Chapter Text
The day starts off rather well. Sherlock is on the roof with Garchomp, probably terrorising the resident birds. John has enough time to have a lie-in and do a basic fry-up before the sound of two energetic figures clattering down the steps can distract him.
"You will be glad to know that we will no longer have any food shortage, John," Sherlock declares, setting down a bag of what John hopes aren't Taillow corpses. Garchomp's mouth is bloodied and feathers are sticking to it, but the Pokémon eyes the frying pan hungrily and butts John's arm before making a low whining sound. John quickly opens the Sherlock's bag and gives Garchomp a dead Taillow, and it devours the bird in the kitchen messily. John shoves the bag into the frozen compartment of the fridge and goes back to the stove, rubbing his arm where the Pokémon butted him.
"Godfrey, you've already had three Pidgeys." Sherlock tells his Garchomp firmly. "However, you may have some of my bacon after we procure some dried Drifloon from the taxidermist on Cluny St. We'll be back soon, John!" John sets aside five strips of bacon and munches his fried toast as he gets ready for work. Teddiursa waddles after him happily, sucking on its paw. John returns Teddy to his ball and climbs the stairs to the roof, where the Staravias eye him warily, ready to aerial ace his arse off the rooftop. He doesn't blame them, and makes a mental note to warn Sherlock that the Starlys have evolved. John lets Togetic out of its ball and they Fly over to his workplace.
_
Sherlock rolls his eyes as the black car pulls up along the pavement. The door swings open and Anthea stares at him before motioning to sit beside her.
"Tell my brother that I refuse to budge on this matter. His cases bore me." Anthea's phone buzzes and Rotom emerges, hovering around Sherlock's head. He sighs.
"Petty intimidation tactics don't work on me, as you very well know."
"It wasn't on purpose," Anthea says blandly. "Come on in, anyway. You're making a scene. Besides, Rotom misses you." Sherlock gets in and shuts the door, making sure to slam it extra hard. The canvas bag with dried Drifloon in is put on the other seat as Rotom buzzes near Sherlock, eyeing his phone with interest.
"Don't even think about it," Sherlock snaps. "Go and bother something else." He can feel Garchomp stirring in its ball, gearing up for a battle.
"There's no need for dramatics, Mr. Holmes," Anthea says. "We'll be there shortly."