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Sherlock's running, running, and John follows.
How does he expect to catch a taxi?
He follows anyways.
Right turn, one way – they're running through backstreets and alleys; John can't see the taxi, but they're still running. It's frantic and frenetic and frenzied and he hasn't run this far, this fast – not since Afghanistan. John's running.
Up stairs, jumping roofs, down stairs – two at a time – and in front of a cab, how did they do that?
He can't shake the feeling he's forgotten something important.
Hours later, back at the flat, Angelo knocks on the door with a cane.
Oh.
