After the door had closed Sherlock turned to John and gestured towards the shoes. “Off you go then.”
“Pardon?”
“You know what to do…so do it,” Sherlock encouraged, perhaps trying to apologize for his earlier behaviour.
“I’m not going to just stand here so you can humiliate me!” John answered in some irritation.
“An outside eye; a second opinion…it really is useful to me!” Sherlock denied.
“Yeah, right,” John muttered.
“Really.” Sherlock looked up at him with those persuasive eyes.
John stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the shoes. “Well…” he said slowly, “they’re in good nick…I’d say they were pretty new-“
“But..?” Sherlock encouraged.
“The sole’s been well worn, so the owner must have had them for awhile,” John continued.
“Very eighties…probably one of those Retro designs,” he tried.
“You’re on sparkling form,” Sherlock approved. “What else?”
“They’re quite big, so…a man’s?”
“Except?” Sherlock pushed.
“There’s traces of a name on the inside, so these must’ve belonged to a kid,” John finished.
“Excellent,” Sherlock settled back in his chair, “what else?”
“Uhhh…” John took one last look. “That’s it.”
“That’s all?” Sherlock pressed.
“Um…yep,” John nodded. “How did I do?”
“Well, John, really well!” A familiar voice floated over to where he stood and Petrichor sauntered in, bearing tribute in the form of coffee.
“You missed almost everything of importance, but…” Sherlock shrugged.
John sighed and Petrichor looked as if she was debating whether or not to take the time and effort to dump her steaming cup of coffee on his curly head.
“Fine then,” Sherlock smirked. “How about you do it?”
Petrichor took a swig of coffee, then set it down and walked over to the shoes. Picking one up, she looked it over for a few seconds before beginning:
“The owner loved these; scrubbed them clean, and of course whitened them when they got discolored. He changed the laces three-no, four times, even so there are obvious traces of skin flakes, so the owner had eczema.”
“Show off,” John muttered, but not unkindly.
She glanced up and darted a grin. “I’ve been called worse names.”
“Such as?” Sherlock asked coolly.
She looked more serious before looking down at the trainers again. “You don’t want to know. But…” she added pointedly as she turned the shoes over, “they mostly started when I began hanging around you.”
“Sorry?” John tried.
She half-smiled. “Oh don’t be-I like to see them laugh.”
Then picking up the other shoe she went on again. “The soles are well worn, especially on the inside which meant that the owner had weak arches. British made…mm…about twenty years old, would you say, Iceberg?”
