Holy tea and biscuits. One chapter right after the other.

This will probably be my last update for a week or two, simply because my week-long break from school is nearly finished, and my time will, once again, be very limited. But here is this chapter for you!

I am embarrassed to say, but I cannot, for the life of me, find which reviewers left this prompt. Just know that I love you for leaving it! ;)

"Boring," Sherlock remarked as he threw down the newspaper in his hand in the recycling bin.

"Dull," he said again, throwing another one in the bin.

"Predictable. " There went another.

"Obvious." And another.

John looked up from his phone with an incredibly detectable amount of irritation, his gaze shifted to the enormous pile of papers on the floor, then to the nearly overflowing bin beside his flatmate. He rolled his eyes and looked back at his screen.

"Argh!" Sherlock growled, making sure the sound was perfectly audible to John.

The doctor gave a frustrated sigh and threw his phone down on his lap.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

His flatmate brought his feet up to the seat cushion of the chair and wrapped his arms around his shins.

"I am cursed with perpetual ennui," Sherlock grumbled.

"And what do you expect me to do about it?" John asked. "You're the one who's been moaning like a child over newspapers all afternoon." He picked up one of them. "What are you doing, anyway?"

"Homicides never occur when convenient for me. Their spontaneity, though exciting, has proven to be simultaneously frustrating."

"You know, it's saying shit like that that makes the Yard wonder about your credibility," John warned the man.

The doctor picked up one of the papers from the bin beside Sherlock's chair and examined it.

"What were you doing reading a newspaper printed in 1982?" He turned to his flatmate. "How the hell did you manage to get a newspaper from 1982?"

Sherlock shrugged listlessly.

"Mrs. Hudson is quite fond of storing papers away. Nostalgia, I believe." He scoffed. "I hardly understand it myself."

"What have you been doing for the past hour?" John asked him. "I wouldn't know; I've been trying to tune out your incessant moaning."

Sherlock shot him a disgruntled look.

"My "incessant moaning", as you so delicately put it, is directly linked to my lack of entertainment in the form of a case. London's crime ring has been surprisingly inactive these past few weeks, and has consequently forced me to try to amuse myself with old articles in the paper addressing past crimes; most having gone unsolved by the police." The detective regressed to his distant gaze, his voice lowering to a mere mutter. "The ineptitude of the authorities never fails to astonish me."

John threw the newspaper back into the bin before he began to clean up the others strewn about.

"Alright," he said as he stood with a grunt, a large bundle of newspapers in his arms. "Would it make you feel better if we played a round of Cluedo?"

"A simple game that requires no thought. I solved its so-called "mystery" ages ago."

John went to argue this, but decided against getting involved in yet another impossible argument with his friend.

"Fine." He placed the papers in a neat stack on the desk. "Do you want to watch a movie? Maybe some Alfred Hitchcock?"

"His stories are over-dramatized and unrealistic."

John walked back over to his chair and sat down.

"Sherlock, I can't read your mind. I don't know what you want from me. You obviously aren't going to be on a case anytime soon, so do you want to grab some lunch? Go for a walk maybe? Talk?"

Sherlock lifted his chin up from his knee and raised his eyebrow confusedly.

"Is that what you people do when you're bored? Talk?" He laughed bitterly. "How tedious."

John bit his cheek, trying his hardest not to lash out at his flatmate. He knew the man wasn't necessarily accustomed to human nature; but that didn't make the statement any less infuriating.

"Look, if you're going to insist on being an arsehole all day, I'm not going to sit around and take it."

"Was I being rude?" Sherlock asked acerbically. "I hadn't noticed."

Just then, there came a knock at the door; a godsend to John. He was about to blow a fuse.

"Excuse me?" a man asked as he came through the door. "Is this a bad time?"

John stood up with a set smile plastered on his face.

"Certainly not. Please come in."

The man entered the room with a smile on his face.

"It's great to see you!" he said.

John immediately furrowed his brow in confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh," the man said with an apologetic expression, "I'm deeply sorry. I suppose you wouldn't remember me purely based on looks; it has been over two decades since our days in secondary school." He grinned. "It's me, Percy."

John laughed.

"No… Tadpole Percy?"

The man chuckled.

"The one and only."

John grabbed Percy's hand and furiously shook it.

"How the hell are you, mate? It's been ages!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes angrily at both men before him.

Percy's mile suddenly disappeared, and he placed a hand on John's shoulder.

"Not well, John. Not well."

John's face dropped.

"Christ, what's happening?"

"Something that, from what I've seen on your blog, is within you and your friend's area of expertise."

Now Sherlock was listening.

"Is this Mister Holmes?" Percy asked, looking at the detective.

"Indeed," Sherlock said, standing up to meet the man's height (or, rather, exceed it).

"I am pleased and relieved to meet you, Sir," Percy said. "For my situation is a grave one."

John receded to his chair.

"Have a seat, mate. We're certainly willing to help."

With a small smile of gratitude, Percy sat down in the chair that Sherlock eagerly provided. Excitedly, the detective let his feet drop to the floor, and with a ghost of a smirk, steepled his hands beneath his chin and looked at the man with penetrating eyes.

"John," he said, not breaking his gaze, "Begin."

Tight-lipped, John drew out his notepad and pencil and turned to Percy.

"Okay; go ahead," he nodded at the man.

"Oh, where do I begin?" Percy said tiredly. "Well, let's see… about a month ago, I received a position as a secretary for James Holdhurst, a name I'm sure you're both familiar with, given the millions of pounds associated with it. It is, to say the least, a wonderful job; I have been provided with a steady income and nothing but kind treatment. And all of this is done in exchange for a minimal amount of work from me. For the first three weeks, I was enjoying the hell out of my work. And then, quite out of the blue, Mister Holdhurst came to me with an important task. Last Sunday, as I was preparing to go home, he handed me a manila folder holding a variety of papers, the contents of which I am uncertain of."

""Take this," he told me, "And burn it. Don't breathe a word of its existence to anyone. Don't even look inside out of sheer curiosity. Do away with it immediately.""

"As you can imagine, I was dreadfully curious. Why was he so eager to have the folder burned? I wanted nothing more than to take a look inside. But, being a loyal employee, I agreed to be prompt in taking care of it as soon as I arrived home. He seemed satisfied enough and tipped his hat to me before retiring for the evening. So, I gathered my things and went home."

"Upon my return to my flat, I was greeted jovially by my fiancée, Annie, and her brother, Joseph, who also happens to be my good friend. They asked me to join them for drinks and conversation, although I did have an important task to take care of. But, not wanting to seem suspicious, I agreed. But, I did take a moment to excuse myself and place my satchel with the folder in my desk, and I made sure to lock it. I then joined my fiancée and soon-to-be brother-in-law."

"Now, Joseph and I had recently discussed my new job at Holdhurst's mansion, and he was ecstatic that I had received such an honourable position. That evening, we, along with Annie, talked a bit more about it before moving on to other trivial topics. Now I, as you might deduce, Mister Holmes, am notorious for being a lightweight, as I can only take about three small drinks before I begin to feel the effects of inebriation. It was strange for me to feel so tipsy after only one, but I blamed that on a particularly long week. After a bit more conversation, I kissed Annie, said 'Goodnight' to Joseph who was staying at the flat for a few days, I returned to my room to get done the task which had earlier been assigned to me."

Percy took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief.

"I unlocked the desk and grabbed the folder, but I was disappointed to find that I had left my lighter in the kitchen and promptly called Annie to retrieve it for me. When I didn't receive a response, I assumed she had fallen asleep in her chair again, as I had noticed how tired she'd been when I left. I had no qualms about getting it myself, so that's exactly what I did. When I walked into the sitting room, I noticed that Annie was asleep in her chair, as I had suspected, and that under a pile of blankets lay Joseph. The two of them had had a bit too much, so I knew that they were bound to sleep heavily. I dug around the kitchen drawers for a bit, frustrated when I couldn't find the lighter right away. I began to check the cupboards when suddenly I heard my phone ring. The ringtone was assigned to my friend Jessica, so I decided I could ring her in the morning when I was a bit more coherent. I was satisfied with letting it go to voicemail, but then, someone hung up the phone. Given how long it had been ringing, I doubted Jessica had been the one to do so on the other end, and was alarmed when the only other possibility hit me; someone was in my room. On my way out of the kitchen, I tripped over one of the chairs and fell to the floor, hitting my head on the linoleum and falling unconscious. When I woke up, only about ten minutes had passed by. Frantically, I ran into my room, relieved when nothing seemed out of order; I was sure I had imagined the whole situation. But I was horrified to discover that the folder on my desk was missing. I was in a state of panic and shouted for Annie and for Joseph to "Help! There's been a burglary!" Though Annie remained fast asleep, Joseph managed to wake up, and he stumbled into my room. When I told him the awful news, he was most helpful in searching the place for clues. We checked the windows, but all were locked and remained intact. Besides, they were quite a distance from the ground. The front door was still locked and seemed relatively fine. We checked for footprints, fingerprints; any sort of clue. But we found nothing. Devastated, but at a loss, I decided that the best thing to do would be to sleep. I knew that phoning the police would be a rather bad idea, considering the great amount of trouble I would be in with Mister Holdhurst if they were to tell him what happened. But, after failing to do my own detective work and hiring a horrid private investigator, I knew drastic measures needed to be taken. Long story short, I found John's blog, and, relieved at my own good luck, came here. And now I am asking for your help. Both of your help."

John set his pad and pencil aside and crossed his arms.

"Christ," he exhaled.

Sherlock had closed his eyes as he listened to the story, and kept them closed for a few minutes after the full extent of it had been explained. Both Percy and John waited with bated breath for the detective to speak. When he finally did, he was up and about, putting his coat and scarf on as well as his shoes.

"Percy; you and John stay here," he commanded.

"You don't want me to come with you?" John asked.

"Normally I would, but this time I want you to stay here and keep Percy occupied. I have some errands to run."

And with a swish of his coat, he was out the door.

"Well," John cleared his throat. "Welcome to my life with Sherlock Holmes."

Percy's brow was knitted with concern.

"Are you sure he can solve this?"

John chuckled.

"Trust me, Percy; he knows what he's doing." The doctor got up from his chair to stretch his legs. "Would you like some tea?"

Percy nodded.

"That would be fantastic."

Sherlock returned that evening. By the way he had waltzed through the door, John knew he had a theory; and a good one at that.

He and the detective bode farewell to Percy, recommending that he spend a few nights at a hotel while they cleared things up. Before the young ma left, Sherlock got in one final question:

"Are Annie and Joseph at home?"

Percy shook his head, adamant that they were out with friends for the night, and probably wouldn't be home until very early in the morning.

And then he left.

John turned to Sherlock with a quizzical look.

"That was a weird question," he remarked.

"One with a valuable answer, John. We need to investigate his flat tonight."

"For clues?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I already took care of that." He clasped his hands behind his back. "Percy's fiancée looked as if she were going out while I was there, but I wasn't quite sure for how long. This is most convenient," he said, more to himself than to John.

John turned the detective to look him in the eye.

"Sherlock, are you suggesting that we break into Percy's flat tonight?"

"Well, when you phrase it like that…"

John sighed.

"Why, Sherlock?"

The detective smirked.

"Because I believe I might know where the folder has been hidden."

"In his flat?" John asked, feeling incredibly lost in his friend's logic.

"Yes, in his flat."

"Please explain."

Sherlock rolled his eye, obviously irritated by the fact that only he could understand his own reasoning.

"Didn't it strike you as strange that Joseph was roused so easily from his "deep sleep", when Percy explained just before the fact that Joseph had had far too much to drink?"

"So?"

"So, John, Percy reasoned that due to his heavy drinking, Joseph would have been sleeping heavily; far too heavily to be woken by shouting. Such was the case with Annie, if you recall."

"Okay…?"

"Allow me to bring up another point: Percy said that Joseph was particularly interested in his new position as James Holdhurst's secretary. Then, they proceeded to talk about the matter on the night that the folder went missing."

"That is a bit suspicious."

"Very much so, John. Not to mention the fact that while Joseph was staying with Percy and Annie, the folder went missing."

John shrugged.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean-"

"The fact that Joseph was forced to room with the couple is indicative of financial troubles, is it not?"

"I suppose, but-"

"And whatever was in the folder held something incriminating against Holdhurst, I'm assuming."

"I don't doubt that, but-"

"And blackmail is quite profitable."

John nodded, slightly slack-jawed.

"I… yeah, that makes sense." He brought a hand to his forehead. "But wait; didn't Percy say he saw Joseph asleep?"

Sherlock raised a finger to stop him.

"He said he saw him asleep beneath a pile of blankets. Isn't it possible that in his slightly drunken stupor, all that Percy saw was a pile of blankets?"

"Yeah…"

"My theory is this, John: After he saw that Annie had fallen asleep (mostly due to the sleeping pills he mixed in her drink), Joseph fixed the blankets so they appeared to have a sleeping body beneath them, and he proceeded to hide in the restroom, which I noticed was located in the hall leading to Percy's bedroom. Then, while Percy was in the kitchen (which was hardly anticipated), Joseph took his opportunity and snuck into the bedroom. He was hoping to find something he could use to wring money out of Holdhurst, knowing that Percy was bound to have something. As he was searching the room, Percy's phone went off. In a panic, Joseph declined the call, which turned out to be quite convenient for him. I'm sure you can probably understand the reason why." He tightened his scarf. "While Percy was unconscious, Joseph found the folder, and most likely took a look at the contents. However, he knew that he hadn't much time, given Percy's fear of an intruder. He needed to hide the folder; quickly."

"And where exactly did he hide it?" John asked, intrigued, yet sceptical.

"That's what I intend to find out." Sherlock grabbed John's gloves and tossed them to the doctor."

John looked up at the building in front of him and Sherlock, the task ahead of them daunting and seemingly pointless.

"Sherlock, how the hell are we supposed to get inside?" he asked.

"With the spare key I borrowed."

John narrowed his eyes.

""Borrowed"?"

"'Purloined', 'took'; however you would like to say it."

John sighed.

"Fine. Let's just get this over with." He took out his Browning. "I'll go first, since I'm armed."

Sherlock nodded at him, and they moved into the building, slowly making their way up the flights of stairs until they reached the third floor. Sherlock swiftly handed John the key, and the doctor unlocked the door to the flat.

It was dark inside; not pitch black, but dark enough that it obscured their vision.

"I'll look in Percy's bedroom," Sherlock whispered. "You examine the kitchen."

John quickly shoved his pocketknife into Sherlock's hand, wanting his friend to have some form of protection. He could almost hear the eye-roll the detective was most likely throwing his way. Soon enough, the two of them parted ways.

Slowly, John crept into the small kitchen. The counter was dimly lit by a small lamp on the kitchen table, the shadows it also produced ominous and incredibly dark, only placing emphasis on the total darkness of the flat.

Suddenly, as John turned around to face the opposite room, a figure jumped out of the shadows and threw a cloud of dust at him.

And it burned.

It stung.

John cried out and fell to the floor, muttering a choice few obscenities under his breath.

Whatever had been thrown at him, it wasn't anything good. His eyes were burning and stinging with pain, and every time he shut them, the pain only got worse.

"John!" he heard Sherlock cry out.

John still writhed on the floor, only barely catching the sounds of a scuffle. Then there was a yelp, and a body dropped to the floor beside him.

"John…" Sherlock said, breathlessly.

"Sherlock, I can't see," John groaned.

He felt a sick feeling in his stomach. God, was he blind?

A light abruptly shone above him.

"John, I believe you were attacked with a black egg; a-"

"I know what it is!" John shouted at him. "Jesus fuck!"

Sherlock put a reassuring hand on John's shoulder.

"I was right about Joseph," he said as he further examined John's eyes with panicked movements. "He's the one who attacked you. He also had a knife; nicked me on the hand."

"Great you could join the party," John growled. "How about you gouge your eyes out with a spoon? Then you'll really feel like one of the cool kids."

Sherlock gently took John's chin in his hand, tilting the doctor's head from side to side.

There was far too much blood.

"I… should I call an ambulance?" he asked, sounding genuinely clueless.

"You're the detective! You figure it out," John hissed.

God, he was in so much pain.

John actually didn't mean to be so harsh; he knew that given the situation they had gotten themselves in, calling an ambulance wasn't exactly ideal. But all he could see right now was red (literally), and his face felt as if it was on fire.

Thankfully, he heard Sherlock talking to someone on the phone. And honestly, he didn't give a damn who the hell it was.

John drummed his fingers on the hospital bed, keeping his lips tightly shut.

"One month? That doctor has no clue what he's talking about," Sherlock scoffed.

"First of all, shut up. Second of all, shut up," John said through gritted teeth.

"But-"

"I need more morphine," John breathed, hitting the button beside his bed.

Sherlock nervously chewed on his lip.

"I've already agreed to care for you while your eyes heal."

"I'm fine without help."

The detective crossed his arms.

"I honestly don't see why you're so cross with me."

John sighed and rested his hand on the bedrail.

"This isn't your fault. I know. I'm sorry. I'm just… I'm in a lot of pain right now, and I'm honestly feeling really stupid. I mean, the fact that I was taken down by a bloody egg is humiliating."

Sherlock shrugged.

"There is hardly any reason to be ashamed, John. I've found myself in far more ridiculous situations."

John snorted.

"I don't find that hard to believe."

"John?" the doctor heard Percy from the door.

"Hey, mate."

Percy stepped into the room with the guiltiest of expressions etched onto his face. John could sense the man's guilt. Sure enough, the poor fellow stepped forward:

"John, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

"Percy, it's not. You're fine." John paused. "Well, actually; are you?"

The man nodded eagerly.

"Praise the Lord. Of course, the news about Joseph was upsetting. I mean, blackmail is the lowest method of achieving financial success. Especially with Mister Holdhurst as the victim." He sighed. "And poor Annie is distraught. Her own brother; a criminal! It's been hard to completely wrap our heads around this." He smiled tiredly. "But Mister Holmes thankfully found the folder and promptly burned it for me."

"What was inside?" John asked.

"I didn't bother to look," Sherlock said. "Although I was curious, I wanted nothing more than to get rid of it. It caused enough trouble."

John laughed.

"You're the last person I'd expect to keep your nose out of other peoples' business."

Percy patted John's shoulder.

"For how long did the doctor say you need to keep the bandages on?" he asked.

"One month," John mumbled.

"Oh John…"

"You know, it's fine. Great, really. I've always wanted to not see." John shook his head. "Irritable. Sorry."

"No worries, John. You have full reason to be angry," Percy said.

John felt a pressure in his lap.

"What's this?" he asked, feeling around for it.

"Care package," Percy said. "I know nothing can ever express to you how both sorry and grateful I am. But hopefully you and Sherlock can make use of what I've left you."

John heard the man's phone buzz.

"Damn. I ought to go now. Annie's waiting for me in a cab outside. Her parents have come in from Barcelona because of Joseph's imprisonment, and they're waiting for us at the airport."

"Go on," John told him.

"Get well soon!" Percy said.

And he left the room.

"What did he leave us?" John asked Sherlock. "I can't see shit."

Sherlock took a quick glance at the basket. All of its contents were quite standard for a gift basket.

"Soap, snacks, etcetera, etcetera," he listed without much interest.

"That was nice of him," John remarked.

"Hardly a worthy compensation for the end result of this case."

John sighed and leaned back in bed.

"Where was the folder, anyway?"

"Beneath the floorboards of Percy's bedroom. Joseph had already snatched it before we entered the flat."

John chuckled dryly.

"Of course he did."

"Knock knock!" Lestrade's gruff voice echoed as he rapped his knuckles on the doorframe.

The detective inspector walked into the room and shook his head when he saw John.

"Jesus Christ, mate," he said. "How bad is it?"

John shrugged.

"I only have to spend about a month in this bloody bandages. Then I'll be as right as rain."

"Why is it that you always seem to be the one who gets the short end of the stick?" Lestrade tutted wanly.

John, to the best of his ability, gave the inspector a deadpan look.

"Because my arms aren't long enough to grab more of it."

"I hope dickhead over there is more than willing to help you out."

Sherlock frowned at the inspector.

"You lack an alarming amount of faith in me, Lestrade."

"He's right to," Donovan said from behind Lestrade.

John groaned internally.

"Sargent Donovan; it's been ages," he greeted her, making no effort to cover up his displeasure.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," Donovan said with an equal amount of distaste.

She turned her attention to Sherlock.

"The Freak's looking worse than you are, Doctor. How long's it been since his last fix?" she sneered.

"Donovan…" Lestrade warned her.

"Donovan, do you honestly think that referencing my past drug addiction will remotely affect me?" Sherlock said.

"No. Which only proves that you're a bloody psychopath."

"Sociopath. How many times must I clarify this for you?" Sherlock hissed at her.

"As long as you keep lying to yourself, Freak. And to your boyfriend."

John audibly growled.

"You know, Donovan," he started, his tone already incredibly biting, "I think I've developed my own theory explaining why you're such a raging bitch all the time."

The room went silent. And, though John couldn't see the various expressions on the faces of the other occupants, he could sense the tension. Nevertheless, he continued.

"You resent the fact that, due to sheer boredom with your own life, you even once let Anderson crawl inside of you; let alone twice, maybe three times; because now whenever you look in the mirror, all you can see is a whore staring back at you; and it disgusts you. So now, in order to retain what little dignity you have left, you've decided to stop shagging Anderson and flirting with your boss and have resorted instead to drowning your emotions in decaf coffee and cheap doughnuts from the shop down the street. Am I right or am I wrong?"

The tension in the room was so sweet and satisfying at this point that John could have spread it like jam on his biscuits. So tangy and delicious.

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the flabbergasted expressions on both Lestrade's and Donovan's faces. To see such shock was satisfying to say the least.

"I think, ah… I think we'll come back when you're feeling better…" Lestrade said to John. "Come on, Donovan."

The young lieutenant was so shocked that all she could do was shuffle out of the room. With a pained look, Lestrade followed behind her, shutting the door as they both left.

"You think I said too much?" John asked sarcastically.

Sherlock licked his lips with satisfaction.

"I'm the wrong person to consult on that matter."

"God, she's a bitch, though. It felt good."

"I concur," Sherlock said. "That was certainly amusing."

"John, don't be stubborn."

"Look who's talking."

"Allow me to-"

"I've got it!"

John felt around for the banister of the stairs of 221B, shakily resting his hand upon it when he located it. He lifted his right leg cautiously and placed it on the bottom step. Then he proceeded to climb to the next one and then the next one. He could hear Sherlock slowly trailing behind him, lording over him like a protective mother. But this state that his flatmate was in did prove to be useful when he got a bit too confident and missed a step, causing him to fall backwards, yet safely into the arms of his friend.

"Are you quite finished showing off?" Sherlock asked him.

John tightened his lips in frustration and reluctantly nodded.

"Good."

And, though it took a bit of time, Sherlock had helped him upstairs and into the flat.

John managed to find his own way to his chair, knowing the flat like the back of his hand, only slightly bumping his hip against the side table next to it.

"It is quite close to the dinner hour, John," Sherlock said from the kitchen. "I doubt you want to walk to Angelo's?"

John shook his head.

"I don't really care what we eat tonight. I'm perfectly fine with nothing, if that's what you want."

Sherlock peeked his head into the sitting room.

"I could put the kettle on."

"You know, maybe later. Right now, I just want to sit here and…" John sighed. "Nap, I guess. That's about all I can do right now."

Sherlock walked in and sat down in his own chair.

"Such talk is for the weak-minded and hopeless, John. You're without your sight for a month. Not for a lifetime."

"I know, I know. It's just so goddamned inconvenient. Besides, the amount of work I'm leaving my co-workers with at the clinic…"

"That is not any of your concern, John. What happened was out of your control, and therefore leaves us with no choice but to accept the temporary consequences and carry on with our lives as we always have."

"Right. Fine," John grumbled. "So, you find another case to work on, and I'll sit here in my chair and waste away until I can take off these bandages. Sounds like a plan."

"You won't 'waste away', John. Don't be so dramatic."

"Well what else can I do? I can't update my blog, I can't read the paper or any of my novels, I can't watch telly, I can't go to work right now, and I sure as hell can't work on a case with you."

Sherlock crossed his legs.

"We could… talk."

John was rather bemused by this suggestion.

"I thought talking was tedious."

"Yes, but sitting here and succumbing to boredom is no better."

"And what do you suggest we 'talk' about, Mister Anti-Social?" John asked with a wry smirk.

Sherlock stood and walked over to the desk.

"Perhaps if I read aloud the articles in these papers," he said as he placed a hand on the stack of them, "We could discuss them together?"

"My deduction training wheels?" John snorted.

Sherlock shrugged.

"It's an idea."

"Okay," John laughed. "Let's do it. But if you get smart with me, I'll do to you what I did to Donovan."

"Destroy my self-esteem and send me out the door with my tail between my legs?"

John grinned.

"And whimpering like a dog."