A lean figure climbed up the fire escape, up to the top window of 221 Baker Street. Carefully, he pried open the window, slipping inside the bedroom.
Clearly it was Emma's room, he knew that much. He'd seen her walk past it plenty of times. He set his backpack down, having a look around. Emma would be home soon, he was taking a risk, sneaking in like this, but he was pretty sure she'd appreciate the romantic gesture. Girls liked blokes climbing up into their rooms, right?
"If you're looking to 'set the mood' might I suggest a thorough shower and shave, followed by a proper look at your choices before wooing any young woman?"
Geoff whirled around, yanking out his switch-blade.
"Improper posture as well, you expect to defend yourself like that?" a tall figure, stretched out on the bed got to his feet in one fluid motion, coming to tower above him. "I expect you're here for Miss Watson. Afraid she's out, may I take a message?" Geoff didn't move, too startled to speak. "No? Then may I suggest you make haste to the nearest exit."
"You're not her dad."
"Good as I suppose," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "However, that deduction has cost you at least five seconds of your head start."
"What?"
"I'm being generous enough to give you a thirty second head-start before I thrash you off my property, didn't I say that?"
"This isn't your property."
"I'm afraid it is, and you've got fifteen seconds." Geoff was still for only three seconds, allowing the words to sink in. He bolted for the door. Like a good sport, Sherlock waited, studying his watch until the time was up before giving chase.
New Scotland Yard…some time later
"Can you identify that man?" Greg Lestrade stood by the two-way glass. Emma Watson sat on a chair, her parents behind her.
"Yeah, that's Geoff, he's the one that's been bothering me, the one I told you about," she said, and then leaned forward. "What happened to him?"
"Says he got mugged, but he still had his wallet, along with a knife and a wad of drugs."
"Why didn't you tell us you were being bothered?" John asked, indignant.
"She did everything right, it just so happens that after she told us, we got a call that someone of his particular build was being brought up on charges of stalking, possession of drugs and an unlicensed gun." Greg stepped forward, speaking into the microphone: "Take him away," an officer entered the room, marching Geoff back out to the cellblock. The Watson's bid Greg goodbye, thanking him.
In Lestrade's office, Sherlock sat, feet propped on the desk as he tossed a squash ball to himself.
"Remind me again," Greg said, coming to lean against the door frame. "How did you find that boy?"
"Oh it's all a blur really, Grant," Sherlock got to his feet. "Whether he was hit by a car or thrown into a dumpster or both…who's to say?"
"You are, Sherlock, there's paperwork, and I've still got superiors to answer to, and the fact that his urine test came back clean despite the drugs-" the phone rang, cutting him off. "Hello?" Greg turned, looking at Sherlock. "Yes he's- what?" Sherlock's smirk was absolutely wicked, and Greg wanted sorely to punch it off him. "Yes…I see, thank you." He hung up and turned back to the Consulting Detective. "Seems everything's been taken care of."
"You're welcome," Sherlock replied breezily and swept out the door.
"The car that hit him…" Greg called and Sherlock paused, turning to face him. "It wouldn't have happened to be a black Rolls-Royce, would it?"
"An unmarked Rolls-Royce?" Sherlock asked.
"Yeah,"
"Nope, wasn't it," Sherlock headed back down the hallway.
"Sherlock!"
"Taken care of, Greg, let it be," he called.
"But what happened?"
"I told you," Sherlock walked backwards as he talked. "I had a friendly little chat with him,"
"'Friendly'?"
"Unfriendly then."
"Right."
"Goodnight, Greg, I'll give Molly your love." Sherlock headed out of New Scotland Yard, whistling to himself. He was fairly certain he'd have an earful from Mycroft about the dent in the hood of his car, but it was a small price to pay when it came to the safety of John and Mary Watson's daughter.