Bloody Texting
Sherlock was standing in the tube covered in blood, again, and was texting John.
John I hate the tube. –SH
Why are you in the tube, you didn't stab a pig with your harpoon again, did you? –JW
Why did John think he would do that again, he already had all the data he needed about using a harpoon. Doing it again would be pointless.
No, that would be boring.-SH
Then what did you do that the cabs won't take you again? –JW
When would John stop reminding him about that, it wasn't his fault the cabbies got squeamish so easily.
I used a trident, obviously. –SH
Their murderer was under the illusion he was some kind of sea-god. Why did no one but him think of a trident? Idiots, the lot of them.
Of course, Greg just texted: people are calling the police about a man covered in blood, with a weapon, standing in the tube. –JW
Who's Greg? –SH
Lestrade. And text him your conclusion. –JW
Done. Dinner at Angelo's? –SH
Not unless you lose the trident, your bloody clothes and you have put on some clean ones. –JW
Boring. –SH
Sherlock texted back. Knowing he would do what John said, because just dumping the trident, the bloody clothes and cleaning up wouldn't be enough. Because apparently you can't sit in a restaurant in only your shoes and dress pants. He knew. Last time he tried he got in a row with John, and scolded like he was a child. He wasn't going through that again, once was enough. Besides he had better things to do with his time, like trying to deduce the place John hid his secret cigarette stash this time.
He got out of the tube and walked the short distance left to 221b. He opened the door and took the stairs two at a time, scaring the living daylights out of Mrs Hudson, who was just leaving the apartment.
The End