Tiny chapter, I know, but I'm writing all my Sherlock on scraps of paper to ensure brevity of style these days, so any update is better than nothing :D
Holmes sank a needle of seven percent solution into his left arm, neurons pinging in his brain like frying fat.
"Don't tell me you're bored."
"No Watson," he said, flexing his fingers, "I need to be very, very clever for the next fifteen minutes. Once all the pieces are in place, the plan will run on it's own momentum."
And sitting at his computer, he began a seriees of keystrokes too quick for John to follow, saving and printing a document which he then signed, scanned, and forwarded to a laundry list of corporate email recipients. He did not release his finger from the final carriage return when a megaphone broke the silence.
"Sherlock Holmes!" shouted the SWAT team leader, "Come out with your hands up!"
"John," said Holmes, not looking up, "There's a passage to the neighboring warehouse through the refrigerator, I suggest you hurry."
"How do you know they won't-?"
"Would you eat anything in that kitchen?"
The shadow of two figures with a battering ram passed the frosted window, the door cracking down the middle at the first blow, and John turned on his heel to run. Months of take-out cartons blocked the way, but eventually he hooked two fingers into a recessed latch in the very back of the fridge, and screamed as the floor gave way beneath his feet. After a moment, the linoleum slid back into place, and Holmes dropped to his knees, hands on his head, as the front door flew apart.
Outside, he could already feel the high wearing off, two men on either side of him and a third leading him by the neck with creaky gloved fingers. His eyes flicked to one side to see if he'd attracted an audience, and found his neighbor standing at the crosswalk. Usually a neat man, the professor had a four-day beard, a bird pecking at the slowly growing pool of blood beneath his right hand. The signal changed, and still he was unable to decide whether or not to cross the street. Paralyzed.
Siren lights danced across Sherlock's face, but before he could inquire about the old man, a jacket was pulled over his head, and he was pushed into the waiting police van.
TBC