The Cold Case {Sherlock/Johnlock}

ONE

John chanced another glance at the towering pile of papers- yellow with age and the blood red ink of a 'closed case' seeping through the pages. Sherlock had that look on his face again, that fired kind of look that told John he'd well and truly sank his teeth into this one, and he wouldn't be letting go of it any time soon.

It looked very much like it was going to be one of those days. John was also, he realised, having a remarkably increasing number of those days, and each one was entirely down to the man sitting opposite, the lapels of his trenchcoat flapping in the slight draught. 

Another one of those days.

--

"Did you get any pears?"

John had hauled seven Asda carrier bags up the narrow stairs of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock hadn't offered to help him or indeed even acknowledged his return at all, and the cab driver had charged him an extra £2.50 for the time he'd had to wait while John herded runaway cans of Coke back into the bags off the pavement. He was sweating, grooves worn in his hands, and met his curly-haired flatmate with a stare like a dagger.

"You didn't ask me to get pears!"

Sherlock absently ran one of his slender hands along the line of his jaw, staring at a spot just past John's right shoulder. "Did I not?", he asked, the question genuine since he actually had no recollection of whether he'd specified he wanted pears or not. "Can you get me some?"

John dropped the carrier bag that had guillotined his palm on the counter in the kitchen, and turned to the detective with an open-mouthed expression of indignation. "No I can't! I've just trekked around Asda for nearly an hour, Sherlock! When was the last time you went shopping?" John thought for a moment, then added, "Actually, when was the last time you did anything even vaguely domestic?"

Sherlock waved a pale hand through the air in front of his face, as though nothing had ever been as insignificant as the second man's previous question. "I find Asda to be unbearably dull, John."

Watson made a choking noise, utterly devoid of anything to reply to that with. He'd learned very quickly that arguing with Sherlock was beyond pointless, but the detective could be so infuriating at times that he simply couldn't help himself. Pears was actually the most pleasant topic of recent arguments, John mused, as he simply stared at the man curled into the armchair with his mouth slightly open in bafflement. The flat was quiet for a moment or two, Sherlock's dark eyes scanning over the bags that John had dragged up the stairs, calculating what it was that he'd bought. (If the pair lived on fairness, then every purchase should have been up to John, since he was the only one who made any kind of disposable income.)

"I would have called, but you didn't have your phone."

Instinctively, John slid a hand into the pocket where he kept his phone, and realised that he was right. Obviously. He couldn't recall leaving it in the flat, and as he thought on, it hadn't even occurred to him while he'd been in Asda. He looked at Sherlock with furrowed eyebrows. "Did I leave it?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied without looking up from the screen of the laptop. "Before you went out, you put it on charge. Then that girl called, selling magazines. You went straight out after that without picking your phone up, because you'd worked yourself into a mood about pointless street sellers and not noticed you didn't have it."

John sighed. "It was excellent of you to point that out to me, Sherlock."

"Why would I have done that? I needed it. You did me a favour, John." Casting his eyes around, John caught sight of his phone, definitely off charge now, lying on the arm of the chair that Sherlock was sitting in. It was on, displaying a white screen with reams of tiny black writing. He sighed again.