Disclaimer: Not mine…though I spent the week hoping. Unfortunately there was no response to any of my calls to BBC, still. So I don't own them and I make no money from my little hobby.
A/N: Right so here's the beginning of this weekend's updates. Hope you all enjoy it. As always let me know what you think.
Angelo's
John kept pace with Sherlock as they strode down the street with some difficulty for all of the lessening of the pain from Mycroft drugging him. Sherlock was mostly silent as he ran through what he knew of the case and John followed his lead for the moment. He looked up at one of the street signs and smirked. He'd been right; they were staking out 22 North Umberland Street.
"Where are we going?" John asked when as they continued down the street he knew would bisect North Umberland.
"North Umberland Street, do keep up, John and I'm not talking about your limp." Sherlock gave him a concerned look. "You're normally much more on the ball."
John just sighed. "I'm tired, I'm hungry and no matter how mild I am now high, my brain isn't working at full capabilities so excuse me for being a bit slower than you.
"You're still faster than a normal human," Sherlock patted his back and then grasped his hand as they crossed a street. "Almost there. 22 North Umberland is only five minutes from Baker Street.
"You don't really think he's stupid enough to come there, do you?"
"No I think he's brilliant enough," Sherlock corrected excitedly. "I love the brilliant ones; they're always so desperate to get caught."
John shook his head fondly at his husband's energetic voice and movements. Sherlock was once again caught up in the puzzle he loved so much and John could do nothing more than hold on, sit back and enjoy the ride. "Why?" He asked aloud hoping to spur Sherlock into a long winded explanation that would help him keep his mind off of his leg which had nearly stopped hurting and his stomach which was growling loudly.
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him. "Applause. Appreciation." It was said in a tone that told John Sherlock thought he was an idiot for asking. Well, it was a silly question. John knew all this already, he had been living with Sherlock and Mycroft for most of his life, after all. "At long last, the spotlight." Sherlock continued. "That's the frailty of genius, John, it needs an audience."
John smirked at Sherlock's words. "Yeah," he said on a light chuckle. "I did know that, Sherlock."
Sherlock ignored the acidic comment and dropped John's hand to spin in a circle, eyes darting everywhere, looking for clues and ideas. "This is his hunting ground. Right here in the heart of the city." He turned another full circle and then continued to walk the way they had been going. "Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but no one saw them go." John made an agreeing noise but he wasn't really paying much attention. His nose had detected a café or a restaurant nearby. "Think!" Sherlock charged him. "Who do we trust even though we don't know them?" Sherlock's voice was impassioned and yet plaintive. "Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?"
"Servants," John offered. "Delivery people, bus drivers, cab drivers, shopkeepers, the homeless, I could go on and on, and you know it. No one sees anything or anyone but what they want to."
Sherlock continued as though John hadn't spoken. "Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"
John just gave him a sardonic look. "I don't know," he said a bit sarcastically knowing Sherlock wouldn't catch on to his mocking, not when his prodigious brain was busy with thoughts of a serial killer. "Who?"
Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his mouth and nose. "Haven't the faintest," John snorted at that pronouncement. Sherlock really had problems listening when he was in the depths of a case. "Hungry?"
"Oh God, yes," John grinned. His stomach growled loudly to prove his point. "If I'm eating then so are you," he ordered as Sherlock pushed open the door to an Italian restaurant that John hadn't ever noticed before.
The waiter at the checkout desk looked up and simply motioned Sherlock and John to a table by the window. "Thank you, Billy," Sherlock said. Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket as he sat down on one side of the booth and John sat across from him. "22 North Umberland Street," he nodded out the window to the building across the street. "Keep your eyes on it."
John gave him a disgruntled look. "Now you tell me that. My back is to the window, Sherlock." John struggled out of his own coat. "He isn't going to just ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad."
"He has killed four people."
"Okay," John didn't really feel like pointing out that he, himself, had killed more than that especially since he wasn't completely certain that he was entirely sane. He had married Sherlock after all.
John situated himself more comfortably on the seat as a tall heavy set man walked up to the table with his hand outstretched towards Sherlock. "Sherlock," he said in a pleasant deep voice. He took Sherlock's hand and shook it vigorously. "Anything on the menu, anything you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date?" He grinned as he passed out the menus. Sherlock smiled back. The man looked uncomfortable for an instant as he eyed John and then he leaned closer to Sherlock. "I thought you were married, Sherlock," he said in a voice that was supposed to be too low for John to hear.
"I'm his husband," John corrected mildly.
Sherlock ignored the comment completely and stared at John. "Do you want to eat?"
"Yes," John nodded. "And so do you." Sherlock made a small sound in the back of his throat but picked up the menu.
John turned his head back to the man when he started speaking again. "This man got me off a murder charge."
Sherlock looked up from the menu and pointed one long finger at the man. "This is Angelo. Angelo, John, my husband." Angelo shook John's hand with the same vigorous attention he'd given Sherlock. "Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, that Angelo was in a completely different part of town house-breaking."
"I remember you writing me about that case," John grinned in recognition.
"He cleared my name," Angelo told him, happy to share his pride in Sherlock with someone else.
"I cleared it a bit," Sherlock didn't look at either of them. Instead he continued watching out the window at the building across the street. "Anything happening opposite?"
Angelo shook his head. "Nothing." He turned back to John. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."
"You did go to prison," Sherlock reminded him.
Angelo ignored him. "I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic." He told John and moved away.
"It's not a date," John called after him. "Is it?" Sherlock shrugged. "Great. I get invalided home from Afghanistan with a great bloody hole in my shoulder and my husband takes me out on dates to crime scenes and stake outs."
Sherlock tossed his menu to the other side of the table. "You may as well eat. We might have a long wait."
"You too," John eyed him harshly. "You haven't eaten since yesterday." Angelo reappeared and placed a lit candle on the table. "Thanks," John nodded to him.
John ordered for both of them over Sherlock's protests. A few moments later Billy brought the food out and John glared until Sherlock ate a few bites. John knew that was the best he was going to get. Sherlock didn't eat while he was working; digestion slowed his thinking.
Sherlock eyes narrowed about halfway through their meal. "Look across the street," he ordered. "Taxi, stopped. Nobody getting in. Nobody getting out. Why a taxi?" He whispered.
John looked over his shoulder. "Oh, that's clever."
"Is it clever? Why is it clever?" Sherlock's question shot out like bullets.
"That's him," John answered a little surprised he'd figured it out first.
Sherlock frowned. "Don't stare," he ordered petulantly as he understood what John had seen.
"What? You're staring." John's voice was bordering on amused.
"We can't both stare." Sherlock grabbed up his coat and hurried to the door. John sighed heavily, grabbed his own coat and followed.
