A Magic Trick

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Out of the many cases Sherlock dismissed with a simple and quite apparent solution, there was one that stood out to John. Unlike most others, this one nagged at his brain for days afterward; though it never made it onto his blog. And, like most others, John was clueless to what conclusion he was supposed to draw from the scene at Sherlock's silent behest. The urging in the detective's blue eyes always triggered a desire to impress him and the competing resentment of being put on the spot. It wasn't like John had read up on The Science of Deduction overnight and suddenly knew the answers that so often escaped his grasp.

Sherlock should just do what Sherlock does best and scoff at everyone else's denseness, then lay out the events piece by piece in an annoyingly descriptive fashion. Honestly, sometimes John felt as if Sherlock were in tune with the universe and simply read life's playbook; it was infuriating how good he was at spotting the most subtle oversights.

Yet another reason why John found himself developing a bit of an inferiority complex around his flat-mate.

But whenever he was beginning to doubt his own worth as a companion, something would happen that required his medical or military skills and his place by Sherlock's side was justified once more. At times, though, John wondered if perhaps the brilliant brunette observed his moods and orchestrated the confidence boosting moments for the sole purpose of providing reassurance. It was a very Sherlock thing to do; and oddly kind in its own way.

But the case in which John found particular interest revolved around a virtuoso of deception more sinister than considerate.

The police were contacted by the stagehand of a traveling circus who overheard an argument between the headlining magician and his assistant. The details were not very clear, but according to the only eyewitness, the magician shot the pretty blonde assistant at point blank range.

But when the police arrived on the scene ten or fifteen minutes later, there was no body to be found. No blood, no gun, no bullet.

It still rated too low to peak Sherlock's interest.

That is, until the supposedly deceased assistant showed up in the middle of the investigation alive and well! She swore up and down that it was all a joke on the stagehand through use of hypnosis. He was adamant about what he saw but Lestrade was ready to dismiss the whole thing.

This caught the detective's attention.

Evidently, solving a murder that never happened was on his bucket list; or so John assumed. It was a classic case of misunderstanding, a joke gone wrong. Then again, if it were that simple Dr. Watson's best friend would have no reason to go galavanting around London. And where was the fun in sitting at home while he did?

So the two began an investigation.

After what seemed like an exorbitant amount of hypotheses and experiments- including Sherlock trying to casually hypnotize John during tea without his noticing- Sherlock revealed that the woman walking around was the victim's twin sister and had been a part of the show all along and was the secret behind much of their success.

A love triangle turned sour, a desire to share the spotlight, and a breach of trust that sisterhood couldn't overcome were all excellent motives. But, in her defense, the surviving twin confessed to everything after Sherlock exposed the truth.

Seeing her wracked with so much grief and guilt was painful. John made a mental note to call his own sister as soon as he got home.

Sherlock, on the other hand, took a deep breath and muttered something along the lines of, "Twins, obvious." And strode away from the scene. Inspector Lestrade called after him, inquiring about the unexplained disappearance of the weapon.

He received a clipped answer and nodded, sending a couple of men to find the trap door as instructed while John hurried to catch up with his partner.

"Admit it," John said, "You thought there was some merit to the whole disappearing act for a moment."

"I only believe in what's logical, in what I can see. Magicians use subconscious blindness to their advantage. They take reality and twist it until it becomes what they want it to, thus 'the hand is quicker than the eye'. People want to be fooled, though I can hardly fathom what pleasure they get from not knowing a secret." That was so Sherlock.

"It's the excitement of the unknown. The possibility that there are supernatural forces at work out there."

Sherlock appeared irritated by his flat-mate's respect for such transparent feats.

"It's just a magic trick, John."

"It's just a magic trick."

John clung onto those words for two very long, very uneventful years.

Eight months after the Reichenbach incident, he met a woman named Mary and, although they got along well, he couldn't stop seeing Sherlock's ghost in shadows and busy streets. He gave up on dating and occupied himself with tedious hobbies, disengaging from work as it suited him. The flat collected such an abundance of dust that Sherlock would have been thoroughly pleased.

However, Mrs. Hudson was far from happy about it, trailing her finger over the furniture and clicking her tongue in shame. "Why, John," She said, "I would have expected more from you given your... habits. And a doctor! It's disgraceful letting this place reach such a state."

But he merely nodded and ushered her back into the hallway.

"What are you going to do when people come over, John?"

Nothing. Not a thing. No one ever came over.

"I know you miss Sherlock but it's not healthy not moving on... There's a nice boy down at the deli, you could-"

John usually managed to get a closed door between them by the time she finished ranting about the messy flat and moved on to social engagements. He appreciated her care and worry, but it wasn't needed. After all, Sherlock would be back any time now. And he couldn't risk being out on a man-date, of all things, when that blessed reunion finally happened.

It was only a magic trick after all.

Four days passed since John saw Mrs. Hudson and a strange sense of relief came with the footsteps rising from the stairs. For as he was an average person with an average dose of humanity, John felt lonely from time to time, as everyone does. Despite the nature of her visits, the soft spoken landlady was a pleasant distraction from the endless waiting that was his life now.

Perhaps it was stagnation of the awareness of his surroundings that caused it, or that the hope that had been bleeding out of him more and more with each passing month was almost gone.

Whatever the reason, John didn't realize until the slow ascension was nearly at the second floor that those were not Mrs. Hudson's light shoes. No, those were steady, heavy footfalls. Each dull thud held purpose and brought chills with the implications.

He knew those footsteps.

He knew that sound better than all the sweet goodnights from his childhood and the thunder of war as it shook the very earth. He could identify the person climbing the stairs from that sound alone and while that deduction spoke volumes, it was so simple, so natural, that it couldn't be attributed to either experience or educated guesswork.

He simply knew; in the very marrow of his bones and every fibre of his tattered being that this was the homecoming he'd anticipated for the past two years.

John was barely able to stand, his legs were suddenly weak and trembling. He stood facing the door and waited; for just a moment more, he could wait.

The approach paused outside the door of the flat and John's heartbeat was the only thing he heard, slamming in his chest as if he were back on the battlefield again.

Then, the door opened and there stood the most flawed, yet finest, example of a man the world had ever been graced with the presence of; his bright blue eyes twinkling with all their wicked glory. He could have stepped right off that rooftop and into the present; not a thing had changed about him in those two years.

John's breath left him in a whisper of confirmation, "Sherlock..."

"Voilà."