A Study in Pink [Reader Insert]

There's Always Something.

     The three of you got into the cab, and rode what seemed like minutes in silence. You were aware of John at the far right of the car turning to look at Sherlock and you multiple times, opening his mouth to say something each time, but deciding against it. Finally you could stand his depressingly obvious obliviousness no more. "You have questions," you growled.

     "Yes. Where are we going?"

     "Crime scene," Sherlock answered instead of you, and rather shortly. "Next?"

     "What do... you do, exactly?"

     "Same as your friend here. I assist the police- I'm a consulting detective. I thought I was the only one," Sherlock added, looking at you with a sense of admiration but a hint of personal pride, "but nevertheless, I invented the job."

     "Invented the job?" You protested with an incredulous laugh. "Please-"

     "Okay, don't get worked up, (Y/N). He's only just as much a prideful jerk as you are," John intervened. "And anyway, Sherlock, police don't consult amateurs."

     You gave John a look of approval, while Sherlock's was one of disappointment and annoyance. "How many times...? Okay," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. His next words were voiced with incredible speed. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq- you looked surprised. 'How did you know?' I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. The conversation as you came into the room said trained at Bart's, so, army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned, but not tan above the wrists. All physical observations mentioned before are those shared by both you and (Y/N), and a few I'll make right now- I'm sure that as I say them, John, you'll be able to make the connections between you and your friend. Not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair, like you've forgotten about it. So at least partly psychosomatic, so the original circumstances were traumatic; wounded in action. Wounded in action? Suntan? Afghanistan or Iraq."

     It took John a few moments to soak that all in, but you were bothered by one part. "You said... he has a therapist?"

     "He's psychosomatic, of course he has a therapist." You tightened your lips. Why did Sherlock have to sound so snooty about it? Well, okay, you probably sounded the same way.  "But then there's his brother. John, your phone. It's expensive- email enabled, mp3 player- but you're looking for a flatshare; You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches- not one, many. It's been in the same pockets as keys, coins- the man sitting next to me wouldn't treat this item like this, so it's had a previous owner."

     "Next bit's easy," you said. "You know it already, John."

     John nodded. "The engraving."

     "Harry Watson," Sherlock remembered. 

     "Clearly a family member who's given you their old phone," you explained. "Not a parent, this is a young person's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero of sorts, who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got extended family, certainly not one you're close to."

     "But you already know all this, (Y/N)" John said. "You know me."

     "True, but the signs are still quite obvious, John. I'd observe these things about you even if we'd only just met."

     "Indeed," Sherlock said. "My turn. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Knew a Clara once, Clara Oswald, but that's not important. Three kisses says romantic attachment, but the expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. And it's been given to you recently; this model's only six months old. Marriage's in trouble then- only six months old, just given away? If she left him, he would've kept it- people do, you know, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her." Sherlock stopped for a breath, then continued. "He gave the phone to you, that says you want to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, and you're not going to your brother for help? Stop smiling, (Y/N), it makes me aware of your existence, which is rather annoying. John, this says you have problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don't like his drinking."

     "How... can... you possibly know about the drinking?" John asked, overwhelmed.

     "Shot in the dark."

     "Good one, though," you commented. "The scratch marks around the power plug- every night, your sibling goes in to charge it, but their hands are shaking. "

     "Never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without it," Sherlock cut in. "See, you were right."

     John raised his eyebrows. "I was right?"

     "Police don't consult amateurs."

     "...That was amazing."

     "You think so?" you asked.

     "Of course it was," John replied, a wide grin spreading across his face. "It was extraordinary."

     Sherlock looked out the window. "That's, uh, not what people normally say."

     "What do they normally say?"

     Sherlock turned away from the window to you and John and feigned a smile. "Piss off!"

     Later, the cab stopped at an empty street. You stepped out with John on one side of the cab, Sherlock on the other, and he led you all toward the caution tapes surrounding the building in front of you.

     "Did I get everything wrong?" Sherlock asked as the three of you walked.

     "You were pretty much right..." John answered. "About most everything."

     "Lovely. I didn't expect to get everything right."

     "Good, 'cause you didn't," you said, amused.

     "Oh?"

    "Harry's short for Harriet."

     Sherlock stopped suddenly, but you and John kept walking. You made no effort to disguise the smile on your face.

     "Harry's his sister," Sherlock growled.

    "Yep," you said, still walking away, and popping the 'p' in 'yep.'

     "His sister!" he hissed. He resumed walking, quickly catching up with the two of you. "There's always something."