John and Sherlock sat opposite each other on the train. A few people sat across from them, late night travellers with rucksacks, brief and suitcases. Sherlock rested his arm on the window and looked out-even though there was nothing to see as it was dark out. He could feel John's fuming gaze on him.
"Oh grow up-"
"-My child, Sherlock! I'm missing the birth of my child!" People in the carriage tittered, annoyed at the sudden outburst.
"I-I'm sorry, never thought that your son's birth was more important than my life! You never know, I might get shot right now, might be there in time for the bloody birthing!"
"It's not like that!"
"Then what is it like?" Sherlock was nearly in tears.
John sat there shocked; Sherlock was trying to hide his face with his hands a silent tear rolled down his cheek in the reflection on the window. "I don't know," John sighed. "I want to be there for you and the baby... You don't understand."
"Just because I'm Sherlock! The machine, I don't have feelings... I'm a sociopath... A psychopath... Someone who can never love or be loved."
"That's not true! Your parents love you, Mrs Hudson...me,"
"Well you have a funny way it showing it," Sherlock uttered and got up to move seats.
The train slowed and stopped at a station. A family came on with a bawling baby. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The train started away again, Sherlock watching the family in the reflection on the window. "S'cuse me," he said pushing past the family. A man dressed in a chequered shirt sat down in the seat across from Sherlock. There were other places to sit... No one would want to sit next to what seemed like the noisiest family in England...Not this late at night... His hat cast a shadow over his eyes, covering his intentions.
"John, I-I need you to come with me..."
"What now, Sherlock?"
"Believe me this is urgent," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.
"If it's the toilet you need, you managed to get dressed by yourself so it can't be that hard to pull a zip," John took no notice and picked up his book.
"John!" He hissed. The man leaned against his window. Sherlock could tell he was also looking at the reflection as well.
"Fine! Fine," John held his hands up, "I'll come, this better be good," he muttered.
Sherlock grabbed John and his suitcase. "Alright! You should have gone before we left,"
They passed the next carriage before finding the toilet. Sherlock pressed the close button.
"I don't need the toilet!"
"Then why are we here? - is that my suitcase?"
"Yes, anyway… his jeans,"
"His what?!"
"They're too tight,"
"Pardon?"
"They're too tight,"
"Yes, we've established that," John said putting his hands on his hips.
"Pff," Sherlock paced the toilet, running his fingers through his hair.
"You should get that cut you know," John folded his arms.
"We didn't come here, to discuss my hair!"
"Then what?"
Sherlock stopped pacing.
"We're here to discuss the man with the knife in the pockets of his jeans!"
"Well you could have told me!"
"I did! Agggh! He has a gun too!"
"And you found this out how?"
"By the bulge under his shirt," Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his chin on his hands.
"C-could just be a ...tumour?" John suggested.
Sherlock frowned "a tumour?!"
John shrugged, "A very...very large tumour, look, I think you're just being paranoid."
"We need to get off this train,"
Footsteps.
No one breathed. There was a knock.
"Hello?" John called out. No answer came. "Perhaps someone just walked past and accidentally knocked?"
"Accidentally knocked?!" he hissed.
"Right, I'm going to open the door and see,"
"I'll go first,"
"I was in the army," John pushed is way forward.
The door opened, revealing a little boy, "I told you there were two people in there mummy!" His mother came up behind him. She sucked in her cheeks.
"Are you two finished?" the mother said with slight disgust.
"Yes," Sherlock strode down the carriage to a door.
"We're not- you know, umm... He's ... Been in an accident," John stammered. "And..." She nodded, slightly disapprovingly. "Yeah I'll just... Go..." John went bright pink as he made his way down the carriage, people looking at him as he did so.
"We could have got the sleeper train you know."
Sherlock ignored him.
"We'll get off here," Sherlock looked out at the window and lights started to appear.
"Gunnislake?"
"We'll get a taxi, it's too dangerous for public transport."
"Tell that to the 'study in pink' victims,"
Gregory Lestrade walked drearily into Scotland Yard. It was a Monday, and spitting. He opened the glass doors and peered at his watch, 20 minutes late... Hopefully no one would notice.
"You're late!" Anderson strode over, arms crossed.
"Great..." Greg said under his breath.
Two armed guards strode past.
"Why are they...?" Greg peered after them.
"You've got some catching up to do, like suck up to your new boss...I know you like sucking."
"YOU'RE my new boss?!" Greg's jaw dropped.
"No," Anderson sighed, "but he wants to meet you," Greg followed Anderson up a flight of stairs, people rushing by, looking lost and confused. Paper lay sprawled in the main office room and phones rang in all directions. They stopped outside a room made from opaque glass, the silhouettes from behind the glass were obscured.
"Gregory Lestrade here,"
Anderson shut the door behind him. Greg didn't move, he was to stun and petrified. "How..." he breathed.
The Irish accent cut through him like a knife. "Friends in high places, ah ah ah ah staying alllllivve," he dropped the music player.
Mycroft appeared from the shadows in the corner of the room. He placed a hand on Moriarty's shoulder. "Moriarty is your boss now," he carried on when Greg didn't reply "with him on our side, we are bound to solve more cases than Sherlock in his lifetime! Takes one to know one, we've already caught two major activists and are hunting down a terrorist connected with nine-eleven," Mycroft beamed.
Greg gave a false smile "guess you won't be needing me then," he got up and left, Moriarty sniggering at him.