Thou hast enlarged my steps under me, that my feet did not slip.

I have pursued mine enemies, and overtaken them: neither did I turn again till they were consumed.

Psalm 18:36-37

I breathed out slowly, watching my breath crystallize in the cold night air in the light of a lamppost. Lestrade looked curiously at me, no doubt thinking such a childish action was out of place for me. After all, I had fought in Afghanistan, lived with the mad genius Sherlock Holmes, and was about to commit a felony as a one man rescue squad. But hey, everyone deserves to be a bit childish now and then.

"Ready?" Lestrade asked.

"As I'll ever be," I responded with a nod.

"Alright then. We'll be waiting for you." he said gruffly, and walked away. I started going in the other direction, walking through alternating patches of darkness and light dictated by the arrangement of lampposts on the quiet street. As I walked, adrenaline was already coursing through me. I've long since been comfortable saying I get off on this sort of thing, but I prefer Sherlock's life not be in the balance. But alas, it usually is. The brilliant idiot.

Before long I reached the driveway Sherlock and I went up two days ago - it seemed so far in the past. But I hear that's what happens as you get older; everything gets consolidated into more compressed files, giving the impression of less time having passed... I shook out of my thoughts about aging and focused.

Instead of walking on the lit cobbled drive, I stayed on the grass on the left side of it. The black coat I was wearing, the one Sherlock gave me, helped me blend into the shadows. The cast iron fence, once charming, was now oppressive and ominous in front me. Security cameras perched on top of the two posts supporting the gate.

I took a deep breath of chilled air and my revolver out from where it had been tucked into my waistband. What I was about to do would put me in an illegal position and put me on a countdown clock to get my mission accomplished. I turned off the safety, cocked it, aimed, and fired, taking out the left security camera. I quickly repeated the action with the one on the right. My presence was now known, but hopefully not knowing exactly who and what had taken out his feed would put Cornwall off balance.

I quickly scrambled up the cold metal fence (quickly meaning that I was going as fast as I could - oh to have long legs like Sherlock) and dropped down on the other side, searching the yard for danger. The tall ash trees stood peacefully, a zephyr making their leaves rustle gently. Too bad they were stuck guarding the house of a criminal. I advanced slowly, gun still drawn and ready in my hands. The house wasn't lit, but there were almost certainly security cameras somewhere. I couldn't immediately see any, so I picked an obscure-looking window (maybe a powder room, going by the size) and went up to it, bashing it in with the butt of the revolver. The crash was barely quieter than a gunshot, but every little bit helps.

My guess was right, it was a small powder room. The next part of my plan was a bit hazy, mostly being 'find Sherlock'. Cornwall was probably searching for me and the seconds were ticking away. Thankfully, he didn't have any accomplices to speak of, so it was man to man right now. I kept the weapon in one hand and eased the door open, checking both directions before stepping out. I walked quietly down the hallway, looking for something to tell where Sherlock was. I opened a few locked (and unlocked) doors before coming to an intersection of hallways, and one of the corridors had all the vases, paintings, and decorations broken or askew. How Sherlock had managed to destroy every single one of those things, I don't know, but I was sure he had been taken through that hallway.

Which direction had he been taken though? I tried to think like Sherlock, feeling nervous and exposed in the open corridor. I thought I heard a rustle behind me and I whirled around, pointing the gun threateningly at the darkness. There was nothing to be seen, and I put it down to nerves. I looked again at the scattered articles. There was a table fallen, its top facing away from me; a wall painting was hanging awkwardly, the side closer to me being lower. Then there was a vase of flowers that was broken, and the water trail lead away from me. I ran down that way, as quietly as I could.

From there, I followed the trail of destruction to its end, and then stopped, nonplussed. There wasn't a door here anywhere. Then I noticed a scratch or scuff mark on the wall, I couldn't tell which. It clearly scored the wooden paneling, but disappeared from one plank to the next. A secret door? I looked around for a way to open it. There was a candle holder near the door. I almost laughed it was so cliché. I pulled on it, and was slightly disappointed when it didn't budge. I decided to go for brute force and threw my entire weight into the general area. A wooden cracking sound encouraged me to do it again. Two more tries gained me entry, and beyond the false wall was a descending stairwell. Down those, and I was greeted by heavy-looking with a metal deadbolt, which I promptly shot out. The knob was locked too, so I wrenched the door knob with all my body weight, breaking the mechanism.

I threw the door open, and held out my Browning, analyzing the whole room. A desk on the left, a safe to the right, in front of me shelves all covered in semi-transparent plastic sheets. Everything was illuminated by harsh floodlights housed in the ceiling. I walked through the shelves, slowly, and turning around constantly, checking for a threat to emerge from the open door. At the other end of the shelves, there was another open area, dimly lit by a single light.

There was Sherlock, hands and legs bound in the corner. His head jerked up when I emerged from between the plastic islands.

"Behind you!" he yelled, and I barely had time to turn around before I saw a fist heading toward my face. I ducked under Cornwall's punch and was about to send my knuckles into his jaw when I saw he was standing calmly, pointing a small handgun not at me, but at the defenseless detective in the corner.

A/N: Once again, I'm a bit slow in updating, but I did it. I think the next chapter will be a bit more interesting than this one, and it should be a bit quicker since I'm slightly less busy and it looks fun to write, looking at my synopsis. How will the Baker Street Boys get their way out of this particular pickle? Stay tuned, folks!

Thanks for reading! Can I trouble you to leave me a review down there? It won't take more than a minute, and it's an awful nice thing to do. :)