Sherlock froze in shock.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Juror number eight said in embarrassment, then vomited once more, this time on his shirt. People were starting to look at him and the lady. An aide rushed off, probably to notify the Judge or something. Juror number eight finally stood up and ran off to the bathroom. Stiffly, Sherlock removed his scarf, miraculously clean and covered his mouth and nose with it to ward off the stench. Number eleven, a university student leaned over to him,
"You okay man?"
"Of course I am. I'm covered in vomit. Couldn't be better." He mumbled through his scarf.
"Really?"
"I believe I was just using sarcasm." Sherlock clarified, annoyed. Maybe he should leave the sarcasm to John.
"Right." Sherlock decided he had better go try to clean himself off when Judge Simon came back in, looking almost as mad as when Sherlock was attempting to be a 'good' witness.
"The Court is adjourned and jury honorably dismissed for the day. The case will be re-opened at 11am tomorrow. Thank you all." He growled, fixing Sherlock with a glare, as if it was his fault he was covered in vomit. Everyone stood up as Judge Simon left the room, then began to leave. Furtive glances and wipers were obviously directed at him. Sherlock stood up as well, intending to use the washroom, then stopped in surprise. The defendant, Timothy was leaving with his lawyer. He didn't have a limp.
An aide came up to him looking very embarrassed,
"Sorry about that sir, we have some clothes around here we could lend you."
"People vomit much around here?"
"Well, no, but some of the evidence is pretty graphic stuff." Sherlock snorted in contempt.
"I'll be fine." Brushing the aide aside, he flounced with wounded pride to the bathroom.
It was a short walk to the bathroom, but already Sherlock was beginning to regret his disdainful dismissal of the aide's offer. Really, Old Bailey was a place unto itself. Tasteful oak paneling and dark leather upholstery was the word for this courtroom. Even the door to the bathroom was in the same motif. The man didn't notice him until it was too late.
"Ow!" Said the man as he fell down, neatly folded black robes and white collars tumbling around him even as his glasses fell off their precarious perch on his small nose. Sherlock had kept his feet, using the door for support; he turned around, pleased to have not gotten the vomit anywhere. As he saw the robes, an idea occurred to him.
"I am dreadfully sorry man!" Sherlock cried, he had always been good at acting.
"Let me help you pick those up." He bent down as if to help fold the robes. The man, noticed the mess that covered Sherlock and shook his head wildly.
"Oh, no need sir. I'm perfectly capable." He said, patting around for his glasses. Nearsighted then.
"I insist."
"As do I, continue on your business sir and I shall continue on with mine."
"Very well." Sherlock pretended to be disappointed, he then picked up the glasses fallen not a foot from the man's searching hand and handed them to him.
"Looking for these?"
"Yes, thank you…" The man Sherlock had bumped into blinked as he adjusted to being able to see once more. But Sherlock was gone. The door to the bathroom swung slightly, and the man dismissed the incident. Oblivious to the fact that he was one outfit short.
A few minutes later, a tall man in a lawyer's robe and collar left the washroom. He carried a plastic bag smelling a bit not good and walked with purposeful steps. As always, people saw, but did not observe. They saw the black robe, lawyer, not worthy of further scrutiny. No one cared enough to notice that he did not have a well-fitted wig (not much choice there, he obtained it from the first distracted lawyer he could find), that the hem of the robe only reached mid-way to his calves. No one glanced twice when he reclaimed a grey coat from the visitor's coatroom. The man was quiet pleased with himself, he cheerily left the building by a back door, temporarily oblivious to the fact that outside of Old bailey's own little world, he was quite conspicuous indeed.