#-high-functioning-sociopath

"Watch!" Sherlock called over his shoulder from where he was now hunched over in a pile of boxes by the window. He tossed a pair of scissors Basil’s way & barely missed it, letting them fly past into the kitchen. "Where is it?"

Three long blasted years. (And how he had gotten a filthy mouth from it too). Mycroft let out an exhausted sigh as Anthea slipped out the door and held it open for him, helping him along (because at some point he'd broken his foot and kept running anyway) and now it was letting him know just how much it was broken.

He limped his way along the halls of his home. Dust clothes laid over every and showing evidence of his long departure. Yanking one from a chair he fell into and groaned.

Utter relief.

Home again.

That was until he had to explain how he actually wasn't dead. Well, explain to his brother and family that he wasn't. He sighed painfully, rubbing at his temples as old headaches started to let themselves be known. Trading one pain for another and barely a time to relax in between.

Mycroft let out a small noise as he leaned back in the chair and let his eyes close before, after a few moments, they slide open and he searched for his mobile in his too baggy clothes before he glanced through his contacts and selected his brother's number.

Basil stretched, feeling the strain of muscle around his bones. It felt like it had been a long time since he'd even bothered to step foot outside. With an invigorating breath, he then knocked on the front door to the flat he had come to know so well.

The door opened unceremoniously, the wiry frame of one consulting detective filling the length of it. Pyjama clad and hair tousled off in every other direction, the infamous Holmes stood lamely against the frame with his jaw set into the good half of a pastry before he started chewing.  "Af-" he began, before he took in the sight of Basil before him, and his eyes widened with surprise.

First came the initial raise of his eyebrows, then was the slow grin. "Holmes." He greeted him, stifling amusement and feigning slight nonchalance. 

With a clearing of his throat he brought his hand up to wipe at his mouth, standing up properly. "Basil," he replied, just as smoothly -or as smoothly as he could, and he swallowed the half of a pastry still in his mouth before stepping out of the way of the entry.

He stepped inside, facing him again with the smile still lingering on his face as he took in the sight of the other detective. "It's... been awhile, my dear fellow." He commented, softening just a bit. 

Sherlock arched his brow in response, the echo of a smile ghosting over the deep bow of his lips when he can properly look the other over. "Nearly six months," he quips, though from him the fact is much more common place.

His eyebrows raised lightly as he considered that. "Really now? Hmm, indeed it has." His hands slid into his pockets. "Quite awhile, then."

Falling back into the center of the living room, Sherlock tosses off his robe onto the nearest surface and fixes the t-shirt that was nearly hanging off his shoulder. "I take it work's well then?" He asks, with an honest curiosity, and he clambers over the coffee table to cover the ground between them.

"Fine, I suppose." He replied, watching Sherlock's haphazard movements with an amused smile. "I had a great case not long ago, but currently it's gotten slow, it's been a boring few days." He shrugged a bit. "Yourself?"

"Eventful," he concedes, then quickly crosses over to the opposing side of the living room, rounding a giant plant that nearly took up the space between the chairs by the mantel. "Just finished a case the other day," he says, taking up a newspaper from amongst a stack and tossing it over to the other. A picture of him and John take up the front page, with some cheesy headline or another in bold above them. 

He caught it and skimmed it curiously. "Excellent. My last case to make the papers was... one before the last, I believe."

"I should tell you about it before John manages to condense it into simple dramatics," he says, pushing aside the plant as he walked past it and stopping just before the other. Without pretense he takes the others shoulders in his hands and leans in enough so that his sudden tight smile is in perfect view. "Three consecutive deaths, no prior connections accept one symbol carved into their shoulder blades."

Basil didn't move, just looking at Sherlock's face, his eyes brightening at the news. "Fascinating...!" He said with a grin, his interest obvious. "Symbol carved by the murderer or there to begin with?"

"Evidence suggested pre-death due to scarring but the tissue was still too soft so it wasn't long before hand, ergo our murderers trademark. Or so the yard claimed," he breathed in, straightening himself back into a stand and bringing his hands back together into a perfect steeple. "MY evidence, of course, was different."

Basil nodded, listening intently and following the fellow detectives train of thought. "You found something else, then?"

"Naturally," Sherlock quips, bouncing onto the balls of his feet, a glimmer of something like childish excitement flashing behind his eyes. "The bodies weren't freshly murdered, id say a good few days old, and any other signs of violent death or resistance was missing. They only had small punctured holes in their skulls and a few other places," he said matter-of-factly. "Of course after extensive research i found the true purpose for them... Organ donation." 

Basil grinned, matching the others excitement. "Brilliant!" He praised Sherlock, gesturing with his hands. "So he held the bodies to preserve the organs, is that right?"

Mycroft let out a small sigh of annoyance before he stood and called for his assistant. "There's a minor crime group residing in a warehouse rather out of town. I think it's time to give my brother something to do. It's been nearly half a month. I imagine he has run his flatmate ragged by this time." He murmured before he looked up to meet the gaze of the woman. "Half a pay?" She asked, pausing to look up from her mobile as Mycroft nodded his approval.

"Unless you fancy being stuffed in my coat pocket for most of the trip, then you might have to consider an alternative. I’m on shaky terms with Lestrade as it is."

Greg sat uneasily in a haze of confusion, dejection, & twinges of self-loathing. He & his wife had never fought so badly as they just had & he didn't really know what to do with himself. The flat seemed unnervingly empty after she'd stormed out with a bag packed what seemed like an eternity ago. She had seemed on edge the whole weekend while their daughters visited their grandmother's. She'd kept insisting they go do something fun, but more than once Greg's work interfered. Still, surely a couple ruined plans couldn't be enough to spark such a massive argument? He thought about this for a while, realizing that lately it was true that they'd been seeing less & less of each other. But in comprehending how their relationship was now such a wreck he was at a loss. She hadn't even said when, or if, she would be back.

After an hour or so running all this over in his mind he decided he could do with a drink. He dug his address book out of a drawer & flipped through it. Briefly he paused on Anderson's name, then went on. He'd also considered Donovan, Gregson, & Hopkins before realizing that the only people in his address book that weren't from Uni or exes were mates from work & he didn't particularly want to see any of them. He flipped back a page & spotted a less familiar name: Sherlock Holmes. He'd only talked to the guy a few times when he showed up to offer advice at crime scenes & once or twice at the Yard to follow up on cases. Contact besides that was limited. Was he really considering calling up a guy he barely knew, one who could be a right bastard at that? He sighed heavily. Well, I never did ask him about that last case anyway, he tried to reason with himself. He called the number & it went straight to voicemail, as expected. The guy hardly ever answered. But, he had nothing better to do so he grabbed his coat & went to see if he could find Sherlock's flat.