It was Sunday lunchtime, and John was on his own in the booth. Sherlock had left (ostensibly for lunch, though John knew better than to expect he would eat anything), and John was manning the booth on his own. If anything, it was more crowded than it had been earlier and John was trying to adapt his thinking. He hadn't expected to be so popular!
He was so busy, in fact, that he barely had time to ponder the conversation he and Sherlock had had last night. His friend had been … odd. First, he had failed to find anything in Frank's booth … He claimed he'd been interrupted before he could search thoroughly, but John didn't know what to make of that. When had Sherlock ever let someone keep him from investigating to his satisfaction? (Thugs with guns or rope or other deterrents didn't count, of course.)
Beyond that, though, Sherlock seemed oddly reluctant to discuss the day's events at all. Other than his brief report of accomplishing pretty much nothing, he had merely quizzed John on his evening with Frank and then started playing the violin with such focus, John had not been able to get another word from him all night.
Not that John had had much to report, either. Frank—an individual John would be more than happy never to speak to again—had spent the entire time making snide comments about all their fellow vendors. He had offered so much "advice" to John that he had made Sherlock in full Deductive Exposition Mode seem like he was keeping secrets. The man had talked John's bloody ear off, always with a faux-jovial manner that barely covered his general contempt for just about everyone on the planet, so far as John could tell.
All in all, he'd spent better evenings.
The worst part was that he hadn't found anything to pin on the man. Frank's conversation had been suggestive, the way he'd talked about finding "creative" ways to make ends meet, or "alternative income streams" and "undisclosed sources," but he had never said anything concrete. (At all, John thought ruefully, on any topic. The entire night had been nothing but nasty, innuendo-filled bluster.)
Called back to the present by a customer, he tried to ignore the dirty looks he was getting from Frank's practically-empty booth across the aisle. At this rate, nobody was going to believe John's hobby was draining his near-empty bank account. Not everyone was buying, but he was getting enough traffic to dispel the image of a down-on-his-luck ex-army doctor.
Not that he minded, exactly. It was why he was here, after all, even if he'd hoped to be more help to Scotland Yard.
He had just concluded a sale and was making a mental note to find some decent learn-to-spin pamphlets (because who knew spinning was so popular?), when a nasal voice behind him said, "So, this is what you do with your free time? Anything to get away from the Freak, eh?"
John turned to see Anderson standing belligerently in front of his booth. "At least my time is being spent productively, Anderson. What are you doing here?" It was a good question—the man was in forensics and had no business on an undercover op.
"It's a public event, Watson. I can go where I want."
"Looking for a gift for the wife? There are some lovely vases across the way she might like."
Anderson had turned to look at Frank's wares and then turned back. "What are you saying? They're hideous."
John just shrugged and smiled politely. "They may not be her taste. I've never met her, after all."
"No, but she did pick you, after all." Sherlock was back, holding two cups of tea, one of which he passed to John. "But there's no accounting for taste."
"As if you had any," Anderson said with a sneer. "Eyeballs in the microwave?"
"That was an experiment, not a design detail, but I wouldn't expect you to know the difference," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Can I interest you in a piece of fine, hand-crafted furniture? A nice desk, perhaps? Something to inspire you to greater heights in your work?"
Anderson sneered right back. "One of these? No offense, Watson, but they're kind of small, don't you think? Some of us have real computer systems, you know, and need sufficient space."
Sherlock just smiled, and John recognized the gleam in his eyes—and braced himself. "Haven't you heard, Anderson? Bigger isn't necessarily better. It's all about efficiency and performance."
Oh, no. John almost couldn't believe his ears. Had Sherlock really just …? Anderson certainly thought he had, because the sneer had dropped off his face. Now it was flooded with rage as he sputtered … and Sherlock just watched, eyes alight with mischief and calculation. He was revving Anderson up for something, but John didn't know what. He just hoped Sherlock remembered how many breakable things he had in his booth.
Then he saw where Sherlock was standing—directly between Anderson and Frank's booth of ugly, suspicious, breakable porcelain.
He remembered Sherlock saying he hadn't been able to investigate Frank's booth.
He remembered Sherlock being convinced that the evidence they needed was hidden in there somewhere.
He remembered Sherlock discussing how it was possible to hide things in pottery, baking them right into the base.
He remembered Sherlock saying he would find another way to investigate.
He remembered the years' worth of animosity between Sherlock and Anderson.
Suddenly, it wasn't his own booth he was worried about—though he did wonder if Scotland Yard would cover the costs if his merchandise were damaged in what he was sure was about to become a melee.
#
As if his realization had been a starter's pistol, John had barely blinked when Anderson responded to Sherlock's most recent taunt with "At least I have a wife, Freak! You've got a flatmate who clearly tries to spend as much time away from you as possible."
"Don't bring John into this, Anderson. You don't know what you're getting yourself into," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing. To anybody else, he would look like a man on the edge of a jealous rage, but John knew better. Sherlock was having fun. He was the consummate actor, after all, and now, with an an excuse to antagonize Anderson (however spurious, however unknown to everyone outside his own head)? It might as well have been Christmas.
And so John was almost resigned as he watched Sherlock goad Anderson into taking the first swing. He watched as Sherlock very carefully did notstep out of the way, but instead stumbled backwards through the crowd thronging the aisle.
"That's the best you can do?" he taunted, licking at the dot of blood on his lip. "I should have known. Isn't there anything you're competent at? Nothing you can do properly?"
"Oh, you're going to show me how to throw a punch? You?" Anderson looked like a cartoon character about to blow his hair off from steam, and John took a step forward, thinking to protect the innocent bystanders (and his furniture), but stopped at the tiny headshake Sherlock sent his way.
"Obviously you could use lessons from someone," Sherlock said, backing into the center of the aisle. "Even Sally can throw a better punch. Maybe that's something else she could teach you?"
John actually saw the man slip into an unthinking rage. One minute Anderson was having a fight, the next he was completely out of control.
And lunging at Sherlock.
…Who neatly caught the punch headed his way and then swung Anderson in a circle, letting go just in time for the man to crash headfirst into Frank's display of pottery.
#