Replay With Sound

Forget Sherlock having close friends, he'd have to find someone who could keep up with his conversations first. That, in itself, not a terribly easy task.

At least, that's what everybody, Sherlock included, thought.

Thought before Doctor John H. Watson came along with his psychosomatic limp and unflappable exterior. Sherlock tapped his chin and stole a glance at his flatmate from his spot at the window overlooking the street. John was currently looking at something, something shocking, something he desperately wanted to ask about, but wasn't. Sherlock needed to supply all information himself in detail, when the right time came. John was a quick learner.

Then, Sherlock was inquiring about the text that John had promised, albeit reluctantly, to send to an unknown number. John responded slowly, unsurely, just give him a second to register what he was seeing.

It wasn't hard to deduce the subject of John's earlier attention. Sherlock padded across the room to place the pink case onto the coffee table. And before he knew it, he was explaining, a-mile-a-minute, how he had found this vital evidence to the half-dazed, slightly gaping, doctor.

"Pink? You got all that from realizing her case would be pink?" was John's incredulous reponse to his explanation.

Ah, there was another spot of freshness in the doctor, Sherlock noted. The Scotland Yard always called him in on the difficult cases, they always just needed to know what to do to catch the killer, and then they'd chase him off the scene like they were ashamed to be seen with him. None of them ever thought to ask him how he knew what he knew. Not that Sherlock was complaining, mind. It's just that, logically, if he were them, he'd keep him around just long enough to become accustomed to his methods and begin making his own deductions. If that were the case, Scotland Yard would assume that they shouldn't have any reason to call him to crime scenes anymore. Alright, bad idea, forget that thought, never tell them that.

But John, he was asking questions, good questions, he honestly wanted to know the tricks of the trade. Of course, he was still stupid, but he was evolving.

He frowned and only just realized that he had been ignoring John. John was looking at him like he was waiting patiently for a response. "Sorry, what?" he queried, more for cordiallity than the real wish to know what inane comment John had made this time. John rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh. That was another setback to having friends, they talked to him like they thought he had nothing better to do with his time and attention. And when he asked them to repeat the question, they simply thought that he was doing it out of spite. Stupid people.

"You really came back here, carrying that?" John, surprisingly, repeated the question, gesturing to the garish pink case. There was a certain incredulousness in his voice, underlined with amusement.

Sherlock looked at the case. He didn't really think about the situation when he was actually in it, when he was striding confidently back to Baker Street, swinging the case, satisfied at having found it, his long overcoat billowing behind him. No, he hadn't thought about it. But it was a funny thought, he had to admit. He let himself chuckle a little. "Yes, John, yes I did."

John tried to hold back a laugh, he really did. But he made the mistake of glancing up to catch Sherlock's eye and the mental image seemed to overwhelm him. He covered his mouth with his hand and laughed unabashedly. "Wow, that..." he gasped when he overcame his laughing spree. "...that..." But really, Sherlock himself couldn't find the words.

So he did what he did best, they talked case. They conversed about the content of the victim's case, the impossibility of her not owning a phone, and the current holder of said phone.

There was one slightly frightening moment where John had nearly refused to accompany him on his chase after the killer, recalling a biased and ultimately worthless second opinion from Sally, claiming that Sherlock perversely enjoyed the chase. A moment quickly diffused by Sherlock reminding him that 'I said 'danger', and here you are.'

That comment was closely followed by the good doctor's look of defeat and a frusterated 'Damn it!' And a moment later, he was following Sherlock out of the door with his trusty cane.

The problem about Sherlock Holmes is, he speaks in English. While English is obviously the most understood language in, well, England, Sherlock speaks it in such a way that nobody really understands what he's saying. That's why he always has to explain every little detail to everybody. Everybody always just listens dumbly to his advanced deductions and asks for the simple translation after he finished. All words going over their heads. Almost like watching telly on mute, and then rewinding, rewatching it, this time, with sound.

John learned, early on, that Sherlock didn't like repeating himself. Understandibly so.

Good thing is, John doesn't mind repeating himself. Sherlock always has the habit of blocking everything out when he's thinking and John had, more than once, found himself with the same words on his lips once he'd actually gotten the detective's attention.

John doesn't understand people, it just isn't natural. Sherlock understands people, but he can't exactly be categorized as 'natural', can he? Not that John minded.

"You were going to take the damn pill, wern't you?" he was asking, already knowing the answer. It didn't matter that Sherlock wasn't normal, and it definitely didn't matter how many times he had to say this. "You're an idiot." And when John said it, Sherlock's immense knowledge and intelligence were no factor, he meant it.

And Sherlock knew it. John didn't have to tell him that twice.

The End

A/N: Inspiration for the title and almost-there story theme came when I was watching A Study in Pink (for the third time) and I saw the CM that plays on mute when you watch videos and when it finished, it said 'REPLAY WITH SOUND' and 'ping!' random story. :P