At first he thought he was being stabbed, because the noise was sharp and piercing. Who stabs someone with a blunt instrument? And he supposed that if he was in fact being stabbed the implement that it was conducted with must have been able to pierce the skin in order for him to actually be stabbed, otherwise it would just be a rather hard poke.
However, as he regained consciousness it occurred to him that he wasn't being stabbed at all. Physically at least. The alarm clock on the other hand was slicing his ear drums to shreds, almost giving him a heart attack when it first began its beeping tirade.
He groaned, after realising what the alarm clock meant. His leg stretched itself without command, and at the joint of his knee it ended up hanging loosely off the bed. The rest of him meanwhile continued to lay in the entanglement of duvet, refusing to move with eyes shut tight.
"Master Brooke! Get up!"
Someone knocked hard on the bedroom door, and Sherlock grunted something in reply that even he couldn't quite decipher. The voice seemed satisfied though, as the knocking didn't continue. The alarm didn't back down as easily.
Without opening his eyes, he stuck out his arm and began hitting the oak bedside-table in a futile attempt to switch the alarm off and find his phone, which had also decided to start making noises at him.
Once the alarm was silenced (it now lay broken on the other side of the room. Five beeps had proven to be five too many, and as a result Sherlock had thrown the unsavoury machine at the wall. Something that he now realised was a bad idea, because a- it had made him sit up and actually use some muscles, and b- this was his second alarm clock within this calendar month), he peeled his eyes open and snatched the phone from the side. Distinctly pissed off now that he'd had to wake up at all. The texts didn't help.
Don't come into the lounge at any point today. It's a bit messy. x
Be awake for 06:30am. We've got a big day ahead of us! x
Sherlock, stop putting fingers in the fridge. It's disgusting. x
Sherlock scowled as he thumbed through each one. He was often banned from going into certain rooms of his own home. Usually it meant that Jim had something big on with work. One day Jim had finally decided that Sherlock got in the way too much, therefore meaning that whenever there was something important going on, Sherlock was completely and utterly barred, then allowed in again if he was needed. But all of Jim's associates seemed to respect him, regardless of how 'annoying' Jim always made him out to be.
The second message made him growl. Last night was his first night of sleeping in roughly 72 hours. Of course he wasn't allowed to catch up on his sleep. Jim had done that on purpose. The first night he was about to go to sleep, but the urge to meddle with the police had become too strong, and that's how he found himself being dragged away from a crime scene at 5:00am by a couple of Jim's henchmen. Since that point, he'd been darting around London tracking down the murderer, made more difficult by the constant attempt to avoid a couple of blokes who Jim had told to tail him. That's how he eventually found himself in the police station. The woman who had picked him up was one of the maids.
He merely shrugged at the last one. He needed those fingers, and they needed to be kept somewhere. The fridge was the most convenient spot. Plus, when he left a few toes before one of the servants threw up, which Sherlock thought was hysterical. Jim pretended not to be amused, but really Sherlock knew that he was.
Deciding that he should get up, Sherlock padded across the room and pulled his dressing gown off of a hook. He wrapped it around himself, rubbing his eyes blearily and making a move towards the door.
"No, no, no, Sir." A very panicky voice came charging at him along the corridor (he lived in a big house). "Go back into your room and have a shower, there'll be a suit waiting for you to get changed into. Mr Moriarty wants you presentable for today." The voice came level with him now, bringing a face with it. She was the strictest servant to ever exist. Sherlock always thought that servants were supposed to do what you told them to do, but in this place he was the one with the orders.
Too tired to reply, Sherlock simply spun on his heel and stomped back into his bedroom. He liked his room, it was the one place that he was never told not to go. Usually because Jim would never carry out any sort of business in there; it was always untidy, and had a faint burning smell from one too many singed pieces of furniture.
The king-sized bed was rarely in use, but it acted well when needed. He also had a large oak desk that had just about enough room for a laptop, but the rest was littered with mugs of half-drank cups of tea and various sheets of paper. The walls were a dark green, although it was plastered with photographs and string that Sherlock had forgotten the colour entirely. It was plain but simple. He'd made it his own. Jim often referred to it as 'Error'. At first Sherlock thought he was being insulting, but it later transpired that Error meant Maze in Latin, and as Sherlock navigated his way around the turrets of books he could see what Jim meant.
After his shower, he found himself staring at the suit that had been laid on his freshly-made bed. Using his towel to dry his hair as much as he could be bothered, he lazily got himself dressed. He then checked his phone to see what the weather would be like (it didn't occur to him to look out of the window, but then again, curtains hadn't been open for at least seven months), and on finding that it would be cold he also grabbed his scarf and much treasured Belstaff coat. He then made his descent down stairs.
"You took your time." The same grumpy maid as before snapped, and Sherlock now remembered her name too. It was Mrs Green. An inspirational name for an inspirational person. Him and Jim often joked that the name was so given because the woman was in actual fact an alien. It sounded petty, but when Sherlock had first arrived in Jim's care, the woman had been laying into Sherlock hard when he'd come down stairs one morning wearing odd-socks. The nine year old had been slightly nervous anyway (he'd only been there a week), and so Jim had cheered him up, by telling him that she was an alien and had fled from her home planet after the dreaded odd-sock monsters invaded. Sherlock had liked that story a lot, especially as it involved a clever character with black hair who had ultimately chased her onto the space ship at the end and got rid of her. The nine year old in him certainly found it appealing.
"Well who else's time was I going to take?" He retorted, striding passed the woman completely and out through the front door, which was being held open for him by one of Jim's 'Workers'.
"What on Earth Mr Moriarty was thinking when he took you in is a mystery to me, Sherlock. You've been nothing but a sarcastic, ungrateful little shit!" She shouted, and Sherlock smirked, waving back at her as a way of saying goodbye.
Jim wasn't waiting for him in the car when he arrived, and so Sherlock found himself sitting in the back of a car, alone. This had happened on numerous occasions before. Jim had evidently needed to get him out of the way for today, and so Sherlock was probably on the way to somewhere he'd detest. He stared bitterly out of the window, his head filling up with schemes and tasks for him to do today. First however, he needed to escape.
He hated betraying Jim though. The man was great, and a complete mastermind. Sherlock would be lying if he said that he didn't look up to him. He was a genius. Sherlock knew it. While he wasn't allowed to know what Jim did ("All in good time, hun." Jim would say whenever Sherlock asked), but whatever it was, Sherlock knew that he excelled at it. He was good at his job, and had even taken him in from whatever hell-hole he'd left behind. In Sherlock's mind, Jim Moriarty was a Saint. A Saint that Sherlock kept managing to piss off.
When the car eventually rolled up outside the library, Sherlock saw his opportunity. He'd be damned if Jim thought he'd be spending the day in a God forsaken library. So once he'd made sure that the driver had departed, he slipped from the library building and hastened towards one of his favourite places.
When one has a bruise, it is impossible to resist the urge to poke it. So when John spotted the purpling monster under his left eye while passing a large collection of stainless steel kitchenware, the bruise just had to have a finger jabbed into it to see how much it hurt. Which it did. After poking the beast a few more times, John was more or less satisfied that it hurt when prodded, and so he therefore decided to continue with the washing up.
He didn't really mind about the punch so much. It was manageable, and he could handle it. Certainly, the second anyone quizzed him about it, he informed them that he'd merely lost his balance and walked into a street lamp. Something that he'd actually done before on many an occasion, so it wasn't a difficult lie to tell.
"Hi John."
John jumped as a bright voice cut over the sound of the running water pouring from the tap. He recognised it immediately as Molly Hooper.
"Oh, hi, Molly." He smiled, looking up from the plate he was currently washing.
Molly Hooper also had a temporary job at St Bart's. She worked in the Pathology department, sorting out eyeballs and fingers and all sorts of disgusting things that people liked to dissect. John would have killed for an actual substantial job like the one that Molly had (although she did had a serious devotion for chemistry and biology, John found suspected that she'd only managed to get the job because her Uncle worked as a Doctor there, and not because of her complete devotion to everything that she did).
"What happened to your eye?!" Molly half shouted, slightly aghast at the sight of the thing under his eye.
"Walked into a street lamp." John shrugged, but Molly frowned and leaned towards his ear. She always knew.
"I know it's not my place to say anything..."
"... I have a feeling you're going to anyway."
"Please talk to the Police, John. They'll help you." She whispered. It was very rare that she'd come out of her shell, so much so that whenever she spoke it was barely audible anyway. The rules only changed for those who she trusted and cared for, or if she was angry.
"They won't listen to me." John muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose on his sleeve and not holding back any resentments he had with them in his voice.
Molly noticed this, and smiled widely.
"Cheer up. Things are rubbish right now but they'll get better. They always do." She offered, just as a man came and stood behind her, evidently thinking that she was in the queue. John nodded towards the man behind her and Molly quickly scuttled away and perched herself at a table.
The guy who just bought three cups of very strong, very black coffee made John feel like he'd just walked into the set of a Mafia film. He was big, in height and muscle; tattoos could be seen wriggling up from under his collar and across his neck. The hands that had clasped themselves around the cups were littered with scarring that matched his face, with a long, drawn out gash disappearing under his sleeve.
"That'll be £3.90, please." John said lightly, tapping into the counter. The bloke rummaged around in his pocket and withdrew a handful of change. It was painful watching him count each individual coin. By the time the man had finished counting under his breath, John had already worked out that he was 40p short.
"Oi, Seb!" The man called out across the café. "You got any change?"
Another man muttered something to the guy sitting next to him, who chortled, and then proceeded to make his way to the counter.
He was also tall. Not quite as tall as Mr Tattoo, but still very tall. He towered over John at least, although John didn't consider this much of an achievement. There were no tattoos that flanked his body (none that John could see, anyway), and while the other guy looked formidable in his suit, this new one looked strangely good, like he belonged at a red carpet premiere, or running around shooting bad guys as a swanky secret agent.
"40p" Mr Tattoo grunted, holding out his fist full of change so that the guy who John worked out to be called 'Seb' could see. He pulled out his wallet and fished around for a minute, until withdrawing his hand and pulling out a 50p coin.
"Keep the change."
When he spoke, John expected it to be with the same delicacy that Mr Tattoo had, so he was rather taken aback by the clearly upperclass accent. Definitely a secret agent bloke.
"Thanks."
The two men turned and settled themselves back down at the table. John watched them closely. What could three guys like that be doing in a hospital? Maybe one of their mates had gotten into a fight- that wouldn't surprise John in the least. Molly reappeared quite quickly after they left.
"So what're you up to today?" John quizzed, going back to the washing up which he'd abandoned.
"Not a lot. But you'll probably have ended your shift by the time I get out, so don't wait for me."
John and Molly made it a ritual to meet each other after work, and then they'd go somewhere. It was usually to Molly's house, her Grandma's, or just into another café. John liked it because he liked Molly's company, but also because it got him out of the house for a while longer.
"Okay." John nodded, trying to disguise that he was a bit put-out by the fact that he'd have to find other means of procrastinating.
"We'll meet up next Monday?" She said, hopefulness flowing through her voice.
"Yeah, sure." John grinned, and Molly turned around and made her way passed the group of surly men and towards at set of double doors. She turned around, smiled apologetically, and then vanished through them.
John was left alone for no longer than two minutes when something was lobbed at his head. The washing up was clearly never going to get done.
"What the-"
"Shhhhhh!"
John stopped talking and covered his hand with his mouth (forgetting that it was covered with bubbles, and he gagged as the washing-up liquid water came into contact with his tastebuds), as the crisp-thrower slid himself over the counter, and then crouched down on the floor behind the sink. It was the same guy John had met in the Police Station yesterday.
"I need your apron." The guy said shortly. John was desperately trying to remember his name. It was something like River...
"My what?"
"Don't make me say it again."
He had no idea why, but John found himself undoing the knot behind his back and pulling the apron off over his head. He then thrust it into the teenager's hand. The guy then put the apron on and stood up sharply, but still crouching slightly. John was intrigued.
"Are you hiding from those blokes?" John queried, peering over the sandwich counter to get a better look at what the guy was looking at.
"What on Earth gave you that idea?" He drawled, pulling a phone from his pocket and tapping away madly at it.
"Why?"
"Do you always ask this many questions?"
John thought for a moment.
"Yes." The guy rolled his eyes, and slid the phone back into his pocket.
"Then yes, I am, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't let them know I was here." He grabbed a pair of rubber gloves from the side and pulled them over his slender hands. John neither agreed nor disagreed to the request.
The guy then darted out from behind the counter, and John noticed in slight awe that he'd taken the notebook and pen that John could have sworn was stashed in his pocket, and was now waltzing across the café towards a sobbing couple who had just walked through the door. John watched as he spoke to them, then disappeared through the double doors that Molly had departed through earlier. The couple looked slightly confused, but a second later the woman caught the apron that had been thrown back through the door. She then walked across the café towards John, clutching the apron in her hands.
"He told me to give you this?" She said, slightly confused as she handed over the apron that John took gladly off her.
"Thanks." He pulled it back over his head and fastened it; the woman returned to the man and they left through the doors that the mystery-man had come through. John was a bit confused.
A few minutes later, the scraping of chairs on floor could be heard as the three men stood up.
"He's obviously not here. That little shit could be anywhere." Mr Tattoo said, stretching.
"We'll find him. He knew what he was doing, sending him to the library. He just wants to see what he does. It's not fair to the kid, if you ask me." The one who hadn't come to the till spoke now, John decided to call him Mr Third.
"He has his reasons- besides, the kid doesn't know anything. Have we got what we came for?"
John raised his eyebrow at the plate he was now rinsing. They clearly hadn't got what they came for, the guy had avoided their detection.
"Yes. Now keep your voices down." The one who John remembered as being called 'Seb' growled, and the other two shut up.
John was left staring after them as they left, but his mind was on the guy who'd stolen his apron.
