AN: I own none of what I have written. I have merely written it for people's enjoyment. I hope you all enjoy it. :)

Chapter 1

The train rumbled along the tracks as the two writers sat across from each other. The landscape outside the train window was rushing by in a blur of colors as if nature was an artist and had smeared the landscape onto the canvas. One of the writers, who went by the name of Steven Moffat, looked out the window, his eyes studying the landscape as if there was something to be gained from looking at it. In his lap lay a script that he and his writing friend had just finished writing for another television series, but he wasn't concentrated on that. His writing partner wasn't either. Mark Gatiss leaned back in his seat slightly so that he would have a better view out the window too.

"You know what we should do..." mused Mark, trying to cut the silence that hung in the air.

Steven turned his head slightly to look at Mark, raising a brow in question.

"What should we do? What are you talking about?"

Mark removed his eyes from the landscape to focus on the man across from him. A small smile played across his face, sending hints of it to his eyes.

"We've discussed it some in the past," said Mark, trying to leave subtle hints.

Steven understood what Mark was vaguely getting at, and smiled too.

"You mean Sherlock Holmes?"

Mark nodded, his eyes now fully alight with the idea.

"We have discussed the fact that someone should create a modern day Sherlock for so long now,...Why can't we be the ones who do that?

Steven nodded, now filled with the excitement and endless possibilities of embarking on such a project.

"You're right. We're both writers after all. We could do it together."

Mark nodded in agreement, allowing his eyes to wander back to the train window again.

"The only thing we need to decide on, besides how we want to portray the great detective in the modern era, is what should his first case be?"

Suddenly, Mark was jolted forward out of his seat. He braced himself on the seat opposite him to keep him from falling completely to the floor. Steven jerked forward too at the sudden stop; both of their scripts flying across the floor, scattering in what appeared to be a million different directions.

"What's going on?" asked Steven as he looked around, wondering why the train had come to a sudden stop.

Before Mark could even attempt to make an educated guess, the door to their train compartment flew open.

"Heads down, gentlemen! Don't raise them!" called out a deep Baritone voice from above them.

Both of them obeyed the voice, ducking their heads even lower, eyes trained on the varnished floorboards of the train.

They could hear a weird squeaking noise beside them. They both dared to turn their heads up slightly to watch as a tall, agile man in a black/gray overcoat swing open their window, and slip his body out the window slightly, dark curls blowing backward in the wind.

"John! Where are you?"

That was when they both noticed the presence of another man in the compartment. He was much quieter than his counterpart. He stood near the door, his dirty blond hair slightly askew on the top of his head. His gray blue eyes scanned the two occupants of the compartment. He then turned to face his partner, who was still dangling halfway out the window.

"I'm right here. What do you need?"

"Isn't it quite obvious, John? The chase is on, and you ask what I need!" The man sighed heavily, popping easily back into the compartment from the window. He held out one of his hands to the man. "I need a gun."

"Ah," said John retrieving a gun from his waist and placing it in the man's hands.

The man quickly laid claim to the gun, flashing John a brief smile.

"Take care of those two," said the man, dismissively waving the gun at them. "Make sure they don't move."

"Wh-what's going on?" asked Mark finally cutting through the silence.

"Question them if you must, John," said the man staring at him and ignoring Mark's question completely, "But don't allow them to leave."

John nodded that he understood the task that he had been given, and watched as the man climbed out the window again. This time the man slid all the way out the window, planting his feet on the window sill, clambering up to the roof of the train.

"What is he doing?" asked Steven, daring to raise his head, watching in awe as the man finally disappeared from view.

"He's just being himself," said John, dismissively waving a hand toward the window. He turned his attention toward the two of them, giving them a soft smile. "I apologize for my partner's gruff greeting. You two may sit up now. I merely have a few questions to ask you."

As John walked toward them, he noticed the papers on the floor. He immediately bent down to start gathering them.

"Why did the train stop suddenly?" asked Mark as he watched John neatly stack the papers that had fallen to the floor.

"As part of an investigation," replied John as he handed the stack to Mark.

"An investigation? Really?" asked Steven, intrigued. "What's going on?"

John took up a seat next to Mark and looked at Steven calmly.

"You don't know?"

"No, of course not," said Steven bewildered, "Else I wouldn't be asking."

Mark turned sideways to look at John, his red hair matching the askewedness of John's.

"There is someone aboard this train who has a bomb," said John calmly, as if that was the most common occurrence in the world.

"A bomb?! Then shouldn't it be evacuated? Why are we all still aboard?"

"It is because the person who has the bomb hasn't been alerted of our presence yet," stated John, his eyes resting on the satchel beside Steven, "But they are now."

Before Steven or Mark had time to acknowledge John's glance and correct him, John pulled another gun from his waistband and laid it across his lap.

"Y-You think we are in possession of the bomb?!" asked Mark bewildered, his voice wavering in shock.

"If you wouldn't mind gentlemen, this matter can easily be cleared up if you allow me to look through the satchel."

Steven quickly handed it over to John. He set it on top of the gun on his lap and unclasped the bag. He began to shift through the contents, finally producing a small blue square from the bag. It had a small blinking light on it that John stared intently at. He cursed under his breath as he pocketed the square into his coat pocket.

"I'm sorry gentlemen. It appears as if the true bomber has planted the tracker on you."

John swiftly rose from his seat, handing the satchel back to Steven.

"Where are you going?" asked Mark, looking after him.

"I have to go catch up with my partner, and help him find the true bomber before it's too late."

Mark quickly rose to his feet.

"I want to help."

John stopped in his walk, turning to look at him. Steven got to his feet too to stand beside Mark.

"I would like to assist as well."

"I don't know if my partner would like that that much," said John, glancing at the window as if the man would suddenly appear.

It was as if John was physic, for mere minutes later the man slipped back through the window and back into the compartment.

"The bomb nor the bomber are up there. It hasn't been planted yet, unless they have changed the location which is possible if they were tipped off."

The man's gaze turned to the two standing man as he said "they".

"They're innocent, Sherlock," said John digging into his pocket and handing him the tracker.

Mark and Steven both shared a look, then turned back to stare at the two men.

"Did you..." Steven's voice died out for a second before he continued, "Did you just say his name was Sherlock?"

John turned to look at Steven.

"Yes, his name is Sherlock."

A wide grin soon took over Mark's shocked face.

"May we shadow you two on your case? We're writers and-"

"Writers?!" groaned Sherlock, pocketing the tracker and running a hand down his face. "John, I told you to interrogate them, not turn them into the paparazzi. What did you tell them?"

"I just told them the general facts, Sherlock," stated John.

"No, they may not follow us. You know what I think about the press."

"We aren't writers for the press," spoke up Steven. "We're fiction writers. Screenplay writers to be specific."

"Oh, screenplay writers," said Sherlock in a slightly sarcastic tone of voice as he turned to face them. "Trying to find a plot?"

"Sherlock, they aren't the bombers, nor are they the paparazzi. Give them a break," stated John, giving Sherlock a rather stern look.

"If you'll allow us to explain, we were just talking about creating a show about the modern day Sherlock," said Mark, "and if you would allow us the honor of following you and John today, you'll help us to more accurately portray you on the television series."

Sherlock studied Mark and Steven closely for a minute, silence lingering in the air between them.

"Fine. You may shadow us, but don't get in the way," warned Sherlock.

"Come Watson! We're off!"

"Sherlock! Where are you going?" asked John, watching as Sherlock opened the compartment door.

"To find the bomber of course! The game is on, John! Come along!"