Lugging the garbage out the next evening was no parade, but at least Sherlock helped with that. It turned out that some of the solutions-whatever they were-could be reused, and it was just a matter of obtaining more from the lab at St. Bartholomew's. Saturday morning, Sherlock did just that, and called John along to help carry a dozen jars of clear fluid and three five-kilogram bags filled with either blue, pink, or white crystals back to the flat. When asked, Sherlock dismissed the experiment as having to do with "the study of temperature change during recrystalization in supersaturated solutions." Something to do with a minor case Lestrade was having him work on out of pity for lack of anything more interesting. Scotland Yard had been quite distant as of late, with very little in the way of major crimes to be solved. The consulting detective had not been consulted on anything truly worthy of his intellect for weeks. Even Mr. Moriarty seemed to be too busy to be bothered with making a public appearance. Needless to say, Sherlock was going slightly mad with boredom.
The cab pulled up to 221B and Sherlock and John gathered up straining plastic bags, paid the cabbie, and got out. After an awkward neither-of-us-has-a-free-hand shuffle to get the door open, they made their way upstairs and Sherlock directed John to arrange the jars in a cluster on the counter and unscrew the lids. Apparently he was going to recreate the experiment right then and there. John didn't mind. It would keep Sherlock's hands busy for a few minutes at least.
He disappeared into the parlor to watch some television and leave the man to his meticulous work. He was still flipping through channels when Mrs. Hudson came up and knocked lightly on their open door and leaned in. John turned to look at her and she smiled in greeting.
"Hello John. The plumber's here to inspect the pipes in 221C, so if you hear banging downstairs, don't be too alarmed."
John nodded at her. "Thanks-wait, on a Saturday?"
"Yes, I thought that funny, too. He said all the plumbers have been very busy all week so they've extended their hours to cover all the problems with pipes that have been happening. It seems that all of London's been having pipe problems with the sudden cold snap that came through, biggest they've ever seen!"
"Ah." John nodded. Mrs. Hudson hovered for a moment, obviously wanting to converse more about the subject, but John just smiled somewhat awkwardly at her and thanked her and turned back to channel flipping. She gave a soft sigh unheard over the television and retreated back down the stairs. None of her tenants ever wanted to talk. What was so difficult about a light bit of conversation?
At around half past noon Sherlock was still dominating the kitchen, heating jars and dissolving minute amounts of colored crystals in fluids, so John went out for lunch to a cafe alone. He could have invited Sarah, but she'd had a rough Friday night and he was getting the idea that Sherlock's constant irritation was rubbing off on him and consequently straining his relationship with her. Besides, he'd escaped to her house one too many times lately and she'd made it pretty clear that he needed to stop complaining about the flat. Giving her some space right now was probably best, especially since her place also had some plumbing issues.
Sherlock joined him in the cafe about fifteen minutes later. John didn't bother asking how he knew which one to go to. Apparently the consulting detective had finished mixing whatever he was dissolving and the solutions were cooling, so he had time to kill once again. He actually ordered food, a clear sign that he was utterly disinterested in whatever Lestrade had him working on. The two of them ate quietly and made casual remarks about the pipes and the flat and the lack of excitement lately. Sherlock felt that something was wrong. It was just too quiet. Scotland Yard had nothing, none of his contacts had anything...It was as if a blanket was over the city. A blanket of oppressive peace. Boring.
They walked back to the flat together in perhaps even lower spirits than when John had set out alone, but Sherlock stopped John just inside the door, motioning for him to be silent. The doctor looked up at him curiously, but froze when he heard something break and a man's voice quietly saying "Oops."
Sherlock's long legs got him up the stairs first but John was right on his heels. The movement was coming from the kitchen. Sherlock tossed off his scarf and coat and vaulted a stack of books on the ground to protect his precious experiments. By the time John had navigated the front room Sherlock was already causing quite a commotion, chasing a stranger in a tweed jacket and a pink dress shirt around the kitchen table, shouting at him to get away from anything he was escaping toward at any given moment. The stranger shouted back in a loud, polite, but ineffectual tone to please calm down and that everything was under control, knocking things over in the process with slightly wild gestures and just creating a general mess. Sherlock was having none of it. John disappeared into his room to retrieve the perfect way to halt the chaos. Returning to the kitchen and timing his interruption carefully, he stepped in front of the intruder just as he rounded the table again and leveled a revolver with his forehead.
The man stopped dead and Sherlock stopped behind him to cut off his exit. The man stared cross-eyed at the barrel of the gun, smiled hesitantly, looked back at Sherlock who glared sharply at him, smiled back at the gun, and held up his hands nervously, flexing his fingers a few times in a fidgety but not particularly frightened manner. There was something strange in his right hand. John lowered the gun to his chest, his expression serious. The man looked from the gun up to John and still kept that nervous smile.
"H...Hello," he said with an apprehensive cheer, obviously intended to disarm but not really working. "I'm the plumber."
John narrowed his eyes and tightened his finger on the trigger. He didn't need Sherlock's disbelieving scoff behind him to know that was a lie. He didn't look anything like a plumber. He had no uniform to say the very least. Just that jacket, the dress shirt, and now that he was facing John with his hands up the man could see that he wore also a red paisley bowtie and matching red suspenders. Hardly a plumber's outfit. John also got a good look at what he was holding, although he didn't recognize it as anything he'd seen before. It looked like some kind of high-tech flashlight with an exposed green LED on one end.
"Why don't you take a seat in the living room and tell us exactly what's going on here," he suggested in a deadly, militaristic calm. He started to back away, still holding the gun out, and indicated for the intruder to follow. With Sherlock taking up the rear to keep his exit barred, the trio marched back into the front room and sat him down in a chair. Sherlock retrieved his own gun from the mantle above the fireplace and John lowered his and flipped the safety back on. He'd leave the interviewing to Sherlock, who was undoubtedly better at these things.
"I'll phone the police," he said, heading back to his room to replace the revolver.
"No!" Sherlock called after him. He turned curiously. Sherlock shook his head. "Not yet..."
John understood immediately with a disapproving sigh. Of course. Sherlock was bored. Someone had just broken into their flat, or perhaps decieved Mrs. Hudson and been let in under the guise of fixing the plumbing. Sherlock wanted to figure out why. A puzzle was a puzzle to him, it didn't matter how close to home it hit. John picked up Sherlock's discarded outerwear and began to hang it up.
Sherlock turned back to their unexpected guest, and gestured casually with the gun.
"Now...Tell me what you think you're doing here."
The stranger seemed entirely unperturbed by the weapon. In fact, he seemed almost tiredly amused.
"You humans and your guns," he muttered to himself, tucking the foreign object he'd been carrying back inside his jacket.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and even John frowned at that one. Humans?