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Sherlock : Part-Time Job"What the..." Sherlock opened his eyes widely. He looked into the black taxi wondering if he waswithout knowinghigh. But maybe John was right and he should sleep during cases. Because he could not be healthy and/or clean if he was seeing Jim Moriarty as a taxi driver.
"What?!" Moriarty snapped. "Haven't you ever seen a man with a part-time job?!"
Sherlock was still silent, wondering if he should take another cab. He was meant to meet John at Angelo's. Or maybe he should just call Lestrade? Mycroft? No, nothing is ever worth calling Mycroft. Arrest Moriarty himself?
"Come on, sweetie. You have nothing on me. I'm not doing anything wrong, I'm just driving a cab. I'm a cabbie, cabbies don't harm people," he said as smiled like a little girl found in family photos.
"Seriously? Are you a good man to tell me that cabbies do not harm their passengers?" Sherlock looked at him suspiciously.
"Look. I'm not going to kill you. Nor any of my clients. They are paying me for driving them
"Honestly John, it's really quite simple."
"No, Sherlock! It's not 'quite simple!'"
"Of the two human beings in this room, which one is more able to make a well-informed and intelligent decision on the difficulty of a certain task?"
"I really think there's only one human being in this room: me. But in any case I should cause I'm normal."
Sherlock scoffed. "Ugh. Boring. Now try it again."
"Sherlock, my fingers are tired. I seriously can't play anymore. My fingers are going to start bleeding and I'm going to get an infection."
"Are you insinuating something about the cleanliness of my bow?"
"Actually, maybe I am." John set the violin down on the armchair. "You've come home soaked in blood before."
"Pig's blood." Sherlock murmured.
"As if that makes it alright!" John shouted, throwing his hands up in defeat. "How am I supposed to know what sort of rubbish gets on your bow?" He crossed the room, desperate to get away from the world's most aggravating flatmate, and let himself fall onto the
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