Disclaimer: I am not the BBC, affiliated with the BBC, affiliated with or the ghost/long lost great-granddaughter of Arthur Conan Doyle, or Mark Gattis or Steven Moffat, and sad as I am about these facts, they won't change.

I am not affiliated with Fox (thank God), or David Shore (unfortunately).

Non-Slash, but bromance abounds. This first chapter is based loosely on that House episode…you know the one. With the guitar.

When I woke up yesterday morning my flat-mate, Sherlock Holmes, was tearing apart the bookshelf.

This wasn't too unusual in itself; he's done far stranger things. Finding severed fingers in the mayonnaise jar was almost routine. As long as he confined his mess to the kitchen I was usually satisfied. I ducked to avoid an airborne copy of the London A-Z flung unceremoniously in my direction.

"Are you just going to stand there or do you feel like making yourself useful?" he demanded, not even turning around. Most of the contents of one bookshelf were stacked precariously on either side of him. There was a skull (human) balanced on top of one pile, to keep him from accidentally adding to the towering mess of papers and books.

"You know, while I'm all for spring cleaning-" I sidestepped the Encyclopedia Britannica- "Isn't this a little early?"

"Someone's taken my Strad."

"Your-your what, sorry?"

"Strad," he said impatiently. "Stradivarius. My twenty thousand pounds sterling violin."

"And you think it's hiding in the bookshelf?"

"I've already searched the rest of the flat." He gestured around hopelessly.

"Why do you think it's stolen?"

"They left a note on the front door. Cut from newspaper headlines." He said newspaper headlines like it was a personal insult, punctuating it with another thrown book.

"This is mine!" I protested indignantly, catching it and inspecting it carefully for damage.

"So?"

"So it's a rare edition of The Grapes of Wrath, and I'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much!"

"Americans," he sniffed disdainfully. "You can toss it, for all I care."

"I assume you haven't read it."

"Why would I waste my time on such rubbish?"

"It's a classic."

"Outdated and boring, you mean."

"No, I mean still appreciated even though it's so old, because it's actually that good. What, you quote Hamlet at least once a week, right?"

He waved a hand, as if to say that was of little consequence. "'Give thy thoughts no tongue.' Act one, scene three. But back to the note. Today's Daily Mail, pages A2, B2, D1, and B1."

"How could you-?"

"The words were cut whole in some places, plus I recognized the typeset,

obviously. No inherently recognizable stationary, the pen was a cheap ballpoint that could have come from any corner shop, no identifiable marks, fingerprints, the like…Here."

Sherlock handed me the note. "Hmm." I cleared my throat. "'I have your violin. Do not attempt to contact the police. You are being watched. Wait for further instructions.' Doesn't this seem a tad…I don't know, childish? Like a prank? You might be overreacting…"

"I think I reacted exactly the right amount."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes. The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime." His eyes glittered dangerously.

"Mrs. Hudson did not take your violin."

"Oh, don't play dumb, John, it doesn't suit you." He strode forward and took my hand roughly. He had a grip like a vise for someone so ridiculously thin. "This is resin under your fingernails."

"I-don't-no, of course not. I mean, I don't even know what that…is."

"You're a terrible liar. I want," he snarled, emphasizing the word with a painful tightening of his grip. "My Stradivarius back."

"I'm not lying!"

"Where've you hidden it?"

"I didn't touch your violin."

"Am I interrupting something?"

We turned around. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway holding a tray. "I thought you two might like a spot of breakfast, but…"

"No," I said quickly. "I mean…of course we'd like breakfast, thank you, but, uh-"

"He stole my Stradivarius," seethed Sherlock, waving my hand around like it was a crucial piece of evidence in some courtroom drama. "It's all over his fingers!"

"What is?"

"The resin, it's something you put on the bow to make it-you brought us breakfast?"

"Is that scrambled eggs?" I asked, standing on tiptoe to try and see over him- a lost cause.

"Don't change the subject!" he snapped, dropping my hand. "What do you want?"

"Well," I said coyly, "I'm flattered that you would think me so clever as to actually attempt to steal your most prized possession, but I honestly can't think why anyone would want to do that."

He gave me a look that has made grown men run from the room, made even more intimidating by the fact that he normally towered over them, as he was trying to do to me. I wasn't impressed.

"Unless it's to make you take the case Lestrade has been badgering you-and me-about since last Tuesday? Just a guess…"

"Don't guess. It's a bad habit."

I gave a loud, fake cough. "Nicotine patch."

"Shut up!"

Mrs. Hudson smiled and set the tray down on a side table. "I'll leave you to it, then."

"Thanks so much."

She looked around at the mess Sherlock had made and simpered. "I try. John, dear, do finish your coffee this time."

"If Sherlock will let me, sure." I sipped it contemplatively. Just enough sugar, as usual. "Mrs. Hudson, you're a saint." I turned to the irate detective, who was now looking at me like he was contemplating causing me serious bodily harm if I didn't confess. "You know, I thought I saw some of a chin rest poking out from under that sofa…"

He all but upturned it in his haste to find the violin, swearing under his breath when he found nothing there.

"Or maybe I realized it would be a smart idea to, you know, wait until you've taken the case."

It wasn't everyday that one finds the great Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words. I took the opportunity to toss him his coat. He shrugged it on, mouth half open like he had an acerbic comment coming, he just didn't know where it had went.

"Are you in awe of my tactical brilliance?"

"Oh, please." He lowered his voice theatrically, narrowing his steely eyes in mock-seriousness. "You do realize, Doctor Watson…this means war." The detective strode out of the room before I could think of a reply.

I rolled my eyes and set my unfinished coffee on a side table, then whipped out my phone to send a text, almost tripping over The Devil's Arithmetic. "I'm not cleaning this up!" I called after him.

Lestrade-Be there in ten minutes. Don't wait up.

-JW

More to come!