The following morning, immediately after dropping Rosie off at the daycare center, John Watson finds his path impeded upon by two men dressed in head-to-toe black. Such encounters were never good and had John slept a full wink last night, his battle honed reflexes may have serve him better. He blames this freely on Sherlock of course for leaving in such a state and failing to return back to the flat. To add insult to injury, John doesn't even flinch when one of them pulled something out from their inner breast pocket. The fact that it was an M.O.D. badge doesn't make him any less wary especially when they haul him away like some street thug on a riot.
His attempt to garner any information from his stone-faced abductors failed spectacularly and has John resigned to take consolation in a strong suspicion that this was clearly Mycroft related. After all, there's no such thing as coincidences according to Sherlock. And most likely, since they were unable to find the hat detective himself, the new British Government grabbed the next best thing to lure the man out per usual. That was a rather depressing thought.
From there, John was taken to an obscure War Office building this time around. The duo clips a visitor badge on his lapel without consent then deposits him none too gently outside a set of unlabeled doors. Finally left to his own vices or, as much as the surveillance cameras placed at every corner wall would permit that is, concede defeat. It would seem his lot in life post Afghanistan is to suffer the whims of the Holmes brothers. John shakes his head once then releases a huff in resignation before pulling one of the doors open and into a darken room with a briefing already underway.
Upon receiving a few disapproving looks from the audience lining the U shaped conference table whose attention was stolen from the slides on the projector in front, John ducks his head in apology to no one in particular and quickly searches for any open spot to sit down. Most of those present were professionally dressed and comported themselves with grave demeanors as the speaker drone on about the profile of each person brought up with matching grainy surveillance footage. He would have felt more than a mild case of awkwardness had he not caught one familiar face amongst the sea of strangers. Hiding way in the back wall amongst a few nondescript stragglers, DI Gregory Lestrade looks just as confused being there as John does. His appearance was noticed immediately by the other and the DI returns a relieved grin of his own afore waving John over to an empty seat next to him.
As soon as John plops down, Greg whispers rather loudly, "What the bloody hell is going on? None of the blokes who abducted me would say anything."
This time, along with a few disapproving glares some even scooted their seats further away from the pair. Greg grimaces and makes a concentrated effort to speak as closely to John's left ear as possible. The smell of baked beans and breakfast sausages assaults his nostrils but it wasn't as disturbing as the moist breath against his neck. Inwardly he cringes at both and wants to end the distance as quickly as possible. Thus he declares softly after an uncomfortable throat clear, "Sherlock," and pulls away hoping that singular reference was explanation enough. It was, thankfully.
"Figures," Greg grumbles under his breath and slouches back in his seat. Altogether resign now to get whatever this shenanigan was over with and return to the landlady case. In spite of the consulting detective's help, the DI still had to show due diligence by interviewing all the tenants to rule them out as suspects. Solving the case was a piece of cake, although going through the procedurals in order to present the Crown Prosecutor a slam-dunk case can be quite tedious. He envied Sherlock's solve-and-dash routine sometimes.
Somewhere between the third and fifth profile, both Greg and John took the opportunity to text their work about the delay only to exhibit equal bewilderment when they receive their reply one after the other. John notices Greg's mirrored expression first and snorts. At the sound, Greg raises his head in wonder and was presented with a phone screen to his face.
On it, the text reads, 'Don't bother. Some M.O.D. personnel called and said you're excused for active duty. Didn't know you were serving again. If you need help with Rosie, let me know. –Sarah'.
Greg let out a snort of his own and flashes John his phone. 'Chief said you're on loan for special assignment. So thanks for all the extra paperwork. You owe me. –Donavan.'
"Is she always this salty in the morning?" John whispers quietly after reading the sign-off.
Greg shrugs one shoulder then drawls quietly, "More or less… every day."
He then gestures to the place in general and whispers in a more serious manner, "So what's this all about? Sherlock's working on a case for the M.O.D. now?"
Unsure how much to share, John averts his gaze, folds his arms, and mimics Greg's drawl, "Something like that… more or less."
The responding frown has John quickly adding, "Have you seen him?"
"Who? Sherlock?" said Greg.
John quirks his brow as if to say, who else?
"Naw," the D.I. shakes his head and slouches down on his seat, "after pulling an all-nighter interviewing the tenants, I got nabbed at the coffee cart this morning. Got a free coffee out of it."
Seeing John's confusion, Greg leans in as if to share a secret, "Grabbed me right when Robbie handed me a cuppa. Had no time to pay."
Then the D.I. leans back with a wide smirk plastered on his face.
And not an ounce of remorse over it, John thought and shakes his head in good humor before trying his best to pay attention to what he was literally pulled into. The task was easier said than done however. Less than ten minutes in, the doctor finds himself checking his wristwatch for the umpteen time. He half expected Sherlock to burst right in and declare the whole mystery solved or Sherlock be dragged in kicking and screaming.
Neither of those occur unfortunately. Instead, he suffered the countless faces, mostly of Mid-Eastern descent, be plastered on the screen and was highlighted for their few minutes of infamy. John shakes his head. He never quite understood the procedural of group profiling so early on. Having worked with Sherlock throughout the years, the detective never attaches a face unless there was evidence connecting them to the crime in one fashion or other. A quick glance at Greg's disapproving frown confirms their shared view. If Sherlock was here, his friend would have no qualm shouting it was a waste of time. However more minutes of this, John might be desperate enough to employ such a tactic just to be thrown out of his misery.
When the door does burst open, John spits out, "Oh, thank God!" in relief.
Oddly enough, the words came out in a chorus. He turns and shares a shit eating grin with Greg for the interruption. Only it wasn't who they thought it was.
In spite of the dimness of the room, Lady Smallwood stood out as a beacon with her white suit-skirt combo and nigh a hair out of place from her chignon. She waltzes right in with a small entourage trailing behind her as she stood front and center. The projector blearing a screenshot of the aftermath of a terrorist attack onto her clothing like so much graffiti. She flinches from the harsh lighting in distaste.
When someone finally turned on the lights, both Greg and John bristles in unison upon recognizing the men-in-black duo. John didn't know what to make of the tall, slouching fellow wearing a dark track suit with his hood up and hands tucked in his pockets of all things and quickly skims away from him to find relief in seeing Mycroft's PA, Anthea with a laptop in hand ending the unusual procession.
A loud snort follow by an amused chortle by his neighbor caught John's attention and he turns to Greg for enlightenment. When the D.I. coughs behind his hand and raise a brow pointedly. John returns his attention back to the front and squints his eyes in scrutiny. It took a moment, but the discovery wasn't worth the headache. John should have recognize that stick-up-his-arse stance by now.
Sherlock, that prat, was up to something.
Soon enough, John's slow grin turns feral when the hood drops dramatically to reveal his friend's chilling scowl.