Sherlock navigated the familiar hallways to the pool from memory. The tang of chlorine tickled his memory as he turned slowly, looking for some clue regarding Jim's newest mystery.
"I'm here, now what do you want?"
No one answered.
"The pool, midnight? Really Jim...this isn't a spy thriller."
He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to face-
A short man with dark blonde hair, in a parka a few sizes too big for him.
"Who are you?"
The man had a determined posture and when he spoke, his voice was calm and level. "I'm John Watson. I'm-"
"A doctor. A soldier too." Sherlock strode closer, curious. "Do you have a message for me?"
"You could say that."
"What did you use the cane for?"
"What?"
"Up until recently you were walking with a cane. Now you aren't and don't appear to need it. Why?"
"Limp. Psychosomatic."
"Hmm." Sherlock took a few more steps, tilting his head. Something about this short, blonde man with his hard eyes and resolute shoulders was...intriguing. "So, what's the message? Jim took all the trouble for this dramatic set-up and then couldn't even be bothered to meet me himself? Typical."
"No, we're waiting for him, actually."
"Oh." Something is odd about the doctor's (soldier's) parka. Sherlock is about to move closer when the door at the far end of the pool swings open.
"This had better be important," Jim says as he draws nearer. "I am in the middle of some rather sensitive work and don't really have time for your adolescent theatrics this week. I mean really, Sherlock. The Pool? Midnight? What are you, a noir detective?"
The doctor soldier (John) laughed abruptly, a sound strangely loud and echoing in the cavernous room. When Jim glared at him the man sobered, but the smile still lingered at the corners of his mouth. "Sorry, I'm sorry...Just...when your friend came in, he said...well he asked almost the same thing."
Huh. So he had. But there was something about that-
"Who are you?" Jim demanded, closing the distance between himself John doctor soldier Watson. "Oh but I recognize you." He tucked his hands in his pockets, assessing the man in the parka as he circled closer in his lazy, slouching walk. "You're the boyfriend, aren't you?" Jim cringed mockingly. "Sorry mate..took her."
If they had both said that...
"So, you're here to what...shoot me? Whine at me? Chivalrously beat me to a pulp? Sherlock, why have you brought-"
The problem with the near identical reactions occurred to both genius minds at once, just as John was letting his coat fall open.
