"Hello!"
John sighed with relief to hear Lestrade's cheery voice on the other end of the phone. "You sound like you're in a good mood."
"Nice to be back at work, I must say. It's been a long time. How can I help you?"
"I hope you're not just saying that, Greg. I do need your help."
"What's up?" John could almost hear the DI straighten up. He was a good man, and a good cop (would've made a good soldier as well), and John was right glad to have him back.
"It's Sherlock. He's bored. You know how he… it's getting bad. Please tell me you've got a case for him. Don't make me call that berk Dimmock."
Lestrade sighed. "Well, I'm on my way to a body right now, but it's not up to his standards, we've got a strong suspect already…"
"That's fine, totally fine. I'm desperate, mate."
"Everyone is watching me now. The last thing I need is Sherlock Holmes prancing in and getting me fired."
"I know, Greg. I promise he'll behave."
"And see that he doesn't abuse my people. I have to work with them everyday, you know. That includes Anderson. And John, you behave too."
"Me?"
"Have you forgotten you chinned my boss?"
"Ah, well, I…. That's true. But the charges have been dismissed."
"And yet, oddly enough, he still remembers the incident. It's really not a wise career move for me to be talking to you at all, much less inviting you to a crime scene."
"You have my word, we'll both be absolute angels."
"Don't make promises you can't keep. But alright. I'll text him now."
"I owe you, Greg."
The DI sighed. "Who's counting?" he asked, and hung up.
John closed his mobile with a smile and turned around to walk back to the flat.
Sherlock was just stepping out the door as he got there. "Brilliant, John!" he called, a devilish grin on his face. "The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and a man's been bludgeoned to death in Boscombe Park!" He raised his hand with a flourish and a cab immediately pulled to the kerb. John could never get a cab that quickly. One of the many benefits of being inhumanly tall, he supposed.
Sherlock had opened the door of the cab and was waiting impatiently, bouncing on the balls of his feet, for John to catch up. He had a while to wait, John thought, grimly observing his own slow progress down the sidewalk. He reached the cab at last, and got in, Sherlock folding himself in afterwards.
Sherlock told the cabbie an address. Then he looked out the window and said to the city rolling past, "You're getting much better."
"It certainly doesn't feel like it," John answered.
"You're twelve percent faster now than two weeks ago, and your limp is much less pronounced. Thank you for the case."
"What?"
Sherlock sighed and turned to stare at John. "Obviously you told Lestrade to give me this case. God knows I need it. It had better be good."
John tightened his grip on his cane. He knew he was playing with fire. If the case was not good – and Lestrade had already said it wasn't – it could plummet Sherlock into an even fouler mood. But Sherlock was smiling right now, for the first time in weeks. For that, this case was a risk John was more than willing to take.
