A/N; No idea where this one came from. It's just a short, slightly angsty fic I've been working on for a bit now, and I thought I'd just go ahead and post it. Consider it an angst-present for Rainy :D
Remember…reviews are to me what serial killings are to Sherlock; exciting! :D
Ta,
Anonymoustache
"I have to go in, John. There's no other way!"
John glared at him. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "There's a dangerous madman in there who's killed four people! I am not letting you go in there." He turned to Lestrade. "Greg, tell me I'm right."
Lestrade nodded vigorously. "It's insane, Sherlock. There's no way you can get in there and not be killed."
"But what if I can?" Sherlock asked in a frustrated voice. "I can reason with him, find his weak points…and then turn him over to you."
John rolled his eyes. "What, are you suddenly impervious to bullets?"
Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "He's right, Sherlock. Logic can't stop the path of a bullet."
"It doesn't have to get to that point, though!" Sherlock growled angrily.
"No," John said firmly. "You are not going in there without backup, and that's final."
Sherlock leaned back against one of the boxes around them and sulked. "Fine. But don't blame me when this entire mission is botched because of your idiotic decisions."
"My "idiotic decisions" are keeping you alive, love," said John worriedly, ruffling the detective's silky brown curls.
Sherlock said nothing, just leaned back further and pouted.
Half an hour later, Sherlock was asleep, head pressed against a crate, snoring softly. John carefully stood up and stretched his aching muscles.
"Lestrade, I'm going to go…" he whispered to the inspector, who was playing solitaire on his phone while they waited for backup to arrive, and gestured towards the woods nearby.
Lestrade nodded, not taking his eyes off his phone. "'kay. Don't let the bugger shoot you while you're taking a piss."
John rolled his eyes. "I'll try and avoid that," he said snarkily, heading for the back of the decrepit factory and trying to keep out of sight of any of the windows.
Sherlock's eyes flew open.
John's not very good in the aspect of knowing when someone is really sleeping.
He carefully shifted his position so as to not let Lestrade know he was awake.
How shall I go about this?
Sherlock gave a fake yawn and sat up. "How long was I out?" he asked in his best sleepy voice, making sure to fake a hoarse throat.
"'Bout half an hour," Lestrade said, not looking up from his phone.
Sherlock stood and stretched, and began to walk towards the edge of the block of boxes. He stopped and pretended to squint. "Weren't our backup people supposed to come around to this side?"
"WHAT?" Lestrade said, leaping up in alarm. "Where are they going?"
Sherlock squinted again, enjoying putting his acting skills to use. "They just went around to the other side."
"Shit," Lestrade cursed and began to run towards the edge of the building, disappearing after a moment.
Sherlock grinned cockily and headed towards the fire escape near where they had been sitting.
That was easy.
Once inside, Sherlock walked up the decrepit stairs carefully, heading for the room at the very top. He wasn't exactly sure where the man was, but he knew one thing…most of the serial killers he had encountered tended to hide at the top of whatever dull and boring hiding place they chose.
How tedious.
The last room consisted of the entire top floor. It was completely empty, dust particles filling the air as the weak winter sunshine bathed Sherlock in a cold glow.
He walked into the center of the room and circled around, observing everything around him.
"Love what you've done with the place," he said loudly, turning to face the doorway.
The door creaked back and shut with a click, revealing a single man standing with his hands shoved in his pockets.
"Thanks," he said sarcastically, walking out into the room to face the detective. "I thought the gloom added a certain 'something'."
Sherlock stuck out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."
The gunman reached out and shook it carefully. "Bobby Brown."
"Interesting name. Why do I feel that I've heard it before?"
The man grinned cockily. "Maybe because I killed four people."
Sherlock nodded coolly. "That could be it.
Bobby began to strut around, looking at the bare room. "So why are you here, Holmes?"
"I think you know."
Bobby turned to him. "But do you?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why would I be here if I didn't?"
"Interesting question," Bobby said. He walked over behind the detective and slammed the door shut, locking it.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Kidnapping. Dull."
"Nope. Not kidnapping. That would be pointless, seeing as how your brother's probably already got his people on the way," said Bobby. "No. This is something much better. More sinister, if you will."
He pocketed the key and walked to one of the windows, pulling something small and rectangular out of his other pocket.
"My mum used to worry about me as a kid. Always starting fires," he said, holding up a matchbox.
Sherlock laughed scornfully. "You really think that setting this room on fire is going to contain me? You haven't tied me, you haven't incapacitated me in any way."
"I think you're forgetting that this room is seven floors up, Mr. Holmes," said Bobby with a smirk. He lit a match and held it up. "Mazel tov, Mr. Holmes."
Bobby threw the match towards a chair in the corner and jumped off the sill, crashing through the glass to fall out of the building entirely.
Sherlock's jaw dropped as the corner went up in flames. He ran to the window, avoiding the quickly spreading flames, and peered out.
The body of Bobby Brown was lying on the sidewalk, blood spilling from his head.
Sherlock turned away and looked around him at the growing fire.
The room was beginning to heat up, with no escape route in sight.
Well, this is a bit not good.