“Hey, man, we’re sorry,” says the blonde one, the de facto leader of the group. He’s tall, strong, conventionally handsome, no older than 25, and wearing an ascot that must have been a gift from an older female. (Mother? Sister? Then again, it could be his girlfriend over there…) ”If we’d known about someone else investigating this place, we would’ve cut out a lot sooner.”
Sherlock just shrugs one shoulder—and suppresses a wince because it still hurts. ”I haven’t any interest in collaboration, but you weren’t completely underfoot.”
”What Sherlock means to say,” John adds (unhelpfully), “is that you saved our lives and we thank you for it.” He shoots a warm, relieved smile at Sherlock, which Sherlock has to appreciate a little bit. Just a little.
The blonde one laughs out loud, still shaky from the adrenaline rush of the past hour. Between giggles, he admits, “I wasn’t much of a help at all. You’d have to thank him for getting us out of that sticky situation.” He gestures with his thumb (a lifetime of playing American football, it looks like) at the group of twenty-somethings giving testimonies to Lestrade.
”Him” refers to the proud-looking Great Dane (purebreed) that’s busy sniffing around Lestrade’s feet. Against all odds, despite displaying abject cowardice earlier in the evening, that dog single-handedly prevented a deranged bootlegger from killing everyone. In retrospect, the entire sequence of events leading up to now almost seems cartoonish in its improbability. Sherlock still isn’t sure what happened actually did happen. Maybe John was right about that concussion.
”He’s saved our butts more times than I can count,” the blonde one is saying. ”We’re way used to it by now, trust me.”