Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, my friends do not own Sherlock, my imaginary-cats do not own Sherlock. Shouldn't that be an indication that I do not own Sherlock?

Chapter 2: Camping

The tent was only intended for emergencies. People like Jim would be expected to sleep in fancy penthouses and luxury hotels. To be fair, he normally did. But a tent was the perfect camouflage and it had travelled with Jim and Sebastian wherever they went, along the spare crate of hand grenades, the emergency food box full of energy drinks and Swiss chocolate, and the battered copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. However today was the first time that a large enough disaster had occurred that using the tent was necessary.

"This tent's too small," Seb grumbled as he tried to fit into the tent.

"No, you're too big. It's perfectly sized. It was a joint purchase, remember?"

Jim was sat up in a corner of the tent, cocooned in a black sleeping bag. He was reading a heavy mathematical volume that made Seb's head ache just to look at. He looked perfectly composed, and was oblivious to Seb's dilemma.

"A joint purchase? You chose the first tent you saw and then dragged me off to look at power tools!"

"A joint purchase." Jim smiled smugly and returned to his formulae.

Seb tried valiantly to fit in the tent one more time, and then finally gave up. "This is ridiculous. Look." Jim looked up and grinned. Seb fitted into the tent until it reached his knees, where his legs passed through the door and entered the icy countryside that surrounded them.

"Now, dear, I know that this wasn't entirely to plan. But they'll search the five star hotels on the other side of town first and Masterson will let us know when they do. By the time they look here, we'll be long gone."

"Five star hotels..." Seb said longingly, staring into the distance. He could almost taste the complimentary champagne.

"We can stay in this tent for one night and live. Or we can stay in a five star hotel and die a horrible, agonising death, and vanish off the face of the Earth. It's your choice."

"I never thought I'd say this, but that's a difficult decision."

"Then it's lucky that I make the decisions. If you don't stop complaining, Sebastian, the agonising death isn't ruled out. And move your feet, there's a horrible draught coming through the door. I'm practically frozen."

"It's not great camouflage. I doubt that there are many tall muscular campers in a hideous green sleeping bag. With most of their legs sticking out of their tent."

"I chose that sleeping bag especially for you. Don't you like it?"

"It's green. I am practically a beacon pointing to our whereabouts."

"I thought it would suit you! You must admit, it does compliment your eyes marvellously."

"This may be a shock to you, but being hacked to bits by an angry mob of gangsters while I'm asleep in a sleeping bag the colour of cat sick doesn't appeal to me."

"I give up on reading this book. And if mankind never discovers the theory of time travel, it's completely your fault." With that, Jim turned off the lantern that had been illuminating the tent, and plunged the small area into blackness.

Seb sighed and eventually bent his legs into the tent. An unfortunate side effect of this was that his spine felt like it was about to break into a thousand pieces. There was silence for a few moments.

"Seb! Look!"

The light clicked back on. Sebastian turned immediately, expecting to see two dozen men with knives and guns silhouetted outside the tent. Instead he saw Jim, still sitting upright, seemingly entranced by something on the floor.

"There's a mouse! It's soooo cute!" Jim picked up the scruffy field mouse and examined it.

"Jim! Turn off the light! We need to stay hidden!"

"It's adorable! Can we keep it?" Jim cried.

"There's a mouse in the tent." Seb whispered, frozen in horror.

"Please?" Jim begged.

"Jim, mice are rodents. Like rats. Or squirrels."

"...it can stay with me! It can have a hutch or a cage and lots of mouse food... mice do eat cheese, don't they? Do mice like Stilton or Camembert?"

"How did it get in?" Seb began looking for holes in the tent.

"Well, I said you should keep your feet away from the door...it would have been attracted to the light."

"Maybe there are rats? They might have crawled into the cases!"

With that, Seb began frantically unpacking the handmade Italian leather suitcases. He tipped their contents over the tent floor, whilst Jim continued playing with his new best friend.

"I'm going to call him Magnus. Hello Magnus!" The mouse squeaked in reply.

"No rats, thank God. I hate rats." Seb shuddered.

"I know. Remember Sumatra?"

"That was a cruel joke and you know it." Then Seb noticed that Jim was no longer holding the mouse.

"Where's the rodent?" Seb looked around, as if expecting it to attack him.

"He's not a rodent! His name is Magnus. I think he ran away." Jim looked around the tent mournfully, while Seb breathed a sigh of relief.

Suddenly Jim's phone began to ring. Jim found it under the pile of designer clothes in the middle of the floor and answered it, giving no greeting. He listened in silence for about ten seconds, before hanging up and carefully replacing his phone under the pile.

"That was Masterson. They're on their way here, the explosive shower gel didn't work as well as intended. We need to go."

As they quickly packed away the tent (well, Seb packed everything away while Jim grumbled, gave orders and cursed the creases in his precious Westwood suit) Seb was extremely grateful that they were going.

As they walked towards the Porsche, Seb felt something wriggling inside his jacket pocket. Putting down the suitcases, he searched and extracted a small warm bundle of fur and claws.

"Magnus!" said Jim, overjoyed, as Seb sprinted towards the Porsche as fast as his legs could carry him.