"Welcome, welcome," said the coin collector, a white-haired, wrinkly old fellow. He lived on the first floor of a cramped apartment complex. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Holmes." Even his voice sounded wrinkly.

"Mr. Garrideb. This is my colleague, Dr. Watson."

"How do you do?" I said.

"Ah, yes," the old man smiled. He hobbled inward and we followed. The kitchen and entryway of the flat were normal, and I was starting to wonder why Sherlock had found this case interesting at all when we entered the living room. Glass cases hung on the walls, the tables were filled, books stood on shelves, velvet holders on a desk- all of coins.

"My collection," Garrideb said, "I do take some pride in it."

"And rightfully so," said Sherlock, examining a rust-colored, square-shaped specimen framed above the couch. "It is all very impressive."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," the old man lowered himself into a chair.

I took the small notebook from my pocket and sat on the couch opposite Mr. Garrideb. "Exactly what is it that's troubling you, Mr. Garrideb?"

"Oh," he smiled, "it's hardly trouble. It's a great joy, really. My collection is an impressive one, perhaps, but still not complete. I'm missing a set of rare Spanish colonial coins, and what should happen yesterday but a fellow collector send me a letter detailing how he'd found a seller for the very set of coins that would bring my collection nearer than ever to completion."

"How convenient," Sherlock drawled. Mr. Garrideb smile even more widely.

"Most, Mr. Holmes."

I cleared my throat. "Why did this man tell you about the rare set, Mr. Garrideb? If he's a collector, too, then surely he would want the set for his own collection."

"That's the neatest part of the deal. My partner- James Winters is his name- collects a different breed of coin than I. He proposed that we go halves on the set and each take the coins most valuable to our own collections. It will work out quite nicely."

"I'm sure you think so," muttered Sherlock, who had begun to stalk around the room.

"So," I piped up, "Why have you hired Sherlock? There doesn't seem to be a problem."

Sherlock turned from his perch above a coin-filled counter to fix me with a puzzled stare. I raised my eyebrows at him.

"Unfortunately, there is. Always seems to be a catch with these sorts of things."

Sherlock turned back to the coins. "Indeed."

"Mr. Winters says that the man selling the coins has gone missing," Mr. Garrideb sighed. Sherlock cleared his throat rather violently. "He says the police have given up. So, Mr. Holmes, I've come to you. Heard you might be able to do something about it. Now, Mr. Winters wasn't too keen on the idea of having a private detective look into it; he thinks he knows where the seller's gone. Says he's in Bristol. Wants me to go there an find the bloke. But I'm not much one for unnecessary ventures out of the house. I thought I might as well ask you to look into it, just to make sure. "

"You thought correctly." Sherlock said, sit with a swoosh in the chair next to me. "Do you still have Winters's letter?"

"It's on my desk." Garrideb hobbled over to a desk I hadn't noticed before, most likely because it was buried under more glass frames filled with coins. Sherlock looped his scarf around his neck. The old man presented the letter to Sherlock, who glanced at it for hardly a second before he handed it back to its owner.

"Yes, certainly Bristol."

I scoffed. "How on earth-"

Sherlock held up his hand. "You should take Mr. Winters's advice and go to Bristol tomorrow, Mr. Garrideb. Is Mr. Winters going with you?"

"No, I'm afraid he said he had to attend his sister's birthday party or the like."

"Of course. I'm quite sure you'll find what you're looking for in Bristol, Mr. Garrideb. I would advise you to make the journey there tomorrow."

"Is there not other way? I don't like to leave the house much, gentleman. I can't say I'm thrilled with the idea of traveling to another city to try to find a man I've never met.

"We could-" I began to offer, but Sherlock cut me off.

"We couldn't go ourselves," he slipped. "How would we be able to tell if the set was a fake or not? We have not your expertise. It is the only way."

Garrideb sighed. "Well, if it must be so."

Sherlock put his hand on the door.

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Garrideb. The best of luck to you tomorrow. Oh, by the by, do you mind if I pop in an have a look at your collection sometime? I am a bit of an enthusiast myself."

"Why, certainly. I could give you a tour myself, if you like."

Sherlock pulled an exaggerated frown.

"Afraid not, Mr. Garrideb. John and I have some important business to attend to. Perhaps we could come by tomorrow, if you don't mind us popping in while you're in Bristol?"

"Fine by me, My. Holmes. I am always happy to share my collection with another enthusiast. Just have my neighbor downstairs buzz you in. I'll let her know what's-"

"Thank you, Mr. Garrideb." Sherlock whished out the door.

I stood from my seat. "Well, um, good luck, Mr. Garrideb. Let us know how it goes." I hurried down the steps and after Sherlock. He was halfway down the block by the time I caught up.

"Sherlock, what? You collect coins?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I would never be interested in such an inane disposition."

"Then, what? Why do you want to see his collection? And how did you know the seller is in Bristol just from glancing that that letter?"

Sherlock flagged down a cab. "I have some lines to look into. This case may be more dangerous than I had originally thought. I'll see you in Baker Street later. Wait up for me."

He slammed the door. The cab sped away.

Whether or not Sherlock told me to wait up for him was ultimately irrelevant when we were in the middle of a case. Even if he hadn't told me to, I'd still be awake. Especially with a case that was "more dangerous than he'd thought" and, to me at least, still entirely ambiguous. I didn't even understand why we were still on this case- Sherlock had confirmed that the seller was in Bristol- that should have been the end of the thing. I spent a while trying to draw something together from our interview with Mr. Garrideb, but ended my reflections with just as much information as I'd begun with. Then I watched some telly. It wasn't long before I was yawning and my head drooping. I dozed off at some point, then at half past one woke myself up by dropping the remote on the floor, which produced a bang loud enough to startle me into wakefulness.

How long would he have wanted me to wait up? It was damn late, but this was Sherlock, so I didn't put 1:30 in the morning past him. I should probably just go to bed. But he'd been put for hours now. And he'd said it was "more dangerous than he'd thought".

I sent him a text. And another. And some more. And then a call. Or two. Or five.

A half hour later, he hadn't replied.

I stood up, but then reminded myself to reason, not rush in. I knew nothing about where Sherlock had gone. Wandering about blindly wouldn't help. I sent Lestrade a text:

Sorry. Know it's late. You know where Sherlock is?

Twelve minutes later, after I'd paced the hell out of the carpet, my phone vibrated. The reply was filled with typos and grumpy indications of a freshly-awoken detective inspector, but It was a reply.

Talkd to him at 8. Said h needed look at old criminl files. Still yard whn I left.

I zipped up my coat and locked the door on the way out. It was only after walking a few blocks that I found a cab to hail. I sent Sherlock another text.

If you're at Yard, you're dead.

I used one of Lestrade's security cards that Sherlock had nicked to get in the Yard entrance and made my way straight to the files room. Luckily, I knew exactly where it was. Lord knows I'd spent enough time in there with Sherlock.

The room was empty.

I paced the area twice, clenching and unclenching my fists. I had no idea where he was. But that didn't mean anything had happened to him. He could just be being obstinate, normal Sherlock, and not replying to my texts. I resolved to go back to Baker Street and wait. If wasn't there by morning, I'd call Mycroft.

It had begun to rain when I left the Yard.

I heaved a breath and fell into my chair, rubbing my face in a unsuccessful attempt to push out the worry and tiredness.

Something clinked in the kitchen.

I spun around in my chair, the television remote held high.

Sherlock sipped on a cup of tea. "Not your most menacing weapon."

I stood, stepping towards him until I was fairly sure the television remote did look menacing.

"Where," I swallowed an urge to punch one of those stupid cheekbones, "Where have you been?"

"John, imitating Mycroft really does not suit you." He walked past me and sat in his chair.

"You told me to wait up."

"And so you did. My thanks. Now, I would advise you to retire, as we have an eventful-"

"You said it was dangerous, and then you told me to wait up."

"As it still has the potential to-"

"Where is your phone."

'Jacket."

I raised the remote high and then put my fist to my mouth. "Have you, possibly, taken a look at it all night?"

"You know I don't tolerate distractions when I'm working."

"I went to find you. At the Yard."

"And had little success, I would hazard."

"Probably because you wouldn't tell me where you went."

"John, what are you so disconcerted about?"

I opened my mouth. He was genuinely puzzled. The git was puzzled.

"You can't- you can't just go off on your own, not tell me where you are or what you're doing, but do tell me that it's dangerous and to wait up, and then not come back until-" I glanced at the clock, gesticulating wildly with the remote- " three in the bloody morning!"

I was half whispering, half yelling, because I, unlike some people, am respectful of others and didn't want to wake the neighbors.

"Why can't I do that?"

I strangled a shout and turned a way for a few seconds.

"Normal people," I said slowly, "get worried when their flat mates have potentially been-" I fumbled for some representation of what I though had happened to him, "kidnapped by a gang of ruffians."

"Kidnapped by a gang of ruffians? John, normal people don't get kidnapped by gangs of ruffians. Who gets kidnapped by ruffians?"

"Who doesn't respond to thirty two texts?"

"Alright. I've angered you. But I haven't been kidnapped by ruffians. I'm fine."

"I know, Sherlock."

"I'll responded to your texts form now on."

"No, you won't."

"Well, not when I'm working, no."

"Sherlock, don't worry about it. Just don't- do that again."

"Once I figure out what it is I did, I will be sure not to."

I blew out a breath.

"Maybe we should keep some of that infernal alcohol around more often." said Sherlock, hinting at a smile.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

I lumbered into the kitchen the next morning, sorely in need of four or five strong cups of coffee. Sherlock Holmes was dressed to go out and standing by the fireplace.

"Good morning," he chirped.

"Mhhm."

"There's coffee in the pot."

I raised my eyes. Indeed there was.

"Thammm." I mumbled, which was meant to be an expression of thanks.

"Um, John, if you'd like, I'm gong to wrap up that Garrideb case today. If you're not busy- If you'd like- I'm going to his apartment."

I swallowed the coffee. It was a little burnt. "When do we leave?"

"I was waiting on you."

"Let me get my coat."

Once we'd sat down in the cab, I began the customary inquiry.

"Alright, Sherlock, fess up. What's the deal with this Winters guy?"

"Come on, John,. You saw everything I did."

"And I saw, but did not observe," I said in my best imitation of Sherlock's voice. "Get on with it."

"Do you remember, five years ago, the shooting at Simpson's restaurant? Of course not. Nothing remarkable about it. I didn't remember it either. But the Yard had it on file. Man by the reputation of "Killer Evans" shoots his friend Prescott, but is able to get off with five years in jail since it was proved Prescott was the agitator. A month earlier, hundreds of online bank accounts were hacked and nearly ten thousand pounds stolen. Police said it was caused by a computer virus, but they couldn't trace it. Never did, but the hacking stopped.

Now, John, besides that he is a coin collector, what did Mr. Garrideb tell us about himself?"

"Um, he doesn't get out much?"

"Precisely. And what coin collector offers to go halves with someone on the coin collection deal of the century? I'm sure you'll agree the bit about the missing seller was a bit far fetched from the start.

"So the seller's fake. Someone's trying to get Garrideb out of the way?"

"But why? Because, five years ago, Prescott lived in the same apartment that Mr. Garrideb lives in now. That's all I'll tell you of the matter for now. We've got more important business. Time to have a look at this coin collection."

Sherlock pressed the intercom.

I scoffed. "You're not a coin collector, Sherlock. Are you?"

A woman's voice emanated from the speaker. "Hello?"

Sherlock shuffled his feet. "Hi, I'm a friend of Mr. Garrideb's. He said you could buzz me in? I'm to have a look at his coin collection.

The muffled voice returned, "Yeah, he mentioned you. Come on up."

The neighbor let us in, smiled, and left. Sherlock took a stroll among the glass cases, peering in at the ancient entities.

"Alright," I stopped in the middle of the room. "what are we doing?"

"Over here, John, we should be able to fit in this corner and still have a nice view."

Sherlock herded me to the far corner of the room, where he pushed me behind a large bookshelf and then squeezed in himself from the other side. He parted two books in the middle in the middle of the shelf, creating a small line of vision.

"Really, Sherlock."

"Wait, John. Just wait. Shh."

So I waited. I was staring to feel my muscles seize up when the door handle turned and the door creaked open. Sherlock leaned over to gaze through the opening in the books.

I could see about half of the room, A young, light-haired fellow had come in, scanning the area to make sure it was empty. Sherlock had picked a good spot. He couldn't see us. The young guy bent down in the middle of the room and pulled a hammer from his coat. With a few swift wrenches, a board was pried from the floor and the man reached down into the cavity below the floor. His hands returned with a shoebox, which he set gingerly on the floor. As he grasped the lid, Sherlock tapped my arm and sprung from behind the bookcase. I followed right behind. We trained our guns on the man . He lifted his hands from the box, at first with surprise and dismay, and then with a weary smile.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I guess you have me beat. You saw through me and-"

In an instant he had whipped out a pistol from his coat and fired off two shots. A red hot pain seared into my thigh. I had a vision of Sherlock bringing the butt of his gun down on the man's head, and I thought it was probably better he hadn't shot, because with his aim, he'd have missed.

Then Sherlock had his hands under my arms and was leading me to a chair.

"You're not hurt, John? Are you hurt?"

"I'm not. It's a scratch, really."

Sherlock took the key to our flat from his pocket and ripped a hole in pant leg.

"Sherlock, really, those are nice pants."

"You're right." he breathed a sigh. The bullet had scraped a good chunk of skin off my leg, but luckily found the wall behind me a better place to lodge itself than my muscle tissue. "Quite superficial." He swiveled to face the man on the floor, rubbing his head. "It's just as well for you. If you'd killed John you wouldn't leave this room alive. Now what do you have to say for yourself?"

Apparently he had nothing to say from himself save a moan. Sherlock kicked open the shoebox, his gun still on the man.

"Killer Evans, John, alias James Winters. Serial criminal. What's this, now?"

Evans frowned at the shoe box.

"Fine," said Sherlock. "Doesn't happen to be a computer virus that hacks online bank accounts, does it?"

Evans glared at my friend. "We were going to get rich. We'd only tested it once- by God did it work- before we got in that tussle and I shot him. He was the aggressor, you know."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you."

"He was," growled Evans," besides, I've done my time."

"That does not justify your additional criminal activities."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, reall-"

"Sherlock," I snapped, and the two of them glared at me. "So sorry to interrupt the debate, but would mind getting me a towel?" I gestured at my leg, which despite being 'quite superficial' (Sherlock would call anything short of decapitation "superficial") was bleeding with the gall of a real wound; and which I was keen to staunch rather than listening to a pair of ten-year-olds argue.

"Oh," Sherlock said. "Right, necessary to stop the bleeding. I'll find one." He disappeared through another door.

I raised my gun at Evans. "Don't even think about it."

Sherlock returned quickly with a towel, which I tied around my leg. I called Lestrade, Sherlock argued a bit more with Evans, and then a few police officers led him out.

Sherlock looked over at me.

"Don't think Garrideb will want this towel back," I smiled a little, standing up with a little trouble.

"We should go to the hospital."

I hesitated for a second, just a second, and it cost me my argument.

"Don't try to prevaricate, John, you know that it isn't a talent of yours."

"Oh, shut up."

"Surely a cut like that needs stitches."

I sighed. "Yes."

"Then it's settled."

"We're going to have to wait a while."

"I don't mind."

It turned out that we didn't actually have to wait that long. Apparently limping in to A&E with a bloody towel wrapped around your thigh gives you fairly high priority. They stitched it up and gave me some painkillers. Sherlock sat in the waiting room, his chin in his coat collar.

"Good as new," I said.

I spent the remainder of the night watching crap telly with my feet up. Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, I assumed performing some eclectic experiment with the jar of fungus he'd been keeping in the freezer for the past week.

A teapot howled.

"Sherlock? Are you…making tea?"

He appeared a few seconds later with a tray, to my astonishment, laden with a plate of noodles and cup of tea. To further the whole spectacle, he stopped in front of the couch and held out the offering to me.

I looked up at him. "No, I will not be your test subject."

He scoffed. "No, it's not-"

"And I don't want any painkillers . If you've ground some up into there-"

"They're on the table, where you left them, unopened."

I swiveled my head around. So they were.

"You made dinner? And tea?"

"You have suggested I do something similar in the past."

"No, it's great. Wonderful. Thanks, then."

Sherlock glanced at me sideways. "You're welcome."

I took a bite of the noodles (which were undercooked and overwhelmingly endowed with parmesan) and returned my attention to the television. Sherlock sat in his chair across from me.

"I'm not dying, by the way. As nice as this was, you don't have to wait on me."

"Consider it returning the favor."

We watched a few more minutes of a lady trying to find her long-lost ex-husband (Sherlock providing commentary: "No, you're missing everything of importance." "That's not a lead!" "Smell the carpet. The carpet.")

"I think I'll write up the Garrideb case," I said.

Sherlock grunted in disinterest. Then his head snapped towards me. "The facts, John, are what make this case an interesting one. I suppose it has some warrant simply because of its outré qualities. Just the facts."

"It's a blog, Sherlock."

"If you romanticize this like your other cases-"

"Would you hand me my laptop?"

Sherlock stopped in mid sentence, then settled into a smirk. "I thought I didn't have to wait on you."

"Don't be a git."

He continued to smirk. "Patience, John."

"I won't be invalided forever, Sherlock."

"I'm sure it will be worth the wait."

A/N: Here's a possibly non-exhaustive list of canon references in this story, if anyone's interested:

The "Dutch cruise ship" vaguely references The Dutch steamship Friesland, mentioned in "The Noorwood Builder" as a case that nearly cost both Holmes and Watson their lives.

John is relieved the bullet missed the wounded man's subclavian artery, because the shot he took in Afghanistan "grazed the subclavian artery."

The nineteenth century criminal Sherlock mentions, when John asks about arrack, who attempts to rob a bank under the cover of a secret society of redheads, is a half reference to "The Red-Headed League."

The brand of arrack Sherlock and John drink is "Giant Rat" and Mycroft says the drink was imported from Sumatra. "The Giant Rat of Sumatra" was a case mentioned in passing in "The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire" as "a story for which the world is not yet prepared."

John says something about his experience over three continents, which originates from the notorious line in SIGN about Watson's "experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents".

Sherlock's drunken rambling about flying over the city and looking into people's houses is nabbed from "A Case of Identity".

James Winters was one of Killer Evans's "real" names.

In the cab on the way to Garrideb's apartment, John mocks one of Holmes's oft-used lines: "You see, but you do not observe."

The "Simpson's Restaurant" that Sherlock mentions was a favorite restaurant of Holmes and Watson.

The entire Garrideb case is heavily based on "The Adventure of the Three Garridebs".