A Smart Car with a death wish and a "WWJD?" bumper sticker swerved into the tiny space between the cab and the CitroŽn. The cabbie let out a soft curse, braking so as not to kill the idiot. "What Would Jesus Do?" he muttered in a heavy South London accent, probably thinking that in the backseat John couldn't hear him. "He'd use his bloody turn signals and not cut people off in rush-hour traffic."
Confident enough in the cabbie's skills, John barely tensed at the incident and had forgotten about it entirely by the time he reached the crime scene.
It was an ordinary scene, as far as these things went, although something must be unusual about it. Otherwise, Lestrade wouldn't have called in Sherlock and Sherlock wouldn't have texted John to meet him here.
WWLD? John's brain said as he ducked under the police tape. He snorted a laugh, quickly stifled by the dirty look Donovan gave him.
"You're getting as bad as him now if you think a woman going out an eighth-floor window is funny," she sneered.
He schooled his expression. "That wasn't-- Never mind." WWDD? Another chuckle was immediately redirected to a cough so as to avoid further unpleasantness.
"Oh yes, of course! Can't let the professionals do their jobs! Must give way to the mighty Consulting Detective and his pet doctor!"
John looked towards where the body lay and saw Anderson, who had clearly just spotted him and was taking out his frustrations at Lestrade. John was used to it by now. Sherlock had never cared. And Lestrade just took it all in stride.
WWAD? John was getting better at smothering his mirth over the silly acronyms popping into his head. It wasn't good enough for Sherlock not to notice, of course, but it was better.
"You're smirking. Never mind. Come tell me what you observe before the village idiot here destroys all the evidence."
"Yeah. Sure." WWSD? He cleared his throat, swallowing yet another laugh, and did his best to "observe" rather than merely "see."
"All right, Anderson, everyone? Back off," ordered Lestrade, his tone the mix of conciliatory and authoritative that he was frequently forced to use when Sherlock and Anderson were in close proximity.
WEWLD? God it was killing him not laughing. What was wrong with him? There was a dead woman sprawled and twisted on the pavement in front of the council block. This was not funny. He cleared his throat and continued listing everything he thought might be significant.
"And that's it, really," he concluded, hoping he hadn't missed too much. He knew WSWD if he had, and he didn't feel much like being insulted in front of Lestrade and the others. Again.
"Better, John. Not good, of course, but better." Sherlock then informed John of the things he'd gotten correct before pointing out the "obvious" things he'd missed. Still, it could've been worse. Indeed, it had been worse more than once before.
John allowed himself a tiny smile of satisfaction. WWJWD? Apparently, he would learn.