The wet paint had a dreadful stink when it first came out of the can, but after almost a year of plastering London with the bright yellow paint John was used to it. The sun was just about set over the city as John began to put the finishing touches on the piece. It covered all of the corrugated iron door that was pulled down over the front of a cafe every night. The building was only a few blocks from Scotland Yard; some of the officers that worked there frequented the place. It was a bit risky, John thought, graffiting a building in the middle of a street, before the sun had really set, particularly so close to the yard. He was getting reckless without his consulting detective. He chuckled, thinking back to the second big case he and Sherlock had tackled together. That bloody kid who got him arrested for holding a goddamn paint can. At least now he could say he had committed the crime he was arrested for.
The sound of footsteps coming down the street toward him quickly sobered it up. With all John's luck it was sure to be a cop. It was only thanks to Mycroft that he had escaped an ASBO the last time, & Sherlock wasn't around to call in a favour for him now.
He turned to look at the person coming towards him, and immediately got a sinking feeling in his stomach. John was right, it was a cop. To make things worse, it was Lestrade.
Lestrade stopped when he reached John and the covered-up cafe. He looked at the graffitied door for a moment before turning to John.
"Was gonna swing by the pub and watch the football with a couple of guys from the yard. You be interested in coming along?"
Relief washed over John, he was not going to be picking litter off the highway in an orange jumpsuit anytime soon.
"Err, yeah, sure Greg. Just gotta, ah, finish off here." He shook the paint can and made a couple of swift movements across the corrugated iron, before capping the paint and shoving it back in his pocket.
"So you're still positive City are going to get thrashed?"
"Of course mate, I mean, look at what they're up against..." They walked away from the graffitied cafe, arguing about the night's upcoming football, not once mentioning the bight yellow paint covering the corrugated iron door.
I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES.
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