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

[howdull]

[Borrow his coat? This is a genuine Belstaff, tailored to his specifications, and he doesn't want John to get blood and potentially pus all over it if his burns end up getting infected.

He sighs and unbuttons it, pulling it off to drape it over the foot of the bed.]

Hurry up, then.

[He glances towards the door.]

I'll create a distraction.

[jumpthegun]

[The bed alarms are going to go off when he gets up, so John takes care of the IVs first. The effects of the morphine should last him long enought to get out of here and go... somewhere. Sherlock probably has a place, some little bolt hole they can hide in. He takes a breath, and just gets on with it. His ribs and backside protest immediately, but it's dulled. Sherlock's coat is far too big on him, hanging closer to his ankles than his knees. But John buttons it up and strides with as much stability and purpose as he can, looking like he's not an escaped patient.

He does listen for the sounds of Sherlock's distraction, but his main goal is just getting to the entrance.]

[howdull]

[It's really not hard to hear Sherlock's distraction.

This is a floor with a lot of dangerously ill or burned victims, after all, and so a lot of life saving equipment. He simply pulled the plug on one as he passed by and every nurse and doctor came running at the shrill sound of someone coding. Not that they would, of course, Sherlock had made sure to choose a patient with excellent colour who could definitely be off their support for a few minutes.

He saunters to the lift and down to the lobby, leaning against the brickwork as he waits for John. He pats his pockets for a cigarette, but irritatingly they're in his coat pocket. Not that he would smoke it, he just wants to hold it, that's all.]

[jumpthegun]

[Well, that's one way to do it. John catches Sherlock as he steps out, barefoot onto the London pavement. He really hates continuing to ask Sherlock for assistance but he doesn't exactly have his credit card on him.]

Where d'we go from here? Police station? No. Never mind.

[He wants his clothes, but they'll just send him back to hospital.]

I, uh... I don't suppose you know anyone my size who could lend me some clothes? I'll pay you back... them back soon as I can get access to my accounts.

[howdull]

[Sherlock is less than sympathetic, he's run around London in much worse states than simply without shoes when he's been on a case.]

How? Your bank balance was fifty three pounds and seven pence overdrawn yesterday.

[He knows, he hacked into John's online banking.]

Call Lestrade, get him to bring by you your own clothes. Tell him to meet us at the British Museum. Oh-- and left coat pocket, cigarette, please.

[jumpthegun]

[There's a hot flush of shame at the mention of his bank balance. How is he even going to pay for Harry's funeral? John doesn't even argue about the cigarettes as he pulls them out and hands them to Sherlock, feeling incredibly small and helpless. They aren't things he likes feeling in the slightest... and they're probably what the Alphabet Woman wants. She's demoralizing him. Does she know about his money troubles? C is for Check.]

I need to borrow your phone.

[John starts feeling in the other pocket of the coat for it.]

[howdull]

[If C turned out to be for cheque then Sherlock would be immensely disappointed, what self respecting criminal goes after white collar crimes such as bank accounts? He's starting to realise that John truly is not okay, otherwise the request for a cigarette would have been met with at least a disapproving stare.

He hesitates, awkward, before patting John once on the shoulder.]

If you need to talk, John, I-- You know you can always-- what I'm trying to say is that Mrs. Hudson's number is on there too, I'm sure she'll listen.

[The phone is indeed in Sherlock's other pocket. It contains 6 numbers. John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Morgue, Mycroft, and Petra. There is no number for his parents.]

[jumpthegun]

[That comment earns Sherlock a flat look. Because really? When has he ever turned to Mrs. H for a shoulder to cry on? When has he ever turned to anyone?]

Who's Petra?

[Not a girlfriend, but someone important enough to be in Sherlock's phone book.]

[howdull]

[It's better than John trying to use him as a shoulder to cry on, that just sounds hideous all round.]

I believe you want L, Lestrade.

[jumpthegun]

Is she one of your homeless network?

[John does, at least, bring up Lestrade's number.]

Might be one of them saw something around Baker Street.

[howdull]

[He shrugs, he doubts the homeless network will have seen anything around there. It's got too high a foot traffic, too close to a major bus route, and too many police to keep moving unlicensed beggars or people sleeping rough. No, they tend not to be on his doorstep. If anything was seen, it will have been Mycroft on the CCTV.

He doesn't answer about Petra, lighting the cigarette instead and taking an almost sinfully delicious lungful.

Lestrade answers after only two rings sounding worried.]

Sherlock! How's John, he come round yet?

[jumpthegun]

Yeah. Uh, hi. I'm awake, detective. Could you bring my clothes 'round to the British Museum. They said I was good for discharge, but they didn't have my clothes... we were eager to get going. So. [John clears his throat. Lying isn't his strong suit, really.] As much fun as it is running barefoot around London.

[howdull]

Oh-- Jesus, John, didn't know it was you, mate. Glad to hear you're already out, but--

[He hesitates, obviously confused.]

Why are you asking me to pick you up some clothes?

[jumpthegun]

[John's brow furrows.]

The nurse at the hospital said someone from the Yard came to pick up my clothes for evidence.

[howdull]

[Sherlock's expression sharpens on John's face, straining to hear Lestrade's response.]

Uh, no? Nobody's been sent to get them, we got all the evidence we could from the flat itself, didn't see what more your clothes could tell us.

[jumpthegun]

[John's eyes widen.]

I have to go. [And he hangs up.]

She left her card. He said she left her card at the desk. Who the bloody hell steals clothes?!

[This really is starting to feel like a campaign to humiliate him.]

[howdull]

C is for Clothes? Surely not, that's patently unsustainable.

[She can hardly keep John naked for the rest of his life, can she? He's already turning back to go in, however.]

If she's left you a card then she's becoming more impatient, less cautious, that's good.

[jumpthegun]

[John waits outside, keeping an eye out. He'd rather not get snagged and shoved back into a hospital bed.

The desk nurse smiles at Sherlock, although, the scent of smoke on him makes her wrinkle her nose for a moment.]

Can I help you?

[howdull]

[He takes her life story in one glance, a photograph of facts that still baffles him that other people can't take. She's single but looking, unfortunate tendency to date liars and cheats, well-intentioned but with a martyr complex, a good fit for working as a nurse all in all.

He smiles at her; warm, friendly, and just a touch concerned.]

Oh yes, sorry to bother you. My brother was admitted here earlier today following an explosion, his clothes were collected by the police. He can't-- obviously he can't go and fetch them himself, but I was told the officer left a card here?

[jumpthegun]

[She perks up in response to Sherlock's act and her smile becomes more sympathetic.]

Ah, there was someone earlier... what's your brother's name? Sorry, just need to be sure.

[howdull]

John Watson, my name is Harry.

[It's probably a good idea that John can't hear this, Sherlock muses to himself, he would possibly be mildly annoyed at the use of his dead sister's name. It made sense, though, in case she was prescient enough to check for next of kin.]

[jumpthegun]

Ah, yes.

[Her eyes drop for a moment as she sorts through some papers on the desk and pulls out the card to hand to Sherlock.]

I'm really sorry about your brother, Harry. We'll take good care of him.

[howdull]

I doubt that.

[His smile drops off his face immediately as he snatches the card, whirling around in an overly dramatic gesture which would have been greatly improved by the addition of his usual coat, he strides back outside.

He's beaming by the time he rejoins John, holding the card out to him.]

Definitely impatient, she may as well have left her full name and address.

[The business card is normal sized, white cardboard, and the lettering is Courier New. It reads: P.C. SALLY DONOVAN, NEW SCOTLAND YARD, LONDON, with a phone number underneath it. Obviously it's not from Sally, she has all ten fingers and no real reason to go after John, but it's interesting to Sherlock that this was the name chosen.]

[jumpthegun]

[John can't help raising a brow.]

C is for Calling Card? You want to call her or should I?

Maybe somewhere a little more private.

[howdull]

No point, the number is the bereavement counselling line.

[Don't ask how he knows this.]

Look more closely. The font isn't standard for a business card, that means she has some passing knowledge with technology. [Better than John, anyway.] The card-stock is old, perhaps five to seven years, but it smells fresh. She works somewhere with a high stock holding of blank business cards. The choice of name suggests she has us under close surveillance, but we haven't noticed her, making her former occupation as a soldier more likely. She's blonde, but not natural, the scent of the recent semi-permanent hair dye and the faint trace of a smudge along the corner, and she wears an extraordinarily cheap perfume with the primary scent of lavender.