Title: Routine Procedure
Rating: K
Summary: A meeting at a broken-down red telephone box. Sherlock needs to make a call and Harry's just trying to get to work.
Genre: General/Humor
Word Count: 735

A/N: A Tumblr anon asked me for fic where older!Harry runs into Sherlock. It was supposed to be a quick little thing, just a few sentences, but I kind of went off...

Routine Procedure

"Six-two-four-four-two."

Sherlock spun around, hand still clutching the earpiece, fingers in the dial. "Pardon?"

"Six-two-four-four-two. They haven't changed it. I suppose you're new?" The man was smiling at him pleasantly. Mid thirties, green eyes, an alarmingly ancient pair of glasses, hair that hadn't seen a brush in a week, two — no, three — children of about preteen age, comfortably married, oatmeal for breakfast, not out of breath so he didn't live far, on his way to work judging by the newspaper under his arm and the rather interesting formal wear.

Sherlock eyed the man's attire. To any other person he supposed it would have easily passed on the busy streets of London, but then, other people tended not to use their eyes and brains in tandem. He ran a mental search for any occupations that may allow (or, God forbid, require) their employees to wear robes — real, actual robes, and John kept telling him how inappropriate it would be to wear his robe outside the house, how lazy it would be, well — and the only time people ever seriously wore pocket watches were in theatrical performances or if one's name was Mycroft Holmes. But this man was smiling at him: there was no way he could be in politics, and he hardly looked a thespian with an apparently regular day job, going by the man's easy composure it looks like this is a routine habit for him, so what kind of occupation, what kind of man — ?

"Mate," the stranger said, looking wary. "You all right?"

Sherlock didn't bother replying. He spun back around to the box and tried the number again. Damn his phone for running out of battery, damn John for having to be so compassionate and caring and boring and requesting for more hours at the hospital that morning and being unable to offer Sherlock his phone for use, damn Lestrade for making him run goose chases all over Central London, damn the outmoded British phone box for not upgrading their systems to send and receive texts —

"The number you have dialed is not currently in service. Please try again."

"That's the seventh time I've entered it you, blasted machine, don't make me take you apart — "

"Oh," the man said behind him in a sharp little gasp. "You're a Mu — er — you don't work here, do you?"

Work here. That again. Like Sherlock was "new." And they "hadn't changed" the numbers. Plural, indicating some higher power, a standard or formal organization distributing a series of five digits down through their system, an operation that apparently bases itself in a shabby box located on a dingy London side-street. This was meant to be standard. Routine procedure.

Sherlock liked to pride himself in never needing to take a second look, but perhaps this would warrant further investigation. "What did you nearly call me?"

"Er," the man stiffened. "Nothing. I apologize."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You work in this phone booth." He could imagine stranger uniforms for lunatics that believed their employment was based in the two-foot space of a ratty maroon telephone kiosk.

"No," he said. "Not at all. Uh, perhaps you should try another phone box, this one may not be working — "

"Six-two-four-four-two," Sherlock repeated. "The numbers you gave me. Not a London number, there aren't enough digits. At first I thought you were stupid, then — no, don't look at me like that, everybody is, you're nothing special — and then I thought you were mad, but it's a code, isn't it?"

"Sir," the man said sharply. His right hand reached for his pocket. "I wouldn't enter that code in. Just — I'm sorry, I mistook you for someone else."

"Don't bother pulling a gun on me," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I'm not interested in uncovering the secrets of the boring lives of businessmen that work in London's forgotten telephone booths."

"Oh," the man said, moving his hand away from his pocket, "er, right. Okay." He stepped back to allow Sherlock room to step out, but the detective made no move to do so. "I suppose I'll just — "

"…Though I will admit my thirst for a good mystery that's delivered outside the tedious red tape tends to hold more interest than anything Lestrade could offer," Sherlock surmised, hands already clicking out six-two-four-four-two, and he barely had time to register the man's alarmed shout before the phone booth slammed shut and he was dipped down into darkness.