-ooo-

Sherlock had been standing very still for the last hour and a half. He had sat with his legs crossed on the concrete slab of the greenhouse's central work table, bellow some of the hanging orchids. These pink orchids in particular had a very long root system that hanged from bellow the basket, and brushed over the curly dark hair of the intruder just bellow whenever he moved a restless inch or another along his thought process. The detective, however, seemed completely oblivious to the scientific approach of mind-sucking plant roots that still confused John. Maybe John should have realized he was starting to get a bit feverish, by his unusual train of thoughts. Maybe he was already attributing it to the stuffy warm atmosphere in the small space, the same that kept his cheeks flustered, and his hands cold.

'Vanda rothchildiana Pink' Sherlock said abruptly, from where he stood without hardly changing his position on the table top, directing his words to his friend. John was startled by his commentary, it was obvious, but the man was a doctor, he didn't need to look back at Sherlock with all that confusion present in his eyes, surely he was able to recognise the name of the species and variety his friend had so precisely pointed out.

'Oh, right, you mean those', John snapped back at last. Or not, though Sherlock. Scientifically trained thought was sometimes missing in the man of action at the other side of the small greenhouse.

'Well, you were staring.'

'I wasn't staring', he lied, 'and my mind wasn't on the flowers to begin with.'

'Orchids', he corrected, with a love for scientific precision.

'Whatever', John bounced back. He didn't even ponder if Sherlock had read an identification plaque or if he knew that by heart because it'd might come up in a case one day.

Sherlock tilted his head. That was more than a disconnection with science. 'How are you doing, John?'

'Same as before', he assured, cryptically. And it was probably a true statement, given that he hadn't specified the first point in time to exert his comparison with. Sherlock frowned.

Ah, yes, the waiting game. John had never particularly excelled in that. To be honest, neither had Sherlock. And maybe that was how he knew what needed to be done to give an impression of continuity and fulfillment to his friend.

'We're leaving, John.'

'What? Why? Another hideout?'

'Something like that.' Broadly speaking, of course. They were going back on the road. John, like he had predicted, jumped to the chance for some action, some shine found its way back into his gaze. Sitting around waiting was common sense glory, but it just failed to fulfill the most insane pair of adventurers in London.

-ooo-

Mary was a bloody mess; or at least that's what it felt like for her. News of her husband had been scarce to none in the last days. Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper and Mrs Hudson all gave her comforting words about the boys, but she could read their masked concern with ease. More than that, all sorts of strange disturbing rumours had been surfacing about John in the media. She knew they weren't true, she knew well the man behind them. But John wouldn't take them lightly. Worst even than all that, John was at the well-intended but dysfunctional metaphorical hands of Sherlock, of all people. The man who hardly could produce a cup of tea without assistance and kept all his socks colour coordinated along his drawer (but deserved the award for the messiest living room in London).

In the last ten minutes Lestrade had changed it all. One phone call had set Mary's nerve more at ease. Now she felt drained, as if she had been running a marathon all along. Like the one she was trying to make right now, across London in order to reach Kew Gardens. She needed to see John, to look at him, to feel him, to be sure he was alright. Curses to Sherlock, right now she couldn't care less if Sherlock was alright, but John was a different matter all together. An obsessive streak in her love life was commanding her decision to rush to a cab and mentally curse its slowly steady pace.

Unfortunately, by the time she'd get there, Sherlock and John were not there anymore.

The greenhouse was empty, hot and damp from too many plants cluttering the space. What was that space? Why had Sherlock brought John there? There was no rhyme nor reason to Sherlock's hideouts, but Mary struggled to make a puzzle out of them. Some sort of map leading her forward to meet John again.

-ooo-

The fast food joint was crowded and full, bursting sounds of conversations melting from table to table, all around them. Anonymity in numbers, as it were, still they'd have to keep moving so to be sure that no one reported their whereabouts to the police.

'I thought you'd never enter a place like this, Sherlock. How are you fighting your urge to deduce everyone in here?'

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. 'I may, or may not, have deduced the totality of the people in here. Skimmed deductions, obviously, with little detail. Enough to satisfy me that the two undercover policemen on the table on the far corner to your right are on a stake out of the suited man with golden cuff links at the window balcony. I don't think they are on to us. For two men who receive payment to observe and report, they seem to have missed out on the opportunity to recognise any other wanted criminal.'

'Good for us, I suppose', John noticed, resigned. 'How are your fries?'

'Incomprehensively soggy for potatoes fried in a computerised temperature controlled media. And yours?'

'Lame, as well.'

'I'm sorry', Sherlock started a new conversation, 'that the long list of chemical ingredients added to the composed foods in this place restricts all together the list of things you could actually order, John.'

'I'm lactose intolerant, at best, I'll survive, surely... Anyone else in here interests you particularly, Sherlock?' he started over, with mild curiosity.

'You know you could deduce people yourself, John', Sherlock pointed out, but in his voice there was no desire to refrain from the topic.

'Yeah, well, I suck at it, and you make a living of it. You just want to have a good laugh at my expense, Sherlock.'

'Certainly not. Go ahead. Schoolgirls on the table to your right.'

John frowned. Was he really going to do that? When had the tables turned and now he was the one left to deduct?

Sherlock waited, approvingly.

'Fine...' He glanced quickly. Schoolgirls in uniform, crushes on the boys band hit of the moment. By the glasses one worn she was very nearsighted. Another was clearly left handed (was that even a deduction since it mattered to no one?). Two of them might be cousins or another form of relatives since they shared the same genetic traces of a maxillary dysfunction, hardly worth mentioning. John said out loud: 'Two cousins, a left handed one and the last one needs a new pair of glasses.'

All the while, Sherlock had been taking the chance to have a good look and deduction on John. He could never do it anymore, since John could always tell when he was being scrutinised and it upset him. Now he had been distracted in an exercise that would have taken Sherlock a mere second. John Watson. When had he become so pale that Sherlock could have traced the blue trail of the veins on the back of his right hand, holding the food mid air? His blue eyes were focused and alert but the sunken dark patches under his gaze suggested a further need to rest and rehydrate. His broad strong shoulders were as stiff as to be expected given the circumstances, and explained the slight brow compression that John was keeping for the last hours, as a reflex of the pain his shoulder wound was giving him.

'Missed much, Sherlock?' John woke him of his thoughts.

'Some', Sherlock admitted, pushing John's water bottle closer to its owner.

'Go on, then.'

'You'd just get upset.'

'Humour me', he insisted.

'Fine. The girl with the glasses is the daughter of divorced parents that seem more caught up in their fights then paying attention to her needs, as you so rightly pointed out, she needs a new prescription for a pair of glasses, but she has an expansive phone that suggests she's a good manipulator of her parents' situation and probably guilt induced them to buy it for her. She'll be fine, she has adjusted, then. The two girls are false twins, and not cousins, you can tell that by the bag packs, an absurd habit from her parents to keep them living identical lives by buying the objects they possess in identical pairs, more than by the physical similarities. If further proof is required, they both have the same chlorine rash on their necks from a home pool that has been badly balanced, so they live together. It could have been a sleep over for one time, but that level of rash suggests repetitive immersion in the chlorine water, which in turn suggests more sisters than a visiting cousin. The left handed girl is a good tennis player, as the bandage wrist impression by her hand suggests, and I'm fairly sure that she has a good opening shot. She probably started playing only this year, though, because she's not that serious into the trainings if she's eating foods like this.'

'Oh.'

'Nice try, though, John. You are growing better by the try.'

'You might not want to patronise me. I shoot better than you.'

Sherlock smirked.

An electronic drowning noise caught their attention, coming from John's pocket, and they crossed gazes. 'I bet you it's a four letter word, Sherlock.'