Various Array of One Shots ✔️

And the Penny Drops >> John Watson Realising What Became of Irene Adler

Title: And the Penny Drops (John Watson Realising What Became of Irene Adler)

Paring: None (hints Adlock)

Warnings: none...

Spoilers: make sure you watch the episode A Scandal in Belgravia from BBC Sherlock.

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John Watson scowled at his computer screen for the umpteenth time, and for the first time that night, noticed movement from the corner of his eye in the kitchen. A flash of purple made him think it was Mrs Hudson, busying herself with a complimentary sympathetic cup of tea, but when John turned his head to see who was inside the small kitchen in the flat of 221b Baker Street, London, it was not Mrs Hudson.

Or Mary, for that matter. Or Moriarty, the bastard. Or Lestrade or Anderson or anyone from Scotland Yard. 

It was Sherlock. Holmes. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, little brother of Mycroft, son of Mr and Mrs Holmes, consulting detective, high functioning sociopath, extremely gifted in the field of deduction and figuring out crime scenes and figuring out murders. A drama queen, basically. 

"I'd ask what's troubling you, but I already sort of know," Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking his seat behind the chair John was perched in. "But, out of social courtesy, I wish to ask you what the matter is."

John rolled his eyes. "Thanks for attempting to be human, Sherlock," he began, putting in a nice bit to the increasingly large problem he had, "but can you explain what's going on?"

"Where?" Sherlock wondered.

Turning, John glared at Sherlock with the ferocity of a guinea pig. "On the laptop, idiot, the laptop. I found something, and I swear to God, I'm not blogging it. Bit more than mind boggling."

Sherlock's face creased like a sheet of crisp paper being stepped on top of, in concern, "This must be of importance, then."

John let a sigh escape his lips, and under his breath as he returned his gaze to the computer screen, muttered, "Do all the Holmes brothers have to act like this?"

"I never heard that," Sherlock murmured dramatically from behind John. "And I can vouch for the third brother that he is nothing like Mycroft and I." Sherlock gave a hoof of air as he went to stand - it was always like that for Sherlock since John's wife with the mysterious past, Mary Watson, had shot him in the chest - and joined his friend and crime-scene solving partner at the computer on the spare chair. "You talk, I deduce."

A curt laugh hissed from John's mouth, and he began, "There's something on here that doesn't make any sense, none at all...first, it says Irene Adler," he gave a glance to Sherlock to see if he recognised the name. Of course he did. She was the only woman he really loved, "Wasn't beheaded overseas."

Sherlock nodded. "I already knew that."

"What?" John shouted, aware Mrs Hudson would hear the din and rise to pacify a situation if it did occur, "You knew? How! You let me tell you she was in a witness protection program in America, when she was actually beheaded? But now she wasn't?" He lowered his head into his hands as a gesture of both an intellectual and emotional overload. "Tell me, O great Mr Holmes, because you know everything!"

Sherlock looked away. "I was there when she was to be beheaded. I sort of saved her life, and covered the incident up with a dummy. Mycroft believed it, and then you believed it, and I...well, I knew." From his pocket he drew out a cigarette and stared down the end of it. "Anything else that is important to not add to the blog?"

Wiping his face with his hands, John heaved a sigh and directed the laptop's curser over an image. "This bloke." He enlarged the image and brought it into a new window, and before long, both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were staring into the insanity-driven eyes of the consulting criminal, Jim Moriarty. Sherlock gave a shrug, but enlarging the image even more to focus on the lower half of the face, John broke the eerie silence, "Okay, so on the day you 'died', this bugger died too. But he didn't," John frowned, pushing his hands through his hair, "Because he was on every screen of the country."

And still, Sherlock sat stoically and silently like a broodily, tall dark owl. 

"Do you have any suggestions as to how he's back?" John tried again. 

Sherlock shook his head, "I watched him shoot himself. Saw him bleed. Cold, hard evidence!"

John rolled his eyes. "Right then," he nodded, shutting his laptop and sliding it into its bag. "I'd best be getting off, I've got something on tonight with Mary -," John paused, seeing Sherlock. He hadn't moved an inch since John had shut the laptop. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock shrugged like a manic magic tree. "Yep. Wonderful."

John turned away, and nodded. "Okay. Well, I'm going."

Just before he was out the door, the voice of the consulting detective came from behind him, "Have a nice time at the opera with Mary. Do enjoy yourselves. Give her my love, if that's what normal people do," Sherlock tried, ettiqutte faliling himself again, "You know what I mean."