Sorry for the delay with this chapter, we're getting to the end now though so I hope the excitement will make up for my rubbish timeline..
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Stevie turned the radio up as he drove, the day was going swimmingly and he was in the mood for some music from the master. Jamie had always laughed at him for his love of Elton John, he hadn't truly minded though, he would have said if he did, if anything, his darling friend found it endearing.
Even the weather was on his side on this glorious day, the sun had been playing peek-a-boo all morning and there was a pleasant warmth in the air. Joy coursed through him, and if it held a manic sort of edge, what of it? He need only keep himself reigned in for a few more weeks before he could let it all fly.
The last few weeks had passed in an unbroken haze of boredom; Sherlock didn't seem to have found much - if anything - at Andover. Too busy shacking up to be bothered with a great deal beyond shagging; the great detective had discovered his dick and was every bit enamoured with it as your average thirteen year old boy.
Stevie grinned, This really was working out splendidly, the harder the consulting wanker fell in love, the more he'd suffer. A perfect paradox indeed.
By now he was gliding on gold tipped wings toward the coup dê grace and he was determined to wring every drop of enjoyment out of it before he finally joined Jamie in the obscurity of forever and pitched Sherlock into a hell on earth, unlike anything he'd so far experienced.
He was going to kill them all. Every. Single. One.
Except for him.
The great detective was going to take up residence in Dante's fifth circle of hell. He'd spend the rest of his life flagellating himself for letting all of the wonderful people that he loved die, and living with the certain knowledge that it was all because of him, his need to show off, to be the cleverest, to win.
He was going to put on one final spectacular performance for him. He would be the guest of honour at an explosive, once-in-a-lifetime showcase extravaganza. When the curtain fell, the images would adorn the walls of his mind palace, a constant reminder of his failings as he endlessly wandered its corridors, trapped there forever, alone. No one left to comfort him, to tell him he was a good man. There would be no more Sherlock Holmes, he'd devolve right back to the junkie piece of shit he always had been, deep down.
Humming contentedly, he cast his mind back over his productive morning. It had all gone off without a hitch, just as everything had so far. He didn't believe in angels or an afterlife but if anyone could manage to stick around after death in order to help exact revenge on the man responsible for his untimely demise, it would be Jamie.
His face creased into a smile at the thought. Dear Jamie watching all the fun and smoothing the way for him, knowing he would be seeing him soon - or, and far more likely - ceasing to exist. Whatever happened, they would be together.
Right from the first, it had flowed; the mechanic had been a grubby little toad, but he was a master of his craft. Jamie had only ever worked with the best and dealing with him had been well worth getting his hands dirty; a first class bomb was being made to his exact specifications, with an absolute guarantee of being ready in time to be smuggled into the main kitchen at Great Fosters by his newly recruited mule, a full week in advance of the wedding.
He supposed he could have brought it in himself on the day of the wedding, getting around the detail that he himself was in charge of would hardly pose much of a challenge, but the more variables he must account for on the actual day, the greater likelihood of failure.
Who knows what sort of idiotic dramas the bride and groom might manage on the day, leaving him with fires to put out before he could make his grand entrance.
No, he had made the right decision, the head chef had been easy enough to convince, if a little thick - most of his stupidity could probably be put down to nerves.
Allowing himself to relax, he relived his morning's fun; rolling it around like a smooth pebble a child might pick up at the seaside to dance across his fingers, enjoying the smooth surface under his fingertips.
He'd spent quite some time preparing for the task, watching the key staff members at Great Fosters. Figuring out the weakest link had been easy.
The head chef had two strikes against him; his children, easily used as bargaining chips and a gambling addiction that put him in a prime position to be bought.
It had been a snap to worm his way into his regular game, the name Moriarty still opened doors, even now.
Starting off the night as a guileless, pretty, little daddy's boy, playing with papa's bank roll, had been fun and had made it easy to get a seat at the same table as Chef Luke.
Luke must've thought he'd won the lottery, Stevie let him win, egging him on until he got comfortable and his bets got bigger, when Whisky had further loosened his inhibitions, Stevie had simply cheated.
By the end of the night, he had a chit to collect on a hundred thousand pounds; he was a bigger fool than even Stevie had given him credit for.
So, come the morning, bright and early, he'd gone to collect. Though he had no need for the money - which worked well for both - Luke had dug himself into a gambling hole that Stevie could use as a bargaining chip. The chef couldn't come up with the readies anytime soon, and all Stevie wanted was a favour, just a simple favour.
Luke had been spectacularly stupid, seeming to wilfully misunderstand. He was a mess, sweating and crying and begging, "Please, not my children, just me." Desperate now, "Or I could get you the money?"
Sighing and clicking his tongue, Stevie had shaken his head, "Afraid not, unless you have it on you right now, I'm going to need the favour. Besides, it's a good deal! You just bring in the bomb a week before the wedding and you take the day of the wedding off."
"But- but, laxatives? That's not necessary," looking as though inspiration had hit, he blurted, "I could take the laxatives!"
Rolling his eyes, he explained again, "Listen to me, I need to be assured of your absolute discretion-"
Sucking in a breath, Luke clearly planned on arguing that point again.
Stopping him with a hand held up, he reached into his pocket with the other and drew out a switch blade.
Swallowing hard, Luke's mouth snapped shut, his eyes wide as they followed the knife. Every trace of his former bluster, his cocky, chef-in-charge personality had sloughed right off like a lizard discarding its skin.
With the air of one who had practised this manoeuvre ad infinitum, he switched the blade open with one hand and spun it into position, darting his hand out toward Luke, he narrowly missed him, before withdrawing it again just as suddenly, then twirling it back into position, he flicked it shut.
Holding Luke's eyes, he opened the blade again, spinning and twirling it theatrically, the sun peeking out especially, just to glint menacingly off the blade.
In a light, conversational tone, he started, "Now, don't get me wrong, I don't like to hurt kids," his easy smile belying the words. Hardening his voice he added, "But, make no mistake, I will."
"Please, no- " Misery and despair had him clawing for air.
"I can't have you getting cold feet, if you get it into your thick little head that the police are going to be suspicious of you, you'll squeal like a stuck," here he plunged his knife into the tree next to him for emphasis, grinning when the chef gasped, "Pig."
"All you have to do is dose your little darling with laxatives the morning of the wedding, before sending her off to school. Chocolate flavoured, just put it right in her cereal," Stevie had assured him with a shrug.
"She-she doesn't eat cereal, they- it's not good f-for learning," he stammered out, gulping in air between words, looking queasy, he'd continued, "Concentration, you know? It's not like it was when we were kids, th-they have protein and low sugar," babbling now, sounding strangled, "Yoghurt smoothies and e-e-eggy toast."
Stevie had tilted his head, lips pressed into a thin line, his voice diamond hard, "So put it in the smoothie with banana and tell her it's a treat."
At this Luke had opened his mouth again, his eyes wild with terror and confusion.
His face had dissolved into ugly tears at this, looking no better than a snivelling school child, he'd begged, cajoled and pleaded, even offering to take the laxatives himself. Snot ran freely as he'd tried to come up with an idea that Stevie would capitulate to.
Adamant, Stevie had knocked back every idiotic suggestion he'd put forth, the police would question him intensely given any of these scenarios and under suspicion he'd crack like a soft boiled egg. If this idiot thought there was even a small chance that he would look guilty, he'd run straight to the police or even to the dear detective himself.
"This is the only scenario that puts you above suspicion, no one will expect a child to have diarrhoea for any reason other than a genuine sickness. You need to be above suspicion, they start looking into your gambling debts and you're suspect number one, you know that too, don't you? So I can't risk you making a deal for witness protection."
Slamming the blade into the tree with astonishing force for someone with such a small frame, he caught his eye and warned, "You don't want to do that, I have connections everywhere. You've heard of James Moriarty?"
Right now Luke Williams would have been hard pressed to recall his own father, his hollow eyed, terror filled stare remained blank, devoid of recognition.
Waving away his own question, he went on, "Of course you have, the whole world heard about him during the trial and the Richard Brook fun. I am avenging his death, if I am frustrated, no one will be able to keep you or your family safe, I will find your children and I'll indulge in one of Moriarty's favourite pleasures."
A slow smile spread across his face as he inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. Sighing appreciatively, a memory of his darling in full technicolour, played out on the inside of his eyelids, in perfect harmony with the image in his head he sang, "I will skin them."
His eyes snapped open and he pinned the other man with his gaze.
After that it had been a relatively simple task to convince him that laxatives in a smoothie would create the perfect bullet proof alibi and hence, Luke need not fret that he would be caught. Just to sweeten the deal a little more, he told him his debts would be wiped with his bookie as long as he was never seen there again.
By now he had dissolved into a snivelling mess again and had wanted to cry over his wife's death and explain how he wasn't like this, he was a good father, he was just having a bad run and other boring inanities.
Stevie had been feeling generous enough to simply step over him on his way back to his car, not even bothering to kick the fool while he was down.
~o0oo0oo0o~
The bridal consultant came out with the dress draped carefully over her arms, Molly and Stevie cooed appreciatively, while Anthea looked the gown over with a critical eye.
Smoothing a palm over the silky finish, she raised her brows slightly at the older woman, "Are the maternity panels ready?"
"Of course dear, wouldn't want you feeling as though you need to cut down to fit into your dress," she smiled and patted Anthea's tummy, "Not in your condition darling."
Directing a look of pure disgust at the hand so casually placed on her stomach, she responded with ire, "I do not need to fit myself into a certain sized dress to know my worth, nor does my betrothed require it."
Pulling her hand away sharply, looking as though she'd been bitten, she hastened to say, meekly, "Oh, of course, I - I didn't mean any harm, just that some girls get a little too caught up and- " she trailed off helplessly, paralysed by the murderous gleam in Anthea's eyes.
With a smile that could out dazzle the sun, Stevie glided over smoothly, assuring her in a confidential tone, "It's fine, wedding jitters," chuckling, he leaned in to her and added, "She's not really a bridezilla."
Anthea cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at Stevie thoughtfully, "So, just to be clear, is this behaviour - where you talk about me as though I'm not present - is that due to the fact that I'm a bride to be wearing a tiara or because I'm a mum to be?"
A dark, slippery shadow passed over Stevie's face, causing Molly to recoil in shock and confusion. However the expression was smoothed away so quickly that she dismissed the thought outright; he'd been hurt by Anthea's comment, that's all.
Immediately realising how rude and uncalled for, her behaviour had been, Anthea held her hands out to Stevie, eyes widening in worry. "Forgive a cranky pregnant woman?"
His answering smile was instant and angelic; moving forward, he took her hands in his own and raising them to his mouth, feathered his lips across the knuckles of each, he smiled softly, "Of course my darling, I had already done as much."
Relief brightened her smile, squeezing his hands, she gusted out a breath, before offering, "Will you let me make it up to you? We'll have lunch, my treat, at The Fat Duck."
Molly clapped, "Ooh, Heston Blumenthal? Yum. Well, you can't possibly hold a grudge now Stevie?"
Releasing Anthea's hands he nodded and grinned, "I'd be honoured to break bread with my two best girls."
This time the smile was genuine as he remembered the extra bottle of liquid laxative he had left from this morning's errand. Someone needed to teach Miss Thing some manners and he had just the self-appointed man for the task.
Yes, lunch at The Fat Duck would be perfection. Anthea would blame any peculiar tastes on her hormones and the effect of pregnancy on her taste buds, Molly would nod and agree and he would be 'charmed.'
Of course, it would be all worth it, if it went well, if he played it right the bitch would spend the night in hospital, Mycroft would no doubt close the restaurant. Ah, what a spot of fun!
He had no grudge with Heston Blumenthal, other than his general air of pretentiousness but oh, how he missed trouble simply for its own sake. He and Jamie used to have such fun! It would be lovely to relive just a little of the magic again before he joined him.
Looking every bit as pleased as he felt, he flounced over and flopped down gracefully next to Molly. Tugging her hand, he used it as a lever to pull her close to him, tucking her under his arm. Running his fingers through her silky hair helping Molly forget his earlier slip, whilst reminding them of just how non-threatening he was, their super-gay, super-fun friend, a sweetheart; it was no hardship, she truly did have gorgeous hair, a flowing, satin mane.
~o0oo0oo0o~
Sherlock stood by the window, violin tucked under his chin; the traffic below rushing past unnoticed, while he allowed himself to be swept along in the pull of the notes he was playing.
It took three separate calls for him to distinguish the sound of his ringtone from the music he himself was creating.
Dropping his arms, he sighed, The Flight of the Bumblebee, Mycroft's personal ring-tone. Settling his Strad carefully in its case, he let it ring out just one more time.
"Busy, Mycroft."
A series of harsh panting breaths were his only answer, frowning, he warned, "This had better be on behalf of Mycroft Holmes, if this is some sort of a game, let me tell you, you have picked the wrong family."
"Sherlock?" Barely concealed terror marred Mycroft's speech and though he'd deny it, Sherlock's heart squeezed in horrified anticipation.
A rattle, a thunk, and a burst of static, preceded Molly's frightened voice, "Sherlock?"
Fear bursting like ripe fruit in his stomach, left him nauseated, adrenalin pumped through his veins, making him sweat and tremble and his heart boomed in his chest before simply stopping.
"Molly?" His voice was that of a frightened child, weak, thin, barely recognisable, even to himself. To his dismay, the phone was sliding out of his grasp, his fingers slippery with sweat.
As he cleared his throat, Molly spoke again.
"I'm okay, Mycroft is okay, Anthea-"
Heart beating again, in bursts of hard painful thuds, crashing against his ribs again and again, ignoring it, he asked, "Anthea? The baby?"
"Stomach flu or food poisoning," Molly reassured, his panic clear.
"Food- are you well?" Scarcely able to draw breath while he waited for her answer.
"Yes, I'm fine, it's Anthea she- "
"Symptoms?" Sherlock barked, striding toward his bedroom.
"Nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea, cramps, dehydration-"
"Where did you eat?" His tone reptilian in its coldness, its efficiency, emotion discarded in favour of action.
'Sherlock, no- " Molly protested.
Gritting his teeth, he demanded, "Where did you eat, Molly?"
"Sherlock! Will you listen to me? MI6 are looking into the restaurant, it's far more likely to be a bug than food poisoning and Mycroft needs you."
"Molly, I am the best, this must be investigated thoroughly and I am the only one who is capable of ensuring that it is done properly."
"Sherlock Holmes, you listen to me, your brother needs you. None of the employees are going anywhere. MI6 has agents down there and if they are unable to draw a conclusion, or they don't give an answer that makes sense to you, then you can feel free to head down to investigate. But first, you will come to the hospital and comfort your brother." Molly sucked in a deep breath, cracked her neck and waited for the excuses to start.
"Okay, I'll see you soon."
Molly felt the stress leave her body, she smiled, her voice sweet, "I love you Sherlock Holmes."
~o0oo0oo0o~
"I'm going to get you a tea from the caf', Mycroft, it'll be character building." She teased him.
"Molly, I fail to see how cheap, awful tea could possibly- " he broke off abruptly as he glimpsed the younger Hurricane Holmes heading towards them.
Frowning, he asked Molly, "You asked him not to go to the restaurant?"
Molly smiled gently and squeezed his forearm briefly, "He's needed here."
Unable to hide his complete and utter bafflement, he pulled back, his head withdrawing into his neck; aware that he was affecting what Anthea had christened The Pompous Politician Face, but unable to stop.
"Quite so," he nodded awkwardly, possibly unable and definitely unwilling, to be impolite. He patted Molly's hand, three short little taps, attempting to convey to her that her efforts were appreciated.
Molly laughed, "You'll see."
Running to Sherlock, tackling him, her arms snaking around his neck as he caught her about her waist; she laughed and his gaze roamed her face lovingly, his own lit up with that special smile, the one he reserved only for her.
"Thank you for coming," grinning as her feet finally hit the floor, her hands slid down over his neck, easing them instead around his waist, over his shirt - As if she could fit a hand under - inside the Belstaff. She hummed softly, a satisfied little sound of approval for the way his body felt curving around and over her own, and the comfort of his measured heartbeat, so precise in her ear.
"Anthea is asleep," his voice was gentle and low, "Why am I here Molly?" He asked, winding his own arms around her.
"Anthea is asleep," she agreed, "They've got her on a saline drip for dehydration, they gave her an anti-emetic and an anti-diarrhoeal; between the medication and the stress she was out cold within twenty minutes."
Closing her eyes for a moment, overcome with the memory, Anthea, writhing on the restaurant bathroom floor. To bear witness to such a woman undone in such a way, it was heart breaking.
With a shaking voice she recounted the rest of the relevant details, "They've got her hooked up to a foetal heart monitor, the baby is not showing any signs of distress; vomiting, nausea and diarrhoea are common in pregnancy anyway and whatever Anthea is reacting to mustn't have crossed the blood barrier. She just needs to rest, she and the baby are both going to be fine."
Nodding in agreement, "I'll go to The Fat Duck, MI6 are not me, I presume they've locked it down? No one in or out?" Kissing the top of her head to signify that the discussion was closed, he was surprised to feel Molly's arms tightening around his waist.
"Molly? I- " His hands wrapped around her arms, gently, but with obvious intent to disengage her hold on him.
"Stevie is at the restaurant- " She murmured, burrowing into his chest, making it clear that she wished him to stay.
"Stevie is not me, Molly," he admonished.
Eyes shining, Molly tilted her head as she agreed wholeheartedly, "No one is you Sherlock."
Raising his eyebrows in agreement, feeling rather proud of managing not to say, Nice deduction, Molly; he waited to hear her out, emotionally her I.Q. was at least triple his own and he finally had the grace and courage to admit it.
Molly was sombre as she explained, "Your parents won't be here for several hours yet and even when they are they'll be exhausted from the drive, not to mention Mycroft won't confide his fears in them; as much as you two try to hide it, you're actually close, he adores you and he's afraid."
Sceptical, he warned, "I will stay, but only because you're the wise one - " When Molly's face lit up with a combination of shock, awe and wonder, he broke off, frowning slightly in confusion.
Feeling as though she'd just been given an unexpected and priceless gift, she smiled up at him, joy suffusing her entire being.
"Molly?" He didn't need to elaborate, she understood.
Tears shimmered along her lash lines, "You think I'm wise?" Her voice quiet with awe and disbelief.
Sherlock frowned and shook his head slightly, the mesmerising sway and flow of his shock of hair capturing Molly's attention.
The light shone on hidden depths of colour, auburn threads corkscrewing their way through his curls as they bloomed and telescoped with the motion of his head.
Sherlock chuckled, "Oh Molly, I wonder if you'd love me quite so much without my hair."
Blushing, Molly laughed as she realised she'd been biting her lip and unabashedly staring at him.
"Hmm, maybe now is not the best time to tell you that I must go undercover in a theatre group and I will be cutting my hair, very short," he dead panned.
A look of horror passed over Molly's face, "Very short?" She whispered.
Unable to resist, he added, "Slicked back too."
Nodding solemnly, she tried her best to be brave.
Sherlock laughed and squeezed her tightly to him, "I love you Molly Hooper."
Relaxing against him, she begged, "Don't tease me, it's a serious day."
Stroking his hand over her silken pony tail and pulling the elastic lower and further out with each pass, he murmured, "What do they know so far?"
Leaning into his touch, enjoying his worship, she thought for a moment, "Well when I spoke to Stevie, he said they'd called or found everyone who ate there today and nothing, no one else has had any symptoms. And while it's possible to develop a reaction during pregnancy it's unlikely for such a reaction to come on so suddenly with so many symptoms and no accompanying rash."
"Hmm, so food poisoning is out, but no one has ruled out sabotage." A coldness settled over his features even as his hand skated down and rubbed circles on Molly's back soothingly. "All of the employees have been detained? No one finished shift early and clocked off?"
"No, Stevie is questioning everyone with the help of the MI6 agents, they're not going to let anyone go until Mycroft gives the official green light."
Pulling away a little, Molly looked up into his face, her eyes wide and glassy, "But all that can wait Sherlock, Mycroft needs you, he's a mess and he's questioning his decision to marry and have a child." Sadness and worry for her friends casting shadows under her eyes.
Heaving a great sigh of defeat, he peered over her head at Mycroft and tried, "He seems fine now, obviously your bedside manner is wasted on the dead." Wheedling, he added, "How about I go finish up at the restaurant and then we go home and you show me some of your bedtime manner?"
Sliding his hands under her blouse, he let his fingertips skate over her skin hoping to entice her to come back to Baker St, or home as he hoped she would agree to call it once this whole Moriarty thing was over.
Ruefully, Molly smiled, "You make a great case Sherlock, you really do, but that man is over there second guessing himself and preparing to send the love of his life to some forbidden, far away island for her own protection. I don't need to tell you that not only will Anthea not go, but she'll feel betrayed by him and their relationship will take a major hit."
Rolling his eyes, he pressed his lips together and huffed a breath through his nose. Cocking his head, he took her in, "You could manage wars and no one would even notice that you were the one in control."
Grinning at him, "Thank you. I'm going to the café, I'll be a while, in fact, why don't you find me when you're done." Leaning up on her tip toes she pressed a kiss onto his smooth lips, "You're a good man Sherlock Holmes, however much you wish to deny it."
Caressing her retreating figure with his eyes until she turned a corner and was gone, he finally, switched his focus to Mycroft and his feelings.
Shuddering, his belly full of dread at the thought of such a discussion with the Ice Man, brother or not. Straightening up, he rifled his fingers through his hair, sparing a thought for Molly, aware that she would have been riveted to the sight.
Reluctantly he made his way towards Mycroft.
~o0oo0oo0o~
Looking up as a flash of movement caught his attention he saw Sherlock on his own and heading in his direction, Oh God, the horror.
Mycroft's face scrunched in pure revulsion as he realised just what Molly had meant when she had suggested that he was needed here.
He plastered a smirk on his face as he greeted the younger Holmes, "Well, brother mine, come to offer me succour at the behest of yon fair maiden?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't make jokes Mycroft, it makes you look weak."
And just like that, the air seemed to go out of Mycroft all at once, "Maybe I am, little brother, maybe I am."
"It's too late for that Mycroft." Sherlock's eyes burned into him.
In a low, broken voice, Mycroft admitted, "I've made a mistake, I took something I shouldn't have. I wasn't meant to have this kind of happiness." He kept his eyes fixed on his umbrella, so he wouldn't meet his brother's eyes again.
Sherlock was uncharacteristically kind and patient, he understood now what Molly had left him there to do, "There is danger in life Mycroft, for everyone, not just for you and I. Anthea is not ignorant of this, she chose life, and you should too, or you'll lose her and your child."
In a voice reminiscent of ground glass, Mycroft admitted his shameful weakness, the fact of his heart not only beating, but that it did so for another, "I don't want her to get hurt, I can't, I- "
Pain had knocked his brother off kilter, he was very nearly babbling, a verbal slap was needed, "Mycroft."
Looking up, Mycroft's eyes collided with Sherlock's, rather than the expected judgement, he saw love, understanding.
"What do I do?" The raw vulnerability of this plea, terrified him.
"If you ask her to leave, she won't come back and she'll never forgive you." His tone was final, this was not a discussion, simply a bare fact.
He stumbled backwards and when his knees hit the bench he sat gracelessly. There was no comfort in this zero sum game, this catch-22. Ask her to leave and he would hurt her, but if she stayed, anyone may hurt her.
Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down on Mycroft, Sherlock showed no mercy, "It's too late brother, you already chose. She needs you now, no room for cowardice. You have to see her hurting."
Burying his face in hands, "I love her so much."
Sherlock's phone buzzed steadily in his pocket, he ignored it, "I learnt about love from a master," smiling, he went on, "When you love someone, you always love them, even when it hurts you, especially when it hurts you, that's when they need it the most."
Nodding now, understanding sinking in. He had been forced to love his brother like this, though he'd desperately wished to pack him off to a safe place, Sherlock had been too stubborn to go anywhere, he sought out danger, thrived on it.
His thoughts drifted to his special agent fiancée and the penny dropped completely, "Ah."
Grinning, Sherlock agreed, "Yes, ah. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to take a call," waving his phone, he added cheerfully before walking away, "Homeless network."
Swiping the angry, buzzing little screen, "Yes? What is it? This had better be important."
"Boss? That bomb maker, the one, what's a mechanic?" Wiggins' voice was nasal and tinny.
Lips pressed together in annoyance, sighing in frustration, "Who." His voice crisp.
"The mechanic, Moriarty's man, innit?" he answered cheerfully.
"Who is a mechanic, isn't he?" His words stiff.
"Yes Boss, he's the mechanic, what makes bombs, Moriarty's man." His encouraging nods of confirmation clear, even through the phone.
Biting his tongue, his eyes rolled back in his head in frustration but ultimately he decided on letting the grammar errors go in favour of obtaining the information expediently."
He ordered some things, stuff he wouldn't be needing, not for fixing cars he wouldn't, he'd need them for a bomb though, a big one."
"Watch him, I'm on my way," he ended the call and striding toward the exit, fired off messages to Molly and Mycroft, advising that he had a hot lead in a case - carefully omitting which case - and informing them that he would go to the restaurant at his earliest convenience.
His smile was wide as he pushed the doors open and swept out through the waiting area, finally, some excitement.
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