"Can you explain why we're here again, please?" John said bitterly, taking another bite of his pasta primavera. It was late and John clearly was not keen on waking up early tomorrow to go to the Surgery.
Sherlock sighed noisily from where he sat across from John, he loathed repeating himself. "Because Anna Thompson's killer will obviously pass by Angelo's on the way to the rendezvous point where he will hand off her ring in exchange for the money."
"You had the chance to nab him earlier, why now? If he didn't have the ring on him, the police could have just questioned him." He still sounded resentful, but there was a peek of fascination in his tone that made Sherlock smile a bit.
"He did have the ring on him, in fact." Sherlock stated, and then added in explanation, "He kept fingering to his breast pocket, where there was a small box-like bulge. Obviously his late girlfriend's ring."
"Then why-"
"Because he is absolutely clueless with whom he is dealing the ring off to. An underground organization offering money for ancient Chinese artifacts . . . ."
John paused in his eating, fork halfway to mouth, and stared wide eyed. "You think it's a Black Lotus cell?"
"Perhaps." After all this time, parts of Moriarty's web still seemed to come back to haunt him. It frustrated Sherlock to no end, but if the occasional smuggler was the worst he had to worry about then he supposed he really couldn't complain. John was safe and thus, those two years in hiding had been worth it.
"Sherlock."
"Hmm?" He hated it when John dragged him away from his thinking.
"Sherlock, he's here!"
Sherlock straightened immediately and glanced out the window. Low and behold the young man, twenty-something, was walking down the street clutching the small ring box glancing about nervously in way that practically screamed murderer.
He jumped up and, with John by his side, made his way to the exit.
"Hey! Wait a second there misters! You've gotta pay!" Angelo had passed away a few years ago and the new owner owed Sherlock no favors and therefore free meals were out of the question. Apparently when Angelo told Sherlock that he would eat there for free for as long as he lived he had been referring to his own life, not Sherlock's.
Sherlock didn't pause in his stride and gave a curt nod to John who groaned loudly, realizing he was to be left behind yet again to deal with what Sherlock deemed a boring and insignificant task of commonplace existence. Namely: paying the bill.
Once on the street, Sherlock took off in the direction of the murderer. He stayed a good distance away as not to appear suspicious but after a few minutes of following the man, he seemed to realize he was being followed and took off running. Sherlock swore and began sprinting after the man through the dark London night.
The wind was bitingly cold and even with his great coat on, Sherlock felt the freeze to his bones as he ran through the streets. The man was getting away, the gap between Sherlock and he was getting a bit too large for comfort. Sherlock forced himself to go faster even as his muscles protested profoundly. They burned and cramped with pain while his heart beat thunderously in his chest and blood roared in his ears.
He gritted his teeth as breathing became a painful task, the freezing London air burning his throat. Breathing is boring, he thought furiously. But it was necessary none the less.
As of late, the usual task of running while on a case seemed to becoming increasingly difficult. Sherlock kept his discomfort hidden from John who would most likely have some sort of ridiculous clinical answer to this problem.
So he pushed his body to its limit, surging after the man with fierce ambition until . . .
In his carelessness his foot caught on the ground and he toppled forward.
Sherlock rolled and stood on his knees fast enough to watch the killer hail a cab and swiftly disappear into the night. He let out a howl of disappointment punching the ground, before realizing his hands were bleeding from where they hit the ground. He stared at the blood, almost bemused by its presence and stood up.
Never. Never had that happened to him. Tripped over his own feet, chasing a criminal, oh good Lord. Something was off. He checked his pulse, higher than his usual active rate; touched his forehead, perspiration which was unusual for him; not to mention his body ached. He got out a handkerchief and wiped his hands, applying mild pressure to the slightly deeper more persistent cuts as he slowly walked down the street. He phone trilled a text signal. It was from John.
You alright?
He quickly responded.
Meet me back at 221b. –SH
And then he sighed and mused aloud to the brisk London air and the cold white stars. "I'm not quite sure, John . . . . I think . . . I think I may be getting old."
A/N: First story ever on this site! Hurrah! This will be a six chapter story and I'll update ASAP. I hope you all enjoy it! (Edited on 11/27)
