John pulled up the zip of his jacket as far as it would go and ducked his head. The temperatures weren't exactly at freezing point but the strong wind seemed to pull every ounce of warmth out of his jacket. Thinking that he should have worn a scarf, John hurried getting back home.
He had already fished the keys from his pocket to unlock the front-door when a young man, clad in ragged jeans and two hoodies he wore on top of one another, walked up to him.
"You're the Doctor?" he asked.
John turned and studied the man before he gave a nod.
"Friend of mine `s sick. Sherlock said you would help when necessary."
John guessed the man, undoubtedly he belonged to Sherlock's homeless network, probably wasn't a day older than twenty-three although he looked like he was in his mid-thirties. He was in need of a haircut but the pale skin as well as the blond hair were clean.
"And you are?"
"Cy! That's short for Cyrus."
John nodded. "Do you want to come inside?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.
As he had expected, Cyrus shook his head.
"When can you come?"
"What's wrong with your friend?"
"Had a cold and coughed, now he has trouble breathing."
'Pneumonia', John thought. Common enough amongst people who lived on the streets and slept in damp places. He asked Cyrus where he would find his friend and promised he'd be there in an hour. First he had to fetch his bag and some medication. When he noticed the longing gaze Cyrus had directed at the two bags from Tesco, he offered him one of the apples he had bought. The man took the piece of fruit with a curd nod and ate it with a relish while scurrying away.
Once John had stored the food he pondered whether he should have a cup of tea before heading out into the cold but decided against it. He took his bag, sent Sherlock a text with the location Cyrus had provided him with and left.
oOo
DI Greg Lestrade sat in the back of an ambulance shivering from being beyond cold.
"You are the incarnation of an idiot, Sherlock!" he shouted at the man who sat next to him. "I told you back-up would be here in five minutes but no, the great consulting detective had to show off and expose the fishmonger right in front of his chums."
A sneezing-fit interrupted the Inspector's rant.
"The second ambulance will be here within a few minutes. Please, don't kill each other," the unfortunate paramedic, who was stuck with Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade in the ambulance that had arrived first, implored.
He was glared at by an utterly miserable looking Sherlock, who was mourning the hopefully temporary loss of his coat and his phone.
Once Sherlock had exposed the fishmonger, who had killed his wife as well as her lover in a fit of jealousy, the fishmonger and three of his friends had attacked both him and the DI. The Inspector and Sherlock had been thrown into the icy water of the lock facility and in the process Sherlock's Belstaff had gotten caught on some hook underwater. He had only been able to reach the surface by abandoning the beloved piece of clothing.
The fishmonger had been caught a few minutes later by the promised backup but both Sherlock and Greg had spent several very long minutes in the water.
"I don't want to see you again until next year," Greg told Sherlock, sneezing again.
"Since you will be down with a bad cold over the next week or two and my brother isn't likely to make a sick call, the comment is somewhat superfluous, don't you think, Inspector?"
"Get out!" Both Sherlock and Greg shouted in unison at Mycroft Holmes, who had managed to appear so very quietly inside the ambulance one could suspect he was not a man but a ghost.
The Government official's eyes slanted but nothing gave his feelings away. "Well then, since my presence obviously isn't required, good afternoon. Sherlock, Detective Inspector."
Mycroft closed the door of the ambulance with a soft click, which really shouldn't be possible since those doors needed to be slammed shut. Still, he managed to do just that, which made his exit somewhat creepy.
Sherlock tried to give an air of smugness but Greg shook his head. "That's not good, Sherlock. He's going to make us regret that we threw him out."
"What's he going to do?" Sherlock scoffed.
"Perhaps if he just doesn't do anything it is worse than if he does something."
The paramedic had watched the scene with disbelief, the atmosphere within the ambulance going from aggressive to gloom within a minute. He was quite relieved when the second ambulance arrived and the older one of his patients, once he had exchanged glances with the younger man, left without a word.