When the car pulls up alongside the curb on Baker Street Sherlock is already there waiting, ready to pounce before John even gets a chance to open the car door. He yanks it open and practically drags John from the car, failing to relinquish his grip on his wrist even as John finds his feet and they're striding purposefully down the street.
"Yes, I've got it, thank you," John says snippily, reclaiming possession of his wrist. He's more than a little hacked off at having just traveled across half of London, adrenaline singing in his veins, only to arrive and find a distinct lack of danger and even less of a ready explanation. "So? What is it? Where are we going?"
"For a walk," Sherlock says crisply, twisting around briefly to glare suspiciously at the black car left in their wake.
"You called me here…to take a walk." Don't punch him, don't punch him, it'll look really bad if you punch him…
"Well, obviously the walk has a destination." Sherlock rolls his eyes and lengthens his stride (John finds himself cursing those damn long legs of his and rushing to keep up). "To which we are already late. Of course. You can always count on Mycroft to be long-winded."
"Mycroft-" Oh, the older brother. Of course. Someone named Sherlock wasn't brothers with a Bob or Jerry. "Wait- how did you know about that?"
He makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat. "Please. Mycroft can't keep his nose in his own business for longer than five minutes at a time. It's a wonder he didn't get to you sooner. I take it he offered you money to spy on me?"
John licks his lips and stares stalwartly ahead, his conversation with the elder Holmes replaying in the back of his mind. "Yeah."
He can feel Sherlock's stare burning holes in him. "And?"
"And I said no." He risks a glance sideways and is surprised when Sherlock is the first to look away.
"Shame. We could've split the money," he says, adjusting his coat collar with just a bit too much indifference. "Think it through next time."
"Right," John says and a bit of a smile tugs obstinately at the corners of his mouth, though he isn't entirely sure why. "So, this walk. What's its destination then?"
"It's a, ah, get together of sorts. There's someone there I need to question about the case. Not much father now." A sly grin slips across his features and he's watching John from the corner of his eye again. "Not that your leg will be bothering you much, I suspect."
"What d'you me- Oh." He nearly stops in his tracks when the realization hits him. His cane, where's his cane? And more importantly, why has it taken him this long to realize it's missing? "My cane. I must have left it back at the…at the café…"
"Yes, Mycroft does have his uses, I suppose," Sherlock says, smirk stuck firmly in place. "Psychosomatic, as I suspected. I had a plan, of course, but this was much easier."
"You had a plan to get rid of my limp?"
"Of course," he responds matter-of-factly. "Can't have you limping around forever. You'd never be able to keep up."
That doesn't sound like an apology for leaving him behind at the crime scene nor a promise not to do it again, but John isn't left with much time to dwell on it before they've arrived at their apparent destination.
"Wait," John says, a sudden realization rooting his feet to the cement. "You're taking me to your group therapy? Sherlock, I can't. I'm not- you know-"
Sherlock makes an impatient sound and rolls his eyes, grabbing John by the shoulder and forcibly steering him inside the building. "John, don't be tiresome. You're my guest. Just follow my lead and you'll be fine."
When 'follow my lead' started meaning the same thing as 'sit there and look nice while I drape myself over you', John doesn't know, but that's what Sherlock does for nearly the entirety of the meeting. They manage to claim two folding chairs near the back of the group, though they really are late and there's a degree of awkwardness as their entrance interrupts what appears to be a doe-eyed slip of a wingless man having some sort of emotional breakdown to an audience of his peers. Eventually someone takes the man off to be consoled and others speak in turn, though the details of what they're saying are largely lost on John, as Sherlock has his arm thrown languidly over the back of his chair and every so often his knuckles accidentally brush against John's hopelessly restless wings. Not to mention the fact that more often than not he's leaning over to whisper not-so-sweet nothings into his ear that are really (mostly unflattering) deductions about the poor people seated around them. By meeting's end John has learned that Mrs. Lassiter has recently acquired a large dog and the man in the hideous beige coat had a particularly vicious row with his girlfriend before arriving - possibly because of finances, more likely because he's a womanizer - but nothing more.
"What are you doing?" He hisses as one point, but Sherlock merely shushes him and continues on about the speaking woman's undiagnosed Münchausen syndrome under his breath.
When the meeting ends and the room fills with the scraping of chair legs and small talk, Sherlock promptly disappears. Of course. Left with nothing but a sense of displacement and the rumblings of a neglected stomach, John strays toward the sparse refreshment table set up against one wall. The coffee is cheap and lukewarm, but at least he's sure it isn't poisoned or otherwise drugged - something he can't be certain of for the cup of surely otherwise top-notch tea Mycroft had presented him with earlier.
It doesn't take long for a blonde woman to appear at his side, all kind smiles and wings that don't outwardly appear to have anything wrong with them, but most likely harbor some sort of defect if she's here at all.
"Hi, I'm Savannah," she greets cheerfully, her eyes wide and sincere. She doesn't give him a chance to respond before forging ahead. "I just want to say that it's so great seeing Sherlock's found someone so supportive - I'm sure it just means the world to him, you coming here. He can just be so closed off sometimes, you know? It's good to see him happy."
"Oh, ah, yes…" John says in a daze, thrown off by the woman's rapid-fire way of speaking and how surreal the conversation is in the first place. He's playing the wallflower at a therapy group for the flightless and when an attractive - if talkative - woman notices him, she thinks he's gay. Well, this certainly isn't the direction he expected his day to go in when he woke up that morning.
Luckily Sherlock chooses that moment to reappear and swoop to his rescue. He shakes off the woman with a hollow smile and a flimsy excuse before dragging John off to God knows where next.
Unfortunately, John is rather tired of being dragged off to places unknown tonight. "You know, if you wanted me to be your fake boyfriend, you could've just asked," he snaps. Nevertheless, he follows close behind.
"What? Oh. Necessary. You needed a reason to be here. If they thought you came for you, they'd expect you to talk, but if they think you came for me, they don't. Simple."
"Simple. Right." He's being sarcastic, but Sherlock doesn't appear to notice or care, so he lets it go. "You said we were here to question someone. Who?"
Sherlock rewards him with a smile. Finally he's asked the right question. "If I'm right, the first victim."
Their destination is an impersonal-looking office set off a hallway leading from the main room. The beige walls and cheap desk aren't interesting in the least, but the young man seated against the far wall certainly is, if only because he looks as if he's about to jump out of his skin at the slightest provocation.
"John, this is Carl Powers. I believe he might have information that can help us find the killer. Carl, this is my colleague, John Watson."
Carl Powers is, simply put, a mess. He's young - no older than nineteen, by John's reckoning - and stress has stripped him of everything he might have once had going for him. His chestnut hair is limp and lackluster and dark circles lurk under his fear-bright and nervously shifting eyes. His hands can't even stay still, his fingers tapping a tuneless beat against the metal of the walker that stands sentry by his side like a loyal, but particularly dim, watchdog. He can't have had lost his wings too long ago if he's still using it to cope with his new sense of balance, John decides. After all, for all their hollow bones and feathers, wings were heavy in their own right, and to suddenly be without them is certainly disconcerting in more ways than one.
Sherlock is practically looming over him with eagerness and John wonders how the poor kid is supposed to be able to concentrate with the man breathing down his neck. "Tell us everything about the night you were attacked, Carl," the consulting detective says intently. "Even if it seems inconsequential. We need to know everything."
"I- um- I don't remember much, honestly." Carl shifts uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair, practically squirming under Sherlock's stare. He clears his throat and after a pause launches into his story, as if not trusting himself to hesitate any longer. "I was on my way home from the Deli - where I, uh, where I work, that is. It was a nice night so I decided to walk - fresh air and, ah, all that, you now - and everything was normal. Except- except I took a shortcut, near the pool - I swim- swam- swimmed- um, at a lot, you see, and then I…" He takes a deep gulp of air. "I can't remember anything after that. Before the…the hospital." He pauses and takes a deep breath, a touch of confusion suddenly coloring his features. "Except…eyes. I remember eyes. They were…cold. Like a snake's."
Sherlock looks increasingly unimpressed throughout the story and he's shaking his head by the end of it, annoyed. "Like a snake's?" He repeats in a mutter, a frown tugging on the corners of his mouth. "The killer could have worn costume contacts before the attack. Unlikely, but possible." His frown deepens. "Unless you were being poetic? Even more unhelpful, if that was possible-"
"Sherlock," John warns softly, but he is, for all intents and purposes, ignored.
"If anything the killer's told us more than you have. You're different from the other victims. He didn't kill you. Why? He easily could have. You were helpless - drugged, most likely - and he certainly has the capability. You're an outlier. You're not part of the pattern. You," Sherlock says as he leans in, "were personal."
"Sherlock!"
That startles him to his senses and he straightens up, appearing to notice for the first time that Carl is trembling uncontrollably in his seat, his breath coming out in harsh, panicked pants. Sherlock glances at John, and asks in an undertone, "Not good?"
"Bit not good, yeah." There's an awkward pause and John decides it's prudent that perhaps he speak to Carl next. "Carl, is there anyone who might've had a grudge or-"
"No! No one! Now I just- I need to leave now." Carl leaps to his feet too fast and has to grab desperately at his walker as he pitches forward without the familiar weight of his wings to steady him. John makes a move to help him, but is shaken off as Carl forges ahead with surprising purpose, words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush. "I'm- I'm sorry I couldn't help- more."
Sherlock is still frowning long after Carl's wingless back has disappeared out the door. "That was disappointing. I wasn't expecting much, of course - the killer's too good for that - but still."
"Well, I think we might've given him a panic attack."
"He always was a bit jumpy."
There's a beat and, God help him, maybe it's just the sheer absurdity of this gory, topsy-turvy, downright weird day, but John laughs and Sherlock joins him a moment later. He can't remember when exactly he'd decided he was moving into 221B Baker Street, but he doesn't question it either.