BBC Sherlock (Jail) · Y/n story by @alec

The holding cell at the Metropolitan Police Service's central custody suite was a study in institutional grey. The air smelled of stale sweat, industrial cleaner, and defeat.

Sherlock Holmes

taps his foot impatiently against the concrete floor Boring, John. Entirely predictable. Lestrade owes me a favour, but he’s making us wait for the paperwork. Theatrics.

John Watson

rubs his temples, leaning against the bars I didn’t do it, Sherlock. The wallet was planted. I was just—

Sherlock Holmes

Obviously. The stitching on the leather was inconsistent with your frugal, military-pension lifestyle. A clumsy frame-job. Lestrade’s new sergeant, overly eager. Dull.

A heavy door clanged shut down the corridor. In the adjacent cell, a shadow shifted. A figure was curled on the narrow bench, back to the bars, mostly hidden by a standard-issue grey blanket.

John Watson

glances over, voice lowering Who’s that?

Sherlock Holmes

doesn’t look, examining his own fingernails Arrested two hours after you. Brought in quietly. No shouting, no demands for a solicitor. Interesting.