Texting Mycroft had been a tedious necessity, but it offset some of the tiresome, overbearing older-brother lecture that was sure to follow and ensured that electronic eyes were turned where he wanted them, giving him the blind spots he needed and erasing others that would be troublesome otherwise.
For a fleeting moment, Sherlock let himself entertain the fantasy that he could teach John how to manage and manipulate the city's surveillance grid. Keeping ahead of Mycroft finding out would be tricky, but very worth it. His brother's resources were useful, but Sherlock begrudged the price he always had to pay.
He didn't mind paying John's price, not in the least.
The hint of fresh air as he slipped from the cab was short lived; the sensation broadened as other scents were identified – dust, petrol, rubbish, the general pollution of the city. The cabbie pulled away, unconcerned, and Sherlock hovered, pretending to check his phone, drawing the illusion of boredom and normality around him. Any eyes watching – real eyes – would pass him by, disregarding, giving him the opportunity to slip away unremarked.
He dropped his phone back into his pocket as he stepped into the alley. Shutting it off now would look suspicious – not from John's point of view, and he knew the doctor was having it tracked, doubtlessly feeding the information to Lestrade and hurriedly trying to triangulate his exact position.
It was his quarry he had to deceive. A powered down mobile would look suspicious. Confidence – arrogance, really – was the attitude he needed to project. Sherlock's lips curled into a smirk when John's internal voice pointed out he wouldn't even have to pretend.
He refocused, ignoring the mental version of his partner, trusting that the real one was doing what Sherlock had intended, and followed his observation and instincts, winding down service alleys past forbidding, unmarked metal doors and forgotten corners.
Maps, he thought. It was all down to maps of the city, knowing its ins and outs, its secret places, its thoroughfares. Knowing how to traverse it in plain sight or by stealth, hidden underground. He wondered, passingly, how well Douglas had known London, how detailed and accurate his mental maps had been, how easily he'd held such information in his head.
It was a pity he was dead. Sherlock would have enjoyed the challenge of someone who could navigate the city so well.
He paused mid-step, feet silent on the ground, listening. Someone following him, professional, subtle, almost not there. No sound, no smells. Facts were facts, and deductions couldn't be based on instinct, but Sherlock trusted his, especially here and now, after Wales.
He didn't look behind him, didn't change the pattern of his breathing. Kept his gaze focussed ahead, inching forward, back to the worn and dirty brick. A change in the depth and brightness of the light forecast more open space; he slowed deliberately, letting his shadow think he was being cautious – and practicing real caution. No point in being rash.
The car he was expecting was there. Black, sleek, tinted windows. Not the car he would have associated with Douglas' wife. Purchased for her by her husband. Privacy and anonymity allowed her to vanish in the sea of similar cars that plagued the city, to move across London unremarked.
Allowed her driver to do the same.
The engine was idling, the underlying petrol smell slightly stronger now. Tinted windows refracted interest but didn't eliminate visibility altogether; Sherlock could make out the shape of someone in the driver's seat. Ostensibly waiting on Sarraf's imposter. The train station was a ruse – with a touch of desperation but not without merit. The man the Met was looking for had no intentions of getting on a train. There was no security in leaving the city, at least not that way.
But this… in this car, he'd have been as unnoticed as Mrs. Douglas had been. As her driver had been.
Sherlock crept around the car, keeping low, vision attuned to the man in the driver's seat, hearing and other senses attuned to whomever was following him. There was no movement from the car's occupant – forced and deliberate, because a man really waiting on a fugitive would be alert, would have seen Sherlock already, would have confronted him or fled the scene.
He smiled to himself, thin and fleeting.
The car was gleaming, kept clean and polished lovingly. Or perhaps nervously, a familiar routine used to keep the mind from overrunning itself, to maintain the outward projection of calm and innocence. Sherlock trailed a fingertip over the surface, leaving a mark. His mark, taking car to impress a full, unbroken fingerprint.
Lestrade would appreciate it.
He knocked on the window, saw the man inside start before he could get the reaction under control, near panic flashing across his expression. Sherlock smiled again, warm but dangerous, waggling his fingers in greeting.
"Good morning, Mister Hinton," he said as the window slid down almost noiselessly, "I believe you know who I am."
"Wrong," he heard from behind him, instinct to turn quashed, letting the blow land on the back of his head rather than his face, a flash of black and dirty asphalt swimming, confused, across his vision as the ground raced toward him.
Right, Sherlock thought, triumphant smile flaring, then fading as darkness stole him.
John cursed when the small dot tracking the general location of Sherlock's mobile vanished abruptly from the computer screen.
"We just lost him," he said, pre-empting Lestrade's question. There was an echoing curse in response from the other end of the line, drowning out the wash of background voices only briefly.
"We've got the licence and we know he was just here," Lestrade replied, voice loud across the speaker setting on the tech's office phone. John bit his lower lip against a retort – the driver was used to going unnoticed. The doctor was willing to bet on a spare set of licence plates stashed safely somewhere.
But they did have the vehicle's description, and the man himself.
That had to mean something.
What the bloody hell were you thinking! he shouted at his mental image of Sherlock, anger flaring hard before he was able to wrestle it under control, to smother the panic and the sudden adrenaline need to do something.
C'mon, Watson, think! he admonished himself, eyes searching the screen futilely as he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his phone. Sherlock had done this on purpose – presumably he meant to be found, and found in one piece. Calling and texting were probably pointless, but John had to try.
His fingers closed over something unfamiliar, skin registering the cool, heavy touch of metal as his brain tried to make sense of the weight and shape. A frown creased his features, unnoticed, as he withdrew the item from his pocket.
It was a watch.
One of the watches he'd taken from Sherlock's dresser just that morning. One of the two Sherlock had had as long as John had known him, and which had never worked.
It was working now, second hand ticking away in a steady circle.
John stared, uncomprehending. It hadn't been working when he'd dumped it in the bag with the rest of the items on the list. He was certain of that. And it had been on the desk the last time he'd seen it, in the pile of other useless rubbish Sherlock had asked for.
You cock. You utter cock, he thought, remembering Sherlock's hands in his jacket pockets.
John turned the watch over, reading the inscription on the back.
"Here," he said, shoving it at the startled tech. "Use this."
"What–"
"It's a website. And tracking number. Now!" The tech fumbled for a moment before catching up and setting back to work hurriedly. John leaned forward again, good hand on the back of the chair, glaring at the screen.
This better work, you sodding bastard, he thought, catching his lower lip, worrying it. A suspended fear made his heart somehow speed up and stutter at the same time as he silently urged the tech to work faster, to make this happen. The monitor stayed resolutely blank, a faceless map of the city, as information poured from the tech's fingers into another screen, senseless numbers scrolling past.
Sherlock, you–
"Got it!"
The signal jumped back to life, catching John's heart with it, surprise and relief tensing his muscles so sharply a warning flare shot through his shoulder. He breathed deeply, trying to relax, lightheaded at the sight of the tiny, blinking dot tracing a slow line away from the station.
Darkness wavered around him as consciousness ebbed in and out, slipping away from him until he got ahold of it, tugging against its resistance, pulling himself mercilessly away from blissful oblivion to the jolting, uncomfortable present.
Sherlock tried to stifle a groan, the sound dampened by the tape covering his mouth. Pain flared across the back of his head, bright agony in the darkness. He drew a deep breath, and another, letting the worst of the ache subside as his eyes adjusted.
Not entirely dark; shadows delineated by the faint lines of light around the edges of the boot. The smell of petrol clung to him now, reinforced by the hum of a motor and the purr of tires over uneven road surfaces. Each jarring movement made him wince, but it wasn't the worst he'd ever suffered, and refocusing was a matter of moments.
His mind back under his control, Sherlock tested his hands, the sharp pull of adhesive against the fine hairs of his arm smarting. Hands bound behind his back made it impossible to remove the tape from his mouth, and his tongue and lips tasted of glue. He might be able to moisten it enough with saliva to get it to dissolve, but there was no point.
He could feel the steady ticking against his wrist from the unfamiliar watch. His phone had been taken from him – the absence of its weight in his pocket reminded him too much of Wales, but he buried that memory, focussing on the feel of the watch against his skin, trying to hear it over the sound of the car.
It meant John was safe. That he'd figured it out.
He was being tracked, leaving him nothing to do but wait.
The sound of his phone chiming jarred him and John scrabbled to free it from his pocket, unlocking it to find a programme running that he hadn't known he had. The tracking system was mirrored on his phone's small screen, a reassuring confirmation of the information on the tech's computer.
"What the bloody hell is this?" Lestrade demanded from the other end of the line.
"Insurance, I think," John replied, only half surprised Sherlock had highjacked the DI's phone as well. You sodding bastard, he snarled again to his mental image of Sherlock, who managed to look surprised at the growling anger. John strode from the room and snagged the closest constable he could find.
"Get me a squad car!" he barked. "And someone who bloody well knows how to drive! Now!"
Too long, too long. Sherlock stifled the panicked voice in the back of his mind, concentrating on his breathing. Three seconds on the inhale, three on the exhale. Ten per minute. It gave him an accurate measure of time that would have otherwise been stolen and distorted by the discomfort and darkness.
That would have given the panic a stronger hold, make it harder to shake. He had trained himself out of it well during those nine months, but had always known it was never really gone.
It took John's shape, filling up every available space in his mind and commandeering others already occupied. He'd tried to pinpoint when exactly it had begun – Barts, the pavement outside Baker Street, John's comment about clearing out the rubbish in the flat and the way Sherlock had actually felt embarrassed – but he'd never succeeded.
It didn't matter. He knew that now. Only John's absence mattered. Sherlock huffed in the noisy darkness, giving his head a brief shake. Wales was still too strong. So too were the anger and fear, but they were unnecessary distractions, pulling him away from what really mattered.
Like the sound of sirens, rapidly approaching.
Beneath the duct tape, Sherlock grinned.
Shit, John thought, good hand gripping the seat unnoticed, skin taut over his knuckles. He's going to get on the motorway!
He'd never been in a high speed chase and had no desire to be – and Sherlock was in that car, probably in the boot where he wasn't visible and couldn't escape. The thought of what a collision at those speeds could do to a human body made John numb, panic tightening in his throat.
He could see the driver veering toward the ramp; once on the wider road, he'd have even more of an advantage. Not just speed and space – navigating the city from behind a steering wheel was his livelihood. John risked a glance at the officer who'd been volunteered as his driver; lines of tense concentration drew down the younger man's face and across the back of his hands, but a sharp smile crossed his lips when he glanced at the rear-view mirror.
"Hang on," he snapped as John turned to look over his good shoulder, dizzying relief coursing through him at the sudden sight of flashing lights gaining on them. The burst of speed made him grip the upholstery, white-knuckled, a wave of disorientation clutching his stomach when he turned back to the road ahead. The black car flashed past on the right, behind them suddenly as the constable cut back part way into the lane and slowed sharply.
"Hang on!" the constable ordered again, and John braced himself as best he could one-handed, teeth gritted against the impact that didn't come.
Screaming sirens stopped abruptly, leaving a faint ringing in John's ears as flashing lights danced off the gleaming surface of the car. John kicked his door open, fresh air pouring in, a hand on his collar jolting him backwards.
"He might be armed!" the constable snapped. "Stay here and that's a bloody order!"
John almost growled that he didn't take orders from upstart rookies before swallowing the retort and exerting control with a brief nod. He wasn't carrying his gun, and this wasn't the army – he had no authority here. John waited, breath caught in his chest, as a slew of police officers – Lestrade and Donovan included – surrounded the car, weapons drawn. He wondered vaguely why he was so surprised at the sight; they had been going after a suspected murderer at Paddington Station.
Oh god, John thought, suddenly aware that there were two people in the front of the car, unable to make out anything but silhouettes through the smoked glass. He craned to see through the windshield, succeeding only in making his shoulder ache in protest, unable to get the right angle between the two cars. Yelling was indistinct, Lestrade's voice only just audible over the sound of other vehicles passing them by and the hammering of blood in John's ears.
The moment was suspended, protracted, and he couldn't watch if Sherlock was hauled out of the car at gunpoint – or worse, not taken out at all – but he couldn't look away either, frozen helplessly, trying vainly to see something he couldn't. He'd done the same thing in the darkness in Wales, searching a cold and wind-blown space, clinging desperately to a fading hope.
This isn't Wales, he told himself roughly, holding onto the anger. And it wasn't – the doors of the car were yanked open, two men – both strangers – forced out at gunpoint, movements awkward and hampered by hands pressed against the backs of their heads.
There was no one to stop John this time; he kicked the door back open and scrambled out, pushing past Donovan, ignoring the jolt of pain in his shoulder as she tried instinctively to hold him back. The boot was popped open; John buried his hand in his sleeve and pushed it up.
"You arse!" he shouted at the grey eyes blinking in the sudden light. "You sodding, fucking arse!"
The shouting was as unexpected as the light; Sherlock winced against both, trying to muster a response but hindered by the tape across his lips. A flurry of movement and noise didn't drown John out at all; the barrage of insults and curses bounced off of him the way he'd been bounced in the car – not painful but constant and unstoppable. Sherlock wanted to explain away the anger, to use hands where words wouldn't be enough, but it would only make John angrier if done in public and Sherlock's hands were useless right now anyway.
His legs were hauled out and cut free, and Sherlock shook off the assistance, clambering clumsily from the car, stopped from falling only by Donovan's hands catching his arms. He glared, righting himself quickly, and a backward glance satisfied him that Lestrade had the driver safely in custody.
"I'm bloody talking to you!" John shouted, and strong surgeon's fingers were gripping Sherlock's face, forcing it back to meet flashing blue eyes. "What the fuck were you thinking, Sherlock?"
He mumbled a response, indignant, and saw Donovan roll her eyes.
"Might help if we took that off," she said, reaching for the tape, but John stopped her.
"Leave it!" he snapped. "It serves him right, running off on his bloody own to chase down a bloody murderer just like– every other bloody time!"
"I did warn you," Donovan murmured. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John rounded his frustration on her.
"No, you said he'd get bored and murder someone! I don't see any bloody bodies here, do you? What I see is a sodding stupid git who calls himself a genius and who can't help but get himself into trouble at every bloody opportunity!"
"John," Sherlock sighed – or tried to, aware it came out closer to "mmhm" than anything else.
"No, you shut up!" John snapped, jabbing a finger at Sherlock's chest. "You're the one who ran off and got himself caught by a psychopathic driver – again – so you can bloody well deal with the consequences for a little bit!"
Sherlock's shoulders heaved with another sigh and he resisted the useless temptation to explain that the driver probably wasn't a psychopath. Even if he could speak, it would fall on deaf ears.
He sat down, dropping his head forward, hearing an aggrieved sigh.
"Now what?" John demanded. Hands bound and mouth covered, there was little he could do to explain he'd been hit on the head, and Donovan wasn't about to take pity on him. Sherlock risked a glance up, grey eyes darting over the other officers.
"Don't bloody look for Amanda, because she's not here," John snapped. "And she's the only one who doesn't know you well enough not to take pity on you."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and dropped his head again; this time, John got the point.
"You can bloody well wait for a paramedic," he said. Sherlock shifted, exasperated – he understood why John was annoyed, but this was getting tiresome.
He was saved by Lestrade striding over, unceremoniously ripping the tape from his mouth.
"Ow," Sherlock protested, muscles in his arms twitching with the urge to rub his jaw.
"Deal with it," Lestrade snapped. "Care to tell us what the hell you were thinking?"
"I just caught you a murderer, haven't I?" Sherlock replied with a glare.
"You know, there are ways of doing that without getting yourself abducted." Lestrade refrained from making a comment about Wales but Sherlock say it in his eyes anyway – wasn't the last time enough?
But it wasn't the same. This was planned. Deliberate. He had resources, and a means of contacting those who could help. Sherlock was willing to bet that he'd been off the grid for less than five minutes at most before John had figured it out.
"Would you undo my hands?" he asked, letting a cool note dip into his voice. Lestrade glared but obliged, and Sherlock rubbed his wrists, encouraging the circulation to return.
"Did you catch the fake Sarraf?" he asked.
"Hassard did," Lestrade grunted. "No thanks to you."
"Only because you refused to let me come," Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow. "And you wouldn't have caught Hinton otherwise. Or at least, not so quickly," he amended, watching an angry retort die on the DI's lips. Lestrade shook his head, eyes still narrowed, but the familiar set of his expression relaxing around the edges told Sherlock he'd won – even if the admission came only grudgingly.
Donovan, predictably, was less inclined to be forgiving.
"You could have just told us," she snapped. "It wouldn't have been too hard to match the email locations to his car. Even for us normal people."
"This way you've caught him in the act," Sherlock replied coolly. "And you've got both killers at the same time. Neither of them has time to prepare, and both of them know the other's in custody."
"That justifies you being a giant git about the law, does it?" Donovan demanded.
"It justifies me doing the job you hire me for."
"Right, stop right now," Lestrade interjected quickly, and Sherlock drew himself up a bit straighter, feeling a twinge of satisfaction that Donovan hadn't been allowed her obvious comment about how he wouldn't work for them if she were in charge. The glower John shot him deflated him somewhat – it wasn't just John taking Donovan's side, but directing real anger at him.
"Okay if we take him back to the Yard, John?" Lestrade asked, as if Sherlock had no say in or opinion as to what happened to him next. "We need to get his statement."
"Yeah, fine," John replied, shooting Sherlock a dark glare. "As long as you put him in a bloody cell while you do it."