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Anomalies	By : Harpling Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3513 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock, the BBC, or any of the characters mentioned herein, nor am I making any money from writing this.

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Sherlock Holmes was a man accustomed to anomalies. After all, noticing and cataloguing anomalies provided him with a large portion of the data he used in solving cases. People lived their whole lives stuck in routines, always doing the same boring things at the same boring times, with the same boring reactions. He often thought it must be witheringly dull, and he prided himself on refusing to fall into a routine. As a result, he was rather slow to notice the pattern created by the anomalies in his own behavior.

“I see you’ve been busy. What’s all this, then?” It seemed every available surface of the sitting room was playing host to piles of printouts, even covering the floor in carbon-copied snowdrifts. They hadn’t been there when John left for work that morning.
Sherlock didn’t look up from his examination of bullet markings when he replied, “There is something off about these cases. Something that doesn’t fit. I’m trying to find the anomaly. The police have decided that there is nothing worth investigating and can’t be bothered. Don’t touch that.” Behind Sherlock’s back, John froze with his hand just outstretched to pick up the nearest manila folder. “No, I can’t read your mind. Your responses are tediously predictable. Tea?”
John shook off his bemused expression. He really should have been used to the way his flatmate’s mind worked by now. “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”
“No, I meant, ‘Did you bring home any tea?’ We’re all out.”
“How did we run out already? I just bought a box last week.”
“I needed to test the effect of tannic acid on fingerprints left on bullets. I asked you to get more tea an hour ago.”
“I wasn’t here an hour ago. I was at work.”
“Well, that’s hardly my fault. I suppose that means you didn’t bring any tea with you?”
“No, Sherlock, I didn’t hear you, what with being all the way on the other side of town and all. Why didn’t you go and get it?”
“Busy.”
“Right. Of course. Wouldn’t want to interrupt all this…” he waved his hand vaguely to indicate the folders stacked on the chair, the coffee table, the sofa, the top of the telly. “I’ll go and get some groceries in a bit. I don’t suppose there’s anything in the fridge? Anything not likely to give Mrs. Hudson a coronary?”
Sherlock decided that this last comment didn’t really require an answer, so he went back to his scrutiny of crime scene photos. When John bent for a closer look at one of the photos (without touching), he didn’t pay any attention until the doctor murmured, “Didn’t think I’d see one of these again so soon.”
“You have a pistol in your sock drawer. Why should seeing a gun be out of the ordinary?”
“No, it’s just these photographs here are Spetsnaz rifles. Saw plenty of them in Afghanistan, but they’re a bit less common in London.”
Sherlock paused, then turned to peer very carefully at the photos in question. “Afghanistan? Why were they so common in Afghanistan?” He felt the familiar thrill of excitement he always felt when things started to fall into place. His focus narrowed to encompass only the details of the weapons and John. Well, John’s answer, of course.
“Well, the Russians shipped them to the Afghanis back in the Eighties, when they were pretending not to be involved down there. Al-Qaeda just sort of took charge of the leftovers. These are a bit newer than the ones that were shooting at us, though. Bet they’re just as unpleasant…” He stopped, took a breath, blinked hard, and squared his shoulders. “Right. Shops, then. Anything besides tea that you want while I’m out?”
He left in such a hurry that Sherlock didn’t have a chance to reply. There would be nightmares tonight. There were always nightmares when John got The Look on his face while talking about the war. If Sherlock happened to play his violin while John was sleeping, the nightmares were markedly less disturbing, particularly if the music was Baroque. Sherlock’s random flourishes and attempts at composition invariably brought the doctor down, irritably, to request quiet while he was trying to sleep.
It was one of those things that Sherlock couldn’t seem to help noticing and remembering about his flatmate. In the normal course of events, he would simply have deleted any extraneous information as soon as it became apparent that it would not contribute in any meaningful way to his work. However, his massive intellect was incapable of separating out the important from the unimportant bits of data as they pertained to the utterly ordinary man living in the bedroom upstairs. John liked sugar in his tea but not in his coffee. He was bothered by viscous human remains more than by desiccated remains. After talking to his sister, John’s posture remained rigid and tense for several hours, varying based upon the difficulty of the subjects discussed. Although not born ambidextrous, John had trained himself to use both hands with equal skill, probably during the course of medical school. The doctor’s hair smelled like his shampoo for approximately 6.2 hours after he had washed it.
None of these things was in any way important, so why were they stuck in Sherlock’s memory still? It must be the proximity, he deduced. The constant exposure to one particular person was reminding him of every little nuance and oddity of his flatmate’s personality. Having thus come to a reasonable hypothesis that restored the logical order in his brain, Sherlock Holmes dismissed the question and returned to the photographs.
John was brilliant. Well, not really, but he was brilliant at focusing the genius of others. Russian assault rifles. That was the part that hadn’t fit. Why would someone use a high-powered assault rifle in a situation where the inconvenience outweighed the benefit of extra firepower? Harder to conceal, more expensive, louder discharge noise, no need for rapid-fire shots or the long-range accuracy, not to mention the fact that there was no chance of pretending to have a permit if you were caught. Now that he saw it, Sherlock quickly identified all the other cases with anomalous weapons. Thirty eight. Interesting. Very interesting.
He compared everything else in the files, but there were no other links. He thought about what that might mean for several hours, oblivious when John returned, made supper, wrote on his blog, watched telly, and eventually went up to sleep. He needed something to help him think. Sherlock had always found German music helped him think. It was introspective in a way that French and Russian music wasn’t. He pulled out his violin and played Bach and Telemann until the wee hours of the morning while he tried to figure out this newest puzzle.
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Anomalies