"Techno, I'm pretty sure we're going in the wrong direction."
"Bruh, the wrong direction?" Techno glanced down at the absurdly complicated map of London he had torn out of a book back at his house in the US. "How can the Human GPS possibly—"
Phil smirked. "Yeah, but my crows suggest Baker Street is due north. We're heading southwest. Maybe your GPS skills don't work in Europe?"
Techno shot him a murderous glare. "Ya think?"
"Yes, Techno, and as my crows've been living in this country for even longer than I have, they're far more likely to be correct."
The two stared at each other for a couple more seconds.
"Fine, let's see what Google says." Techno unlocked his phone and punched "221B Baker Street London" in the search bar. "Oh no—even Google is siding with this old man and his birds now—god, what's wrong with this world—"
"Maybe the world wants you to shut up and listen to us, mate."
A couple of pig-ish noises answered him.
"Seriously, Techno. Baker Street is this way."
"Baker Street is that way!" Techno whined, pointing in the opposite direction.
"It's this way, prick," Phil said, exasperated. "I don't care what your fucking GPS brain says, Baker Street is over THERE!"
"How dare you disrespect my phenomenal brain!"
The two continued to bicker as they walked down the street. After a while, Techno finally admitted that his GPS skills might be malfunctioning, but then he started questioning Phil's own GPS skills, which was pretty annoying. Unable to stand the noise anymore, Phil threatened to summon his murder of crows, which put an end to Techno's complaints.
Anyways, by the time they arrived at Baker Street, the sun was hanging high in the sky, and both were thoroughly exhausted. Techno located 221B first, though he allowed Phil to search a little longer before telling him as payback. Rolling his eyes, Phil went up first and knocked.
"Coming, coming," shouted a voice from the other side. Both Techno and Phil stood back a little as the door was flung open, revealing an ordinary-looking man in a beige jumper. "Uh…who are you people?"
"Philza Minecraft, Technoblade," Phil said, pointing at himself, then Techno, who was sulking under a nearby streetlamp, unwilling to socialize. "We're here for Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
"Oh…he's out today, sorry," said the man, reaching out to shake hands. "I'm John Watson, his…good friend. Maybe you can tell me…?"
"Sure thing," Phil said with a smile. "May we come in?"
"Yeah, okay," John said, standing back a little. "I'll get Mrs. Hudson to make some tea. You just…make yourselves comfortable."
"Heh," Techno said, watching John open another door and disappear into 221A. "So he's not here?"
"Seems so," Phil said with a sigh. "Just when I needed to see the world's only Consulting Detective, he goes out on an errand. Can you contact Tommy?"
Techno snorted. "Like I want to get my ears blown off?"
"Please?"
"I'll text him," Techno said, typing up a message. "You go and sit down. Old men like you can't stand for too long."
"I thought exercise was good for you?" Phil squawked. "And I'm not old—"
"Ahem!"
Both turned. John had returned, a woman they assumed to be Mrs. Hudson walking after him with a tea kettle and three mugs. "Maybe we should go to the living room and talk there?"
"Oh yeah!" Phil said, a little embarrassed. "Let's."
He regretted his enthusiasm a few seconds later. As soon as Phil set foot in the living room, the smell of chemical compounds overpowered him. He swore, covering his nose with his sleeve. "Holy shit, what is that—"
"Sherlock's been testing if my clothes can withstand HCI," John said casually, completely unaffected. "So, what're you here for?"
"Well…it's about my son, Wilbur," Phil said through the sleeve of his haori. He dug out a few letters from his breast pocket and handed them to a (somewhat) amused John. "He's been ignoring my letters for weeks."
"Interesting," said John, taking a letter and examining it with some curiosity. "Sit down, the tea's gonna be ready in a minute." He sat down in a squashy armchair, still staring at the letters.
Phil sat down awkwardly in the chair opposite John. "Um…we can come back later, when Mr. Holmes is back…"
"Hmm…say, has Wilbur been expressing any signs of depression recently?" asked John, plainly not listening.
"No!" Phil said quickly. "I mean, he sounded pretty cheerful in the letters…" His voice trailed off. Wilbur's last letter was dated two months ago. A lot could've happened in two months…
"He might have," Techno said, quite unexpectedly. "I mean, managing a revolutionary organization is…kinda stressful…?"
"Perhaps," John said, holding the letters up to his face. "He must've been dealing with gunpowder a lot, there's traces of it everywhere. And there are a few stains that smell vaguely of…" he sniffed. "Whiskey? Can't tell, but definitely some kind of wine."
"God," Phil said quietly, leaning back in his chair.
"Um…with all due respect, how about you email him or something?" John suggested. "He might've been…too busy to go to the post office?"
Techno "bruh"ed loudly. "We tried, but he didn't even read the stupid emails!"
"What about visiting him in person?"
Phil and Techno traded tense looks. "Uh…he's too far away for that."
"I see," said John, his eyes lingering a little longer on Phil than they should've. There was something suspicious going on, there had to be. "Which continent?"
The uncertainty on Phil's face was blatant. "Um…America?"
John frowned. "You know, I can't really take on a case for someone who isn't giving me the full details, and I'm pretty sure Sherlock would agree."
Phil fidgeted in his chair. "It's not like I don't want to tell you everything, it's just—"
He was spared from the ordeal of thinking up a convincing reply, as that moment, John's phone rang.
"Damn!" John muttered, checking the caller ID. "Hi, Mycroft…" Pause. "Yes, I've got visitors, how did you know?" Pause. "You spied on—Mycroft, what the bloody hell is wrong with you?"
"Let's go now," Techno said out of the corner of his mouth.
"What? Lestrade too?! You don't think they were—"
"Yeah, he probably won't notice if—oh, Twitch, not now!"
Techno cringed. Twitch, the leader of Phil's murder of crows, had just landed on Phil's shoulder, a rolled-up scroll in its beak. "Phil, can't you—"
"What's that?"
Too late. John had hung up, his face rather paler than it had been. Quicker than Phil could react, he snatched the letter out of the other man's hands and began reading it. He turned even paler. "Where'd you get this?" he demanded.
"From Wilbur!" Phil said, alarmed. "Why, what's going on?"
"Take me to this Wilbur now, never mind how far away he fucking is!"
An expression of the purest horror and shock crossed Phil's face. "Why?"
"Because I think he's with Sherlock, and that bastard's been missing for the past six hours!"
