Title: A-Hah!
Author: DataAngel (TheNinth) (previously mickeylover303)
Pairing: gen
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: G
Summary: Wherein a caper is carried out, literature is critiqued, and housekeeping skills are called into question.

***

Sherlock knows the drugs sweeps are just window dressing, but all the same, just to be safe, he keeps them in Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Sherlock goes down the back stairs and lets himself in through the door that opens into her kitchen. The lock is so easy to pick he's sure even John could do it.

He knows she isn't home, but moves silently anyway. As he passes into the sitting room, he glances at the calendar hanging next to the refrigerator: "Book Club - Sparks." is written on today. It's where she is every Tuesday at half-seven. He shakes his head a little and almost laughs.

There's a bookshelf in the living room with other titles from the club's reading list. "Best sellers" all of them, apparently, although Sherlock doesn't understand the appeal of them. (He tried reading one of Jeffrey Deaver's novels and only made it to page ten before flinging it across the room in disgust, shouting "That man wouldn't know what to do with a crime scene if I drew him pictures and held his hand!")

Other books are Mills and Boone, a few cookbooks, and a book of crossword puzzles. Curious, he picks it up and flips through the pages. "Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wr-oh, dear... very wrong. And she does them in pen." He puts the puzzle book back precisely where it had been, although he knows Mrs. Hudson would never notice if it wasn't.

The top shelf of the bookcase contains knickknacks that are coated in a fine layer of dust: a model of the Eiffel tower, a good luck cat, a snow globe from Florida, a framed photo of Mrs. Hudson holding some baby of indeterminate gender and relation, and a "genuine imitation" (as Mrs Hudson so proudly calls it) Hummel figurine. It had been her mother's, and for this reason Mrs. Hudson seems attached to it.

Sherlock has often been struck with the urge to smash the wretched little thing. Instead, he lifts it very carefully, two fingers tucked under the little drummer boy's arms to minimise disturbance to the dust on its surface.

The base of the figure is covered with a piece of green, dusty felt. The glue doesn't hold particularly well and Sherlock gently separates it. A small, twisted bit of paper falls out from inside the figure and into Sherlock's waiting hand.

Sherlock puts the figure back just as carefully, ensuring that not one speck of dust is disturbed. He, of course, would be able to tell that it had been moved, but anyone else (Lestrade) wouldn't consider it worth a second glance. Then he untwists the paper and takes out two white tablets. He swallows them immediately and closes his eyes.

It will take at least thirty minutes to actually feel the drug in his system, but the psychological effect is nearly instant. The need to sleep evaporates. The vague idea that he might be hungry disappears. He can almost feel his brain working faster, sorting through all the information stored there, looking for that one little thing that will bring the case to a close.

He opens his eyes and regards the blandly staring "genuine imitation" Hummel. This whole process of retrieving the pills has taken nearly three minutes. In Sherlock's opinion, this is entirely too long. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson," he murmurs, "this would go so much quicker if you would just dust."

And then, just like that, it clicks. Dust! Sherlock moves quickly and silently back through the rooms and bounds up the stairs two at a time. He seems to materialise in his kitchen and practically leaps onto John, who's sprawled half out of his chair, dead asleep.

"Dust!" he shouts triumphantly.

"You dust," John mumbles back and tries to shake off Sherlock's grip.

"No, the missing will! Dust!"

John rubs his eyes and blinks a few times. He recognises the language as English, but the words don't seem to make any sort of sense in the real world. "How will the missing dust anything if they're missing?"

John is clearly not getting any of this and Sherlock gives him another shake before launching himself back into the centre of the room. "What can you tell me about the doctor's office?"

"It had four walls. And a door. And a very tiny window. Possibly a desk."

Sherlock nods encouragingly. "The walls, John. What about the walls?"

"Erm. They had... wallpaper?"

"Paint, actually. In a very unattractive shade of green. But what was on the walls, John?"

John starts with a "ph" sound, drawing it out, watching Sherlock's face. "Ffffffot? No? Paintings?"

"Yes. And what about them?"

"They were very nice?"

"Were they?"

"Well. Most of them were. Then there was that one that must have been a gift from a patient because it was slightly... well, it was hideous."

Sherlock points gleefully and John thinks it's like playing charades with a demented monkey.

"And what else was different about that painting?" Sherlock insists.

John thinks for a minute, and the conversation starts to make sense. "Dust?" he hazards, and Sherlock's eyes light up. "There was no dust on the frame!"

And then John is on his feet, too, and Sherlock is going for his coat, and they're both speaking over each other. "Why would the ugliest painting be the least dusty?" Sherlock starts. Before he finishes, John is shouting: "Because there's a safe behind it and the doctor had been in it recently and the dust rubbed off!"

Sherlock declares this "Brilliant!" and claps his hands on John's shoulders so hard he nearly knocks the other man over. "You might actually be worthwhile some day. Come on! We've got to get that will before the good doctor's widow does, or she'll inherit everything he ever owned." The words fade out as Sherlock bolts down the stairs to the door.

John chases after him, slightly stung by the "worthwhile" comment, slightly pleased by the "worthwhile" comment, and trying to dial Lestrade - all at the same time.

***