Alas and alack, as he recalled some old book he'd read somewhere saying, it was not to be. Half an hour later, a little boy with a black mop of curly hair and large, watery blue eyes walked in, sniffling. John had his hopes up that it was another case of the cold, but no, it was not to be. The dark-haired boy, who was dressed in an old-fashioned long robe, with a knotted scarf similar to Sherlock's, wiped at his nose and read off a pager, "Three words. Twenty-one letters. You have three guesses in one minute. Go."
When the boy opened his robes to reveal a semtex-laden vest, along with a dancing little red dot on his chest, John's stomach fell to his feet. Crap. The good doctor looked the boy in the eyes, and said as calmly as he could, "You all right? Need some water?"
The boy shook his head, then hiccupped with fear as he read, "Two guesses wasted. Hurry up, doctor."
I hate you so much, Moriarty, John fumed inwardly, and I hate Sherlock almost as much. Aloud, he said in a flat voice, "Happy birthday, Sherlock."
"Oh, I was hoping you'd stutter," the boy read. "Fine, the boy's yours." Then the boy started to cry in earnest, and John only felt relieved when the red dot disappeared. It wasn't long before he hauled off the explosive vest, not bothering to explain as he ran out the doors with that in one hand and calling the police with the other. Once he dumped the damn thing in the dumpster, he ran back in to his office.
He found the boy, still in shock, standing in his casual clothes, but with tears and snot running down his face. "It's all right now," John said, grabbing tissues to wipe the boy's down. "What's your name, and where are your parents?"
It took a while to get things settled with the boy, who had been lured out by the promise of a new video game, and his parents came soon enough, followed by a grim Lestrade and a small brigade of New Scotland's finest. "I know it's about Sherlock, but this is ridiculous," the D.I. muttered as the family was led out of the surgery.
"Too right," John said under his breath. Really, what kind of person gets this kind of over-the-top violent greeting, aside from his flatmate? The only thing he could think of was perhaps a world-famous celebrity, or an international politician, but Sherlock was neither. Well, he'd joked about getting a knighthood before, and his brother's in the government, and he was getting more notice with the internet, but aside from that, that was… nothing? Ugh, just thinking about what his flatmate did to him, much less to everyone else he encountered, was enough to bring on a migraine. "I've had enough of this," he muttered, "if people are going to do this to me, then I'm bloody well going home!" Yes, he actually shouted that last bit, which only raised Lestrade's eyebrows a bit, but it was completely understandable. Goodness knows how often Sherlock had driven the D.I. up the wall without even being there. He refused Lestrade's offer of a ride home, figuring he should probably get some walking in there, because he might kill his flatmate if he came home too early.