Screeeeeeeech!
John bolted awake, tousle-haired and disheveled. He fumbled for his gun which lay just inside his drawer and leapt to his feet, charging through his bedroom door.
Screech!
The noise came again from somewhere before him. But, given the pervasive dark, he had trouble localizing the sound.
John furrowed his brow. The scream-like noise was somewhat familiar.
Then it came again and John realized what it was. Flicking on a light irritably with the barrel of his gun, John stood down.
There was his flatmate, perched in a chair overlooking Baker Street. Without turning, Sherlock played another chord with a flamboyant whirl of the bow.
"Why do you have your gun, John?" he said.
"Well, I don't know," replied John sarcastically. "Why're you playing your violin at two in the morning?"
"I'm thinking about the case," said Sherlock, starting a Bach sonata. "As of yet, the answer eludes me. I need to think."
"Here I was thinking someone was dying and you tell me you're thinking."
John walked up and snatched the bow from Sherlock's hand. Laying his gun on the table, John secured the bow into its case.
"Now go back to sleep. I keep saying that you'll be able to think better on a night's rest."
Sherlock sighed in distaste. "That's not how I function. A minute spent sleeping is a minute lost."
John glared at Sherlock, who returned the look.
"Fine. You can stay up," said John eventually, "but no more violin."
"Fair enough," grumbled Sherlock, surrendering his violin to John. His hands formed a line down the center of his face as he turned his head downward. His face was silhouetted by the dim light of the streetlights.
John picked up his gun, turned off the light, and walked back to his room. He climbed back in bed but had difficulty sleeping. The fear and surprise of hearing the supposed scream had shocked him and sent the adrenaline coursing through his veins. This life working as a consulting detective's blogger was certainly not without its danger and drama.
But it was undoubtedly better than the life he had led before he had met Sherlock. His limp, his PTSD attacks, his boring counseling sessions… they had, for the most part, gone away. His dreams were no longer full of the woes of war. And when you were Sherlock Holmes' best (and only) friend, no day was boring.
The next day certainly wasn't. As John raided the refrigerator for anything edible and found a plastic bag full of what looked like blood, he decided that he had quite lost his appetite.
Sometime in the early morning, Sherlock had solved the case he has been working on ("It was the banker!"). Though he had made good on his promise not to play the violin, he hadn't taken John's advice about getting enough sleep. Two dark circles shadowed his eyes, but he didn't seem to be affected by the sleep deprivation. Or from lack of food, it seemed.
"We mustn't starve ourselves to death," said John, who had gotten over his loss of appetite. "How do you feel about crepés?"
Sherlock shrugged, poring over his microscope and adjusting the slide. This, John had come to learn, was Sherlock's way of saying yes.
A few minutes later, the duo emerged from the door and walked down Baker Street towards the new creperie. It was a chilly winter morning with a hint of snow in the air. Even through his many layers of clothing, John felt the bite of the wind and longed for Sherlock's heavy coat.
They were both relieved when they stepped through the creperie's door and heard the inviting jingle of the bell.
They took a table near the window and ordered their crêpes.
As soon as the food arrived, they tucked in. Sherlock wolfed down his stack of crêpe isn under a minute, whilst John had hardly started.
Sherlock decided watching John eat was boring, so he turned his attention to the door.
"Interesting," he remarked.
"What?" said John through a mouthful of crêpe.
"My brother is here."
John turned around to study the new entrant. He had only met Mycroft Holmes once and didn't know much about him at all.
Without looking around, the black-clad man stalked over to a table on the other side of the room, where he began to examine the menu studiously.
"What's he doing here?" asked John. "Does he want to talk to us?"
"Maybe," said Sherlock mischievously. "Or he could just be out for crepes. The widening of his girth does seem to suggest the consumption of crêpes on a regular basis."
John frowned. This was un-Sherlockish.
"Of course he wants to talk to us, John!" said the genius. "Why else would he be tapping a message in Morse Code with his fork?"
John pulled the face he used solely when Sherlock's abilities astounded him.
"What did he say?"
"He said to meet him at 221B Baker Street in ten minutes," said Sherlock.
After paying for their crêpes, the detective and his blogger walked back to their flat. Fluffy white snow had begun to fall and their footsteps left indentations in the snow.
"Hmmm," said Sherlock, as they came to their door. "Mycroft has not followed us."
"You can tell that without looking behind you?" asked John incredulously.
"It's not difficult at all. When will you start observing, dear doctor?" said Sherlock. "The taxi's windshield acts as a mirror."
John did a facepalm as he realized how obvious the answer had been.
They walked into the building and up the stairs to their flat. Sherlock walked into the kitchen to find his microscope still set up. John, with little else to do, sat across the table from the detective and updated his blog.
He wanted to ask Sherlock why Mycroft hadn't followed them back to 221B, but the detective appeared so involved with his microscope that John didn't want to interrupt him.
Then they heard a knock at the door far below. They heard Mrs. Hudson's high-pitched, "I'm coming," and the door swinging open.
"Gangsters?" asked John. "Assassins, crime rings, brigands?"
"No," said Sherlock, listening intensely to the sounds from downstairs. "Just delivery men."
And, just as Sherlock had said, they heard a deep voice say, "We have a delivery for a Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"You poor men," rang Mrs. Hudson's shrill voice. "That box must be unbearably heavy. I'm sure that Sherlock won't mind if you leave it down here. I'm so glad he's getting another refrigerator. He keeps mixing food with spare body parts!"
They heard the distinct closing of the front door.
"Let's go see what it is," said Sherlock, putting his hand on the doorknob. "Oh. You might want to bring your gun just in case."
"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" cried a startled Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock swung open the door. Her hand was raised as if she was about to knock. "You startled me! There's a package for you downstairs."
They descended without a word. John fingered his gun nervously.
The package was quite large and looked rather heavy. It was sealed by the normal mailing tape of the London area.
Sherlock approached the box cautiously, just as it shook.
"Can someone let me out of here?" said a disembodied voice. "Mrs. Hudson, is that you?"
"Mycroft!" yelled Sherlock, hurrying forward to the box. "What're you doing here?"
John took out his army knife and cut along the joints of the box. Then he pulled off the top of the box.
Mycroft sprang out like a jack in a box, gasping for breath.
"Oh, Mycroft!" said Mrs. Hudson, crestfallen. "I hate to sound disappointed, but I thought you were a refrigerator. Here, let me make you some tea!"
And she bustled away like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Mycroft, Sherlock, and John walked back up the steps to the flat.
"To what do we owe the unexpected drop-in?" asked Sherlock, sprawling back on his favorite armchair.
"I was just out for crêpes, like you and John," responded Mycroft.
"Yeah, right. And if that is the case, why did you find it necessary to mail yourself to us?"
John barked with laughter at Mycroft's embarrassed face, but quickly stopped. He knew that Mycroft wouldn't have mailed himself in unless he had to hide his entrance. This meant that they were probably being watched. Fortunately, Sherlock had drawn the shades before they had left the room.
"You know, I presume," said Mycroft, "Of the package bombs that ravaged that city in Texas?"
"Brother, I was the one that tipped off the police as to the identity of the bomber!" yelled Sherlock.
This was news to Mycroft. His expression turned grave. "My network has informed me that there are moves afoot to do a similar thing here in London."
"Yippee!" cried Sherlock, hopping up from his chair.
"You're excited about terrorism?" said John incredulously.
"Of course he is," said Mycroft, "he's Sherlock. Anyway, I didn't mail myself to you just to tell you that."
"Why did you mail yourself here?" asked John.
"I'm placing you under level six surveillance. Your flat will be under watch constantly by some of my men. You are not allowed to leave."
"Why?" said John. "Why would we be targeted?"
"The Austin bomber had an accomplice. Surely he harbors animosity towards Sherlock due to the fact that Sherlock was responsible for his co-conspirator's capture."
"I don't like it," muttered Sherlock, looking wistfully at his violin case.
"What?" asked Mycroft.
"You… helping us. It's unnatural."
"I'm glad you appreciate all I've sacrificed on your account. Now, I really must be going."
Mycroft disappeared down the stairs and they heard him walk out into the street. Apparently, the street was already being watched by Mycroft's agents, as he didn't keep up the secrecy he had maintained before. He climbed into a waiting car. They watched it hurtle away into the heart of London through a gap in the shades.
It didn't take long for Sherlock to get bored.
His experiments, for the moment, were at an impasse. There was nothing but Mrs. Hudson's tea to drink and little but spare body parts to eat. He looked over at his violin case which John had fastened last night but couldn't manage to extricate himself from the armchair.
John busied himself reading the newspaper, but that didn't captivate his attention for long. There was nothing for it. He was terribly, insanely bored.
"Let's get out of here," he said.
"That's the smartest thing you've ever said."
"How will we get out?" asked John. "If we leave, Mycroft will know immediately and send his men after us."
"I have an idea," said Sherlock.
Two cardboard boxes rattled along in the trunk of a delivery truck. The truck pulled into a small parking lot and came to a stop.
"I don' know why you needed ter be transported like this, Mr. 'Olmes," said the gruff driver. He opened up the boxes and the duo climbed out.
"No questions asked, O'Brien. That's the arrangement," said Sherlock, dusting off his pants.
"All right," said the truck driver. "Not a word."
After paying their shady-looking smuggler, John and Sherlock hurried down the street.
"It's good to be out, even if we're not doing anything," said John.
"Something tells me that that will not be the case for very long," replied Sherlock.
And, just on cue, a deep explosion sounded in the distance.
"Finally!" yelled Sherlock. They sprinted off down the street towards the billowing smoke from the bomb.
They rounded the street corner and saw that the first responders were clustered at the base of an apartment. A fire engine was parked out front and was spraying water onto the burning building. Shrapnel was scattered across the street and a thick, stuffy dust clouded the air.
Sherlock held his scarf over his mouth to avoid breathing in the dust.
"Hmm," he said, bending low to the ground to study the debris. "This looks like remote detonation targeting a specific individual that lives in that building."
Soon the firefighters and first responders had stopped the fires and were taking the injured people out of the apartment. As they emerged, Sherlock examined each person.
"Hmm… he's innocent… recently adopted a dog," said Sherlock, looking at an elderly man with a broken leg. His eyes rapidly scanned the injured people, roving around for anything that could be a clue. "This is odd. None of these people look like targets."
"Hang on, Sherlock," said John. "I think I know why. Maybe the bomber set this up, knowing that you would be drawn here."
Understanding dawned on Sherlock's face just as the red dot signaling a sniper appeared on his arm.
"Jump!" he yelled, leaping over a remnant of the wall and dragging John behind him.
Bang, bang, bang! The gunshots rang throughout the street, but not many people noticed them; they were too busy tending to the injured or setting up crime scene tape.
Sherlock and John hunkered behind the broken wall, trying to avoid the barrage of whirring bullets that whizzed past the makeshift bunker.
"Sherlock! Can you see who it is?" cried John.
Sherlock chanced a glance above the wall and saw that there was an indistinct figure standing on a balcony of a hotel opposite them.
"Here, I have my gun," said John. "I'll try to shoot him."
John settled onto his belly and took out his gun. He poked the barrel over the wall and aimed it at the figure.
Bang!, came the gun. Suddenly the gunshots stopped.
"I think I hit him," said John wearily, coming out from cover. He looked up to the opposite building expecting to see the shooter, perhaps doubled over in pain, but was instead greeted with an empty balcony.
"You missed," said Sherlock blankly.
"And you fell for the trap!" retaliated John angrily. Sometimes Sherlock could be so insensitive.
Sherlock pretended not to hear. Just then, the police noticed them.
Inspector Lestrade walked forward, quickly deducing what had happened from the the bullet-strewn ground. He was no novice when it came to solving crime, through the presence of Sherlock Holmes so often made him seem so.
"What the…?" he said.
"Excuse us, Lestrade, we have places to be," said Sherlock. And he sprinted across the street, closely followed by John.
After barging through the door, they found themselves in a large lobby. A grand chandelier hung from the ceiling, glittering like a thousand diamonds.
As they rushed in, they disregarded the dumbfounded lobby attendant and hurtled over to the elevator. Sherlock roughly pushed out the occupants and stepped inside.
"Tenth floor," said Sherlock, punching in the corresponding number in the elevator.
"I thought he was on the eighth?"
"Seventh," corrected Sherlock.
"But why are we going to the tenth floor?" asked a bewildered John.
"Argh! Must I explain everything?" said Sherlock as the doors whooshed open. "To the roof access!"
They climbed up the ladder and popped open the hatch, coming out onto the roof.
"Sherlock, I don't understand…"
Sherlock gave John his trademarked "of course you don't understand" face.
"From up here, you can see everything that happens below. Important things," explained Sherlock, running through a maze of heating units to reach the back of the building. "Like that!" he added.
And there was the shooter, hurriedly climbing down the fire escape and trying to get to a getaway car parked at the bottom. Quickly, Sherlock wheeled around and grabbed a coil of electrical wire.
Can support my weight, flashed the words in his mind.
He tied one end to the railing of the fire escape and leapt off the edge of the building, paying no heed to John's objections.
Using his feet to push off from the wall, Sherlock slid down the wire. Though his hands were in agony from the ropeburn, he paid them no mind. There was no time to get caught up with trivial things like pain when there was a criminal to be caught.
Soon the rope became taut; he had come to the end of the wire. He clambered into the fire escape one floor above the shooter.
The masked man looked up in surprise at the loud clang. He half-raised his gun but stumbled forward. He windmilled his arms to keep his balance.
Though he was able to keep his footing, it came at a price; his gun flew away and clattered down the stairs.
Disregarding it, he redoubled his pace. Now he only had one more set of stairs before he could make his getaway. Sherlock continued down the fire escape but watched with dread as the masked man came to the ground level and dashed towards his car.
Just as the criminal was opening the car door, John's gun exploded overhead and the bullet shot towards the man.
He screamed but managed to leap into the car and shut the door. By that point, Sherlock had nearly caught up. But then, the shooter floored it and the car shot away. Even Sherlock, with his abnormally long legs, couldn't keep up for long.
Sherlock returned to the bottom of the fire escape, where John had just emerged.
"Good shot," said Sherlock. "I think you wounded him."
"Thanks," mumbled John.
"This is so exciting, isn't it?" said Sherlock energetically, picking up the shooter's lost gun and starting to walk around the hotel to the front of the building.
"Someone's trying to murder you, Sherlock," John pointed out (not that he thought in the slightest that it would change the detective's mind).
"Yes… now that we know the intent, it will be much easier to predict his next actions," said Sherlock. "Hello, chaps!"
A small group of inspectors from New Scotland Yard had walked up, Detective Inspector Lestrade at their front.
"Just what are you doing with that gun?" he yelled at Sherlock, red in the ears.
"Nothing, really. I was going to bring it to the lab at St. Bartholomew's Hospital and run some DNA scans. That way, if we get our hands on the man, we can confirm that he was the shooter."
"You can't just walk around the streets with a gun!"
"Are you offering us a ride?" asked Sherlock in his manipulative way.
Lestrade sighed. He didn't want to get into an argument today, especially not with Sherlock.
"Alright. Donovan, you drive them over," relented Lestrade reluctantly.
They climbed into the back seat of the police car. Sherlock held it up to the light to study the weapon.
"Hmm. John, you know about weapons. Tell me what you can about this."
John bit his lip, as was his custom when faced with a question. "AR-15. Equipped with a scope."
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in disappointment. "Is that all?"
"Er," said John. He tried to think of how his flatmate went about deducing and turned the weapon over in his hands. "It was… erm…"
"Two parallel scars in the paint running down the muzzle," said Sherlock quick-fire. "They've been painted over by the owner with a slightly different shade of black. The fact that the owner kept his gun clean tells me that he was part of an elite group of criminals, most likely a crime ring or secret organization. Though the paint is not an exact match, the fact remains that the owner made the attempt.
"Next, observe the wear marks on the handles. Given the marks on the back left and front right side, I can tell you safely that this man is left handed.
"Last, note the scope. The hinge is loose and well-lubricated with high-quality oil. This gun has been used for crime many times and the owner has never been caught by the police. This is a weapon of a serial killer, a consulting serial killer, if you will."
"Amazing," said John. Sherlock's deductions never ceased to amaze him.
"Elementary," replied Sherlock. "Here's the hospital."