Greetings, ladies and gents! I am proud to announce, by request of a very good friend of mine (her username is ohmycroft and she writes awesome stories, you all should check her out!), the sequel to American Insider!

So the last time I wrote a Sherlock fic it was literally last June, so everyone please be patient with me as I get reacquainted with the personalities of the characters through the chapters and please let me know in a PM if one of the characters seems too OOC and I will study them closer! :)

All reviews and comments are welcome, especially constructive criticisms or speculations or musings you had while reading :)

Speaking of musings, the title of this fic is borrowed from Muse's amazing song "Panic Station" from their 2012 album "The 2nd Law." If you're wondering why I chose this particular song (and I do not own the song or the lyrics or anything Muse-related; I am nowhere near that awesome), then feel free to read the lyrics in a quick Google search and it may give you an idea as to this fic's direction, which I hope to be far grander than its predecessor. (And check out more of Muse's music while you're at it; they are probably one of the greatest bands of all time, no joke.)

So, without further ado, please enjoy American Insider: Panic Station

~ Writer by Moonlight

Bang! Bang!

The gunshots ricocheted off of the walls of the abandoned hospital and danced around my ankles. The flapping coat of the felon was all I could see in the dimmed hallway and I trained my eyes on it like a target. I lept over a stray gurney and hit the ground running without a moment's hesitation.

"Stop!" I hollered at the man, pulling my gun out of its holster. "Drop your weapon!"

The man responded to my warning by firing more shots at me from behind him, making me slip as I ducked out of the way. The heel of my palm dug into something sharp and cold on the ground but I jumped back up and fought to ignore the piercing ache.

I skidded in my tracks and held up my gun and steadied my aim. The felon's coattails were beginning to fade into the darkness, but my intuition told me that he was not too far.

"Freeze!" I hollered, before delivering three powerful gunshots. The felon tripped, caught in the leg by a bullet, but kept limping on with admirable yet idiotic determination. As I began running again to catch up to him, I heard a loud, metallic whump and a resulting, heavy thud on the filthy tile floor.

"About time!" I shouted as I jogged up to meet Sherlock, who had emerged from the room right in front of the felon with a metal pan. "I've been chasing this guy for ages, where've you been?"

Sherlock stood outside the doorframe of the room, his dark, curly locks hanging in his eyes and one side of his trench coat's collar turned down.

"Biding my time," he responded curtly, running a hand through his hair and pushing the locks out of his face. "Besides, you seemed to be handling the situation quite well."

I held back a biting response and turned my attention to the unconscious man on the dirty floor. He was sprawled spread-eagle in an almost comical way with a rising lump on his forehead. His black coat was spread out, revealing a filthy white T-shirt and baggy pants. I bent down and rifled through his pockets, checking for any kind of identification or clues. After the first pocket was empty, I found a crumpled piece of paper in his other pocket.

"Hey, look at this," I said, standing up and showing it to Sherlock. He hovered over me, being a full head taller, and read the words as I saw them on the paper: Epinephrine.

"Curious," Sherlock remarked.

"Does this mean like the medicine?" I asked bewildered.

"Exactly, Nicole," Sherlock said, a slight tinge of surprise in his tone. "It is also known as adrenaline, and is used to treat severe allergic reactions including anaphylaxis in emergency situations. The body also produces it naturally during exercise or in anxiety-ridden environments."

"Yes, Sherlock, I know what adrenaline is," I said in a begrudging tone. "I didn't ask for a biology lesson."

"Actually, that would be pharmaceuticals-"

"Just freaking deduce the guy, please," I interrupted irritably. "The mold in this place is making my eyes itch."

Sherlock moved from behind me and bent over the man on the floor. He gazed at him and leaned forward so close to the man's face that they were nose to nose, before he inhaled deeply. I had the insane urge to make a deeply sarcastic comment, but many sleepless nights of conducting cases with Sherlock Holmes had taught me that it was best to keep quiet while the gears grinded in his head.

Suddenly Sherlock jumped up and hovered over the man while muttering under his breath, and then skipped over to the man's other side and felt his T-shirt. He examined some unknown substance that had rubbed off on his fingers, sniffed that, and then straightened back up and faced me. I braced myself for the full debriefing that would only confuse me more.

"Alright, Nicole, I have a challenge for you."

Shit. "And what would that be, Detective A-hole?"

"Tell me your deductions on this man. Let us see if your skills are superior to your predecessors'."

I shrugged and swaggered up to the man on the floor and cocked my head at his lifeless form, pursing my lips.

"Well, he seems pretty dirty, so I'd say he definitely doesn't have a stable job or a nice home. Perhaps he's homeless and works for someone in a gang perhaps, which explains this odd errand in this abandoned hospital."

I glanced at Sherlock for confirmation, who was holding a straight face and not giving me any indication as to whether I was succeeding or failing horribly.

"Or maybe it's all a cover," I ventured with another shrug. "I mean, he could be some greedy businessman from the British version of Wall Street - whatever it's called - and he dressed up like this to throw us off."

Sherlock nodded, moving next to me so we could both look at the man still spread-eagle on the floor.

"Nice work, Nicole," he said evenly.

"Whoa, did I actually nail that?" I asked, excited.

"Oh, no, you were completely off," he deadpanned. "But I appreciate your enthusiasm, truly."

"Screw you."

"This man," Sherlock continued, ignoring my comment, "has obviously traveled long and far, judging by the multiple different types of dirt on his shirt and the overwhelming body odor, and has not had time to change clothes, meaning that he has been on a tight schedule for many days. Since we found the note containing the drug name in his pocket, he was obviously en route to search for it, perhaps in this abandoned hospital where Dr. Hemmings, the brain surgeon this man was harassing, let slip that a nurse left some here before the building closed down several years earlier - also this was Dr. Hemming's previous place of work - and the man came here, on orders from his superior, to obtain this drug."

"Well, I was close," I murmured.

Sherlock knelt down and rifled through the man's pockets like I had earlier and, coming up with nothing, continued feeling around his person.

"Hey, shouldn't you at least take him on a date first?" I joked, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall.

"I am searching for Epinephrine, I know he found some around here before we cornered him. And if I were to take any man on a date, he would at least dress nicer and don a fragrance of lavender and coconut."

It took me a moment to process his words before I asked with a laugh, "Uh, why so specific, Old Spice?"

Sherlock let out a frustrated groan, as if he were conversing with a child, and explained slowly, "Both lavender and coconut are proven to reduce anxiety and stress levels, and as you know, I was born with a brain that forces me to suffer from both on a daily basis if it is not constantly stimulated."

"Ah, I see," I said as Sherlock ran his fingers inside the man's pants' waistband. "I'll have to get John to buy some lavender and coconut cologne, then."

"Finally," Sherlock proclaimed, to which I was startled but then realized he was talking about the bottle that was in his hand. He held it out for me to see, and sure enough in black type said the word "Epinephrine" on a dark brown bottle with a rubber top that was attached to a dropper.

"Clever girl," I murmured, gazing at the bottle. Sherlock cocked his head at me in bewilderment, to which I just said, "Movie reference," and snatched the bottle from him.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily, much louder than I would have liked.

"You've had some run-ins with drugs, Sherlock. I'm not gonna let you hold onto this stuff, it's way too potent."

Sherlock let out a haughty laugh and threw up his arms.

"Oh, so you believe that I'm just going to snort this stuff on my free time?"

"Yeah, pretty much," I responded curtly. "Now, I'm gonna call up Lestrade and get this guy arrested before he pickpockets any more adrenaline medication."

"Fine, why don't you inquire about Lestrade's smoking habits while you're at it? He's quite the avid smoker, you know," Sherlock spat, roughly stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, just chill," I assured him, fully used to his little temper tantrums. In the old days, I would've "gone all New Yorker on him," but nowadays I knew that pacifying him was the best way or else he'd be up all night like an excited, begrudging chihuahua and I would get two hours of sleep, tops.

"It's all gonna be fine," I continued as I pulled out my phone and pulled up Lestrade's number.

"You should also inquire about Donovan's-"

"Shut up already!" I thundered in a sudden fury that surprised me, startling Sherlock into silence.

Well, so much for pacifying him. Hope you enjoy those two hours of sleep, Nicole.

I turned away from Sherlock to calm the angry flames in my throat and tried to time my breathing with the slow dial tone from my cell phone. After three dial tones, Lestrade picked up and I told him the address and that we had a felon unconscious who needed to be brought in for questioning.

"Wait, how'd you find this guy?" Lestrade asked.

"He'd been stalking some surgeon downtown and the surgeon himself came to us and paid us a boatload to help him out. We'll be dining like kings for at least a month."

"You know, I wish you lot would share this information with the New Scotland Yard earlier than when you just catch the bastard," he scolded in a friendly tone.

"Nah, we like to keep all the dough to ourselves," I chirped, and turned to Sherlock and called, "Isn't that right, Mistah 'Olmes?"

"Not talking to you," he called back stubbornly, examining the man's outfit again.

"Alright, well if you guys could come arrest this guy, that'd be great," I said. Lestrade and I bid our goodbyes and I ended the call. Upon shoving my phone back into my pocket, I brushed the heel of my hand on my pants and a flame of pain licked my hand, causing me to gasp. I held up my hand and saw blood dripping down from my palm to my wrist.

Suddenly, the man on the floor let out a low groan. Sherlock straightened up into fight mode, sticking his hand in his coat pocket and whipping out a handgun. He pointed the gun at the man's forehead calmly.

"What is your name?" he demanded rather harshly I thought to a man just coming back into consciousness. "Why did you stalk Dr. Hemmings?"

"What?" the man groaned, raising a hand to his face and rubbing his eyes. He opened them and gazed up at Sherlock with bright green eyes that seemed to permeate through the darkness and glow in a way that sent up red flags in my mind.

"Why did you stalk Dr. Hemmings?" Sherlock hollered at the man, brandishing his gun for emphasis. "You know, the world-renowned brain surgeon who resides in downtown London? Answer me!"

"Sherlock!" I hollered in desperation. "Calm down! Let the man wake up a little."

Wavy brown hair sat moussed with sweat on the felon's forehead as he turned his penetrating eyes on me.

"Ah, I know you," he said in a slow British accent, as if he were on the brink of being blackout drunk. He turned lazily to Sherlock and added, "You, especially. You're all over the news. Big detective guy, huh? Real smart. Your boyfriend killed Moriarty."

"No, he's married to a woman, and yes he did kill Moriarty," Sherlock corrected habitually with his usual apathy.

The felon nodded lazily as if he knew this all along, and turned his bright eyes back to me.

"And you. I know your name... it's on the tip of my tongue... starts with an N or something, right?"

I simply nodded, feeling goosebumps prickle out on my arms. The man gave me a drunk smile and, propping himself up on one elbow, seemingly oblivious to the barrel of Sherlock's handgun inches from his face, wagged a finger at me clumsily.

"I know things about you," he said in a drunk sing-song tone. "Lots of juicy... bloody things."

Sherlock's head jolted up to meet my eyes and I broke out in a nervous sweat and my heart rampaged like a crazed drum.

He couldn't mean...?

"Who are you?" I demanded, even louder than Sherlock had moments earlier. I pulled out my own gun and jabbed it in his direction, feeling myself grow hysteric with combined terror and fury. "Tell me, dammit, or I'll shoot you in your smug little face!"

"Nicole," Sherlock said warily, still pointing his gun at the felon. "Steady."

I turned to throw my fury at him, but the look on his face that said 'We need his information, be calm' cooled me ever so slightly.

"My name isn't important," the man slurred, blinking lazily. "But what is... is that I get this... empeh... enpee..."

"Epinephrine," Sherlock stated.

"Yes!" the man exclaimed, twisting to brandish his finger at Sherlock. "The Epeeneefree! It's important... my boss needs it..." His blinking became slower and he began to lean backward onto the floor.

"Hold up! Who's your boss?" I exclaimed desperately.

But it was too late; the man fell back into unconsciousness on the dirty floor of the abandoned hospital, leaving Sherlock and me staring at his body with a horrible air of dread hanging over us.

"Thank you," I said as the paramedic wrapped up my hand. She smiled at me briefly before going back to her work. Despite my groans of pain, she had dug out the piece of glass out of the heel of my palm and wrapped up my hand, making me promise to visit the hospital the next day to get stitches.

As she wrapped my hand, I watched the other paramedics lift the felon's unconscious body tied onto a gurney into the back of the ambulance. The felon's head lolled to one side with his mouth hanging open in a way that would've been comical if not given the circumstances that, after tonight, serious shit may just go down once again.

I could not shake the apprehension that the felon knew about my past, about the dreadful deed that I covered up back in my days on the Manhattan police force.

That's preposterous, simply illogical! the voice in my head exclaimed in the posh British accent it had adopted since my now two years of residence in London. How could that pillock know anything about what you expertly covered up?

The only way would be that he's working for someone powerful enough to bring up that dust from under the rug you swept it under, the little rat in my head offered, nibbling at any self-reassurance I had built for myself. Moriarty was one of them, surely there's got to be more who've heard of our companionship with Sherlock.

I glanced over at Sherlock, who was currently in a heated debate with Lestrade, probably about something Sherlock said (no surprise there). I couldn't hear their words nor read their lips, but as the paramedic finished up wrapping my hand and gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder before walking to the ambulance preparing to depart, I knew with a frightening certainty that my friendship with Sherlock was just as life-threatening as it was exhilarating.

As if on cue to break off that train of thought, a familiar black Porsche pulled up where the ambulance was pulling out and an older, slightly balding, ginger-haired man in a business suit stepped out of the driver's seat and slammed it behind him vehemently.

I sighed inwardly, bracing myself to face the music.

"What in God's name have you been up to now?!" Mycroft thundered as he strode up to me.

"Well, we found the guy that's been stalking Dr. Hemmings," I said optimistically. "Bugger's in that ambulance that just drove away. I had to shoot him in the leg and Sherlock nailed him in the head with a pan that drove him unconscious, but we got information off of him that I'll share with you later."

Mycroft dragged a hand across his face while letting out a loud, exasperated sigh.

"How many times must you get involved in my brother's shenanigans and risk your life? Look at your hand!" he gestured wildly to my bandaged hand, and continued furiously, "In the past year you've broken an arm, a leg, gotten a concussion, and now your hand is bleeding!"

I glanced down at the slightly reddening gauze and felt irritation creep into my cheeks, reddening them to the same color.

"Look, Mycroft, dear," I said, letting my voice border on anger. Mycroft sensed it and tensed slightly. "I'm not defenseless, and it is my choice to do this. I'm helping people, I'm helping Sherlock pay the bills and having my own place which is good for a relationship, and... I love the adventure, okay? I'll admit it, I may be even a little addicted, but hey... I could be snorting crack."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and put a hand to his forehead before letting a smile creep up on his face and a short laugh escape him.

"Ms. Stryker, you are going to be the end of me," he said, turning his furious gaze into one of fondness. I liked this look on him far better; I smiled back as I felt my anger cool down.

"Oh come on, be a little optimistic," I insisted. "Once this guy gets patched up, we're gonna bring him in for questioning and figure out his motives. Exciting, right?"

"My only concern is your safety," Mycroft said, draping an arm around my shoulders and giving me a quick squeeze. "You weren't hurt anywhere else, were you?"

"No, mom, I'm fine," I said in a playfully exasperated tone.

"Well, that was uncalled for."

"I think it was completely called for. You dialed the number and you called that in, buddy."

"I must say, after all this time, your accent is as strong as ever. How is that?" he asked with a smile as he walked me to his car.

"I practice for an hour in front of the mirror every morning, saying the same words over and over," I ad-libbed, "cwah-fee, dwag, get in the gawddamn cah! Oh my Gawd, it's your brother."

Sherlock strode up to us standing on either side of Mycroft's Porsche and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Lestrade is a complete dolt and I am contemplating mass murder in my fury. Who is interested in being an accomplice?"

"Oh, me!" I exclaimed, raising my bandaged hand excitedly.

"No, no, that's enough violence for one day, my dear," Mycroft cooed, gesturing for me to get in the car and sending a glare in the younger brother's direction. "Control your emotions, dear brother. Lestrade is just doing his own mundane job."

"Not likely, dear brother," Sherlock replied, getting into the backseat and earning an exaggerated eye-roll from Mycroft, who certainly had been anticipating a two-person car ride. "Besides," Sherlock continued as the three of us closed the doors of the Porsche, "being a high-functioning sociopath has its drawbacks."

"I never would have guessed," Mycroft muttered as he started up the Porsche and pulled away from the abandoned hospital.