I'm sorry it's taken so long to update – life got in the way and the boys were being a tad recalcitrant – when are they ever anything else? If you like please review, if you don't please tell me! Thank you to everyone who has taken the time thus far to read and review – it means a lot!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – that privilege belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss
It was late the next morning before John was finally discharged from the hospital – he was certain Mycroft had a hand in it too, as the doctor – who originally had been adamant that John needed bed rest, peace and quiet – agreed to let him leave provided he did nothing strenuous until the external bruising healed. Mentally crossing his fingers behind his back the sandy haired doctor promised he would do nothing more taxing that sit and sip tea.
Mycroft helpfully sent a car (and Anthea) partly to make sure he got home in safety, partly to reassure the hospital staff. John himself though was less reassured when, on checking his personal belongings, he discovered his phone was missing. Memory was slow in coming back, but he was sure he'd had it with him when he left home yesterday. Frustrated with the loss of both memory and means of communications he sat in the car and fumed silently all the way from Westminster Bridge Road to Baker Street.
Sherlock squinted up from the pile of papers in front of him as John hobbled through the door, leaning heavily on his cane, Anthea following like a mother hen behind him.
"What's wrong?" even with only one fully functioning eye the consulting detective could see that all was not well with his flatmate, and that it had nothing to do with the level of pain climbing the stairs had caused.
John just shook his head and sunk down into his chair. Sherlock looked at Anthea.
"What have you done to him?"
She didn't answer, just looked steadily at him as if at some peculiar new species of talking monkey.
"Leave it Sherlock, it's not her fault."
He turned and frowned at John.
"What isn't?"
"My phone" John sighed heavily "it's missing."
Looking up from her Blackberry Anthea said "We are arranging for a new one to be brought round to you."
"But…."
"He doesn't need Mycroft's charity – if he needs a new phone we'll make sure…."
"No, that…. No! I don't want a new phone, either from you Sherlock or from Mycroft! Thank you, Anthea. Just…" he shook his head "just, thanks, you know, for the escort home and everything, but I don't need Mycroft to sort the phone thing….."
The brunette smiled her usual vacuous smile and left.
"Your phone…."
"I had it yesterday….."
"I know John, you texted me when you left Kallie."
"Yeah, I remember now..."
"So?" Sherlock frowned. "It's just a phone John."
"No, Sherlock, it's not just a phone! It's…" he took a deep breath, trying to calm the irrational anger he felt. "I'm sorry – it's just….it's the phone Harry gave me."
"I didn't think you were that sentimental about your sister."
"No, neither did I!" a small chuckle escaped him "I'll worry about it later though. Right now I could murder a cuppa!"
Sherlock watched as John limped slowly to the kitchen, wondering how long it would be before he would be fit enough to work on the case.
"I'm fit enough now, Sherlock!" John had read his mind, and was grinning to himself as he imagined the look of shock on the genius's face. He pottered around, filling the kettle, pulling mugs out of the cupboard (and checking that there were clean), soothed by the rhythms of doing normal things.
Tea made, he cautiously picked up both mugs in one hand and made his way back to the living room, carefully placing the mugs on the desk, separating the handles and handing one to Sherlock before picking up his own and shuffling back to his chair.
Taking a sip of the hot strong brew he sighed, closing his eyes and breathing in the homely aroma of the beverage.
"Now you see why I hate hospitals."
John opened one eye at this statement and let it lazily stare at his friend. Sherlock was staring back, also one-eyed. The humour of it wasn't lost on him, but he just continued to look at John.
"They serve appalling tea!"
"Yes…..yes they do." John took another sip. "Been thinking…."
"Careful!"
"Funny Sherlock. Like I said, I've been thinking about this mysterious 'K'." he shifted slightly in his chair trying to get comfortable "We aren't going to find him in the files from the Yard – you have asked Greg to check their database?"
"Of course."
"So tell me, how easy is it for you to 'undelete' information from your infamous 'hard-drive'?"
Sherlock stared into the distance, his brain processing the possibilities. "John, you are brilliant!"
"Hmm, I thought so too."
The comment was ignored as Sherlock put his drink on the table beside him and drew his feet up onto the edge of his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and his lips against his fingertips.
"Think!" he said suddenly – more to himself than to John, "Apart from Katerinochkin we haven't investigated any cases, not even insignificant ones, involving villains whose names begin with K"
"She's out of the picture anyway – and even if she wasn't she always used Russian muscle for the important jobs, not second rate ex-boxers."
"So your other thought – a name that sounds as if it should begin with K" his eyes flicked towards the other man "Any ideas?"
"Just one…."
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It took them four hours. Four painstaking hours of working through Sherlocks magnificent hard-drive and Johns no less magnificent handwritten notes, but they found him. The two men sat frozen, staring at each other, unable to believe the evidence before them.
And it was into this charged atmosphere that Lestrade came bounding like an excited puppy.
"I think I might…" he noticed the expressions on the faces of the two men and his voice faltered. "What? What's happened?"
Sherlock looked away from his flatmate and up at the police officer.
"You've found something?" he asked sharply
"Yeah, I think so," Lestrade looked and sounded dazed by the tension in the room. He sat on the couch, leaning forward, his eyes flicking between the two men. "I was thinking about you and those unimportant cases. Process of elimination really – you've accepted no simple cases from me and let's face it, no case Mycroft would bring you could ever be called unimportant, so I looked further afield."
"Oh for goodness sake, get on with it!"
"Sherlock" Johns voice was gently chiding. Greg smiled his thanks and let out a huffed breath.
"I sent out a national request for information on any cases that you had accepted from other police forces across the UK, you're quite a busy little bee aren't you?"
"No, just easily bored!"
"Anyway, we had some interesting responses – one being from Essex – Tilbury Docks…" he looked expectantly at Sherlock, and was rewarded with a grin.
"We'll make a great investigator of you yet!" the younger man said leaping to his feet and pacing the floor. "John and I had just come to the same conclusion – that rather uninteresting little gang of designer clothing smugglers."
"Yeah, that's the one I found – some bloke called.." he pulled out his notebook "Pierce Akaid, wanted for bringing fake designer goods into the country and passing them off as the genuine article – makes a fortune with it too!"
"But we passed his details and where to find him to both the Essex police and the Port of Tilbury Constabulary" John frowned up at Sherlock "Surely they must have arrested him?"
"Well apparently not" Greg flopped back against the couch in disgust "They took so long deciding how to do it that when they got to his house he'd gone!"
"What about the rest of his gang?"
"Oh they got them, nicked 'em red handed with the latest consignment of Louboutins and Jimmy Choos" he looked at the twin blank looks he was receiving and grinned "Over-the-top expensive designer shoes. Probably made for pennies in some far away sweat shop but sold for hundreds of pounds here."
John smirked "And who gave you a lesson in ladies fashion footwear then?"
"Sally! Turns out she covets a particularly hideous looking pair of purple Louboutins that she saw in a magazine once – just couldn't afford the nearly 700 quid price tag!"
John's jaw dropped, Sherlock just sneered disdainfully and muttered about more money than sense which nearly made the other two men choke on their laughter. He frowned.
"Pot and kettle Sherlock" John laughed, looking pointedly at his friends immaculately tailored clothing. "Have you seen the price tags on your suits and handmade shoes?"
"Yes, but they're handmade – not off the shelf!"
"Snob!"
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It had been a long day for all of them, and unusually John decided to forego dinner and retire to bed as soon as Greg left.
"This isn't going away anytime soon Sherlock; we might as well get a good night's rest"
"You go, I don't need to…"
"Yes, you do. Sherlock you've been beaten up, I'll bet you didn't sleep last night, you didn't eat because there was no one here to make sure you did…"
"You've hardly eaten today" Sherlock stared at him sullenly.
"I still have the lingering after effects of concussion – which includes feeling sick every time I eat. You on the other hand should be able to manage light food despite the bruising," he looked pointedly at his friend "and you need to rest!"
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. John rolled his eyes. He was about to climb the stairs when there was the familiar buzz of a text being received on Sherlocks phone, he paused and watched as the younger man pulled the phone from his pocket and flicked his thumb across the screen. Something about his expression piqued John's interest.
"What is it?"
Sherlock silently handed the phone over.
'Mr Holmes – do you recognise this number?'
John stared first at the words, and then at the sender ID – it had been sent from his phone! Numbly he handed it back.
'Yes – who is this? – SH'
They waited. Within minutes the phone rang. Warily he answered the call, holding the phone in front of him so that John could hear both sides of the conversation.
"Hello?"
"Mr Holmes?" it was a young female voice, a familiar voice, and both men relaxed. "Mr Holmes it's Kallie!"
"Kallie, what are you doing with John's phone?"
There was a sound rather like a weak laugh, then "I thought it was Doctor John's – I've seen that inscription on the back before. Some kid came into the exchange trying to sell it"
"How much did you pay him for it?" John asked
"Oh hi doc," again that light laugh "Nothing – I just told him I knew the owner and that if he didn't hand it over I'd speak to a few of the people the owner had helped. He soon changed his mind about selling – gave it over as willing as you please! So I bought him a cup of tea and a sandwich, just like you always did for me." There was a pause then "Couldn't figure how you'd managed to lose it though – is everything okay?"
"Yeah – wrong side of the bad guys, remember?" John replied wryly.
"Not again!" they could almost hear the rolling eyes. "Do you want me to bring it round?"
John opened his mouth to answer but the look on Sherlock's face made him pause.
"No Kallie, there is the possibility that they're watching the flat – we don't want you getting caught up in this. Can you take it to John-Joseph? We will pick it up from there."
"Will do!" she laughed and said goodbye, hanging up almost immediately.
The two friends stood and looked at each other for a moment, then John ran a hand across his face and into his hair.
"Tomorrow Sherlock, we'll pick it up tomorrow. For now I just need to sleep."
Sherlock nodded and watched as the doctor turned to slowly walk up the stairs. As he moved to return to his chair John's voice floated down the stairs to him.
"And you need to sleep too!"