Well, this is particularly.. not good.

Sherlock was leaning across the table, watching and waiting for John to react.

"I need out," John said abruptly, getting up and walking out of the flat.

"Don't forget your coat," Sherlock called out to him with an undertone of amusement.

John bounded back up the stairs, grabbed his coat, and descended down once more. The weather had a harsher bite to it than it had when he'd arrived.

Well, shit. Now what am I supposed to do?

John pulled out his mobile and pulled up a text to Lestrade.

Fancy a pint? Sherlock is unbearable at the moment. JW

He slipped the phone into the pocket of his jeans and stood outside, waiting.

Before he came up with a distraction, his phone went off, vibrating against his leg and causing him to slightly twitch.

Can't. We've got the case, remember? We're swamped on our end. Best of luck to you. Don't kill him quite yet. GL

John groaned.

Could just have a pint with myself, I suppose.

He pulled his wallet out to see how much cash he had on him and was surprised with a piece of cloth.

Quinn McKinley. Could give her a ring. Maybe she's still at the club.

Hi, Quinn. It's John Watson, we met earlier today. I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink? JW

Sure, John. I'm still at the club. Come on by. Am I to do the initials, too? QM

If you want. I forget that not everyone does it. JW

It's fine. On your way, then. I'm at the same table. QM

John walked to the main road and hailed a cab.

Thank God. None of Sherlock's antics for a while.

John's mobile rang from inside his coat.

Oh, he bloody can't know what I'm thinking and when I'm thinking it.

Shall I wait up for you, then? SH

Not necessary. JW

There was no reply after that. Probably for the best.

Time seemed a blur between getting in the cab and pulling up to the club. It was as loud as it had been earlier that day, if not louder. The smell of alcohol and sweat were more potent than it had been. The air was full of it and combined with the thickness of carbon dioxide from the panting attendants.

John made his way through the crowd of drunk dancers and found Quinn, still sitting by herself.

"Hey," John called over the music.

"Hi there."

"Haven't moved, I see."

"Not yet. I was waiting to see if my friend was going home with that guy or not. Jury is still out."

John gave her a smile, which she returned.

"So, what drove you away from home at this time of night?"

"Oh, it's just Sherlock being himself, really. He started another experiment with living people again."

"I see.. On you?"

"Of course not me," John replied, too quickly to be convincing.

Quinn raised her eyebrows. "No, of course not."

The doctor cleared his throat.

"Right," Quinn said, changing the subject. "Earlier you mentioned that you were also shot in the military. Care to share? Sorry if that's straight forward. Never quite grasped the concept of refraining from blurting things out."

"Uhh.. Sure. It's alright," John cleared his throat again. "Well, I was an army doctor - a surgeon, to be more precise - and I was deployed in Afghanistan. I was patching up a wound when our camp was attacked. I was shot in the shoulder, close to my heart. Once the fighting was over, I was saved, but I began suffering from enteric fever. Those together got me invalided and sent back here."

"Wow. That is one hell of a story, Dr. Watson."

"Yes, well, it'd be an easier burden to carry if I had two good arms."

John made an insincere smile. Quinn didn't reciprocate this time, but instead seemed to be studying him.. analyzing him.. deducing him.

"So," John started, hoping that the continuation would make her stop. It didn't. "What happened to your leg? If it's alright to ask."

"No worries, John, it's fine. I was deployed in Iraq. We were patrolling a village, and we had no clue there were land mines around there. No one had sighted anyone planting them, but they were there nonetheless."

Her voice began to shake. "As we were walking, I took a bad step, and all we heard was the click of the pressure plate."

"Jesus," John said, breathily.

"So the rest of the party started freaking out and trying to come up with ideas to save me. They looked for rocks that could be the same weight - if not heavier - than I was. We didn't have our backpacks with us. Wouldn't have mattered, though. This isn't Indiana Jones. If the weight lightened in the slightest way, it would have detonated and hit all of us. I couldn't raise my foot or even slide it off the plate. There really wasn't anything we could do. So, I sent them running, telling them to be careful not to step on another one. And, they ran away. I stood there, thinking of my family and friends and everything I would never see again and the things I would never experience. Then, I was ready. I stepped off, and it blew. I think I passed out from the pain, but I woke up, luckily. Though, I wish it hadn't been at that point. I looked down, and my leg-"

She didn't seem able to finish.

"Was it already gone?"

Quinn shook her head. "No, it was barely attached. I saw everything inside it."

"Oh, God."

"The worst part.. Was I was't even thinking 'Oh, God, I lost my leg.' I was more marveled by the structure of a leg. It's kind of crazy to think about."

"And then they amputated it. Christ, Quinn."

"Thank you for not apologizing about it. Or being freaked out that I wasn't immediately thinking about my nearly-gone leg when I saw it."

"I live with Sherlock Holmes. That isn't the least bit surprising to me anymore. And, it's fine. From experience, I know that saying 'sorry' doesn't help anything. If anything, it almost feels insulting."

"Exactly. Like yes, you're sorry, I'm sorry, everyone is sorry. Does that get my leg back? No."

"Does it make my shoulder heal and get rid of my limp? Not at all."

"You weren't walking with a limp."

"I used to have a limp. Psychosomatic, actually. I guess we have Sherlock to thank for that one."

"Of course. He would have seen right through you. No offense."

"None taken."

"Hell, even I can see through you. In a good way."

"Is there a good way?"

"Possibly. I can deduce nearly as well - if not on par - with Sherlock. Surprisingly easy, actually."

"Can you? So, what can you tell me about myself?"

"Are you sure you want me to?"

"Sherlock does it all the time. I'm hardly fazed by it anymore."

Lie.

Then Quinn's voice took on a quicker, familiar, pace - a deduction's pace.

"I can tell that Sherlock did something before you texted me. I obviously wouldn't be your first choice of someone to hang out with, considering we just met earlier this day. So, it wouldn't have been Sherlock, and considering you're friends with him, most people wouldn't stay around. Maybe two, six at most. At least one of them would be unreachable at this time. The other is more of an acquaintance and not one you'd take out to a club - or out at all, for that matter. So, who would stay friends with you, even though you're with Sherlock Holmes? Policeman?"

John couldn't even answer her. His mouth was slightly gaped with shock, where it remained while Quinn gave a smile and a quick nod.

"I'll take that as a yes. So, the policeman was too busy, no surprise there. But, what was it that Sherlock did to drive you out of the house? When I saw you two leaving earlier, he was carrying a package. Maybe he started with the drugs again. No, that can't be it. If he'd started that up, you wouldn't have left his side no matter how angry you got at him. I don't think he'd come to a club to get cigarettes. Judging by the rosy colour rising in your cheeks, I'm going to assume it's something you don't want me to say. Would you like me to stop?"

"Probably for the best. If you could tell what was in the package, I'd seem incredibly stupid. Though, I found it out a while before I asked about it."

"That embarrassing, huh?"

"Bizarre, actually. I don't even know what to think about it, to be honest. It's just.. Why that? I mean, what could possibly make him think that that was an appropriate thing to give me as a gift? Christ."

"What was it?" Quinn asked, though the tone in her voice suggested she may have already figured it out.

"Let's not talk about it, shall we?"

"Of course. I'm sorry. You only just met me. It'd be weird."

"Yeah.. So, have you any information about Sherlock from his Uni years?"

"Besides most people hated him because of his brain and his mouth? Yes. Though, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want me to share those ones."

"I won't even let him know."

"Well, he had this time where he was with a different person a lot of the time. By 'with', I mean he was having sex with quite a few different people."

John felt a lump in his throat. "Sherlock was having sex? I thought he was asexual."

"Well, I don't know him that well, John. But, speaking as an asexual, I can tell you that even though I have no desire to have sex with someone, I still can. I do it for manipulation - then again, I'm a psychopath. Or to distract myself from immense boredom. Or - and it happens very, very rarely - I do it from wanting to. Surprisingly, an asexual CAN want to have sex. Actual sex, not manipulative sex. It just takes a special person that makes them want to. Love, I suppose it'd be called. But, even then, that isn't always the case with every asexual."

"And, did Sherlock love any of them?" John asked, trying his damnedest to keep a straight face.

"I'd guess not. He never seemed to bothered that he was no longer with them."

"Oh, good."

"Good?" Quinn asked, amusement lacing her words. "Why would that be good?"

"I-"

What do you want me to say? 'Because I want him to only love me, but he's a sociopath and probably never will?'

"I just don't enjoy the idea of him being played by some arrogant arse."

Quinn smiled. "Of course, John."

The doctor felt a vibration from his pocket.

Oh, great, he thought as he fished the mobile out of his jeans.

How long do you plan on staying out tonight, John? SH

"Speaking of arrogant arses.. It's a text from Sherlock."

"Oh? Wanting you back home?"

"I guess. I should be on my way, though. I've been here for.. Wow. Two hours," John stated, glancing at the time on his phone.

"Ah, you should. Can't leave a bored sociopath alone without a doctor, can you?"

John laughed. "No, I guess you can't."

"I'll see you around, John," Quinn said, extending her hand out.

"'Til next time, McKinley," John replied, shaking her hand.

The phone went off again.

Please come home, John. SH

John sighed. He smiled at Quinn and took his leave.

This had better be good, Sherlock.