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Note: Sorry for the double alert, no, there isn't a double chapter, I just realised I hadn't published the right one. XD

A pretty short chapter, not really explicative of the plot, I must admit, but I promise it'll start to make sense in two chapters...

Not britpicked, but I did what I could... Don't hesitate to point out any mistake if you see one.

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Chapter 6

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For a change, the announcement of a new case fell in the middle of the afternoon.

John was visiting the British Museum, because he hadn't been there in a long time and because he wanted to change from the ordinary. He was strolling in front of a interminable lions hunting when his text alert went off. John walked quickly away in a corner, and then took out his mobile phone.

"Peckham. Murder. Probably a robbery gone badly."

John looked up and looked around. A mother pushing a stroller in front of her while a little boy was ecstatic, saying it was like in grandmother's book, a bunch of friends, few couples. It was impossible to make a call and discuss about a crime scene in those conditions. So he sent a text message:

"Meeting there? "

The answer came immediately:

"Baker Street. We'll go together."

John then pocketed his phone and headed for the exit, thinking that he would go into raptures over the Rosetta Stone another time. He left the museum, took long strides towards Tottenham Court Road, and hailed a cab.

Fortunately, he wasn't far from Baker Street. The cab brought him there quickly, and when he reached his destination, John saw Sherlock waiting on the pavement. He opened the car door and sat down, giving the address to the driver.

"When did you get the information?" John asked when the cab was goingthrough Piccadilly Circus.

"I just intercepted the radio call when I texted you."

John nodded to signal that he had understood.

It was new, the radio, and Sherlock had long wondered why he hadn't had the idea before. He had received it from the Greenwich case dealer, a small gift in exchange of their silence on his traffic. Sherlock had tuned it on the police frequency, and could therefore learn about new cases in time.

Sherlock vibrated with excitement on the cab seat, and John knew why. To his knowledge, Sherlock had never dealt with this part of London. John, for his part, knew of the area what he had seen in Doctor Who, which was far from being an absolute reference.

Peckham was a district that John had always considered, at least as far as he knew, as strange. Ambivalent was a more accurate term. Both lousy and modern, made up of run-down areas and brand new homes, populated by street gangs and artists.

The burglary had taken place in North Peckham Estate, a rehabilitated area with its rows of small uniform houses. The cab drove along a playground, and soon turned right. A glimmer of light was shining in the distance and Sherlock asked the driver to stop. He handed him a note, inviting him to keep the change, and then got out of the vehicle, buttoning up his coat to make himself less recognizable.

Advancing towards the gathering of police cars, John looked up at the surrounding houses. Many neighbours were at their windows, he even saw some filming or taking pictures with their mobile phones. His shoulders tensed thinking he would have liked to have come without this kind of audience. He feared to be recognized on an amateur photo, it would only lead them into trouble and lose unnecessary time. And the risk was even greater since they were in the middle of the day.

Sherlock also seemed to have the same opinion as he slipped into an alley and jumped over a wall. From this side of the building, there were just few onlookers. He quietly approached the scene, hands in his pockets, with the nonchalant attitude of a resident of the neighbourhood. A small gathering began to grow outside the police line, nobody paid attention to them.

Sherlock immediately looked at the policemen, seeking an opening. John began to think that for convenience, obtaining uniform was becoming a fiercely conceivable option, which would certainly not displease Sherlock, who loved outfits.

The number of agents outside then diminished, many of them having been called into the building. Sherlock seeing there a unique opportunity, he split the row of onlookers in front of him and slipped under the security tape. John soon followed, holding an annoyed exclamation which would have betrayed them, and immediately took out his notebook to play his part.

Sherlock didn't waste time arguing with the officer who tried to intercept them. He quickly showed him his "police card" and eagerly asked if the victim's body was still inside. Staggered by his confidence, the agent didn't try to call his sincerity into question and spontaneously revealed that the body hadn't been taken yet. At these words, Sherlock turned away from him and went unceremoniously into the building. John followed after thanking the policeman.

"You know, Sherlock," he encouraged as they walked down the hallway, "Saying thank you, from time to time, would be nice."

Sherlock didn't answer, focused on emergency exits locations. He noted the number of officers on the scene, the movements. They were about ten, including forensics. The crime scene was going to be a piece of cake. He already started listing the first elements he had: broken door, a kitchen knife in the chest. A neighbour said he had bumped into the victim when she returned from shopping. Obviously, she must have caught her burglar, who had panicked. Child's play.

Finding the aggressor, however, would be more difficult, and that was the riddle Sherlock wanted to focus on.

"Sherlock…"

John's voice immediately interrupted his optimistic thoughts and he stopped. He knew that tone, it was the one he used to warn him of a danger.

Sherlock then looked up at the door of the flat to which they were heading. Two officers entered it. And on the doorway, hands on his hips listening to Sally Donovan's preliminary comments, was standing Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock suddenly became pale and sought for immediate withdrawal. He caught sight of an emergency exit, walked toward it, opened the little door and took refuge in the deserted staircase, John on his heels.

The door snapped shut behind them, and they stood motionless, silent, listening attentively for the noises from the hallway. Footsteps came toward the door and walked away, but nobody came after them. Apparently, no agent had noticed them, which was a chance.

"I wasn't expecting that it would be Lestrade on the case!" Sherlock hissed between his teeth. "It'll make things more complicated."

He went back to the door and gently half-opened it, then immediately closed it to let pass new footsteps. They went away, and Sherlock opened again.

"Lestrade is gone," he announced. "Donovan is still at the door, so I think he must be in the flat."

John finally closed his small notebook and buried his hands in his jacket pockets. He incongruously thought about the British Museum he left for a case that seemed already pretty much jeopardized. If this was indeed Lestrade on it, there might be a lot more people to recognize them if they ventured on the crime scene.

"It's great," he quipped then, "But if his team is on it, how are we going to proceed? With Dimmock, it was still feasible in his absence, but now…"

But he stopped when he heard Sherlock's voice swearing between his teeth.

"No! No! No!"

"Sherlock?"

He immediately closed the door, jaws clenched, looking quite upset. John frowned, alarmed.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"They're taking the body away! Morons!"

John's shoulders fell. On the other side of the door, a new tramp of feet rose to disappear, followed by Lestrade's voice in the hallway:

"Tell forensics that I want their report as soon as possible!"

Dejection fell on John and Sherlock's shoulders. Without opportunity to take a look at the body, with Lestrade who supervised the crime scene, the investigation would be a little more complicated. But there was nothing they could do against procedures.

To hide his embarrassment, Sherlock half-opened the door again, but John knew that there was no hope in the immediate future. Maybe they could wait for the agents to leave, take advantage of the night to break into the flat.

"What do we do now?" John asked while Sherlock had just closed the door.

But he had no time to get an answer. Voices came, and the door opened suddenly. John and Sherlock found themselves face to face with two agents about to check the access.

"What are you doing here?" One of them wanted to know. "Civilians are not allowed on the crime scene!"

John didn't give Sherlock time to answer that they weren't technically on the crime scene. The victim's body gone, Lestrade in charge of the investigation, he was aware that it was ruined for the moment, that claiming to be investigators would be pointless. So he grabbed Sherlock by the arm and led him fleeing down the stairs.

"Hey, wait! Stop!"

Sherlock had always found this injunction ridiculous. As if they expected them to obey. John and he ran down the stairs, hearing the two agents running after them. One of them spoke into his walkie-talkie:

"Note two suspects in the fire escape, they are at the…"

Sherlock didn't waste time listening to them. If they didn't change of plan now, they would be caught like greenhorns. Reaching the first floor, they left the fire escape and rushed into the corridor. Residents were out of their homes, watching the police come and go. Some looked at them running down the stairs leading to the exit in the back of the building.

Fortunately, most of the agents were focused on the main exit. There was still the one who had stopped them at their arrival, and two others, but they didn't have the reflex to react in time. John and Sherlock got over the security tape, hustled some curious, and fled.

They were laughing out loud.

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