Not Afraid

Chapter Eleven - We've Got Sherlock Holmes

"John, aren't there dozens of pubs in London?" Sherlock said as a taxi pulled up beside them. John flicked Sherlock another smirk. Gosh, he was doing well today; he ought to keep a tally!

"Yes, but Harry has this one pub she goes to when she's upset," John explained. "At least, unless her tastes have changed, but I rather think they haven't."

"Okay," said Sherlock, choosing not to point out how statistically unlikely that was, given the time that had passed and how much London had changed, and they climbed into the taxi. John leaned forwards and told the driver where to go. Rosie gurgled happily; she loved car rides and though she didn't get them often, she could remember them enough to point at the seats and make little bounces in her sling until John sat down properly. As they turned off Baker Street, Sherlock made a huffing sound like he did when something suddenly occurred to him. "Babies aren't really supposed to go into pubs, are they?"

"Nope," John said cheerfully. He looked sideways at Sherlock, grinning slyly. "Who said we were going in?"

Which left Sherlock baffled and John feeling very pleased with himself indeed. This might need to get written into his blog! He could picture the title already : "Sherlock Has No Idea."  No, that would sound tacky. John shrugged internally. He'd think of something. The taxi veered onto another street, wound through some traffic, switched lanes twice and turned onto a very winding intersection, each sharp turn making Rosie giggle as she rocked in her sling. At last, after several more stomach rolling turns, the taxi pulled up outside a 24-hour pub with a rocket ship on the sign crooked sign. 

"Thanks," John said, paying the fare as he climbed out, Sherlock trailing along in his wake. They stood outside the pub, peering through the window at the people inside who were mostly blokes sitting at tables drinking beer after beer. It had a slightly hazy look about it, as if the people inside had been leaking mist from all the booze they'd been consuming. The lights were dim and the atmosphere mildly depressing at this time of day.

"I don't see her," Sherlock said, cupping his hands around his face and pressing on the glass. It misted up and he swiped his hand across it, making it smeary and worse. John strained his eyes to see through the rippling glass and finally spotted the bartender, a tall and solidly built man with a bushy beard to match his caterpillar eyebrows. John waved and made a rapid sign with his fingers. Sherlock blinked, then frowned, eyebrows colliding. John knew he was bursting to ask what on earth was going on but holding it back so he could maintain his intelligent persona and try to one up John after all the one upping John was doing. After a moment or two, the bartender stepped outside the pub, the door banging closed behind him, cutting off the brief flood of unintelligible babble that had followed him out.

"Hello John," he said in a very friendly manner, clapping John on the back and then staring at Rosie with mild disbelief. "Who's this?"

"This is my daughter, Rosie," said John, ruffling Rosie's hair.  "And this is my...my boyfriend, Sherlock."

"John!" Sherlock hissed in a panic but John ignored him. The bartender clapped his hands together, clearly delighted.

"Daughter, aye! And boyfriend! Well, well, well. I guess you're here for Harry?"