So here is a fic I wrote back in the good ol' days (November). Ah, those were the times…anyway, here it is. If anyone is a teeny bit interested I might post some more of it. Thanks for taking a gander!

The pub was dull, smoky and loud. It gave service to exactly the type of people expected; dull, smoky, and…and loud. It wasn't the grandest pub in London, nor was it the cheapest, or one that sold quite the best drinks. Its food was best represented by the expressions on the customers' faces following a bite; a polite nod, and a bit of a wince. But, it was fairly close to Baker Street. And it was friendly. And John Watson was fond of it.

He pushed open the door, bringing with him a gush of sleet scented wind that caused one girl to flash him a dirty look, pulling up her sandaled feet. John didn't even bother to give her a look back; he'd long passed the point where he tried to make sense of some women's reactions, so it didn't irk him that she'd somehow expected him to teleport through the door. Or the fact that she was wearing sandals in late November.

Plus, he'd tried giving women Looks before. They didn't work. At least, not when he attempted them. Though he could always count on them as a dependable and consistent method for securing a night on the couch.

But that's not what you're supposed to think about, is it, John? he reminded himself. No, it wasn't. As of yesterday, those shameful, couch bedecked nights were behind him. And he was right pleased. Not quite as pleased as he would have been if it was actually him that did the breaking up, but pleased enough. He was the one that had started the fight, anyway. That was something. Not a massive something, but a something nonetheless.

John shook his head and sat himself on a stool, twirling to rest his arms on the counter. It wouldn't have worked out. If it wasn't then, it would have been another night, over an issue as equally trivial. The fight had been simply because she'd yet again inadequately cleaned the back of the dishes. John had made a point of showing her this time, holding up a plate and showcasing the criminal smear of peanut butter and jam on the bottom.

She'd frowned, crossed her arms, and flatly denied responsibility.

John had continued standing there, holding the plate like a protest sign, and stared at her in disbelief. In fact, that moment was probably when John attempted a Look of his own. It would explain the row that followed, at any rate.

But if she'd known John—which she should have, considering it would have been their four month anniversary in a week—she would have known that if there was one thing that John prided himself on, it was his absolute dedication to cleaning dishes thoroughly. It was a habit that had grown in his youth and cultivated during his time in the army. Though, there it was more then military precision—living out of tents in Afghanistan meant only those skilled at dishwashing would escape a mouthful of sand come mealtime.

Understandably, then, a pet peeve high on his personal list was slipshod dishwashing. To see a cup with residue on the bottom in the cupboard or a spoon with a coffee drip circle in the cutlery drawer was enough to make him grind his teeth. John had had plenty of experience with this peeve, given the fact that a certain past flatmate was absolutely flawless at leaving at least one undesirable something on every dish he "washed", unless it happened to be a beaker or graduated cylinder.

But you're not supposed to think of that either, are you.

John shook his head again, and rubbed his face with a cold hand. And nearly ripped half of the skin off his forehead when a foghorn voice boomed nearby.

"Ah, he's back! John!"

The sweaty barman lumbered over, carrying two glasses in a large hand and grinning, a gap visible where he'd lost an incisor to the elbow of a flailing drunkard. His moss green shirt with Peggy's embroidered over the pocket was taut over a sizable midsection, and sported its usual damp areas that showed his lack of patience in finding a towel to dry his hands, despite the fact it was usually hooked over his shoulder. The dim light from above shone on the apple-sized patch of baldness on the crown of his head.

"Hey, Vern." John flashed a smile, though surreptitiously rubbing his forehead. "How're you?"

"Not bad, not bad at all." He stuck one of the glasses under a beer tap. "How's the lady?"

"Ah…taking a break, actually."

"That's too bad, Johnny. I kinda liked her." Vern sent the beer John's way; he'd been anticipating this and stopped it deftly, learned after the first few times Vern had caught him off guard and the beer continued all the way off the counter.

"Vern, you like any girl who smiles at you."

"Well hey, you know what they say. Smile's the gateway to the soul."

"I'm quite sure it's the eyes that are the gateway to the soul."

"Well, that ain't right," Vern said indignantly. "I've met plenty of blind blokes, and I wouldn't say any lack a soul. And my sister 'n law's got twenty twenty vision. So there's your theory right out the window, mate."

John chuckled. He'd gotten to know the barman—and most of the barmaids—quite well in the past couple of years. They'd become almost like…well, perhaps not family. Maybe the family that one would see once in awhile at a Christmas party—perhaps the similar feel lies within the copious amounts of alcohol involved in both settings. But John liked them all, generally, and he and Vern had become friends.

In fact, Vern had been the one around him when he'd bottomed out; that one night, where he'd stopped pouring John drinks after he began arguing with the beer taps. Vern then allowed him to slump over onto the counter and sleep until closing, after which he'd been kind enough to lug John into the street, hail a cab, and repeatedly tap his forehead until he was awake enough to mumble his sister's address.

Vern plodded off to take an order, and John drank his beer slowly, surveying the pub. It was a "regulars" pub, as he liked to call them. Quite a few people were regulars; at least half. The other half would either have to be like the regulars and find something charming enough about the pub to be worthwhile to them, or odds are they wouldn't come back.

John didn't know any of the normal crowd by name, but he knew them on sight. Sitting at one of the worn maple tables was the man in a tweed coat and matching hat, picking at some limp onion rolls with a perpetually gloomy air. Across the room at another table was the couple that always seemed to bring their deck of cards and play cribbage, despite the noise. There was the loud group of laughing men playing a never ending game of pool, the woman with the green coat and laptop who's defining expression was frustration, the bloke with the red hair who had only recently began showing up again, the woman with poorly dyed black hair who seemed to have a different man every night…there were more, many more, but John chose this as his cue to turn back around, since surveying a crowd for extended periods doesn't exactly make a man look normal.

John's phone buzzed; he pulled it out of his jacket pocket and checked the text. Greg. Fancy a pint later in the week? Tough case.

Too bad. Yeah, sure, I get off my shift at six on Friday. You bringing anyone?

Might bring the wife. You bring Cheryl?

Probably not. Had a bit of a tiff.

Really? Sorry mate.

It's fine. Bring Janet, though. I'll sit by a girl here, she can stare drunkenly at her drink and I'll pretend she's my date.

Ha.

Alright, good luck with the case. Just let me know when for this week.

Ta. Will do.

Lestrade was another friend that John hadn't expected to make. Of course, they'd been friendly before, but in the past few years he'd gotten to know him better. So well, in fact, that John was surprised that he was bringing his wife. Not that John had anything against her, but he knew for a fact that they hadn't been seeing eye to eye lately. Maybe they'd worked whatever it was out. Again.

John slipped his phone back in his pocket and stretched, glancing at the television screen above the bar. The news; muted. Then, as though it had been reading his mind, it flashed to a face he knew.

John grinned, though it wasn't an image he should really have been grinning at. A crime scene, with a body lying on the ground, loosely covered by a white sheet. It was just that Lestrade looked so completely tired of the day, and had not hesitated to shoot a "come on, really?" look at the camera.

John looked round, still grinning, but toned it down a bit when he saw a man staring at him. "Just a…just a friend." he clarified quickly. "On the telly."

"Under the sheet?" the man asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief. He was the man with the ginger hair and beard; a regular. John hadn't seen him in a few months, but he'd been in and out for years. So it was possible that he'd witnessed John at some of his none too shining moments—perhaps even that one night he got utterly plastered—and was now watching him apparently laugh at his mate dead under a sheet. This needed to be straightened out.

"No, no, the inspector. Greg." Why it was necessary to tell him the name, John had no idea. Awkwardly, he took a massive gulp of lager and promptly choked on it.

The man smiled politely, if not a little relieved. He looked at the screen as well. "Killed by gunshot to the head."

"Yeah?" John wiped his watering eyes.

"Yes. Similar case where I come from."

"Where're you from?" John asked, taking a much more careful sip of his pint. Judging by the man's almost musical accent, he was from somewhere in Wales.

"Dublin."

John did a mental double take. He never claimed to be a speech analyst, but he did know an Irish accent. All too well, he thought. And this man did not have an Irish accent.

The man smiled again, presumably at John's confused expression, and took his glasses off to clean with a napkin. John wondered if it did any good, from what he saw they were scratched to the point that he was impressed the man could see at all. "Not native, of course, I moved there about five years ago for work." His voice was light, almost nasally, and pleasant. But John saw a bit of something in the man's dark eyes before he put his glasses back on; they were flickering, almost flighty, as though the man was a little wary of the world around him.

"What's your line?" John asked, trying to sound offhand and not overly pushy.

"Inspector."

"Ah. So, when you mean you had a similar case…"

"One I worked on, yes." The man turned back to the front. John stared at the side of his head, surprised at the sudden end of conversation.

"I'm John." Might as well continue being friendly. This man didn't look the type to offer much without being prompted.

The man glanced back at him. He seemed to debate for a long moment, as though deciding whether John was worth wasting his name on. He looked forward again before answering. "Steve."

"Pleasure."

The man—Steve—furrowed his brow, just a bit, as if wondering what exactly John was heading towards.

John smiled again, and silently wondered if he was becoming creepy.

The man took a drink of his pint, staring straight ahead.

John turned forward as well, but kept up a string of subtle glances. With attention no longer on him, John found himself studying the man out the corner of his eye, subconsciously analyzing him, a leftover habit he had yet to shake. Left hand; ring, married. Nothing spectacular, a simple gold band. Wonderful, John, you have advanced to the level that is usually occupied by five year olds. What else. His nails were immaculate; either he scrubbed them regularly, or he rarely used his hands for dirty jobs. Although that pretty much went with him being an inspector, as they never seemed to paw through dirtying things like human remains without gloves on.

His face, in profile, wasn't anything astounding. Large nose supporting thick glasses, the visible parts of skin not covered by beard or hair were ruddy, looking almost sunburned. Late forties to early fifties, most likely, considering the slight greying of the beard. Heavy build, fairly tall going by the bend of his legs, overall not the type John would fancy meeting in a dark alley.

John moved his eyes down to the man's clothes. Simple slacks, heavy dark blue jacket. It was dry, so either he'd come earlier in the day when the sky had been a forbidding but not yet storming grey, or he'd simply been here long enough for the jacket to dry. The slacks, neatly pressed, suggested that he had probably just gotten off work. But then, that didn't seem right, going by what he said he'd have to have come from Ireland. Come from Ireland just to go to Peggy's? No, not right at all. Some would barely think it worthwhile to come from the other side of the street.

So he's a snappy dresser, John. Absolutely astounding.

John went back to the telly. It was showing a commercial for painter's tape.

"Another, John?" Vern slapped his dishcloth on the counter, making John jump about a foot.

"Ah, sure, why not." He knocked back the last of his glass and slid it to him.

"Anything exciting at the clinic today, Johnny?" Vern stuck the empty glass under the counter and brought out a fresh one.

John took a moment to think. "A small child was brought in wailing, the mother hysterical. Turns out there was a small bug that he'd accidentally smooshed on his sleeve. He wasn't hurt at all, he just didn't like bugs."

"Ha!" Vern slid the new beer to John, after proudly skimming off the head of foam with the back of a plastic knife. "But nothing could top that woman that claimed she had worms in her skull, hey?"

"She was in a right state. Nasty case of lice, though." John sipped at his beer.

"I'll say! Soon I won't have to worry 'bout that meself." Vern rubbed his head and let out a bellow of laughter, throwing the knife over his shoulder into the sink. A barmaid who was passing by shot him a dirty look as it whizzed past her head.

"You work in a clinic?" a Welsh accent asked curiously.

John turned to…what was it…Steve. "I do, yes. Across town."

"Doctor?"

"Yeah."

"Where did you train?"

"St Bart's."

The man looked surprised. "I have some colleagues who work there. Do you know Bob Raymond?"

Considering he'd only spent two very brief stints there after returning from Afghanistan, John was lucky to remember the name of the receptionist. "Not to my knowledge. I don't work there anymore, as a matter of fact."

"Oh, too far from where you live?"

John shifted uncomfortably. From freezing up after a simple name exchange, Steve was becoming positively chatty. "No, it's quite close, actually. But a bit of bad blood there. Got in a fight with some people. I like working at a smaller place, anyway; more personal. Less wait for the microwave."

The man's mouth twitched into a half grin. He scratched his bearded chin absently. "Shame, though, isn't it? Having to travel all the way across the city?"

John shrugged. "A jobs a job. What about you, then? You said you worked in Ireland, yet you're sitting in a London pub. Bit of a commute."

The man turned back to his drink. He looked suddenly melancholy. "I…I got into an argument a while back. With my wife. I thought I'd take a break, come to London, help with a few cases here, which I do once in awhile anyway. Been here a couple of months."

"Sorry to hear that. I'm in a similar state, though I'm pretty sure mine's permanent."

He looked back up. "I'm sorry."

John waved it off with his hand. "No, it's fine. It was right time."

The man looked at him for a long moment, and John wondered if it sounded as though he was forcing himself to seem like he didn't care, when in reality he cried himself to sleep every night. He sincerely hoped not.

"So…" John cleared his throat and waved his hand again, towards the TV. "What's the story here? My friend had said it was a tough one."

Steve glanced at the screen. "From what information I gathered back home…it was a head shot, from a distance, with either a powerful pistol or a sniper rifle. Far enough away to make the bullet difficult to track, given the winds we've been having. It's also far enough to be impersonal." He shrugged. "That's what they say, anyway."

"So it was, what, a professional killing? An assassination?"

"Could be. Given the far shot and the accuracy, it would have been quite the professional."

John glanced at the screen again. In the back of his mind, he felt the slightest tremor of excitement, of the old curiosity. But then, of course, he snapped back to Earth; he wasn't going to be able to help on this one, on any one. Not anymore.

Steve drank the last of his beer. "I was going to take a look at the crime scene. Similar one as at home, and from what I heard this man was Irish."

"The dead man?"

"Yes."

"Huh…" John glanced at the screen again; detergent. Then back to the news. It started giving a recap on the case. This time, John recognised more then a stressed Lestrade. "Right on Gloucester, that's not far from where I live!"

He hadn't been expecting an answer; he was half talking to himself, after all. But Steve looked up in the act of pulling on his gloves. "Not far from here, either. In answer to your question on why I'm in this London pub, it's because I was passing time before heading to the scene." He slid the stool back and stood.

"What, right now?" John glanced outside, surprised; it was already dark out.
"Yes, most of the crowd should be gone by now. I don't like working with an audience. Did you walk here?"

John laughed. "Not much of a walker at the best of times, but on a night like this? I took a cab." John glanced outside, at the people walking fast, collars put up and hands tightening jackets and scarves. No longer sleeting, but still below zero with an umbrella snatching wind. Might as well. "You know, if you're heading to Gloucester anyway, did you want to share a cab?"

Steve looked up. "We're going to different places."

"Yes, well, I suppose I could stop, say hi to my friend before I go." Maybe take a peek at the scene. John had to admit that he couldn't quash allhis curiosity.

"Well, I suppose that's sensible," he said, sniffing. "You ever been on a crime scene?"

John blinked and stared up at Steve, who was busy zipping up the jacket to his chin. "I did help on a couple of them, years ago."

"Really?" he said, sounding surprised. "Work with the victims?"

"Not so much of the doctoring. I actually helped with the investigation." "Helped" might have been a tad of an exaggeration, but John figured what Steve didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and certainly wouldn't hurt his own impression.

"Is that right?" Steve smiled, and threw a few quid on the counter. "In that case, you could probably look around the scene before you go."

"Is that okay?" John asked, startled.

"Well, I'm assuming. You're a doctor, you've worked at scenes before, and friends with the Detective Inspector. As long as you don't step on evidence or spill coffee on the body, it'll be fine. And I might need someone to show me around this part of London."