Present. Night. 1830 hours. Scotland Yard.
I wrung my hands. Damn. It's bloody cold in here.
"John."
It felt like pricks of ice were digging into my palms, a special sort of torture. An icy demise. The-
"John."
I looked up. Greg's eyes were concerned. Warm. The man himself, looked about ready to pass out from the same exhaustion John felt. Inspector Lestrade had just been grilling John for over an hour as he filled out the report. Now, Greg Lestrade was ready to be a shoulder to cry on. In the figurative sense.
"Are you okay?"
I snorted, "Hell, no. But it doesn't matter about me. What matters now is finding our bloody Detective."
Greg tilted his head and smiled a bit, like I had said the same thing he would have.
"The plates should be back any minute now," Lestrade scratched his nose with a disatisfied sigh. "All we can do is wait."
We stared at each other in silence, than the floor, and the walls, the ticking clock-
My chair skidded back with a squeal. "Damn waiting."
I was out the door before Greg even stood. I ignored him calling me as I stormed to the junior department. I had been there often enough to know where the plate office was.
As I passed few a sea of cubicles, heads began to pop up in my wake over the dividers. I felt eyes on me as I stalked closer to the blasted newbies who ran the plate running desk.
"John!"
I reached the desk. A young man whipped away his phone, but not before I saw the unmistakable colors of Tetris lighting up his screen.
"Sir?" The scrawny ginger shriveled under my fiery glare.
"Instead of playing games- how 'bout you find my bloody friend!"
I was about to grab the incorrectly knotted necktie around his neck- and do what with it I did not know- but a hand was on my shoulder, holding me back and steading me.
"John." Greg hissed in warning.
I was about to launch a fervently delivered lecture, when a loud ding distracted us- and everyone in a 3 meter radius who was goggling at me. The game-playing moron jumped and tapped a few keys on his clickaty clackity keyboard, and paused.
"The plates finished running," he looked guiltily at me in a silent apology, and I knew I had overreacted.
Lestrade shot a quick "back to work" glare around at all the curious faces and said to the junior, "Ping it to my office."
I muttered a hasty apology as I practically jogged after Greg, who also was high tailing it to his office.
I flung myself into the screeching desk chair as Greg hastily brought up his monitor screen. I watched in tense anticipation as Lestrade waited anxiously for the display to boot up.
A beat.
"Dammit!" Greg had shot to his feet in his surprise.
I looked at him and he looked at me, then he uttered the words I didn't want to hear.
"It's a stolen."
Back to square one.
6 HOURS AGO. AFTERNOON. 1330 HOURS. 221B BAKER STREET.
A knock on my door.
I gave up trying to zip shut the yawning mouth of my overpacked suitcase, and hesitantly walked towards the door.
Was I ready to deal with my flatmate right now? I tried to evaluate my feelings.
But the silence outside my door was drawing on, and for some reason, that worried me. Sherlock should've continued banging away on the door, yelling he needed me as a test subject or something of the like.
I opened the door.
Sherlock was facing away from me, and I could see his profile turned towards the window in the foyer, where cars rushed by.
"Sherlock?"
He slowly turned to face me. His face was drawn in his own special mix of confusion and worry, and his eyes were downcast.
"Sherlock?" I was starting to feel my own worry creeping up my spine. "What is it?"
His pale forest irises lifted up to meet mine, "Trouble, John." He rumbled in his intoxicating baritone voice.
AFTERNOON. 1430 HOURS. A CAB HEADED OUT OF TOWN.
"Where are we going?"
Silence.
"Are we meeting someone?"
A cough. That's a yes then.
"Why aren't you bloody saying anything? You tell me you're in trouble and then you clam up, how am I supposed to help if you won't trust me?" I was getting annoyed.
Sherlock shifted around in his side of the cab, the third tell of nervousness I had observed in the past three minutes. Sherlock was staring placidly out the window, refusing to meet my eyes, but when I said my speal he looked at me.
"I trust you inexplicably John, but it's safer this way. I would have done this alone, but I need backup." His voice was tired, like a great weight had been placed upon his shoulders
"No," I could see it written all over his face. "You're hiding something."
He sighed and his long fingers began to tap tap tap upon the door. "That I am. You're too observant sometimes."
I studied his posture, the slump of his shoulders the regret on his face, and was that… fear?
I leaned forward, "You're… ashamed. Aren't you?"
Sherlock's shoulders stiffened, and he did not respond. I worried at my lip and turned to look out my window. The contagion of his fear had spread through the whole cabin.
The metropolitan buildings and flats of London were starting to give way to give way too dark, longer buildings. I noted with an internal groan that we weren't heading into the good part of town. But of course, why would Sherlock be doing business in a nice park, or cafe. I could hope though.
We were in the warehouse district now. The corporate buildings and blank grey facades were starting to creep up around the cab on all sides like the walls of a cage.
Sherlock leaned forward and knocked on the divider, "We'll get out here please."
I waited and hoisted my bag up further on my shoulder, anxiously scanning our surroundings as Sherlock paid the cabbie. The cab quickly scuttled away like a beetle, and I watched our escape drive away with a sad smirk.
"And how exactly are we leaving after this thing goes down?" I said, eyes still on the retreating cab.
Sherlock mumbled something. I turned to him, he was staring wide eyed at the ground.
"You didn't think of that, did you?" I sighed. "What's up with you Sherlock?"
He was faced away from me as he too inspected the uniform walls of our cage. "Just, preoccupied." He muttered, and he started to walk away.
With an exasperated noise in my throat, I followed after him.
"I'm not a bloody pet for you to drag around until you need me you know." I grumbled at his back.
He looked over his shoulder at me, "You're not my pet. Just my Doctor." He shot me one of his grins, but it didn't reach his eyes.
We were slowly making our way to the end of the row of buildings. My bag was starting to weigh me down.
Sherlock stopped. I continued on for a moment without realizing it, until he yanked me back, before I was about to turn the corner.
"Shh," he gestured to the corner I had just about exposed myself with. "You can't be seen."
I rolled my eyes, "You're sending me in bloody blind."
"Look," he pointed at the warehouse we were currently dawdling in front of. "There is a window on the third floor, it points directly at the place I will be- no I don't have time to answer questions right now. Just trust me okay?"
I glared at him, but not with much fire. "But what am I actually doing?"
He looked pointedly down at the bag he had given me. "Just make sure I come out alive okay?"
