Sherlock was brought out of 'the drunk tank,' where he had nearly fallen into fisticuffs with a giant of a man who had a surprisingly strong opinion on alpaca wool. He was stumbling as the police officer hauled him along, though he could feel himself start to sober up, and the start of a hammering headache that promised a wonderful hangover.

Without a word, the officer brings Sherlock into the waiting room, and leaves to bring back the small tray with his effects.

The detective blinks, not really quite sure where Mr. Wrong-opinions-on-alpaca-wool went, but he was clearly not in front of him.

Someone else was.

"Oh, hello John," Sherlock said, with a wave of his hand, and a sloppy smile.