A man with a grizzled appearance paused mid-stride, cocking his head to the side slightly.. He was in a cramped corridor filled with dust and the occasional cobweb, the roof so low that he was forced to hunch over as he hurried along.

His current fixation was with the elegant, if old, handle that belonged to a dark wooden door, oak if it's scent was any indication. The reason for the pause in his rather urgent errand was the faint line of light visible at the base of the door, a tell tale sign that there was at the very least a torch of some sort on the other side, and therefore, a likely sign that it was in use.

His short pause had told him three things. One, there was a man on the other side of the door, a large man judging by the sound of his breathing as he attempted to remain silent. Two, said man was waiting for him, or at the very least someone, which indicated that his quarry knew he was coming.. And three, his soon-to-be-foe was most probably holding something sharp and pointy and ready to introduce it to his vulnerable flesh. Now, he couldn't have that, could he?

Step one, a sharp kick to the door, causing a collision with his adversary's head, dazing him slightly. Step two, proceed through the now open door and duck the first wild stab from opponents blade. Push his other arm to the side and deliver a sharp one-two combination to the solar-plexus, winding him. Step three, shed his thick jacket and wrap foe's weapon in it before pulling it out of his hands, disarming him. Step four, deliver stiff handed chop to opponent's windpipe, cutting off the air supply and causing further breathing difficulties, further reducing his combat effectiveness. Step five, a stiff palm thrust to his nose, breaking it and impairing his visibility. Sixth and final step, a vicious knee to the genitals to cause him to collapse, completing his incapacitation and rendering him out of action for twenty at the minimum. Longest lasting injury; one broken nose. Time taken to heal: four weeks with medical attention. Ability to stick anyone with the pointy end of the sharp object in his possession: negligible. Executing plan....now.

Kick.

Collision.

Head.

Duck.

Push.

One-two.

Shed.

Wrap.

Pull.

Disarm.

Chop.

Reduce.

Thrust.

Nose.

Break.

Knee.

Collapse.

The man stepped over the groaning form of his would be assailant, taking a surprising amount of care not to trod on him, before examining his new surroundings with a sweeping glance. The hall he now stood in formed a T intersection with the one at his back and was clean, well used and much less cramped, in direct contrast to the condition of the hall he had just traversed. Glancing down, the man retrieved his jacket, brushing off several cobwebs as he did so. In the process of this, a familiar cane caught his eye. With a small frown, he retrieved it from the belt of his fallen opponent and twirled it in his hand as he briefly considered his next move.

"Oi, who're you? What're you doin' 'ere?"

The man smiled indulgently as he turned to face the new voice, a voice belonging to a thin stooped man. "Why, don't you recognise me?" When the newcomer shook his head dumbly, the intruder frowned in mock disappointment. "Well, we're going to have to do something about that," he stated with a small bow. "Sherlock Holmes, at your service my good man."

The man gaped dumbly for one moment, but no longer—as you cannot truthfully call it gaping dumbly when a particularly sturdy cane has been applied to your windpipe with considerable force. The man, Sherlock Holmes as we may now call him, proceeds over the second fallen body, heading further into the underground catacombs, and closer to his objective.

The catacombs that Mr. Holmes found himself in would have left most men lose within several minutes of taking their first turn—however, most men are woefully ignorant to their surrounds and are most definitely not blessed with perception matching that of Mr. Holmes. He strolled along the passageways as if he were following a detailed map, his brown coat breezing behind him at his pace.

Worn patches on the wall where hands have trailed, scuff marks at corners where the soles of shoes have been twisted mid-step, the scent of oil near torch brackets that were regularly refilled, these are only a few of the many indicators that tell Sherlock how to proceed. Withing twenty minutes, he has managed to negotiate a labyrinth of passages that would take a company of men days to map out.

Slowing as he approached a large pair of heavy wooden doors, Sherlock stepped quietly into the shadows offered by a Gothic archway, taking a moment to close his eyes and attune his other senses.

In the next room...boisterous laughter on the far side, a number of men gathered around in a rough circle. The sound of dragging feet and muffled cursing near to the other side of the doors, two men wrestling with a heavy object. Several faint words from the two men, barely heard over the din of the first group: 'Bind....Doctor....help with...party...celebrate...the boss's health...'

Well, that answers that question. Now, to slip into the room unnoticed...

Twenty seven minutes, a bruised elbow, a shallow cut and a new hat later, Sherlock crawled into the large room through a ventilation duct that was located near to the ground and handily out of sight. He brushed himself off, still crouching in the shadows of the room, and began to observe.

The room was large and had numerous passageways leading out of it, all of them save one on the wall opposite him. His view was partially obstructed by the group—7—men he had heard earlier, all gathered around a small fire, and he quickly ducked behind one of the numerous low walls that ran throughout the edges of the room.

When their party continued without exclamation of his appearance, Sherlock prowled closer to the door from which he had been eavesdropping behind not half an hour ago. Once there, he propped up the bound figure against one of the low walls and lifted the blindfold from the man's eyes, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"Watson, me lad," Sherlock began, "I cannot believe you allowed yourself to be captured without your revolver."

Watson glared at his would be rescuer from his bound position, as Sherlock had somehow forgotten to remove the gag and undo the wrist and ankle bindings. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock pulled out a small, sharp knife and cut the gag with a small flick, before stowing the blade away once more.

Watson's first words were, "I was not captured."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I didn't realise you did house calls nowadays."

Watson seemed to stew for a moment before replying. "I allowed myself to be taken so that I could discover their base of operations; however, I did not expect to be bound so thoroughly upon arrival." He paused for a moment, considering something. "How did you find me?" he asked.

Sherlock made no response save to smirk and reach into his coat pocket, revealing a somewhat grubby handkerchief with an extravagant golden A embroidered on its corner.

"Ah," Watson sighed.

Sherlock smug look turned to a frown in response, "yes, she seemed rather smug when she pointed out that we are now in her debt." He shrugged, before continuing. "Well, I have your cane, in any case."

Watson brightened immediately. "Good show. I was wondering how I was going to go about retrieving it."

Sherlock undid Watson's remaining bindings in silence, mindful of the gang members on the other side of the room. Once done, the two men peered over the low wall and began to plan their escape.

They began to crawl towards a door tucked into a shadowed corner of the room that led deeper into the labyrinth beneath the city, confident that they could make their way out quickly without being spotted. Moving slowly to avoid notice, Sherlock posed a question that he had several suppositions to, but no definite answers.

"Watson," he asked quietly. "Why the devil did they kidnap you in the first place?"

Watson sighed, pausing to rub his face. "Would you believe that their leader had a tooth ache?"

"And they kidnapped you of all people for this?" Sherlock replied somewhat incredulously.

"What can I say? I have a good reputation amongst the gangs of lower London."

"Some men would be chagrined to discover such a fact," Sherlock informed him amusedly.

"It's a good sight then that I'm not 'some men'." There was a pause as they scraped along, before, "did you think to inform the Inspector about any of this?"

"Of course," was Sherlock's reply, "if I owe Ms. Addler, then it is in my best interests for Lestrade to owe me a rather larger favour."

"You believe he will appreciate the accolades gained from taking down the West Wing Runners?"

"Indubitably, my dear Watson. Although, he may be rather irritated with me for a short while."

"Oh?" Watson raised his eyebrow. Sherlock had that familiar devious light in his eyes, a light that spelled only trouble for those his intellect was focused on.

It was at that particular moment that the numerous doors closest to the gathering of men were thrown roughly open, revealing a number of men in blue uniforms and bobby hats.

"Surrender, in the name of the Law!"

Sherlock and Watson each released simultaneous sighs, the only sign of their exasperation at the cry. And people called them glory seekers.

There was time for one of the gang members to cry, "gut the sarden bastards!", before the two groups rushed each other in an effort to subdue. In any other circumstance, Sherlock would be quiet content to sit merrily by and watch the men pummel each other, but this case was different. For one, they had kidnapped his friend, something that was entirely uncalled for. For the other, several of the criminals had begun to slink away from the melee and towards an open door.

"Close your eyes and block your ears," Sherlock instructed Watson as he reached into his coat for an object.

Watson, having had some amount of experience with the sort of things kept inside Sherlock's coat, immediately followed his accomplices directions, dropping to the ground for good measure.

Sherlock withdrew his hand from his coat, now holding two clay balls delicately. His spare produced a box of matches, seemingly from thin air, before deftly selecting one match and striking it one handed. With a slight scent of phosphorous in the air, he held the burning match to each of the wicks protruding from the clay balls. He proceeded to hurl the clay balls at the ruckus on the other side of the room, before closely imitating Watson on the floor.

Two seconds passed, and then there was a shockingly loud blast and a flare of bright light.

Watson got to his feet, coughing as he did so. "What the blazes was that?" he exclaimed.

"A noise maker used in fireworks—in addition to a great deal of magnesium phosphate, combined with a spark of fire and a clay casing that disintegrates upon ignition," Sherlock replied without coughing, used to the effects of his latest toy. "Did you like it?"

"I did," Watson grudgingly admitted. "And I want one. But I don't think the Inspector or his men will be greatly pleased."

"Well, I believe I did mention he would be rather irritated with me for a short while."

"Only a short while?"

Sherlock considered this. "Well, perhaps somewhat longer than a short while."

The two men made their way out of the chamber, dusting themselves off as they watched the stumbling constables round up the thieves, having been somewhat further away from the blast and separated from it by the men they were attempting to arrest.

Ignoring the dazed, but still glaring Inspector Lestrade, they made their way quickly to the surface, negotiating the passageways with ease. Within minutes, they stood blinking in the afternoon sun, Watson breathing his first breath of fresh air for several hours.

Sherlock regarded his companion, before uttering a single word.

"Pub?"

Watson swallowed, attempting to clear his parched throat.

"Gods yes."