`It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for days and nights on end when he was upon a scent, so that his lateness came as no surprise.`

(The Beryl Coronet – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

Prologue:

"Ah, shit! Not this road as well? Have you tried the Cradlewell Bypass?"

DI Gregory Lestrade lurched centripetally into the passenger door of the speeding police car as Donovan took his simple request as an excuse to audition for Top Gear`s circuit challenge. A screech of tyres and brakes and blind clutching (why didn't police cars have interior handles?) on his part allowed for a re-route so swift, any SatNav would have blown a gasket.

"Bloody hell, Sally, I didn't mean immediately – let`s keep the G-force to a minimum when traversing central London of an evening."

"It`s four a.m., Boss. I did pass the advanced police driver`s course with – "

" – yeah, Distinction, I know. And I am will be distinctly dis-chuffed if we take out any tax paying member of the public on the way to a crime scene. It never goes down well, as you know."

Sally Donovan righted the car and marginally lessened the fierce pressure she was applying to the accelerator pedal. She scowled, knowing how she`d embroider the story to Sanderson later that night. Her new beau seemed most impressed with her bad-ass descriptions of Days on the Force. Too bad that mad, emergency back-up provision didn't feature too often, but when it did, she meant to make the most of it. Endless cone/traffic light pop ups were conspiring against the London driver even when travelling at a snail`s pace. High speed, 0 – 60 John Woo/James Cameron car chases were, perhaps, a teeny bit out of the question.

Greg had gratefully found purchase beneath his seat as he braced his feet in the well.

"Take this next left; I think the lights were taken down last n – ah, bollocks…"

And he closes his eyes.

X

Oh, muses Sherlock Holmes, how the common criminal fails to mask his imprint on the world.

Disappointing.

A toxic and pungent mixture of cheap aftershave, buttery body odour, mentholated cough sweet and heftily-soled trainer had telegraphed the kidnapper attempting to approach him from the shadows of the abandoned wharf building in the Limehouse Cut; one of the oldest canals in London, dating from the eighteenth century. Once the China town of London, and home to a thousand opium dens, the area was full of derelict wharfs and warehouses that came nowhere near the reach of the law. Criminal-friendly, one might say.

Almost.

"John!"

Sherlock threw his entire length with more grace and agility than was decent, across the filthy, rat-infested floor, reaching out a long, pale hand in time to rendezvous with John Watson`s army revolver, thrown and caught with surprising serendipity.

Sherlock sat up straight and the highly flavoured James Morecroft, aka, `Killer Evans`, found himself staring into the barrel of a highly reliable firearm, attached to a highly adept consulting detective.

"Oh, I don`t think so, Mr Morecroft, do you?"

The voice of John Watson carries across the dripping and cavernous shell of a building.

"She`s ok, Sherlock. Just scared and cold."

Sherlock stands slowly, without losing an atom of focus from his recently acquired felon, who is increasingly looking both fearful and mindful.

"Just as well for you, especially since your – co-worker – has rather left you to pick up the pieces. Don`t fret, I will be paying a visit to him in due course, and – "

And, with an inexplicable suddenness, Sherlock is met with a development so shocking and unexpected, he is genuinely left speechless.

Killer Evans has fallen to his knees, his face crumpling into a torrent of ugly and unbecoming tears. Sobs rack his stocky little body and the only word an increasingly discomforted Sherlock Holmes can make out is a garbled, watery and oft-repeated –

"Sorry … I`m so SORRY …"

The sobbing continues as John steps across from attending to the kidnap victim, now wrapped in his jacket. She has shown a great deal more courage than this ridiculous creature. John can almost feel Sherlock`s embarrassment of apprehending such a pathetic villain just radiating off him in waves. He conceals a smile as he watches his friend blink, frown and then mentally shake it off.

"Oh, do shut up – overusing a word can only dilute it, you idiot."

Hmm, thinks John Watson – clearly a motto Sherlock had always intended to live by.

X

"Live on evasions? No, I save no evil."

"Hmm – repetition but, pretty good, my turn."

John sits on a filthy box atop a filthy floor. He has long since waved goodbye to the hope of resurrecting his trousers after this latest chase. Mrs Hudson`s duster bag was to soon be replenished. Again.

He thinks.

"Was it a cat, or a car, I saw?"

Triumphant.

Sherlock scowls. Extra points were awarded for a question, and John was levelling up. Really, where WAS Lestrade? Had he not texted the urgency of the situation? And given precise and accurate co-ordinates? If the man wanted his help, he should really be there for the fun part – the arrest and general `banging to rights`. Sherlock had used a creative degree of logic and deduction to ascertain the whereabouts, locate the criminal and liberate Miss Helen Stoner, heiress to a bespoke baby knitwear company (by Royal appointment, according to Mycroft), so why couldn't the police get there and liberate them from this tragic kenopsia of a building. Poor show.

And the snivelling dishevelled heap in the corner was doing nothing for his powers of concentration.

He sighs.

"Resume so pacific a pose, muser."

He smiles, victory. Relevance to the situation gained a three point bonus. However, John was becoming quite the palindrome expert. He would have to sleep with one eye open regarding this matter. John was also suspiciously good at board games. Sherlock actually blamed Mycroft for his own failings in this area. He never showed the slightest morsel of patience with a set of rules, and this had somehow rubbed off on his brother. Rubbish big brother.

"And, please, do shut up, Morecroft." He added, to the sniveller.

Luckily, Helen, the actual victim, was double-wrapped and cosy by virtue of a donkey jacket (John`s) and a Belstaff (Sherlock`s) and cheered further by several slugs from John`s hip flask.

"Sex at noon … taxes." She suddenly blurts out, leaning against Sherlock, and smiling into his clear eyes.

"Quite." Says he, ignoring John.

Where the hell were the POLICE?

X

Stealth? Clearly not a strong point, muses a deeply resentful Sherlock, as the best of the Yarders eventually come scrabbling up the rickety stair well, amongst yells, obscenities and a huge collection of torches and lights.

"Ah, the circus has come to town! And luckily, before one of us acquired rheumatism – excellent."

All stand to greet Lestrade and his crew; John helping a slightly shocked and giddy Helen to her feet, and Sherlock hauling her tearful kidnapper to his.

"Sarcasm, Sherlock? Who knew?" Although Sally Donovan has desisted from `Freak` for quite a while, and garnered a (very secret) growing admiration for Sherlock`s methods, she knew he had to be kept in his place from time to time. Sanderson strongly agreed. He hated Sherlock.

X

"Bloody roadworks at every verse end, lads – what do you want from me? I got here as quickly as humanly possible. Perhaps a bit quicker, taking into account Sally`s impression of The Stig."

Lestrade is pretty grateful to Sherlock. The case had become massively high profile due to the Royal connection and he hadn't felt terribly comfortable with the thought of Mycroft breathing down his neck over this one. Nothing had really been said, but Greg was extra wary of Sherlock`s older brother since the Seiga incident of the previous year. He always felt a prickle down his spine when he thought of that. God, he missed her…

He has become aware that both Sherlock and John are staring at him.

"What?"

"You`ve kinda glazed over a bit, Greg," remarks John, smiling.

And Sherlock says nothing, but marvels internally how the emotions of some people play out so well on their faces. He could so easily take a leisurely stroll within the mind of Greg Lestrade, that it was almost … impertinent. Like taking a barefoot walk in the grass, rather than wearing stout boots. It was all about a woman. Tedious. Additional deduction: That woman. More intriguing.

"Apologies again for the lateness," gabbles Greg, determined to change the subject.

"It`s fine – "

"Outstandingly poor – "

Greg stops, hands in pockets and faces Sherlock. It`s 6 a.m., he`s cream crackered, the paperwork will be triple-checked this time, and he`s sure he`s got a stye forming …

"Look, Mr Perfect, I have given my sincerest apologies, and I AM very grateful for your help on this, but, Jesus, Sherlock, have you never been late? For anything? In your whole life?"

Sherlock openly sneers, wrinkling his nose in the cruelly dismissive way that had often inspired John`s `punch me in the face` sub-text in dealings with him.

"Lateness is your greatness, Lestrade. It is the fall back position of so many disorganised bodies in this great city. `The bus didn't turn up`, `the nanny was ill`, `my alarm didn't go off`, `there was a queue at Starbucks`, `my head fell off` - with the exception of the last one, these are the excuses of the pitifully bad planner and the poorly organised. We live in a society of blame, where the appalling rudeness of lateness could easily be overcome by anticipation and forward planning."

He flicks up his collar and turns into the approaching dawn, silently urging its early morning glow along the Thames Estuary. Seagulls squawk overhead and a salty dampness pervades the air. Another day on planet Earth is warming up.

John folds his arms and furrows a disbelieving brow.

"So, what you are telling me is that you have never, in living memory, been late. For anything. Ever."

"I am."

"Hmm…"

And as they get into the police car, Sherlock`s smug demeanour is unassailable – almost.

He doesn't like the glint in the indigo eyes of John H Watson, and feels he hears the distinct clatter of a gauntlet being cast to the ground.