Bloody typical. Rain. Before he'd even reached the front door, it was raining. He'd only been back in the country about an hour and the heavens had opened. It was absolutely bloody typical.
Paying the driver, John hauled his suitcase out of the taxi, turning up his collar against the rain and hurrying inside as quickly as possible. Mrs Hudson spent five minutes fussing over him, and insisting he tell her all about his trip to New Zealand. Only be promising to come downstairs and show her all the photos later, and by giving her the gift he bought her – a scarf decorated with a Maori design – did he manage to get away.
Which left the monumental task of getting his suitcase upstairs into the flat. He considered leaving it there until later, but he admitted to himself that if he didn't move it now, he never would. Once glance at the flat said it all. Sighing resignedly, he heaved the wretched thing up the seemingly endless flight of stairs. He abandoned it at the top of the first flight of stairs, deciding to wait until he'd gotten his breath back to move it up to his room, just as Sherlock came out of the living room.
"Where are you going?" he frowned.
"Going? I just got back," John replied.
"Back from where?"
"New Zealand. Sherlock, I've been gone for three weeks, didn't you notice?"
"I thought you were a bit quiet, but I assumed you were angry at me for something."
John couldn't believe it. Actually, he could. For three weeks Sherlock had assumed he was, what? Hiding upstairs sulking? For a genius sometimes he could be bloody thick.
"Come on," Sherlock said. "Lestrade just called, body in Covent Garden tube station."
"I just got off a flight from New Zealand," John pointed out.
"Yes, we've established that."
"Yes, my body's on a different time zone! I've been travelling for the past three days!"
"Do you want me to tell the dead body that he has to wait while you sleep?" Sherlock asked.
"Can't you go on your own?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John sighed.
"You need an assistant, I know, I know."
Sherlock continued to stare at him. John sighed again.
"Alright," he said, admitting defeat. "But I'm sleeping in the taxi."
Sherlock simply grinned and ran down the stairs. Typical.