The Cold Case {Sherlock/Johnlock}

Prologue

HELLO AGAIN

(((i'm resisting the urge to pull a moriarty-esque 'MISS ME?')))

so i tried writing other things on other accounts and i didn't like it that much, so here i am again. i am home. sort of.

basically, i made an executive decision to start using this account again after not touching it for such a long time (was it like,,, 10 months or something?) and just carry on and use it like any other account. that means i won't be writing frerard anymore (i have moved on) and the fics will be of other things and other fandoms (hence the fact that this is sherlock related) but the frerard will stay and i can still have all you cool kids to talk to and discuss things with. ((fuckin,, missed you all))

so hopefully this will interest some of you and those it doesn't won't be too annoyed that i've come crawling back to this account like an unpleasant rash

thanks for everything:)

enjoy ?

-georgia 

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"Mr Holmes, this case has been closed for such a significant amount of time that no detective would ever even consider..."

The man's words had absolutely no effect on Sherlock, who simply looked mildly curious as to what meaning those words was actually supposed to have. His head shook ever so slightly, incredulously, disturbing his mop of hair (though it seemed to have done the 'style' some slight degree of a favour, John thought, because he looked less wild now and in turn, easier to take seriously.) 

"Yes," he agreed pleasantly. "I know all that, Mr Walker." For a moment, it would have seemed that Sherlock had dismissed any possibility of continuing, but John knew him better than that, no matter how much he often resented that fact. Like now, for example. Now being the fact that they were sat in the office of the central London police archives, begging one of the curators for access to the notes of a cold case that the detective had heard of and become somewhat obsessed with.

"But I'm very bored. We're very bored, aren't we John?"

John, who could think of nothing better than an end to Sherlock's schemes, pointless or otherwise, didn't offer a single word in response. The suited man sitting opposite didn't even seem to notice that John had been incorporated into the conversation, such was the intensity with which he was staring at the tall detective. He seemed to have almost given up already, and John could hardly blame him.

"Mr Holmes, no police force in the world would commission you to solve this case. It simply cannot be solved."

"I don't want to be commissioned," Sherlock retorted, in that manner of his that made everything seem so horribly obvious. He could have pointed out that the seventh brick down in the wall opposite, twelve in from the right, had been manufactured in a tiny independent smelters in post-communist Russia by a tiny black haired man named Vladimir, transported to London by accident in a cargo ship, and stolen from the streets by urchins who were helping building projects for money, and John would somehow feel like kicking himself for not noticing. It was something he was only just beginning to stop hating, that measured way that Holmes spoke in, the pleasant tone that proved his intellect beyond doubt. No one else ever seemed to talk like that. (Anyone else would have got a good smack in the face, is probably why.) 

"And besides, I'm not a police detective. I am a consulting detective. Nobody needs to commission me."

The man suddenly looked defeated, an expression that- where Sherlock was concerned- was commonplace. John had to hide the beginnings of the smile that was threatening to break across his face. He often found it hilarious when other people had to deal with Sherlock, mainly because it gave him a break.