You and Sherlock

Numbers on the Vegetables

When Sherlock emerged some minutes later, the fire in his eyes was back. 

"Come on, then, Y/N," he waved you up towards him. "The game is on."

For him. The game was on for him. 100%. Your game was called "make a real living because you have an actual job," and so the two of you parted ways. 

Molly was waiting for you in the lab, practically bursting with anticipation. You thought it was anticipation that had mostly do with wanting an update on Sherlock, but it also had something to do with the corpse who'd come into the hospital with some, erm, peculiar injections in his bloodstream. It was air in the injection, an embolism, that killed him, but the injection itself was liquid cough syrup. 

After a fair few minutes spent discussing this most singular corpse, you prepared to move on with the day. For a short period of time, you and Molly worked in comfortable silence. Your focus was off, though, and you knew it; most of you wanted to be with Sherlock in the West End. And you knew Molly's mind was there, too; she kept shooting furtive glances over at you.

"Are you going to him?" 

You glanced up from your microscope at Molly, who was studiously not looking at you, suddenly very interested in a petri dish. You shrugged.

"I don't know," you flipped out a slide for another one and tried to analyze the sample. It was no use.

You lasted fifteen more minutes before you couldn't stand it any longer. Molly yelled goodbye as you rushed out. 

You were lucky you had Molly. You'd have definitely been fired otherwise. 

Ten minutes later found you on the London streets, air somewhat smoggy despite the clear sky. Rounding a corner, you suddenly found yourself on the ground with a notable pain in your head.

You looked up and saw John, doubled over and rubbing his forehead, brows crinkled.

"Bloody hell, Y/N," he complained, straightening and offering his hand out. You took it and stood, brushing off your jacket with your other hand.

"Sorry John," you laughed, forehead still pounding dully, "Didn't see you there."

John shot you a wry look.

"Looking for Sherlock?" 

"Well unlike the man in question, I don't wander about London as I please," 

John chuckled. 

"Right then," He looked round. "Shall we catch ourselves a detective?"

"Let's." 

The two of you took off down the street, looking for a certain lanky black coat and piercing blue eyes.

John pulled out Lukis' diary, and began flipping through it.

"You be my eyes and I'll check out the diary, yeah?" He asked you. You nodded.

"Of course."

About thirty seconds later, John looked up. 

"Y/N. I found the shop they went to."

"Really?" That would be incredible -- bringing Sherlock several steps forward in the case and you that much closer to going back to your real job so you didn't get sacked. 

As it turns out, you were actually quite terrible at being John's eyes, because a few minutes later, John, distracted by Lukis' diary,  fantastically found himself smacking into another human figure. You'd been distracted by the smell of coffee emanating from a nearby cafe and hadn't caught the familiar silhouette directly in front of you before John smacked into him.