Title: A Reasonable Distraction

Rating: T

Warnings: References to drug use; Mild swearing; Bored Sherlock

A/N: Yet another of these ideas that just came to me while lying in bed trying to work on "Everything Burns". I swear, that fic is great fuel for this Sherlock/Criminal Minds fire. So at least something good is coming out of my writer's block for it.

This fic is basically going to be Sherlock's detoxing and boredom and him finally learning what he wants to do with his life and finding a good, alternative way to deal with his boredom.

As always, ties in with other fics "An Even Match", "Interesting Friends", "Casual Deductions", "Chinks in the Armor", "Secrets and Revelations", and "Brotherly Love" (the entire list of fics is also now available on my profile in chronological order if you're interested) but can be read alone if you want.

Hope you enjoy and please review!

Quantico, Virginia, USA

September 27, 2004

"He needs your help, Spencer,"

Twenty-two year old Spencer Reid sighed, staring at himself in the mirror and shaking his head. His cellphone was perched on the edge of his bathroom sink as he brushed his teeth, getting ready for work. He hadn't been working with the BAU for long; hardly five months! And of course Mycroft would just have to call him with a crisis that just had to involve Sherlock.

He spit into the sink and rinsed his mouth out quickly, "Mycroft, I can't just drop everything and leave! I've got a new job, I'm busy, I –"

"He's spiraling out of control, Spencer," Mycroft insisted. Even over the phone the older man's voice carried that annoying weight of superiority that hadn't used to bother the younger man quite as much as it was beginning to.

"So you help him," Spencer said, grabbing the phone and carrying it into the living room with him. It was far too early to be having this conversation and Spencer refused to be late for work. Not today or ever.

"He is your brother, isn't he?"

"Of course, Spencer, but you know how he is. He won't accept my help. Besides, I'm fairly busy myself. I'm working on numerous projects –"

"Yeah, I heard," Spencer sighed, "Mycroft, Sherlock's my friend, but I can't just leave my life to go take care of him. He's going to have to do this on his own. He wouldn't listen to me the last time –"

"He'll listen now,"

Spencer snorted. Sherlock Holmes? Listen to him? That had to be one of the signs of the Apocalypse. Next there'd be flaming Horsemen and earthquakes and giant balls of fire in the sky. Not to mention the plagues.

"What makes now any different than any other times when he refused to listen to me?"

Mycroft hesitated on the other end and Spencer frowned. Mycroft never hesitated. Not for anything or anyone. "He realizes how far he's fallen,"

"I doubt it," Spencer said, sitting down on the couch and pulling a sock onto his bare foot. "This is Sherlock, Mycroft. He's always got himself on a pedestal."

And again, there was that hesitation on Mycroft's end. Spencer frowned, tugging his other sock on and sitting up, switching the phone to his other ear and standing, "Mycroft what aren't you telling me?"

The elder Holmes brother laughed faintly, "Getting so good at 'profiling' you can do it over the phone, Spencer?"

Spencer frowned, "Mycroft,"

"Two nights ago," Mycroft sighed, "He nearly killed himself. Not… intentionally, from what I can tell, but he knows he needs to stop before this does kill him."

Spencer closed his eyes as he entered his bedroom and sank down onto the bed, shaking his head. He had no idea things had gotten so bad. Of course, he might have if Sherlock would've answered his damn phone like a normal person. But Sherlock refused to listen to anyone's "ignorant blather", as he put it, about his "supposed addiction". That was the part that annoyed Reid the most. Sherlock refused to accept that he even had an addiction.

"I'd love to help him, Mycroft, I would, but I just can't leave my life behind to go to London and –"

"Then he'll come to you," Mycroft said simply. "Problem solved."

"What? What do you mean 'he'll come to me'?"

"Precisely what I said, Spencer," Mycroft said, "I'll get Sherlock on the next flight to Quantico. You pick him up. He can stay with you while detoxing."

"Mycroft!" Spencer rubbed his eyes in exasperation, "Did you not understand what I meant about not being able to just drop everything to help Sherlock?"

"Spencer…" Mycroft's voice was a soft warning and the young FBI agent frowned, "Sherlock isn't going to listen to me. Mummy is tired of fighting with him and Father will have nothing to do with him ever since he dropped out of Uni. You are the only person left who might be able to get through to him."

"What about you? Why won't he listen to you?"

Mycroft sighed, "You know he doesn't appreciate my meddling in his life, as he believes I do,"

"Can't imagine why not," Spencer muttered, "Clearly, you mind your own business. You'd never inflict your will onto someone just because you could."

"Spencer," again that annoying, subtle warning. "I know this job with the FBI is important to you, but so is Sherlock. You're a smart boy. I'm sure you can manage."

He scrunched his eyes, shaking his head. "Fine," he said finally, "Fine. I'll pick him up from the airport when he arrives, but you owe me for this Mycroft."

Mycroft chuckled, "Of course I don't," he said, sounding vaguely amused, which was often a bad thing when it came to Mycroft Holmes. "How do you think you got into the BAU at twenty-two?"

Reid frowned, "What are you talking about?"

But Mycroft had already hung up. Spencer glared down at the phone, tossing it onto the bed and finishing getting ready. He was already cutting it close and Mycroft and his interruptions were not helpful in the least. Still, his last words tumbled around Reid's mind. Mycroft had not gotten him this job. That was impossible. He knew it was. It had to be.

~/.\~

By the time Spencer got to work he had managed to work himself into a near nervous breakdown. Mycroft couldn't possibly be responsible for him getting this job. Could he? No, Gideon had told him when they first met that he thought Spencer had great promise and potential. Unless Gideon had only approached him because of Mycroft… He couldn't believe that. He'd gotten this job because of his qualifications.

He brushed passed Morgan in the hall, not even bothering to respond to his "Morning, Pretty Boy," and nearly knocking his coffee out of his hands as he stopped outside of Gideon's office door. He knocked several times on the door but decided not to wait for his boss's voice to call him in, instead pushing the door open and shutting it quite hard behind him.

Gideon looked up, blinking, "Spencer! What –"

"Do you know Mycroft Holmes?" Reid demanded, biting his lip, fixing Gideon with a half-desperate, half-angry stare. Normally, he would never have rushed into Gideon's office or spoken to him in such a blunt way, but Mycroft's words had rattled him earlier and he didn't like the idea that the older man wasn't just meddling with Sherlock's life, but his as well.

"Who?" Gideon frowned, sitting back, "Spencer, what's wrong?"

The young agent bit his lip, "Why did you offer me this job?" he asked, still sounding just a little bit desperate. He had to know. He had to.

Gideon studied the newest addition to his team, frowning slightly, "I told you, Spencer, you were the top of your class. Your test scores –"

"But why?" Spencer emphasized, "Why did you notice me? Was it really my scores or did someone tell you to…"

"No, it wasn't just your test scores, Spencer," Gideon said, "You were curious, you wanted to learn, you wanted this job more than anything and you were willing to fight to get it. That's what it was. I had to pull a lot of strings to get it to happen. You know that."

Slowly, he nodded, "But you've never heard the name Mycroft Holmes?"

"Should I have?" Gideon asked, frowning.

Reid smiled a bit, shaking his head, "No, sir. Sorry… I just…"

"Is something going on, Reid?" Gideon asked, "Anything I should know about?"

"No, sir," he shook his head again, "Everything's fine, just… I just was talking to a friend this morning, but… it doesn't matter. I'm fine."

Gideon raised a brow and nodded, smiling faintly, "Okay, well, we've got a slow morning, looks like. No cases so far; I'm sure you've got enough consults to keep you busy."

Reid smiled and ducked his head, quickly leaving the office and silently swearing at Mycroft in his mind. He would definitely make sure Mycroft paid for that; it was fine for him to try to manipulate Sherlock, Sherlock was his brother after all, but when he started trying to mess with him he was crossing a line. At least as far as he was concerned.

~/.\~

Sherlock's flight was delayed – well, Sherlock was delayed. He had to take a later flight because he and Mycroft had another of their arguments. Sherlock had changed his mind and refused to get on the plane. Apparently it took quite a bit of force to get him to agree to the flight.

Which worked out better for Spencer, in the end. He hadn't been looking forward to coming up with an explanation for leaving work to pick up his drug addict friend from the airport. Instead, Sherlock's flight didn't arrive until almost seven p.m. which meant he could just pick him up after work. Thankfully, it was a slow day, as Gideon had predicted. He'd managed to do four consults and would've stayed to finish the fifth, but he had to leave to get Sherlock so he took the file with him.

"Wow, leaving early, Reid?" Morgan teased from the desk across from him, "Never thought that'd happen."

Reid blinked as he paused, glancing down at the file, "I'm not leaving early," he said, "We're supposed to leave at five…"

Morgan smiled, "Yeah, but in the last five months you've never left before eight," he said, "What's different today? Got a hot date tonight?"

The younger man felt his face heat with his blush and he looked down, "No, of course not! I've just… got some things to do tonight, that's all."

Morgan raised a brow, "What sort of things?"

"Personal things," Reid said, turning and hurrying away before Morgan could ask him anymore questions.

He'd only been in the BAU for five months, but in those five months Derek had become a fairly close friend. Closer than the other agent on the team – Agent MacDonald - that is. The media liaison was nice enough and Spencer thought she was pretty and the technical analyst they'd recently hired was… interesting, to say the least. Hotchner was intimidating and kind of distant and Gideon was, well, Gideon. But so far Derek was the only one he considered a friend and he didn't want to stick around to let him try and pry more information out of him.

His cellphone buzzed as he exited the building and he frowned, pulling the phone out of his pocket, juggling the folders in his arms and sighing as he recognized Sherlock's number.

The plane's just landed. Come and get me, Nanny. –SH

He rolled his eyes and sent a quick reply, muttering under his breath:

I'm on my way. Be patient.

~/.\~

Reid frowned as Sherlock tossed his meager luggage into the backseat of his car. His friend hadn't packed much: a small duffle bag of clothes and his violin were the only things he had with him.

"Are you sure that's all you packed?" Spencer asked as Sherlock climbed into the passenger seat, a familiar sneer on his face as his steely eyes took in every detail of the old car, probably calculating dozens of insults about it as he sat there.

"What else is there to bring?" he asked, "I own nothing of consequence. For God's sake, Spencer, I've been living in a ratty motel room for over a month!"

Spencer sighed, shaking his head, "It's your own fault," he told him, "Mycroft offered you help. And your parents. I offered to help. You were too stubborn to accept it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh, don't be stupid, Spencer, I don't need help and even if I did, what Mycroft offered wasn't 'help' it was 'life management', which is a nice way of saying that he wanted me to give him complete control over my life from here on out. He'd like nothing more than for his little brother to be clean and sober and a model student…"

Spencer sighed, "What's so wrong with going to school? You like learning, remember?"

He sneered and shook his head, sighing dramatically, "Uni was boring. So mundane; all those childish idiots moaning about their petty, personal problems. And the professors were no better! Blathering like idiots. I can't believe any of them were even qualified to teach. Honestly, Spencer, it's a wonder anyone learns anything."

The young agent sighed, "I went to college," he said defensively, "I learned a lot from it."

"Yes, I know. You were also fourteen and even now you're still incredibly naïve. If you'd just use your intelligence for something proper –"

"Sherlock," Spencer sighed, deciding it wasn't even worth the argument. "Fine. Whatever. School is boring and pointless. What about your parents? I know they would've helped. Your mother isn't interested in controlling your life, just making sure you don't get yourself killed while you're trying to live it."

Sherlock snorted this time, making a face, "Mother and Father would never be happy if I accepted help from one of them, but not the other. Ever since the divorce they've managed to turn everything into some ridiculous competition. I refuse to be their pawn,"

"Right," Spencer nodded, resisting the strong urge to punch his friend, "And I guess you just forgot whose fault the divorce was, right?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Are you implying that it was my fault?"

"No," he shook his head, "I'm saying that if you could just… shut up for maybe five minutes and think before you speak your parents would probably still be together. You're the one who told your mother about the affair –"

"My Father was shagging the wife of a foreign diplomat!" Sherlock protested, "Do you think I should've just kept that information to myself?"

Spencer frowned, "Ignorance is bliss, Sherlock,"

"Ignorance is ignorance and it is also far too common,"

"And announcing it in the middle of that party probably didn't help matters either. You embarrassed your parents and ended two marriages. Don't you feel even a little bit bad about that?"

"Why should I?"

Spencer sighed, clenching the steering wheel tight and shaking his head, "You shouldn't, Sherlock, really. I'm sorry I even brought it up, okay?"

There was silence in the car for a long moment before Spencer frowned and turned to look at his older friend again, brows scrunching together as he studied him. "When was the last time you… used, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, "Why?"

"Because according to Mycroft it's been two days… If you were using as heavily as I think, shouldn't you be experiencing some withdrawal by now?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked out the window and Spencer frowned, glaring at him. "You shot up before you got on the plane, didn't you?"

Sherlock remained silent.

"Sherlock!"

"Of course I did!" Sherlock snapped, "And if you must know, these last several hours have been driving me absolutely mad! Spencer, I cannot do this. My brain can't take this… purposelessness. I need to stimulate my mind!"

Spencer felt the very real need to slam his fists against the steering wheel but he didn't, instead taking a deep breath and shaking his head, "You can do this, Sherlock. I know you can. We just… need to find something else for you to 'stimulate' your brain with."

Sherlock snorted again, "I've been looking for that answer for twenty-four years, Spencer. If it's not cocaine, I'd really like to know what it is."

Spencer gripped the wheel tight, his fingers longing to wrap around his arrogant, son of bitch friend's throat. Just once he'd like for him to sound at least a little appreciative for what he was doing. It wasn't exactly at the top of his lips of things to do: helping his narcissistic friend detox.

"I guess we'll just have to look harder then, won't we?" Spencer asked, casting Sherlock one more, annoyed look. "We can start tonight. I've got an entire box of Sudoku books you can work on."

Sherlock groaned loudly and Spencer grinned a bit. There was one good thing that came out of this at least; he could find new and inventive ways of annoying Sherlock.

~/.\~

Spencer was sitting on the couch in his small living room, bent over the coffee table, file open. Trying his best to concentrate of the facts of the case – a double homicide in Houston, Texas – and the crime scene photos that had been included with the consult. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock refused to make it easy for him, scraping away on his violin, standing near the hall door, pacing back and forth. He hadn't actually stopped moving since they'd arrived.

The really annoying thing was that Spencer knew for a fact Sherlock was playing badly on purpose. He'd heard his friend play the violin several times. He was excellent. But when he wanted to annoy someone, he scraped the bow across the strings with a violent sort of energy, purposefully causing the instrument to cry and whine at loud, piercing pitches. It sounded as if he were torturing the poor thing, to be honest.

It had been over an hour now and Reid was starting to realize the reason Sherlock had no friends. Besides himself, of course, and at the moment, even that was debatable.

"Sherlock!" Reid finally snapped, slamming the file shut, giving up on getting the consult done now. With Sherlock in his apartment he figured he'd be lucky he got to sleep that night.

Mercifully, Sherlock paused, lowing his bow and spinning around to face Spencer, steely eyes cutting into him. He noticed a sort of manic energy about his friend. He wasn't pacing at the moment, but his entire body seemed to be buzzing, unable to be entirely still.

"Yes?"

Sherlock's voice was tense, clearly aggravated. Spencer couldn't even begin to understand why. Sherlock was the one making things difficult on himself. If he'd just stop fidgeting. Just looking at the older man made Reid want to start twitching himself.

He sighed, "I'm going to bed," he said, "Try not to destroy my apartment while I'm asleep. Please."

Sherlock frowned, "I thought you were working?"

"I was," Spencer muttered, shaking his head, "But I can't focus on anything with you… trying to murder your violin."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, "I can't help that I'm bored, Spencer. I'm going to go insane. All this… sitting still and doing nothing. It's driving me mad!"

"So do something," Spencer said, "I don't care what as long as it's not illegal or dangerous."

He made a face at the FBI agent, "If it's not dangerous, where's the fun?"

"I give up," Spencer sighed, "Don't kill anyone, don't do any drugs. Have all the fun you want. Good night."

He turned and practically slammed the door to his bedroom, leaving Sherlock alone in the living room with his violin. Bored out of his mind.

~/.\~

Sherlock was, to say the least, extremely unhappy. Mycroft had taken his drugs, his father had cut him off and his mother wasn't exactly the most pleased with him either. He was frankly surprised he still had Spencer, but he was sure if he pushed him just a little bit farther he wouldn't even have him anymore.

He was beginning to think that might be a good thing. If there was no one left to care, that meant there was no one to pester him and call him and text him with their stupid, pointless words of concern.

It wasn't his fault they didn't understand what he was going through. Well, Spencer might. He was nearly as smart as he was, after all, but clearly he didn't think Sherlock was handling his problems the "correct" way. As if there was some magical, "correct" way to handle one's problems.

He couldn't think. It was like every thought was bombarding him all at once, screaming for acknowledgement. His nerves were on edge, there was absolutely no way he could be expected to sit still and do nothing. He was like a caged animal, energy and thoughts and ideas racing out of control, begging to be released. And he'd found a solution, a very good, albeit illegal, 7% solution.

He hadn't actually started out with the cocaine. He'd started with the nicotine when he was fourteen. His father had nearly had a fit when he found the cigarettes. He made it very clear that he did not want his youngest son smoking. Sherlock hadn't seen what the big deal was. They certainly helped him focus his thoughts and besides that, Mycroft smoked. When he'd pointed that out to his father he'd just told him Mycroft was an adult, and then proceeded to ban even the elder Holmes brother from smoking while around Sherlock.

It hadn't made any difference, of course. Sherlock wasn't a genius for nothing. He could hide a few cigarettes from his parents if he wanted to.

He hadn't moved onto the harder drugs until he was seventeen. He'd never "experimented" with drugs, as his teachers, professors and parents were fond of saying. He'd only ever used cocaine and was extremely ridged in both choice of drug and method of administering said drug.

Always a seven percent solution, always with a syringe – he'd never snorted cocaine and never would, not matter how desperate.

It wasn't as if he was sharing needles with prostitutes. Or anyone else, for that matter. Sherlock might have been an addict – and he refused to fully accept that fact even now – but he was no idiot.

The cocaine had worked even better than the cigarettes had. His mind was clear; he could focus on things, no longer feeling like he was on the edge of a cliff, about to jump, chained to the floor and unable to move.

Needless to say, his parents had been furious when they'd found out. He managed to hide it from them for over a year, a fact that he was quite proud of if he were honest. And then he'd managed to convince them he was clean six months later when he left home for University. Of course, Mycroft hadn't been fooled and Spencer hadn't either.

The phone calls began, the texts, the emails. After a year, he'd taken time off school to visit Spencer and quickly realized that was a mistake. Spencer was more observant than he remembered and also a genius himself. He couldn't hide the drug use from him and he earned himself more than one sanctimonious lecture about the perils of drug use and the nasty effects they could have. He left for London again as soon as he could, but the damage had been done.

Spencer called Mycroft, who called his parents. He dropped out of Uni six months later. No use bothering to keep up pretenses.

He bounced from motel to motel after that, his father refusing to even speak to him and his mother not letting him come back home as long as he was using. Mycroft offered to let him stay with him. Sherlock flat out refused to even consider that.

And where had all of that running left him? Taking ridiculous side jobs, trying to find something that …fit properly. Living in motel rooms. It got to the point where if he didn't have the drugs or cigarettes he laid in bed for days, watching crap telly without even really watching.

He became nearly as addicted to crime shows. They were unrealistic at best and monstrously insulting at worst, but it was, at least, something to engage his mind. He began surfing the internet for crime columns and researching real crime. It became a side hobby, one that was a helpful distraction when he didn't have any cocaine. And then he began phoning in anonymous tips to the police one night after reading about a mugging in a local area.

It was something to do at least.

Until two days ago, he had been perfectly alright living the way he was. But then he'd nearly died (he was seriously unsure Mycroft was telling him the truth here. It couldn't have really been that bad) and now he was sitting in Spencer's apartment, thousands of miles from home and without drugs or proper distraction.

Mycroft's last words to him before he'd boarded the plan were almost constantly on loop in his mind:

"Get yourself together, Sherlock. You know I can't always be there to pull you out of these messes you make,"

He scoffed, shaking his head. He didn't need Mycroft's help. Or anyone else's for that matter. He was entirely in control of his own life and had no reason to "get himself together" as Mycroft had insisted. He was fine.

Well, he had been. Until Mycroft had taken his cocaine and his cigarettes. What was he supposed to do for distraction now? There was nothing in Spencer's apartment that was interesting in the least and he'd been wandering around for over an hour, muttering to himself, scraping away on his violin, pacing back and forth. Anything to not sit down.

His eyes scanned the room and he sighed. Television? Boring. Text books? Dull. Consult file? Tedious. Violin? Not now.

His pacing suddenly stopped and his eyes flicked back to the consult file that Spencer had left sitting on the coffee table. An idea just beginning to form in his head. Slowly he approached it and sat down where his friend had been sitting earlier, flipping the yellow folder open and letting his eyes scan the pages, taking in every detail of the photographs.

Ever so slightly, he relaxed, eyes widening, pupils dilating, thoughts clearing. A faint smile traced his features as he began sorting facts and theories in his head, becoming engrossed in the file.

~/.\~

Spencer was woken up at nearly two in the morning by Sherlock, anxiously shaking him awake. The FBI agent grumbled and rolled over, blinking up at his friend in the darkness.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

"Do you have a copy machine?"

"What?"

"A copy machine… To make copies with," Sherlock clarified, looking vaguely annoyed.

Spencer glanced at the clock and scrubbed at his eyes, "It's two a.m. Sherlock," he muttered, "Why are you still awake?"

"Can't sleep. Sleeping is boring. Do you or do you not own a copy machine?"

"Why?" Spencer asked, yawning and feeling his eyelids begin to droop again. He was so tired. All he wanted to do was sleep, but apparently Sherlock wasn't going to let him do that just yet.

"Not important, just answer the question,"

"Yeah," he nodded, rolling back over and closing his eyes, "The spare bedroom. Where you're supposed to be sleeping. Can I go back to sleep now?"

He got no response and frowned, rolling over again, "Sherlock?"

But he was already gone. Rolling his eyes, he turned back onto his side and went back to sleep, humming quietly to himself.

~/.\~

Spencer woke early the next morning to the sound of Sherlock's violin. He blinked himself awake and sighed, tossing the covers back and making his way into the living room. He was surprised to see that Sherlock wasn't there, and followed the music to the spare bedroom where the door was standing slightly ajar.

He pushed it open the rest of the way and found Sherlock staring out the window, violin tucked under his chin, bow gliding over the strings, playing a slow, gentle melody. Much nicer than the screeching from the previous night.

"Sherlock?" he frowned, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock continued playing and Reid sighed, shaking his head, "Sherlock!"

The older man stopped suddenly and sighed, turning around, "Yes, Spencer?"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine,"

"Okay…" he frowned, "What are you doing in here?"

Sherlock blinked, "Playing my violin. I would have thought that, at least, was obvious,"

Spencer rolled his eyes, "That's not what I meant, Sherlock,"

"Then your question was entirely pointless,"

"I meant why are you playing? Did you go to sleep last night?"

Sherlock snorted, "Sleep? No, too much thinking to get done,"

Reid raised a brow, "And the violin?"

"Helps me think," Sherlock said, turning around and drawing his bow across the strings. Spencer sighed and shook his head, shutting the door behind him and getting ready for work. He'd eaten breakfast, grabbed his consult and had his second cup of coffee and Sherlock still hadn't stopped playing. He didn't bother going back to the spare bedroom, calling out his goodbye before heading off to work.

~/.\~

Spencer hadn't gotten to the consult that day – Gideon asked the team to the conference room to go over a bigger case. A serial killer in Louisiana who'd been active for the past six months. They weren't asked to assist in person yet, but the locals could certainly use their help and they'd spent most of the day bouncing theories off each other to develop a profile on the killer.

It was nearly six by the time he got home, hungry and tired and carrying the consult file under his arm again. Maybe tonight Sherlock wouldn't be quite as annoying. He hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock alone for any longer than he had to; Sherlock hadn't been answering his texts or phone calls and he was getting worried.

"Sherlock? Are you still here –" he stopped abruptly, blinking as he entered his living room to find Sherlock standing in the middle of a hurricane of papers. Photos were splayed out on the coffee table and couch and Sherlock was standing with his hands on his hips, reading over something and huffing, tossing it aside and picking up a photo.

"Sherlock?" Reid frowned, stepping further into the room, "What… is all of this?"

"Hmm? Oh, your consult," Sherlock said, motioning to the file Reid was holding in his arms.

"My… wait… You…" Reid spluttered, picking up on of the photographs and realizing it was a crime scene photo from the file. "You copied my file! Sherlock, that's illegal!"

"No it isn't," Sherlock said dismissively, frowning, "Is it?"

Spencer sighed, shaking his head, "Why?" he asked, sitting the file down in the only clear spot he could find and surveying the mess that his friend had made of his apartment. At least everything still seemed to be intact and Sherlock appeared to be in a much better mood than he had been the previous night.

"Because I doubted you'd allow me to take the file, so I made sure I had copies of everything before you left for work," Sherlock explained.

"But… why?" Reid asked, still confused. "I thought you hated police work."

"No, don't be ridiculous, I don't hate police work. I simply believe that police themselves and law enforcement in general is a tedious and often pointless profession. Especially when most of the people doing the work are idiots, and as you know, practically everyone is,"

Spencer rolled his eyes, "So you copied my file because…"

"I was bored," Sherlock said, shrugging as if that was the most logical and reasonable answer to be given. "The case was interesting. And I think I've solved it,"

"…Solved it?" Reid asked, "How could you –"

"The killer is a male, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. A heavy drinker and probably a career criminal. He's also related to the female victim. Likely a brother, possibly a cousin, though I doubt it,"

"You profiled the killer? I thought you didn't believe in Behavioral Science!"

"I don't," Sherlock scoffed, "I simply looked at the facts that had been presented and posited a theory from there. Simple, really… Despite the fact that the police officials were rather lax in their information gathering. Honestly, it's a wonder they get any cases solved at all."

Spencer sighed, "Yeah, right, I get it, Sherlock. Cops are all idiots and you're the smartest man on the planet,"

Sherlock smirked and Reid rolled his eyes as his friend sifted through the papers to find his violin, "I also had an epiphany while you were at work,"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. I haven't thought about cocaine all day. It has come to my attention that as long as I have a sufficiently distracting puzzle to keep my mind stimulated I won't require the use of drugs,"

Reid frowned, "Right… And what are you going to do with that information?"

"Dunno," Sherlock shrugged, "I'm sure I'll think of something once I get back to London from this stint in… Purgatory."

Spencer rolled his eyes, "Fine. Congratulations, Sherlock. Really. Hungry?"

Sherlock frowned, "Starving," he said, "I haven't eaten in days."

Spencer sighed, "Why not?"

"Digestion interferes with my thinking," he said simply.

"Of course it does," Reid muttered, "Chinese?"

"Can you use chopsticks now?"

"Shut up, Sherlock,"

Sherlock grinned, turning his back to his friend while he went into the kitchen to order their take-out. A moment later, Spencer smiled faintly as he heard the slow, gentle notes beginning to swoon and swell from Sherlock's violin.

-the end-

A/N: Well that was a long oneshot. But I really enjoyed writing it. Hope you guys enjoyed it as well! Please let me know what you think!

And I swear, I'll get around to writing another fic with John as soon as my muse allows me to.

Please don't forget to review!