Sherlock and John

Really?

'Sherlock.'

He jumps, and sits up, glaring at me, before standing up and dusting himself down.

'What is it, John?' His coat is crumpled slightly, and I lean forward to straighten it, but he realises, and jerks the fabric away from my grasp.

'John, what are you doing?' He snaps, his eyes wide with surprise. I sigh, and lean back again.

'Your coat was crumpled. I.. umm... Wanted to straighten it.' I wince at how weird it sounds, and he eyes me one more time before turning away and walking off. I jump up and run after him, taking two steps every-time he takes one.

'Sorry.' I whisper, over the sound of the tapping of our feet on the floor.

'Oh that's alright John,' Sherlock says, preoccupied with something, 'nothing wrong with being a perfectionist.'

I decide not to contradict him, and we walk in silence until Sherlock makes a sharp right, and we end up facing a man.

He has dirty-blonde hair that sticks up in several different directions, and his clothes are dirty and ragged. His nose is sharp, and rat-like, and his tongue keeps licking his lips. He's leaning against the train station wall, and picking at an out of date poster.

'Homeless Network?' I whisper.

'Homeless Network.' Sherlock replies.

The man looks up, and his posture improves considerably. He spits the shell of a pistachio nut onto the ground next to him, and scowls.

' 'Ello Mr Holmes,' he rasps, his eyes darting from Sherlock to me. 'What is it you want then, eh?' He grins, revealing a set of ghastly yellow teeth. Not his fault though, I suppose.

'Hello, Mr Latbe, is it?' Sherlock says, I notice that he doesn't hold out his hand to shake. 'Me and my partner, Mr Watson, wish to ask you about what you saw on the night of the 24th of September.'

Mr Latbe takes a step forward, and inspects both of us. I must admit, his breath smells absolutely disgusting, like mould and rotten eggs, and whenever he breathes I get a warm faceful of the stench.

'Well, well, well Mr Holmes. I was going about ma business, wasn't I! I ain't done nuffin wrong Mr Holmes. I was just walking along my favourite route, and I see's a man running outta the museum. He ain't look like he wanted to be stopped, but he runs into me and pushes me over.. 'Sorry mate!' He yells, and then he gets up and he runs away.'

'Yes yes, very good Mr Latbe, an interesting story for you to tell your children, but what did he look like?' Sherlock snaps, his temper reaching the level at which I normally back away. I look up and see him cocking his head to one side, and action that usually means that he is about to explode.

'It doesn't matter where or when he came out. We're not stupid. We know that. Tell us what he looked like or he could strike again!' Sherlock shouts. People start looking over and I place a hand on Sherlocks arm, trying to calm him down.

'Come on Sherlock.' I whisper, but he shakes me off.

'Get off me John! Stay out of this!'

'But Sherlock! He didn't know that that's what you wanted to know!'

'JOHN.' He screams, I shrink back and cower behind a pole, listening to Sherlock rant at that guy. He shouts a bit more then he calms down, and I hear sharp, forced whispers.

'Sherlock?' I ask, coming back round to where he's standing. He turns around and looks me up and down, obviously considering whether to shout or not. Thankfully, he chooses to let it go, and we points towards the man.

'Mr Latbe here has given us some very interesting details about our suspects features. We will certainly be able to track him down using them.' He looks much more peaceful now, and his eyes have settled.

'Sherlock.. I'm sorry.' I mutter, as we head off into the station. He stops, and looks at me, puzzled.

'Why?' He asks.

'For... y'know, getting in your way all the time.' I admit. 'I will be never be as clever as you and I feel as if... As if I'm not needed.'

Sherlock chuckles, and walks on, his hands in his pockets.

'Not needed my arse.'