Authors Notes:

Yes I know I have soo many other stories I do and I am terrible for not working on those or indeed anything for soo long, but for this I blame OperaGoose she gave me Delusion!Sherlock and then the fun began so this story is dedicated to her because she owns my soul thanks to her awesome fic-ness and how awesome she is at writing Sherlock and John, I hope I can write them somewhere that readers will think is passable.

Disclaimer:

I own nothing here not making any Profit, sue me at your peril because I am just a poor pot washer, nothing more however all likeness' to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Enjoy!

Chapter one, Letters and Laundry.

Sherlock had arrived at the house of the Clarkson's (and no not Jeremy dear readers) he was investigating their daughters apparent suicide, His sounding board, a one John Watson, formerly in the Army as a doctor and now continuing to pursue his career in medicine was doing exactly that, working in the surgery.

He could have done with John's help here as this case was proving to be a little elusive.

But Sherlock had reasoned that if he could maybe gain access to the House and see where the girl spent the majority of her time some things would click and he would have the case finished by evening.

At the moment however he was in the kitchen of their house, it was a normal suburban house, and had what any normal suburban hose had in their kitchen, a cooker, a sink worktops looking like marble but if one peeled the plastic off one would find a cheap wood was the real worktop.

What Sherlock had not expected to find was a pile of washing sitting on the floor by the washing machine.

"How odd" Sherlock said and then he remembered that he was alone. After a quick glance around the kitchen and the living room (which adjoined the kitchen) he began to sort through the washing.

T-Shirts that were of no interest were discarded from the pile and thrown around the room haphazardly a few landing gracefully on the backs of the kitchen chairs behind him while a lucky T-Shirt made its way to the top of the fridge freezer, others however weren't so lucky, and made their way into the dog's water bowl where their owners would later in the day chastise their beloved pet for its behaviour.

Trousers and Jeans were next; Sherlock spent a little time going through the pockets of these items of clothing, tutting when he fond rubbish and crowing when he found business cards and notes from the pockets of a young girl which told of a certain boy and how she adored him.

He also took in the make of he trousers and jeans, you could always tell how financially well of a family were by looking at their clothes, trousers and shoes especially.

There was one make that he didn't recognise so he sent a text to John.

John, what is Fat Face? SH.

The reply was immediate.

Get lost will you, don't text me while I'm at work why do you need to know about a clothing mark anyway? J

Sherlock grinned for all Johns reluctance to help he had given him the most helpful answer, His waffling about being at work however was unneeded, still he could train him to give precise answers, there was still plenty of time.

Case. SH.

John Watson read the one word reply to his previous text and cursed under his breath.

Please tell me you are not at the Clarkson's Sherlock! J He text back rapidly

Very well I won't. Was the reply.

John stood from his chair and left his office, passing down the hall to Sarah's room.

He knocked once and her voice issued from inside.

"Come in"

"Sarah Hi, I… Ummm well the funny thing is..."

"Is it Sherlock?" she asked in a tired voice

John nodded knowing that he must look like a naughty schoolboy in front of the headmistress.

"I'm sorry but he's in the house of a murder victim, and you know how he is, I'm sorry I know we're really busy and I wouldn't ask…"

"Go on, we won't like there to be a double murder on our hands would we?" she asked him.

He knew it was rhetorical, but gave her a quick peck on the cheek yelling a "Thanks Sarah" as he ran back down the hall to collect his coat.

Sherlock meanwhile had got bored with the clothes now; he had gleaned all he could from them. He put them in the washing machine put some soap powder in and turned it on.

The clothes began to spin and he watched with fascination, and John said he couldn't do domestic chores; he would tell him about this and watch his reaction.

No he wouldn't, John had asked him to not tell him where he was so he wouldn't be able to tell the good doctor.

Maybe once the case was over it would be permissible to tell John that he had done the Clarkson's washing.

The thwack of the letterbox alerted him to the fact that the post had arrived, he hurried to the front door and sat on his haunches rifling through the post.

And that as John would later tell Lestrade was how the fight began.

Sean Clarkson had always woken to the sound of the postman pushing letters through the door of his bungalow, he was a creature of habit, he would wake his daughter Michelle on the way to the front door, she would moan about getting up for school and he would collect the post give it a glance over and put the kettle on.

As the kettle was boiling he would toss the bills to one side, any envelope that looked like an advert would go into the recycling and anything else would be put on the coffee table to be opened after work.

Today however he knew that there was no daughter to wake, no sweet teenage voice complaining about getting ready for school and no-one moaning about how unfair it was that they were yet again grounded.

Still he did his morning routine, he opened her door and looked round, and everything was the same as she had left it two days ago, even the cold cup of tea sat on her bedside table where she had left it.

He knew he should move it, it wasn't sanitary but her room needed to look like it was hers, it needed to remain as it was, things would get moved and packed away, in time.

He padded to the front door and saw a lanky man in a long coat and a curly mop of black hair sitting on his haunches going through the post.

Sean Clarkson prided himself on being a calm individual, today however was just not turning out to be a calm sort of day.

John arrived at the Clarkson's to hear shouting, which did not bode well for Sherlock, Sighing he rung the doorbell.

"Good morning Mr Clarkson, I am from St Bartholomew's I understand that one of our more special patients has been hiding himself here, may I come in?"

"Who the hell are you, weren't you here the other day with the Police?"

"No Sir I don't believe I was, I work in the Psychiatric unit at St Barts, Sherlock is a rather puzzling case, can you believe he thinks he is a consulting detective and that he helps the police." John shook his head sadly.

"You still haven't told me who you are."

"I do apologise my name is Doctor John Watson, may I come in and see my patient please."

Sean ushered him in, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with a split lip and a sulk on.

"Ah there you are Sherlock." John said as if talking to a particularly slow child "did you deicide that you were better again we've talked about this you know."

Sherlock scowled at John.

"Now what have you been up to then?" John asked.

"He punched me John!"

"Mr Clarkson Sherlock is very mentally unstable do you mind if I have a few moments alone with him?"

Sean looked like he wanted to say no but sighed and nodded, going to the kitchen and shutting the door.

John turned to Sherlock

"What the hell are you playing at Sherlock?" he bellowed

"John, Clarkson will here and we do soo want to continue this ruse of patient and doctor don't we?" Sherlock replied in hushed tones.

John sighed, why did Sherlock have to be soo exasperating when he was right.

"Right so what were you doing?" he asked in a quieter tone.

"I was merely going over some evidence, some new evidence."

"Sherlock you can't just walk into someone's house you know, you have to wait until you're invited."

"Well that's not exactly going to happen now is it John?"

"Well of course not the man is grieving and he finds some stranger in his house going through his stuff what would you think…" John shook his head "No never mind, don't answer that, just come on lets get out of here, you can review the evidence back at home" He said grabbing Sherlock's arm and hoisting him off the sofa.

"Right thanks for that Mr Clarkson, Sherlock has explained himself, apparently he saw the death of your daughter in the paper and decided to investigate, I'm terribly sorry for your loss. We'll be going now; once again I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience this has caused you."

As they walked out of the bungalow he heard the angry tones of Sean Clarkson

"What the bloody hell has he done to my washing machine?"

John and Sherlock looked at each other, Sherlock just shrugged.

"Do I want to know?" John asked wearily, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he followed Sherlock.

"No John I really don't think you do."

The two walked out of the road and towards the bus stop both laughing.

A/N: and there you have it dear reader, if there is anything you would like Sherlock to do, in regards to crime scenes and so on let me know via Pm or review I already have a few to work with but I await your pms and reviews.

If you have enjoyed this then do please try and review anon or non anon whichever floats your boat its what I love, seeing that people enjoy what I write, so whatever your review its all fine!

Thanks a lot :D