Sherlock advent drabbles :D

Today's word is: Mizzling

Sunday afternoon finds John in Camden standing around at the back of a restaurant and watching as Sherlock takes his time inspecting a body that's been curiously wedged between two bins. The weather is dull, grey and cold, with a weak, half-hearted rain collecting on John's shoulders and dancing about in the air.

They've been here for forty-five minutes already. John's beginning to wish he'd brought his scarf.

There's a sigh from beside him, and John turns to see Anderson looking at Sherlock with an unhappy set to his mouth.

"I don't know how you put up with him," says Anderson.

It takes a moment for John to realise that the sentence was directed at him. Anderson's never tried to engage him in conversation before and, for a moment, John wonders if there's a jibe at the end of it.

"Well," says John, defensive, "he's a friend. And he's very good at what he does."

Anderson sighs again. "Standing around in the rain for hours on end can't be much fun," he points out. "And it's not like you're here to do much."

John gives him a tight smile. "Sometimes I can come in handy. And anyway," John folds his arms, "I find it fascinating to watch him work."

"Barking," mutters Anderson. He rubs at his nose with the back of a knuckle, and for a moment, he and John are silent, watching as Sherlock uses his magnifying glass to inspect a cold, limp hand.

"I mean, seriously," starts Anderson, "he waltzes up here and suddenly I have to stop what I'm doing and go stand in the cold, getting drenched for half an hour." He grimaces. "Years of training and qualifications and I'm ousted by an amateur."

John doesn't know what to say to that. True, it's not the qualifications that are important when someone's lying dead, but...

Anderson huffs. "I'm going to get a coffee. Want one?"

John is slightly derailed by being asked. "Ok," he says, cautiously, wondering if there's some trick involved.

But Anderson just nods and trudges over to the café across the road.