AN: This next part is pretty quick, so I thought I'd just post it now and get over it! More of a plot is coming soon, never fear. Thank you in advance for your kind reviews!
Shortly, John walks into the station, hands in coat pockets, looking around. He honestly does not want to know what Sherlock has been taken in for. The doctor tries to look awake, feeling quite the opposite, weary, even.
Sherlock is sitting at Donovan's desk, staring her down, with something that will eventually be a bruise under his eye. He smiles cheekily when he sees John.
"I hit him." He motions at the bruise. "Beatrice hit me. And pressed charges."
"Why, would you hit him?" John asks, a bit dumbstruck. Donovan looks no more than the usual amount of irritated; John guesses that some other officer actually came to the scene.
Sherlock looks frankly surprised, and he stands from his seat to match John. "Because you weren't there to hit him." Like it's so obvious and John's a fool not to know.
John lets out a short sigh, lost for words. "I see." He glances at Donovan. "Is there some sort of bail involved here, or can we leave?"
Sherlock frowns when John is not immediately impressed with his heroics and begins to pout just as impetuously as he had in the flat.
Donovan waves them off. "Lestrade's worked it out. I don't want to look at his face anymore."
Sherlock's flatmate smiles slightly. "Well, that's that. Thank you, officer." Polite as always. Then John glances at Sherlock. "Do you know where.. Beatrice is?"
Sherlock hasn't finished pouting. "To hell with Beatrice." He frowns into his phone and begins texting angrily.
"Sherlock..." John begins, before realizing he has nowhere to go. A pause. "Who are you texting, then?"
"My brother. Perhaps he can drop a bomb on her flat." He almost touches the bruise on his face and clearly decides it's a bad idea, going back to angrily punching words into his phone.
"I- I don't really think that's going to be necessary." John eyes Sherlock's forearm wound, seeing that his handiwork has apparently withstood this mishap. The bleeding looks like it started again, but only briefly. He takes out his own phone, finding Mycroft's number.
Ignore Sherlock. We're at the police station.
JW
"You don't even sound angry," Sherlock says, peering up over his phone. "Are you pleased that she's cheating on you? You're certainly vigorous enough with Beatrice, so it can't be about the sex. Is she unfunny?"
"I can't be angry with something I scarcely believe. Maybe it was her brother." John is still in the 'denial' stage, Sherlock would be concluding. "Would you rather I went back to being angry about you, earlier?" He seems to be ruffled again.
"I was trying to do you a favor." He narrows his eyes at John. "Clearly, you don't trust me, though I'm rarely ever wrong. So you're in denial. Cute, John. Very adolescent of you." He pushes past John and swirls out of the office in an extremely dramatic fashion.
John looks frustrated, hands clenching in his pockets. "I'll be at the flat!" he shouts after Sherlock, getting a few glances from the policemen. Lips pursed, he follows Sherlock's path as far as the door to the station, opting to hail a cab. Yet again.
I've moved the tea. Good luck.
SH
I think that's what you would have called "juvenile", no?
JW
You're the juvenile one. Accept that I'm right and you can have your tea back.
SH
Sorry, right about what? I will talk with Beatrice later.. assuming that she isn't sore after your... little altercation earlier. Please Sherlock, where is my tea?
JW
I am always right. I'm not telling you. I'm cross.
SH
Why are you cross? You are the one who was going through my room earlier.
JW
That's not the point, John. I'm cross because you don't trust me.
SH
Seconds later, another text comes through.
You can go through my things if it makes you feel better.
SH
Halfway through replying to the first when he sets the second, John sighs through his nose and puts his phone away for a moment, paying the cab driver and taking out his key.
No, thank you, I will respect your privacy. JW Is all the doctor can think to reply.
There's no new text from Sherlock, but he is banging around in the kitchen when John gets in, making a great deal of noise.
John comes upstairs, tentatively, closing the door quietly despite how likely it is that Sherlock already knows he has arrived. He bites his lip, trying not to ask if Sherlock is trying to make tea. God, he hopes not. It worked badly enough the first time.
When John gets near enough to the kitchen, Sherlock holds out a mug of something that certainly resembles tea, a very serious expression on his face. "I won't tell you where the rest of it is. But I thought you might need it."
John takes the mug, uncertainly, nodding in thanks and taking a sip.
It isn't really bad. "What are you up to, then?" The doctor dares ask.
Sherlock hops into his chair, perching with his knees to his chest and fingers steepled. "There wasn't much time for me to deduce why Beatrice would be seeing another man on the side. Seeing as I'm between cases, I've decided to make it an exercise. I've queued up Casino Royale for you, in case you're in a foul mood. It's seemed to cheer you up in the past."
John leans on the doorframe, regarding Sherlock with a small amount of anger. He can tell that Sherlock is trying. "Ah. Thanks." He says, thinking that he'll probably go upstairs and.. work on his blog or something. Maybe call Beatrice. But that's looking less and less likely, given Sherlock.
Sherlock pouts slightly, reading John's intentions easily. "You're not staying? I made tea." He has questions to ask, it's a failure of an exercise if he can't get any information out of John.
John figures that Sherlock saw the tea as a sort of a peace treaty. "Where is the rest of it? I don't want to have to look for it all night." Maybe he can get the upper hand as far as bargaining goes, or at least back to being on even ground. Ha, not likely.
Sherlock frowns, narrowing his eyes at John and inspecting him thoroughly. He sighs through his nose; getting John talking is better than having him silent because of the tea mystery. "Behind Origin of the Species, top shelf, third from the right. My room." Once the information is imparted, Sherlock stares at a spot on the floor until John makes up his mind what to do.
John glares, knowing Sherlock intended this all along. Putting down the tea a little more firmly than was necessary, John starts up the stairs. Eyebrows narrowed and feeling like he's entering a combat situation, he pushes open the room's door.
Sherlock smirks to himself once John has gone.
The room is an organized war zone. Everything has a place, but that place is everywhere. It's not dirty, just an unholy mess. Like an exceptionally genius teenager lives there. The bookcase is clear enough, stuffed to the gills with books from dictionaries in several languages to beekeeping guides. Piles of old newspapers are stacked in front of the bookcase, and the book Sherlock indicated is on the top shelf a good ways above John's head.
John assesses the area, not entirely surprised at how it looks. Kicking at the newspapers to clear a space, he approaches the bookshelf. "Sherlock," John calls out, hoping he's loud enough to be heard downstairs, "I am not quite as tall as you are, you know." He glances around the room, looking for some sort of footstool.
Sherlock can most definitely hear John, but rather than come to his aid, he picks up his violin and begins scratching out a scale. By the grin, he thinks it's awfully amusing.
Rolling his eyes upwards, John gives up on hope of aid and drags over a promising-looking chair, barely managing to reach the plastic container and throw it toward Sherlock's bed before descending. Scoffing, he takes the tea and slams Sherlock's door behind them, bringing the container into his own room and closing the door. Sherlock would have to come to him, or stop that racket at least.