The Post-It on the door of 221B filled John with dread. Why was it there? They were expecting no deliveries that might need a signature, and that would've been bigger anyway. He picked up his tired pace, reached the door, and grabbed down the note.
Christ. Now what? Why not just text? Don't go inside? What the hell? He was tired and hungry after an unexpected double shift at the clinic. He wanted to crash on the couch and eat leftover Chinese food straight from the little paper boxes.
He took a deep breath and exhaled it in a cleansing sigh. Fine. Antonio's wasn't that far and it would more than satisfy the gnawing hunger he felt. He turned and stepped quickly to Antonio's, all sorts of scenarios racing through his head to explain Sherlock's cryptic note--some less generous than others.
He reached the restaurant and was greeted cheerfully by the proprietor who immediately led him to a table where Sherlock waited.
"What--?" Before he could get the words out, Antonio set a large wine and a small salad before him.
Sherlock answered the unfinished question. "My experiment had a detrimental effect on the flat's air quality and Mrs Hudson's temperament."
John snorted, shook his head. "Pass the bread."