This is the first story I ever wrote for "Sherlock."
Overturned
There are people crowded around the dilapidated flat in one of the worst areas of London, slightly gray skies looming over them with the threat of an impending rain storm. And in front of the building stand a group of officers, including Inspector Greg Lestrade and Sergeant Donavan. Who is arguing with Sherlock. Vigorously.
"You are not going in there!" Donavan shouts in very unprofessional fury, glaring triumphantly at the fuming amateur. "This is a hostage situation, not for civilians!"
"There will be a trap set up on the second floor!" Sherlock snaps right back, flippantly ignoring the impatient tapping on his sleeve from John. "He's already set up traps in three other cases in the last month!"
"And how would you know that, Freak?" she demands. Sherlock glares back at her, not noticing as John rolls his eyes in annoyance and slips away. "You weren't called on any of our cases in that timeframe, and nothing like that."
Greg decides to intervene. "Donavan…"
He is ignored. Sherlock snaps, "Observe, Donavan. The marks on the stair railings were quite incriminating. Even you should have been able to see that."
Lestrade tries again. "Sherlock..."
"And why were you on the scene in the first place?" Donovan demands. "If I didn't know any better," she adds with obvious sarcasm, "I'd think you…"
"Are you quite finished yet?"
Everyone jumps and turns to look at John, who is uncharacteristically frustrated, slightly damp and holding a frightened little girl in his arms – the hostage. "If you don't mind…"
Lestrade snaps out of it before Sherlock (who is staring dumbly at John) and orders his team into the house after the would-be kidnapper.
After all is calm, Sherlock stammers out in confusion (a singular display, no doubt), "How did you…"
"The back window, Sherlock, his own escape route. No one here," John gives an irritated glance at the entire assembly, "was doing anything, so…"
Sherlock – for once – can't speak. John rolls his eyes and takes off down the street, leaving London's resident genius to gawk, then belatedly follow him to a waiting taxi.