When John had been dressed, he joined Sherlock in their sitting room. A heartier breakfast had been laid to table and John helped himself to it. Sherlock lounged in one of the chairs at the small table, left hand hovering over his teacup and no evidence of food on the plate before him. His attention was on a silver tray of mail to his right. A hearty percentage of said mail had already been flicked to the floor. Matthews stood near the door with his eyes trained studiously away, as if he desperately wanted to pick it up but had already been scolded from doing so once.
John scooped up a few stray letters from the floor after he'd set his plate down and settled himself in his chair.
"Well, you did say once that you had little interest in correspondence, Sherlock, but this is a trifle extreme, is it not?"
"Nonsense, John. Extreme would be setting fire to the salver. Or at least that's what Mycroft deems extreme."
John shot an alarmed glance at Matthews. The servant flicked his eyes over, gave the smallest of smiles, and straightened up again.
"Perhaps I ought to deal with the mail, then, shall I? Then you only have to view those few pieces of the utmost importance."
"Gladly." Sherlock nudged the salver towards John, keeping only one small square of paper for himself. John nodded towards Matthews, who quickly crouched by his side to collect the rest of the letters discarded on the floor. John then tidied the pile and examined each return address before sorting the letters into one of several piles. Notes clearly from Sherlock's family, or which addressed Dr. and Mr. Watson-Holmes, John piled together in a "wedding salutations" stack, while others from addresses and names he did not recognize, or notes addressed to Sherlock in particular were designated into another. A third stack emerged when he recognized the name of Edgers and Sons and he began a "bills" pile.
John took a few bites of his meal before tackling the first pile. Each note was unfolded carefully, read, and set aside for a later reply. John also made a mental note to start a book of addresses for the directions of each of Sherlock's relations. Only two of the letters had been from John's own relation, and no one besides Harry had been in attendance at his wedding.
"Just throw those away, John. If you get into the habit of replying to correspondence, then it shall become expected that you do so. The volume of letters exchanged will increase exponentially."
John agreed just a little bit, if only because he dreaded writing out the same insipid reply to each well-wisher.
"Oh, but your cousin Petrina writes. We should have her for a visit before she leaves London. She's quite engaging."
Sherlock didn't answer; he appeared to be lost in his mind once again. The letter he'd kept was held open by his long fingers; John took a bite of his toast and tried to see who it was from. Lestrade, he guessed by the sprawling initial at the bottom of the page.
"What does Mr. Lestrade write this morning? Some new evidence on the case since last night? Or has he written to inform you of another mysterious letter arriving at Bow Street?" They had left the man less than twelve hours ago. Surely, unlike Sherlock, Lestrade was a man who went home and slept occasionally.
"Hmm? No, not yet. He writes to remind me of an execution this morning, a man named Davies we caught some months ago. His sentence came as quite a relief to Mr. Lestrade. The evidence against him was quite circumstantial until I noticed a new, shiny nail in one of the floorboards. It suggested a bent nail had been recently replaced, so I had the constables tear up the floorboards in his house and dig beneath. If the man had disposed of his bloody clothing and the murder weapon in the Thames and they'd been swept out to sea, we would never have obtained a conviction."
"So he was hanged this morning, then? Did you not wish to attend to see the sentence carried out?"
"Not particularly. It is enough knowing it was done."
"So whom did he murder?"
"Irrelevant. The details of his sentence were related to the cannibalism."
"Oh." John removed the sausage from his plate. After a moment, he laid a napkin over it.
"Lestrade writes that the body will be subjected to dissection this afternoon. The presiding surgeon will be Forrest Oliver. He is not the most entertaining or dramatic of dissectionists, but he does have some interesting theories on the human brain. It is likely he will be curious about what might turn a man to such unnaturalness. After all, Davies was quite plump and hardly ill off enough to starve."
Sherlock returned to thoughtfulness and John returned to a somewhat unappetizing breakfast.
"Did you wish to attend the dissection, then, Sherlock? Or did you have other plans for the afternoon? We ought to be here in the evening in case our resurrection man turns up, but otherwise our plans are flexible."
"It could be useful. Not for the dissection itself, but to view the audience."
They agreed to go and Sherlock mentioned nothing of being banished from the theaters of St. Bartholomew's as he had been from the Royal Society; he was clearly allowed free reign (despite Anderson's objections) over more than just the bowels of the building. John looked forward to Sherlock's likely heckling of the afternoon's lecturer with some juvenile delight. It seemed fair to assume that he wouldn't hold his tongue if he deemed anything the lecturer postulated was untrue; and with as brilliant as Sherlock had proven to be so far, it was probable that the lecturer would stumble on at least one topic.
They spent the morning strolling around London, John's gloved hand curled around Sherlock's elbow as was becoming custom. Sherlock spent much of the time describing the differences between mud splatter from the banks of the Thames and the splash of a puddle of slush forming amongst uneven cobbles. John laughed when he realized Sherlock had delivered a deliberately ridiculous deduction about the mud in Mayfair being of much finer grain than mud elsewhere in London and, of course, imbued with gold shavings from the wealthy inhabitants.
Sherlock smiled back, pleased. He allowed John to examine the splashes on his boots when they sat to luncheon a couple hours later and described the area of the city where each bit of dirt originated.
"It is the smallest detail, John, that often solves a puzzle," Sherlock lectured over their midday meal. "The shininess of a nail head betrayed Davies. By a man's fingernails, his callouses, the cut and mend of his coat, one can decipher his life. I have trained myself to notice these things as much as possible."
John's face glowed at Sherlock, surprising the taller man into an uncomfortable silence. He picked at the spicy food in front of him. John had not objected when, instead of a fine hotel restaurant, Sherlock had led them to a rather dark and smoky room inhabited only by dusky foreigners, though he couldn't help but question whether this was even a restaurant. Sherlock had met this with a bright smile and wink.
"There are small pockets of foreign lands within London, John, if you know where to look."
Sherlock had ordered for both of them when a smiling gentleman stopped by their table. John's mouth had dropped open when Sherlock began speaking in the same nasal tongue he heard all around him. The waiter (if that was what he was) smiled again and bowed three times before backing away.
"My goodness, Sherlock, when did you learn that language?"
"I daresay, I would never starve in Canton, but I am not fluid in all aspects of the language."
John chuckled. "They seem unsurprised to see you here. Do you visit often? I had no idea this part of the city existed."
Sherlock allowed that he'd eaten here several times, and that the food was excellent, if unfamiliar to British palates.
Their food arrived quickly, thin soup and noodles, a few vegetables John was unfamiliar with. It was quite delicious and he made quick work of each dish placed in front of him. Sherlock was too distracted to eat much but he did sip down his portion of the soup and ate a few bits off John's plate to show him the unfamiliar dishes were tasty.
After John's appetite was sated, they rose to meander in the direction of St. Bart's Hospital.