As John ran down the street, he could feel his lungs burning as adrenaline surged through his veins, pumping stronger with each beat of his pulse. Adler was surprisingly fast despite the fact that she was wearing 5 inch stiletto heels, and was unwittingly coordinated. The angry roar of the museum guards followed behind them, seeming awfully close. John was afraid that any second now the deafening roar would become overwhelming, and that his breath would be taken away in a sudden, sharp pull as the museum security tackled him to the ground.

But his legs pushed him on, the fear and excitement kicking his senses into action. He wondered if Sherlock had felt this alert all the time - as his mind accelerated with the details of what he used to call a 'tantalising case'. Feeling the bulky instrument in his hand, John didn't think that this could be far from the truth.

As they turned the corner, Adler quickly slipped into a back-street - so quickly that John almost missed it. Letting her lead, he followed her through the maze of the lost streets of London until they came back out onto a main road. Gazing behind him, John assessed that he could hear the guards, but no longer see them - which meant that they had less than thirty seconds before they caught up with them.

Then the endearing, familiar sight if a black London taxi passed before him. Without thinking, John hurried after the taxi until he was close enough to tap on the car itself. The driver slowed down, then peered out of the passenger-side window suspiciously. John told the driver their destination in a rush, adding:
"I'll tip you a fiver if you can get us there in ten minutes."
The driver nodded without protest, waiting for Adler to close the door before he once again set off. As John looked back, he could see the rushed guards emerge from the backstreet and disappear into the distance . . .

Breathing a sigh of relief, Adler un-clipped and tidied her hair before neatly putting it up again.
"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" she asked impatiently, spare hair slides still sticking out from her mouth.
"Afghanistan memorial garden."

John answered without hesitation, though old memories were starting to come to the front of his mind of him on the battleground. He remembered his old comrades, some which had survived, some of which hadn't. The memories of the latter impacted him the most, as it was those who he would never see again, if he wished to see them. Thinking about it, John had lost an awful lot in his lifetime, his comrades, his marriage, and his dear friend Sherlock Holmes. But John preferred not to look back to these tragic times; he had a more pressing case at hand now - solving the case of his late friend.

Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside the memorial gardens. John tipped the driver gratefully and watched the taxi drive off as it stirred memories like a spinning record in his head. When his eyes could no longer follow the black dot in the distance, he put his hands in his pockets and looked at the garden before him. Standing up straight, he stared down the grass verge to see rows upon rows of tiny wooden crosses, each one decorated with a single blazing poppy. As he began walking, he read each plaque, paying his respects to the individual soldiers that were now at peace. Suddenly he stopped, recognising the name on one tiny cross. Immediately, he called himself to attention and saluted an ex-comrade with the utmost recognition and pride.
"God bless you, soldier", John whispered, and stood in his pose for a few seconds.

After resuming his natural stance, he looked back at Adler, who was waiting patiently by his side, her attitude totally different from a minute ago. She held out her arm to John, and he graciously took it.

As they walked through the gardens arm-in-arm, John suddenly realised how much he had missed having company for the past week or so. He missed being able to talk to someone, even if Adler didn't necessarily present any answers to the questions he presented. He just liked the company - even if it was with a top-class dominatrix whom he had nothing in common with. Nothing, except his recent friend Sherlock Holmes.

After five long minutes without speaking, Adler spoke up again.
"So what are we looking for, exactly?" she asked, staring at the path ahead. To tell the truth, John was wondering the same thing.
"This is Sherlock", he said. "Look at the details."

Walking slowly, they looked at each tiny plaque, spotting nothing. A part of John was actually relieved - it meant that at least the vandals at Sherlock's grave had had the decency not to deface this symbolic memorial garden.

Eventually they reached a huge stone plaque, with rows of fallen men's names engraved in bronze on its surface. John bowed his head in respect - but then noticed something at the ground before him.

A single solitary poppy sat at his feet, its striking colour burning against the darker colours of the plaque behind it. John knelt down to pick the poppy up, and then noticed another just four feet from there - not marking a grave. Looking ahead, he noticed three more such poppies leading away from there.

Aware he was now following a trail; John picked up the first poppy and cautiously walked to the next. Aware of what he was doing, Adler followed behind slowly.

The trail of poppies led them to a sheltered bandstand, standing behind another large stone plaque. The final poppy radiated defiantly, aware of its purposeful placement. Kneeling down to pick it up, Adler stopped him before he could walk round the back of the memorial plaque.

"It might be a trap", she warned. "Trust me; I've done more than a few set-ups in my time."

John considered this for a moment, and then gently shook her arm off of his shoulder.

"I have to do this." He looked right into her eyes, searching for understanding. "I have to."

Adler continued staring at him, and then slowly nodded.

"I understand", she murmured. "But I'm coming with you."

Together, they slowly peered round the plaque to the bandstand. Inside, a tall, dark figure was pacing backwards and forwards. But they were moving too quickly and were too far away for John to see their face.

John gingerly stepped forwards in an attempt to get the stranger's attention. Immediately, they stopped moving and turned to face John.

But nothing in the whole of his experience could've prepared John for what he saw next.

Standing, shadowed under the dimness of the bandstand, was Sherlock.

Thanks for reading, now please review and let me know what you think – and if you want me to carry on writing. Thank you!