The cheap disposable phone buzzed sharply. New text. Joh-? No, of course not. Sherlock quickly tucked the stray thought back into the box he reserved for John and cocaine in a corner of his neatly organised mind. His antique syringe kit, an odd paradox in his memories. It held pain and bliss and numbness. Subjects which he should, but could not delete. Anomalies. Sentiment? Not sure. Should ask... He promptly closed the lid, clamping off the memories flowing into his brain like numbing a nerve pathway with a block.
He looked back at the phone. Unfamiliar number. One of the network, possibly. Sherlock flipped open the tiny screen.
I'm not hungry. Dinner?
Irene, then. Interesting. Sherlock started to close the screen but on second thought, tapped out a reply.
Why would you get dinner if you're not hungry? - SH
She had never answered him the first time he asked. May as well receive an answer. He stared at the screen for a long moment and then sent another text.
I'm not hungry either. - SH
Almost immediately, he received a message. A single word.
Sherlock snapped the phone shut and looked around his surroundings. Kingsway tramway: abandoned, isolated, dull. He glanced back at his phone. Irene: unpredictable, connected, decidedly not dull.
Where shall we meet? - SH
Sherlock tugged at the cap over his close-cropped hair and smoothed the coarse facial hair that he had allowed to grow and thicken into a natural disguise. Can't afford to be recognised. Chances are slim that anybody would remember him, but a suicide victim reappearing very much alive after a certain death would seem rather odd. As with any public figure, his death was a popular item on the news, and after his fall from grace in the public eye, his character was examined and degraded to no end. There may still be fanatics obsessed with his life and/or death. The risk, no matter how small, was there. Besides, he still had work to do. He grimaced and brushed off his trousers and too-large denim jacket.
The phone buzzed again. Sherlock glanced at the message and calculated possible routes to the address. Probably a flat. Possibly a restaurant, but not likely. Side street, so not much business, but lots of foot traffic in the area, especially around this time of the evening, commuters returning home for their own dinners. A trap? So much the better if it is. He'd eliminated the snipers early on. Direct confrontations from then on. He was prepared for direct combat.
15 minutes. - SH
That would give him suitable time to evaluate the location, potential attacks, and identify escapes (if necessary). Any clever criminal could infer his plan, but then again, he had only met one. Moriarty left a mess of criminals and associates behind him, but none were clever like him. No, if any at all, he'd be dealing with ordinary criminals, easily deceived.
As he walked out into the darkening city, he glanced up at the stars. Sirius immediately caught his eye. He reviewed the information he'd learned about the star from his intensive personal study of astronomy. Brightest star in the sky, part of the Canis Majoris constellation. To the naked eye appears to be a single star, actually a binary system. White star and white dwarf star. Sirius A, the white star, is by far the brighter of the two.
Sherlock contemplated the skies as he walked through droves of businessmen and women in their pressed suits and comfortable lives. On the Underground, he noted three men involved in extramarital affairs (one with another man, two office affairs), several harried caffeine addicts, and a grand total of two genuinely happy people. Two more than he usually noticed. Perhaps not such comfortable lives after all.
He left the Underground and started briskly walking toward (supposedly) Irene's street. Sherlock casually looked around the surrounding area. Decent neighbourhood, moderately inexpensive, mostly commuters and young couples, not a tight-knit community. Irene's kind of area. He checked the time. Seven minutes left, more than sufficient time to develop back-up plans and prepare for action.
A few houses away from the given address, Sherlock paused and looked at the flat. He ascertained that the flat was not a recent purchase and had been lived in for a while. It was a modest flat with a small front porch with wind chimes, a drab paint job, and crimson shades over the windows. The front garden was unremarkable, but well tended. Likely a woman's home, not an introverted or boring woman, but she has something to hide. She doesn't want anybody to see inside. Sherlock noticed somebody was watching him from the first floor, trying not to be noticed. (Slight sliver of light shining through the curtain). Sherlock looked around again and pretended to check his phone. When he looked up, they were still watching, not appearing to have moved at all. Sherlock took the precaution of shrugging his arms out of his jacket (easier to fight without it).
He walked up to the wooden steps and noted that the stairs were marred. The chips and dents followed a regular pattern, similar in shape, size, and distribution (small, deep, regular; a heavier concentration of marks on the far right side of the stairs). Possibly created by repeated abuse from high heels on the steps. Dirt and shoe outlines on the steps (all to the left of the owner's marks) indicated that the woman entertained multiple guests (some men, some women from the state of the paint; different foot sizes, some had also been wearing high heels). The freshest tracks showed that very recently, a young man (casually dressed, wearing trainers) was at her house. Lingering scent of spices, possibly from takeaway (curry). Delivery boy, then. Dinner. Sherlock gazed at the stars one last time. Consistent, predictable, even when unstable. So much like people. Should be dull, but isn't. So much like...Sherlock nipped the thought at the bud and turned back to the flat.
He traipsed up the steps and sauntered to the door. Carefree appears to be careless. Many a dull criminal mind mislead by that assumption. As he buzzed the doorbell, he carefully looked back at the window. His observer was gone. May have gotten up to let him in. Further proof suggesting he would be meeting one person tonight, likely the owner of the flat, increasingly likely to actually be Miss Adler. Interesting.
When his host opened the door, Sherlock was hit by the smell of a good spicy curry. He inhaled slowly, his mouth and eyes watering. It had been a long time since he'd had a good curry, not since he'd had takeaway with J- No, stop, close the box. Sherlock turned his attention to his host, whom he had correctly deduced was a woman. The woman.
"Miss Adler," he observed, nodding slightly.
"Sherlock Holmes." she said softly. She stood in the doorway looking at him curiously, wearing a bath robe and with her hair down. "I wasn't sure if you'd show. It's not often I'm stood up for a date. But then," she paused, smiling, "it's not often a dead man goes on a date."
Sherlock frowned. "This is not a date."
"Oh? I can see you were anticipating something a bit more..." She trailed off, then looked at him, her eyes sparkling mischievously, "active. That can be arranged, you know."
She turned and walked into the parlour, a utilitarian room with a fireplace, sparsely decorated mantle, a worn rug and two chairs. Alarmingly like 221- Stop. Focus.
"I can give you the rush of cortisol, adrenaline, endorphins, danger and dopamine that you crave, Sherlock. You need only to beg."
Sherlock walked in, closing the door behind them. "I do not beg, Miss Adler. Certainly not for what you are insinuating."
Irene led the way to the kitchen, where a package of curry lay wrapped up on a small café table. "Neither of us are hungry, but I know the persuasive value of a good curry. Besides, no charge. I know the owner. Well," she qualified, "I know what he likes." She sat down and peered at him with an amused glint in her eyes. "Aren't you going to tell me how I found you?"
Sherlock sat down in the chair opposite Irene and leaned back carefully, resting his elbows and steepling his fingers in the familiar position he used for thinking. "You're connected. As much a spider as Moriarty was, but you are latent until you see a reason to strike at your prey. You still have contacts in his organisation. You were informed of their dwindling numbers. You're clever and knew it couldn't be a coincidence." He paused, looking at Irene.
Irene watched him with a small smile and unreadable eyes. "Go on."
Sherlock inhaled and laid out the rest of the puzzle. "You were concerned for your own safety. You investigated the deaths and disappearances. You extended your web. You infiltrated," he hissed with narrowed eyes, "my homeless network. You used them to confirm my existence and gain information about me. My mobile number, for example. You must have had good information. I switch phones every month or so, sometimes sooner."
Irene's eyes glowed momentarily, "I knew what they liked. It wasn't hard to figure out. They are rather receptive to bribes. A good meal here, a warm bed there. They were easy enough to whip into shape."
Sherlock sat impassively, staring ahead with a hard look of concentration. "How long?"
Irene laughed lightly, "Why would I tell you that?"
"Because nearly three years after my apparent suicide, you texted me."
Irene smiled at him and leaned forward in her chair, "Yes, I did, and you texted back."
Sherlock glared sharply across the table. "I don't see how that has any bearing."
Irene tilted her head. "Don't you? Or do you simply prefer to ignore it?"
Sherlock's brow furrowed and he hardened his gaze. "It's not important. Information is important. Data. Give me data."
Irene stood up from her chair and started walking around the table. Sherlock began to stand up, but remained in his chair when Irene put a hand on his shoulder. "Sit, relax, Sherlock. I'll give you data. Just listen." Sherlock closed his eyes and sat still, his fingers grazing his lips.
"Fact:," Irene tapped Sherlock's back, then continued to walk around the table. "You've been eliminating Moriarty's web. You've been working for the past three years to do so, and now you've only to eliminate the lowest of the low."
Irene completed her orbit and tapped Sherlock again, "Fact: You've joined your own homeless network. You still utilise them for information, bribing them with food." Another circle, another tap. "Fact: You're teetering on the brink."
Sherlock opened his eyes. "And what do you mean by that?"
Irene paused and looked at Sherlock with a wistful smile. "You claim that your work is your life. That without it, you are nothing. Your work is almost finished, Sherlock."
"You're well aware of the fact that once you finish with Moriarty's organisation, your life will be over."
Irene began walking slowly, pausing when she was standing behind Sherlock. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward, whispering rapidly in his ear, "Fact: You kept your coat and the scarf that he gave you. Fact: You forego eating so you can receive information about him from your network. Fact: You used to watch him yourself sometimes. My source suspects that you still do." Sherlock tensed, frozen in position as Irene spun her web and trapped him with his own actions. Irene slid her hands down onto Sherlock's chest and leaned closer to him.
"Fact: There is a phial of cocaine and several unused hypodermics in your jacket. Fact: Shortly after acquiring your drugs, you obsessively studied astronomy and have travelled for the sole purpose of watching the stars. Fact: He posted on his blog, so long ago, about your lack of celestial knowledge. Possible explanation: You're learning for him now." Irene squeezed Sherlock's shoulders lightly. "Fact: Your pulse has risen dramatically, your breathing is shallower. It's only honest to admit that my attentions are not what has you so bothered, Mr. Holmes. " Irene quietly stood up and walked back to her chair. "Fact: I haven't even said his name, but you knew who I was talking about the first time I said 'he'. Is that data satisfactory?"
Sherlock didn't respond. The lid had been irreparably ripped from his syringe box, memories and emotions were spilling out, destroying the order he maintained so meticulously.
The heady feeling of the next fix, the sudden drop of calm and relief followed by the exhilarating rush of the high.
Watching John at the cemetery, "I was so alone and I owe you so much."
Alone. Alone. Alone. So alone for so long. I owe you, Sherlock.
The fall: "It's just like flying, but with a more permanent destination."
Flying on a chemical, doomed to a crash landing.
The biggest and brightest burn the quickest.
Sherlock's face was unnaturally calm, his voice even as he said, "Yes."
Irene raised her eyebrows, but made no remark. They sat in a tense silence for several minutes. Irene was the first to speak. She delicately said, "We could be great together, Sherlock."
Sherlock murmured, "No."
Sherlock shot up from his chair and spun away from the table, stalking into the parlour. There, he stood with his hands in his pockets, glaring at the fireplace.
He shot back over his shoulder, "Did you do this on purpose?"
Irene chuckled softly and said, "I'm afraid you need to be a bit more specific, darling."
Sherlock mechanically responded, "This. The rug. The chairs. The mantle."
Irene walked into the room. "No, this is my home, not yours."
"I don't have a home. I'm part of the network. You know that."
"Why keep lying, Sherlock? There's a saying, 'home is where the heart is.' We both know where your heart resides."
Sherlock fidgeted. "Yes, in my chest cavity."
Irene leered at Sherlock, "Don't be smart with me, or I just may have to punish you. I would quite enjoy that."
Sherlock coolly ignored her taunting and replied, "I'm not fond of inaccuracies, even for the sake of metaphor."
Irene raised an eyebrow. "Alright, Sherlock. I'll be more literal. Home is where you invest your love. For you, that is quite obviously at 221b Baker street in a certain ex-army doctor."
Sherlock suddenly spun on his heels to face Irene directly. "Love is a chemical reaction. Response to stimulus."
Irene paused to consider that, then nodded. "You could say that."
Sherlock continued, "Reactions contain two or more reactants. They interact to form a product. Their existence together creates the reaction."
Irene sat down in one of the chairs, folding her legs up underneath her. "Yes...carry on. I'm afraid I don't quite follow."
"If you take away a reactant, the reaction should stop."
Irene's eyes flickered and she inhaled deeply. "I understand now."
"So? Can you answer me?" He peered at her with questioning eyes.
"Sherlock," she said seriously, "love is an emotion, not a science."
Sherlock flatly stated, "I don't understand."
"Then why do people seek it?"
Irene studied Sherlock's face. "Why do we study the stars? Why send probes and satellites to send us information? Why send men into the unknown when it would be easier to stay here?" Sherlock stared back at her blankly. Irene continued, "It's beautiful, isn't it? The knowledge and images we have hasn't come without a cost and we aren't always successful in our endeavours, but when we are, the results can take your breath away. Sometimes learning about outer space helps us understand our own planet better...more intimately, if you will."
Sherlock flinched slightly and stared at the floor intensely. After a long moment, he drew a quick breath and turned to Irene. "Good evening, Miss Adler. Don't bother texting this number again." Sherlock turned away and prepared to leave.
Irene didn't stir in her chair, but called after him, "I can eliminate the rest of the web, Sherlock. I know every string and how it dances. Further association with the remaining few is no longer mutually beneficial. You know I won't leave loose ends to fester."
Sherlock didn't look back at Irene, focusing on packing up the curry. "I know." "I'm sorry, for what it's worth."
Sherlock turned around, ready to walk out the door. "What for?" he enquired with feigned politeness.
Irene tilted her head. "Your little moon has spun off its orbit. You must be such a lonely planet." Sherlock tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes, and raised an elegant eyebrow.
Irene tossed her head back and laughed. "I saw you watching the moon out there. You're like a planet, Sherlock. Cold, isolated, full of mysteries. For a while there, you had a moon."
Sherlock lifted his chin slightly. "Ah."
Irene tilted her head and grinned impishly. Sherlock nodded swiftly as he walked into the sitting room. "You're quite right. I am very much like a planet. However, you have once again failed to deduce the truth correctly."
Irene raised one eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Come." Sherlock turned to the window at the front of the house, gesturing for her to follow. He pointed toward the horizon. "Do you see it?"
Irene padded up behind him and followed his finger with her gaze. "See what?"
"Sirius!" Sherlock sneered impatiently. "We're Sirius."
Irene put a hand on his shoulder and smirked. "Bit soon to make that call, isn't it, darling? You haven't even talked to him yet."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Goodnight, Miss Adler." He strode to the door, and with one foot on the porch, he turned back to Irene and coolly said, "Regardless of how many moons a planet may have, they all revolve around a sun." He left with a flourish.
As Sherlock walked back to the Underground, he reviewed his evening with Irene. He frowned slightly when he recalled the unsettling amount of information she had compiled. He considered her offer to finish off Moriarty's web. She'd remain untouched. Sherlock weighed the detriments and benefits of every possibility he could think of (four, to be precise). When he reached the Underground, he whipped out his mobile.
Will take up your offer for pest problem. You remain free if you respect boundaries. - SH
Those boundaries being? My personal affairs. - SH
Ah, what a shame. We could have had fun...
Sherlock curled his lip at Irene's last text. Not going to bother answering that. She understands the rules, she'll follow them. With business taken care of, Sherlock pondered the rest of his conversation with Irene. Suns and moons and planets and stars. Sherlock paused. Business taken care of. Job over. Life over? Irene had thought so. He had thought so. He looked at the curry in his other hand. Last time he'd had a good spicy curry was ages ago - with John.
When he looked down at his phone, he saw John's number typed in along with a curt message: "Spicy curry. Meet at 221b. - SH" He frowned and deleted the message. Muscle memory. Pesky. Accurate.
After getting off the tube, as Sherlock walked back to Kingsway tramway, he looked up at the moon. He'd had moons. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Frequently passing by, ever so slightly brightening his life, even if he didn't care to admit it. John. John wasn't a moon. John was the sun.
Sherlock looked back at the curry. Why eat if he wasn't hungry? Considered his mobile. Any number of things he could text to John to confirm his identity. Text? Three years? Too distant? Distant. The Earth's average distance from the sun is 150,000,000 kilometres. Compare that to the 3 kilometres separating him and John, no, he was not too distant at all.
Sherlock rushed to his space in the tramway, gathered his scarf, coat, other items (sunglasses, trainers, a comb missing several teeth) in a plastic bag, and set out at a brisk walk for Baker Street. Sherlock raced down the streets in his mind. Chapel Street onto Marylebone, which turns into Euston. Left at Euston and Baker Street. Number 221b. Sherlock repeated the directions in his head until he reached 'Left at Euston and Baker Street,' seeing the street signs in front of him. He pivoted to the left and slowly walked down Baker Street. Three years. He'd visited, spied, glimpsed, dozens, hundreds of times.
But to come home. To all that home entailed. Sherlock looked up, searching for Sirius. Staring up into the sky, he felt impact. Clatter of metal on the ground. Broken glass. Pained groan. Curse words ("Bloody hell! Watch where you're going!") Bumped into somebody.
Sherlock waved a hand in apology. Busy. "Sorry." ("Be polite and apologise," John would say). Half a minute later, a second impact, sharper. Punch in the abdomen? He looked down, frowning. John.
"I have curry. The spicy kind you like." Sherlock held out the takeaway container. "It's probably cold now, but we can heat it up."
Just barely blocked the right hook aimed far too low to hit his cheek. The details: John's leg can't support him. Limping. Clattering metal: cane. Pained groan: John. Oh, John. He knew about the limp, the cane, the psychosomatic pain returning in his absence. Somehow it was more devastating here, now.
John's mouth: moving. Oh. Stop thinking, start listening. "-YEARS, SHERLOCK! WHY THE HE-"
Yelling. Dull. Sherlock waited for John to end his diatribe. "It's late, John. You're yelling. The curry's cold." He shook the curry to remind John.
John: still dumbstruck but managed to nod. Sherlock picked up John's cane and gave it to him. He waited patiently at the door, looking at him expectantly.
John: found his voice. "What...are you doing?"
"Watching Sirius. See?" Sherlock pointed to the star, beaming.
"Sirius, John. Brightest star in the sky. Binary star system. You're the white star, I'm the dwarf. You're my sun, you know." Sherlock added as an afterthought, "I know that planets revolve around the sun now, John. I know a lot about astronomy. It's quite fascinating, contr-"
John cut Sherlock off, exclaiming, "You have a beard. You've got a Tesco bag." John looked him over closely, "You, you were homeless!"
"Excellent deduction, John, but that hardly matters. Now be quiet and listen." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and drew another breath to finish his former thought.
"No, Sherlock, you listen to me. We're going inside and you're explaining what the hell you were doing for three sodding years."
"And eating the curry," Sherlock muttered.
"Damn the curry!" John opened the door and limped inside.
Sherlock glared at John with an exasperated look. "I came to share it with you. The last time I ate spicy curry was with you. My work is completed, so it no longer has any bartering value to me. I'd rather share it with you than give it away."
John began the painful job of limping up the stairs. As he made his way up to his- their- the flat, he asked, "...Your work?"
Sherlock made a face, rolled his eyes, and quickly said, "Moriarty's web." As if that explained everything. John glared at him, and he sighed, "Remember the assassins?" John nodded. "They worked for Moriarty."
"I had gathered as much!" John groused.
"He had the two remaining assassins trained on Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and a sniper on you. If I didn't jump, you would all die. It was simple." Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.
John stopped in the middle of a step. "You jumped...for us?"
Sherlock made another face. "Can we talk about this later? I'm hungry."
John laughed as he heaved himself up another step. "You, hungry. Now I know I'm hallucinating."
Sherlock snorted and bounded up the rest of the stairs. When John let Sherlock into the flat, Sherlock looked around and frowned. "It's different, John."
John nodded tiredly. "It's been three years, Sherlock."
"Are you still in the room upstairs?"
"No. I moved some of your things to that room." John sat down in his chair. "You kept an actual skeleton in your closet."
Sherlock put one hand on his hip, stroked his beard with the other and knit his brow. "Yes, I hope you were careful with it. It's fragile."
John stared at Sherlock. "An actual- you know what, never mind. Why are you here?"
Sherlock held up the bag of curry. He turned around to go to the kitchen. "The table is clean!"
John chuckled. "Yeah. Been that way for two and a half years."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I don't like it."
John rolled his eyes and grumbled, "Of course not. So, how about that curry, then?"
A minute later, John heard Sherlock gripe, "The eyeballs are gone! That was an experiment!"
Not even five minutes after the curry was on the table, John stood over the sink with a ripped open tin of yogurt. "Where did you say you got this curry again?"
Sherlock glanced over at him, "I didn't. I got it from Irene Adler." Upon seeing John's incredulous expression (a curious blend of pain, shock, and confusion), Sherlock sighed and drummed the table with his fingers. "Long story, dull. Another time."
John rolled his eyes. "I just bought milk-"
Sherlock interrupted, "Obviously. The bottle was broken during the collision." He smirked slightly and added, "We're out of milk, John."
John glared at Sherlock and carefully asked, "Now that you've broken my groceries and nearly burned my tongue out of my mouth, do you mind telling me what you were doing outside the flat, staring at the sky?"
Sherlock fidgeted. "You just answered your own question, John." Sherlock saw John's face and quickly continued, "But I'll explain in greater detail." John's face calmed and he sat down at the table to listen to Sherlock. "I was looking for Sirius. The star." Sherlock continued earnestly, "I've taught myself all about astronomy, John."
John looked puzzled. "Why?"
"You said it was important. It was better than...alternative activities and it's actually fairly fascinating." Sherlock laid his hands on the table curled into a single fist. "For example, Sirius. Look at it from Earth without a telescope, and you see one star. But with a telescope," Sherlock separated his hands into two separate fists, "you see two stars. It's a binary star system. A white star and and white dwarf. The white star is significantly brighter than the dwarf, so it's the one we see." Sherlock looked up at John. "Do you see?"
John thought for a minute, then furrowed his brow. "If this is a joke about my height and intellect, I'll have you know-"
"No, you idiot. I'm the dwarf," Sherlock growled.
"The dwarf would barely be visible without its pair. As we speak, it's dying out, turning into a black dwarf. Cold, dark, burnt out. It needs its pair to be brilliant, to make the brightest star in the sky." Sherlock looked at John with a pleading look in his eyes and pursed lips. "Or take Alpha Centauri. Third brightest star in the sky. I can't show it to you because it's only visible south of here, but it's another binary star system. Alpha Centauri A is three times brighter than its pair, but it wouldn't appear nearly as brilliant without its pair adding to the unit's light. Do you see now, John?"
John nodded hesitantly. "You're comparing us to stars, then?"
Sherlock nodded. "Yes, and planets and moons and suns."
John looked bewildered. "...Okay."
Sherlock spoke excitedly, "I'm a planet. Like Irene said: cold, isolated. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, they were my moons. Around me almost constantly, and loathe as I may have been to admit it, they brightened my existence in some way."
John nodded. "Wait, Molly?"
"Yes, John. Do keep up. You, John, were my sun. Are my sun."
John's eyebrows shot up. He asked, half-teasing, "You do know that would mean that you would revolve around me, right?"
Sherlock sneered slightly. "Yes, John. I know that now. I think I even proved that these past three years."
Sherlock frowned, looked away, and seemed to come to a conclusion. He suddenly banged on the table with his palm. "Here, I'll show you." He reached into his coat and pulled out five hypodermic needles and a phial of injectable cocaine (7% solution), setting them down on the table triumphantly.
John looked at the drugs paraphernalia with a concerned look on his face. "...Sherlock?"
Sherlock picked up the phial and shook it in John's face. "Unused, John. I knew you wouldn't...approve."
"So, let me get this straight. You bought cocaine and then hovered on the brink of going back to an addiction?"
"Yes, but I didn't. Because I had a reason to avoid that. It was hard sometimes. I got terribly bored." Sherlock blanched.
"But you didn't. Huh." John tilted his head. "Whatever works, I suppose."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and flashed a small smile. "It's good to be home." He stood up and turned to clean up the table.
Sherlock paused. "Yes, John?"
John cleared his throat. "Are you staying?"
"May I? If so, yes. And yes, I'm staying permanently, if that's okay." Sherlock went back to cleaning up the dishes and garbage left over from dinner.
"Sherlock, wait." John pulled himself up from the table.
Sherlock spun around, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "Yes, John?"
John caught Sherlock in a hug. "Don't leave again, you bastard."
Sherlock wriggled slightly. "Not planning in it. Although I do want to pick up some supplies..."
"No more heads, Sherlock," John said in a stern tone laced with humour.
"Actually," sniffed Sherlock, "I was thinking of something more like a telescope, to start with. I want to show you Sirius and the moon and the other stars I've studied. And perhaps a secondary refrigerator for experiments. I have several new ideas I want to test." Sherlock tossed out the garbage from their meal and took his phone out of his pocket.
John sighed, "Can you put that away?"
Sherlock ignored him. "Just one text."
To: Irene Adler
Thank you for dinner. - SH