The Broken Tango
John looked down on all the unpaid bills on the hall table with a sigh, and a despairing grimace. The sound of violin music filtered in from the living room, as he limped in.
Sherlock Holmes stood by the window, gazing dreamily out at the busy street below, just frosting over with ice, his violin in hand as he played a mournful tune. John went to roll his eyes, knowing that Sherlock was in one of his 'bored' phases.
John wandered to one of the comfortable armchairs by the fire, and sank into it. After a minute more of sad strings, he shifted and spoke.
"Sherlock,"
No answer.
"Sherlock!" John tried again, a little louder but Sherlock's eyes didn't even flicker. The light from the window created a halo around his dark form, in tight-fitting trousers and shirt, so he looked like the Prince of Darkness personified. Feeling irritation rise, if a slightly fond irritation, John snapped. "SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and stopped playing, laying his bow down with an impatient sigh.
"John, you really shouldn't bellow so loudly. All that nonsense on the drill field doesn't quite apply here," he muttered, before finally turning to face his flatmate. What is it?"
By way of explanation, John held up the unpaid bills pointedly, at which Sherlock's quick thinking brain immediately surmised the reason.
"Ahh, I see. Your constant concern for the bills, our lack of income, notwithstanding your occupation as a locum, and now the rather rude interruption of my violin practice-" he began, but John spoke across him.
"Hark who's talking!" he snorted, remembering countless dates with Sarah, which Sherlock had interrupted either in person, or by text. Sherlock continued like he hadn't spoken.
"…all point to your supposition that taking on another flatmate would ease our financial troubles. Correct?" he tilted his head to the side with one of his sarcastic smirks, a stray curl flopping into his eyes. John rolled his eyes.
"It would help," he muttered. "We have that spare room, after all. It would also help if you actually took some of these consulting jobs on. I mean that is what you are, isn't it? Consulting detective?"
"Not for a bunch of corporate vultures thank you. They're no fun," Sherlock retorted with a snort, turning back to his violin. "Fine, find another flatmate if it'll stop you whining."
"I'm not whining," John muttered under his breath, standing and walking out to the kitchenette.
"Sure you're not," Sherlock replied smugly, picking up his bow and randomly picking a piece to play, as he mused on the statistical likelihood that Lestrade might call him with another murder.
Two Days Later…
"So judging from the band of lighter skin on your left ring finger, you were married but are not now. The skin is slightly raw, so the ring was forcefully removed. Your clothes are good quality, Bond Street, but you're clearly down on your luck to be coming to us, otherwise you would be able to afford somewhere else. You have a slight tan, so travelled but not in the last six weeks, so your tan has faded. Investment banker, returned from a disastrous interlude with a lover in the Maldives, but your wife found out and threw you out. You then lost rather a lot of money for your bank, which by the pen in your left jacket pocket, I can surmise it was Barclays Bank, and was fired. Did I miss anything?" Sherlock asked cheerily, as the man sitting opposite them gaped in indignation and pure shock.
"H-how did you know-?" he began to splutter, as John wanted to hide his head in his hands. This was the third one in two days.
"About the Maldives? Simple, the luggage tag is still on your bag. As for the event of your firing from your job, it is very simple. As an investment banker, as evidenced by your clothes and the pen in your jacket pocket, you should be able to afford somewhere better, but are somewhat down on funds at the moment due to your divorce and the loss of your job, something which could only come around from two things. Staff redundancies due to cuts, unlikely considering the profits declared recently, or if you made such a mistake as to lose several million pounds on an idiotic venture. Considering your misstep with your wife and lover, the latter seemed more likely," Sherlock concluded, and John couldn't help but be impressed, again.
Not that it helped their situation.
Ten minutes later John closed the door on a slightly irate, former investment banker divorcee.
Shaking his head, he wandered back into the front room where Sherlock was busy plucking at his violin again.
"What?" he growled, at which John jumped before bristling himself.
"What what?" he retorted, glaring at the taller man, now folded into an armchair nonchalantly. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.
"I'm waiting for the tirade, which from your stance and the sigh you gave on the doorstep, is no doubt coming my way," he replied curtly.
"Do you have to insult and scare off every potential flatshare? First with that uni student-"
"On drugs and gay, but not out of the closet," Sherlock interjected.
"-Then with the taxi driver who needed a flat-" John continued irately.
Sherlock shuddered. "Can't look at cabbies the same way since that case. Anyway, I made most of that stuff up. Mostly."
"-and now with this one. Can't you find it in yourself to hold off on the…deductions until we get a flatmate?" John asked angrily. Sherlock rolled his eyes just as his Blackberry pinged.
"No. They're going to have live with me," he muttered, sliding it out and flicking it open. A moment later a boyish smile dawned on his face.
To anyone but John, it would have looked ghoulish on his austere features.
"Come on. We have been summoned," Sherlock bounced from his chair, and almost running to the door like an eager little child. John followed with a sigh.
Sherlock bounced along the drafty corridor filled with DIs and uniformed police, passing Lestrade without a word, but the older man stopped to incline his head warmly to John.
"What have we got?" John asked as the two walked side by side after Sherlock, who stopped to crucify a glaring Anderson with a cheery "Anderson, seeing you always reminds me how much of an idiot you are."
"Apparent suicide. A young woman in her late twenties, hung herself. Suicide is the obvious assumption," Lestrade explained, but Sherlock snorted derisively.
"I would have thought you'd learnt by now, never go with the obvious. Or have you been spending too much time around Anderson again?"
John rolled his eyes, before walking into the crime scene.
Both John and Sherlock stopped dead, at the sight of the young woman in black biker leathers, loose brunette hair streaming down her back, prowling around the body with a feline grace.
Lestrade saw their surprise with amusement, as he stepped forward.
"Sherlock, John allow me to introduce my niece. Irene Adler," he waved his hand, embracing the young woman with a smile, as Sherlock met the deep grey eyes of the beauty poaching his crime scene.
"Sherlock Holmes. We meet at last," she breathed, when her uncle released her, and her gaze was both strong-willed and defiant. John glanced between the two, and inwardly gulped.
There were so many sparks in the air, there could have been fireworks.