AN: Pseudo sequal to "We skipped that step", for Nadeshiko Tenshi (I think I spelt it right) who left me a really nice review and the following prompt. And yes, this was written (last night) at about 11.30 pm. Ugh. Very very mild John/Sherlock that's only really their in the last sentence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock (ah, crap) but I do own a copy of "Sherlock Holmes - The complete stories" because Lula bought it for me to make up for forcing me to watch Eclipse. Again. *Seeths*

FRIENDS: lend you their umbrella.

BEST FRIENDS: Steal yours, and then yell "RUN!"

John Watson tugs the collar of his coat up in an effort to keep out the wind, which is quite frankly FREEZING. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice, continuing to hunt through the victim's pockets. Despite the fact that it's February, he appears to have forgotten his coat and scarf, though he could almost certainly tell John where they were.

Or not. It's not like Sherlock to forget something. He's probably lost them. It wouldn't surprise John – his... flatmate... has already 'misplaced' three mobile phones this year. One of them was Johns. He did replace it though.

How do you drop a phone in the Thames? John thinks. No, silly question. Holmes was probably just demonstrating the fact he knows next to nothing about gravity... or balance. Falling objects are a regular occurrence when in his company. Just this morning, eighteen books fell on John when he accidentally nudged the bookcase.

"Well?" Lestrade asks, snapping John back into reality. Sherlock stands and comes over.

"It's murder. Same killer as the last one." He replies, nonchalant. Only he can sound so casual when talking about murder. At Lestrade's look, he glances at John, inviting him to explain. John shakes his head, because he's just as puzzled as Lestrade. Sherlock sighs.

"It must be so dull in your tiny little brains. The victims are so similar it's almost ridiculous." John looks at Lestrade, and is relieved to see that the Detective Inspector is also thinking something along the lines of 'how the hell are they similar?'

"They're nothing alike! The last one was a fifty year old white male, and this is a asian woman who can't be more that twenty!" Donovan injects, adding 'freak' under her breath. Anderson sneers.

"Ignore him, he's a psychopath."

"Sociopath." Sherlock corrects, before taking a breath. "Both victims have keys to hotel rooms in their pockets. They're both in London on business, and both live in Ireland, judging by the mud on their shoes and the Euros in their pockets. Neither has a car key, but both have driver's licences."

"So..." Lestrade muses.

"So, the murderer is a car hire employee who regularly works at a Ramada hotel. He's tall, slim, mid 30's, possibly American. I suggest you start a search."

"Oh." The three police officers leave to do just that. Sherlock smiles slightly at John, who smiles back.

Then it starts to rain. John raises the umbrella he brought with him – having watched the weather forecast – and smiles again. Sherlock considers, the darts forward and snatches it from his grasp. Walking backwards, very quickly, he tilts his head.

"I'd run, if I were you. You're going to get-" John darts after him. Sherlock sensibly steps to the side, so that John misses, the bolts in the other direction.

John sighs. Best friends indeed.

By the time he gets back to Baker Street, he's soaked. There's no sign of Sherlock. Shaking his head, he goes to get changed and make a cup of tea.

Almost an hour later, Sherlock arrives, carrying his coat and scarf.

"Hi." John says sullenly. Sherlock stands still for a second, then offers "Sorry," and moves towards the kitchen. When he pushes the door open, the bucket John balanced there falls off, drenching the detective he actually looks surprised.

"Sorry." John says. Sherlock glares at him for a few seconds, then kisses him.