#prettyarbitrary

After the tall git’s third insult, John interrupts himself to turn to the silver-haired DI. “Sorry.” He points at the gratuitously cheekboned sod. “Who is this? Is he with you, because I’m pretty certain I’ve never seen a policeman with hair that ridiculous, and this story is starting to get boring to me.” The DI chokes on his coffee. The tall git scowls. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” John stares at him. Oh, Christ, not again. “Afghanistan. I was a doctor in the RAMC, I was shot in the shoulder, but it’s my leg that doesn’t work except apparently when I’m in a life-or-death situation, and if one more insult comes out of your mouth, this might just become one.”

“He’s had his obsessions before, of course, but this goes a bit further than setting a man-trap for Father Christmas.” - Mycroft Holmes.

What the hell is his life? He gets shot, loses everything, comes home to rot away in London, and when something finally happens to him, it’s being kidnapped by a serial killer. It’s just about enough to make him believe in a god, and that god’s got a shite sense of humour.

He would’ve given a great deal to live in a universe that accepted bribes