His Greatest Adventure

221B Baker Street

Weeks had gone by, and Sherlock took John out to the bench after every class to play their deduction game. John was getting better, as Sherlock pointed out to him one afternoon. 

"You've practiced," he said smartly. 

This day was colder. The autumn leaves rested on the pavement around the boys, and neither of them were wearing their coats. Shivering slightly, Sherlock offered that they go back to his apartment. 

"Is that alright?" John asked, hugging his body tightly.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, and his smile made John's heart skip a beat.

The two men left their bench and continued down the road. Sherlock stopped at the Baker Street sandwich bar, but turned to the black door to the left of it. As he took out his keys, John read the number above the knocker, which was 221B.

The door swung open, and John followed Sherlock inside. A door to the right of the stairs was closed, and he could hear muffled music coming from within. Sherlock led the older man up the stairs, and when they reached the second story, walked straight into the living area of the flat. 

The wallpaper was hideous, but somehow John felt it was just perfect for Sherlock. Two chairs sat facing each other by the fireplace, and above the mantle sat a large mirror and a fake skull. John then began to wonder if it was, in fact, fake. On the opposite side of the room, a couch was pushed against the wall next to a rectangular coffee table. Somehow John was able to see all this, because the room was covered from head to toe in immense clutter. There were pages of writing, maps, and pictures pinned to the unsightly walls, and on the table by the window, sat a laptop, a violin, a gun, and a stack of paper. This strange assortment of objects didn't surprise John, because after weeks of playing deduction with Sherlock, he couldn't imagine anything else on his living room table. 

When Sherlock entered the room, he immediately began to push the clutter into piles, quietly muttering an apology about the mess. John smiled, and sat down in the red chair on the left hand side of the fireplace.

"It's completely fine," he assured his new friend, "I like it."

Sherlock responded to this by flashing a small smile at John, inducing a flutter in his heart. Sherlock had given up on the eyesore of his flat, sitting down in the leather chair opposite his companion, and crossing his left leg over his right. 

"Sherlock, who's with you? Is that Mycroft?" a woman's voice echoed up the stairs. 

When she entered the room, John could see she was an elderly woman, about sixty, shorter than himself with short brown hair. Sherlock stood in her presence and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is John. A friend."

"A friend! Oh hello, John, would you like a cup of tea, dear?" she asked eagerly, clapping her hands together. 

"A cup of tea would be great, thank you," he replied. Mrs. Hudson entered the room off of the living area, which was presumably a kitchen. Sherlock fell back into his chair. 

"My landlady."

John nodded. He was surprised Sherlock treated her with such humanity, considering the only other person he had seen Sherlock treat that way was John himself. 

Sherlock had plucked his gun off the table and began to fiddle with it. John watched him wearily, but with full trust. He was content, of course, until he heard a loud gunshot ring throughout the flat. 

"Sherlock! What the hell?"

Sherlock lowered the gun and inspected the hole he had placed in the wall above the couch. Mrs. Hudson, who had entered the room at some point in the debacle, dropped the teacups on the table in fury.

"Where do you get off shooting holes in my walls? I ought to call your mother!" she fumed, making John sink further into his seat. 

"Bored," Sherlock replied calmly.

John raised his eyebrows at him. Mrs. Hudson continued to stare at the man, and after a moment of silence, Sherlock sighed.

"My apologies, Mrs. Hudson."

The day turned into night. The boys had sat in their chairs for hours, conversing about school, Sherlock's flat, and everything in between. Eventually, John glanced at his watch.

"Blimey! It's late. I should head home."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "It's only ten o'clock. Do you have a class early in the morning?"

"Er-no, but I have to walk back, so I should probably leave now before it's too dangerous," John explained.

Sherlock nodded, and remained in his chair. John pushed himself up, and thinking of the cold air outside, cursed to himself. 

As if reading his mind, Sherlock said, "You can borrow a coat, if you'd like."

John's heart jumped. Was this Sherlock being friendly? Or something more? John shifted on his feet for a moment before responding.

"Ah... well thank you. I appreciate that. Er... won't you need it back? Class isn't for another week..." John wanted to kill himself after speaking. Why, oh why did he say that?

Ignoring all the problems with John's previous statement, Sherlock quickly said, "Oh, I'll walk you back then."

John smiled. Sherlock led him down the stairs, and lifted a long, wool Belstaff from the hook. He held it out to John, and when he reached for it, their hands brushed softly against each other. 

John wrapped the coat around himself, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. As John did this, Sherlock tied a blue scarf around his own neck.

"You'll be cold," John realized, "here, don't worry about it-"

"I'm absolutely fine, John, don't be ridiculous."

Sherlock watched John as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of the coat, which was very large on him. Only his feet were visible beneath it, and only the tips of his ears visible above the turned up collar. John's face flushed red.

"Alright, then," he mumbled, turning to the door. 

The boys walked together in the dark. When they passed under a streetlight, Sherlock's face illuminated in gold, and John had to catch himself from gasping every time it happened. 

"How are you able to make such accurate deductions about people?" John asked after a while. "I get the big things. I don't understand how you can know such tedious facts."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then replied, "I don't know, I observe. The first woman I pointed out, several weeks ago on the bench. I observed she was dying because of the pulls on her sweater-"

"Yes, which is exactly what I don't understand," John interrupted, "because you said she had a new watch, which she was able to afford because she didn't spend money on new clothes. How could you have possibly known that?"

"Before I pointed her out to you, I watched her pull a cell phone out of her pocket. She didn't type anything on the phone, but glanced at the screen momentarily before putting it back into her pocket. She has a watch, but still checks her cell phone for the time. That tells me the watch is new, because she isn't yet used to turning her wrist over. The watch isn't broken, because someone who is used to wearing a watch would still be in the habit of doing so. That's how I knew."

John didn't respond, but walked beside his companion, deep in thought. Sherlock made every observation seem so simple, as if any human could have his skills if they tried hard enough. John knew this wasn't true- Sherlock was special. Sherlock was intelligent, and wise, and kind (though he didn't always show that last bit).

When they arrived at John's dorm, they stopped, and the two men turned to face each other. 

"Thank you for... you know," John shifted awkwardly on his feet.

"Anytime," Sherlock said easily.

John pulled his left arm out of the coat, then his right. He felt the cold air hit the bare skin around his neck. He extended his arm out to Sherlock, with the coat held in his hand. 

Sherlock reached for it, but their hands didn't touch. John felt a wave of disappointment flush his body, which then led him to wonder why.

"Goodnight, John."