Chapter Two
"Well done, Sherlock."
He didn't reply. He made it a rule not to reply to sarcasm (which always made conversation with Mycroft very difficult).
His arse was cold. They were both sitting on the kerb, exactly where they were turfed out of the cab.
"No idea where we are," John continued. He was using that tone again.
"Phone," Sherlock sighed, holding out his hand.
"You're not calling Molly."
A finger jutted out into Sherlock's face. He rolled his eyes in response – God, what did John take him for?
"Finding out where we are," he explained. It only took three attempts to correctly open the apps map – not bad. "Clerkenwell!" he declared.
"Bollocks," John replied. "No way we can walk from here. Not sure you'll even make it to the corner."
"Mary?" Sherlock asked.
"It's after midnight," John replied. "She'll kill me. And then she'll kill you for letting me get this pissed. I'll be sleeping on the sofa for a week – if I'm lucky."
Sherlock watched the slow process of John getting to his feet. It looked hard, tedious. Suddenly, the prospect of a cold arse didn't seem so bad.
"Get up, Sherlock," John said, sighing.
"What are we…?" his question trailed off.
"Night bus. We've missed the last direct Tube."
It was Sherlock's turn to snort with laughter.
"Neeeew. Not getting the night bus."
"Then not getting home," John told him. He was getting that angry tone.
"I'll call Mycroft," Sherlock offered. It was a terrible idea, he knew that, but it wasn't as though big brother held him in a particularly high regard anyway. "He can send one of his..." – he waved his hand about, feeling for the word – "underlings."
"Thanks, Sherlock, but I'd rather sleep in a skip."
There was a moment of silence, and Sherlock thought he'd better check that John hadn't fallen asleep standing up. Oh – that was an angry face. He looked silly with that face.
Sherlock was wondering whether he should be magnanimous and make an attempt to stand up when flashing blue lights came into view. A police patrol car cruised slowly around the corner and seemed to be coming towards them.
"Oh, fantastic," John groaned. "Great. Just great."
Sherlock didn't feel too good about it either. Just about every officer of the law he'd encountered in life had been a monumental idiot. He'd almost make an exception for Grant, but even he could be a complete dullard.
A window was wound down and a uniform officer leaned out.
"Sherlock Holmes?" the policeman asked.
Sherlock saw John point an accusing finger towards him.
"Got a call from a cabbie who said he'd turfed you out here," the officer continued. "Need a lift?"