John held his storybook. Sherlock ducked behind his own. John rolled his eyes. "I suppose I'm getting the door, then," he sighed.
"If you insist," Sherlock said.
John heaved himself to his feet, casually plopping his book by Sherlock. "And I suppose you want me to read that," Sherlock said.
"If you insist," John replied, heading towards the door. He could hear Sherlock muttering about how much he'd have to forget after this case, all these blasted little fictions that were of no use to him outside of this case.
John opened the door to a nervous Mrs. Hudson. "Hello, dear, there's someone here to see Sherlock, but I just wanted to make sure you were expecting him. You know how visitors leave me uneasy after that cab business and that wiring man."
John looked over her shoulder and down the staircase. A teenager stood in the downstairs vestibule, rocking back and forth, heel to toe. He was quite dirty, and had some rather unsanitary-looking piercings. John stuck his head inside the flat.
"Sherlock, there's a young fellow to see you," he said to the detective's back.
Sherlock didn't even turn around. "Teenager? Rather dirty? Unfortunate piercings?"
"Um…yes, actually."
"Which one?"
"What do you mean which one?"
Sherlock turned around in his chair. "I mean, which teenager? Redhead? Glasses?"
John stared at his flatmate for a moment, then looked over the railing again. The boy looked up at him suddenly, peering cautiously through wire-rimmed spectacles.
"Glasses," John said, leaning back into the flat.
"Right, that'd be Barry, send him up straightaway."
John nodded to Mrs. Hudson, who bustled off down the stairs to tell the young man to go ahead up. John walked over to the table that Sherlock was still sitting at.
Sherlock looked up. "I suppose you're wondering who Barry is?"
"Yes, actually. Seems a bit odd that you've made friends with a bunch of teenagers, yeah."
"Baker Street Irregulars. They come in handy from time to time. They know these streets better than anyone else. They work for me from time to time. I sent out a text asking them to hunt around the area that poor woman's corpse was in. I offered ten quid to the first one who find anything interesting."
"Sherlock, you have the strangest ways of doing things."
"I thought that'd be expected at this point."
Barry slouched through the door, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his fraying jeans. "'Ay, Mr. H," he said lazily.
Sherlock jumped to his feet. "What'd you find, Barry?" he asked excitedly.
"I mighta found somefink," he said, eyeing John. "Whozzat?"
"Dr. Watson, my flatmate," Sherlock said impatiently.
"'Ow do I know you've got ma money, mate?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and held out his hand to John. "Ten pounds," he said.
John was taken aback. "Sherlock…"
Sherlock didn't move.
John grimaced and took out his wallet, putting ten pounds in the detective's hand.
Sherlock held up the money to the teenager's face. "You were saying?"
Barry pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket. "Found this by a rubbish bin. Man, I can't be snoopin' 'round no gavers—"
"The police were still there?" Sherlock said, snatching the paper.
"Well, naw, but that tape was there, and…"
Sherlock handed the ten pounds to the kid, who saluted him and darted out of the flat. John closed the door behind him, shaking his head. He turned to see Sherlock staring intently at the paper.
"Well, what is it?" John asked, walking over.
Sherlock held up the now smoothed-out paper. It was an envelope. Addressed to a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.