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Everywhere, there were pens and none of them worked. John should know, he'd tried each and every one of them in his search to write a simple note.
"31 Xanadu Lane..." he repeated to himself. Typical of his phone to die even before he had chance to let Sherlock know he was on his way. The bloody minded sod had seen fit to summon him for no reason whatsoever. Again.
"I was going to go to the zoo with Sarah," he snapped as he walked into the grimy flat Sherlock had lured him to. There was a bloody footprint on the floor, under a chair. Ah.
Sherlock burst out laughing.
"Quite..." John took off his jacket. It was oppressive in the flat, viciously so. "Now, are you going to tell me why you've dragged me all the way across town to look at bloodstains?"
Sherlock was silent for a moment, looking out of the window, at the gazebo in the garden. There were people out there, wearing hats, drinking glasses of translucient liquid. Lestrade, and Sarah. And Harry?
"Happy birthday..." Sherlock muttered.
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jubilant
accomplished
aggravated
tired