Disclaimer: This is not mine. The BBC Sherlock comes from the genius that is Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and is based on the stories by Arthur Conan Doyle.
Sherlock Holmes was not lost. Under no circumstances was he lost. Sherlock Holmes did not get lost and therefore could not, in fact, be lost.
Sherlock slowed to a walk he had been running from a band of thieves that he may or may not have inadvertently pissed off when he borrowed/stole some of their 'loot'. Well he supposed it was his loot now.
Problem was, he had been running for a good half hour and was convinced that he had seen this street before… at least twice… maybe three times. Okay he was lost and just going round in circles now… bollocks!
Sherlock missed London. He didn't get lost in London. He knew London. London was his home. Unfortunately London was the one place he could not currently go. He hadn't been in the city for 8 months now hadn't even been in England for 7 of those months. Hadn't spoken English for 6 months and 22 days. Hadn't had a decent cup of tea since John made one before his 'death'. But he wasn't going to think about that because thinking about that led to thinking about 221B Baker Street, which in turn led to Mrs Hudson not actually being his housekeeper (honestly she thought that money was for rent?) and that led to John… Sherlock missed John.
Sherlock missed Johns' inane chatter and frumpy jumpers and his unwavering support and his constant tea making and fretting that Sherlock wasn't eating enough. His touchy feely emotional view on the world and even his ludicrous blogging of their cases. In fact if Sherlock was being honest with himself he missed everything about John. He also worried about him, the last he had heard was that John was not taking his 'death' well, in fact he rarely left the flat and when he did he was using that silly cane again. Maybe he should go back and tell John he was okay, explain the situation. Bring John out here… he could help.
Sherlock sighed and began to climb a fire escape if he could get up high he could work out where exactly he was. His trainers slipped on the rain slick metal prompting further thoughts on how he missed his shoes. Not that these weren't his shoes, as in they did belong to him, but they weren't his black shoes, the ones that were moulded to his feet from running the streets. Nor were these his jeans or his cotton t-shirt and this ridiculous blue hoody was definitely getting burned. He missed his silk shirts and the lack of coat was still taking some getting used to. He missed how it swished around his legs or billowed out behind him as he ran. He missed tugging his collar up against the wind (No he did not do it just to look cool).
Sherlock didn't really look like Sherlock anymore. His curls had been hacked off and what was left of his now disturbingly short hair was bleach blonde. His eyes had green contacts in and his ear had a silver stud in it. Sherlock was not happy.
Maybe he should have just let Mycroft finish off Moriartys' empire, he thought as he pulled himself onto the rooftop. But then, pondered as his breath swirled out infront of him and gazing out at Berlin lighting up the night sky. It wouldn't have been nearly as fun.
A noise on the street to his left drew his attention, ah yes the thieves that were a front for a drug trafficking organisation headed by one Sebastian Moran. A slow smile spread across Sherlocks face…maybe London could wait.
A/N I might do a few one shots of Sherlocks life without John or John without Sherlock…maybe some for Mrs Hudson, Lestrade or Molly. It depends how popular this is.
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