Right. You all know the drill. I'm a horrible person and posted late so you get two chapters. I'm so sorry.
Lestrade let John make him breakfast and enjoyed looking over the hole in the wall before Sherlock gave him a sharp look. He sighed. "Should have known better than to think I'd get a moment off," he grumbled as he pulled a flash drive from his coat and handed it to her. She pulled John's laptop close with one hand and plugged it in, and John looked at Greg for an explanation. He shrugged.
"All our files on this case, and any that have any sort of connection I could see. It's easier to smuggle them out of NSY on a drive. Contrary to the public's opinion of us, we don't actually have software that can tell when someone downloads our information. Not that you need to let anyone know that," he amended quickly, and John gave a sharp nod.
"Why are you giving it to her, then?" he asked, and Greg shrugged again, looking slightly uncomfortable.
"Because I'm desperate, that's why," he admitted, and Sherlock smiled from her seat. John realized another reason he liked Lestrade - he was humble enough to admit his mistakes. "Plus, she might be able to make some sense of it. Heaven knows I've got nothing." He stared into the fire for a moment before commenting, "And if it really is alphabetical, we might have twenty-three more bodies before it stops, unless he goes on into Russian or some other alphabet. Damn." He scrubbed his face, and John felt a stab of pity; it was obvious the man hadn't gotten much sleep. He almost looked worse than John.
"Greg," he said after a moment, "how much rest have you gotten?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "It doesn't really come with the job. Don't worry about it, mate. I've had worse. Ask Sally about the double murder last Christmas. My wife didn't see me for a month."
"Lestrade," Sherlock said, beckoning imperiously, "have you got a better picture of this portion of the room?"
Lestrade got up with a groan, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. "Yeah, it's in the other folder - no, that one," he pointed, and Sherlock clicked on the mousepad.
Right, then. It was time to get dressed. John got up, put his mug in the sink - which was magically clear, thank the stars for Mrs. Hudson - and went to his room for a quick shower and a change of clothes. When he clambered into his jeans (the same ones as yesterday, they smelled fine, really, he hadn't gotten them that dirty) he felt the card from the night before and fingered it, finally pulling out his phone.
It didn't take long for someone to pick up the phone.
"Hello, Dreamers," a voice said cheerily.
"Ah, yes, right, is this... ah, Margaret Pillington?" John asked, glancing at the name on the card quickly before shoving it back into his pocket.
"You've reached her office, who is this?"
"Ah, I'm Doctor John Watson, I just wanted to check and see if Timothy's doing okay?"
"Hold on just a moment, Doctor," the friendly voice said, and John listened to some of that annoying hold music, clenching and unclenching his fingers, trying to shake out the shaking that was already there.
"Doctor Watson!" a female voice said after a moment. "Sorry, Timothy's at school, though they did call me this morning - thank you so, so much."
"Ah. No problem. What did I do?" John couldn't stop himself from grinning, embarrassed.
"Well, they told me they transferred those two terrible boys to a different program, they're getting counselling - I assumed it was you?" Ms. Pillington sounded confused, now, and John hastened to reassure her.
"Oh, that was all Sherlock's doing," he said quickly. "She actually does work with the police. She just - called in a favour. I just wanted to check if his ribs were okay."
Ms. Pillington sighed sadly. "He's got a couple fist-sized bruises, but he says they're not as sore and seemed excited for school today, after I told him those bullies wouldn't be there. Though honestly, I'm thinking about having him switch schools; how could the teachers not notice something like that? It's an outrage," she said, and sounded rightfully angry.
"If Sherlock's contacts are as good as I think they are, I'm certain that will all be investigated," John reassured her.
"Well, I've got to go, I actually have an appointment - but thank you for calling, Doctor, I truly appreciate it."
"It's no problem at all. Sorry for interrupting your work."
"Oh, no, no, it's fine. Have a good day!"
"You too," John said, and the click of the reciever made him smile. He then called Mycroft, knowing it would bug Sherlock when she found out, and not caring much.
"Now this is actually a surprise, John," Mycroft's voice said over the line, and John wondered if he'd interrupted an incredibly important something-he-didn't-want-to-know-about.
"Right, ah, is this a good time?" he asked, shifting his weight and turning slightly in his little room.
"Just fine, Doctor, I'm actually having lunch. What may I do for you?" Mycroft sounded amused. "Is my sister driving you mad yet?"
"Not quite, actually," John said, grinning slightly, "But I was wondering if you could do a favour for a friend of mine. And hers. Friend of hers."
John could almost hear Mycroft's eyebrows raise. "Another friend? My, she's gotten social."
"Detective Inspector Lestrade hasn't been getting any rest," John said quickly. "Now, I know what you're thinking, but just listen. He's got the most incompetent crew they can give him because they know Sherlock's - well, they know someone's solving the cases, and they figure it doesn't matter much who they give him so long as the cases get settled. He ends up doing all the paperwork himself because Sherlock can't be bothered, and he's the only one smart enough to work with Sherlock. So if you want your sister to keep her - hobby, job, whatever this is - he needs to get some rest, and you can give him that."
"Can I?" Mycroft drawled on the other side of the phone. John clenched his free hand.
"I know you can put enough pressure on the higher-ups to treat their employees right that it'll trickle down," he forced out through his clenched jaw, and heard Mycroft's hum of approval.
"I must say, you've seen the situation much clearer than I expected you would, John. Though you're the first person to come to me about it, Sherlock mostly just gripes about how useless he's been when he hasn't gotten sleep. I'm not saying I'm promising anything," he continued in his best politician manner, "but I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you," John said, meaning it, and Mycroft hummed again, sounding disconcertingly like his sister before the line went dead. He pressed the end call button on his mobile and looked up to see Sherlock standing there, frowning with folded arms.
"You've called Mycroft," she said, eyes narrowed, and John shrugged.
"No good having Lestrade fall out on us, we'd be stuck with Dimmock. It was logical," he said, hoping that would settle the issue. Sherlock's eyes narrowed further and she held out her hand, gesturing for the phone. John sighed and handed it to her, and her hand flew across the keypad for a moment before she put the phone to her ear.
"Yes? Is this Harriet Watson?" John's ears perked up and he gave Sherlock a sharp glance. She wouldn't... "Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes, your brother's flatmate, look, he just wants to apologise for the other day, if you'll let me put him on?"
John could hear his sister's loud voice from across the room, and winced. Sherlock held the phone away from her ear for a moment, then put it back. "Of course," she nodded. "Here you go," she said quickly, and walked two steps forward, sticking the phone in John's hand and leaving the room. John looked at the phone like it was a grenade with the pin pulled, then cautiously put it to his ear.
"Hi, Harry," he winced, and sure enough, it was like a dam breaking loose.
"John Watson! Are you all right? Because seriously last time I saw you was far from alright and if you're going to try and feed me that bull -"
"What's the point of asking then?" John questioned, throwing a hand in the air. He was already exasperated, and Harry hadn't even started.
"Because I'm worried about you, you great pillock, and what was with that woman anyway? You can't say you honestly live with her." Harry's tone was accusing, and John didn't like it.
"She's my flatmate, yes, Harry, and I happen to like her, thanks. We get on well," John said awkwardly.
"Yes, I can see that," Harry snorted. "And who was the other fellow? A boyfriend? I thought you said you didn't have one. Please don't tell me it was your boyfriend and that was just you two getting kinky in there."
"What? No, I - no," John said firmly. "He's with the police, he's a -"
"The POLICE?!" Harry shrieked before he could finished. "John Watson if you get thrown in jail for strangling a policeman I swear on my incredibly attractive chest, I will not bail you out."
John winced. Harry always had an... um... strange way of putting things. "He's fine, Harry, he's a friend, I was going to say, if you'd let me finish. Look," he sighed, "let's do it like last time, yeah? We'll meet at the coffee shop, my treat this time."
"You're offering to buy me coffee? Oh, this is bad," Harry moaned, and John sighed again, rubbing his forehead.
"No, I'm just trying to make sure my sibling doesn't jump to conclusions and try to have me committed," he said. To his surprise, he heard Harry chuckle on the other side of the phone.
"Isn't that my line?" she teased, and John groaned.
"Oh, let's not," he said tiredly, but Harry just giggled.
"I'll see you in thirty? I'm the other side of London, it'll take me a bit."
"Sure," John said, groaning inwardly, but at least Sherlock couldn't force him to look at pictures of her crime scene all day. "I'll see you there."
"Brilliant! Bye, John!" Harry said, and hung up. John hit the end call button with his thumb and turned toward the door. Sherlock was going to pay for this.