Sherlock:

It had been the eggs. That had been what first attracted Sherlock to the case, the one gem nestled amongst the mundane dirt of a cut and dry case. He wasn't sure at first how they had fit in. Even by the end they would have, to all those people who were not the world's only consulting detective, made little sense. But Sherlock had recognised some of their importance. Now he realised that he hadn't seen all of it. It was always that one thing that he missed.

His research lead him halfway through London, through seedy bars, fringe theatres, a strip club, even an illegal chicken fight in someone's basement. Sherlock was at home in the seedy underbelly of the city, he knew it's lines, the trails of dirt that other people liked to think were swept neatly under a rug, like the back of his hand. This was not only where his network operated, it was also his own preferred setting for a confrontation.

The building was a warehouse, it was always a warehouse, in a mostly abandoned section near the river. From the outside, in the cold afternoon, it looked gloomy but non threatening. Sherlock thought of the popular saying, that looks were deceiving, and that one ought not to judge a book by it's cover. While he subscribed to the latter, it was much better to judge a book by the condition of the pages and the number of editions, he questioned the truth of the former. Looks were never deceiving, at least not to Sherlock. Perhaps it was because he didn't see as others saw. He didn't see the not threatening facade of the windowed building. He saw the tire marks leading towards doors that would otherwise appear to be unopened. He was the subtle marks of inhabitation and knew that he had been right. The marks were not new, not the signs of a short sojourn, rather they were the symptoms of a long inhabitance. These people had been planing for a long time before their plan had been put into action.

John had been missing for over three days now, and Sherlock had not yet been able to find him. The people who had taken him had done a good job of covering their own and John's tracks and even Sherlock hadn't been able to find evidence of his movements. He didn't even know if John was in this building. All that he knew for sure was that this was a place where illegal workings were going on, and it was the best lead that he had.

The police were still chasing their tails, though Sherlock had given them the hint about the chicken fighting ring and they had wasted time cleaning that out. Sherlock hadn't bothered to call Lestrade when he had caught the information that had lead him here. The police would only bumble around and he would have to do it all himself anyway. It wasn't that Sherlock disliked police officers, with one major exception, it was just that they occasionally encountered significant difficulties doing their job.

Sherlock remained hidden, slowly moving closer to the building until his back was up against the rusted wrought iron. He quickly formulated a plan, putting it to action as he rounded a corner and spotted a rectangle that could be a door.

It only took Sherlock three minutes to find where they had been keeping John. He had a maximum of two minutes left before al kind of alarms were raised, possibly only a few second,s but as he pushed open the door, they hadn't even kept it locked, Sherlock sighed in relief. The room was empty, but it showed definite signs of having been occupied very recently. The chair and the IV stand were knocked on to the floor and a white viscous substance was slowly oozing into a drain set in the centre of the room.

It had to be John. Sherlock had been keeping track of all the disappearances and missing person reports that came into the police section, Lestrade hadn't done a very good job at restricting the information he was given, and there were very few viable candidates for the room he saw before him. Add to that the escape. If anyone could break free under these conditions, it would be the nerves of steel ex-soldier.

Sherlock stood for only a second longer to ensure that he had absorbed all of the information that it was possible to get from the room.

Down another corridor. Past more doors, locked this time. More corridors, Sherlock stopped counting, stopped checking for minute differences that told the corridors apart. It no longer nattered for many rooms he walked past, how many turns he took in the labyrinth of while and grey. He had to find John. That was all that mattered.

John, John, John, John, John, John

His name became a chant in Sherlock's mind, breaking out every time a foot hit the floor.

It almost surprised Sherlock that it was a full six minutes until the alarms went off.