Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

"Good Morning" (Part 3)

"Hi, Y/N, at least you're dressed and getting on with the day." Greg gave her a warm smile which she returned through lips thin from holding in laughter at the look on Sherlock's face; he was glaring at the detective inspector, clearly affronted.

"You sound like my mother."

Greg had brought with him a thick bundle of papers and was now flicking through them with well-practised ease to find a specific page. "I've met your mother, a wonderful woman, that's a compliment."

Sherlock had opened his mouth to answer but Lestrade was already continuing:

"Anyway, the reason I came over is that I have something that might be of interest to you. Especially you, Sherlock."

Y/N and Sherlock exchanged a look. Y/N's look had meant:

'Unless I was very wrong about your sexuality, and you're an incredibly good actor, nothing Lestrade could give you is of interest right now, is it?'

And Sherlock's look had meant: 'There's only one thing of interest to me at this second and I can guarantee it's not in that pile of papers'.

Lestrade, luckily, seemed completely blind to this silent conversation because he was still hunting through his wedge of documents and eventually found the one he was looking for. Y/N moved up to the vacant chair at Sherlock's right, to get a closer look as Greg slid the paper over to their side of the table. Sherlock tried to ignore the fact that Y/N was so close he could smell her shampoo, and instead attempted to focus on the image before him.

It was an extremely close up photograph of someone wearing a necklace blown up to fill the entire sheet of A4. The necklace was clearly expensive, every centimetre of it encrusted with---what would be, if it wasn't printed with cheap photocopier ink---shining diamonds. The piece was a choker, fitting snugly around the neck of a woman with defined collarbones and dusky skin which contrasted with the little tendrils of yet more jewels that branched off from the front of the necklace like rays from a sun. The design was intricate and would be rather beautiful had someone's thumb not obviously smudged the photo, and the piece itself actually been in focus.

"This woman's necklace was stolen from The White Hotel," Lestrade explained, sliding another sheet over the top of that one. This picture, too, was of jewellery---a simple pearl earring worn by a woman with dark, choppy hair. It was also cropped from a photograph, the woman's ear enlarged to a point of slight pixelation. "This lady's earrings were taken as well. Different guests, different rooms." He looked up at Sherlock, smiling slightly. Clearly this was the part that was supposed to be 'of interest': "Same floor, though."

Sherlock lazily arched an eyebrow.

Lestrade's joy faltered and he cleared his throat, hurrying on like a performer afraid of losing his audience. He placed another picture down. Then another. And another. "All of these were taken from guest's rooms at The White Hotel on Tuesday night. We've got a watch, some diamond cufflinks, a bracelet---as you can see---plus thousands in cash and more jewellery---but these are the only ones we have pictures of. It was all taken from the fourth floor," he concluded with relish, leaning back in his chair like someone that had just told a particularly good ghost story and was ready to revel in the reactions of his peers.

His peers didn't react, though, maybe because they hadn't realised they should. Y/N was absently examining a burn mark in the table, and Sherlock continued eating his breakfast. He had a habit of drinking all the milk first, then consuming the cereal (which had gone soft by that point). He was still at the milk-drinking stage and gave up trying to spoon it, bringing the bowl to his lips as if it was soup instead.