A/N: The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.
The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson
Halfway through doing the shopping after dropping our clothes off at the cleaners, I find my phone going off in my pocket. Go me, forgetting to turn it to vibrate and having the theme to the Poirot series going off at full volume in the middle of Tesco's. Brilliant move, John.
"Hello? You don't normally ring," I say rather quietly to avoid drawing any more attention to myself while retroactively realising that by doing so, I'm acting even more conspicuously. Just can't win today, can I?
"Got a case. Meet me at the pawn shop down the street from Tower 42," Sherlock says rather hurriedly.
"Fine. Sure. But, why are you calling? You always text. And your voice sounds a bit hoarse. Catching a cold?"
"No, no, I'm fine. Just threw on my scarf a little tight."
"Must be an interesting one, huh?"
"If I didn't think so, I wouldn't have informed you."
"Of course not. I'll meet you there as soon as I finish the shopping. Of course, I might be late getting the laundry back..."
"Don't worry about that. I've called your sister. She's going to pick up the laundry and drop it off at our flat."
"Wha... Since when do you have my sister's number?"
"Copied it from your contacts. Hope you don't mind."
"That... that would mean you swiped my phone at some point. My phone. Don't believe this. You've swiped my laptop, my credit card..."
"Actually, that was you borrowing mine."
"And I swear you've been stealing my jumpers. You're like some kind of klepto. What of mine haven't you stolen?"
"Your trousers. They'd never fit. Too wide and too short."
I stopped dead in my tracks with the cart. Why on earth would he mention... never mind. Too insulted to process that.
"Okay, I get that I'm at least six inches shorter than you, but I'm not that wide! You're just rail thin. Besides, I actually have muscle, unlike you."
"And how am I supposed to find that out?"
I pinch my brow and close my eyes. I count to three in my head.
"...I'm not even going to answer that. Look, I'll be right out. Just let me buy our groceries, and I'll be right over."
"Are you alright? You counted again, didn't you."
"Okay, now I see why you prefer texting. I'll be out in a minute. See you then. Bye." And before he could say anything else to possibly get under my skin, I hang up. This time, I go to an aisle where I can be waited on by an actual person. Who caught almost all of my end of the conversation it seems, given how she's staring at me.
"Lover's quarrel?" she asks, innocently enough. My ears start getting hot, so I think I'm blushing.
"Lover- no, no, no. No. Flatmate being a tosser," I explain quickly and clear my throat which feels oddly dry at the moment. She slowly nods giving me a look that says 'right' very slowly.
Just once, only once, can I please go to Tesco's without being embarrassed?
The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
When John finally comes into view, he's walking rather swiftly in my direction. His shoulders are raised. Also forward a bit. His brow is furrowed. Mouth shaped like a line. He's upset. And I have a suspicion it's my fault. Again.
I honestly never know what to say when he's like this. I suppose I could just say "sorry" but I don't think that'll quite cover it. I've been upsetting him somewhat often all this week. I told him I'd curtail my experiments, not eradicate them. I even cleaned up afterwards, as well. The next day, I was bored, and John didn't want me shooting the wall again, so I found an old set of darts for the wall. I was unable to find the board to go with it, is all. I then started using an old slipper I found about the flat and tacked it to the mantle to use for a place to keep newspaper clippings from old police beat articles. How was I to know that John bought the slippers for himself and that I was to use the box they came in for that purpose? He was muffled when carrying them in that day. (For the record, the slipper is still there. He's yet to reclaim it.) And now, I've gone and probably not only embarrassed him in the store, but I'm fairly certain that I've insulted him somehow. Probably with what I thought was a witty comment. I never said he was that wide. Just that he was wider than me. I would have thought that my mentioning that his trousers wouldn't fit me would indicate that.
There must be some way for me to properly apologise. I'll make that a side case apart from this one. "How to Make Up to John For My Recent Social Idiocy."
When he reaches me, he's about to say something. Probably another utterance of 'What the hell, Sherlock?' But, I stop him before he does.
"I understand you're upset with me right now. However, we have a case. Let's put that aside until we've solved it, alright?" I offer. John closes his eyes. He's counting again. Three, again. He sighs and opens his eyes, lowering his shoulders.
"Fine. So, what are we doing at a pawn shop? And why this one in particular?" he asks me. I give a little smirk.
"You'll see," I tell him, and lead him indoors.
The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson
We go inside 'Jabez's Junk: A Pawn Shop' and as I'm looking around, everything looks... old. Like the fifties and sixties just decided to vomit all over the shelves of this place. I think there's a few eighties articles here. Like an old eight-track over in one cupboard. I think my mum had a jewelry case like that flowery one. And.. is that a top hat?
Anyway, Sherlock goes right over to the counter where a young man with auburn hair is coming out from behind it. He's got a funny mark on his neck. When I see it, it looks like an oddly coloured birthmark.
I observe, and it looks like a scar. The kind one would get from scalding.
"Heya. What can I do for you gents?" he asks us.
"Just wondering... do you all have a website? I have a cousin over in Liverpool who loves stuff like what you carry. Thing is, he can never pop over and take a look. I'd love to have somewhere to refer him so he can order things from you. Maybe even sell you some of his own goods," Sherlock says, using close to the same tone of voice he did when he was trying to get into Van Coon's flat a couple years ago. Makes me wonder if he ever took any acting classes as a kid. Actually, it's hard to picture Sherlock as a kid. Well, as a normal kid anyway. It's pretty easy to tell how he acted as a kid. He tends to do so on a fairly regular basis. And he's, what, almost thirty now? I think he was 27 or so when we met. Though, he looks a bit younger than that, I admit.
"Yeah, we do. Here's one of our cards. The website's at the bottom," the clerk says, handing a small business card to Sherlock. "Gonna warn you though, we're in the process of switching servers, so the site may be down at the moment." Sherlock nods in understanding and pockets the card.
"Gotcha. Thanks, Mr..."
"Spaulding. Vincent Spaulding. Call me Vince, though," Vince states, holding a hand out for Sherlock. Sherlock takes it and gives a quick shake.
"Nice to meet you, Vince. And thanks!" he calls, and we leave.
"And, why did you want their business card? Or find the website? Couldn't you just look it up yourself?" I ask once we're back on the street. Sherlock chuckles.
"I didn't want the card at all. I just needed an excuse to look at this 'Vince'," he explains.
"What, is Vince not his real name?"
"I don't think it is. But to be sure of who it really is, tell me - did you notice his neck?" Thinking back to the scald mark, I nod.
"Yes. There was a scar on the left side of his neck. Er, his right. Looks like a liquid scar. A splash, probably," I add. He smiles at me.
"A splash from what, exactly?" he asks. I feel he already knows the answer, but he wants to see what I know. Thankfully, as a doctor, this is a bit easier this time.
"Acid. The colouration is reminiscent of being hit with an acid," I state. He smiles wider. I can't help but smile a little myself seeing it.
"Excellent, John. Your powers of observation are getting better," he says. I give a slight laugh at this notion.
"Thanks."
"Now, a man working in a pawn shop isn't likely to have an acid scar on his neck, correct? Which means he got it from elsewhere. One could simply say that it was from a chemistry class years ago, however the placement is a bit odd for a classroom accident. Further, that's not a scar from anything you'd find in a school chem lab. It's too corrosive. And, the shape was more like it was merely dropped onto his neck rather than splashed on, but one wouldn't normally think of such an occurrence unless they were looking for it."
"Which you were?" He nods.
"Yes. When our client mentioned that mark on his clerk's neck, it clicked something in my head. Not too long ago, there was a case in the police beat reported where the head of a gang had captured a member of an opposing gang and dropped acid on him as torture. The police intervened after one drop had occurred and arrested the attacking gang head, but the other got away. Thus, the Blue Rooks were finally abolished."
"The Blue Rooks?" I question. He explains.
"Fairly quiet gang, but well known in certain underground pockets. Characterised by a blue chess piece tattoo on the right side of their neck. Mycroft had some trouble with them years back. Not himself personally, but one of his agents did have a run in with them. That's how I learned of them."
"Uh huh."
"Now then, as for the man that escaped..." he started. He pointed back to the pawn shop. "That was him. At least, I think so."
"Why don't you know for sure?"
"Because I don't know the name of the gang he's involved in. The Blue Rooks had plenty of rivals."
"Well, my first thought is a gang that uses red as their main colour," I offer. He looks at me skeptically.
"Red, why red?"
"Well, I think there's a couple of rival American gangs that do that..." He turns his head back to his front and sighs.
"If you're referring to their politics system..." he starts. I chuckle.
"No, but that is a funny comparison," I admit. "So, back to why you wanted to look at him?"
"Right. Well, the neck wasn't the only thing. I needed to look at his knees."
"His knees?" I inquire, remembering the conclusions he drew the last time he looked at someone's knees. Namely, Sgt. Donovan's.
"The knees of his trousers were rather damp and rough. He'd been crawling around somewhere. Somewhere wet. Concrete as well," he added, stomping a heel on the street to emphasise as we walked up to Tower 42.
"What, like in a sewer tunnel?" I ask. Sherlock smiles again at me.
"Splendid, John. Seems we're on the same wavelength," he comments. Why do his complements keep getting to me? Then again, I've noticed mine do the same to him as well, if my interjections at his observations early on were any indication. We ride up the escalator to the bank. "I need to see Mr. Wilkes."