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Tik. Toc. Tik. Toc.
The unwanted sound pushed through the air, making its way across the room until the vibrations from the noise slowly entered Sherlock's ear, reverberating quite loudly until slowly fading away, only to be replaced by the next click of the clock.
He tapped his fingers on his knee. Sitting oddly in his armchair as usual with his feet on the cushion and his legs tucked up towards his chest, he looked a bit odd for a normal, fully grown man. Of course, Sherlock Holmes was anything but normal, so this was not a proper comparison to be made. No, he was more like an overgrown toddler, running or walking whenever the desire struck him, following his own whims, engaging in overly dramatic sibling rivalry, and being exceedingly stubborn whenever he got the chance.
Definitely not normal.
"John," he said, not looking up from where his fingers met the fabric of his black pants. They were soft, and comfortable. His favourite pants, actually, though because he had multiple pairs that all looked identical, this one could not be differentiated from the rest. Unless the person looking at them was Sherlock himself, in which case he could clearly point out the small patch of fabric--barely wider than a fingernail--that was a tad lighter than the surrounding area. This had happened when John was attempting to do the washing, and had spilt a bit of bleachy water from the machine onto Sherlock's dark pants. Fortunately he had got it off in time, though not all of it; thus the spot of lighter colour.
This incident, of course, had nothing to do with the fact that Sherlock considered these to be his favourite pair, or vice versa; he just preferred them over the others, for a reason unknown, even to himself. He thought over this for a moment, then deemed it unimportant, deciding instead to cease his tapping and look up.
His flatmate, John Watson, was sat at the table slightly behind Sherlock, busy with the clock in front of him; instruments were laid out on a cloth, ready and waiting for the doctor to pick them up and use them to unlock yet another part of the mechanical device.
"John," Sherlock said again, staring intensely at the other man until he looked up from the task at hand.
"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked, setting down the screwdriver he had been holding. The clock fell silent, no longer ticking irritatingly.
"Remind me why you are fixing that?" Sherlock asked, waving his hand lazily in the general direction of the clock pieces.
"Mrs. Hudson asked me to."
"Why."
"Because when you slammed that unwanted 'visitor' into the wall, it made the clock on the other side fall off, and it broke. So technically, Sherlock, this is your fault and you should be fixing it." John looked pointedly at Sherlock, silently letting him know that John was not pleased, and that Sherlock should be quiet now.
"Not my problem," Sherlock said, choosing to continue speaking even though he had understood John's stare perfectly, "when will you be finished?"
John puffed out his cheeks in mild irritation, and looked back down at the clock pieces in front of him. There were quite a few small bits, and a couple things were dented from colliding with the floor, so it looked as if it would take awhile.
"Not sure exactly," John said, turning again to face the man on the armchair. "You could help me, you know, seeing as this is a result of your inability to take care of things normally?"
Before he finished speaking, he already knew what Sherlock would say, and sure enough came the response;
"Can't be bothered."
This was quickly followed by a shuffling noise as Sherlock turned sideways in his chair and leaned his head backwards over the arm, staring upside down at John for a bit before proclaiming morosely, "I've run out of nicotine patches."
Indeed, Sherlock's last case had been a three-patch-problem, therefore using up the rest of his supply. True to his character, he had asked John to buy more the other day without realizing that the room was empty, as John had gone shopping.
Meaning that he was still out of patches.
"Go and buy some, then," John said, fiddling with a spring from the clock. "I'm a bit busy with this at the moment, and you haven't left the flat for a few days. It'll do you good to get out."
"Hmm...no."
"Sherlock."
"Hm?"
"Go get your patches."
"I don't want to."
"Why not?"
"Because. I don't." Sherlock was descending into a mood. He wasn't quite sure why; perhaps it was because he had no patches, but he doubted that this was the reason.
"Well I could have gotten you some if you had told me before I went shopping for food on Monday, but you didn't, so now you have none."
Sherlock's mouth twitched. Food. Yes, that's it, I want...
"Doughnuts!"
John jumped, startled at his flatmate's loud outburst, and dropped a screwdriver onto his foot.
"Damn it, Sherlock, what was that?!" he yelled, scrunching his face up at the pain.
"Doughnuts," Sherlock said, calmly this time. "I want. Doughnuts."
John stared at him, wondering if he had heard correctly.
"Did you just say--"
"DOUGHNUTS, YES, DOUGHNUTS!!" Sherlock proclaimed loudly, and jumped off the armchair. He disappeared into his bedroom, quickly returning fully dressed, scarf and all.
"Come on, John, we're going out to get some doughnuts."
Hurriedly standing up so as not to be left behind, John followed Sherlock, calling a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson before walking out the door behind the doughnut-seeking detective.
"Uhm, so, Sherlock," John ventured, following Sherlock to the pavement, where he promptly hailed a taxi.
"Yes?" Sherlock responded, turning around and looking at John.
"Exactly where are we going?" John had no idea where this would lead, or what even had made Sherlock crave doughnuts in the first place. He usually wasn't the type to eat many sweets, so this came as a surprise.
Sherlock sighed. "There is a doughnut shop two streets down from here; we are going to get into a taxi, drive to the shop, buy doughnuts, then return to the flat."
"Alright?" John said slowly, still trying to understand why they were buying doughnuts. He didn't have long to contemplate this however, as a taxi pulled up right in front of them. Sherlock quickly got in, and John followed.
The drive to the shop was short and quiet. Sherlock stared out the window, lost in thought, and John sat still, but kept glancing around at their surroundings. He had never before paid attention to the area in which they were driving, and now noticed that it was quite nice.
He was jolted out of his sight-seeing by the taxi coming to a stop.
"Have you got any cash?" Sherlock said, turning to John. "I don't have my wallet with me."
John reached into his pocket, shaking his head and smiling a bit, and handed his wallet to Sherlock, who promptly paid the driver and stuffed the wallet into his own pants.
"Come on."
John waited for Sherlock to get out of the cab, and once he did, exited himself. Without waiting for him, Sherlock walked briskly down the road, looking ahead, intent on his goal. This appeared to be a small shop with two little tables outside, each with a furled blue umbrella positioned above it.
This must be the doughnut shop, John thought, judging from the fact that Sherlock had now stopped directly outside the place, and was staring at the door.
"Closed until further notice, sorry for the inconvenience," Sherlock said, reading the sign hung from the door-knocker.
"Well that is an inconvenience, a great inconvenience indeed, where am I supposed to get my doughnuts now?" he muttered, walking closer, still looking at the sign.
"That's a pity, I wonder why they closed?" John asked, more of a rhetorical question than a literal one; but of course Sherlock didn't take it that way.
"Exactly a week ago they had an uninvited visitor, who thought it might be a good place to get some quick and easy cash. Unfortunately, they didn't take into account the fact that the man who owns this bakery also owns a small dog; normally this wouldn't be much of a problem, but this particular small dog is rather vicious, and will bite anyone it doesn't recognize."
Sherlock absentmindedly touched his left leg, and John had a feeling that Sherlock knew this as a result of personal experience.
"The dog jumped onto the attacker as soon as the door was pried open, sank its teeth into the skin right above the ankle, and drew blood. The dog was then kicked aside and locked out of the bakery while the intruder searched inside for the cash register. Unable to find it, they made a mess, took some food, and left hastily out the front window, as there is no other way to leave the building without encountering the dog, whereas the window is near a ledge belonging to the store adjacent which would provide a safe and canine-free escape."
John stood there, in awe as usual.
"How could you possibly--" he started, but was quickly interrupted by a sigh.
"As always John, you see but you do not observe." Sherlock pointed to a yellow book wrapped in plastic that sat in the corner near the steps of the bakery. "That paper's from last Wednesday, exactly a week ago from today. It hasn't been touched which means nobody's been here to retrieve it and take it inside, meaning, the incident which caused them to close happened last week."
He walked over to a spot on the ground about three feet away from the door, and pointed to the dark brown stains. "Blood. Not a lot of blood, which means it wasn't a serious incident or attack that caused the injury, but a small and seemingly insignificant one. Look closer and you will see that it's been smudged by something, something small and with white fur, some of which has fallen out and gotten stuck to the blood. What is small and has white fur? The dog who lives here, goes by the name of Puddles. Puddles is normally a quiet and friendly dog, but will jump on anyone whom it does not recognize, which means it was a stranger, someone who is not here frequently or at all."
Sherlock moved closer to the bakery's entrance, and pointed to the bottom of the door. "Small scratches, claw marks, on the door at just the right height for Puddles the small dog. Puddles knows not to let any intruders inside, yet this one managed to get in. How? By kicking the dog aside and bolting in through the door which has already been pried open--you can see the dents in the wood near the handle--and closing it quickly so Puddles didn't follow them in. The scratch marks are from Puddles clawing at the door."
John looked at Sherlock. "The cash register...? How do you know the intruder couldn't find it?"
Sherlock smiled for half a second. "Simple; because there isn't one. At least, not one that stays in the store. The owners are smarter than that, they carry their day's cash with them when they leave, a precaution in case the bakery was ever broken in to, and look what happened, that planning paid off. Of course, the intruder would become increasingly frustrated as they searched for the money but found nothing, and as a result, end up making quite a mess of the place, half because of the search and half as an act of annoyance towards the bakery's owners for not having an easily-accessible cash register. Finding nothing, and knowing that she should leave soon before someone noticed and called the police, she instead raided the shelves for what food she could find, and made her escape."
"Wait--she?"
With a nod, Sherlock pointed to a handprint on the inside of the window, so faint that only he could have seen the smudge and knew it to be a handprint. It looked as if it had been made by someone with frosting on their hands from touching doughnuts. "Small hands, thin fingers, must be a female. Of course it could be a man's hand, irregularly small, but no this belongs to a woman, and a rather young one at that, for her to be able to fit through the window and climb to the ledge. Added to the fact that there is a small piece of fabric caught in the wood of the window frame, a fabric that belongs to the newest woman's fashion craze. And--" Sherlock held up his hand, stopping John from speaking, "I know this because you see them wearing it everywhere, all the women want that blouse, and the girl responsible for this crime has been reported as being caught by the police--wearing that blouse, by the way--while searching through someone's flat; they arrested her and are investigating other acts of burglary she's committed, and they will soon find that this was one of them."
"Just...wow. Amazing." John never failed to be impressed by Sherlock's skills; the man was brilliant.
"The problem is," Sherlock mused, "where do we go to get doughnuts...?"
John laughed. "You just solved a case--that wasn't even brought to your attention--with the smallest bits of evidence, and yet you can't find your way to a decent shop?"
Sherlock made a sulky face. "This was the only good place near Baker Street, John, if you have a better idea then I'd love to hear it."
"How about we run to the convenience store, get some cheap doughnuts--because cheap doughnuts are better than no doughnuts--and pick up your nicotine patches as well, and we'll come back here when the store's open for business again. How's that sound?"
Still making faces, Sherlock turned and began walking back to where the taxi had dropped them off. "Alright," he said.
"No sulking or I won't buy the patches, and you'll just have to make due with the store-doughnuts," John said, following him.
"Fine."
"Sherlock."
"What."
"Brilliant deductions back there."
"...you think so?"
"No, I know so. Absolutely spectacular, as always."
"...thank you."
"You're welcome."