A/N: How about a plot twist? -csf

. 2nd

The cold evening air greets me as I cross the New Scotland Yard's threshold onto the parking lot outside. My hands are cuffed, I've been provided a standard sweatshirt to replace my soiled shirt (taken as evidence), and I've smartened up only to recognise my current situation is dire.

Still I cannot remember what happened. Why I came out of Baker Street, or how come I went into a little alley and came out looking like Jack the ripper.

Sherlock is convinced I was set up – my best friend refuses to lose his unwavering faith in me.

As I'm escorted to a police van, in which I'll be transported to a holding cell in jail, I must quietly ponder the chance that I did something wrong while I wasn't in my right mind. Would I have had an extreme psychosis incident, perhaps fuelled by post traumatic stress disorder? I thought I was as beyond that diagnosis as a former soldier who has been exposed to the worse inputs of war can ever be. There was no escalation of behaviours, no prior sign that I could snap that way. I find it illogical, implausible. Sherlock finds the suggestion of it moronic. I need to believe that someone who knows me so well would know how to spot the signs if I had been spinning out of reality.

Of course Sherlock has an answer as to how come I can't remember. Sherlock always has answers for everything. The more the puzzle rubs him off the more answers he finds.

The great detective thinks I've been drugged. He says it is fairly easy to drug me without my knowledge. I never know for sure when he's messing with me...

Sherlock seems personally affronted that someone other than him – hypothetical as it may be – would have drugged me. I'm not happy about it either. I was found in a dreamlike state, wandering about London. A lot could have happened to me in the few hours I hold as unaccounted for.

Besides the blood samples at the Yard, I was also summarily examined by the doctor on call. They found no nips, cuts, bruises, or any other signs of fight, defense, or complicity, nor did I present injuries that could account for the sheer amount of anonymous blood on me.

But then there's the body they found on the alley as a probable source.

My shirt's fabric was soaked through. I heard Sherlock looked murderous as he saw my shirt being bagged and tagged as evidence. I guess he's fonder of my shirts than he is of my jumpers.

The police van gets going with a start. I'm leaving behind the last connection to safe ground. I'm going to jail. I'll be formally charged, they believe they have already a case strong enough to ensure my prosecution.

I keep thinking of Mrs Hudson's late husband. Sherlock ensured his prosecution, he said when we met. I don't want to be like Mr Hudson. Hopefully Sherlock is as good at ensuring innocence gets proven.

.

The engine dies out after the police van approached the parking lot barrier. The driver seems to be getting nowhere with the authentication machine that actions the barrier to let us through. I guess I'm not the only one having a bad day, after all. Still feels like the driver has the upper hand on misfortunes, though.

Suddenly the van's sliding door by my side is pulled open and a very honest face looks inside with a defiant smirk.

'Well, come along, John!'

Sherlock's come to free me, by the looks of it.

'Sherlock, we can't do this!' I shake my head, dazed.

He frowns, absolutely sincere in his confusion. He hops in with light movements as if he had climbed on a bus or something. Except Sherlock doesn't take the bus. 'What do you mean: we can't?' he repeats, attentive as a little kid waiting for an explanation.

I lower my voice to a sharp hiss. 'You are trying to break me out of jail!'

'You are not yet in jail.'

'I'm in a police van, under police custody, being transported to jail. What part of this highjack is not meant to keep me from reaching the jail?'

He rolls his eyes, petulant, as if I'm being difficult now.

'You need to go through the starting house and collect 500 pounds before you go to jail, John. Have we not played enough board games to learn that?'

'Seriously, Sherlock!'

'Seriously, John? You are not guilty, I will not have you being treated as such.'

'I'm going to be found guilty!' I almost yell back.

'Not if I have a say in that', he responds quietly, dignified.

'I believe in Justice. Don't you?'

'When it's convenient', he answers, completely missing the point.

I sigh, deflated. 'And anyway how did you even managed thus far? Was it you jamming the gate?'

He deflects his answer. 'It's quite simple, really, I'm surprised the lot of criminals we help bring to justice don't all do the same.'

'Mycroft helped you, right?' I squint at him.

'Yes', he answers, gulping down.

'He's in on this plan?'

'Well, not officially, of course, my brother is far to lazy to take a stand.'

'And now?' I ask. Perhaps I'm giving in already.

'Now we run away and prove your innocence.'

'Just like that, Sherlock?'

'Just like that, John.' He gets up and glances at his wrist watch. 'Right on time, like I planned. Your reticence was very timely, John. Only one officer left in the van, the other went to get assistance.'

'We can't harm the driver, he's doing his job!' I demand at once.

'All has been accounted for, John. Have I ever let you down?' With sharp punches of his closed hand, Sherlock hits repeatedly the small dividing window made of plexiglass, to get the driver's attention. I cringe inwardly. This is not good. This is Sherlock Holmes turning to evil without any moral qualms.

'Cut it out!' We can hear the muffled order from the front of the van.

The driver leaves the front after Sherlock's insistence. My mad friend keeps his plan secret. What will the driver do when he recognises the extra passenger? Sherlock smiles at me and sneaks something out of his pocket. 'Make sure to breathe through your nose, John. You don't want too much of this in your system', he adds mysteriously before a cloud of thick white smoke starts spreading and swirling inside the van. It's sweet and sickly and –sluggish. The air is sluggish. I focus on my friend's confident expression before I'm sliding off my seat to the floor of the van.

Sherlock drugs me to pitch dark oblivion. I guess he needed to have a last one up on the whole "let's drug John" business.

.

'I knew you would refuse, full of old-fashioned notions of criminals, justice and fairness, John. I wasn't ready to let you go to jail to prove a moral high ground.'

I rub my forehead, clammy and cold. I've just come to, slumped on the floor of some garden outhouse, probably not very far from the Yard. Sherlock is monitoring me constantly, he mustn't be too sure about the amount of chemical smoke I inhaled in the van. 'Why drug me, though? Were you expecting non-compliance? To take me away against my will?'

He refuses to answer some of my questions. 'You weren't the intended target, just collateral damage. I needed to neutralise the van driver when he got called to check the back. All went according to plan. Of course I could have used your Browning, but again you wouldn't have approved of that. You are very demanding, John, even in your absence.'

I smirk. Sherlock is wrong. I hold no influence over him. The softened highjack plan is only proof of his good nature. However I decry his results approach to saving me from jail. I'm still holding my head. I've been drugged too many times today. Did Sherlock even ponder the cumulative effect? Where did he get the chemical? Does he keep oblivion smoke curtains at hand at all times? Did he take enough care to hold his scarf to his nose and not breathe in the same chemical the rest of us got deuced with?

'I wish you would speak to me, John', Sherlock tells me, seriously. I look up and see his worry written all over his face.

'I'm alright, Sherlock', I assure him, in a coarse voice.

He hums. 'I should think you are more comfortable now.'

Outside the police van or the jail, and free? Yeah, sure.

Sherlock leans forward and jingles a few keys in a ring before trying them on the cuffs that still unite my hands together. 'How did you get the keys to the handcuffs?' I ask, surprised.

'Lestrade passed me the spare keys when no one was looking, obviously.'

Greg's in on it too, then. But for now he needs to keep his support under wraps. His job and professional reputation are at stake. Worse than that, it could jeopardize the cases he's already closed by throwing suspicion on his methods.

'Do you have a plan, Sherlock? I mean, a real plan? Or are you playing by ear?'

He shrugs his shoulders. 'A bit of both', he answers me. 'I've been assured I'm a good musician anyway.'

.

Sherlock brought me to the safest place in London. Unfortunately we cannot stay long in our refuge from the world. Baker Street is a formidable safe ground, but also an easy location to find Sherlock Holmes and doctor Watson.

I think Sherlock wanted to get a few things that may come handy before we really get on the run. Scientific research stuff, my gun, some thousands of pounds in non-sequential unmarked bills, the lot.

He's still a but concerned after he had to knock me out for the Great Police Van Escape. Perhaps that's why he's left me with Mrs Hudson downstairs. Or perhaps he just didn't trust me with the stairs just yet, my balance still a bit compromised.

Maybe he just feared I might get selfless and give myself in to spare my friend's professional career.

I really should. I don't deserve Sherlock as my best friend at times like these. For now I'm desperately holding on to the hope that Sherlock's reputation can be spared, that is participation remains unknown, or his big brother sponges it all from the official records. I should just thank Sherlock, refuse any more help, give myself in and accept what justice may bring. But I fear the set up was too well executed. If I can't even recall what I did in the time elapsed, how can I prove what I didn't do, from jail?

Meanwhile Mrs Hudson is watching over me with motherly concern. I decide she needs to hear me say it:

'I didn't do it, Mrs Hudson. I can't prove it to you, but I didn't do what they accuse me of.' She must believe me.

I stand in her kitchen as a fugitive from the law, a common criminal like the ones Sherlock and I have protected so many times in our cases.

She brushes off my emotional pledge with a tea towel thrown my way. 'Just get the scones out of the oven for me, dear.'

'Did you hear what I said, Mrs Hudson?' I ask sharply, setting my shoulders straight.

'Of course I did, dear, I'm old but not deaf.'

'And you rather talk about ...scones?'

'Someone needs to feed you up, young man. Otherwise being a runner is going to turn you into skin and bones. And all the daredevil excitement, with Sherlock by your side...' She shakes her head sadly. 'I'll make you a nice picnic basket for you two to take along. You like scotch eggs, don't you?' I nod, not because I want to answer, but this is Mrs Hudson – you must answer Mrs Hudson. It's an unspoken rule.

She hums a little cheery tune under her breath as she gets the tea ready, completely unfazed. 'Mrs H, they think I murdered someone', I blurt out. It's only right that she knows the facts.

You don't lie to Mrs Hudson either.

'That's okay, dear. I'm used to murderers, hitmen, blackmailers, smugglers, and my late husband's friends from the cartel. They were always a lively bunch, never a dull moment when they came for dinner.'

'I didn't do it', I add timely, with a frown.

'I know, dear. Your temper is so much better these days.'

'I wouldn't', I add a bit more forcefully.

'Well...' she starts back, eyeing me wisely, and then grabbing a rag to mop the table. I gulp and correct myself:

'I wouldn't murder someone cold-heartedly with them unarmed, with no justification. It's wrong and I wouldn't stand for that.' I stand up straighter. 'I try to hold myself to a higher standard.'

She finally stops scrubbing some tea stain from the kitchen table top. 'We know that, dear. And besides if you really wanted to off someone, you're a doctor, surely you'd find better to ways to do it without leaving a trace. Or you'd ask our Sherlock for help, he'd make it all neat just for you, John.'

I blink, wondering exactly how I ended up being the normal one upon Baker Street's loving but dysfunctional family. Wouldn't want it any other way.

'Thanks for believing in me, Mrs Hudson', I say with my best smile. It comes out feeble and tired, but she is immediately bestowed by it. She makes me sit at the table and gives me the biggest scone even before Sherlock comes back from securing the perimeter.

He won't be happy when he finds out he missed out on the bigger blueberry scones from the baking tray.

.

TBC