The next day, John was out walking. He'd started limping again. Only slightly, but enough to notice, and, John decided, definitely psychosomatic. It drove him insane. Why, after all this time, do I start limping again? Damn leg.
He looked up. He thought he saw a tall man in a gray overcoat, collar turned up, just like Sherlock used to wear it. He was handing something to a girl sitting on the corner.
Could it… He thought. Then he dismissed the thought as soon as he saw the stranger wearing the deerstalker cap. Sherlock hates that hat. Hated. He corrected himself. He hated that hat. If he had the chance, he'd erase that hat from history.
"Do you have any change sir?" The girl asked as John passed by her. John looked at her. Homeless, obviously. Probably harder for them now, with the economy, and without Sherlock helping out here and there, asking them for help on cases and such. John pulled out a ten pound note and gave it to her. But as the money changed hands, the girl slipped a note into John hand. He started to ask what it was, but the girl shook her head ever so slightly.
John nodded back with a puzzled frown and took the note. Apparently, this was a private matter. He walked on a little bit further without looking at it. Finally curiosity got the better of his and stopped to read the note.
St. Bartholomew hospital, in the morgue. Twenty minutes. Be there, or be bored.
He looked back to the girl who gave him the note, but she was gone.
Right. He thought. St. Barts, twenty minutes. He walked to the nearest busy road and tried to hail a cab. One pulled up in front of him and he got in. "St. Bartholomew Hospital, please. I need to be there in twenty minutes." He said.
The cabbie looked in the rearview mirror. "Everything alright, sir?" He said in a cockney accent.
John nodded. "I'm fine, I'm just… meeting someone there. I think."
The cabbie pulled away from the curb and John sunk into thought, trying to figure out who would want him to meet him at St. Barts, of all places, and use the homeless network to tell him, of all things.
"Are you Dr. Watson?" The cabbie asked.
John was startled. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" He was, by nature, a little suspicious, and his mind flashed back to the events in 'A Study in Pink'.
"I said, are you Dr. Watson, that famous blogger?" The cabbie asked again.
"Why?" John workied his phone out of his pocket, poised to dial Lestrade.
"I follow your blog, Doctor. Right fascinating stuff, those mysteries are." The cabbie said.
John relaxed a bit. "It's always nice to meet a fan, I suppose." He could see the cabbie smile just a bit.
"I never said that I was a fan, Dr. Watson. I only said that I follow your blog. But it's been a bit slow of late, Dr. Watson." He commented.
John put his mobile back in his pocket. "Yes, well, that's what happens when the man you write the blog about dies."
The cabbie shook his head. "Couldn't you 'ave helped the police on other cases, after Mister Holmes died?"
John smiled and said, "I didn't have the mind for it like Sherlock did. And the police don't go to amateurs for help."
"I wouldn't say that, Doctor. You'd be a dab hand at writing mysteries, anyhow." The cabbie picked up a book off the passenger seat and handed it back to John. "I'm a bit of a writer m'self. I am a bit partial to psychology, and you get to know a lot about people just by driving them around."
John took it and read the title out loud. "My Life as a Cab Driver: a Shocking Exposé on the 'Secrets' of London Town and its Peoples." He handed it back. "Sounds fascinating."
The cabbie waved the book back towards John. "You keep that, Dr. Watson. It's the least I can do. You look like the type to enjoy a bit of reading, anyways, Dr. Watson."
"Thank you..." He looked at the book for the man's name. "Hamish Adler."
"Like I said, Dr. Watson. It's the least I can do." He pulled up to the curb outside of St. Barts Hospital. "We're here, Dr. Watson."
John paid the fare and said, "Keep the change. For the book." John climbed out of the cab.
"Thank you, Doctor. Good luck on your case!" The cabbie said.
John was confused. "Why do you think I'm here on a case?"
"Well, why else would you be here, Dr. Watson?" The cabbie pulled away without waiting for an answer.
John watched the cab disappear into traffic, and looked at his watch. He hurried into the hospital, book in hand, and limped down to the morgue.
Fair point, though. He thought. Why would I be told to come if it wasn't for a case?
.~*~. A/N .~*~.
If anyone can figure out what part of this chapter is both a clue, and a reference a specific line in the show, you get a hedgehog shaped cookie!