Sherlock did not resist as he was slammed against the door of a police specification Vauxhall Astra. John was right - the whole of Scotland Yard had interrupted their evening to come and enjoy the show - he half considered charging them for the pleasure. He lifted his chin stoically, staring straight ahead, past the whirling blue light that seemed determined to blind him.

He wondered where Moriarty's cameras might be hidden. It was a shame that he was handcuffed, he could have given them a wave (or possibly even a finger). Maybe he should start crying? It would certainly add to the drama. According to John, the Great British public were lovers of a sob story. His brother would have no doubt scolded him for not taking the situation more seriously, but this was Moriarty's game, and Sherlock didn't want to ruin it by not playing along.

Not yet, anyway...

The reflection in the car window provided an albeit distorted view of the door to 221 being opened. Sherlock was forced to look again when he saw John Watson stepping over the threshold. To his left, a number of Lestrade's colleagues fussed over the Chief Superintendent, who appeared to be bleeding from the nose. Seeing the glint of the handcuffs, it didn't take the detective long to piece the evidence together. John was manoeuvred so that once again, the flatmates were side by side. Sherlock noted the comparative gentleness with which John was handled. Hmm. He would have dwelled on that, had he not been the subject of a criminal investigation.

"Joining me?" His steely expression cracked to reveal an amused, perhaps even proud smile.

"Yeah. Apparently it's against the law to chin a Chief Superintendent."

The armed officers behind them, with almost comic timing, secured the cuff on Sherlock's wrist to the one on John's. The former did not even blink whilst they did so, as if the fact that he was incapacitated was of little significance. He turned his attention away from his accomplice and towards his surroundings once more. This time, however, he mapped out not the cameras but the bodies on the street. The freedom of the city was only a temporary thing - if he was going to make use of it anytime soon, then he needed information. Content with his research, the taller man visibly relaxed, stooping slightly to not only alleviate the pain of the metal chaffing at his wrist, but also to bring himself closer to John's ear.

"Bit awkward this, isn't it? Sherlock spoke nonchalantly to his flatmate.

"Huh. No-one to bail us." replied John. He always managed to keep up the rhythm of the conversation, even if he had very little idea about the path it was being steered down.

"I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape."

Sherlock had no time to revel in the questioning look he received - apparently a regular fixture on the good doctor's features. Instead, he lurched for the small hand-held radio on the dash of the car they leant against. His timing was, of course, perfect as a squeal sent the two policemen behind them in to a momentary paralysis of thought. In one swift motion, Sherlock grabbed the pistol from the officer behind him. With less delicacy that John might have hoped for (but would have been foolish to expect) Sherlock raised the gun above his head, forcing the shorter man on to his tiptoes. He held it up like a trophy, his pale slight fingers comfortable around the trigger. When confusion reigned, the man holding the weapon naturally took control:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?" Sherlock yelled. Much to his dismay, no one dived to the floor. Good manners cost nothing, but perhaps in this instance they had hindered, rather than helped his cause. Time to step up the terror level. He waved the gun about in the air - an action in keeping with his usual disregard for firearm safety - before shooting upwards in to the night sky.

"Now! Would be good!"

Sherlock made eye contact with Lestrade for the first time, his eyes simultaneously apologising, begging for some help and some time, displaying a wildness that confirmed his threats were not empty ones. A short pause followed, as the police officers calculated their next move. He felt his phone vibrate in his trouser pocket, John must have felt it too, as he was peering down at their thighs in a very puzzled manor. Sherlock largely ignored it - whatever, whoever it was could surely wait.

"Do as he says!" His whole body sighed. The Detective Inspector motioned towards the tarmac, never taking his eyes off his two mates. Mates that had just well and truly sold him down the river. He watched, desperately trying to ignore the damp patches that were steadily growing on the knees of his trousers. Sherlock made further declarations, evidently formulated to protect John, and with that, he was gone. Lestrade climbed to his feet and reached out to Sally, who shooed him away automatically. She seemed disgusted by the thought of being helped to her feet. He was sorry he ever asked.

Greg's attempts at being chivalrous were killed off as soon as his boss bellowed instructions from behind a bloodied nose.

"Get after him, Lestrade." Despite the fact he had been targeted by name, Greg was one of the last to scramble. He swallowed thickly, frozen in time as car engines started and florescent jackets raced past him. Sally, unsurprisingly, had already left his side. He felt the pull of his glove box, containing a first aid kit of cigarettes and Jaffa Cakes but the glare of the chief acted as a shove in the direction of the fugitives. If they ever come back, then they owe me a pint, he thought. Straightening the lapels on his coat, he set off in a light jog. The boss wanted to see that he was a competent officer, so Greg acted like one - at the end of the day, he had a mortgage to pay. That had to come before saving the skin of a certain curly haired detective.

Their strides fell in to sync, Sherlock noted, listening to the pleasing pulse of their footsteps. John, on the other hand, had no time for such novelties, as he tried to concentrate on breathing. How was a man that barely slept and survived solely on fresh air and tea fitter than he was? The detective had jumped that fence like a stag and now he was hardly breaking a sweat. No doubt it was some kind of Holmes superpower.

The buzz of the mobile pressed against the top of Sherlock's leg made him falter, interrupting the previously established rhythm. Sherlock condemned the impatience of the texter. Unable to do anything about the technological inconvenience, he gritted his teeth and sped up, dragging John behind him with flailing limbs and heavy, laboured breaths.


Faylinn's features were illuminated only by the glow from her laptop screen. Sleep was tempting her, the calm and tranquillity of suspended unconsciousness irresistible. Her coffee cup had been drained for at least half an hour, but she reached for it anyway, a nervous twitch and a force of habit. She rubbed her eyes, regretting for the first time not wearing glasses. The office beyond the window, which had been long since vacated, now drifted in and out of focus. The dark shapes and shadow were still recognisable, though. This was a very familiar view.

She reviewed her work, even though mistakes were unlikely and her brain was slowly shutting down. Her phone sat dead, motionless beside her. Sherlock Holmes always demanded textual communications but such preferences could only be observed if they were returned. Faylinn didn't mind how he got in to contact - hell, he could send her a carrier pigeon for all she cared - but no reply at all was unacceptable. Did he not understand that she was helping? That she had made a breakthrough? That she had sacrificed evening after evening for his little game?

Upon realising that she had managed to implant her nails in to the desk, Faylinn allowed herself to sink in to the computer chair. Finding a ridiculous last minute spur of energy, she decided that someone would have to answer her calls. She selected Sherlock ('Miss Marple') on her contact list.

beep. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes I hope for your sake that you have been a) kidnapped b) maimed or c) killed because if not then will take it upon myself to do all of those things in a very painful and professional manner. Understand? You have ten minutes to call me. Ok, bye." beep.

For a brief moment, she considered Mycroft. The man in the suit with the umbrella was good for some things (including acting as Faylinn's next of kin on medical forms and unwittingly providing access to 'hush hush' government buildings) but an unspoken rule prevented her from dialling his number. She couldn't put her finger on the exact moment when the air between her brothers turned stale. Maybe that was the point - the malignant relationship had been so enduring that it had no traceable beginning, and no foreseeable conclusion. It was just there - part of the furniture.

She blinked in to space, shocked at her own train of thought, like hearing a recording of a very drunken voice and then being told that it belongs to you. She'd never considered her warring siblings in such a way before. Sleep deprivation clearly had an unexpected side effect of sentimentality.

The decision was an easy one. This was Sherlock's war and whilst Mycroft would be more than likely drafted in to clean up the mess, it was not her place to invite him to fight on their brother's behalf. Mycroft was pencilled in as the very last resort.

Faylinn felt her whole body sway forwards - her eyelids felt heavy. So did her hands. And her arms. And her head.

"Holmes!" he shouted. Oliver's face poked smugly through the gap in the door. He apparently found great amusement in waking her, as his grin was not filled with spite but instead with a childlike joy. Faylinn, who had snapped to attention upon hearing her name, rolled her eyes. Her forehead hit the wood of the desk, missing the keyboard of the government issue laptop by less than an inch. She spoke in to the solid, glossy surface, not caring that her mumbles were virtually incomprehensible. He was a cryptographer after all; if he couldn't work it out then he might as well clear his desk.

"What time is it?"

The question was asked in such a way that Oliver Wickham was forced to remind himself that he was, in fact, in the heart of the British Security Service, and not on the floor of one of his best mates living rooms on a sweaty, hung-over Sunday morning. He stifled a laugh, whilst being careful not to slam the door behind him. Approaching the body sprawled over the table top, the man flicked back the sleeve of his suit jacket and read his watch.

"Twenty past seven. I'm in early for the meeting with China. What's your excuse?" He looked down at his colleague as he finished the question, unsure as to whether or not he should be expecting a reply. Faylinn had not yet removed her face from the furniture. A sharp pain flew up the back of her neck as she shifted slightly in her seat. Deciding not to exacerbate the pain in her joints, the youngest Holmes rose slowly in one fluent movement. Her vision would not behave, forcing her to hold her mobile at an impossible angle in order to check for messages. She found none. At least, none from the person that mattered.

The face that she had woken up to was now bearing down on her expectantly. She would not be pressured in to towing his line of conversation, however. The Holmes family had a fine tradition of rejecting the principle of small talk...

"Could you..." Faylinn's manners rushed in to revive the request with a distinct lack of punctuality, the word seemed laboured as it escaped her "... please ... give me a lift to the train station?"

"What? Where're you off?"

The woman had already propelled her black leather chair backwards and was now making a half hearted attempt at brushing the creases out of her blouse. With an amount of energy that would have seemed impossible sixty seconds ago, she bounced to her feet. She only answered once she had arrived at the coat stand in the corner of the 'tank', grabbing her trench and scarf.

"London. I need to deliver a message." She turned around, receiving the confused expression she had fully expected. "Personally."

With that, she left, Ollie following like a bewildered puppy.

Faylinn didn't feel bad. He hadn't said no, anyway.

I hope you enjoyed it! Exams are over now (praise the Lord!) so I can really crack on with the writing. Please review to let me know what you think...