The phone rings. Sherlock startles, looks up in surprise. His hand reaches into his pocket and pulls out the pink monstrosity, all the while staring at Carl Powers' sneakers. "Hello?" he says smoothly. /Don't be excited. Don't sound excited, at the very least./ He knows what will happen. John will sigh and shake his head and say those dreaded four words: "A bit not good." /Don't. Act. Excited./

"H-hello, s-sexy." A woman's voice sobs out into the room on speaker. His heartrate quickens with excitement. A flirt. Insecure, outrageous to cover it up. Textbook.

"What's wrong? Why are you crying?" he commands. He doesn't /really/ care, not enough to mean it, but it'll keep John from looking at him with those disappointed eyes.

"I-I'm not crying, I'm typing, a-and this... stupid bitch is reading it out." Lestrade makes a noise of disgust, his face clearly expressing his opinion of the perpetrator of this crime.

It's all that Sherlock can do to hide his grin. This is a beautiful madcap game starting. He can feel it.