A few trickles of sunlight danced through the window of 221B Baker Street and illuminated the thick layer of dust that lay across nearly everything in the room. Sherlock sat back in his chair and let out a peaceful sigh. The shirt sleeve on his left arm was rolled up to the elbow, revealing a singular pale nicotine patch.
The steps creaked and moaned as the lumbering figure of John climbed the staircase. He pushed open the door, which had been left unlocked, and stepped in. He removed his jacket wearily and was heading towards his own seat when he spotted the detective.
"Sherlock!" he said firmly. Sherlock looked up briefly before settling back down. "What did we say about those?" John spoke commandingly to Sherlock, the way a teacher might speak to a misbehaving student.
There was no reply
"No. I want it off. Now."
Sherlock sat up and gazed into the eyes of his companion for a few moments before pulling the patch off, folding it, and throwing it in the direction of an overflowing dustbin.
John looked over and wrinkled his nose. "Well, you'll be glad to know that I'm sparing you the lecture this time."
"And why do I have the honour tonight?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.
"Mycroft wants to see you - said it was something important?"
"It's always something important. Why didn't he come himself?"
"Apparently he wants you to see it in person. Didn't think you'd come. Told me to tell you, um, lazarus?"
Sherlock straightened up at once. "John, get my coat," he said as he rose to his feet and purposefully strode into the kitchen to get something. "Mrs Hudson, we're going out!" he shouted down the stairs as he took his coat from John and pulled on his scarf, stopping only to correct its jaunty angle.
"Sherlock! I didn't even tell you where he wants us to go," John called as he chased the curly haired man down the stairs. "Sherlock!"
Sherlock hailed a cab and jumped in, followed quickly by John. He leant forward and murmured something to the driver who set off at speed.
"So, going to tell me what's going on?" John inquired once they had set off.
Sherlock gave "the look" to John, who leant back dismissively and waited to see where the cab would take them.
After half an hour or so, they finally pulled up in a deserted car park behind a derelict building. A few tins of paint rusted in the corner and a collection of shattered bottles and empty beer cans were strewn over the rough tarmac. Sherlock pushed open the door and stepped out into the breeze. John appeared behind him as the taxi drove off into the distance, tyres screeching.
"Wait, we're meeting Mycroft here?"
"Yes, and no," Sherlock answered, shielding his eyes from the bright sun as he made his way hurriedly to the peeling brown door that John had just spotted down a small flight of concrete steps. He trod carefully, ensuring to avoid stepping on any of the discarded rubbish that had found its way into his path. Once at the door, Sherlock pulled out a small metal key - an object that seemed rather comedic in a world of advanced technology. He inserted it into the lock and turned it, listening to the click as the tumblers fell into place and the door swung open. The inside of the building didn't look much different to the outside - rotting wallpaper, smashed light bulbs hanging precariously from the low ceiling, an almighty stench of piss...
Sherlock, seemingly oblivious to the condition the place was in, marched down the corridor purposefully until he came to another similar-looking door, this time without a handle. He raised his knuckles and tapped firmly on it in what appeared to be some sort of pattern. Once he had done, he lowered the knuckles and waited. John stood beside him loyally for what must have been half a minute or so before there was a heavy clanking and the door eased open smoothly.
John was slightly taken aback by what stood so plainly before him. Unlike the dank corridor, the room ahead had no sign of gruesomely rotting wallpaper and instead had clear, white, painted walls. The light was not that provided by a long-destroyed lightbulb but by plastic panels in the walls giving off a soft, white glow. And the smell... the room did not smell of human urine and thick, looming sweat but had the strange scent of a hospital room, or perhaps a laboratory, and, despite John's long stretch of training in similar surroundings, made him feel quite out of place. Nevertheless, as John was taking in the newly-met setting, Sherlock was already engaged in hushed conversation with a white coated, burly man who seemed to have opened the door, not the feeble frame John had assumed it to be but a heavily enforced titanium one).
Sherlock's conversation abruptly ended and he set off down the corridor at high speed, leaving John rushing to keep up behind. They passed through tens of similar corridors to the point where John wondered if their adventure was ever going to end. Of course, it did, and left poor old John nearly crashing into Sherlock as he stopped suddenly in front of a door labelled 'Interrogation'.
Seeming not to notice the near-collision, Sherlock took a sharp intake of breathe that John had learnt to associate only with his companion's "arch enemy" and pushed open the door with a new-found air of determination.
"My dear brother," Mycroft greeted with an underlying hint of sarcasm as the pair entered the room.
Room - it was more of a well-furnished corridor with rows of white sofas, coffee tables and long, clear windows that John could only assume peeked into the cells - he was a little too short to see without stretching unnecessarily.
"Do sit," he announced with his usual smile that one struggled to see the intention beneath as he twiddled his umbrella between his fingers and placed himself elegantly in one of the larger armchairs.
John waited for a comment about the dreaded 'diet' but one did not come. This was serious then.
"Whatever you've called me here for, Mycroft, it better be good," Sherlock said with a vengeful glare - John noticed that his demeanour had quickly changed after seeing his brother.
"Don't be stupid Sherlock, it is beyond even me to call you in such a way when the situation is not dire," Mycroft shot back firmly.
John spoke next, his voice filled with unspoken questions and confusion gathered from years of working alongside a consulting detective. "And what exactly is our situation?"