Going after the dealers openly had been a poor decision—John was prepared to admit that to himself, whatever he and Sherlock might tell the Yarders later when they gave their statements. At first it had seemed almost trivial to tail their suspects to their haunt. But. Clutching the external scaffolding desperately, fingers numbed, and Sherlock's coat flapping dangerously in his face, John had to wonder where hanging off the outside of a multi-story building had ever come into it.
Dextrously, Sherlock levered himself into the building. Eager to get out of the biting wind, John hurried to follow, but pins and needles caused him to momentarily lose his footing.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed sharply.
Getting his leg over the windowsill and falling into the dusty room, he saw that Sherlock had already disarmed and incapacitated one thug, and had his weapon trained on the other.
"Fools!" Even slightly out of breath, Sherlock's voice was cutting as ever. "Door's suspiciously well-locked for an unfinished building without interior locks, and you didn't even board the windows...
"Call Lestrade, John; he can take it from here."
Back at the flat, John caught Sherlock giving him a speculative look.
"Any chance of resolving some tension in bed?" he asked, with an elaborate flourish.
"God, yes; you're irresistible with your open G string and your bowing."