YAY! My first story! I hope you all like it! Please be gentle, I don't want to be scared from writing forever!
"What are you talking about Mycroft? Just because Moriarty's back doesn't mean Sherlock… Alright, alright. Yes, I'll stay with him tonight. I'll go over to discuss cases and act like I lost track of time. Yes, I know he'll see right through that, but does that matter? If tonight's supposed to be bad, why would he care? Fine… when do you think he'll be back? Ok, I'll talk to you later. Bye." The man was wearing blue jeans, and plaid button shirt and a cardigan. His hair and posture said military, but the life of John Watson was a little more exciting than that.
Mary Watson looked up from her book at her husband and John spoke, "Mycroft thinks tonight's going to be a bad one." John sat down on the sofa next to his pregnant wife. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it, but Mary understood.
It had been two month since Sherlock had murdered Charles Augustus Magnusson, was exiled from his country, been sent to his death in Eastern Europe, and returned only after four minutes of his punishment, only to discover that the man he had tried his best to destroy and get rid of had somehow managed to survive. Sherlock Holmes had put his friends through pain and suffering to dismantle Moriarty's vast network only to find that his efforts had been futile. Moriarty was still out there and people were still getting hurt.
Sherlock hid it very well how much he was hurt and angry. He acted like himself, arrogant and an ass, but John knew that this affected him more than he let on. He couldn't see to what extent it had gone to, but he knew there was something wrong. Sherlock hadn't taken a case since, even though hundreds had come to him. He claimed they were all "too boring." John knew he would need a case soon or he might go crazy.
"John, it's only been two months. I'm sure Sherlock is still upset. Besides, Sherlock knows that it would be bad to go straight to drugs the first night by himself. He's been alone a month now. He's trying to trick us into thinking he's fine. He's going to need the company tonight." Mary looked at John. She knew she couldn't get in the way of what Sherlock and John had, and she didn't want to. A friendship like John and Sherlock's should never be broken.
"Thank you Mary." John looked at his pregnant wife. She was getting closer to term, and John didn't want to leave her, but he knew she would be fine for one night. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Sherlock? Do we have any jam?" Silence filled the flat that John Watson was sharing with Sherlock Holmes for that night. "Sherlock?" John called from the kitchen again. "Maybe he finally decided to do the shopping," John said to himself. He was using this as a way to try and relax. If Sherlock was gone, John could not freak out. He had to stay calm, maybe Sherlock just wasn't paying attention. John went into the living room area expecting to find Sherlock on the sofa or in his chair moping because he was bored. He wasn't there though. His phone wasn't on the desk, but his computer was. John tried to ring him but he didn't pick up. He checked his messages: none. John went to check the coat rack and both Sherlock's coat and scarf were gone. "Oh, shit…" John whispered, and he ran out of the flat to go find Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes currently was wandering the streets of London. He had already shot the wall a few times, played his violin, and welcomed John back into the flat. He knew why John was there, but would never tell him that he was glad John was there. Even though he had seen him almost every day since Sherlock had kept his promise, Sherlock still missed the constant company of when he and John had lived together.
Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but drugs had been on his mind. Mrs. Hudson had even got rid of her "herbal soothers" because she was worried about Sherlock. He knew it would be a bad idea, but it hadn't been long since he had been on opium for the Magnusson case. Sherlock's steps faltered. Magnusson, the man he had killed for John and Mary Watson. If put in the same situation again, he would not hesitate to protect John. That image was forever embedded in his brain though. The sight of the gun in Sherlock's hand, firing, and Magnusson hitting the ground. He had nightmares of this scene every night. The first month was bad, John had to come in and wake him a few times he was so worried about Sherlock. They got better after a few weeks, but then John had left and gone back to Mary, and they came back full force, worse than before. The scene would change, and Magnusson would shoot John, or worse, John would try to stop Sherlock and he would shoot John instead. Those were the worst ones. You couldn't blame Sherlock for wanting something to help him forget for a while.
Sherlock hadn't taken a case in the two months since and was getting anxious. He had already gone to his favorite restaurant to sit and not eat, he'd taken a taxi to the museum, and he had already checked for any new police reports. Now he was pouting on a bench, judging the people as they walked on the streets of London. Or run, apparently.
Her breathing looked even, but her heart was racing from panic. You could see it in her eyes. She looked lost. She was on the receiving end of curious looks and glances as she ran through London. Definitely a tourist, probably American. She looked to be between the ages of 17 to 19. Probably 18, but age is so hard to guess at a glance.
It was easier to study her as she ran towards Sherlock, her features coming more into focus. She was wearing jeans and converse, an expensive brand of shoe. She didn't look like the kind of person who had a lot of money, she probably bought them at a sale. Her shirt depicted a band name, Fall Out Boy, it was black and the lettering was in white, styled like the old Coca-Cola brand. Her jacket was made of jean. It looked new enough, but well worn, as if she had been outside a lot with it. It was dirty like she had fallen quite a bit and looked like it had been slept in. It was a nice jacket though, not one meant to be worn outside much unless it was a nice day outside. Maybe she was homeless, or a runaway. She was probably meeting someone who would take her in but obviously got lost on her way, wait, what was that?
The girl had glanced around and looked more panicked than before. She began to run faster. What was she looking at? Sherlock stood to get a better look down the street to see if he could find what the girl was looking at. There didn't appear to be anyone out of the ordinary on the street. Who is th-
"Sherlock!" A shout from in the busy street that no one heard. Except Sherlock. It's funny, you can be completely oblivious to everything around you, but you automatically hear when someone shouts your name. Sherlock heard his name and turned. The crowd was too thick though. He couldn't see John. He paused for a second, decided he was hearing things, and then turned around.
Sherlock felt something crash into him and he hit the ground. He felt a weight on his chest. "Help," a whisper in his ear for only a second, before the person on top of him sat up. She looked different up close. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a high pony tail and covered in sweat, like she had been running for a while. Her bangs hung into her face, plastered to her forehead. Her lips were small, they would probably look better with lipstick. Her nose was normal enough, a small ridge at the top made it appear to pronounce itself more. It was her eyes that caught Sherlock's attention though. Her chocolate eyes bored into Sherlock's blue ones, one looked like it was bruised but covered in make-up. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. So very sorry." She said in a British accent. It wavered a little though because she was scared. Defiantly American, but a very good accent. It could fool almost anyone. Almost.
She picked herself up off of Sherlock and tried to run again. "Wait," Sherlock grabbed her hand and used her to haul himself up off the ground. She almost lost her balance, not expecting such a tall man to use her as a lever. Sherlock straightened his jacket and looked the girl in her eyes, "What's the rush?"
"Sherlock!" People were beginning to stare at the little man shouting in the street, trying to work his way through the crowd. Sherlock heard his name again and began to turn. The girl used this distraction to pull her hand out of Sherlock's grasp. She started to run again but no way was that happening. Sherlock reached out and grabbed her again.
Her eyes began to dart around, landing on individuals in the crowd, only for mere seconds though before they were looking at something else. The people she looked at seemed normal enough, but perhaps there was something else going on.
"What are you looking at?" Sherlock asked. Her eyes slammed back to Sherlock and something crossed her face. Recognition maybe? Sherlock wasn't exactly inconspicuous, it was probable that she would have known about him even if she was from America.
She yanked her hand out of Sherlock's grasp. She put her hand in her pocket and paused. She wasn't sure if she could trust him. He looked like that man who helps people, that consulting detective, but she could be wrong. Just because she was American doesn't mean she hadn't heard about him. People all over the world were talking about Sherlock Holmes, the man to go to if you need help with a problem. She certainly had a problem, but could she trust him? Sherlock was notoriously known in England for refusing almost all the cases that came to him. Apparently he thinks Scotland Yard gets all the interesting ones. What did she have to lose if she did trust him though, besides her life, but that was already in danger.
It took the girl only a second to decide to trust Sherlock. She pulled a crumpled paper out of her pocket and dropped it on the ground before turning and running across the busy street. Cars screeched to halts, horns blared as people tried to avoid hitting her. After she had crossed, she turned back and looked at Sherlock, then walked down an alley large enough for a car to fit in. One of the men she had looked at got up and followed her. "Wait!" Sherlock bent down and scooped up the paper and ran after her.
"SHER- Oh this is pointless!" John Watson stopped shouting and began to chase after Sherlock again. "This had better be good, and he better have done the shopping!"
Sherlock ran across the street after her, making the cars stop again, jumping over hoods to get there faster. Just behind was John Watson, apologizing for Sherlock, again. Sherlock got there just in time to see her shoved into a car and it start to speed away. A wicked grin crossed his face, "Oh, now it's interesting," He ran after the car as it made a right turn, and when he rounded the corner there were three cars identical to the one just in the alley, they even had the same license plate. He paused as a scowl crossed his face, giving John enough time to catch up.
"Ah, John, lovely to see you could make it. No time for explanations, but we need to run again." And Sherlock took off. "What have I gotten myself in to," John mumbled to himself. Sherlock and John took off after the cars. What they didn't notice was the fourth identical car, pull out from its parking spot and turn and go the other way, towards the outskirts of London.
As Sherlock and John ran, Sherlock studied the inside of the cars. There was only one with three people. The rest had two. He picked that one, in the middle. He chased it around London until he finally caught up and yanked the door open.
"May we help you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" the man spoke with a thick cockney accent. Probably from one of the slums of England. A brute or grunt, nothing more. Hardly a challenge for Sherlock.
How intriguing. "I see you've heard about me. I have not had the displeasure of knowing you though." There was definitely something going on. These men just looked like trouble. The man driving the car was wearing a chauffer's clothes, suit, tie, cap, he looked general enough. Sherlock couldn't see much of him, but the way he was sitting told Sherlock he had a gun near him. Nothing he could do about that, so he turned his attention to the men in the back. The one closet to Sherlock was wearing working clothes. Heavy trousers, work boots, a plain black shirt with a jacket over it. He looked like he had just woken up, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was mussed. Hung-over, no doubt. He was carrying a weapon though, just a regular hand gun, in his jacket pocket. An angry man with a weapon was a dangerous man. Sherlock kept one eye on him and studied the other man in the car
He was wearing a suit as well, but his looked more expensive. He had a trench coat on, and was his tie backwards? He was wearing loafers, and there were no weapon on him. He was a well groomed man, not a hair out of place. He looked like an angel, his hair jet black. His hands were clasped in his lap, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, as if he was praying. He looked calm, but his expression was smug. He knew Sherlock would chose this car. As Sherlock stared at the well-dressed man, the man's smile grew wider. He kept his eyes closed, like he wouldn't deem Sherlock with the sight of his eyes.
"You won't have to worry about knowing us if you stay here," the hung-over man in the back said as he drew his gun and aimed it at Sherlock's chest. Sherlock frowned, but even he knew when it was time to back off. The situation had changed, Sherlock had something interesting to do.
"Alright, sirs. I'll leave you here. But don't think for one second that I won't try to find her."
"Her? Now what are you talking about Mr. Holmes?" the well-dressed man said. He opened his eyes and looked straight at Sherlock. His eyes would have been a striking blue had they not been clouded over. Sherlock stared at him, and couldn't help feeling that despite the fact that he was blind, he could see right through Sherlock. Obviously he knew what was going on. Sherlock squinted at him, but knew the other man wouldn't just threaten him with the gun if he didn't let them leave soon.
"Until we meet again, Mr. Holmes, I shall wait with bated breath." Sherlock slammed the door, and the car speed away.
"What the hell was that?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock turned and looked at him with a wide grin on his face. "The game, is on."