John H. Watson, MD, was in a very bad mood. Not only had Sherlock run off on him at a crime scene (again), it was raining. John would have taken a cab back to Baker Street, but it was the end of the month and he didn't have any cash.
"Damn you, Sherlock," he muttered to himself with a rueful shake of his head. He would have to walk.
John plunged headlong into the rain, shivering slightly as the drops splattered his face and clothes. It was typical October in London- that is to say, far too cold of him to be walking in the rain.
John was about to give up and go into a café (that took credit) to wait out the rain when an expensive looking black car pulled up next to the curb. John was going to ignore it. Really, the last thing he needed was for Mycroft to decide to kidnap him again. His phone beeped.
Get into the car, Dr. Watson. -MH
John rolled his eyes, but he complied. The leather-seated car was, he admitted, much more comfortable than the rain.
"Right, where're we going this time?" he said to not-Anthea. She shrugged, never looking up from her phone, as in the dark about this as he was himself. The car meandered slowly up the road, took a left two blocks down, and then a right after another five. It pulled up in front of the familiar front of 221b Baker Street. While he was staring at the door open-mouthed, his phone beeped.
Next time, I suggest you bring a brolly. -MH