Author's Note: Okay, this is one of the ASBO stories that I promised someone last week. I don't know why that ASBO irks me so, but I can't seem to leave it alone. There is a sequel planned based on this, btw. Enjoy, and remember that reviews are love!

Friends in Embarrassing Places

John sat on a bench across the street from the City of Westminster Magistrate's Court Tuesday morning, drinking strong, black tea and wishing he were anywhere else. He'd come far too early and had a long wait ahead of him. He'd come so early in part because Sherlock was, for a wonder, sound asleep, and John was just as glad to get out the flat without having to remind his flatmate where he was going today. Not that he should have had to remind him at all. No. Common courtesy would seem dictate that the person responsible for John being given an Anti-Social Behavior Order would at least have the decency to remember that it was happening even if he didn't accept that the responsibility was his. Common courtesy and Sherlock might as well be living on different planets, however. Setting the folder containing his order to appear beside him on the bench, John leaned back and drank his tea in silent contemplation. An ASBO. He was going to be given an ASBO. It was the first time in his life he'd ever been grateful that his mother was dead. She'd have had an apoplexy over this. As it was, John knew there would be hell to pay if Harry found out. Being a drunken philanderer and leaving one's wife was apparently socially acceptable in the world of The City where Harry worked and played, but having a brother with an ASBO, well, that would just be awkward. Lips pursed, brow wrinkled, John stared down at the plastic top of his disposable, environmentally unfriendly waxed paper tea cup. That would irritate Harry as well. He snorted and closed his eyes.

"Dr. Watson?" John's head snapped up as a familiar voice spoke from just a few feet away. For a moment, John froze, wondering why Detective Inspector Lestrade would have come looking for him. Then common sense kicked back in, and he gave himself a mental shake. The magistrate's court on Horseferry Road was only a couple miles from New Scotland Yard, and loads of high profile cases were tried there. In fact, it was entirely too likely that John would run into several officers he knew today. Brilliant.

"Good morning, Inspector," he said, forcing a smile.

"Morning," Lestrade said with a far more sincere smile. "What brings you here so bright and early? You giving evidence on something?"

Lestrade moved to sit down and John hurriedly retrieved the file folder with his summons to make room for the other man. In his haste, he fumbled it, and managed to drop both the folder and his tea. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled as tea splashed the inspector's shoes. Lestrade, looking puzzled by John's flustered state, bent to help him retrieve his papers. He paused as he picked up the long, pink NCR form that had been issued to John by the Community Support Officer outside the National Antiquities Museum.

"What in the world are you doing with one… of… Dr. Watson, this had your name on it."

John flushed. "Yeah."

"It's an application for an ASBO," Lestrade said, speaking loudly in his evident surprise, causing a passerby to turn and look at them.

"I know what it is," John hissed. "Keep your voice down."

"Sorry. It's just… you?"

"If you must know, I was working a case with Sherlock and things got a little complicated."

"Naturally. What did you – "

"I didn't do anything," John said quickly, his own voice rising in his agitation. "I'll get it sorted out. It's nothing."

"This doesn't look like nothing, Dr. Watson," Lestrade said, once again scanning the application with his eyes. Then he looked at the summons John had received in the mail only days before. "This looks… "

John fought not to squirm as Lestrade trailed off. "Look, don't you have a hearing or something that you need to get to."

"What?" Lestrade asked, startled out of his contemplation of the paperwork. "Oh, yes, of course." Rising, he placed the papers back in the folder and returned it to John. He turned to go, but hesitated, then came back about to face John. "Dr. Watson, why hasn't Sherlock taken care of this? He could surely have called in a favor. It wouldn't even have been difficult when you think how many people in law enforcement owe him something."

John felt his flush darken. "I don't want any favors or special treatment," John said sternly, hoping that his own anger on that very issue wasn't leaking through and colouring every syllable. By the look of enlightenment on Lestrade's face, he feared it was.

"Oh, I see," Lestrade said, his tone proving that he did, indeed, see more than John wished. "Well, then, I'll see you later, Dr. Watson. Good luck."

John nodded and tried to smile with something akin to his normal friendliness as Lestrade walked to the corner and crossed the street, heading for the courthouse. As he made it to the other side, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan came around the corner of the building and the inspector waved her over to him. They stood close together, talking quietly for a moment and then John distinctly heard Donovan say, "An ASBO? You can't be serious!" Lestrade shushed her, and both of them glanced in his direction. John looked hastily away.

Having his criminal record gossiped about at Scotland Yard was going to be humiliating enough. John didn't need the added embarrassment of watching the rumour spread by a man he'd thought better of. Mortified, he busied himself with picking up the remains of his tea cup and tossing it in the dustbin just down the block. When he looked back, both Lestrade and Donovan were out of sight. Deciding he'd had enough fresh air – and that he'd be less likely to encounter detectives from the Murder Investigation Team in the waiting area for the ASBO magistrate, John crossed the street and hurried into the courthouse. Sometimes, life just sent you arse over elbow when you least expected it.

Lestrade paced beside the door to courtroom four as he waited for Donovan to get back from her errand. Though it felt like she was taking forever, he was confident that the DS wouldn't dawdle, not on this. She'd been as appalled as he was by the very thought of someone like Dr. Watson being issued an ASBO. She'd also, unfortunately, been rather more amused than he by Sherlock leaving his "colleague" in the lurch like this. The fact that she could get one up on Sherlock by helping Watson with his problem didn't escape Lestrade. She'd have an undeniable advantage in their next row, but, for once, the consulting detective definitely deserved whatever Donovan chose to throw at him. Though, truthfully, Dr. Watson should be the one doing the throwing. Starting with a few heavy books or boots, maybe. That might grab Sherlock's attention almost as well as a string of murders.

Lestrade wished he could just step in and speak with the magistrate on Dr. Watson's behalf himself, but it hadn't been his case that the doc had been working. It would look odd if he took steps, and the court didn't like odd. No, better by far that the DI in charge of the case should handle it, if only the young pillock would put in an appearance. He had thirty more minutes to show before Lestrade had to enter the courtroom and give evidence in his own case, and the boy had damned well better arrive before then. Still new in his rank, Dimmock could be a bit prickly and on his dignity. Lestrade had sent his sergeant hot-footed to get the man and bring him back here instantly. If necessary, he'd empowered her to remind Dimmock of the debt he owed their MIT after that the right mess they helped him out of on the Cooperton case. Donovan wasn't crazy about Dimmock, who'd been promoted into the same position she'd applied for, though Lestrade wasn't supposed to know that. Regardless, she had a number of reasons to carry out her errand with enthusiasm.

The instant that Donovan had left, Lestrade had headed straight for the clerk in charge of Magistrate Noakes' court today. She was a matronly, happily married lady of good family and a proper upbringing, and she loved nothing better than a nice, harmless little flirtation with a handsome officer. Lestrade didn't usually oblige her as he'd been rather off the pull since his last disastrous attempt at dating. But today… today the old girl had gotten a right treat. Lestrade had smiled and laughed and leaned close until she blushed. In the end, he'd gotten exactly what he wanted, and Dr. Watson's hearing had been moved from number one on the schedule to the end of the docket. That left Lestrade with two things, the time he needed and a sore backside. He hadn't known the old bird like to pinch. This was coming out of Sherlock's hide, that was a given.

Once he'd finished with the clerk, Lestrade had found himself a quiet corner and written out two full pages of notes for Dimmock. Now, it was just a waiting game. He brushed his hand through his hair, then stopped his pacing as he saw Dimmock headed straight for him. Donovan was right behind him. At a gesture from Lestrade, the DS heading into the courtroom, leaving him alone with the younger DI.

"What the hell, Lestrade?" Dimmock demanded hotly. "I was half-way done with my expenditures report when Donovan dragged me over here. She said it had something to do with the Cooperton case?"

"Not with the case, just a favor you owe me from the case."

"Oh, for God's sake, man. I was – "

Taking Dimmock by the arm, Lestrade guided him rather forcefully into a more private corner of the hall. "You are going to be giving evidence in a hearing today."

"I don't have any hearings scheduled for today," Dimmock protested.

"It's an ASBO hearing." Quickly as he could, Lestrade filled Dimmock in the details he'd gleaned from his sight of the ASBO application that Dr. Watson had dropped and his conversation with the scheduling clerk.

Dimmock snorted when he was finished. "So your trained monkey's got himself in a bit of a fix?" Dimmock said, clearly meaning Sherlock. "So what's that to do with me?"

"No, not my trained monkey," Lestrade corrected icily. "My trained monkey's friend, and you're to sort it out."

"Why?"

"Because he got into this trouble working your murder case, the one you didn't even realise was a murder until Sherlock and Dr. Watson pointed it out. Because he's not guilty of the offense they're accusing him of. Because he's a decent bloke who doesn't deserve this. Because he's a bloody war hero and because you owe me! You need any more compelling reasons, Detective Inspector Dimmock? Like maybe my foot up your arse?"

Dimmock rolled his eyes and waved him off. "All right, all right. Enough with the hard sell, it's not like you're trying to get me to marry the blighter. What do you want me to do?"

Lestrade pulled out his hastily scrawled notes and handed them to Dimmock. The other DI scanned them and scoffed. "You want me to say all this? Cor!"

"Why not? It's true isn't it?"

"For you, maybe."

"It's all true," Lestrade insisted pointedly.

"Fine! Fine," Dimmock agreed, "but this clears all debts. No more calling in favors because of the Cooperton case."

"Agreed."

John sat up straight on his bench and waited quietly for his turn on the docket. He'd hoped he would be called early, the better to avoid Sherlock noticing his absence and raising awkward questions. His luck wasn't in, however, and he sat watching others get called forward to face the magistrate for offenses from public drunkenness and loitering to shoplifting and graffiti. He'd met briefly with his duty solicitor – he wasn't fool enough to try and represent himself – but the state-appointed solicitor didn't hold out much hope. Apparently, only something like three percent of the ASBOs applied for by the police were turned down by the courts. If you were written up, you were pretty much assumed to be guilty regardless of what the law said. His questions about proving his innocence had been met with a weary, "Not a chance." With the evidence against him, all the solicitor seemed to think John could hope, for based on his service record and previous lack of criminal activity, was a prohibition again purchasing spray paint and a restraining order preventing him from entering the vicinity of the National Antiquities Museum. Brilliant. He could just see his picture now, photocopied onto an ASBO and hanging up behind the guard's kiosk in the museum lobby. Bloody brilliant. And that was if he was lucky… when had he ever been lucky? Worse, his duty solicitor was representing a few of the other people present, and John had not been encouraged by what he'd seen of the man's skill or efforts thus far. It looked far too much like just another day at the office to him. In a word, John was buggered.

Thoroughly disheartened, bored, and trying not to grind his teeth with frustration and anxiety, John looked around at the other people waiting as his spirits sank. Maybe, he thought, he could distract himself by deducing, Sherlock Holmes style, why his fellow citizens were there. Still waiting for their turns before the magistrate were an older gentleman who looked ready to start spitting nails any moment, two women in their twenties shifting nervously in their seats and playing with their smart phones – texting each other the voice in his head announced. It sounded remarkably like Sherlock as it added look how they keep darting looks at each other and not quite smiling every time they pause in their typing. Not sisters, too genetically dissimilar. Friends who got caught being naughty together. They're young, not affluent judging by their clothing, and they look too healthy to be doping. Shoplifters. Shaking his head, John told the voice to go hang, and gave up on deducing his fellow citizens' crimes. If he was innocent, after all, maybe they were too. Besides, the rest of the mob was made up of adolescents, that group split about equally amongst the frightened, the defiant and the sullen. Boring… and pathetic.

When his name was finally called, John listened to the Crown prosecutor introduce the case, listened in irritation as his solicitor made a token effort to deny the charges and then gave his own evidence in a clear and calm voice, standing straight and looking at Magistrate Noakes with a respectful but unflinching and unrepentant, gaze. He'd been told to act as if he were sorry, but he wasn't going to pretend to a guilt he didn't own. Damn his own pride. He should just grovel a little, plead PTSD and try to play on the magistrate's sympathies, but he was damned if he would… and apparently damned since he wouldn't. Things seemed to be going exactly as the solicitor had predicted until the Magistrate asked him if he any final evidence to present in his own defense. John was just about to say a resigned, "No, sir," when a voice from behind him spoke up.

"If I may address the bench, your worship?"

John turned sharply, startled to see DI Dimmock standing just behind him in the gallery. He turned back about and saw that Magistrate Noakes was also regarding the magically appearing DI with some surprise. "Detective Inspector Dimmock, I was unaware that you were involved this minor matter. Have you some evidence to give? The crown has already presented its case, and this is most irregular."

"Yes, your worship," Dimmock said respectfully. "I know it is, but I only just found out about this hearing. I do have testimony to give on behalf of the accused."

"Oh?"

"If I may speak before you render your verdict?"

The magistrate sighed and tapped contemplatively at the keys of his laptop before making a note by hand in the ledger before him. "It is irregular, but if the Crown prosecutor has no objection?" he said, his rising tones making it a question.

The prosecutor stood. "The Crown sees no problem with hearing DI Dimmock's testimony, sir."

"Does the defense have any objection?"

The duty solicitor glanced at John for guidance, and John shook his head adamantly. "No, sir. No objection. We are delighted to hear DI Dimmock's evidence," the solicitor said pleasantly.

"Very well. Proceed, Detective Inspector Dimmock. You may be seated again, Mr. Watson." John quickly resumed his seat while the DI took his place in the witness stand.

"Thank you, your worship," Dimmock said, nodding to the magistrate. "You see, sir, at the time he was taken into custody by a Police Community Support Officer, Dr. Watson was actually working as a consultant on a murder case I was investigating." Dimmock went on to explain the nature of the case, the end result and how instrumental John had been in helping to end the violence, including the information that he, himself, was targeted by the criminals involved because of his assistance to the police. John's eyes widened more with every word. The picture Dimmock was painting was technically accurate, but perhaps a bit rose-coloured. He, frankly, didn't recall being all that much help. He'd mostly gotten himself coshed, kidnapped and kept prisoner while Chinese thugs threatened his date. And it had been their first date too…

John shook off his embarrassment and tried to focus on Dimmock's testimony. When Magistrate Noakes questioned what bearing all of that had on the charge of defacement of public property, Dimmock explained that John had been speaking with a street contact whose reprehensible conduct was nevertheless invaluable in ultimately solving the case. "The gentleman Dr. Watson was speaking to was an expert on graffiti, and it was his information that allowed Dr. Watson to assist us in cracking the cipher. When he saw the PCSO coming, this man ran, literally leaving Dr. Watson holding the bag. I am certain, however, that the Crown will find that Dr. Watson's fingerprints are not present on any of the canisters of spray paint that were confiscated at the scene, and that no particles of spray paint were evident on his clothing or person."

"Is this true?" the magistrate demanded, turning a stern and inquiring gaze on the prosecution.

"It is true, sir," the Crown prosecutor conceded. "However, Mr. Watson was wearing gloves at the time, and the lack of fingerprints was not considered proof of his innocence, especially as he was found holding one of the canisters."

"Which he was examining because of the use of spray paint by the assailant in my case," Dimmock put in hastily. "I can assure the court that Dr. Watson, in addition to being a veteran and a war hero, is an honest, law abiding citizen who was doing his best to assist the police in solving a string of murders related to a quite serious international smuggling operation. His help was so invaluable that Dr. Watson was, himself, subsequently targeted by the smugglers, abducted from his home and nearly killed. He is not a criminal. He is a public spirited citizen who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I can provide the Crown with the names of several other officers with the Yard who would be pleased to vouch for Dr. Watson."

"And what is the basis of Mr. Watson's work with Scotland Yard?"

Dimmock hesitated for a moment, and John felt himself squirming internally, suddenly wondering if Magistrate Noakes had ever crossed paths with Sherlock and, if so, what galvanic effect the mention of his flatmate's name might have. When Dimmock finally spoke, however, Sherlock's name was never mentioned. "Dr. Watson is consulted as a medical expert, especially in the matter of violent death as he was with the RAMC in Afghanistan. His general military knowledge has also proven valuable, and he sometimes works with a colleague who consults on forensic evidence in general."

The magistrate's eyes narrowed, and he turned his sharp gaze on John. "Mr. Watson, if all this is true, why didn't you show your identification to the CSO who took you into custody?"

John rose to his feet and reflexively stood to attention. "I did, sir."

"You showed PCSO Parker identification naming you as a police consultant?"

John shook his head. "No, sir. I don't have anything like that, sir."

The magistrate turned his narrowed eyes back on Dimmock who braced under the glare. "Detective Inspector Dimmock, why hasn't Dr. Watson been provided with suitable identification?" John blinked, startled by the magistrate's use of his medical title. Magistrates almost never used titles of respect when discussing the accused in court.

"His consultancy is of a recent nature owing to his having just recovered from injuries sustained while working with the RAMC, sir," Dimmock explained – fabricated, John thought honestly. "It has also been on something of a provisional basis, a trial period if you will."

"I see. From what you have told this bench, it sounds as though the provisional nature of Dr. Watson's work is at an end." The magistrate said wryly. "If he is really such an invaluable asset, I would strongly suggest, Detective Inspector Dimmock, that Dr. Watson be provided with appropriate identification immediately so that we might avoid such misunderstandings in the future, misunderstandings which must be extremely awkward and uncomfortable for a veteran such as Dr. Watson and which waste this court's valuable time."

"I'll see to it, your worship," Dimmock agreed instantly.

"See that you do. Now, unless there is some further objection from the prosecution, the Crown hereby drops all charges against Dr. John Hamish Watson."

"No objections, sir," the prosecutor agreed with a tolerant amusement. He'd no doubt seen it all before and couldn't have cared less about the final outcome.

"Excellent. You are free to go, Dr. Watson."

"Thank you, sir!" John said, stunned at this strange turn of events. As he turned to leave, he heard the magistrate add, "And congratulations on your recent promotion to inspector, Detective Inspector Dimmock."

"Thank you, your worship," he heard Dimmock say before the doors of the courtroom had entirely closed behind him. Relieved beyond words, and confused beyond comprehension, John hurried outside. The moment he was out of the building, he turned his mobile phone back on. There were six text messages waiting for him. He didn't need to look to know who'd sent them. He was about to hail a cab when someone tapped him on the back. Turning, he found himself looking into the eyes of Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.

"So, how'd it go?" she asked with barely contained glee. He was on the verge of answering when his mobile beeped again. Another text. He looked down at the screen.

MILK NOT A SUITABLE MEDIUM AFTER ALL

BRING CARO SYRUP

John huffed out a laugh, wondering what the devil Sherlock was on about.

"Ignore the freak," Sally said, taking him by the arm. "I'm buying you a late lunch. Tell me exactly how it went? Lestrade will want details on how Dimmock managed."

"You lot set this up?" John said, not entirely surprised but still baffled by why they'd done it.

"Of course. Didn't think we'd abandon you, did you?" John's pursed his lips and said nothing as Sally walked him toward a nearby sandwich shop. "So, have you tried fishing yet?" she asked cheerfully. "I bet it's looking pretty tempting right about now."

John laughed despite himself. "I hate fishing."