“John Hamish Watson!” the firm declaration burst the silence of the room like a bubble, and John's eyes flew up to meet relieved and slightly angry brown ones. “Couldn't bother to call me, could you?” she asked, but she was smiling.
He grinned back rather sheepishly. Sherlock examined the newcomer from his perch on the uncomfortable hospital chair beside John's bed. She bounced forward and took John into a hug, resting herself easily on the mattress beside him. “Sorry, Braidy. I really am. It's been a hectic sort of...”
“Month?” she supplied with a radiant smile. “Yes, I had to find out from a call from Mike. And you know how terribly insufferable he gets when he knows something about you that I don't.” She rolled her eyes. “I'll be hearing about it for well over a week.”
She seemed to remember there was someone else in the room. She held out a hand, but didn't seem to really expect Sherlock to take it. “Hi, Sherlock Holmes. I'm Braidy Evans.” When he did shake her hand, she continued, “John's told me about you. And of course I read his blog, the cheeky bastard. Who knew he could write?”
“Oi,” John protested with a chuckle. “I'm right here.”
“Yes well, I'm angry with you so shut your face,” she replied.
He laughed. “Oh, Braidy. I really am sorry I've neglected you lately.”
“Just don't let me find out you've been shot from Mike again, all right?” she said with eyebrows raised. “I panicked there for a moment, and it was quite embarrassing. You're lucky.”
“Yeah. They told me if it had been two inches over it would have caused some lasting damage.”
“No, I was referring to my kicking your arse, but that is a valid concern too.”
John couldn't help but erupt into peels of laughter, taking Braidy and Sherlock with him. When they'd calmed down, John decided to change the subject. “You still staying in that flat downtown?”
Braidy shook her head, her eyebrows drawing together. “No, that didn't work out. I'm a bit of a gypsy right now. I have all my possessions in one bag, and I just kind of... drift between who ever will let me stay with them.”
“Business not going well?”
“Well, who wants a mediocre oil painting? Honestly, it was a bad career choice. I've been looking for a job in a shop somewhere. I don't particularly want to beg for my job back at Scotland Yard...”
Sherlock's phone chimed and he was out the door to answer, the rest of the conversation lost on him.
“I don't suppose John talked to you about me staying for a few days?” she asked, sleep tousled hair falling into her face in the most unappealing way.
“No, he did not,” Sherlock replied from across the table. “And I suppose he didn't mention my rather interesting collections and experiments?”
“He didn't. But he told me to avoid the fridge and I haven't been brave enough to disobey.”
“Wise.”
They stared at each other for a few moments before Sherlock asked, “Do you mind the violin? I play when I think.”
“I love violin. I paint. Will you be bothered if some gets on the floor or sinks?”
“I've done much worse to this flat, I'm sure it wouldn't be noticed.”
“All right then.”
“All right.”
