A/N: If you ask me if there's a plan, yes, there's always a plan. A very abstract, flexible plan, but nonetheless a plan. We'll see where this goes, huh? Part one of more. -csf

I.

Sherlock's recent exploit into the academic medium as a guest lecturer opened unsuspected new doors to my friend's very specific chosen field of work. From night to day, he became the targeted focus of forensic queries from all new areas. No longer solely desperate client's pen pals, Lestrade's helpers and Scotland Yard's little secret, Sherlock was flooded with fresh new interest from other forensic connoisseurs.

Resurrected were the blog entries on ash, foot and tyre prints, fibres and toxins. In fact, the consulting detective was a bit annoyed all these experts had not read his numerous monographs before, some of which published online for over ten years now. At first he responded to the contact requests with lengthy lectures, later with embedded links, finally with useless shouting at the laptop screen – that up until I pushed down the laptop lid and forced Sherlock to step away from the onslaught of queries and requests for help.

'I need to create an apprenticeship programme', he finally said, his jittery fingers still quivering slightly as he accepted a warm cup of tea. It's the shock talking.

I take a seat across the room, at the sofa, and urge him:

'Like a detective firm? Baker Street's Detective Agency?' I ponder, wonder what I'd look like in a trench cost and fedora hat.

Just about as ridiculous as a deerstalker.

Sherlock can pull anything off, though.

My friend shifts on my armchair to face me full on.

'What else am I supposed to do? There are people wanting to learn to be me!'

I study the sharp angles on my friend's face, twisted in incredulity. Despite a high notion of self-worth, the idea that regular folks would want to emulate him is incomprehensible to the genius.

'Don't worry too much. You're one of a kind, Sherlock.'

He squints and leans forward.

'I can spread the rumour that it's actually you the clever one.'

I smirk, not taking prejudice at all.

'Nah, you're the one with sharp cheekbones and feline eyes.'

'Can they not see your run-of-the-mill look is far more productive in creating and sustaining disguises while pursuing suspects?'

'Less heroic, though', I remind the detective as I get up to take my mug to the sink.

Sherlock just won't let go. 'You're a medalled army hero.'

I'm losing my patience so I carefully reply: 'True, but I can't solve as many crime scenes.'

'I could feed you the answers through a concealed earbud, or electric impulses from a microchip under your skin.'

I give him a long sideways look. 'I'll pass, thanks.'

Sherlock huffs and falls back on my armchair, making the springs bounce him jerkily. He looks uncomfortable long after this springs settle. I try to find a way to ease his discomfort.

'I thought you liked the attention' – is what I end up saying instead.

He looks at me thoughtfully, watching me return to the living room, and having to take his leather chair in order to sit closer to him.

'I'm flattered', he admits trying his mightiest to keep a straight face. 'But I do not wish to be consulted in each inane problem some halfwit investigator finds in his way to a meagre salary. I want to good cases, John! The juicy murders, the impossible locked room mysteries, the death defying tricks! I did not become a consulting detective to get asked on haemoglobin irregularities or genetic illnesses of a specific chromosome.'

'Wow, you were asked on genetics?'

He looks away. 'Not really, more like the difference in textures in shed dog hairs by species and age of the canine, and something or other about radioactive meteoric dust – but that one turned out to be a fluke, because they wanted another professor Holmes, at the Royal Astronomical Society.'

'I'm sure you gave them your opinion on radioactive star dust regardless.'

'Maybe', he admits, looking so far off now as to study the empty fireplace grate. 'But John', he turns to me so quickly he startles me, 'I don't want to become an old academic specialist in forensic science that sits in his office and collect reports from enslaved undergraduates on short-term bursaries! Who would help Lestrade chase criminals across London?'

Good question. And although these days my shoulder silently aches in the background every other day, I too don't want to give up our enjoyment for a stuffy life in an university or museum's research department.

'Right. Well, you don't have to make major life decisions just yet', I end up saying, getting up after patting his knee affectionately. 'And whatever you choose, I'm supportive.'

'But you won't legally change your name to Sherlock Holmes and dye your hair black', he still tries.

'Black? There are more than a few silvery strands on that mop of curls of yours, Sherlock.'

Like I expected, he dashes to the bathroom mirror to check his hair and see if it's true. That should keep him distracted for the rest of the day. Good to see my friend keeps his priorities in check.

.

I struggle momentarily to open the corroded window frame, whilst Sherlock watches me, amused.

'There are no plants to water, John', he alludes to the narrow balcony space and railing overhanging the street sidewalk below. It's a narrow, unused space that leans over the sidewalk.

Sherlock is still studying me. 'Ha! You have arranged for something to happen. What a little break from the monotony! Are you planning on surprising me? I sure hope you are. I should like a surprise.'

I glance, most confused, back at my flatmate, when a projectile flies through the window, hitting me squarely in the face, then plopping down in the floor. 'Ah, dammit!' I massage a sore cheek with grudge as I lean back out of the window. 'Cheers, Harry!'

Behind me, Sherlock drops all pretence of disinterest and rushes to catch a glimpse of Harry as she walks away – the Watsons are not lengthy talkers – but he too fumbles with the window lock, and by the time he succeeds in opening the other window she is but a dark speck far away at the end of the street turning the corner.

'Your sister? Why is she so rude? Why does she not visit you?' He squints squarely in my face, towering over me for a simple power play, trying to read my innermost thoughts. That's where he believes my family relationships will lie; concealed in the expression lines of my face, huh?

I chuckle through a smirk, but leave it at that. Sherlock obliges to pick up the bunch of metal keys off the floor and raise them up between us. He tries to study them attentively. I wonder what even a detective like him can make out of a nondescript bunch of keys, or my intentions through them. I give him time to analyse it all, to go ballistic whilst trying to predict my intentions, to wow me by relaying back things I have not yet explained.

'Your cheek is bleeding', he tells me gently with a tentative raise of fingertips. I raise my hand first and feel that hot stinking area.

'Sisterly love', I claim easily.

He smirks. 'You didn't tell me she was such a good shot, John.'

Gently he leads me back to the sofa and has me sitting down while he fetches my first aid kit.

'Don't move, John.'

.

John Watson is a gentle giant; despite his short stature, that is. He sits with his back ramrod straight on the sofa, as if he disagreed with very nature of the piece of furniture. No peep or protest does he make while I'm away. And by the time I arrive the only thing that has moved is a soft touch thumb rolling over the cut metal pieces of keys. I wonder what they mean, what he intends to do. He knows he can effectively drive me crazy by not telling me the secret he holds. Fascinating. He surprises me yet again.

I return quietly to John, taking a seat on the coffee table in order to face him straight on. He takes the first aid kit from my hands with dextrous moves, so I'm left holding a small mirror so we can see while disinfecting and covering that wound.

'Hold it up like that. Oh, and – ugh – take a look at the van keys.'

I do just that, strung along by invisible threads of curiosity.

'As a crime been committed?' I start, twenty questions style.

He succeeds in frowning and opening his eyes wide. 'Gosh, I hope not.' John's eyes are a deep set of ocean blue today, flaked with sandy browns, as if he carried echoes of the desert with him forever. Perhaps he does.

'Too bad. Maybe a nice murder next time?'

'Not in my sister's van', he maintains, adamant. Spoilsport. 'She wouldn't be pleased. She's lending it to us, Sherlock. We're going on the road.' He smiles, that rare wide grin that is John's alone, that could sway armies and win wars without a battle.

'Going where?' I still protest, true to form. But his satisfaction is contagious, willing me to give it a try.

Famous last words, a more recalcitrant part of my brain supplies wisely.

'It's a road trip. It's not about the destination, but the journey', he insists.

I blink when faced with his gratuitous platitudes.

'Do you mean we are consuming fossil fuels for no reason whatsoever?'

'Yes and no, Greta. You are, of course, right, but there is a reason, I'm just not explaining it to you. It's easier if I show you how a road trip works, Sherlock. It can do you wonders when you are searching for a decision over a life path.'

All micro traits of honesty are presently displayed in his features. He believes what he says.

'How does that even work?' I openly scrunch my face in distaste.

He seems taken back, but recovers quickly.

'Through the power of metaphors?' he shrugs, blasé.

'And who's Greta?'

'I'll explain when we come back, Sherlock', he answers me defiantly, pushing away the mirror and first aid kit.

He knows he's got me curious now. Only John plays me this well. Not even Jim Moriarty had better access than my best friend.

.

'There's still a global pandemic alert, Sherlock, and technically this is anything but essential travelling; thank goodness we're done with that restriction for now...'

John keeps muttering away as we walk the crowded streets of London. Some people have face coverings over half their visages, other refuse to do so over fears of a governmental conspiracy, that, like all others, uses indiscreet technical capabilities to spy on individual citizens and find them in crowds. If only they realised that covering half their faces with fabric was a better way of avoiding identification, or noticed Mycroft's spoofs pick on patterns of behaviour as much as face markers to find their targets, perhaps then everyone would better protect themselves and we could actually get rid of this virus instead of just riding the early exponential infections before learning to co-inhabit the world.

John drags me along to a nearby parking lot. A grimy, open air, fenced tarmac area, where he quickly zooms in on a decrepit looking blue van. I'm too overdressed for this, I notice as I glance at John's customary oatmeal sweater. John still dresses warmly to this day, even as temperatures are gentle at this time of year. More than the hideous sweater, it's John's demeanour that attracts my attention. His movements are loose, his chin is held up but there are little signs of tension in his marked jawline. His features have softened by the prospect of this silly metaphor-powered exercise.

'Well, what do you think?' he asks me, hung up on my reactions.

'Intriguing.'

'You're not even looking at the van!'

I blink. He's caught me. Wait, what of it if I'm studying John? I always do that.

'You're not driving. You are a terrible driver.' I wait with a palm open between us.

He huffs but gives in quickly. 'We can swap when you get tired.'

Tired of living? I shudder to think of John's driving.

I must be malfunctioning in my hard drive, I notice, as I open the van door to a musty old seats and sun overheated plastic fittings.

'Get in, John. The open road awaits us.'

.

TBC