"Well, that was mild. People say a lot worse than that."
As he says the words, John allows his lips to drift into a light smile. Why would the man go easy on Sherlock?
Dimmock responds to his surprise with a half shrug, one hand tugging at the bottom of his tie. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
John narrows his eyes for a brief moment before shaking his head. "I'm sorry, what?"
The DI huffs in—what? Exasperation? Amusement?—and nods at the corner of his desk.
The pile of the journalist's effects. And the diary on top. Of course.
John clears his throat and steps toward the desk, only to find his path blocked by the younger man. He raises an eyebrow and tries to move around him, but the DI simply crosses his arms in front of his chest and impedes his progress once again. "Do you just do what he tells you?"
John runs a steady hand through his hair, just the shades of a military crop now, and says, "I do what he needs me to do."
Dimmock gives a small laugh at that, all incredulity and more than a little bit of something John can't quite place.
But it must have been the right thing to say, or at least not the wrong thing because Dimmock's got the diary in hand now and is stretching it out towards John. "My number is in there. Call me anytime. I'll wait for you."
John looks at the hand, looks at the DI. The offices of New Scotland Yard pulse with people, with information. Wasted talent and talentless waste.
He takes the diary.