WOLF | Sherlock X Reader |

|04| - Sniper Shot

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Sherlock Holmes sat in his armchair, feet up and his arms around his legs as he stared at John's chair. He's been like this for a while now, his silence was normal at times, it usually happened when he was thinking strongly on something.

And strongly thinking Sherlock was.

It's amazing, isn't it? Any normal case, Sherlock would have it solved in a few days' time, give or take, a week. But this he knows is no normal case. He knows that there is more to this than coincidentally connected murders.

There is just something about this case, a feeling that was nagging him, one he didn't like.

It wasn't often you would hear Sherlock say he didn't like a case. In fact, it was something you wouldn't hear at all coming from the detective. For he thrived on the hard to solve mysteries, the ones that took time to crack open. But this case, Sherlock didn't like.

He felt as if he was going in circles, every time he thinks he was close to an answer, his trail would fall apart, and he'd have to again start over. His leads are scattered, he needs more evidence. And it's frustrating to know that she knows, and he doesn't.

"John," Sherlock calls, finally snapping out of his thinking process, his blogger, however, was nowhere to be seen. "John?"

It was then he heard the rustle of bags and footsteps coming up the stairs. John comes into the flat after opening the door with his foot, he was carrying bags in each hand and he looked quite frazzled.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock asks even though it was obvious where he went.

"The grocery," John replies, moving to close the door behind himself, he says, "Told you I was headed out an hour ago..." he checks his watch and nods, "Yeah, an hour—have you been like that the whole time?"

"You sound surprised, John." Sherlock releases his legs and stretches out, watching as John moved towards the kitchen.

"Yeah, I'm surprised your arse hasn't cramped up yet."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, getting up to walk around the living room for a bit. He could hear John moving about in the kitchen, putting things into their rightful places, and he suddenly remembers why he was calling for him.

"Oh, John," Sherlock calls, stopping in front of the black couch, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Yeah, what?" came John's reply as he came out into the room.

"Assuming that you've just killed someone, why would you take the spare key to their flat?" He asks, turning to look at his flatmate, who looked quite appalled at the question.

Sherlock gives him a moment, he could see him thinking, "Well, if I wanted to go back on my own time and look for something without anyone questioning me....you know, having a key is a good excuse to get in..."

Sherlock smiles, "Well done,"

He walks past John, going to his bedroom to get ready to leave the flat. "Wait, really?" he hears John ask, sounding astonished.

"Yes, really," Sherlock calls back, stepping out moments later, properly dressed to go out. "I won't be long."

Y/n was walking back to her flat later that day, and despite everything that has been going on, she wasn't s half as scared as she should've been. And honestly, she should be extremely scared and twice as cautious.