Sherlock (but from a Johnlock POV){ON HOLD}

SIP: ✨Four✨

No triggers unless you're triggered by Sherly being a sassy bastard who's already in love with Jawn 😂

John sat beside Sherlock in the back of the taxi as it drove to Brixton, the adrenaline still rushing through him.

Sherlock was on his phone, eyes fixed intently onto the glowing blue screen, and John couldn't help but keep glancing at him. He had so many questions, and for some reason he just wanted to look at him.

"Alright. You've got questions." Sherlock shut off his phone and put it away, then looked over at John.

"Yeah, where are we going?" His adrenaline was slowly fading into anxiety.

"Crime scene. Next."

"Who are you? What do you do?" This was a valid question, he thought.

"What do you think?"

John felt a hint of irritation with Sherlock's snarkiness but ignored it. "I'd say... private detective..." he said hesitantly.

"But?" asked Sherlock with an eyebrow raised.

"...but the police don't go to private detectives."

Sherlock seemed slightly impressed that John'd made this connection. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

   "What does that mean?" asked John, genuinely curious.

   "It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

   John paused. "But the police don't consult amateurs," he said, but not in a rude tone.

   Sherlock gave him a look, then glanced back at the window. He was constantly moving, John realized, constantly looking around. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

   "Yes..." John stared at him. "How did you know?"

   "I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room ..."

   'Bit different from my day,' John remembered saying. It had been very different.

   " ... said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor - obvious."

   John wasn't sure how that was obvious. Sherlock seemed to catch this, so he took a deep breath and launched into an explanation.

   "Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq." He loudly clicked the 'k' sound at the end of the very last word.

   John stared at him, utterly amazed. He remembered something else. "You said I had a therapist."

   "You've got a psychosomatic limp - of course you've got a therapist."

   Fair enough.

   "Then there's your brother," Sherlock continued, and John raised an eyebrow, making a sound of confusion. "Your phone." Sherlock held out his hand. John gave him the phone and watched as he started to examine it, launching into another long explanation. "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare - you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then."