It didn't work, John!

Chapter 9

The bell rang.
Mrs Hudson opened the door.
They could hear her talking excitedly.
"That could be Greg," John said.
"Come on, Sherlock, we should get some clothes on."
He was only wearing shorts and a T-shirt at the time. Sherlock was in his dressing gown.
"No need," said Sherlock, and rushed to the front door when there was a knock on the door seconds later.
Damn, did John think, why he would not listen to me at a moments like this? I'd better increase my authority.
Urgently.
Damn, you can just see we've just had sex.

Greg trotted into the living room. He sat on the couch. Poor guy looked tired and exhausted.
When his eyes fell on John, and then on Sherlock, he had this meaningful grin.
John turned bright red.
Man, he thought. Obviously, I've been very successful in getting Sherlock on to the subject of private life in public. Well, we're working on the subject of 'not everything that's true has to be said'. The subject of non-verbal communication, I could take that up next.
And I'll be damned; but if punishment and reward can help me make things clear to him and help him understand them, then, by all the saints who one could somehow imagine being responsible for a highly functional sociopath (which I don't think he is), yes, I want to use them.
And high on complex sentences, thought John, and giggled.

Greg and Sherlock looked at him a little baffled.
"Oh, um, sorry, I was just thinking about... something funny..."
John blushed and cleared his throat.
"I can imagine..." said Greg, grinning cross-eyed.
John got even redder.

"Greg, what's the state of play?" Sherlock asked.
He sat down on the sofa, but he came back up hissing.
Greg grinned even wider.
Then he got serious.
"We still don't have her. Anderson's been collecting evidence from the flat. "But we can't..."
"Pah, Anderson..." Sherlock spat that name out like something disgusting.
"Well, I was wondering if you could come with me... and you, Sherlock, could have a look around the flat?"
Sherlock nodded and ran into the bedroom to dress. John ran after him.

Greg had a car waiting downstairs.
The driver took them back to the flat in no time.
Sherlock walked around in it.
"By the way, John, I'm not sure which saint would be responsible for me, given that the whole concept of Christianity and other religions..."
"Yes, all right, Sherlock," John interrupted him, not in the mood for a lecture.
Then he realised what Sherlock had said.
"How the hell do you know what I was thinking?"

"Well, John, I don't know everything you were thinking. But you looked at the medallion with the picture of St Panteleimon hanging on the cupboard in the living room. Why you put it there and never wear it, I could tell you, but let's not go there. It's the patron saint of doctors, and therefore yours. Then you looked at me, first with a thoughtful, questioning look and then with that look you always have when someone, or even I myself, calls me a highly functional sociopath. So it was clear that you were wondering which saint would be responsible for me in that capacity."

Anderson, who was standing in the background, pissed off that his boss had called in the crazy guy again, growled:
"Well, if you ask me, St. Aegidius."
John shrugged his shoulders.
Then he took out his smartphone and googled
He blushed with rage.
"What is it?" Greg asked.
"Responsible for mental illness," John barked at Anderson.
The man grinned.
Sherlock, who overheard everything, closed his eyes for a moment but kept quiet.
No, today he would not insult him. He decided to come up with a few carefully chosen insults that Anderson would not object to, so John would probably not be able to react angrily either. And he had an idea.

But now John surprised him.
"Anderson, beware that Saint Stanislas does not become your patron saint very quickly. ...because he's the one responsible for broken limbs."
Anderson swallowed.
Then he turned angrily and left the room.

Sherlock had by now seen important details, taken in himself and put them together to form a picture.
The open wardrobe. Missing summer clothes. Now in November.
Okay. Southern hemisphere, near the equator, maybe. Flight, clearly.
Confirmed by a plane carelessly scribbled on a Post-it next to the laptop.
Lady was in a hurry.
The laptop.
They'd probably find all the data there in no time at all.
And they needed him for this?
Oh, man.

"Greg? She booked a flight. When you go to her laptop, you'll probably find a link to the airline and the booking data right on the desktop. She was in such a hurry, she didn't take the time to hide anything."
"Oh, yeah?" Anderson. He had thought he just took off.
"How are we supposed to crack the password that easily?
"Well, just enter the most obvious. S-n-o-w-w-h-i-t-e."
Greg sat down at the laptop and actually.
He did a quick search, and he found quickly.
He studied the data, looked at the clock.
Grabbed his cell phone.
Sent people to the airport at Heathrow.
Ran off on his own.
"Flight to Ecuador leaves in half an hour. We'll still catch it. And then I can finally get back to..." And out the door he went.