Sherlock leveled an 'I don't know, is there?' look at the boy, who squirmed a bit but said nothing.

"No, I don't believe so," he said to her. "Someone should fetch Lestrade and get a proper confession out of the boy." The 'my job is done' lingered on the end, unsaid but heard all the same.

Elena rolled her eyes at him and got up, knocking on the door to be let out. She talked with the officer on duty for a few moments before he left to get Lestrade, and she was left to escort Sherlock out of the building again.

"That was tedious," Sherlock grumbled as he put on his coat and scarf again. "Although mildly interesting, I'll give him that. But very tedious."

"You would think so," Elena said mildly, walking with him to the exit. "I'd say 'at least it's over' but you enjoy murders too much to be glad it's done."

Sherlock didn't even bother denying it. She was right, he did enjoy solving murders.

"Lestrade knows to contact me if anything further develops," he said instead. Tightening his scarf some, he left.

Elena shook her head, muttered some very uncomplimentary things about him, and headed back inside to get some real work done.

Two more cases went like that. Lestrade would end up grinding an investigation to a dead end and enlist Sherlock's help, and Sherlock would breeze in and solve it for him. What Sherlock wasn't used to was Elena's constant (and oddly infuriating) presence. She didn't keep clear of him as most of the Yarders did, but she wasn't the same kind of companionable presence as John or Lestrade, and that was more than enough to send Sherlock back to 221b in a foul mood.

John, of course, noticed these foul moods, but he wasn't sure what was happening to put Sherlock in such a bad mood. Every time he asked, Sherlock ignored the question or changed the subject. So he was hoping Sherlock would just crack soon and tell him already.

Sherlock did end up cracking, in the middle of another case. Elena wasn't with them, since they were out on the field this time, but Sherlock could still see her secretarial fingerprints on everything.

"She's the most infuriating woman," he finally snapped. "I don't understand. John, explain this to me, why is she so bloody maddening?"

"Context, Sherlock, we've talked about this before," John said calmly, unsure what exactly he was so upset about this time.

"Elena," Sherlock said tersely. "She's absolutely maddening, and have you noticed, John, everyone at the precinct just loves her."

"I have noticed, actually," John said carefully. Ah, so this was what had been bothering him. "Does that bother you that everyone likes her?"

"It makes no sense!" Sherlock said. "She's aggravating, nit-picking, and entirely too sharp-tongued, the precinct should hate her."

John bit back a smile. "That's how she is with you," he pointed out. "She can be quite charming and witty, you know."

"I don't believe that for a moment," Sherlock said. "She is an infuriating woman."

John smiled. "What about her is infuriating?" he pressed. This was a rare opportunity, after all.

"Everything!" Sherlock burst out. "Nothing! I don't know!" Clearly, he was getting frustrated, spots of color blooming on his pale cheeks.

John nodded but wisely stopped baiting him.

"Well, maybe you need to actually take time and figure it out. People don't normally bother you, Sherlock, there has to be a reason."

Sherlock pouted, but didn't say anything else. He wasn't interested in the case anymore, and quickly rambled off to the officer in charge what he had observed before getting into a cab. He wanted to go back to the flat now.

John hurried after him, pondering this new development. Sudden anger, jealousy over her being liked, mood swings, sulkiness... On any normal person, John would say the guy had closet feelings for Elena.

Sherlock sat in the cab, scowling and waiting for John. Now he was in a bad mood, and he didn't even want to deal with the cabbie.

John told the cabbie the address and paid when they got home, giving Sherlock a chance to get inside and throw himself on a couch, following more sedately.

"You know, even as often as you throw these tantrums, you always manage to surprise me."

"Well, heaven forbid I become predictable," Sherlock retorted as he threw his coat and scarf off to the side and then himself onto the couch.

John picked up after him. He was used to it by now. "Are you going to eat now or am I going to have to make you?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked. "We just ate." Breakfast hadn't been that long ago, had it? And he'd eaten, he'd had an egg and a slice of toast.