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]

[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.

[jumpthegun]

[When was the last time he ate? This morning. Right. Before they went out.]

I'm fine.

[But more water would be good, probably. As would lying down. John's aware he should probably have tried to get antibiotics at the hospital. Or at the very least, bandages for his back. Getting roughed up by the police, however unintentionally, hasn't helped his condition.

He gets up to investigate Sherlock's kitchen, doubting there's even anything edible in it if he wanted food.]

Aren't you meant to be looking at card stock?

[howdull]

[John would be quite correct that there's nothing edible in the kitchen. The fridge is still running, but the only thing inside is a very shrivelled orange that's clearly been there since before they moved into Baker Street together. It's obvious that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft bothered to clean this place out.]

I need you to be conscious, John, how are you supposed to help me otherwise?

[He says it with a faint edge of irritation rather than the fondness a compliment deserves.]

[jumpthegun]

[He balks, wanting to argue the point, but food probably would help right now, even when the thought of eating anything makes his stomach turn.]

Fine. There's nothing here to eat. Will any take-away places even deliver to this address?

[howdull]

[He shrugs, Sherlock doesn't really remember ever getting takeaway when he lived here. Truth be told, he doesn't remember eating much. But then, he rarely eats much and remembering meals is a pointless use of hard-drive space.]

This is London, somewhere will. Then you should sleep, Mycroft has taken the bedding, but there's still a mattress.

[jumpthegun]

[John checks his phone and finds that his selection of takeaway places has, in fact, remained in his contacts. What must the people who transferred his contacts over think? God, he's useless.

He picks one at random and winds up with a Chinese place. He orders his usual orange chicken and egg rolls on reflex, then something for Sherlock. Even if he doesn't eat it, he'll have it to pick at.]

Food'll be here in fifteen.

[Reluctantly, John goes to fish Sherlock's wallet out of his coat again, taking his credit card for use and feeling absolutely wretched. Mycroft might have favors in mind as a way for John to pay all of this 'kindness' off, but Sherlock? John suspects Sherlock doesn't even think about it, and that just makes him feel worse, like he's taking advantage of the other man's generosity. It was bad enough having to ask for a little extra to help pay his half of the rent before they got the Blind Banker job.

And there's still the matter of the funeral arrangements. Mrs. H had helped, but Christ... when is he going to get to all of that in the middle of all of this? His next pension check isn't due for another week. The loan is still an option, but it's not like he has any collateral. He might have been able to put the flat down, but that's gone.

His chest starts to tighten and John's aware that he's working himself up toward a minor panic attack. Deep breaths.] Nngh! [Maybe not deep breaths. Those hurt. John closes his eyes and curls over where he's sitting on the bed, just trying to get himself under control before this turns to an actual problem, rather than an approaching one.]

Tell me about the cards, Sherlock. What specific aspects are we looking for to match up the card stock?

[howdull]

[It's not hard to see the start of a panic attack in John when he looks over, the symptoms are written as clear as words in the air. Elevated breathing, pale, clammy, dilated pupils, obvious frightened expression. The thing that Sherlock doesn't understand is why.

John is a soldier, used to combat and his life being in danger, and he has already proven that he finds that exhilarating rather than terrifying. So it's not being targeted. It can't be his injuries, that would surely be pain rather than panic. Surely it isn't his sister, panic isn't a logical response to a death. Grief, perhaps, but not panic.

Something to do with the food?

He stares at John with a slightly baffled expression, only snapping to when the direct question comes at him.]

It's the age, the thickness of the card used is at least two millimetres thicker in older stock. There's also a slight increase in rigidity and the coarse feel of the cardboard. Newer cards tend to be embossed or laminated.

[A beat.]

Why are you panicking?

[jumpthegun]

I'm not panicking.

[It's a patently ridiculous thing to say, and he knows it, knows Sherlock will see through it and won't drop it. He never drops it.]

I can't pay you back. I don't have the money to pay you back. For any of this. Mycroft wants to put me up at the Hilton. I can't bloody afford to pay either of you back. Not for the food, not for the clothes, the flat. I can't pay for any of it right now.

[He squeezes his eyes tight shut.]

I can't pay you back, and you don't care.

[howdull]

[Of course Mycroft wants to do that, sometimes he truly does detest his brother, but he can shelve that for now because of the greater mystery that is John. Why on earth should he care if John can pay him back or not? Nor did he realise that John would panic so much over expenses.]

If money is so important to you, then perhaps you should have taken Mycroft's initial offer of a retainer. Rather short sighted of you.

[He really doesn't get it.]

[jumpthegun]

[This is stupid. John knows it's stupid, and that just makes the panic worse, eats away at him. Sherlock is really not helping with his prodding, either. It makes John feel even more ridiculous, weak.]

It's not about the money! [The doctor is starting to hyperventilate. It is the money, it isn't the money. It's the helplessness, really, but John isn't equipped to articulate that. So, it's the money he's panicking over right now.] And I don't bloody spy on people for money.

[For their own good? Maybe. But not for money. Never for money.]

[howdull]

[This is baffling enough to have Sherlock put down the cards and actually focus on John properly now. He can read the panic attack clearly, but not why. It makes no sense.]

Then if the money isn't an issue, what are you panicking about?

[Mycroft? The Hilton? No. He can read none of those are correct, or not quite correct. What is it?!]

[jumpthegun]

I don't know! I don't know, all right? I just-I just am. Nothing. I'm panicking about nothing. [Like a useless idiot. And now he's distracting Sherlock from actually getting on with their work. Wonderful. Charming. Brilliant!

Why the man is concerned with having him conscious to help when he's not helping in the slightest is beyond John right at the moment. It's ludicrous. They need to find the Alphabet woman. They don't have time for this. Time to eat, time to sleep. There should be something he's doing, not just sitting around while Sherlock does everything.

John's not the clever one, he knows that. But this particular case has proved time and again that he's barely worth having around. He gets caught by the police, panics for no reason.]

Christ! Just leave me alone!

[Just let him pull himself together. There's a tingling sensation in his arms, and his cheeks, like pins and needles. He feels nauseous.]

Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

[It's muttered quietly to himself as his hands grip the edge of the mattress and John holds himself rigid, just trying to stop everything.]

[howdull]

[This is so far outside Sherlock's wheelhouse that it's almost comical. He doesn't deal with the grieving family other than to get details for the case and he doesn't care if he upsets them then. He has never had a panic attack himself, though he can list off all the physiological symptoms and even fake one convincingly if necessary.

He pushes himself up to his feet and crosses to stand in front of John, glass crunching under his feet. He hesitates, unsure what to do or say in that moment. He recalls hearing other people give breathing instructions at this point, but that's so stupid. John is a doctor and a grown man, he knows how to breathe.]

You do not owe me anything, John. The assistance you provide on cases as a physician and the company you provide of a generally less tedious nature than most people, is valuable beyond monetary recompense.

[He doesn't see that as especially sentimental, it's just plain fact and he thought John knew it already. His contribution is not fiscal, he could achieve that without an ex-army doctor on hand.]

Here.

[He thrusts the business card from the hospital at John,]

Perforations down the side, four for an older stock, five for a newer one. A surgeons hands are better suited to feeling the difference and I'm bored. You take over.