For most of his life, Sherlock Holmes prided himself on the fact that no one else seemed to realise he was not an ordinary man. It wasn't as if he was a master of acting and pretending, more that people seemed to pass off his every action like it was nothing. He'd been called eccentric, quirky, a freak and a psychopath, but nobody had ever come close to the truth.

Even while he stood over dead bodies in the morgue of St Barts Hospital, riding crop in hand as he repeatedly struck at the flesh to see what bruises would form, nobody thought to question it. Perhaps it had something to do with Molly Hooper's absurd romantic attraction to him, but for the most part it was just oh, well that's Sherlock for you. After all, he was only human, wasn't he?

Or so it'd seemed that was what everybody thought until he'd gotten back to his flat, only to find it had been broken into. He wasn't an idiot, he recognized the signs where things had been moved and moved back, where things had been covered up.

It only took him ten minutes to remove all the Devil's Traps in the room.

After he'd done that he put three nicotine patches on his arm. Three seemed to be the best number for more problematic cases, and this was one of them. He'd been so excited earlier, had gripped John's shoulders and told him that it must be Christmas, because that was exactly how it felt. He'd said something similar on their very first case together,if he recalled correctly. Doctor Watson. The idiot - and he meant that as affectionately as he could - who called him brilliant and fantastic instead of telling him to piss off like most humans did, who had become his flatmate and who'd come with him to the nearest crime scene, and wasn't entirely stupid. Sherlock was kind of glad to have him in his life, although he'd never say that aloud.

Now Sherlock was just irritated, and a bit annoyed. After so long of remaining normal someone had finally managed to figure him out. He admired the intelligence of whoever had done it, but that didn't stop him from wanting to shoot them in the face. Of course there were times when he felt the urge to do something more, but he could control those desires. He was a strong man - stronger than most- and he wasn't afraid to say it, because if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes was not, it was a murderer. He might have killed before and he might have gotten a kick out of it, might have liked it, but it was never for unjust reasons. It was never simply to fuel the burning need to cause destruction, to create havoc and to do things that resided within him. There were other ways to sustain those needs; solving crimes*, drugs and experiments and guns, and simply being clever enough to frustrate people. Being like the others wasn't something that Sherlock wanted, and it wasn't something he was counting on becoming. His only problem was having enough fun to remain relatively sane.

*instead of commiting them, that is

He sighed and laid down, wondering where John was and when he'd get back. He needed a pen but he wasn't sure he could be bothered to get one for himself - it was a lot of effort after all - so he thought about the case instead.

"Sherlock?" John asked as he entered the flat.

"What?"

He rolled over onto his side to face John, no longer complacent with the sights the ceiling had to offer.

John picked up some paper lying on the coffee table, looked at it, seemed satsified with what he found, and then put it down again. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking," Sherlock said dryly. "You may have heard of it before."

"Oh, how- have you been cleaning?"

It wasn't exactly a secret that Sherlock didn't care for tidying up after himself, the place was a mess despite John and Mrs Hudson's combined efforts (which happened even though she constantly insisted that she was not their housekeeper) but, still. They'd only known each other for a few months and he was picking up on the smallest - and probably most trivial - of things. It wasn't like the hunters had done some spring renovating while they were setting traps for him like he was some kind of mouse, was it?

"No. Two men were in here, from overseas. America perhaps. They moved some things and then left."

John looked at him skeptically and shifted his feet slightly.

"And you didn't think that was odd at all?"

Sherlock rolled back onto his back and huffed as if he couldn't quite believe he was serious.

"Oh, do calm down, John. They weren't thieves and they weren't after you, believe me."

John sat down, and Sherlock noted that the psychosomatic pain he had in his leg seemed to be getting much better these days, even if he was a little uneasy at times.

"How do you know that then, Sherlock?"

He furrowed his eyebrows, thinking for a moment. The truth or a lie? "Because I know them, obviously."

It wasn't exactly true, he didn't know their names or their faces, but he knew what they were. They were hunters, and from the looks of things they wanted to kill him (or at least send him back to hell). Unsurprisingly, he wasn't too worried, just a bit frustrated with things. He knew that they'd be coming back later on, soon even, and that they probably thought they had him cornered. Sherlock only had to be prepared. He just hoped he wouldn't have to resort to killing them, because that would be a whole lot of mess and unpleasantry. The thing was, he liked hunters- they killed monsters and he killed the monsters that were human. They were all the same, in a way, except for the fact that they were humans that fought the kind of evil that was supernatural, and that they did it to save lives. Sherlock was a supernatural creature against human evil, and he did it to save himself from being bored. Neither of them ever seemed to receive any gratitude either.

"So, let me think about this. They know who you are and they decided to break in and move our stuff around while nobody was here? That makes sense." John said.

"Yes, well, they're not the most conventional of people." he replied.

"Right." John nodded, but the disbelief on his face betrayed him. "I'll make some tea."

He stood up to walk over to the kitchen, but Sherlock stopped him in his tracks.

"We're out of milk."

John huffed. "Fine. I'll have to go and get some then."

Sherlock smiled as he left, because he knew that John had been trying to hide the fondness in his voice.