked me for coffee," said John, and not entirely to his surprise, Sherlock nodded knowingly. The man turned back to his laptop. John grumbled: "Aren't you going to ask why?"



"No." Sherlock shot him another look, one of those ones that looked like a cross between condescension and endearment at the slow pace of the rest of the world. "I believe I can make an accurate guess."



"Right, of course." John turned around and headed to his bed without another word.