AN: I have been informed that a common British police officer doesn't carry a gun while patrolling the streets. But well, like I said, the veracity is not the point of these stories, so please excuse me.
An Officious Moron
The case sounded fabulous. And it required immediate actions. Sherlock bounced up from the grey leather armchair and grabbed his long coat from the hook. He flew down the stairs, threw his coat around him and dashed out of the door. The final sight of the fluttering coat tail reminded one, confusingly, of Batman's cloak. But well… Sherlock was a hero of sorts. The very own knight of the city of London.
The nighttime street of Baker Street was desolate and quiet. Not a single human was to be seen. And no cabs. Sherlock grunted in frustration. Of course there were no cabs now that he needed them so badly! Some pubs were closing, and there was that ridiculous anniversary or holiday, he now remembered. Which one of them, in particular, he had no idea. And furthermore, he didn't care. All he cared for just now was a ride to Brixton. For a second, he considered ordering a cab by phone. But it was too slow.
His keen, frosty blue eyes surveyed the scene and spotted an abandoned-looking car in the side alley. Sherlock broke into a jog and, at the same time, fished a tool kit out of his breast pocket.
An old car, probably nineties. No electric devices. Worn-out locks. Loose. Easy to break into. His sharp brain picked up the details of the car and lock, processing fluently the information, and before he actually reached the car and started to work with the lock, his mind had already solved and passed that minuscule obstacle and was eagerly scrutinizing the actual problem, which was – as usual – a murder.
Lestrade's call had been intriguing. A homicide had taken place in the Brixton area, in the Ashby's Mill. The victim, dressed as a scarecrow, was tied to one of the windmill's sails. An expensive-looking top silk hat was glued onto the man's head and there was a message in his hand…
Sherlock yanked eagerly open the door of the car and shot a quick look at the fuel gauge. It was half-full. A brief smile twisted one corner of his mouth. He jumped in and slammed the door shut behind him. After a brief period of fiddling with his long, pale fingers, the engine woke up and Sherlock nodded to himself.
The reverse gear. Step on the gas. And, after half a minute, the world's only consulting detective speeded along the shadowy streets of London, a lunatic grin on his face.
The joy lasted ten minutes. After that, Sherlock heard a police siren wailing behind him. He shrugged and accelerated. But the car was old. It didn't really want to end its days by joyriding the streets of London. The engine coughed. Sherlock put the pedal to the medal but it was no use. The car started to slow down and, after ten seconds, the police car raced past him and forced him to drive towards the side of the road.
"For heaven's sake…"
Gritting his teeth, Sherlock hit the steering feel with both hands. He pulled over but didn't kill the motor. He opened the door and realised he was looking down the barrel of a gun. A real barrel of a real gun. And behind that gun, he saw the dark shape of a police officer.
"Oh, c'mon", Sherlock huffed and started to fumble in his pocket for the phone.
"Keep your hands in clear sight!" the police officer shouted.
"Keep your stupidity under control!" Sherlock scowled back. "I'm on my way to the scene of a serious crime. I was just going to call D.I. Lestrade!"
Sherlock thrust his hand in his pocket and the next he knew was the pain in his ears when the gun exploded just in front of him. The police officer had fired a warning shot into the air. Sherlock swore, uncharacteristically heavily. The echo of the shot was ringing in his ears and he suspected his hearing was probably damaged.
"What a top-class idiot you are!" he shouted and climbed out of the car. "Do you want to get sacked from you new job, you officious moron!"
"Stop right there! Don't move or I'll shoot!" the man shouted, the barrel of the gun pointing at Sherlock again.
Sherlock stopped. The young man's eyes looked wild and Sherlock suspected he was about to have a breakdown any second now. This was probably his first night out.
"All right, calm down," Sherlock said slowly and raised his arms. "Where is your partner?"
"It's none of your business, blockhead. Turn around and put your hands behind your back!"
"What!? Seriously, man, I told you already! I'm on my way to the crime scene. I'm Sherlock Holmes and I was invited by Detective Inspector Lestrade from New Scotland Yard!"
"Yes, and I'm Santa Claus. Isn't that what they use to say?" The young man grinned with no joy and waved his gun impatiently. "Now, turn around!"
"For fuck's sake!"
"AROUND! NOW!"
Sherlock took a deep breath and turned around. His mind was quickly going through the possible actions available. The man was clearly scared and seriously unbalanced. And even stubborn Sherlock Holmes understood that arguing with an unbalanced police officer with an itching trigger finger wasn't the best option in the world. Yet, he had to talk to him. It was the only way to sort this out. Unfortunately, polite small talk was not Sherlock's strongest skills. If only John was here, he thought vaguely.
"You know - " Sherlock started but was cut off immediately.
"Shut up and put your hands behind your back."
The police officer pushed Sherlock against the cold steel of the car and, from the jingling metallic noise, Sherlock understood he was about to cuff him. If he did that, the game would be over. With a burning sensation of irritation bubbling under his skin Sherlock turned his body a little to block the view of his right hand. Then he started to move his left hand, slowly, to behind his back while the right one reached carefully for the pepper spray in his pocket.
"You don't actually need a gun and handcuffs for someone with a speeding offense," he said. "You could just fine me and that'd do it."
The silent police officer grabbed Sherlock's left hand and the detective felt the coldness of the handcuff against his wrist. Within seconds, his right hand slipped inside his pocket and his body turned abruptly around.
A sharp press with his forefinger and immediately a rising scream cut the silence of the street. Sherlock grabbed the gun from the officer's duty belt and, before the man dropped to his knees, still screaming and rubbing his face, Sherlock stole his radio. He slipped out the magazine of the gun, cleared the barrel and put the gun in his pocket. Then he left the screaming police officer on the ground, walked to the police car and seated himself behind the wheel. He closed the door, called Lestrade on his phone, and started driving.
"You did what?" Lestrade's voice on the other end of the line was shocked.
"I pepper sprayed one of your stupid officers and left him on the street. His screaming was a bit annoying, to say the least," Sherlock stated calmly.
"Holy shit, Sherlock! You can't go around pepper spraying police officers!"
"He threatened me with a gun. He even fired a warning shot and almost burst my eardrums!" Sherlock huffed back.
"For no reason?" Lestrade asked suspiciously.
"For a speeding offence, for heaven's sake! Well, anyway, how are you supposed to put those silly blue lights on? And probably a siren too. I've already had enough delays."
"What? What blue lights? Sherlock… don't tell me you are in a police car?!" Lestrade's voice was almost begging now.
"Oops… I hope that was not an emergency call button," Sherlock said. "Oh, here we go. Found the right one! I should be there in less than five minutes!"
"You bast-"
Sherlock rang off and dropped the phone into his pocket, ignoring the fact that it started ringing immediately. A genuine smile spread across his face and his eyes shone brightly in the darkness. Undoubtedly, Sherlock Holmes was a unique man with brilliant brain but, deep down, he was still a little boy. And even if he had been a unique little boy with brilliant brain back then, in one particular case he was as ordinary as any boy you can find. He just loved to drive a police car with its siren on.