For John Watson

[howdull]

[Sherlock is still finding pieces of the melted laptop in the carpet.

It had actually been quite an ingenious booby trap to be devised by a fourteen year old boy with only household chemicals to work with but, as Sherlock surmised, rather overkill to keep his mother from finding his extensive porn collection. Not one of their more illustrious cases, but it had been quite entertaining to watch both the boy and mother's faces as he revealed that he did know the how and why. He lost interest after the mother started shouting and John started shouting and the whole thing turned tedious.

He rather thinks John won't actually be doing a full write-up of this one on his blog.

It's been two days since their last case and he's beginning to get more than a little antsy. Lestrade has sent him nothing, just a boring hit and run that he refused to even leave the flat for, and nobody interesting has appeared through the blog. Said blog he is currently scrolling through on John's laptop, having borrowed it again.

He did ask, it's not his fault John hadn't been in the room at the time.]

Bored, John.

[He doesn't even know if his flatmate is even in, but that's hardly a necessity for him to actually speak to John. Frustrated, he throws the laptop across the room to hit the wall, where it summarily breaks. Which is where he can be found whenever John appears, sulking amidst pieces of laptop, both from the melted one of their last case and John's poor broken one.]

Comments

[jumpthegun]

[John isn't actually in when Sherlock complains to him. He's out picking up the groceries and trudges upstairs sometime later, stopping at the top of the stairs when he looks into the living room and sees his flatmate amongst the electronic deb-]

Sherlock. [His voice is deadly calm. The tins of beans in one bag feel very heavy, a solid, I could really hurt something if I threw these sort of heavy.] Is that my laptop in pieces there?

[howdull]

It had a virus, I was doing you a favour.

[Or not.

He sounds so grumpy and irritable, and not even slightly sorry about the wanton laptop destruction that he's just perpetrated.]

I want a case, John.

[jumpthegun]

I want a new laptop. Get me one--legally--and I'll see about getting you a new case. [He heads into the kitchen and starts putting groceries away.

There's a plate with what looks like pinkies on the second shelf in the fridge.]

Are we putting in for finger sandwiches at tea, then?

[howdull]

What would be the point in getting you a new laptop before you have something to write about?

[He doesn't really mean that, he's just being snippy because he's incredibly bored.]

Cause and effect. You get me a new case, an interesting one, and I'll have reason to get you a new laptop.

[jumpthegun]

[John slams the fridge closed.]

Cause and effect, Sherlock. You broke my bloody laptop. I don't exactly have a way to go surfing the internet easily.

[Don't make him use his phone. Please don't make him use his phone to go surfing.]

Unless you're planning to lend me your computer.

[howdull]

I don't have a computer.

[Said as if John should already know this.]

I told you that just a few hours ago. It wasn't here when I got home, stolen.

[But this apparently isn't interesting as a case. Probably because he knows who took it and a computer isn't a good enough reason to go and talk to Mycroft to get it back.]

[jumpthegun]

Someone stole your comput-

Never mind. I don't want to know. [How does this happen? It happens because Sherlock maintains a-]

Wait. You're a bloody detective. Go and find it. Case right there. You're welcome.

[John doesn't care if it's interesting. He's going to be petulant as he throws himself into his chair and picks up paper to look at, in spite of himself. Sherlock has already probably scanned it, but he might be able to find something the detective dismissed out of hand and egg him on.]

[howdull]

I've already solved it. I said it had been stolen, not that I didn't know who had it; pay attention, John.

[He sighs and pushes himself up from the floor, all jerky movements and growing impatient energy. He's going to start destroying things soon. John's laptop doesn't count.]

Mycroft has it, he took yours for a day last week, didn't you notice?

[jumpthegun]

Of course he- He what? [It takes half a moment for that to fully register, and John looks down at his broken computer incredulously. Then just sighs and goes back to the paper.]

Forget it.

[He flips through a few pages.]

Woman found mysteriously dead near a... Well, this is interesting. It says she was in her jogging clothes near the river, but they couldn't find her shoes. That's got to be interesting enough.

[howdull]

Suicide gone wrong; or, I suppose, right since she still died.

[He glances at the page as he passes by, the photograph of a lot of police tape and not much else eliciting a snort of disapproval.]

Surely even you could have seen that, John. No, look for something more interesting, like--

[He's cut off as the door opens and Mrs. Hudson pokes her head in looking frazzled.]

Can't you hear the doorbell, boys? It's been ringing for ages.

[jumpthegun]

How-

[John just cuts himself off as Sherlock continues. He has no idea how he was meant to see that. What with-]

Hmm?

[The door. Oh. Right. He'd sort of been focused on fuming over his laptop.]

Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I'll get it.

[John rises and heads downstairs. There are a pair of men in black suits and dark ties who look like they're body-builders standing there.]

Gentlemen?

[One of the men, a tall black fellow inclines his head politely.]

We're here to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

[The accent immediately catches John's attention.]

You're French?

[There's another small nod from the man.]

May we come in, Dr. Watson?

[John opens the door wider.]

Yeah. Yes. Sorry, yes. Please come in. Sherlock, we've got clients!

[He'd better at least slide the broken laptop out of sight somewhere.]

[howdull]

It's about time! Only show them up if they have something interesting to say.

[It's a shout that comes echoing down the stairs, causing Mrs. Hudson to tut on the way back to her flat and one of the men to raise an eyebrow at John.

Sherlock does, at least, tidy the broken laptop away to a certain given level of tidy, meaning it's shoved into the nearest thing with a closing door. The fridge.]

[jumpthegun]

((OOC: The blog post on this for our reference.))

[John smiles politely at the men as he leads them up the stairs.]

He's kidding.

[He's really not. But official-looking Frenchmen don't come to visit them every day. That seems interesting enough. They reach the landing and John motions them into the living room.]

Please, have a seat. What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?

[There's only one chair at the moment, and the black fellow sits in it, facing wherever Sherlock's placed himself. The other man stands by his side. The man clearly in charge out of the pair of them begins to speak.]

Mr. Holmes, my name is Robert Saveau. My colleague, Monsieur Delacroix, and I are here on a matter of some concern for the French consulate. Are you aware of murder of Monsieur Gabriel Allard?

[John can't help chiming in:]

That's... isn't that Isaac Persano's personal trainer? He was found bludgeoned to death in a hotel room over in Chelsea.

[howdull]

That was a year ago now, and you believe Issac Persano to be the guilty party.

[He doesn't look entirely enthralled yet.]

Why are you coming to me with an old and pedestrian murder?

[One of the men looks at the other and nods slightly.]

Monsieur Persano has been found. He will not speak, he will not move, he just sits in his hotel room surrounded by matchboxes.

[Matchboxes? That is, at least, slightly interesting. Better than sitting on the sofa all day, anyway, which is what propels him to his feet and towards the door.]

Come on, John, no time to lose. We'll meet you at the hotel, you can text me anything else you consider relevant.

[jumpthegun]

[John quickly scribbles Sherlock's mobile number on a sticky note and hands it off to Mr. Saveau.]

The name of the hotel would help. Immensely. Just close the door on your way out.

[He has to run to catch up with Sherlock, snagging his coat downstairs.]

Y'know, someday, someone's going to rob us when we leave them in the flat alone.

[John raises a hand to try to hail a cab driving by, but seems to miss it.]

Do you even know where we're going? They didn't say.

[howdull]

[Sherlock has already forgotten the foreign men, the matchboxes, the whole case. His attention has been drawn by something else as soon as they stepped outside, a tiny smear of blood drawn in the shape of a minute arrow.

He only gets to see it for a moment, however, before John's great lumbering feet are trampling all over it on the way to hailing a cab. Irritating! He steps forwards and simply reaches down to try and grab John's left leg to pull it up so that he can inspect the sole of his shoe.]

[jumpthegun]

What the-!?

[John nearly topples over from the unexpected attack and only just managed to stay upright by reaching back and grabbing Sherlock's coat. The underside of his sole when Sherlock lifts it up from the back is, in fact, now smeared with blood. It's indescribably awkward to stand like this on the pavement with people walking by, though.

The doctor's voice is low and irritated as he asks, letting go of Sherlock as he finds his balance.]

Why is the bottom of my shoe suddenly fascinating?

[howdull]

Blood.

[Sherlock wipes a finger over the bottom of John's shoe to coat it in smeared red, before holding it up for his friend to see.]

Don't you pay attention to where you're going? You may have just ruined a valuable clue, that blood was arranged in the shape of an arrow.

[Not happenstance. Something left for him. He feels the thrill of the chase start to bubble in his gut.]

[jumpthegun]

Yes. Thank you. Could you put my foot dow... I think there's another one.

[John points to the right where there's another little bloody arrow that's been placed on the pavement. It's more to the side to avoid being stepped on, but very much there.]

Sherlock, that blood looks fresh.

[If Sherlock hasn't let him go at this point, John will kick his foot down forcefully to break the hold and start moving. Fresh blood means someone is freshly bleeding. They need to find whomever it is immediately.]

[howdull]

[Sherlock immediately drops the shoe as well as the associated foot and hurries to the next arrow, falling to his knees so that he can examine it closely. The direction is obvious, but why? Who is leaving them? Fresh, yes, but not necessarily freshly bleeding, just freshly painted.]

Woman.

[He glances up at John.]

Possibly a girl, teenager at the youngest. Not the victim, but not forced. Enjoying it.

[jumpthegun]

[John crouches next to Sherlock.]

Enjoying it?

[He can guess the size of the arrows might lead Sherlock to a woman, but John's flummoxed as to how the man could get a motivation out of that.]

[howdull]

Obviously.

[He glances sidelong at John and sighs when he sees that familiar vacant expression.]

Look, the lines are perfect. No wobble, no tremor, this was not done by a person afraid or hurried. They wanted to take their time, savour a well laid plan. And see here, and here, flakes of nail varnish in a frankly disturbing shade of neon blue, she pressed down hard enough to leave those behind. A lasting impression, something she wanted a distinct memory of.

[He stands up and paces in the direction the arrow points.]

Another one, here, on the wall.

[jumpthegun]

Obviously... [That's more muttered to himself with a roll of his eyes as John follows after Sherlock.]

You'd think someone would notice a woman with bright blue nails painting blood onto walls. There's the next one.

[He pauses.]

D'you think this is a trap?

[John has his gun hidden in the back of his waistband, per usual, but he'd really rather not pull it out in the middle of Baker Street. It's not exactly legal. Or at all legal, even if Lestrade looks the other way.]

[howdull]

Yes.

[Of course it's a trap, who paints arrows of blood for the fun of it?]

That's what makes it fun.

[He beams and takes off at a jog down the alleyway.]

What do you think, John? Corpse, or hostage? Oh, I hope it's a corpse.

[jumpthegun]

We like hostages more than corpses, Sherlock.

[Hostages can still be saved, after all.

It's only a moment before John's chasing after him, running to catch the other man up. His eyes dart to the bins and other debris in the alley, looking for an attacker, and his hand hikes his coat up at the back to grasp the handle of his gun, just in case.]

You think it's connected to the case?

[The one they've just taken, specifically.]