Set after The Great Game...

I do not own Sherlock...I'm just playing with it

Starts off serious, but humour to come, I promise : )

Please let me know what you think!

Enjoy!

Onwards...

John sighed as he pulled his favourite brown jumper over his head, his hair flattening to his forehead. It was half past four in the morning and he had just woken up to a very loud yell of his name; he had rushed out of bed just to save Mrs Hudson earache.

There had been a raging storm all night, thundering and lightening as well, keeping most of London up for the past couple of nights. The drains were fit to bursting and the Thames was close to bursting its banks, the rain was so bad. The storm didn't seem to be letting up any time soon.

'Sherlock, it's not as if the evidence is going to get up and walk out of Scotland Yard!' he exclaimed to his flatmate, who was hovering over him impatiently, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

'John, you know what'll happen if Anderson gets his hands on this; it'll be gone into one of his infernal evidence bags, never again to see the light of day.' Sherlock was flapping his hands; this was a big case he had been consulting on and some very interesting evidence had just turned up. Lestrade had not been very giving on the details, but he was eager to have at it.

'Alright, alright' John conceded, tying up his laces and standing up, stretching his arms above his head, wincing as his wounded shoulder twinged slightly.

'Ready?' Sherlock asked as they bounded down the stairs (Sherlock bounding, John more trudging behind him.)

John shut the door behind him carefully, looking to see where Sherlock went. He found the overactive man standing on the edge of the pavement, watching him with bemused eyes.

John joined him and smiled slightly as Sherlock raised his hand.

'Taxi!'

It was uncanny, thought John as they both got into the hastily driven taxi; it was if Sherlock had command of the whole black-cab population of London; there was always one there if he needed it.

'Where to, sir?' asked the driver, a balding man of about fifty wearing an old pullover, hiding his gut.

'Scotland Yard.' Instructed Sherlock tersely, before turning to stare out the window, one hand on his chin, as though he was pondering something important.

The driver gave John a sympathetic look before setting off.

Come to think about, thought John. He had got that look rather a lot since he had met Sherlock. Sighing, he turned and looked out the opposite window as they journeyed along the familiar route.

They sat in near enough silence, apart from when Sherlock would let out a small bark of a laugh every now and then, observing people walking on the pavement; John had long since given up asking him what he had deduced, having had his ears chewed off with long winded answers one too many times.

They arrived at Scotland Yard relatively quickly, owing to the early hours and pouring rain. Sherlock paid the taxi before stepping out and holding the door for John.

John nodded his thanks, stretching again, looking up at the building before them. Sherlock was already way ahead of him, already bounding through the glass doors and into the foyer. John hastily followed him, just getting into the lift in time. He looked up at Sherlock, who was grinning at him, eyes shining. He was excited about this, thought John. Something new.

The lift pinged when they got to DI Lestrade's floor, Sherlock sweeping his long coat, waiting for John to leave the lift first. One thing John could say about that man was that he was chivalrous; the only problem was he wasn't in much of a position to appreciate it all that much; being a man.

The Detective Inspector was waiting for them, a sheath of paper in his hand, smiling all too brightly for the early hour. His salt and pepper hair was all over the place and his face looked tired. His suit was slightly rumpled and one more button than usual was undone. There was no sign of Anderson or Donavon, for which John was grateful. There were bright lights lining the desks and walls; there was almost no natural light coming into the room at all through the windows.

'Have you slept yet?' asked Sherlock, having taken all this data in already.

'Nope' said Lestrade, motioning them to follow him into his office, its glass walls glinting in the desk-lights. 'Nor eaten. I had a rather impromptu phone call this morning...I believe, at least I hope, you two know each other.'

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, John nearly walking into the back of him, having turned to shut the door behind them. He craned his neck to look at the man sat in the chair opposite Lestrade's.

'Good morning, Sherlock.'

'Mycroft?'

John sighed as Mycroft Holmes swivelled around in the chair, looking like a rather pompous James Bond Villain, with an evil umbrella instead of a cat across his lap.

'John' greeted Mycroft, nodding at the doctor, who nodded curtly back.

Lestrade was looking between them all, bemused. 'Well, as it's my name on the door and on the desk, I'll speak first; what's going on?' he asked, moving to sit at his desk, running a tired hand down his face.

'This is neutral ground, Inspector' Mycroft informed him. Sherlock scoffed. Mycroft ignored him.

'My brother has been refusing to take my calls, and I hadn't heard of him in over a week.'

'Oh no, Mycroft. Did you miss me?' asked Sherlock sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He turned to Lestrade, who was watching the warring siblings with a wry grin on his face.

'"Neutral ground" What the hell does that mean?' asked Lestrade, sharing a confused look with John.

'Well, Sherlock wasn't coming forth with me, I could hardly go to him. He has a respect for you, a strong bond of trust-'

'Which you just exploited' Lestrade added in.

'- and I knew he would see you. It was simple really.'

'I thought you said you had some new evidence' he accused Sherlock eyes narrowed at the Detective Inspector.

'Hey, I'm just a lowly bobby' grinned Lestrade gently, leaning back in his chair. 'And your brother was rather persuasive that I phoned you.'

Sherlock glared at his brother, who was picking some lint off his umbrella, apparently oblivious to Sherlock's death glare.

'Come on, John.' Sherlock turned on his heel.

'Sherlock, wait!' Lestrade stood up hastily. 'There was something I wanted you to look at...'

Suddenly, all the lights in the building went out en mass, throwing them into blackness.

'Oh, Inspector, did you forget to pay your electricity bill?' came Mycroft's quick, crafty response. Sherlock aimed a sharp kick to his shin, as childish as it was, but stopped when a gasp was issued from Lestrade's mouth; evidently he had missed.

'Thank you, Sherlock.' Lestrade shifted, moving to his desk to pick up his phone.

John stood in the darkness, breath coming slowly and evenly; he had to get over this claustrophobia; an outcome of combat and his subsequent injury. It had never bothered him before and he was sure as hell not going to let it bother him now.

In the corner of the room the light from Lestrade's phone reflected into the Inspector's face, throwing shadows across his cheekbones, eyes shining in the artificial light. He had a small grin on his face, as though he was enjoying this situation. John supposed it was something different from his normal routine.

'Right thanks, Sally.' Lestrade shut his phone and they all were thrown back into darkness.

'We've had a power cut.' He informed them, opening his phone again to douse them in green light. 'Sally said that the grid is out due to the storm and will be for several hours.' He said grimly, sitting at his desk.

'Why...why don't we just leave?' asked John, motioning to the door in the darkness.

Lestrade shone the light in his face, John squinting slightly. 'It's on a circuit. Welcome to the 21st Century, doctor.' He held something up in his hand. 'Electronic Key-Card. We can't get out of this office.'

'Brilliant' muttered Sherlock, smiling at his brother who looked horrified at the very thought of staying in this room.

'I need to leave' he stated. 'I have a meeting with the Home Secretary at Eleven Thirty.'

'We might be out by then' reasoned Lestrade, now shining his phone in the Eldest Holmes' face. Mycroft glared back at him.

'On-the-other-hand.' Added Sherlock. 'We might not be.'

Mycroft glared at him in the dark

John sat on the sofa which lined the side wall near the window, motioning for Sherlock to follow suit. Sherlock did so, sighing contentedly, happy at his brother's frustration. A small amount of light was leaking blearily though the window, but not enough to see by.

'Well.' Lestrade stated, smiling at his other office-mates.

'What now?'

What will they do, all four stuck in a room together? Find out in the next chapter!

Thanks for reading, more humour to come...

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