Sherlock was serious about the hard drive. What he filled it with must be useful—necessary. What was dull, trivial, boring, unimportant—unnecessary—had no place there.

That was all fine.

What wasn't fine was what had become necessary.

He had realized in Dartmoor. He had kept it together in Dartmoor, because there was the Work.

He understood, theoretically, that friends were supposed to make one happy and you were supposed to have them. He understood, from the Work, that friends often cheated, lied to, stole from, and even killed you, but people still seemed to want them. He understood, not from Mycroft but from every piece of data available, that caring was not an advantage. Sentiment is a defect found in the losing side.

He tried to eradicate the traces of it from his hard drive. I don't take sugar had no place in the Work. It shouldn't be in his head. It was dull, trivial, boring, unimportant.

But it stuck. The same way an impression in the grass or a mark on a sleeve might stick—noticed but not yet understood.

The teacher clearly knew nothing of importance. Lestrade could listen to her whine. He went and stood by the window—irritatingly covered by brightly coloured paper tulips—and tried to figure out why the kitchen table was wrong. It was definitely wrong. Something about the dishes? The dishes made sense if they were left over from the night before. Maybe—

"Who are you?"

He looked down in irritation at the girl (about six years old but small for her age, single father, owns a goldfish, good fine motor control but clumsy so perhaps undergoing an over-due growth spurt?) about to tape a drawing to the wall next to him.

"I'm a policeman," he said.

"Are you going to arrest Miss Park?"

"I hardly think so," he said acidly.

"Gemma thinks you are because Miss Park is crying, but I said Miss Park was too nice for arresting. Gemma is my best friend. Do you have a best friend?"

"No."

"You must."

"I don't have friends," he said, but quietly, refusing to look anywhere except out the window.

"Oh no! Just like Twilight Sparkle."

He blinked. "What?"

The little girl reached out and patted him on the knee, looking up at him with a ridiculous expression on her face. "Don't worry. Someday you'll have lots of friends, just like her."

"Sherlock," called Lestrade from across the room.

It took him some time to realize John wasn't in the flat. Vaguely annoyed, he got up and took the samples out of the freezer himself. They would need to thaw before he could look at them, so he collapsed on the couch.

"Bored," he muttered.

John's laptop was sitting on the coffee table. Checking again that John's shoes and coat were gone, he picked it up and opened it.

He Googled "Twilight Sparkle". It seemed to be a character from a children's television programme.

After the nauseating intro he shut the laptop in disgust, then reopened it and closed the window. And deleted the history.

The older sister reminded him inexplicably of Mycroft.

John was definitely upset. The harder question was why. The man they had been interviewing had clearly been an alcoholic—even John could see that—and that always set John on edge. But it wasn't until they had got home and John had found out that he'd been lied to about the reason he couldn't go into his own bedroom (housing a fugitive, not being repainted) that he had gotten really upset. And not until Sherlock had told John that it wasn't important that John had stormed out.

He dealt with the aftermath of the case and got the woman out of the house. Then the empty time began to set in, much too quickly. He checked the website and John's blog and some old papers. There was nothing. He shouldn't be bored so quickly. Why wasn't John back yet? It was late. Pubs would be closing soon—unless he was at someone's house. Whose? It was unlikely. He tried playing the details of the case over in his mind. It had been a good one. Almost impossible, except for the gloves. The gloves had been a big mistake. But his thoughts kept slipping back to Dartmoor. John walking away from him in that stupid green coat. Stupid stupid stupid. It was clear something had to be done. He went and fetched John's laptop from his room.

The characters were infantile and annoying. Even Twilight Sparkle could hardly focus on her Work. No wonder people were all such idiots when this was what they were being raised on. And that little lizard thing, getting all worked up over a pretty face, just like John—it set his teeth on edge. And just look what happened—eternal darkness—all because of these stupid ideas of "friendship". After one episode he was irritated, and John was still gone. He upended the apartment looking for nicotine patches. He texted John.

Where are my nicotine patches? –SH

He lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling with his lips pursed.

Woman is gone. Room is fine. –SH

There was no reply. After a few minutes, he got up and walked to the kitchen, feeling vindictive. He poured the half-carton of milk from the fridge down the drain and put the empty container back in the fridge.

He looked at some old cultures that were still littering the kitchen table. John still wasn't back. Pubs would definitely be closed by now. He fiddled with his violin for a few minutes.

The second episode was even worse. It was absurd. Magic. And all the things—all the weaknesses—he despised. Honesty, kindness, laughter, generosity, and loyalty. He hated them. But—

"Because you're an idiot."

"I'm just saying, it's all fine."

"Nothing. Just...Welcome to London."

"That was...amazing."

"Yes, that's true, isn't it. But he wasn't a very nice man."

Dull, trivial, boring, unimportant. Stupid stupid stupid. He deleted the history and rolled over.

"Sherlock, will you please eat this?"

"I'm missing something," he said grimly, putting his hands up for silence. The time of the discovery was suspicious, but the woman's story was sound. That route was habitual for her. Habitual...

"It's just toast. I haven't seen you eat anything since yesterday morning."

Her husband had an alibi. She said no one else knew her route in any detail...She had kept her phone in her hand the whole time. A smartphone...

"Sherlock."

He opened his mouth to snap at John, and then hesitated. "Didn't you make some for yourself?" he said instead.

"What?" said John, still holding the plate out to him like he was trying to tempt him, "No, I eat meals like a normal human being. I made this for you."

"While friendship is about giving of ourselves to friends, it's also about accepting what our friends have to offer."

"Thank you, John," he said, taking the plate.

"Oh, uh, that's alright. You're going to eat that, then?"

"Yes. Now go away. I have to think."

Once John left the room he slid the toast off the plate and hid it under the couch, making a note to retrieve it later. The phone was a new model, but well-used. Not for business; she took comfort in it. A lover? Or maybe a blog...

John walked by the sitting room, pulling on his coat. "I'm going out," he called.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked from where he was perched in front of the TV.

"Out. On a date."

Sherlock made a face reflexively. "Is this the "artist" or the one who insists on wearing pigtails?" he asked.

John's face went hard and neutral. "It's Leanne," he said.

"Though it's impossible to control who your friends hang out with, it is possible to control your own behaviour."

"Well, I hope," he said, floundering a little, "That you have a lovely time."

John stared at him. "Thanks," he said slowly, still staring.

"Don't be late," he said primly. John shook his head and walked off, shutting the door behind him.

The man is irritating him. He's already called Lestrade, John, and Sherlock all idiots, as if he was in any position to point fingers. Lestrade can obviously tell Sherlock is close to snapping, because he's trying to impose his body between them.

"I don't even have to answer these questions. I'm doing you a favour here, and I don't appreciate being cross-examined by a puffed-up amateur and his little pet," hissed the man, guesturing at John.

His eyes narrowed. "Lestrade," he said, "Go ahead and arrest him."

"On what grounds?" asked Lestrade, sounding exasperated.

"I believe you'll find he has something illegal in his bag. Drugs would be my guess, but I could be wrong. I'm not a professional, after all."

Lestrade looked hard at him, and then turned back to the man. "If I could see your bag?" he said.

"No, you cannot!" said the man, his voice a little higher.

"That should ensure his cooperation. Let me know if he says anything useful," Sherlock said, turning and walking away. John followed him, chuckling a little once they were out of earshot.

"What was that?"

He sniffed. "It's okay to be proud of your talents, and there are times when it's appropriate to show them off, especially when you're standing up for your friends, John," he said.

He threw John's coat at him as he walked towards the door.

"Are we going somewhere?" asked John, pulling it on and hurrying after him.

"The zoo, John!" he said, glancing back with a grin as he opened the door.

"Of course, the zoo," John muttered, "Where else would we be going?"

"It's a good idea to stop and listen to your friend's ideas and perspectives."

Sherlock stopped abruptly in the doorway and John collided with his back. "Don't you think the zoo is a good place to start looking for the orangutan?" he asked, turning on his heel to stare at John intently.

"Um, yes," said John, "Although I'm not sure why we're looking for an orangutan."

Sherlock huffed at him. "Never mind," he said, "I'll explain in the cab. Come on!"

"You didn't ask about the horse?" asked Sherlock in disbelief.

"Why would I ask about the horse? You said the horse had nothing to do with the case," said John pausing with his fork half-way to his mouth and a quizzical expression on his face.

"The death! I said the horse had nothing to do with the death! I shouldn't have let you go talk to him alone." He threw himself back against his chair.

"I'll go back and ask about the horse, alright?" said John, stabbing at his pasta, "Sorry."

Sherlock's eyes flicked back to John's face worriedly. "No, don't be," he said.

John blinked. "What?"

"Um, when somepo—somebody offers to do you a favour...you shouldn't be overly critical of something generously given to you."

"Okay, good," said John. He finally ate the pasta on his fork, looking perplexed.

"There's some take-away in the fridge if you want dinner," John said, heading for the door.

"You should never be afraid to show your true feelings with a good friend."

"I wish you wouldn't," said Sherlock from where he was laying on the couch.

"Leave you take-away? It's from the place you like."

"No, go out. I wish you wouldn't."

"Well, I can't just not go out, Sherlock," said John, straightening from retying his shoe, "I have a date. And it's not like we have a case."

"I don't see what could possibly appeal to you about it."

"Dating? Well, let's see, going out and meeting new people? Having a girlfriend? Not being shut up with you in the flat all the time? You're not really a barrel of fun between cases. You've been snippy all day."

"I'm not trying to be 'fun'. You're not even really interested."

"Sherlock."

"It's a first date, and that's your fourth best shirt."

John walked out of the flat instead of answering. Sherlock rolled over irritably.

"Being jealous and telling lies gets you nowhere in friendship."

He dug his phone out of the pocket of his dressing gown and played with it for a minute. Eventually he sent the text.

Sorry. –SH

A few minutes later the phone vibrated in his palm.

It's fine. Eat the take-away, it needs to be eaten. –JW

He got up and went to the fridge. He smelled the curry, but put it back. On his way back to the couch, he grabbed John's laptop. He opened it up and settled in to start season two.