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]

You can make a phone call when we get to the station.

[That's the protocol. Neither of the officers will budge, getting John processed through fingerprinting and initial booking before he's allowed to use the main telephone to call anyone he wants. He is informed that he has ten minutes before his interview will start.

Lestrade, luckily for John, picks up on the third ring.]

Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking.

[jumpthegun]

Lestrade! Hi, sorry. It's John again. I'm at the station. I sort of got picked up. Sherlock had to take something from the British Museum for a case and... it looked a bit like I was helping him. Could you sort of... get me out of here? I need to get back to him.

[He lowers his voice.]

I think people might be in danger if I'm kept around them too long, y'know?

[howdull]

[There's a long pause, like a man taking a deep breath and then counting to ten so that he didn't break anything.]

Sherlock took something from the British Museum?

[Please tell him this isn't true.]

What was it?

[jumpthegun]

[There's an embarrassed pause on John's end.]

The donation box. Look, it's not like he needs the cash. He's bloody posh. I'll make him give it back along with all the other donation money. He must have needed it for something, though.

[howdull]

[Why is this his life? Why did he ever get tangled up with Sherlock sodding Holmes in the first place?!]

He better have a bloody good explanation for this.

[He should let them keep John and arrest Sherlock, but...]

If I pull some strings to get you off, can I trust you to make sure Sherlock returns the box, and everything inside it, by tomorrow morning?

[jumpthegun]

[Oh, thank god. Oh, thank Lestrade.]

Yeah! Yes, of course. And it'll have a very nice extra bit of donation on top of whatever was there, too. I really appreciate this, Detective. Have you... is there anything else on Harry?

[howdull]

[His voice softens considerably, the sort of uncomfortable but sympathetic tones of one grown man discussing potentially emotionally charged issues with another grown man.]

We know she died quickly, she was in that building for about twelve hours, and the only wounds were those on her throat. She has no defensive wounds, so we think she was asleep or unconscious before she was attacked, it's likely that she didn't even feel anything.

[jumpthegun]

[Pity. No. Sympathy. John forces down the urge to bristle. He knows he'd have that same tone if their positions were reversed. His voice is tight when he responds.]

Right. I'm assuming Sherlock already told you, but just in case, you're looking for a nine-fingered woman, blue nail polish, recently-dyed blonde hair. Works somewhere with a lot of blank business card stock. History of military service, most likely in Afghanistan around the same time I was there between 2006 and 2010. Also, you might want to let Sergeant Donovan know she's being impersonated.

[howdull]

Alright, cheers.

[He knows better than to ask if he's sure, Sherlock is good and that's why they work with him despite his interpersonal issues.]

I'll sort this for you, sit tight.

[He rings off to leave John in the custody of the two arresting officers, one of whom is called away for a phone call very swiftly. It's not ten minutes after that when he's returning with John's bag of clothing and personal belongings.]

You're free to go with a caution this time.

[jumpthegun]

Right. Thanks. [John winces as he gets up and heads to the loo before leaving. Finally he gets to change into some real clothes with socks and shoes. It's all rather nicer stuff than he typically wears, but that's Mycroft's touch no doubt. It's also mild agony to get it on, and he's breathing hard by the time he steps out of the stall. It's fine. This is fine. He really hopes Sherlock has drugs at his flat.

And thinking of Sherlock...]

Do you maybe want to give me your addressed? The police collared me on our merry chase. Thanks for the warning there. -JW

[howdull]

[Who has Sherlock been talking to this entire time as he works? He could have sworn that John was right behind him all the way...

Ah well, he'll text back pretty quickly.]

6 Romney Court, Shepherd's Bush Green.

[The area isn't a very good one. Still central, like Baker Street, but much more surrounded with council estates and run down housing.]

[jumpthegun]

[That's... going to be a hike. John glares down at the phone, as if that will make it fix his geography problem. He doesn't even have money for a bus. Unless... unless Sherlock's wallet is in his coat. The doctor makes a quick search of it.]

[howdull]

[Lucky for John, Sherlock's wallet is in his coat, containing both bank card and £30 of cash.

However John gets to Romney Court - bus, tube, or taxi - he will find himself in a grotty little street where two of the flats have boarded up windows. A pair of trainers hang over the telephone wire by their laces, and the buzzer for flat 6 is labelled Fuck Off Mycroft.]

[jumpthegun]

[Cab as penance for getting him arrested. Granted... John got Sherlock's flat blown up. But. Yes.

Romney Court is lovely, he decides. He can see why Sherlock moved. What he can't see is why the man moved in here in the first place. John rings the buzzer, then just tries the door to see if that will work. He doesn't trust that Sherlock will be paying much attention.]

[howdull]

[The door opens without the need for John to be buzzed in, which is a good thing because Sherlock is engrossed in his current task. He's sitting amongst the smashed remains of the glass donation box, shards of glass, notes, coins, and business cards scattered everywhere.

He's picking up business cards feverishly and then tossing them over his shoulder impatiently when they don't match what he's looking for.

The flat itself is small, just a bedsit really. There's a bedroom and lounge combined, with an open plan kitchen in the corner. One little door leads off to a toilet and shower room. There's not much here, a dirty couch and a single bed with no sheets.]

[jumpthegun]

Bloody... [John runs a hand down his face when he sees the state of the box. So much for handing it back intact.] What are you even doing? [John checks the toilet for a medicine cabinet. It's a small enough place that he can search for some pain killers while he verbally berates Sherlock for being an ass.]

[howdull]

Isn't it obvious?

[He waves one of the business cards, a light blue one for 'Suzy's Super Sweets', in the air.]

The British Museum runs a contest each month for businesses, they post their business cards in with the donations and one is drawn at random to receive various vouchers and goods. It's one of the largest collections of eclectic business cards in London, if we can find a match for the stock of the card used, we'll have a lead.

[The cabinet contains a box of paracetamol, half empty, and a small bottle of ibuprofen.]

[jumpthegun]

Obvious. Right. [John goes for the ibuprofen, taking a couple of pills and washing them down with water from the sink. He pockets that for later, and then heads back to Sherlock, setting his Belstaff coat on the bed.]

Thanks for the loan. I... borrowed a little cash for the ride over here.

[Again, he wants to say he'll find a way to pay the other man back, but when they both know John's bank balance.]

We do need to give all of this back. I promised Lestrade. The contents of the box plus a donation from you. A sizable one for the trouble.

[John seats himself gingerly on the floor next to Sherlock and starts picking through the cards. Most of them seem to be the same to him, as far as card stock goes.]

[howdull]

Why wouldn't I give it back, John? I'm not a petty thief.

[But he doesn't see why he should have to give a donation on top of giving it back, surely catching a murderer will be compensation enough!]

Be quiet, I have to concentrate.

[Sherlock isn't the most sensitive when it comes to emotion. It never occurs to him that a moment of peace away from the immediate rush of action might make grief and pain come crashing in.]

[jumpthegun]

[The British Museum doesn't care about murderers, just that they now have to replace their box. John does fall silent after shooting a glare at the other man, though.

He doesn't know how he can help here. It's not like he sees the same things Sherlock does. In fact, he's been nothing but trouble this entire case.

John starts organizing the money from the box for something to do with his hands. He picks out the glass and starts piling that to one side, as well, ignoring the tiny nicks he gets for the trouble.

First there had been the symbol on Harry's head. He hadn't been able to figure out what it might mean, even being the one with some passing Pashto knowledge. Then he'd gotten Baker Street blown up, Mrs. Hudson nearly killed, other people injured and possibly killed. Then he'd gotten his clothes stolen and been left helpless save for-

The buzzer goes off downstairs. Sherlock seems to be engrossed in what he's doing, so John picks himself up and goes to answer. There's a package there, which makes the doctor's skin crawl and his breath catch in his throat. The packaging is much neater, though, and John recognizes Mycroft's handwriting.]

We've got a gift from Mycroft.

[One that is the promised laptop, loaded with the requested CCTV footage, as it happens.]

[howdull]

[This is the sort of task that Sherlock can absorb himself in for days. It's similar to looking for the right words in the books as they did during the case from the bank, or whatever stupid title John gave it on his blog. The card stock is only minutely different, but he knows what he's looking for and so he steadily makes his way through.

He barely even looks up when John disappears and then returns with the package, waving a hand dismissively.]

You watch it, I'm sure that even you're capable of observing details from something so straightforward.

[In with the laptop is a note from Mycroft, short and to the point.

Dr. Watson,
Allow me to extend an offer of residence at the Hilton until such time as Baker Street is repaired, I am certain you have noticed that my brother's old abode is far from comfortable.
I hope you find the footage illuminating.
Yours,
Mycroft Holmes.

The CCTV files are labelled and easy to find, the one from Baker Street just showing reruns of Eastenders where there should be video footage. The soap opera cuts in at 07:19 and then out again at 09:32. The two men exit the flat at 10:57. The hospital is more helpful, that is at least real footage, but the woman who enters at the right time keeps her face obscured from the cameras. There's not much that can be told about her. She's of average height, perhaps slightly plumper than average weight, with platinum blonde dyed hair down to her shoulders.]

[jumpthegun]

[Charity. John can't help the mixed feeling of helpless fury and gratitude at Mycroft's note. The doctor is aware he's living on the charity of far richer men right now. Or, well... it's unlikely to be charity where Mycroft is concerned. There are favors that will, no doubt, be extracted for the assistance. It's galling that he's not really in a position to refuse, though.

The CCTV footage is, unfortunately, not all that helpful. At least not by John's reckoning. She could be anyone. And it could just be a disguise, anyway.]

She was able to hack the CCTV at Baker Street for a couple of hours. Put on Eastenders, if that's a clue. Shoulder-length blonde hair. Definitely dyed. Can't make out her face at the hospital.

[howdull]

Mm?

[He's not at all interested, none of those observations sound at all useful. Though he does double take after a second.]

What's Eastenders?

[Soap operas have never been his area of expertise.]

[jumpthegun]

You don't know what Eastenders is? [John can't help rolling his eyes as he closes the laptop and pushes it away.] It's a soap opera that's been running forever. How could you have never seen an episode of Eastenders? It's on every day?

[howdull]

That sounds unbearably tedious.

[He does tilt his head to look at John properly, though.]

Pale, sweaty, slight tremble, you should eat before you collapse.