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Based off of the above prompt ^^^
Genre: All fluff bitches
Ship: Platonic yet questionable JohnLock
TW/CW: Eh, mention of a dead body/crime scene, but nothing serious
I hope you enjoy!
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Sometimes, when Sherlock is in the middle of a case and needs to visualise his ideas, he will set up the "string wall".
This is essentially just a corkboard on wheels that is placed by the living room fireplace that the detective will attach photos related to the case to, all connected in some bizarre way by long pieces of red string. He does this because it seems to help him lay out the case and think clearer; "Clears the mind by emptying it onto the board" as he'd once said after John had questioned him on it.

"One thing the police actually do right." He'd commented snidely after John pointed out that the Scotland Yard- nay, police forces and detectives in general, also use this technique.

It can also be assumed that the flimsy post-it notes on which the notes were held tend to fall down every now and then. After all, they were only held on by the cheap, crappy sticky stuff that comes on the back of them. Apparently, the so-called great mastermind never thinks to use blu-tac.
But obviously it's fine, if John ever spots one of the fallen photos or notes, he's gotten into the habit of picking them up and sticking them back in some arbitrary place on the board; he's even started placing small clumps of blu-tac by his armchair just in case. He obviously doesn't always remember where they go. In fact, almost every single time that the doctor reattached the notes he puts them in the wrong spot, not even in a particular sensical or orderly fashion compared to where it was before.
Then again, to be fair, John doesn't really pay attention to the string wall, instead opting for writing everything in the case down in chronological order. He's always found this method easier, no matter how many times Sherlock whines at him that it "stagnates his brain activity" and it's "so much simpler to use special awareness to link the patterns" or some other such rubbish.

And it's not like Sherlock cares about where John places the notes, either. He used to- Dear God, he used to. John can vividly remember the first time he had absent-mindedly stuck one of the post-its on the board, deciding that putting it in the corner wouldn't cause too much harm. Apparently it did, though, as Sherlock spotted this incident from the comfort of his chair and abruptly stood, claiming that he should be fully aware that "the woman wouldn't be linked to the previous chainsaw murders because she was on the complete opposite end of London!"

Of course, that was only a small percentage of what he had said. He had been called some... stupidly eloquent insults, hidden under a stiff passive-aggression that made John want to punch him, to be quite honest. However that was only the first, and possibly second, time. After that, Sherlock simply ignored the misplaced notes and stuck them back where they belonged later, choosing to not mention it. This only really happened after the detective got to properly know John and realise that he probably didn't want to drive this one away as he could actually tolerate his odd behaviour; people like that were rare and needed to be cherished. And, unbeknownst to the good doctor, Sherlock always allowed himself a small smile at John's feeble attempt to correctly place the notes now.

**

It was a decently quiet Tuesday morning, and 221B had just started the dreary process of waking up. The faint whistle of the kettle resounded throughout the flat, adding some white noise to the hushed room. The slow, plodding footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs, meaning that John had just woken up. Well, just gotten out of bed, at least; Sherlock had deduced by now that John liked to stay in bed for about 15 minutes before attempting to get up from the comforting call of his bed.
He watched his flatmate appear in the doorway, dressing gown tied tightly and hair ruffled just so. His hand came up to mess it up even more as he let out an almighty yawn, covering his mouth with his other hand while he walked sluggishly over to the kitchen. He then noticed that Sherlock had already boiled the kettle for him, shot a small smile his way as thanks and wandered over. Picking up his newspaper, Sherlock completely ignored it and instead focused his attention on the man pottering about in front of him.

He watched as John finished making his and Sherlock's cups of tea, tapping the teaspoon against his mug with a gentle "tink", careful not to do the same with Sherlock's mug; the man tended to have a rather specific tea:milk:sugar ratio that he only trusts himself and John to abide by; 3/4 water, 1/4 milk and four sugars. Any more of each and you'd be sure to have it thrown back in your face. Not literally though. Well, not anymore anyway. Donovan had it coming, to be fair; what kind of inhumane creature thinks it alright to make a perfectly fine cup of tea as dark and as bitter as possible? Even John recoiled at the drink presented to his friend, and later commented that he would've done the same if he were in Sherlock's position.

Just as John was hobbling over to his armchair to join Sherlock, he halted and looked down, a tiny crunch noise sounding from under his foot. Looking down, he could see that there was one of the small post-it notes from the case Sherlock had been mulling over for the past three days or so. It had some scribbled chicken-scratch on it, so of course he'd assumed it was important. Gently setting down his mug on a nearby side-table, he bent down and picked up the piece of paper. He glanced at it briefly before huffing and looking at the board of red strings and pictures. He stuck it on without much thought then, picking up his mug of tea, he retreated to his armchair by the fireplace.

Curious to see how badly John had messed up the placement of the note but not wanting to be obvious about it, Sherlock waited about two minutes, in which time he had finished his cup of tea, concerning John ever so slightly by completely draining it whilst it was still scorching hot. After dismissing his perturbed look with a reassuring one of his own, he hopped up and took a moment to stretch, then picked up his mug and meandered over towards the kitchen, careful not to acknowledge the man's knowing look. John wasn't stupid, as surprising as that may be; he knew Sherlock wanted to see how he'd mucked up the board- probably to send a condescending smirk his way- before fixing the notes accordingly. It happened 9 times out of 10, so it didn't really bother John anymore. If anything, he thought it quite nice that Sherlock would indulge some form of emotion in John, even if it was smugness.

He placed the cup down on the kitchen counter, dodging carefully past some pickled eyeballs and a severed tongue, he moved back to the board to look at it fully. Grinning, he turned to look at John, his smile only growing as he sees John's stony expression.

"Alright, get it over with," He huffed sarcastically, "How'd I get it wrong this time?" Sherlock nodded and promptly turned back to the board.

"Well, you've put the note detailing the anomalies of the murder right next to the photo of the bartender who was working on the evening the victim was murdered. You see, the actual murderer hasn't been located yet, as you know already, and for it to be linked to the bartender in any way it would-" He froze, completely ceasing movement and slamming his mouth shut. John looked at him curiously. This had never happened before. Usually, he was keen to share the problem of John's misplacement of photos or notes, but on this occasion it seemed as though he had completely forgotten how to do so. He had gone dead silent, his brilliant eyes darting back and forth between all of the notes, but seeming to linger on the two that John had accidentally connected.

Unable to stand the tense feeling any longer, John stood up and joined Sherlock at the string board. Just as he reached the board- which was literally five paces away- Sherlock whipped around to face the doctor. He had a strange expression on his face; some peculiar mix of shock, surprise and... admiration? Without warning, he reached over to John and grabbed him by both shoulders, practically vibrating in his excitement.

"John, you are fantastic!" He exclaimed, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to John's forehead.
"You are brilliant!" A kiss on the side of his head.
"The best conductor of light!" And the other side.

John was now confused.

"What- What do you mean? What did I do?" He asked incredulously and Sherlock shook his head, grinning like a maniac.

"Everything, John! Absolutely everything!" He released his friend and turned back to the board and began muttering under his breath, just loud enough for John to hear but too fast for him to understand what Sherlock was actually saying.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Sher. What do you mean?" Sherlock looked at him with that look that John knew all too well, "No Sherlock, I don't know what's going on. We can't all be as brilliant as you, otherwise you wouldn't have a job. Walk me through it, please?" As the detective wheeled back around to comb through the board again, John could've sworn he'd seen a fond smile on the man's face.

"Well, the connection you have just unknowingly made had quite possibly solved a fundamental part of the case for us. I'd assumed beforehand that it couldn't be the bartender because the time of his break and the time of the murder didn't line up, being just five minutes off, but I failed to remember that a woman reported seeing him on duty and walking around the back of the building carrying a large black bin bag, which at first was just thought to be some rubbish."

"But- But witnesses say they saw him in the bar at the time of the murder!" John spluttered, still failing to see how the note placement affected this case. Sherlock began to roll his eyes, yet hesitated and pushed on.

"Yes, well he obviously got someone who looked like him to stand in for his shift; bars tend to be dimly-lit places, it's not like you could pick someone apart in a crowd or anything. Then, when he 'went to the bathroom', he swapped back with the other person. He swapped with his friend, who was also working at the bar that night. The friend, clearly, wasn't complicit in the act but was merely told that his friend needed to step outside for a moment."

"Clearly." John murmured under his breath, crossing his arms. He still wasn't entirely sure how he'd contributed, but he was pretty content knowing he had made Sherlock happy.

Not unlike an excited puppy, Sherlock raced past John and reached for his coat, sliding it on and putting one arm in the wrong hole in his haste, quickly correcting it and yanking John along by the arm. "C'mon, we need to get going!"

"To where?" John replied wearily. He knew exactly where, but was somewhat hoping he wouldn't be forced to go to.

"To the police station, of course! Lestrade needs to be informed right away!" Sherlock looked at John pleadingly. There was a moment of silence, then John's resolve broke. He sighed once again, also grabbing his coat and putting it on. He elected to ignore the fact that both he and Sherlock were both still in pyjamas, it being half 8 in the morning. Together they walked out the door, Sherlock bounding ahead in anticipation.

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Approx 2000 words
Leave any suggestions for stories in the comments, any rude comments will be deleted.
Hope you enjoyed!
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