And in a flash, Sherlock was gone. Well, not gone, exactly, but down a dark alley yelling "PINK!" which amounted to the same thing. John wasn't sure exactly how his evening had taken such an odd turn, nor was he sure of where he was at the moment.

"Brixton," replied Sgt. Donovan, holding up the crime scene tape and suggesting that a taxi might be found out at the main road. "You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm… Just met him."

Sally began hypothesizing about the reasons Sherlock Holmes might one day become "the one that put the body there," but after a full day of patronizing hypochondriacs, John simply did not have the patience for it. He thought he caught the end of one last snarky comment as he turned heel and limped toward the lights at the end of the road, barely registering the sound of a ringing pay phone to his right.

Or the ringing of a take-away lobby phone on his left. Hm. He was wandering toward home (he hoped), determined to lessen the cab fare, when he was stopped by the ringing of yet another pay phone in the booth to his right. Could be a coincidence, but the universe is rarely so lazy…

"Hello?"

"Dr. Watson."

"You don't seem very afraid," said the man with the umbrella.

"You don't seem very frightening," John replied, surprised at his urge to kick that crutch out from under his abductor.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"Just met him last week."

"And since then you've moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes together?"

"Yes," John answered calmly. "Perhaps you should expect a happy announcement by the end of the week. Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing you're not friends?"

"I'm the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having: an enemy. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his archenemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"And now I see where he gets that from," John shot back, enjoying the look on his opponent's face at being unmasked.

A sudden beeping in John's pocket echoed off the concrete walls. He opened the text message: Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH

And if inconvenient? JW

Come anyway. SH

The man with the umbrella had continued speaking, offering payment for something which sounded halfway between spying and tattling on his flatmate. "I worry about him. Constantly."

"Well you are quite the Big Brother, aren't you." John's raised eyebrow underscored his emphasis, which was clearly not lost on its target. "I suppose your concern was evident in your payment of his medical expenses, not to mention those suits… The pair of you. Imagine the Christmas dinners," he furrowed his brow and looked into the distance as if trying to picture the scene.

"Do you accept?" Mycroft huffed.

"No."

"You're very loyal, very quickly." He sounded suspicious, but of what, exactly, it was hard to say.

John simply shrugged and turned back to the car that had delivered him to this ridiculous rendezvous. The beep sounded in his pocket again: could be dangerous. SH. John smirked.

"221B Baker Street. But I need to make a stop first."

Not now. JW

Why, what've you got on that's so important?

Nothing. Just, not now. JW

John, what is going on with you lately?

First you're blogging about some hot patient

Don't ever recall saying "hot." JW

Whatever. And then you've moved IN with him after knowing him what? A week?

Harry. Please. I'll call you tomorrow. JW

And now you don't have five minutes to talk to me about MY DIVORCE? Why? Because of this… person?!

You know, John, if you did have something going on with him…

I'm not gay, Harry. JW

I know I know, but if you WERE attracted to men

I'm not attracted to men. JW

Fine. FINE. I still don't see why we can't just have a chat tonight.

You only use caps when you've been drinking. I. Will. Call. You. Tomorrow. JW

Why do you keep signing JW on your texts? Is that some new fad thing?

Goodnight, Harry.

Shaking his head wearily, John replaced his mobile in his pocket and reached for the door handle. A light tug at his coat sleeve made him pause.

"Do you get any free time, John?" Anthea asked, feigning disinterest in her own question.

"Dr. Watson. And something tells me my free time is no longer my own." He opened the door, avoiding a puddle on the pavement as he stepped out of the car. Turning, he saw that Anthea was still leaning toward him expectantly. "Bye," he answered sarcastically, shutting the door with unnecessary force.

There was a glow in the upstairs window. John steeled himself. He had no idea what was about to happen to him, but he knew it wouldn't be the nothing to which he had grown accustomed. As he raised his fist to knock, he felt the weight of keys in his jacket. Right. This is home now. Baker Street. Murders. Sherlock Holmes.