"Right, so you're gonna audition people? Hey, we're hiring red-haired midgets to play the role of an informant about gold and stuff! " John mimicked Sherlock's voice very inaccurately, "Wanna audition? Yeah sure, why not, do I get to use a gun? Not really, but you'll have the whole police force behind you, and as a bonus, you get to keep the bulletproof jackets too! Great, just the sort of thing I was looking for, I'm an out of work actor! That's what you're gonna tell them, Sherlock?"

Sherlock and John track the group of robbers via the death of Mr. Montgomery. Casefic continues.

Hello again, everyone!

I honestly don't know how I wormed a murder into a respectable bank heist case :'(

More 'Sherlock being Sherlock' ahead.

This might be a longish chapter. My chapters seem to get longer and longer.

Forgive me if John seems too assertive. I love my Watson like that ;)

This time, John turned a blind eye to Sherlock's demands. He swiftly dialled 999 before Sherlock realised what he was doing.

"Noooooooo!" he cried out, almost instantly regretting bringing John with him. He lost it and launched himself on John, trying to wrench the phone out of his hands.

"GIVE ME THE GODDAMNED PHONE, JOHN!"

"999. What's your emergency?" came the female voice of the operator from the other end of the line, much to his dismay.

"I've..." wheeze, "found a... body here... stop it Sher- idiot!... in Oxford Street... ," John replied, struggling against Sherlock's obvious attempts to asphyxiate him.

"Please stay calm, don't panic," the voice continued, oblivious to the knowledge that it wasn't panic that made John's voice on the phone sound like that, "Now, I need you to check for a pulse."

If the situation weren't so desperate, John would have died of a heart attack while even thinking that Sherlock Holmes was on top of him, although kicking and thrashing.

"He's... dead. Shot... in the-holy mother of-head...!"

"Stay where you are. And don't panic! We are coming. Is there anyone with you?"

"Yeah," he looked at the jumpy agonized teenager on top of him, "Me an' my... friend!"

After John got off the phone, Sherlock looked like he was about to strangle him to death. As if he had not tried doing that just moments ago.

"What?" he coughed irritably, "that's what," cough-cough, "you're supposed to do, Sherlock! Oh, you mad man, you almost killed me there!" He contemplated throwing a punch at his face, and then stopped thinking as Sherlock rolled his eyes, and drew out his own phone, muttering something incoherent that suspiciously sounded like 'idiot'.

Well, that was original(!) "What are you doing?" John ran his fingers over the sensitive skin on his neck to feel the bruise forming due to Sherlock's almost successful attempts to suffocate him to death.

"Calling Lestrade, obviously. I don't want any other DI to stomp around here and do a shoddy work of the case. This is obviously... Lestrade!" Sherlock abruptly switched to the man on the other side of the line, "We've found a body in Oxford Street... No! Just FOUND it!... Yes, we. John's with me. Look, get yourself here before the 999 people instead of badgering me with silly questions, alright?"

And before the DI could say anything else, he cut off the phone. John could swear that he had heard sniggering on the other side of the line, accompanied by words like, "'Bout time your goldfish drilled some sense into you."

John had no idea what DI Lestrade meant by 'goldfish'. He had probably misheard him.

As Sherlock turned back to the body in front of them, John was thrown into a trance at the gleam and the excitement in his eyes. It did not matter to him that this was a person he knew. All he thought was that there was a man lying dead in front of them and that he had an opportunity to show off his acute mental faculties. The merriment would have been infectious had there not been a dead Mr. Montgomery lying there. John wondered if Sherlock would go about with the same level of enthusiasm if he ever got the opportunity to investigate John's death.

With a jolt, he recalled how Sherlock himself had tried to kill him with his bare hands a few moments ago. At that point, John shuddered when his partially-oxygen-deprived brain reminded him that Sherlock was a boxer. Somehow, his actions reminded John of a junkie in desperate want (or more appropriately, need) of drugs. He mentally shook his head vigorously, as if that had the power to drive such uninviting thoughts away.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Why would they kill him?"

"Who?" he said absentmindedly.

"Why, those robbers, of course! Or their agents-"

Sherlock stood up so abruptly that John almost staggered off his feet.

"Brilliant, John! Please teach me how you arrived at that conclusion without examining a single piece of evidence."

"It's very obvious," Sherlock's sarcastic comment backfired on him, "They were going to come at eight thirty in the night the previous day, wer-?" he stopped as he noticed Sherlock's half-amused, half-exasperated face.

"Sarcasm, John? S-A-R-C-A-S-M? Ever heard of it?"

John felt like the silliest person on the entire planet, Philip Anderson forgotten.

"Sorry," he murmured, "carry on."

"We have eight minutes to ourselves before any of the 999 or Lestrade's party arrives. I need you to work fast."

John nodded, wondering what sort of work he was going to have to do-

"NO!" Sherlock cried out in dismay, "I hate these robbers!" and suddenly, he switched to a man in awe of their actions.

"What happened now?"

"There used to be a camera in this corner of the room," he pointed to the ceiling, "I remember having praised Mr. Montgomery for his precautions. He shot at it and took it away with him."

"He? Not them?"

"Course not. Two men won't come for hardly five gold bricks! As for he, obviously a woman won't come carrying five kilos of gold all by herself!"

John saw the two small bullet holes, almost invisible, in that section, but it did not look like there had been a camera there. But Sherlock knew better, of course. He looked like he had known the pawnbroker for ages.

"Why shoot at it and then take it with him? The camera must have become useless as soon as it was mutilated."

"Quite so. Why indeed? They wanted to hide their identities. He shot the camera and then tried to eliminate its existence. Why? It must not have recorded anything. Even if it did, it went to the.." Sherlock turned around to face the PC lying on the desk, surrounded by all the ruckus and a very telling cleared space, "... hard drive gone," he muttered under his breath, but switched it on anyway.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"A computer cannot run without a hard drive."

Sherlock smirked at him, "The key to solving this mystery is remembering that this was Mr. Montgomery they were dealing with."

John had a hunch that the august old "pawnbroker" was more than what meets the eye.

"Don't underestimate him, John. You'll find out soon that it can."

"What?"

"In 80s, systems were booted from floppy disks. You have no idea what this man used to be. And neither do I, not entirely anyway. There was a power cut in London yesterday. You remember, John? Earth Hour or Green Hour something to conserve electricity. It happened between 9 and 10 yesterday. He came eight thirty-ish and left within half an hour at the most. The computer switched off the instant the power went off..."

"Earth hour, right."

"Now this must have happened halfway their visit and only before he had shot the man. Yes, before he had shot Mr. Montgomery. The man snaps, shoots at the CCTV camera, points his gun at Montgomery. Lights out, along with the screen. Montgomery knows that his game's up, takes advantage of the situation and takes out the flash drive and stuffs it into his pocket discreetly. Shooter kills him, checks for hard drive, unable to start the system because lights are out, takes it for granted that the recorded footage was deleted because of power off. And as an extra precaution, searches for the hard drive, finds none and takes away the camera so that the police don't have a clue..."

John was flabbergasted. Sherlock's succinct description of the events of the previous night had instigated a sort of a short movie inside his head, playing the whole scene with unrealistic clarity.

"...except," he grinned widely at John, "He forgot that he was dealing with Charles Francis Montgomery."

"How do you know about the duration?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's just nine now, John. Body is dead for over 12 hours."

John assumed that Sherlock simply knew how to date dead bodies. He did not want to go into any sort of grotesque details about that. But, unlike Sherlock's predictions, the system failed to boot. That did not depress his spirits in any way, "Forgot the flash drive, " Sherlock went to the dead man and inserted his fingers into his right trouser pocket, "The OS is in here. Very unimaginative of the shooter," he said smugly, glancing at John, whose mouth hung open in wonder as the machine accepted it and loaded all the files required for booting.

"Linux! See!" he continued excitedly, "Linux allows you the possibility to work without the hard drive," followed almost immediately with a groan.

"What is it?" John rushed over to see that the screen was asking for a password.

John had a vague idea about what was coming.

"No... you possibly can't..."

Sherlock threw him the strangest look in the universe, "Of course, I can. Mr. Montgomery..." Sherlock started his monologue, "loved his grandchildren, especially Rich. Very devoted to his family... but yet, he was clever enough to anticipate that anyone wanting to get access to this computer would naturally think of something relating to his family... Personal heroes? He still likes Captain America series... ," he rushed to the small office, the only place which was personalised in the whole store, and dived into the countless subscriptions of Marvel comics, "... No, no, no! Montgomery was clever but shockingly conventional. Never relied on technology. Cameras were last resort. Sentimental but not the sort of man who would associate his password with something he liked or was fond of. He's got maps. Lots and lots of maps, and," Sherlock dumped himself on the chair and looked around at the small circular room, then stood up and groaned in disappointment, "He was clever... that ought to simplify matters, won't it? He would choose something that no one would ever think of."

"Something he did over and over again... maybe something that people generally seemed to dismiss?" John suggested weakly, thinking of his dad's password, "Something particular only to him-?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock snapped, interrupting him, "Something like that would be too commonplace to not notice!"

John stared at Sherlock like a sad puppy, unhappy that Sherlock had discarded his idea so easily. But then, like he kept telling himself, he was Sherlock.

"WAIT!" he suddenly cried out in exhilaration, giving John the very real threat of a premature heart attack. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders, "Exactly! Something that would be too commonplace to notice. You are AMAZING! You are fantastic!..."

John's heart swelled with warmth and pride as he heard his friend say those words to him. He knew that that was as close to appreciation as he could get from Sherlock. Until...

"... You may not be the most luminous of people, but as a CONDUCTOR OF LIGHT, you're unbeatable!"

"Cheers," and there turned his pride into dust ,"What?"

"Some people aren't geniuses but they have an amazing ability to stimulate it in other people! Yes... he kept on saying a phrase... very intimately associated with him-"

So much for appreciation!

Everything is planned, my dear boy... it all came to Sherlock's head.

There are no coincidences, Basil. It's all pre-planned. I have seen something of the world and I can tell you that for sure...

Everything is planned...

Everything is planned...

"Everything is planned," Sherlock turned to John with triumph clearly written on his face.

"Sorry, what?"

"He kept saying this over and over again... I'll be damned if this isn't his password! Spaces excluded, of course," he almost ran to the machine as he heard the siren of a police car. Lestrade had arrived first.

He typed in the password, just as DI Lestrade's heavy footfall sounded in the entrance.

"Just five minutes, Detective Inspector!" he called out loudly, as the welcome tune from the computer reached his ears.

However poor his delivery of appreciation could be, it was the best feeling in the world to be clutched by Sherlock Holmes, his warm hands tethering John to him. But nothing could compare with the exhilaration John had felt that he had actually played a vital role towards solving the case more quickly.

"Get out of here, boys!" he said sternly.

Sherlock paid no attention to him. And John understood what Sherlock meant by helping him out as quickly as did not know that helping Sherlock involved doing the talking part, "Just five minutes, Mr. DI," John pleaded with him, ready to do anything to help Sherlock again, "He's looking for the footage from yesterday."

Sherlock hissed loudly, sounding very annoyed. John belatedly realised that he shouldn't have said that.

"You know this guy?" the DI's eyes widened and his voice dropped to a whisper, "Sherlock knows about this guy?"

John looked helplessly at his friend, who was currently engrossed in the contents of the device, waiting and praying for his Eureka! moment. And it came right on cue, "Yes!" he cried out, "I love - ahem..." he stopped himself from saying too much in front of the suspicious DI.

"Sherlock?" he began in a low and a very cautious tone, "Is this related to the heist in some way?"

The footage that started playing was enough to shut all of them up. John and DI Lestrade rushed to his side and huddled together. None of them looked up to see the PCs get to work and secure the perimeter.

"That's the footage from last night," he drawled, "and yes, Detective Inspector, this murder is very intimately linked with the heist."

Sherlock fast forwarded the clip till they spotted a man with a backpack, clad in a black leather jacket, navy blue tee and torn grunge jeans enter the store. Mr. Montgomery stood up, looking jovial enough, but the twitching fingers hidden behind and the gun inside the half closed drawer revealed how nervous he was.

" '... you have the bricks?' " he asked in a jolly voice.

" 'Seven of 'em,' " the man's voice was hoarse with a distinctive Scots accent, " 'Hurry up with the cash, grandpa! I gotta go.' "

" 'Yeah easy, alright? I want to check whether the bird's genuine.' "

" 'Yeah sure, do your thing.' "

Mr. Montgomery switched on a UV lamp and took out the bricks one by one, cherishing the feel of the cool metal against his fingers. They were the exact same ones that Sherlock had described to John, rectangular bricks with the image of a pentagram on them. Although, John knew that because he knew that they were supposed to have that very image on them. To an average human eye, it was virtually invisible.

The man seemed to grow tenser, " 'What the fuck are ya checking for?' "

Mr. Montgomery smiled nonchalantly, " 'Nothing, my good man. I-' "

" 'You seem to know more about my goods than I do, huh?' " suddenly he grabbed the old man and dumped him in the ground, with his face contorting into the cruellest expression John had ever seen on any human face.

"There," Sherlock pointed at the screen, as a sergeant strode over to DI Lestrade with a reproaching look at the odd group huddled by the desktop, "He's taking out the money."

John did not understand why Sherlock had to look so triumphant about that. He turned his attention back to the monitor.

" 'What do you know about it, huh?' " he demanded.

" 'Nothing, I swear to god!' "

" 'You swear to god? You lying wanker! Tell me, or I'll decorate that wall with the insides of your head!' "

The DI's eyes remained practically glued to the screen as the man drew out a handgun and pointed at him.

" 'I swear to God!' "the old man cried pitiably, " 'I just heard a rumour!' "

The man's eyes narrowed as he lowered the gun, " 'What rumour?' "

" 'Some bloke came around, saying that he wanted those bricks. Only those.' "

John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him. " 'What bloke? What rumour?' "

" 'Look just take the cash an' go!' ", he pleaded, " 'I'll pretend that this never happened!' "

The man gave a blood-curdling high pitched, maniacal laughter, " 'Oh, mighty Charles Montgomery will pretend that this never happened! Yeah, sure! But, I'll take the gold as my commission.' "

" 'Just bugger off!' "

There was a soft sound of scuffling as John turned to see the forensics guys set down to work.

" 'First, you tell me what rumour it is.' "

" 'You'll kill me anyway.' "

He shook his head, " 'Oh no, no. That might not be necessary if your information is... good enough.' "

Mr. Montgomery thrust the bag in the man's direction, " 'There's half the cash here. Rest of it, I'll give it to you tomorrow evening. I'm a little tight here.' "

" 'Just tell me the shit about it!' "

" 'Look, I don't know whether this is true... just a rumour about a load of French gold sitting in the London branch of Capital and Counties Bank with the image of a pentagram on top of all the bricks. I was only checking-' "

" 'No, you were checking whether these are those bricks so that you can fucking give me over to the cops-' "

" 'I'm not calling no cops, son. I've been doing this for over forty years!' "

" 'This bloke give you the rumour? What's he look like?' "

John could feel Sherlock holding his breath waiting for the inevitable, waiting for the old pawnbroker to tell the man about Basil.

" 'Short, midget sort of. Black shark like eyes. Red hair.' "

John had to get a thorough check-up of his ears. Why would he lie?

The taller man crinkled his face as he tried to remember such a person, " 'Don't you dare lie to me!' "

He simply smiled, " 'Why would I lie to you? Look, if you want him, you can come in the afternoon. He's supposed to meet me at two tomorrow to collect the bricks.' "

The man took out all the cash and dumped it inside his own bag and was just about to reach out for the gold bricks when he saw Mr. Montgomery's fingers sliding towards the drawer. On instinct, he pressed the cool metal of the hand gun against his forehead. " 'Get away!' " he pulled it open to see the handgun lying there.

" 'YOU SON OF A-!' "

He threw the man into the chair as Mr. Montgomery lay there, cursed by old age and stiff limbs, staring wide eyed with terror at the shooter. He turned to the DI and the teenagers, pointed his gun at them from within the screen and the monitor went black.

"I've been a blithering idiot!" Sherlock jumped up from his seat, took out his phone, fingers rapidly flying across the screen, "If only I had checked whether the money was gone-!"

"Money!?" DI almost shouted, "That was- what the hell? Be frank with me, otherwise this is the last case you'll be working upon!"

"Yeah, yeah, alright! I'll be frank with you! You surely recognise those bricks, don't you?"

"Yeah, same ones that got stolen."

"Correct," he turned to John, "Remember, I had told you that I had arranged for a meagre portion to be sold to me. Now what I did was stuff all those notes with transmitters. Ta da!" he displayed the screen to them, "And we can track them. All of them."

"Brilliant!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock tried his best not to flush with pleasure, "And I will have caught you many others as well, Lestrade. Starting with the shooter who'll drop here around two o' clock, thanks to Charles Montgomery."

"Wait, we have the whole lot of PCs outside," the DI exclaimed, "I don't think he'll want to come wandering around here anymore."

Sherlock gave him a playful smirk, "You're an idiot, Lestrade! He won't come here. He'll look out for some red-haired midget," his line of sight met that of John's. And suddenly, John, who was very self-conscious of his short height, cried out.

"I'm NOT a midget!"

The DI and Sherlock burst into very ill-timed giggles, averting their eyes from John's accusing ones. All the police people stopped and watched the odd pair laughing while they were mere feet away from a dead body. As heart-warming as the sight of Sherlock's natural laugh could be, at this moment-

"Of course not," the Di cleared his throat very loudly, "Rude! I'm not letting you do anything of that sort. He's a kid!"

"Hey, I'm not a kid!" John was genuinely tired of his friends calling him 'Johnny boy', his parents continuously pampering him and Sherlock behaving like he was his commander or something.

"I never said that you were a kid OR a midget. We'll just have to get someone to work in disguise, won't we?"

Sherlock said those words so invitingly that it made John want to thank his Creator for the first time for making him so short, "I'll do it."

"You're not a midget, as you pointed out at volume," Sherlock continued very innocently, eliciting some more silent giggles from the DI.

"Yes, but I'll do it."

"No," the DI suddenly realised what an odd sight they made for the rest of the team there, standing and arguing with a couple of mad teenagers instead if cataloguing clues and running inquiries. He dragged both the boys outside by their collars, "No, John, are you out of your mind? These are high-profile robbers. An entire organisation! You don't want to mess with them!"

"Yeah, and you guys are the police-!"

"No, John," Sherlock, too, looked very troubled at the fact that John was suggesting grabbing tons of disguise and transforming himself into a red-haired midget and put himself into danger again, "You're doing nothing of that kind-"

"Shut up! YOU were the one trying to lure me into going for pretentious cases with you by hinting subtly that there was danger involved-"

"I'd like a word with John alone, Detective Inspector!" Sherlock announced loudly, and almost dragged John away from there into a more secluded spot.

"Are you mad, John?" Sherlock shook him by his shoulders roughly.

He sniggered at him, "Says the one who's mad."

"Don't be an idiot-" Sherlock was right when he understood that John virtually forgot about his crush on the taller teen during such situations. He wished he didn't. He wished for John to listen to him, instead of diving headfirst into jeopardy.

"And there it is again! Sherlock, you don't understand, the whole police force would be behind me, ensuring my safety..."

Sherlock's heart melted at John's painful gullibility. His brows creased and he looked down sadly at his loyal, trusting friend...

"... at least it's not like I'm gonna get shot-" he began jokingly, trying to lighten the mood with the wrong choice of words.

John had probably gone mad with the Plastics, Sherlock inferred. He was actually offering himself up on a plate to get shot for a case, just for the sake of solving it!

"-in the leg, or die-Ow, Sherlock!"

Sherlock hadn't realised that his grip on John's shoulders had become agonizingly firm. John looked up into his eyes and felt the most painful bout of guilt to see his friend's face contorted into the most excruciating of appearances, like he was going through hell on the inside just by thinking about John getting shot. Not a good thing to joke about, John noted.

He had a vague idea that Sherlock would not be very pleased to investigate his death.

And he had a very strong feeling that he had just made his resolute of not sending John skipping away into playing undercover agent very, very strong.

"-You're hurting me."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled softly, looking away and retracting his hands back, leaving cold air to attack the soft material of John's shirt and his skin underneath, "Look, you're not the only midge - short person in the world. I'm sure we'll find another," the impassive facade was back on his face. Sherlock was thankful that John did not notice the moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes.

"Right, so you're gonna audition people? Hey, we're hiring red-haired midgets to play the role of an informant about gold and stuff! " John mimicked Sherlock's voice very inaccurately, "Wanna audition? Yeah sure, why not, do I get to use a gun? Not really, but you'll have the whole police force behind you, and as a bonus, you get to keep the bulletproof jackets too! Great, just the sort of thing I was looking for, I'm an out of work actor! That's what you're gonna tell them, Sherlock?"

Despite himself, Sherlock smiled at the incredulity of the idea, "Why do you want to do this so much, John?"

"I just want to. I'll be safe," he tried a weak smile, "I promise."

Sherlock relented. After all, John had promised him, "But first we need to get you a proper disguise."

By half past one, John had flaming red hair, a courtesy of Sherlock's make up kit. Black contacts were placed on blue ones, with a little bit of punk jewellery. Sherlock had his stash kept in the garret of an abandoned office building, giving him easy access to his disguises.

"Why d'you keep all this anyway?"

"How do you think I know London so well? I put on a mask and wander around. No one recognises me. Once Mycroft managed to, and then the whole house was in uproar."

"Gosh, you're... I mean..." John trailed off, losing himself once more. He couldn't keep track of how many times the desire to grab Sherlock by the collar of his jacket and kiss him senseless had swept across his mind.

"Ahem-ahem".

John crash-landed back to reality and glanced at the taller boy's half-stern and half-amused face, "Daydreaming, John? How horribly unproductive! I thought you wanted to do this, so let's be serious about it. What are you going to do?" Sherlock demanded, like a schoolteacher making his pupil chant the alphabet. Such a mood-breaker.

"Go to the crime scene," John chanted, "look around as if looking for pursuers of any sort, ask any PC about what happened and take a cab to Baker Street, saying the address loud enough for most people to hear."

"And?"

"Reach 221B Baker Street and enter the house. Go one floor up with as much noise as possible and then to the second floor as softly as possible."

"Good. We have one hour. I'll show you Baker Street. It's a five minute walk from here."

They slipped out of the building and walked leisurely. It suddenly struck John that he had skipped his whole day at school and his parents had no idea about it. He had no idea what his parents might do if they found out that he was now skipping school and instead he was spending it solving crimes with a madman.

They spent the journey in somewhat awkward but companionable silence. Sherlock stopped in front of a cafe with red awning and the words 'Speedy's' written on them with white. He went over to the door bearing the address '221B' and banged the door knocker loudly.

"Why this place?"

"This is my... shall we say, safe house."

"Safe house?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson lives here. Owes me a favour. A year ago, her husband was sentenced to death in Southampton. I was-ahem-able to help her out."

"So... you stopped her husband from being executed?"

Sherlock gave him a radiant smile, as if remembering the details of the very interesting case, "Oh no! I ensured it. I use this location for various - ahem... rendezvous."

John frowned slightly, "Aren't you placing the lady in danger?"

He chuckled softly, "Don't ever underestimate Mrs. Hudson." The door swung open, revealing a fiftyish year old woman clad in a baking dress and with a cooking pan clutched in her hand, "Sherlock!" she took the tall lanky teen in her arms and gave him a big squishy hug and then almost gasped at the sight of John's flaming red hair, "Oh Jesus!"

Sherlock looked highly amused, "Mrs. Hudson, this is my friend, John. Shall we?"

If there was one thing John was in the process of learning in his adventures with Sherlock Holmes, it was that he should never underestimate old people. Mrs. Hudson actually had a cooking pan in her hand, as if ready to bash the head of any molesters into the front of her door. It seemed like even she knew about Sherlock's secret occupation.

They climbed up to see two PCs, the scowling sergeant and DI Lestrade lounging on the armchairs. Lestrade dismissed them as soon as they came up.

"I believe you can do the noisy part, John. Now climb the stairs as stealthily as possible. They mustn't creak at all!"

After fifteen minutes of practising and listening to Sherlock's admonishments, he approved him, "Good. Now John, we have stationed the DI and the sergeant here. I'll be following you from Oxford Street as well. I'll stay two blocks away from the flat and keep an eye on anyone who follows you into here. You retreat to the second floor and the Detective Inspector catches the man, okay?"

"Okay. Simple enough."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, "Let's go then."

They parted ways as they got themselves separate cabs. John checked his watch. Ten minutes to two. The excitement was bubbling in his stomach, making him weirdly nauseous, "Oxford Street, please."

As he paid and got out, he decided to throw a scanning look around, like Sherlock had instructed him to do and he approached the shop.

"Hey," he grinned at a lady PC, "what's happened here?"

"Guy got shot."

John thanked the influence of the Plastics which was making him an-above average actor. His eyebrows shot up in shock and his mouth fell open, "Really? Who?"

"Old man by the name of Montgomery."

John tried his best not to overdo his part, but he couldn't control some of the theatrical hand gestures, "Oh God! Mr. Montgomery?!"

"You know him?"

He staggered to his feet, like Sherlock had shown him, "I-er... was supposed to meet him today," he said loudly enough for anyone on the other side of the street to hear, "How did this happen?" He started to freak out, so that she was forced to only note down his number and his name, "Go home, kid. Don't lose it. We'll call you if we need something."

John staggered back to main road, looking very pale and ashen, called the nearest cab and almost shouted, "221B Baker Street!"

"Whoa, chill mate! Don't have to shout there!" the good-natured cabbie looked a little amused, "You look a little peaky."

"Sorry," he plopped down into the backseat, "it's just, erm... nerves."

After five minutes the taxi came to a halt in front of the destination address. As soon as John was about to get out, another man pushed him inside the cab. He got in and both the men leered at him. John tried to open the doors, but they had been locked by the cabbie.

Sherlock had expected someone to follow John. He had not expected that same person to drive John to his safe house.

"Sh-lock... " was all John could utter before he found his vision plunging into darkness as sharp pain broke out on the side of his neck.

For those who might have already guessed, the heist is an inspiration from 'The Italian Job' (2003) and 'The Antwerp CIty Diamond Center Heist' (2003).

Thanks for reading. Love ya all! xxx