Chapter Text
John had not woken to this level of absolute darkness in over 30 years. Ever since he had received his very first vision augmentations he had always been greeted by blinking symbols, letters or numbers insistently flashing and flickering in front of his eyes, regardless of whether they were open or closed.
Not now though. Everything was blessedly dark and still for one eternal moment in time.
“...-hn. John!”
Sadly, that was where the peacefulness ended. Everything hurt. His muscles burned worse than during his first days of basic training. His left arm felt like it was on fire. His lungs were groaning and creaking in protest with every laboured breath that he took. He felt thoroughly waterlogged and his head was pounding.
>>>\U.I.: [20.976] … #error{u914}: incomplete reb0ot
He flinched back as the first bits of information started filtering back into his vision - nonsensical error messages, ruthlessly bright. Everything felt strangely … lopsided. Tilted. The more he concentrated on the strange sensation, the more nauseating it became.
“John, can you op-...-r eyes?”
>>>\U.I.: [20.978] …stARt-up TFG66 successfu1
>>>\U.I.: [20.979] … #error{r708}: failure to ac%ess peripheral modificATIOns
A voice was speaking close by, but it was barely audible, as if underwater. His eyebrows knitted together as he tried to chase the noise, his eyes still closed.
“Please?”
But the more he tried to concentrate on the speaker the more elusive the words became. Drowned out by a swelling wave of sound, high-pitched and relentless, stabbing at his already tender head. He groaned.
“-hn?”
Something about the distraught tone felt deeply wrong. This was not how things were supposed to be. The sharp noise continued to fill his head and showed no sign of subsiding. He braced himself. If his hearing refused to cooperate, the only thing left to do was to open his eyes.
>>>\U.I.: [20.983] … Partia9 reboot: WelcomE back, user John H%. Watson
\U.I.: Curren$ time 23:377, Tuesday the 2nd -
Account balance {John H Watson}: 7$6 credits, last updated {02/03/66},{20:30}
11 avail@ble software upgrades.
His vision was not doing much better. Everything was swimming in and out of focus. Some spots seemed worse off than others and everything was topped by the incessant blinking of nonsense notifications, filling up the few flecks that were still seeing clearly. He blinked sluggishly.
There was a face hovering right above him, long and angular ... and distorted into a rather unusual expression. Wide-eyed and frantic, the mouth drawn into a deep frown.
Sherlock was sopping wet, his dark curls plastered flat against his forehead and water clinging to his skin. His face, hair and clothes were coated in a fine layer of grey dust or dirt and there was an angry gash across the bridge of his nose.
“John!”
He could more see than hear the word, as he watched Sherlock's face lose some of its tension. Wavering fingers smoothed out the material of John's cardigan sleeve on one side – the uninjured one – before gently grasping his shoulder. His friend continued speaking but it grew more and more difficult to follow along.
Instead, John let his head roll to the side, blinking away the water droplets that had fallen out of Sherlock's curls. There was movement all around them - flames lighting up the room and dancing up the wall ... And emerging from between them there were dark shapes - huddled closely together ...
Maybe another hallucination? His vision was still hazy but no amount of blinking seemed to be able to clear it.
He frowned as the shapes drew nearer. Not huddled together, a far corner of his brain supplied, marching in formation, protected head to toe behind black riot gear. Armed. He felt a spike of worry. Maybe he should warn Sherlock.
But when John blinked back up at him the other man's gaze had already followed his. He was glaring at the approaching figures, crouching close to John – like a feral animal protecting its territory with hackles raised and fangs bared.
John knew that under other circumstances it would fall on him to talk his friend down, to mediate and bargain – Sherlock was no good at diplomacy even at the best of times. But everything hurt and he had little recollection of how they had even ended up where they were right now – and he really did not like the look of these looming, faceless soldiers.
And beyond all that exhaustion kept tugging at him like a lead weight. Pulling him down below the surface of consciousness and deep into a pool of sparkling lights and cold darkness. There was something about this that rang uncomfortably true.
The image of a snarling Sherlock began swimming out of focus. Just this once he could let his friend take care of things, he decided fuzzily. He knew that he was safe with the other man, knew that he would not allow any harm to come to John while he was out. He allowed his head to loll to the side until his forehead rested against Sherlock's arm, facing away from the encroaching soldiers.
He was pulled away from the flickering flames, and the high-pitched whining and the trembling tiles under his cheek. But the hand that was still holding onto his shoulder never let go.
\U.I.: Good aftern$on! It is currently 16:27, in London on Friday the 5th of March, 2066.
Account balance of user John H Watson: 715 credits, last updated {05/03/66},{16:00}.
Above ground, the weather is stormy today with occasional rain showers!
WARNING: dangerous1y high levels of nitric oxide and nitrogen dioxide have been detected over ground and in settlements without certified air filtration units. Do not enter polluted environments without adequate PPE.
You have 19 available software upgrades, 5 of which are safety critical. Please connect to a licenced MilvertonMods terminal as soon as possible, to acquire outstanding upgrades. If you have any further questions concerning your MilvertonMods software, please contact our Software su%port services [HERE].
The next time that John broke through the murky surface of unconsciousness, it was to the sight of a small grey hospital room. He blinked against the dimmed ceiling light panels, his augmented vision blinking lazily in and out. He waited a couple of seconds for the flickering malfunctions to subside but no such luck.
At least the pain was gone, he determined dazedly, as he closed his tired eyes for a moment. There was a hazy blanket of heavy sedation spread over his entire body. He could sense a vague pressure in his shoulder and along his left side, but nothing compared to the bright, stabbing pain that had been in its place when ... when ... oh ...
He kind of jerked in place at the realisation, his eyes opened wide and scanning the room around him. His head throbbed at the sudden movement and his vision flashed more violently, unable to follow up on all the new input, but he ignored it stubbornly.
Instead his eyes zeroed in on a lanky shape that sat folded up in an uncomfortable-looking metal chair, knees drawn up against one of the armrests and his whole upper body slumped to one side so that the unruly curls rested against a nearby wall.
Sherlock, his skin looking even paler than usual, with a wide bandage on his forehead half hidden behind his dark fringe and a thin bed sheet drawn around his shoulders like a cloak. There was just a sliver of Sherlock's blue dressing gown visible underneath the white cotton - so he was here as a patient, not just as a visitor.
John's eyes softened as he took in the nuances of the other man's appearance. His friend looked haggard and even thinner than usual, with dark circles underneath his eyes. Even just to see the other man sleeping felt like an aberration.
Someone cleared their throat pointedly, just on the other side of John's bed and he flinched for a second time, only to catch the unwelcome sight of Mycroft Holmes sitting primly in another one of those horrible chairs and looking like he had not slept in a while either.
The older Holmes raised an eyebrow, as if in question and John belatedly took in a twitching message hovering on the side of his vision. He blinked, trying to decipher it, even as his headache intensified, but the shaky letters refused to cooperate. Something was very wrong with his implants, that much was glaringly obvious.
He carefully shook his head in Mycrofts direction, mindful not to aggravate his aching head even further, and the other man frowned back. "How are you feeling, Doctor Watson?", he asked in a hushed voice and John noted with relief that at least his hearing seemed to be mostly functional again.
"Like someone fried my implants with stun-interference twice within a couple of hours", he replied hoarsely, wincing at his scratchy voice.
"You were asleep for a couple of days, which had both your doctors and my brother quite worried about the state of both your brain and the implants attached to it."
"I have trouble focussing on any of my visual modifications", John admitted. "And right out of the water I could barely hear, but that seems to be better now." He frowned, trying to remember all the events that led up to his impromptu dive into the water reservoir, but his memory was choppy at best. "Some thugs knocked me out to get me to the cistern. And when I woke up in there, Moriarty had me hooked up to some sort of computer, doing who knows what with my implants ..."
At the mention of the criminal's name - no matter how quietly - Sherlock woke with a start and proceeded to almost tip out of his chair in the process of sorting out his limbs. As soon as he spotted John awake he was on his feet and hovering right by the bed, staring down at his friend with frantic eyes.
"John! You are awake!"
The prone man cracked a tired little smile. "Obviously."
The weak attempt at humour was completely lost on the detective. "How are you feeling?"
"I have been better", he confessed, carefully trying to prop himself up a bit higher. Sherlock made some clumsy attempts at helping before admitting defeat and just standing by, his worried gaze never leaving John and his hands twisting into the sheet around his shoulders. "My implants are acting a little weird too."
"I will consult some of my experts to ascertain that whatever Moriarty did is all out of your system now", Mycroft chimed in while picking up his coat from a peg by the door. "And I will inform the doctors that you are awake and talking. Do you need anything else at this moment?"
John blinked at him blankly for a beat. "Wait, what happened to Moriarty? Did he escape?"
Mycroft gave him a tight smile that was probably meant to be reassuring but did no such thing. "I am afraid that information is classified and nothing that you two need to concern yourself with", he declared, before opening the door. "It is good to see you awake, John, have a good morning!"
"Git", Sherlock muttered. "I have been pestering him for days to tell me what happened to Moriarty."
John shuddered, not particularly happy with not knowing what the criminal could be up to next. It seemed unimaginable that the other man would have been able to make a escape after what happened, he had stood closest to the bomb after all, there was no way he got away unharmed.
But as long as the older Holmes refused to divulge any information, there was little to be done about that. Instead, John attempted to fill one of the other gaps in his memory about the events in the cistern. "What exactly happened after we jumped into the water?"
At that his friend broke eye contact, his bright eyes flitting away - looking anywhere else than John really. The grip of the long pale fingers on the bedsheet tightened. "I was being stupid at the worst possible time", he declared harshly. "I completely forgot about the stun-interference. It was only when I was out of the water and saw that you weren't following me that I remembered it. Thankfully I managed to find you quickly ... but ..."
He looked ... heartbroken. John had been out of it for days so Sherlock must have had ample time to beat himself up over this - no wonder that he looked so worn-down.
"Well, I am glad that someone taught you how to swim ... I assume at that posh school of yours", John replied jokingly. "Had the roles been reversed I would not have been much help, I'm afraid."
The joke landed with the grace of a parachute made from concrete and John regretted his words immediately, as he watched Sherlock's face grow almost grey under the stark hospital lights.
"You don't know how to swim?!"
Thankfully John could just catch hold of the tightly gripped cotton sheet to pull his unresistant friend a bit closer. "It's fine! Everything worked out in the end."
"The fact that you wouldn't have been taught to swim as a child did not even occur to me!" Sherlock seemed genuinely appalled by his own oversight and John had to tug on the sheet several times to regain the other man's attention. Pale eyes were staring down at him with trepidation.
" It's fine! As soon as that stun-interference got to me knowing how to swim would not have made any difference and I would have ended up here either way." Sherlock opened his mouth as if to object, but John gave him a hard stare and the other man's mouth promptly snapped shut again. "Now, get that chair over here, you look like you are about to fall over. And then you are telling me everything that I missed since the explosion!" Another glare. "Just do it."
And Sherlock, his eyes never leaving John, complied.
\U.I.: Current time 14:03, Tuesday the 16th of March, 2066.
Account balance {John H Watson}: 679 credits
13 available software upgrades.
Sherlock and John were bickering with each other over the background murmur of some obscure reality TV show - a dubious holdover of their Connie Prince investigation - when there was a chime at the door of the hospital room.
Sherlock's face immediately fell into a gloomy frown at the interruption, but he still unfolded himself from his chair and strode over to open it. On the other side, two figures were waiting side by side.
Harry waved at John with a wide grin. "See who I met by the entrance Johnny, it's a crime that I haven't met your girlfriend yet!"
"Not the girlfriend." Emma, who was standing by her side, interjected with a bit of a blush, but Harry just made a dismissive gesture and pushed past Sherlock into the drab room with nothing more than a terse nod in the taller man's direction.
John's recovery was taking much longer than he had initially anticipated. There was the physical damage - mainly a bullet graze to the back of his arm and an elbow fracture - but what actually extended his stay for so long were his persistent implant problems, especially concerning his vision augmentations as well as his sense of balance. The analysis of Mycrofts experts had come back normal, but being knocked out by attacks to his implants repeatedly had still left its marks.
Thankfully there seemed to be an almost infinite stream of visitors dropping by, otherwise John would probably have found himself pacing the tiny room with the aid of his cane until his footsteps were etched into the ugly linoleum flooring. Especially now that Sherlock had been discharged, which meant that he could only drop by during visitor hours.
Mrs Hudson, Murray, Sarah and Harry had spent many hours with him in this grey hellhole and Greg and Mike came by to say hi whenever they found the time to as well. Even Emma dropped by every couple of days.
"Imagine my surprise when I returned from my holiday - still a bit pissed off about John ghosting me before I left on the trip - only to learn from Sarah that he was in the hospital all this time!" Emma recounted and Harry who was sitting on the other side of the bed nodded in sympathy.
"It took me several days to find out what happened to him as well, and I am his bloody sister. I was worried sick when he did not answer my messages." She threw a nasty look across the room to where Sherlock was sulking on the chair closest to the door. "I ended up finding out from Bill, who only knew what happened because he dropped by at Baker Street and stumbled across their landlady there."
Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically and glowered up at the ceiling.
It had come as a bit of a surprise to John when he learned that Harry was currently occupying his room at Baker Street. She had travelled to the city as soon as news of John's injuries had reached her and had apparently struck a fast friendship with Mrs Hudson within just a couple of days. Things had been going great ... well until Sherlock returned home from hospital.
It came as much less of a surprise to John when he learned that Sherlock and his sister got along approximately as well as gunpowder and an open flame. Between the two of them, they combined just the right amount of snark, short temper and biting vitriol to drive everyone in their orbit to the brink of double murder.
"I felt like a right arse once I found out from Sarah", Emma admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "I might have sent a few not-too-favourable messages when he stood me up."
John winced. He remembered reading those messages as soon as he had been able to use his augmented vision without it sparking a massive headache.
"And even now no one is willing to explain what actually happened", Harry complained, this time frowning at both Sherlock and John. "Even though everyone knows that something happened up there. I've read the conspiracy theories online and they are going absolutely wild. My favourites so far are the ones about aliens that want to overtake the underground." Sherlock let out a derisive snort, which earned him another nasty look. "I am not saying that I believe them, but that is what happens if you try to keep everything a secret. It will just cause even worse panic and conspiracy in the long run." Emma nodded.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. "I am sure a meeting with you and my brother would be just delightful ."
John shuddered at that mental image. The city probably would not survive such a get-together.
But his sister was not entirely wrong. There was no way for the city's leadership to hide the fact that something big had happened. Both Sherlock and John had been visited by several rounds of stern government agents that had them swear secrecy in about every wording imaginable.
But the explosion at the cistern had caused a partial cave-in of the level 4 ceiling on top of the industrial district. The damage had caused massive evacuations throughout 4 and had been very visible all over that level of the city. John had seen pictures of it online. It looked like a scene straight out of that horrific hallucination from months ago.
So the government was not exactly hiding that there had been an attack of sorts. They had quickly implemented a curfew in the evenings and due to the damage to the infrastructure drinking water was being rationed quite strictly while the repair works went on. In a city full of people who still remembered Carl Powers' supposed terrorism plot, the implication of these measurements was clear as day.
"Going by the state of the kitchen of these two, you could believe that they are rationing food instead of water", Harry continued her general complaints, causing Sherlock's frown to deepen.
"It's good enough for me. If you need something special, you are very welcome to drop by Tesco and get it", he responded icily.
"There is only one packet of tea, a package of biscuits and about five jars of strawberry jam!"
Raspberry, actually", John corrected absentmindedly.
"What?"
"Never mind."
"These are brainfoods", Sherlock muttered with a dark expression, "I don't require much additional nutrition."
"Yes, you do", John interjected sternly but was thoroughly ignored by everyone around.
"Brainfoods, sure" Harry scoffed derisively before turning back to Emma with a determined expression. "Would you care to join me for some takeout dinner tonight? I can tell you anything you need to know about that one!" She stabbed in John's direction with a careless thumb.
Emma gave her a thoughtful look. "All I had planned was an evening with some paperwork and whatever I can scrounge together from the bottom of my fridge" She gave John a hesitant look. "We would probably have to leave soon though, If we don't want to run into any problems with the curfew later tonight."
John just shook his head with a mild grin. "Don't feel obligated to stay on my behalf, visiting hours are almost over anyway."
As the two of them slowly got ready to depart, John mused about the fact that by the end of this evening, Harry would probably have spent more time with his ... maybe-date than he had - and he was not sure how to feel about that.
\U.I.: Current time 10:56, Monday the 22nd of March, 2066.
Account ba1ance {John H Watson}: 629 credits
15 available software upgrades.
John was filled with a sense of overwhelming relief when he finally shuffled up the last step of the stairs and stepped into their living room. He made directly for his armchair, relying heavily on his cane for balance, with Sherlock hovering right behind him like an overgrown shadow that occasionally gave smart commentary.
The last week at the hospital had been pure mental suffering. He had indeed ended up pacing the small space that he had been confined to just as anticipated, limping back and forth until his still recovering body had screamed at him to take a break. He would be happy to never see the ghastly shade of grey of those walls ever again.
"That was miserable", John summed up their travels back to level 6 with a groan while he sank into the chair. "As if all life was sucked from the city."
"It was even worse right after the explosion", Sherlock reported earnestly, extending a hand to accept John's jacket. John complied somewhat surprised after shimmying out of the garment, a dark blue jacket that Murray had loaned him since the bright orange coat had never turned up again after the ordeal with Moriarty. Or maybe it had and it was now kept in some classified box deep below the city together with anything else that concerned the incident.
"Any idea when they are going to lift that curfew? 11 in the evening is bloody inconvenient, never mind 10 pm on level 4."
Sherlock just scoffed. "I suspect that they will keep it going as long as they can possibly stretch it. Less hassle all over when no one is about at night, and they even save energy costs on city lighting. At some point cries for human rights will grow too loud for them to ignore, but until then they will milk it. I can see it going for another few weeks at least."
Sadly Sherlock's prediction did not seem too far off from reality. You could sense the stench of fear and insecurity in every corner of the city. Police and military seemed to be everywhere. And everyone out on the street kept their gazes down and their steps quick - even in the middle of a normal Monday afternoon.
"I appreciate that you are helping me get around", John admitted sincerely in the direction of his friend. "But don't feel obligated to stick around all the time, especially if there are any cases you would miss out on." He gave his friend a tired little smile. "Emma also offered to help out whenever."
That offer earned him a deeply irritated stare. "I doubt that Emma could be of much help", the detective declared dismissively, once he had returned both their coats to their pegs by the door.
"Oh really?"
Another disgruntled eye-roll. "She does not know where anything is kept around the flat and she has never seen you in your pants. I do and I have."
The unexpected answer had John spluttering some mostly indistinguishable sounds. "As if ... That's not ... You don't know ..."
"And as a matter of fact, before her departure your sister hid all your tea on the top shelf. Given that Emma is even shorter than you she wouldn't be much help in that regard either."
" What ?"
"I assume it was meant as some kind of practical joke among siblings." Sherlock hesitated. "But telling you beforehand might have taken the punchline out of it a bit."
John shook his head at the other man's ridiculousness. "You bet. Is that something that Mycroft and you did as kids? Hiding each other's tea on the top shelf?"
His friend stared at him with absolute indignation. "Mycroft is barely any taller than me! Just a couple of centimetres."
"Same for Harry and me", John countered with a shrug before adding with a small smirk: "Maybe I should ask Mycroft to retrieve my tea."
Sherlock pouted. There was no better word for it. "As a kid, he used to have a terrible posture. Always hunched over. It took him several years at university to fully shake the habit and unfold."
"And of course, the same wasn't true for you, the athlete that you were. All those swimming and dancing lessons."
Sherlock made a dismissive little gesture before stepping in the direction of the kitchen. "Our parents insisted that we both did those. Even though I cannot imagine that Mycroft enjoyed himself very much."
John snorted at the sudden image of a pouting Mycroft taking dance classes. "Well, he probably is still better than me at both anyway."
"You would be surprised!" John was glad that his friend seemed to have overcome the immediate panic that any mention of swimming had triggered just a few weeks ago. It had been deeply disconcerting to watch his friend battle these kinds of demons, especially since there was little that John could do to help.
"Tea, John?"
He let out a huff of laughter. "Oh very funny, Sherlock - Oh .." He stared at the steaming mug in front of him and then up into the expectant face of the man who was offering it. "Thank you, Sherlock."
"You're welcome." The other man fetched a second cup from the kitchen, then ambled over to his own chair opposite Johns. "I always wanted to take fencing classes as a kid but they did not allow me to join because of my lack of implants", he admitted between careful sips.
John's heart ached for young Sherlock and all the rejection he must have received throughout his life, even before people got to know his tendency for ruthless deductions. "I am sure you would have made a great fencer", he declared confidently. "You did pretty damn amazing in the fight with that Czech assassin, and that guy was enhanced to hell and back."
"Oh, that was actually because of the street boxing that I did in my twenties."
John proceeded to very nearly choke on his tea. " The what?"
"Oh, we used to meet up two or three times every month, at different places all over the city, preferably remote car parks or storage areas. There was a separate group just for fighters without implants. I really enjoyed the tactical nature of it and it was a fine way to release frustration."
John's imagination was working very hard to try and incorporate this new fact into his image of Sherlock. It was a surprise to learn about that aspect of Sherlock's past but also frighteningly easy to see why he would have enjoyed boxing so much.
"Why did you stop?"
Sherlock's gaze wandered off. "Oh, the fights were very much entwined with the drug scene. Once I got clean it was no longer a particularly safe place for me to be around. A shame."
Once again John wondered how incredibly lonely a younger Sherlock must have felt. But not anymore, he decided grimly, never again.
\U.I.: Current time 13:34, Thursday the 8th of April, 2066.
Account balance {John H Watson}: 432 credits
15 available software upgrades.
"John?"
He almost walked past her on his way out of Barts after a quick lunch with Mike. His thoughts were already back at Baker Street with everything that he needed to get in order before he could finally return to work in the clinic next week.
But when he heard her timid voice calling out after him he could feel his heart sinking with the sudden realisation of his oversight.
"Molly! Hi ..." She looked tired and wary, with dark circles under her eyes and a pinched look to her mouth. "... how are you doing?"
He felt like a right wanker. It was pretty unlikely that Sherlock had reached out to her even once after the explosion but ... well, neither had John. He could only imagine that instead she probably had been visited by some of Mycrofts horrible government drones about the safety of the nation or something equally ridiculous.
Moriarty had posed as her boyfriend, gotten so incredibly close to her only to fulfil some weird curiosity and catch a closer look at Sherlock before the finale of his game. He felt icy cold at the thought. She must have felt horribly exploited if not worse after learning the truth.
Molly's wide eyes wandered over the cane that John was still relying on and the arm that he had to wear in a sling for another two weeks at least. She let out an unhappy sound but no words, shock and dismay written all over her features.
He really could not leave things like that. Instead, he gave her a tight smile and gestured towards the lifts that he had just exited from.
"Maybe we can catch up a bit", he looked around the busy hall. "Just not in here!"
Realisation dawned. "Oh yes!" She followed him with a jerky nod. "I really don't need another lecture from this horrible brother of his."
John did not need to ask who she was talking about.
\U.I.: Active chat with: Sherlock Holmes
← You really need to talk to Molly sometime soon.
→ Why?
→ Oh.
→ Is she very upset?
They walked down the much emptier corridors of the morgue in silence until they reached the tiny little break room. Molly pulled two chipped mugs from a cupboard, as well as a couple of tea bags.
← what do you think?
← I am having some tea with her now but you should also drop by at some point.
→ I will!
"So you also got a visit by Mycroft and his goons?", John asked awkwardly. "I am sure he was very ... pleasant about it."
She snorted wetly and quickly swiped one sleeve over her face before turning back around and pushing one of the now-filled mugs into John's direction.
"I think I prefer Sherlock's rude honesty over whatever polite slime oozes from his brother whenever he opens his mouth", she proclaimed strongly, before shaking her head apologetically. "I am sorry."
"Don't be, Mycroft deserves it", John responded earnestly.
"He came by the day after the explosion", she explained quietly. "Didn't tell me anything, really, just that ... that Jim was not who he pretended to be and that he was trying to get to Sherlock through me." She shrugged, helplessly. "I assumed that he was involved in this terrorist attack and that you and Sherlock must have been involved as well, given that I did not hear from any of you afterwards."
"I am sorry about that, there was a lot going on, but we should have still found the time to at least send you a quick message." Her gaze was resting on John's cane again, so he quickly added: "We both got a bit beat up in the process. But we are all better now. Sherlock is back on his cases already and I will be back to work soon enough too." He lowered his voice. "But you are right, Mor- ... Jim was involved. And not in a good way." He struggled for the appropriate words. "I am ... I am so sorry that you got pulled into all this mess, Molly."
"It's not your fault!"
"And it isn't yours either."
She fell silent, her fingers tightening around her cup until the knuckles turned white. "But Sherlock was right in the end, he took one look at him and knew that Jim was using me to get to him."
John sighed and allowed himself to sink into one of the cheap plastic chairs, propping his cane up against his knee. "Except that he didn't - not really. He saw exactly what ... what Jim wanted him to see, same as you. When we met him, he had been looking into Jim's true identity for a while already. He really did little else unless there was an active investigation. And still, that arsehole could flaunt around right in front of him and none of us were the wiser." His voice grew bitter and he swallowed down many more harsh words that were ready to soldier out into the open.
They sat in silence for a moment, nothing to be heard other than the whirring of hidden fans in the ceiling and the scrape of metal spoons against ceramic.
"Do you know what happened to him? If he got away?" Molly's voice was barely audible and there was a deep furrow between her brows.
"No idea, Mycroft did not tell us anything", it was John's turn now to flex his tight fingers around the mug in his hand.
"That's a pretty scary thought ... That he might still be out there."
John nodded because it really was.
\U.I.: Current time 11:21, Wednesday the 28th of April, 2066.
Account balance {John H Watson}: 604 credits
8 available software upgrades.
\U.I.: 1 new message: {now} by Samira Barnes {office}. [EXPAND]: Doctor Watson? Could you come by and have a quick look at a patient of mine? - Sammy {end of message}
John looked up in surprise. Sammy Barnes was the newest addition to the clinic staff, significantly younger than most of the other doctors around, but no less capable.
With a puzzled frown, he stepped out into the corridor and knocked on the door right across, before peaking in with an apologetic smile. He was immediately gestured inside to where Sammy was sitting with her patient by the examination table.
"Hey John, thanks for coming over. I just really would like your opinion on something - if you have the time. I am feeling a bit stumped over here." She turned around to her patient with a reassuring smile. "Victoria, this is Doctor Watson."
"Sure, what's the matter?" John made his way across the room and extended one hand towards the frail-looking woman by Sammy's side. "Hi, I'm John Watson."
"Victoria Heatherley." She took his hand, her skin feverishly hot against his. She looked pretty miserable but unfortunately, that was not a very uncommon sight up here. Her face was gaunt, her cheekbones way too prominent and her eyes sunken too deeply, her hair and clothes were dishevelled and her feverish gaze kept darting all over the place. "I did not know where else to come." She confessed waveringly. "But I think I was kidnapped and experimented on."
John blinked at her, a little perplexed, his hand still loosely holding onto her bony fingers. His thoughts immediately wandered to drug abuse or some other cause of hallucinations, a symptom that was not particularly uncommon with his usual patients either. The tricky part would be to narrow down the cause without upsetting her so much that she would refuse any further help. Tricky, but not impossible.
On Victoria Heatherleys other side, Sammy piped up once again with a troubled expression. "I know what you are thinking, but I don't think ... can you show him, Victoria?"
The woman nodded, her trembling fingers wandering up and unzipping her tattered cardigan, revealing a loose-fitting, low-cut tank top and ... bloody pieces of gauze, taped haphazardly all along her collarbone, a couple of them just at the base of her neck, a few other below her shoulder or close to her armpit.
"Can I?"
She nodded and after pulling on some gloves and disinfecting his hands, he carefully peeled one of the gauze patches back. The cut hidden underneath it was deep and angrily red with irritation and inflammation. The same could also be said about the next couple of wounds he uncovered. Small but deep cuts, precise in both placement and execution but not very well taken care of afterwards. He had never seen this kind of wound pattern before and due to the position and angle of the cuts it seemed unlikely that she could have caused them to herself.
"I have no idea what happened. I remember that there was a job ad that I was planning to check out and some community work that I had signed up for but I don't know if I ever got around to either of those. That was almost two weeks ago now ... and then nothing until yesterday morning. I woke up not too far away from home, looking and feeling like hell!"
He sat back, his mind whirring as he took a closer look at the exact locations of the cuts. Something was troubling him about that. But it could not be ... if his suspicion were correct, then Victoria would be complaining about more than memory gaps and inflamed wounds.
"How are your implants doing?", he asked cautiously, his eyes wandering to where the bunching of the top's fabric promised even more injuries.
She frowned at him. "My implants? Oh, I don't have any. Not anymore. I had a strong reaction to the few that they had installed when I just started primary school." She looked down at her mangled chest. "Oh shit ... is that where ...?"
John's mind inevitably returned to the butchered corpse of Alex Woodbridge, the body ruthlessly divested of all his military-grade body modifications. Could that be it? Was this a case of some kind of black market implant harvesting gone wrong because the perpetrator picked one of the few people who did not have any modifications installed?
What did Sherlock like to say? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Maybe it was time to get help from the one person who would be able to make sense of all this.
"I ... I know someone who might be able to help. A private detective of sorts."
Victoria's face lit up all of a sudden, her eyes much brighter despite the exhaustion and pain. "Do you know Sherlock Holmes by any chance?" At his surprised stare, she added. "It's just, that I have read some stories about him, a friend of a friend sends them over occasionally and your name sounded familiar."
That ... that was something else to ponder, once the wounds were taken care of and Sherlock was summoned. "I will send him a message", he promised.
As Sammy and him began to carefully clean out the wounds another question came to mind. "So where did this happen? Did you come back to consciousness on level 4 or somewhere else in the city?"
She shook her head, wincing when one of the incisions was stretched. "Not in London at all, actually. I came in this morning by train from Amersham."
"Oh ..." Truth to be told, that was not the kind of place that John would have suspected as the scene of a brutal kidnapping.
"Well not actually ... I don't live in New Amersham. It happened overground, in the Old Amersham Commune. That's where I'm from."
Things just got stranger and stranger. "I will tell Sherlock to come meet us here", he assured her before returning to the wound care.
\U.I.: Message draft, to Sherlock Holmes: New case! Come to the clinic, ASAP. It's a strange one. - John {end of message} [SEND]
\U.I.: Current time 11:21, Monday the 3rd of May, 2066.
Account balance {John H Watson}: 712 credits
17 available software upgrades.
WARNING: Avoid prolonged exposure to the surface air without appropriate PPE!
John had forgotten how warm and humid it could get overground, even so early into summer ... especially when you added several layers of protective gear to the mix. And this was not the high-tech gear that the army could afford, but the kind of crafty mix of goggles, ill-fitting respirators, and cowls that were more common for mercenaries, rebels and commune dwellers.
John felt excitement thrumming underneath his skin as their ramshackle truck drew to a stop close to the settlement. It had been several days since Victoria had shown up at the clinic but it was only now that she had been well enough to travel back up to the surface. The journey had been somewhat of an adventure by itself, they had to take the train to Watford and then find their way up via a hidden elevator in the storage room of a shabby pub on the outskirts of town. There they had been picked up by a friend of Victorias who was driving deliveries between the settlements in his old truck and who had carted them through old city ruins and windswept wilderness for another 45 minutes.
The moist heat got even more intense once they opened the car doors and jumped out onto the hard, dusty ground in front of the grey mess of a structure that was their first glimpse at Old Amersham. From the outside, it was an outlandish mix of old brick and concrete, combined with newer additions of wooden boards, metal plates, and brittle, yellow plastic. In the mess of old roofs there was the occasional reflection of light off the surface of what he presumed to be greenhouses and the whole complex was topped with a whole army of chimneys, poles, wires and antennas, sticking up into the air like a peculiar shell of spikes into the steely grey sky.
"The entrance is just over here", Victoria directed them to a reinforced metal gate, located right next to a rusty metal sign declaring this place to be Amersham, the letters barely visible amidst colourful drawings of flowers and ornaments in peeling paint, clearly added onto the metal over many decades.
John made sure that Sherlock was still following. The other man managed to radiate absolute miserableness, even with most of his facial features obscured behind his gear. He stood hunched, his arms drawn tightly around his body and he had barely spoken on their travels to the commune. The doctor was well aware that despite his curiosity about the case, the other man had only joined the trip to the surface to keep an eye on John, who still had the occasional spell of vertigo from time to time.
They entered the actual living quarters after a change of clothes and a thorough scrubbing down that left Sherlock even more cranky. Victoria led them down a long dim concrete archway, flickering lamps along the ceiling their only source of light. It was not too dissimilar to the maintenance tunnels all over London.
"Wait until you see the main square", their guide announced cheerfully, clearly very glad to be back home after the week underground. And she did not overpromise.
Old Amersham's market square was a surreal experience. A huge space packed full of small market stalls selling food and handcrafted items, surrounding the grey brick ruins of an old church in its middle, everything covered by a high dome that was being held up by the occasional decorated pillar. Glittering glass and metal ornaments had been strung from the support beams and were diffracting and reflecting the ceiling lights in all directions, bathing the whole space in bright colourful spots. The concrete of the walls had been covered in colourful murals depicting landscapes, animals, flowers and abstract shapes. None of it was digital, it was all solid and real and charmingly scrappy.
Next to John Sherlock had stilled his fidgeting, his head craned up to take in his surroundings. For a few precious moments there was a look of absolute wonder in his eyes that John had never seen on him before, not even during the most intriguing cases. It was both heartwarming and -breaking at the same time and he held his breath, afraid that any sound or move could shatter his friend's trance.
The moment did not last very long, soon the taller man blinked, his eyes sharpening and he scanned the place with more intent. He turned back to Victoria, all child-like wonder hidden away even though John was sure that it was still simmering in the background.
"Could you show us where exactly you regained consciousness?"
She nodded. "Sure, it is a bit of a walk though."
The path that followed was a bit of a fever dream. They walked down more grey tunnels, sometimes crossing through random colourful segments or past sculptures that had been left abandoned along the corridors. They even crossed through two greenhouses, filled up to the ceiling with plants in complicated hydroculture setups, shelves and shelves of them growing under bright magenta lights. Outside the clouds had burst open and heavy raindrops were pelting against glass and plastic, another phenomenon that seemed to have an almost hypnotic effect on Sherlock.
"How long have you been living up here?", John asked, while they ducked into yet another narrow corridor.
"Almost six years now, I came here right after finishing my degree. I wanted to go into implant tech first but I somehow ended up in bioengineering. A classmate with similar implant issues told me about communes like this one and I fell in love with it right away." Her gaze flicked over to Sherlock for a moment but the other man did not show any reaction to her words so she continued. "Usually I can find something to do around here, I am fine just helping out around the place, wherever help is needed." She hesitated.
"But the commune faced supply shortages after the underground cities increased their security measures so you haven't held any noteworthy employment for a while now", Sherlock deduced. "Which makes the sudden appearance of a vague job offer that explicitly asks for a bioengineering degree even more suspicious."
She nodded. "After waking up I could find no proof of that job ad anywhere. But I know what I read. And I remember how relieved I felt when I first saw it. This year wasn't kind on us, not just because of the shortages. We had pretty bad storms all throughout winter and even had to evacuate for a couple of nights. There is still a lot of outstanding repair work even months later, and there is little to spare for anyone."
The parts of Amersham that they were now striding through had lost most of the initial colour and glitter, there were a lot of boarded-up doors, thick layers of dust and no noise to be heard save for the quiet hum of the lamps and the echo of their steps. Victoria pushed open a creaking metal door, allowing them to pass into yet another greenhouse, this one overgrown with bushes and slim trees. Above them, the rain still pattered on. They crossed through the space quickly but once they reached the other side, the woman wavered, frowning at the concrete of the wall in front of them.
"I must have woken up somewhere around here, I remember walking through the old Arboretum ... But I am not sure ..."
Sherlock immediately sprung into action, his eyes scanning the entire place. He got to his knees, studying the dirt on the ground - undoubtedly looking for hidden footprints - and examining the variety of plants that surrounded them. Victoria was following along with visible trepidation now, her arm slung tightly around herself and John wondered whether it might have been a bit early for a return to the place of her supposed kidnapping. But before he could offer any comfort there was a triumphant cry from Sherlock, who was back on his feet within seconds, prowling through the underbrush like a predator that was stalking its prey. They followed behind with more difficulties, barely dodging the stray branches and vines that obscured their path. Ahead of them Sherlock turned towards the far wall, jumped ... and suddenly all that remained visible was the unruly head of dark curls within the greenery. Hidden between the leaves and branches was an overgrown flight of stairs that led to a doorway below ground level. The metal door stood slightly ajar and Sherlock was already on his way in, leaving John silently cursing as he tried to keep up.
"Sherlock, don't just go ..." He trailed off as he stared into the dark room that lay beyond. It was cleaner than most of the rooms that they had passed through close by, barely any dust to be seen. It was also completely empty, save for a few bolted metal workbenches and a large fume hood in one corner. Victoria had stopped right by the door, her eyes wide and her face chalk-white as she took in the space.
"I wasn't sure whether I just imagined all this after all ... but this is definitely the right place", she whispered with a thin voice.
Sherlock had taken out one of his phones and was shining the little flashlight into every corner. "And they cleaned up after they were done here, quite thoroughly I am afraid." He laid flat on the ground swinging the light to all sides with a dissatisfied expression, before he sprung back and began exploring the fume hood.
"Is the only way into the city through the front gate?", John asked with a frown.
Victoria shrugged distractedly, her eyes still roaming with dread over the remnants of what must have been a laboratory once. "I am sure there are other ways into the commune, it is basically a labyrinth. But this is not a military base, there is very little surveillance of who comes and goes."
"So they could have a back entrance somewhere around here and would have been able to clean up once they were done with whatever the hell they were doing and nobody would have been the wiser."
"I guess so." She shuddered.
"John!" Sherlock had put on gloves and was holding up a little piece of paper against his phone light. "I need your eyes!"
"Still attached to the rest of me, I am afraid."
"Not ideal, but it'll do. Check this out! It has very small print on it. " He held out his finding. "Someone burned a lot of paper in here. Curious, who is still handling paper records nowadays?"
"You do."
"But I am not performing secret experiments on unsuspecting fellow citizens!"
"Good to know." John drew closer, squinting down at the burned shred of paper. There were indeed tiny letters, barely legible to unenhanced eyes.
/U.I.: Visual module: Milverton II.1.04 { 10x magnification }
→ Image stabilisation active
→ Caution! Do not lose awareness of your surroundings while utilising image enhancements.
And even with enhancement it looked mostly like gibberish, at least to John. "It's a bunch of numbers and formulas, I can send them to you if you'd like, but they don't make much sense to me", he admitted. "The title of the document is 'Project number 239b: Snow white' ..."
"Snow white as a colour description or as a reference to the fairy tale?"
John shrugged. "I wouldn't know." He looked around the barren room once again with unease. "What the hell were they doing in here, Sherlock?"
The other man hummed, lost in thoughts. "Not sure yet, but I am going to find out!"
\U.I.: Current time 18:54, Monday the 10th of May, 2066.
Account balance {John H Watson}: 587 credits
9 available software upgrades.
"Alright, I'll need you to explain to me again how your investigation led to you two getting arrested !"
John ducked his head in embarrassment, unwilling to brave Emma's unimpressed stare. Instead, he glanced down at the last remnants of fried rice on his plate. "Just for a night", he mumbled out in the general direction of his maybe-girlfriend. She just lifted her eyebrow even higher, so he reluctantly continued. "We made sure to be back in the city before 11 but forgot that the train only stops on level 4, where the curfew already starts at 10."
He did not mention how they had almost managed to sneak into the nearest maintenance tunnels anyway and how only a very unluckily stationed police constable right by the train station had thwarted their escape. He also kept to himself that they probably would have gotten off with a stern reprimand after all, if Sherlock had not chosen that time to deduce the officer's addiction to snus, his strained relationship with his parents and the fact that he had spilt ketchup on his uniform earlier that day.
At least Lestrade had had a good laugh when he came up to the level 4 holding cells personally the next morning, grinning widely and with no sympathy whatsoever.
\U.I.: active chat with: Sherlock Holmes
→ If you are considering bringing your date back to the flat – don't.
Well, that was pretty rude, even for someone as direct as Sherlock. John frowned at the message for a moment, debating whether he should even answer but his curiosity won out after all.
← Any particular reason for that or are you just cranky?
He focused back on Emma on the other side of the table.
"To be fair, it is a bit silly that those curfews are still up", she acknowledged with a shake of her head, thankfully oblivious to the message that was flickering gently in front of John's eyes. "I heard that they are at least talking about changing it to a midnight curfew on all levels soon, but still." She poked at her food. "So you did not actually find out what happened to your client?"
Another sore topic. "Not yet, no. Whoever did it was very thorough when cleaning up. But Sherlock is still doing some research into it. I think he is just glad that he can do it from down here."
She nodded. "At least she is doing better physically now."
There was a short lull of contented silence as they finished up their meals.
→ Not cranky. The kitchen and living room are currently filled with iodine fumes.
John sat up a bit straighter, alarm coursing through his body all of a sudden.
← What?
← Are you alright?
← Open a window and get out of there if you haven't already!
Emma gave him a cautious look. "Everything okay?"
"I am not sure ..." He hesitated, torn between staying for the rest of the date and finding the fastest way back to Baker Street at once. Public transport would be hell this time of day, but he was pretty sure that he could figure out a way through the maintenance tunnels using one of the access points just around the corner.
← Sherlock?
→ I am fine, just a bit dizzy. I am afraid clean up will take some time. The gas is surprisingly purple but the residue it leaves behind is sadly just plain brown.
John sprung to his feet. "I am so sorry, but I think I need to get going."
"Another case?", Emma asked with a raised eyebrow, a note of resignement in her tone. He gave her an apologetic smile.
"Something like that."
\U.I.: Current time 9:23, Tuesday the 8th of June, 2066.
Account balance {John H Watson}: 6?5 credits
16 available software upgrades.
"That is a bit unsettling to watch", Lestrade declared with a furrowed brow, wiping sweat off his forehead and staring across the street and the blinking police barriers.
John had to agree. "I don't think I have ever seen the two of them being so ... polite with each other", he shook his head. "It does feel wrong, doesn't it?"
They continued to watch with some kind of sick fascination. Sherlock and Seargent Donovan stood side by side next to the battered entrance door and smashed windows of a high-end shop for smart devices, bouncing ideas and observations back and forth at an alarming rate. They were not exactly behaving friendly, but just the fact that they were not constantly antagonising each other felt pretty novel.
"What are we watching?" Another guy joined their little get-together, another inspector going by the look of his rumpled and sweaty suit, but at least 10 years younger than Greg, with reddish-blond hair and a narrow pale face.
"This guy next to Sally? That's Sherlock", Lestrade explained with a crooked grin.
" The Sherlock? The one that she cannot stand to even be in the same room with?"
"Yup." Greg popped the p.
"Well, how did that happen?"
"I'm not sure. They cooperated on a case a while back and ever since ... they just kind of stopped fighting ... at least most of the time." Greg turned back to John. "Oh, this is Sam, by the way. The guy who is actually in charge of this crime scene."
The other inspector extended a hand and a friendly smile. "Samuel Gregson. And you must be Doctor John Watson! So happy to finally meet the two of you, your stories are kind of famous around the office by now."
John shook the offered hand with a rueful smile. "Still not quite sure how I feel about that, but good to meet you too. So what were you investigating before the dead guy turned up?"
"A series of break-ins into small tech businesses and warehouses over the last couple of weeks. We suspect that it is gang-related, maybe smuggling of tech parts out of the city."
Lestrade nodded grimly. "That would fit with our investigation. There has been a series of dead and injured gang members turning up all over levels 4 and 5 during the last 2 days." His gaze wandered over the damaged storefront and he let out a sigh. "Can we go inside? If I spend any longer out here I am going to melt in this suit."
Donovan and Sherlock had already vanished - presumably in the same direction - so the three of them followed at a more sedate pace.
June had swept in with a heatwave of almost unheard-of proportions, turning the whole city of London into one giant slow cooker. It was a nightmare. The maintenance tunnels were especially bad which led to at least one or two of the irregulars camping out on the 221B couch almost every night but it was pretty uncomfortable all throughout the city regardless. Tabletop cooling units had been basically impossible to get a hold of for weeks now and almost half of the patients that John saw at the clinic were coming in with heat-related ailments.
Stepping into the messy interior of the shop came with a cool wave of instant relief. The front room had several small sleek disks on display all over the counters and in several of the showcases. The gentle whirr of the hidden fans within the climatisers filled the air with constant white noise, but that was an easy tradeoff considering the blessedly cool air that they provided.
"If there is one definite proof that this wasn't an ordinary burglary, then it is the fact that the climatisers weren't taken", Gregson offered with a sigh, as he led them through the room and towards an inconspicuous little door in the back. "And before you ask the owner ... I already did. Sadly none of them are up for sale ."
They followed a narrow little corridor into a small workshop ... and to the dead body of a middle-aged guy sprawled out on the floor next to a cabinet with spare electronic parts.
"Well, that's him. Not sure what to make of him, but I guess that's what you are here for."
John nodded. "Can you send me your files on the other break-ins?"
"Sure thing."
\U.I. Files shared by Samuel Gregson {office}. If connection is trusted, receive data [HERE], otherwise [DISMISS].
Gregson turned back to Lestrade with a little bit of a frown. "So why is it that you got the wonder detectives here involved? No offence, but it does not look like a big mystery to me. There was some kind of gang dispute concerning these break-ins. This guy was involved and got in the way."
John had crouched down next to the body and began his cursory examination. "Well for one, I am not quite sure what actually killed him", he began, a bit baffled at the lack of visible injuries. "There are no obvious wounds, but given how and where he was found, the death must have been almost instantaneous." He took a couple of moments to check the mans eyes and airways. "It's weird though, he almost looks like he died from some sort of allergic reaction. If he wasn't in his fifties I would even think that maybe he was having some sort of a reaction to his implants." He looked around the room again. "Would be a bit ironic if he died while robbing this shop but for completely unrelated reasons."
"Well, and the other weird thing is that for all intents and purposes, this guy shouldn't be down here at all", Lestrade added, sounding a little more severe now. "The name is Martin Kerry and he was arrested and convicted for a bunch of homicides 8 years ago. According to our records, he should be spending the rest of his life in one of the high-security detention centres overground. No word anywhere of him escaping or being released."
Both John and Gregson stared up at him in astonishment. "Are you serious?", the other DI asked incredulously. "Well, at least this case just got a lot more interesting all of a sudden."
"Watson, I need your calming influence over by the back exit." Donovan had come up behind them, leaning through the door with a pinched expression. "Your boyfriend is verbally abusing our crime scene drone again!" There was a choked-off sound from Gregson's direction.
"Not my boyfriend", muttered John, but he got to his feet regardless, ignoring Lestrades grin as he followed Donovan further down the corridor.
\U.I.: 1 new message: {received now} by Samuel Gregson {private}. [EXPAND]: If you fancy a drink anytime after hours, I would love to hang out :) - Sam {end of message}
He resisted the temptation to turn back around to the younger detective in surprise and instead followed Sherlock's angry shouts as they slowly gained in volume the closer he got to the door in question. There would be time for that later.
\U.I.: Current time 15:32, Thursday the 7th of July, 2066.
Account balance {John H Watson}: 621 credits
3 available software upgrades.
The sweltering heat did not ease up during the following weeks. Quite the opposite in fact. London had officially exceeded all previously documented temperature records, drinking water rationing still had not been lifted and the whole city was slowly but steadily baking towards absolute insanity.
221B was no different. Even after countless attempts, no climatiser had been procured for the flat, so it just kept getting closer and closer to boiling point with every passing day. If you combined that with the still persistent biting smell of iodine all over the first floor and the current lack of interesting cases, the whole atmosphere was set to explode on them sooner rather than later.
"Alright, ready to go!", John declared loudly on his way down the stairs.
He was greeted in the living room by Emma - leaning against the wall by the door with a bemused smile on her face - and Sherlock who was lounging sprawled over the sofa and wearing ... oh Christ, nothing but a thin wide bedsheet that he had artfully wound around his lanky form.
It took John a few seconds of standing at the bottom of the steps and staring incredulously at his berk of a roommate before he was able to collect himself. Sherlock lifted his gaze lazily from his phone and met his stare head-on.
"What?" He turned over in one fluid movement until he was sitting upright, feet on the ground, the bedsheet rising up to reveal a sliver of pale thigh. Nope, not going there.
"Er, right. Maybe you could, you know, put something on while we have a visitor?"
The proposal was met with a deeply deadpan expression. "I am wearing something, am I not?"
Smart-arse. John tried his best to out-deadpan his friend, even though it certainly was an uphill battle. "How about clothes ?"
The other man scanned over John's own attire with so much disdain that it had him bristling. "I am not the type for shorts, I'm afraid", he offered dismissively, the word sounding more like a curse than a garment when he uttered it.
The thing was, until a few days ago John would have claimed the very same. It was only sheer, heat-driven desperation that had brought him to the point where he had retrieved the at least a decade old cargo shorts from the most hidden corner of his wardrobe.
"I refuse to suffer this kind of discomfort while simply existing in my own living room, guests or not“, Sherlock added definitively.
Johns mouth pulled into a thin line at that, but before he could let loose another pointless argument, Emma chimed in with an amused grin. "It's alright!" She gave him a little wink. "Shall we get going?"
They had decided to spend their afternoon in one of the parks by the water with a couple of drinks - most likely surrounded by hundreds of other people with equally unoriginal ideas for the day. But really, there was nothing else to be done with temperatures like that.
"Alright", he sighed. "See you later, Sherlock."
John did his best to ignore Sherlock's persistent scowl, as the detective pulled his makeshift toga a bit tighter and shuffled into the kitchen without another word.
He did not yet know that they would not even make it close to the park before he would be swept away in yet another fateful kidnapping.
\U.I.: 1 new message: {received now} by Mycroft Holmes. [EXPAND]: Dr Watson. Please excuse my rude interruption, but your presence is urgently needed in a case of national importance. Please convey my deepest apologies to Ms Clements and get into the car posthaste! - M.H.
Ps. If you could convince my brother to put on some clothes I would be eternally grateful!
{end of message}