"It's a fake! That's the answer, it's a fake, that's why they died!"

"Prove it, darling."
The lilting voice of a young girl, perhaps 11 or 12, resonates from the phone, eliciting a short gasp of horror from John. Sherlock's eyes snap immediately to his friend, one eyebrow raised in question.

What is it?

"She's just a little child, Sherlock. Oh god, the poor girl."
The consulting detective's scrutinizing eyes soften just a fraction and linger on his doctor, admiring―but not envying―the ease of empathy so blatantly displayed in the way John rubs a hand across his face, features twitching in pity. A quick glance at Lestrade shows a similarly pained expression and Sherlock decides this must be a case of "very not good". Lestrade rarely lets his emotions in the way of his work. The complete analysis takes up the space of 2.5 seconds. Then he tears his gaze away and focuses solely on the pink copycat-phone.
He speaks crisply and coldly, "Stop stealing voices. It's getting old."
"Oh Sherlock, have some patience." the girl replies smoothly, and suddenly something hooks onto Sherlock's mind; rewinds through a vortex of thought processes; brings it to a screeching halt. There's something different about this hostage; she isn't like the others. Sherlock trawls through his database of information, scanning speech patterns, comparing the juvenile voice to the past three captives: the sobbing lady, the shaking man, the gasping woman.

He finds it in a matter of moments, letting out a content "ah" as he berates himself for being so ignorant. The soft accents and pauses form a pattern even John could surmise: lack of fear. The emotion had eluded him. She is calm and overly casual, repeating words strung through her ears with the nonchalance of someone reading a dull, slightly humorous storybook out loud. Ironic, really, how the others, full grown adults, seemed to crack so much easier than this child. She is not wracked with sobs; in fact, there is not so much as a hitch in her breathing.

It catches his interest almost as much as Moriarty's game.

"Where did you get this one?"

There is a short hesitation, and then, "Nowhere. Everywhere. It hardly matters, now hurry. Give me proof." Sherlock reads an entire life story from the hesitation; files it away for future reference. He notes that the girl is cautious not to let a single stray word slip. Clever. She knows how to stay alive, at least. Out of the corner of his eye, he can just see John pacing back and forth, but still clearly tuned into the conversation reeling from the speaker. Close by, Lestrade is attempting to calm the flustered museum manager. Despite Sherlock's suspicions, he is desperate for danger, for another adventure through the darkness with a certain ever-loyal soldier at his side. As much as he tries to deny it—John would be horrified—he is enjoying these treacherous little puzzles.
"Fine. Give me time! Will you just give me time?"
The voice, still collected and deliberate, doesn't even tremble as she starts the countdown to Sherlock's answer―or her death.

"Ten."

8.7 seconds later, Sherlock yells "THE VAN BUREN SUPERNOVA!" and somewhere across London, in suffocating darkness, a harsh red light blinks off, a soft voice whispers "I don't need you anymore. Tell them." through tangles of wire and metal, and a young girl begins to recite an address.

John knows something is different. In any other case, Sherlock would have tossed the phone carelessly to Lestrade and strode away, but when Lestrade walks briskly off, Sherlock follows him, only turning back at the doorway to throw an unperturbed "Come, John." across the room. He has just solved another brilliant, impossible mystery and yet John can easily recognize the wicked spark that still gleams from the detective's stare and never ceases to start adrenaline pumping through John's veins. There is something Sherlock cannot understand, and it is hidden away wherever that girl is. He is startlingly aware that though he is not even near as much of a genius as Sherlock, he can deduce more about his reclusive friend than an alleged "flatmate and friend" should be able to. He flings the thought over his shoulder and begins to walk over to the now-fidgeting detective. Their eyes meet, and John convinces himself there is nothing to worry about, even as his heart stutters in his chest; even as those blade-silver irises turn kaleidoscopic in the wilting light. Sherlock is his best friend, and John is decidedly not gay.
There will be other times to stress about his sexual orientation. Because for now there is more. It is dangerous. And god, he loves it.

They slip from the police car and steal through the winding roads with almost-tangible camaraderie, the tall detective's stride instinctively shortening to match his companion's. The former limp is non-existent; not even a ghost of it remains. They are alive in the blaring horns and constant whirl of conversation on the London streets, and the knowledge that the unknown is waiting. Simultaneously, they turn their heads to glance at the other and just for a moment, their eyes catch, icy grey to warm blue. The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirk up in a rare, fond smile, the soldier lets out a quick-but-genuine grin, and the world is upright. Then the second ticks past and they swivel their gazes forwards; follow Lestrade around a corner and into the warehouse.

—

A/N: This is my first fic, I'd love any comments or constructive criticism.