Chapter 4 - The Bizarre Client

["I'll take the case."]

John's head spun from the stranger to his flatmate. "What's that?"

Lestrade looked borderline relieved. "You will?"

Sherlock turned his sharp gaze on the DI. "You knew I would the minute he opened his mouth."

"Actually, you told me once you don't do 'lost and found', so I wasn't exactly holding my breath," Lestrade muttered, half to himself.

The young man was giving them a puzzled frown. "You'll - help me?" he hazarded.

"Do you ever wear shoes?" Sherlock demanded, ignoring his confusion.

"Shoes?" the client echoed, sounding surprised. "No. No, we hobbits tend to avoid them at all costs."

The detective was nodding at 'no' and by the time the client reached 'avoid them' he had left the room.

The young man stared after him. "Shall I follow you?" he called.

No answer. He twisted around to look at Lestrade, worry now flickering in the blue eyes as well. "Should I?"

"No," John answered instead, with a fleeting tight smile at his flatmate's lack of manners. "If he's really going to take your case he'll be back."

Instead of looking reassured the client's confusion only seemed to deepen. "What do you mean 'take my case'?" he asked. "I don't have a case with me; surely you can see this."

John felt one of his eyebrows quirk at the odd comment, but was distracted by a somewhat discouraging-sounding groan from Lestrade. The DI was giving the young man a tired look.

"It's a - kind of a saying around here," Lestrade tried to explain. "'Case' is another word for mystery—it does mean a suitcase or carrying case of some sort. Is that what you're thinking of?"

"Yes," the client nodded.

"Okay. Well, here it also means a mystery, or a - a puzzle. When Sherlock says he'll take your case he means that he's going to look into your mystery and try to help you."

"Ah," the little one nodded, appearing to think the words over. "Then earlier when you said that if you didn't help me now you would probably help with my case later—"

"I meant that, yeah, as the police I'd probably be looking into the mystery more officially later, so I may as well help you now," Lestrade hastily cut in.

John blinked. Lestrade was homicide, murder, and he'd told this kid that he might be working on his case? "So," he hastily changed the subject. "I have to ask you, as a potential client." The little bloke turned and gave him a disapproving look for the interruption, but John pressed on, lowering his voice. "Do you want Sherlock's help? Because he can be—" a show-off know-it-all? an arrogant git? an absolute arse? "—difficult to work with."

Lestrade snorted at that understatement.

"Y-es," The little bloke nodded slowly. "Master Lestraad did mention that."

When no more was forthcoming John raised an eyebrow and prompted, "And?"

"I don't understand how he can simply—look at a person and - see all of their secrets," the client returned quietly, looking a little nervous, John noted.

Out of the corner of his eye John saw his flatmate returning, no doubt listening to every bloody word.

"Why don't you ask him; I'm sure he'd love to explain it to you in detail," Lestrade suggested a little bitterly.

"He observes clues on a person," John jumped in, (not wishing to scare this potential client off too quickly) "things in their mannerisms, their dress, their body, even how they speak— and uses them to make deductions about that person's life.

The client rubbed at his forehead a little as if he had a headache. "What do you mean by clews?" he sighed.

Lestrade sighed also. "Have you got any ideas?" he asked tiredly.

"Back home a clew is a ball of thread," the young man retorted sharply.

John grimaced. "Okay...well, here it's a..a hint to the - puzzle. He observes little hints on a person and uses those clues to tell him about their life."

The little one frowned hard at this. "...As if the clews were weaving together a tapestry which makes the answer?" he finally ventured.

"Yes! Yes, exactly!" Lestrade exclaimed, seeming a little more excited at the word picture than John would have expected.

Sherlock, meanwhile, returned to the living room and plonked his lean frame down on the floor before the young man. "Give me your foot."

The client's head whipped toward him in alarm. "Why?"

"If you've been walking everywhere there's dust all over your foot, giving me a sample of where you've been." As the client pondered this rapid explanation Sherlock impatiently held out a demanding hand.

"Very well." The young man nervously held out his left foot. "Just don't cut it, please," he added more quietly as Sherlock seized it and began combing through the thick hair, collecting any particles that fell out (and an occasional hair or two) in a small plastic bag.

The room was silent for a moment or two as Sherlock worked.

"You call yourself a detective, correct?" the client asked curiously.

"Consulting detective, yes," Sherlock returned.

"..May I ask what that means?"

"It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me and I solve their cases for them."

"We're not always out of our depth," Lestrade protested.

"The amount of cases I get from you says otherwise," Sherlock scoffed.

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want a bored you on my hands," the DI muttered rebelliously.

"Is that all a consulting detective does?" the client wondered. "Solve puzzles?"

"Difficult puzzles," Sherlock corrected. "Puzzles no one else can understand. Don't bother me with anything mundane."

"I see," the client hesitated. After a few seconds he asked quietly, "Is my trouble difficult enough for you?"

"For now," Sherlock grinned, and began swabbing the bottom of the client's foot.

"So," John mused, looking over the notes he'd made. "What is this Minis Tirith like, that you don't know what a doctor or a detective are?"

"Or a policeman," Lestrade added from the sofa.

The client shrugged a little. "It's a city of Men," he answered a little distractedly, apparently unwilling to take his eyes off of Sherlock's actions. "Seven tiers of white stone set one on top of another like a birthday cake, with a great stone cliff sheering from the citadel at the top all the way down to the lowest circles, and the banners of the king fly a thousand feet above the plain."

John raised an eyebrow. "That's some flagpole," he commented dryly. Lestrade snorted.

"It is," the young man agreed soberly. "But it must be if your city is set in a mountain range."

"Okay," John nodded. "But this.. city doesn't have any doctors in it?"

"No, but we do have healers, as I said, and guardsmen," the little bloke added with a glance and a nod at Lestrade.

"But who solves the crimes?" John asked.

The client was silent for a moment. "I'm not certain," he hesitated, finally looking toward John. "At the moment, any who have grievances bring them to the king's court, and he will listen to their problems and find justice for them."

"If the land you were exploring was so harsh why didn't you wear shoes?" Sherlock demanded abruptly, moving to the other foot.

"We didn't have—" The client's head snapped from John back to the detective. "What?" he gasped.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, holding up the new foot. "Razor-sharp rocks," he snapped. "Cutting through your feet, less than two months ago. Arid landscape, long exposure. Did you feel them?"

As so often happened, the client froze, gaping at Sherlock. "How did you—"

"Well, obviously they're from rocks," Sherlock scoffed. "A knife would leave a much thinner line, glass wouldn't be so blunt. No, these feet were deliberately dragged through an entire landscape of rock sharp enough to cut even your hard feet. Now, did you feel them?"

"...At times," the client finally whispered, his face chalk-white.

"Interesting. Would you feel a thorn?"

"Possibly."

"I'd - feel a thorn," John frowned.

"His foot is different: hard, leathery, made for walking without shoes, though clearly not suited for volcanic rock."

"Really?" John looked at the hair-covered feet curiously.

"Y-es." The client sounded unsure.

"You should feel this, John," Sherlock commanded. "As a doctor you'd find it fascinating."

John thought that through for a moment. "Do you mind?" he asked, curiosity overcoming the idea of touching some strange bloke's foot.

A bit of a smile began to play across their client's face. "No, go ahead," he replied, "Master Lestraad, you are welcome to also if you are in need of convincing."

"Convincing of what?" Lestrade demanded.

"That I am not a man," the client answered as John carefully took hold of the large foot— and nearly dropped it in shock. No matter who is telling you or how many times they tell you that a foot is hard and leathery, you never quite expect it to feel like you've just found a shoe that's actually alive! He gripped it more firmly, trying to steady himself, to reassure himself that it was actually real, that this whole case was really happening. The firm 'leather' yielded against his touch the way that a normal foot with normal, fleshy muscles would, but it was astoundingly hard, like the sole of a shoe!

"Has it always been like this?" he asked, trying to seem detached. Interested, but not shocked. He was a doctor, after all; it wasn't as if he should react to any sort of medical condition— even one as bizarre as this bloody foot!

"Yes," the client laughed a little. "We hobbits are born with —what you men call— large, hairy feet. Although, forgive me if I note that to us they are perfectly normal, and it is the other peoples who have small, strange feet," he added as Lestrade came over.

"Other peoples?" the doctor asked distractedly as his eye caught a lattice-work of pink scars around the edge of the foot and several horrid-looking gashes through the sole.

"The Elves, men, and dwarves," was the matter-of-fact answer.

"Elves!" John started.

Sherlock abruptly dropped the other foot and stood up.

"I don't work for free," he announced.

The would-be client looked up at him in alarm. "I - have only a few coins," he faltered.

"No, no, no, not money," Sherlock returned cheerfully. "I'd like to study you."

The client started. "Study me?" he echoed.

"You stay here with John and myself, I solve your case, and in return I am allowed to study you for a week."

So that's what he saw in that bizarre story, John groaned inwardly, moving back to his chair (and away from his insane flatmate).

"I - cannot stay here a week," the stranger returned. "My family will worry themselves sick long before then. I could give you.. possibly two days?" he offered.

"A week," Sherlock countered firmly. "Two days isn't enough time to study anything worthwhile."

"Granted," the creature sighed. "And I am flattered that you think my people a worthwhile study, but within even two days my family will be frantic. Were I to vanish for a full week I fear to think what state the city would be in when I returned. I can only grant you two days."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed. "Even four days is barely enough time to learn anything about you."

"Actually someone once told me that one could learn everything that there is to know about hobbits within a month," the would-be client asserted. "So four days would be enough time to learn the important things, and two will give you an excellent overall picture from which you may make your own studies."

Sherlock was shaking his head. "Four days, at least," he returned firmly. "I want to run a few experiments."

Their potential client's cheeks lost a little colour at that. "And how far are they?" he asked carefully.

All three men stared at him for a moment. Then Sherlock spat, "Experiment!"

The stranger sighed. "Master Sherlock, if we are to continue at all then you must understand that there are several words which all of you gentlemen seem to take for granted that everyone knows, yet I do not. Would you please explain what an experiment is and how far one must run during one?"

In answer the detective glowered at his potential client for a few seconds, then silently stalked to the bookshelf and began perusing it. A puzzled frown crossed the client's face, and —with a grimace at his flatmate's lack of manners— John hurried to intervene.

"You don't run for an experiment—at least, not usually," he explained. "When you run an experiment it means you ru— you perform tests on something so that you can learn more about that thing."

"What sort of—"

A fluttering whizz cut through the air and the client's hands shot up and to the left, coming back down with a small dictionary. Three heads whipped towards Sherlock as he rattled, "E-X-P-E-R-I-M-E-N-T! Look it up!" like machine gun fire at the client.

The client responded with the irritated sort of look an adult would give to a rude teenager, but he did open the book and begin flipping through the pages. He paused, reading an entry, and looked back up at the detective with an air of wonder. Then he silently perused some more pages, looking more astonished with each entry.

"Five days," Sherlock scowled.

"...Three," the client countered, pausing with a finger in the book. "Three and a half at most. Merry will still have my ears for that much."

Sherlock frowned over that offer for a moment, then nodded. "Three and a half," he agreed briskly. "Now," he threw himself into his chair. "Even though you don't trust anyone in this room, you consider your problem desperate enough to work not only with Lestrade, but also me. So, start at the beginning of your day and tell me everything that happened. Don't leave out a single detail."

The client blanched. "How did you—" he began faintly.

"You've been assessing the threat levels of everyone in this room since you walked in," Sherlock scoffed. "Understandable given your recent captivity, but unnecessary in this place; although I am impressed that you correctly assessed John's level. Most people underestimate him."

John's head whipped toward their small client in surprise.

"He is a soldier, isn't he?" the client asked.

"Yes."

"How did you know that?" John wondered.

"You have the look," the other said softly.

Military haircut, psychosomatic limp, military stance and posture... Great. Is he another Sherlock?

"What look?" Sherlock demanded, suddenly very interested.

A door abruptly slammed shut within the client's face. "That is his affair and not my place to say," he returned firmly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Now John was curious. "No, go on, you can tell," he nodded. The client glanced up at him, looking concerned.

"You're not a soldier," Sherlock mused aloud. "Never been in the military, more the creative type. Your illness stems from the captivity though— no, the landscape!" He straightened, gaze darting all over the client. "No access to shoes: nothing to cover the feet, not even a blanket to wrap around them! You didn't have access to anything then: clothing, shelter, food. Wandering through hostile territory—

"Master Sherlock!" the client exclaimed, two vivid red spots in his cheeks colouring his otherwise bloodless face. "This has nothing to do with my—"

"It has everything to do with it," Sherlock retorted. "Your captivity alone would be enough to induce hallucinations,"

"My captivity?" The whisper was barely audible.

"but for a landscape to be that filled with sharp rocks it couldn't rain there often, so desert, inhospitable. They could be metamorphic —I had a case, Lestrade, don't scoff—"

"I wasn't—"

"but for an entire landscape of metamorphic rock to remain that sharp is more than unlikely. Volcanic rock, on the other hand, is known for maintaining it's rough textures. Now, as we all know, rocks which regularly are rained on will eventually lose their sharp edges, but a volcanic mountain within a desert—"

"Master Sherlock!" the little bloke was almost trembling with rage. (Or was that fear?) "That may well be, but such information does not tell us how I sat down on a bench in Minas Tirith and stood up not three minutes later in Camden Market! Could you please keep your commentary solely to that subject and leave my past out of this. You wish to know about my day? For it began around seven o'clock, that is, two hours past the sunrise with the singing of birds out my window..."

To John's surprise, Sherlock actually allowed the change of subject and sat there, hands pressed together under his chin, listening intently as their client listed out the doings of his day in what seemed to be a fairly precise order. Every so often some detail or other wasn't specific enough, and then Sherlock would ply the little bloke with questions until he was satisfied. To his credit, the client didn't seem fazed by the scrutiny and easily gave information; pausing every so often to sort his thoughts, of course, but nothing close to the stumbling, almost painful attempts to understand his surroundings from earlier. He had an odd way with grammar though; almost as if he usually spoke nothing but the King's English, or perhaps English wasn't even his first language. He used a lot of old terminology too. John, who was taking his customary notes for the blog, made sure to jot that down. Who knew? Sherlock looked over his notes every once in a while (usually to make certain that he was being portrayed in a flattering manner); maybe a comment about the bloke's English would be a breaking point in the case.

Eventually the young man's account trailed its way to his arrival at Baker St. and he fell silent, waiting for Sherlock Holmes to work his magic. The detective said nothing, grey eyes flicking rapidly as he processed patterns and sequences, outlined maps, and otherwise analysed data. Or at least so John assumed. But, truth be told, who could really guess what thoughts were happening behind that long, sharp face. John looked over his notes again.

"So.. Frodo, did you say your name was?"

Those piercing eyes darted to him. Then the client inclined his head in yet another bow of acknowledgement. "Yes, Frodo Baggins."

This bloke was far too fond of bowing! "Okay, you said that when you stood up the change was immediate. But, did you notice any sort of change in your vision like blurring, or some double-vision; maybe some colours that didn't belong?" Any one of those would have indicated possible hallucination.

But the client was shaking his head. "No," he returned firmly. "It was as if Camden Market had always been there before my eyes, yet I was unable to see it until that moment." He folded his arms protectively over his chest, and for an instant it was like a mask had fallen off of his face. He looked worried, and frightened, and incredibly old. Then it was gone, pulled back behind the air of politeness and dignity he wore. His arms remained crossed though. "I don't understand how this could have happened," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Save only by falling asleep." His eyes darted toward Lestrade briefly, then flicked away to the darkened hearth. "Or else..."

The words were barely breathed, and were accompanied by a brief glimmer of raw terror in his eyes, but then smoothed away again.

"Magic is nothing more than an excuse which allows simple-minded naïvety and ignorance to overrule logic and reason," Sherlock snapped, his posture barely acknowledging the young man.

Magic? Who said anything about magic?

For an instant the client startled them all by sitting bolt upright, hands balled into fists at his sides, a flame of anger igniting behind his eyes. His mouth angrily parted, and then he froze, staring at Sherlock without a word. A few seconds passed and then he slumped (well, as much as a person keeping his back straight could slump) and lowered his head. "I understand your reasoning," he sighed.

John raised a brow. What sort of answer was that? "What sort of magic?" he pressed.

"Good," the detective returned condescendingly, and then: "I need to see that place."

"Do you mean Camden Market, or—"

"Yes. Do you think you could you find it again?"

The client considered for a moment whilst Sherlock waited impatiently.

"I believe that I could," the young man said slowly. "Provided that someone could guide me as far as the horse ramp. It wasn't far beyond that."

"Good." The detective was instantly on his feet, gathering things together in a rush of speed. "John!"

John sighed. "Right." He surged to his own feet, a little disappointed that they weren't going to solve an adrenhiline-pumping mystery, but relieved that Sherlock wouldn't be bored, at least for a few days. He glanced at Lestrade, who was also straightening, and smiled. "Thanks, Greg." He spoke in an undertone. "I think this should work."

"Any time," Lestrade nodded. "Mind if I come along? We could take my car."

"Couldn't we walk?" the little client piped up.

"No," Lestrade quickly answered, almost before John realised what had been asked. "It'll be short; only ten minutes drive, fifteen at the most."

"That is a simple matter to walk," the bloke returned.

Lestrade put a hand to his forehead, grimacing. "Yeah, well, it's a lot longer if we walk, and right now speed is the important thing. Don't worry," he added in a more reassuring tone. "It won't be bad."

The client looked away, seeming upset.

"Bad?" John frowned.

"Yeah..." Lestrade lowered his voice. "Apparently he gets carsick."

"Oh." John eyed the little bloke, who levelled a long look of his own at the soldier, and then deliberately broke eye-contact and quietly began to put his cape-thing back on.

"John!" Sherlock's imperious bellow echoed up the stairway, announcing his imminent departure.

John rolled his eyes. "Half a minute!" he yelled back. He glanced at the policeman. "You're sure you want to come? You know what he'll be like."

Lestrade snorted. "Yeah. Offer still stands."

John had to smile. "Then we'll take you on it. Thanks." He glanced down at the client, who was pinning his cape shut with a green leaf-shaped pin. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Uh, well," Lestrade cut in, "d'you want me to stop by a shoe shop on our way?"

John glanced at him in surprise. "Shoe shop?"

"I don't wear shoes," said a stern voice near the men's waists.

"Yeah," the DI looked like he was trying not to squirm. "To protect his feet from glass, needles—"

"Oh, right, of course." John was a bit surprised that he hadn't realised himself.

"Gentlemen, my feet do not need protection."

The doctor glanced at the persistent little client. "Okay, but would you mind wearing a pair of my shoes? Just for today?"

The young man raised a brow. "Would I mind?" he echoed coolly.

"Well, you don't want to get tetanus in a foreign country, do you?" Lestrade laughed nervously.

The client turned and fixed the policeman with a stern look that appeared to make poor Lestrade even more nervous.

"I am uncertain what 'tetnis' is," he returned.

That was an opening and John quickly took back the floor. "It's a disease that can enter your body through rust and dirt. If you walk around London barefoot there is a high chance that you will step on some glass, or rusty nails or tin can lids, or something and cut yourself open. It's bad and once it gets into your bloodstream there's not much you can do about it. With those cuts already healing on your feet you'll want to make certain to keep them clean of any sort of dirt, and particularly the dirt from Camden Market. So, I'm going to prescribe wearing a pair of socks, and shoes, at least until those cuts are completely healed."

The eyes turned on him. "My healer has already given me leave to walk where I wish, and how I wish."

If your 'healer' was here I'd want to see his credentials. "Look, this is just for your protection while you're walking around the filthy streets of London. Wouldn't your 'healer' want you to protect them?"

The young man's nostrils flared. His shoulders moved backward, pulling him up even straighter. "My healer has seen me walk through an orc-infested mine on these feet. He knows full well what they are capable of handling and what they are not."

John raised a brow, "Yeah, well, clearly they were not," he retorted quietly, and the little bloke flinched, obviously reminded of the scars across his thick soles. John sighed. "You can borrow a pair of my trainers. It's not a problem, and I would feel a lot more comfortable if your feet were covered. Besides," he gave the youth a wry grin, trying for a little humour, "you don't want everyone in London knowing that you're here, do you?"

The aggressive stance slowly dropped as the client gazed at his feet. After a moment he said sheepishly, "They are somewhat conspicuous."

"Yeah. They are," John agreed.

After another moment the client sighed. "Very well, Master Watson. I agree to your terms."

"Great," John quickly nodded, before the bloke changed his mind. He threw a glance at Lestrade. "Greg, could you try and stall Sherlock? We'll be down in a minute."

"I can try," the policeman snorted, and disappeared down the stairs whilst John ran up to his room and dug out a pair of old but still serviceable trainers.

He came out to find the client seated on the bottom step. As the doctor came closer he realised that the young man was silently staring at his hands, slowly turning them palm up and then back over. He didn't seem to notice John until the doctor sat down beside him. Then he quickly tucked his hands under the cape, scarlet spots flooding the centre of his cheeks.

"Here you go," John said quickly, handing over the shoes and a pair of large socks. "You okay?"

"I'm - fine, yes," the client answered without looking at him as he took the items.

John grimaced. "Look, mate, I'm sorry about that whole thing." The usual apology for Sherlock. "People don't believe me when I tell them that this is the most invasive thing they will ever allow to happen to them."

"Why did he have to say it - aloud?" the client mumbled as he began struggling to put on the socks. "Why couldn't he have kept it to himself, or spoken privately with me later?"

"..Probably because he's Sherlock Holmes and he likes to show off, and he likes an audience," John admitted.

The little client gave him a pained look.

John sat silently for a few moments, watching as the young man worked at putting on the socks, and then the shoes, seeming to be trying to hide his hands from John as he worked. John flinched a little. Once again, it appeared that Sherlock had crossed the wrong boundary. The little bloke's every movement was screaming how ashamed he was of something. And with the connection to his hands...

"Hey, mate, don't think about it."

The client's head whipped up as if he'd been startled.

"What?" he managed.

"Don't think about it," John repeated. "Everything that Sherlock pointed out? He is the only one who could have seen it."

The client returned to the shoes, apparently struggling with the tongue of the left one. "But now you see it," he returned softly. "And Master Lestraad sees it, and—"

"It happens," John protested. "Life goes on, people do things that they're ashamed of... So you went mountain climbing on a volcano. It happens. Actually, it sounds really cool," he added a little enviously.

The client gave a small unhappy laugh. "Actually it was very hot, except at night," he returned sharply. "But I don't understand this word volcano," he added, looking puzzled.

John shrugged. "It's a mountain that likes to blow up every once in a while and throw lava everywhere." He paused. "You don't know what lava is either, do you?" he groaned.

"No..."

How to explain a volcano to someone who's never heard of one... "Okay, it gets really hot beneath this mountain, see?" At the bloke's hesitant nod he continued. "And sometimes it gets so hot that the whole top of the mountain just - blows up."

"Blows - up?" the client frowned.

"Erupts," John hastily corrected himself. At the continued blank look he tried, "Explodes."

Comprehension dawned. "Like a firework?" his companion asked, looking interested.

John grimaced. "Not really, though I have heard that it can look like that sometimes," he returned. "More like... okay. A volcano looks like a mountain, except that where a mountain comes to a point at the top a volcano has a big hole instead. Okay?" He received another hesitant nod. "And when it gets too hot beneath this volcano it will blow up - or erupt - and send lava, which is melted rock, shooting out of the top and covering all of the landscape. Yeah, you don't want to be anywhere near when that happens because it will burn you to death really fast."

His companion's concentrating frown abruptly melted into a look of shock, his face taking on the colour of wax. "A fiery mountain?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"I - guess?" John frowned.

"At its heart there is a river of fire and heat, hot enough to destroy - anything." The last word was barely even breathed.

"Yeah... Yeah, you could describe it that way," the doctor nodded slowly.

The young man appeared frozen in place, a look of... well, if John were guess he would have said the little creature looked horrified, and really old again, and rather like he was carrying the entire world on his shoulders.

"How could he have known?" he whispered.

The doctor placed a gentle hand over one of the tiny ones still holding the loops of his shoelaces. The young man started and jerked away, and John let him go, not wishing to drive the spiking pulse he had briefly felt higher.

"It's like I said," he shrugged, trying for nonchalance, "he is very clever and very observant. It's hard to keep anything secret around him." He stood up and began making his way down the stairs. Behind him he could hear his companion do the same.

"And anyway," he continued. "You did it once, clearly you won't be doing it again; life goes on. It happens. And truth be told," he added. "If I climbed a volcano I'd be bragging about it."

His companion snorted: a small but promising sound, but made no other comment.

Outside they found Lestrade, but no Sherlock. The policeman looked apologetic.

"I think he took a cab before I got down here," he muttered.

John felt the corners of his mouth twitch up into an irritated smile. "Well," he returned tightly. "His wait then, isn't it?"