Sherlock advent drabbles :D
Today's word is: Skeezy
Halfway through the day, John had received a text from Sherlock requesting that they meet at a certain pub near Aldgate after John finishes work. Sherlock didn't add any information as to why, but John dutifully heads over there when his shift is up.
The pub is a medium-sized one with a dark interior and high ceilings; normal London pub fare for the most part. When John gets there, it seems as if Sherlock's not arrived yet, so John buys himself a pint, heads over to a sofa in the corner, and sits down to wait.
After a couple of minutes, a man who was sitting at the bar stands up and walks over. He's wearing a beer-stained t-shirt and a pair of jeans. The greying hair on his head is greasy and lank. In his hand, there's a Tesco carrier bag that looks like it's seen better days.
"Excuse me, mate," he says, in a thick cockney accent, "do you have a light?"
"Er, no," says John. Much to his chagrin, that doesn't make the man go away.
"Shame," he says, sitting down opposite John, "hardly no-one does these days." He sniffs.
John smiles half-heartedly. Normally, John prides himself about not judging people by their appearances, but there's something about this man that sets John on edge regardless. Maybe it's the week-old stubble, or the grimy, black fingernails, or the sorry-looking, unlit roll-up hanging out of his mouth.
"You been here before?" asks the man.
"Not to this pub, no," says John, not sure how much information he wants to give away. The man has identity-theft, or, at least, some sort of theft, written all over him. Surreptitiously, John feels to check that his wallet is still in his pocket.
"I only work round the corner," says the man, before stopping to cough thickly. "Got a market stall."
"Right," says John. Hopefully Sherlock will arrive soon and they can leave. John considers sending Sherlock a text and telling him to hurry up, but he's wary of getting his phone out; chances are, it'll end up on that market stall before long.
"I didn't used to though," says the man. "Used to be a journalist, writing for the local paper." He grins proudly.
"Oh, really," says John, losing interest half-way through as he notices Sherlock enter through the front door. Thank God.
John stands. "My friend is here so I should probably g..."
"Ah, John." Sherlock strides over, unwinding his scarf. "I see you've already met Stanley."
"What..." starts John, watching, rather confused, as Stanley stands up and Sherlock embraces him happily.
"Stanley and I go back a long way," says Sherlock. "It's been, what, ten years now?"
"Something like that." Stanley grins.
"Stanley's one of the most trustworthy people you'll meet," says Sherlock, patting him on the shoulder. "Never goes back on his word." Glancing at the table, Sherlock frowns. "John, didn't you get Stanley a drink?"
"I..." John goes to explain himself, but Sherlock's already taken Stanley over to the bar.
Shaking his head, John supposes that he shouldn't judge people by their appearances after all. Then he checks that his phone and his wallet are where they should be, just in case.
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