Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.

Author's Note: Again, really sorry, but I have used real places again. One is a public place though. The case will be wrapped up in the next chapter, and we are only 3 chapters from the end now! Also, please ignore the review from Boo o. That was my sister, who thinks fanfiction is evil. I told I wasn't taking her to the One Direction concert. She wasn't happy. Also, I'm on Tumblr as charanteleclerc, and I take prompts. I'm not overally good coming up for idea's for short stories, and it would be nice to have a break from my long stories! Enjoy!

Onwards and Upwards

John froze inside, rereading the note. This had quickly turned from into a game, nothing more than a game, into something deadly.

"Sherlock." Sherlock didn't answer, his pale complexion nothing more than ashen now. "Sherlock!" Fearful eyes turned on each other.

"I don't know. I don't know, John." John glared at Sherlock, anger laced in his eyes.

"There are bloody lives at stake. You are Sherlock Holmes. Think of something." John hissed, menacing. Sherlock took a step back, shocked at the menace in John's voice. He moved his gaze back down to the paper, the elegant handwriting.

"Do you love the soul or the appearance?" Sherlock turned to John. "Does that ring any bells? What book would that be from?"

"I don't know. Sounds more like a romantic novel. Classic?" Sherlock frowned.

"Might be Austen. Do you anyone who's read Austen?" John stared at the detective.

"You've never read Austen." Sherlock shot an exasperated look at John.

"I might have. I delete everything that is non-consequential. I can't store everything. Why, have you?" John blushed.

"Maybe when I was in upper school." Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow.

"I was trying to impress a girl. She was obsessed with Austen. I read all of the books. She dumped me after a week." Sherlock snorted.

"That sounds so like you. You didn't try and write poetry, did you? Cause that would be enough to put anyone off." John pushed Sherlock's shoulder.

"Shut up." A blush was staining John's cheeks.

"Do you know them well enough?" John shook his head.

"I haven't read them since upper school. I can't even remember half of the plots." Sherlock moaned.

"Who else would read them?" John suddenly reached into his pockets. Sherlock frowned. John held up his mobile.

"Your brother is calling."

"Cut him off."

John mocked frowned.

"Don't be mean."

"He shouldn't have betrayed me."

"He's sorry."

"So?" John still answered the phone, despite Sherlock's protests.

"Hey, Mycroft."

"John. How are you?"

"I'm good, thanks. You?"

"I'm fine." Mycroft's tone was surprised. "I was just wondering how you were coping after the... rooftop incident. Greg said you were pretty cut up." John laughed.

"I know. I was just feeling low. You don't have to worry anymore."

"Okay." Mycroft sighed. "I'll talk to you later."

"Thanks." John was prepared to end the call, when he was struck with a sudden thought. "Mycroft, do you know anything about Austen?"

"Pardon?" John chuckled.

"Austen. It's for a... game show."

"Okay. What do you need to know." Mycroft suppressed the surprise, always the professional.

"We have a line that refers to an Austen book. 'Do you love the soul or the appearance?'" A pause followed.

"Hmmm... that's probably a reference to Jane Eyre." John grinned, and mimed a thumbs up at Sherlock. Sherlock replied with a muttered hurry up.

"Thanks Mycroft. You are a lifesaver. Catch you later." John hung up quickly on the surprised politician.

"Jane Eyre." Sherlock hit his head.

"Of course, Jane Eyre. How could I not think of that?"

"I don't know." John murmured, typing on his phone.

"Think about it on the way." John flung over his shoulder, racing for a taxi.

"No, John! We need a library!" Sherlock called, running after the doctor.

o0o

The two men sat in the back of a taxi, reading a battered copy of Jane Eyre.

"Abbot? What about Abbot?" Sherlock shrugged.

"It's an idea. Try it." John started typing furiously on his phone.

Google Maps: Abbot, London

Results: Abbot Street, London Borough of Hackney

"How could I not think of that?" Sherlock was still annoyed, muttering furiously.

"I don't know Sherlock! Consult it in that mind place of yours." Tapping his fingers of Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock paid no attention to the sandy haired man, staring out the window.

"We're here." Sherlock leaped out of the taxi, John tumbled out after the detective. They raced to the corner, Sherlock stopped suddenly, John nearly running into the back of him.

"What the hell Sherlock?" Sherlock pointed at the opposite wall.

"There's no street sign. So where's the next note?" John looked around.

"Maybe it's a flyer?" Sherlock raced down the street, leaving John standing on the road.

"Sherlock?" John shouted after the detective's retreating back. "SERLOCK!" A couple of passer's by turned and looked at him, muttering.

"Another Holmes fan. They still believe he's alive." They said, shaking their heads sadly. John glared after them, resisting the urge to run after them, to emphatically contradict them. To yell to the world that Sherlock, his Sherlock, was alive. That he was innocent. Sherlock chose the perfect moment to run back to him, not even slightly out of breath.

"There's nothing down there. It's got to be here. It's got to be." Sherlock insisted, eyes blazing. John shrugged.

"Where else could it be? You've already taken off down the street." Sherlock's eyes were constantly moving, searching out for another elegantly written note. The detective stilled, staring above John's head.

"It's on the lamppost." John turned in the direction of Sherlock's gaze.

"How on earth are we going to get up there?" Sherlock crouched down.

"Oh no, I am not getting on your back." Sherlock pulled a puppy eye's face. "No."

"Give me a lift up then." John huffed, but prepared to give Sherlock a leg up. Sherlock jumped into John's hands, and reached up to grab the note.

23. 9AP. Well done, you've got this far. The wall you need doesn't give you a headache. Xx

"What wall?" Sherlock looked confused, staring at the note in bafflement. John laughed, long and clear.

"You seriously can't crack this one?" Sherlock shook his head. John grinned.

"Harry Potter."

"Who?" John gawped.

"You've never heard of Harry Potter?" Sherlock continued to shake his head.

"Is he important?" John ran a hand through his short hair.

"He is the most well known kid on this planet. The Deathly Hallows?" Sherlock looked blank. "Order of the Phoenix? Prisoner of Azkaban? Philosopher's Stone?" Sherlock still continued to look blank. "What goes on in your head sometimes?"

"I probably deleted the information." John groaned.

"We are watching those films one day." Sherlock grinned.

"As long as you're there." John hugged him.

"I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock gave John a quick kiss.

"I hope not." John chuckled.

"You idiot. Anyway, we need to get to King's Cross." Sherlock frowned.

"Why King's..."

"Don't worry Sherlock. Just trust me."

o0o

They stopped at King's Cross, running into the station. Sherlock vaulted the barriers, John using his oyster card, cutting in the queues. He ran after the dark, billowing coat, darting in and out of men, women, kids.

Sherlock came to a stop, frantically looking about for John.

"Where is it?" John ran towards the overground station, across the bridge. Platform 7, Platform 8, Platform 9...

They raced along the platform, slowing down at every barrier.

"This is it!" John ran towards a barrier, where there were a few students gathered. A note was selotaped to the bottom corner. John grabbed it, turning away.

"Hey, you just can't do that! This is a sacred site!" A student, a young teenager, ginger hair, turned angrily to them. John turned to them.

"Don't worry, we're with the police." A dark haired girl crossed her arms.

"What would the police want to do with Platform 9¾?" Sherlock turned around.

"There is no such thing as Platform 9¾."

"Sherlock, don't destroy them. They think Platform 9¾ exists." The ginger and a brunette stared at him.

"Muggle." The brunette muttered. "Come on, they're just wasting our time." The three girls moved off, giving Sherlock and John dirty looks.

"Who were they?" Sherlock questioned.

"Harry Potter fans. They can be slightly obsessive." Sherlock stared in their direction.

"Why would people get obsessed by fictional characters? That's pointless." John shrugged.

"There exists such a thing as fanfiction. I suppose that is enough to sustain their imaginations." John sighed, eyebrows raised.

"What strange lives some teenagers lead." John nodded.

"I know. What does the note say?"

23. W13. The stakes are raised. Don't blame me if you both don't survive the charge. Xx.