It was nothing he ever wanted to experience again. It was like some absurdly simplified board game. (It was Sherlock Holmes, on the rooftop, with the cell phone...)
It was not something he liked to think about.
John knew, though, that even with his misgivings, he would do it again. Even before he knew – Just because Sherlock had been, still was, really, his best friend.
Now that he knew Sherlock was alive, of course, he just had to decide between flattening his nose, leaving him in suspense (Serve him right, he thought sourly), or accepting him back into the mess their lives became.
After all, it's not like John had any obligations to keep. (Just one more miracle, just for me...) He never signed any contract or anything... well... he did sign the papers for 221B, but Mrs. Hudson would understand.
But John wasn't sure he would.
All that would have to wait until he'd solved this case, though. He was beginning to understand Sherlock's drive while on a case (though he'd never completely understand – the man was Sherlock Holmes); the world could be set aside while he focused on the puzzle pieces.
John glanced back at the photo in his right hand.
It was simple ('...Ridiculously so!' Sherlock's voice exclaimed in his mind. 'How did you manage to miss–' before John forcefully silenced the memory), and John couldn't believe no one had caught on before his re-perusal of the case this morning over breakfast. Every time, there had been a burning fire somewhere in the room – the fireplace, a candle, and in poor Adair's case, a pipe that had been half hidden beneath the desk. The window had been open when Adair died, but it was shut when his housekeeper found him. Accomplice, clearly. There had to have been a shot fired, but not a bullet... Maybe a dart, like those he'd seen occasionally in Afghanistan? Incredible shot, regardless.
That window had only been open an inch or two, at first anyway. But how was the door still locked, from the inside no less, when the officers arrived?
That wasn't his job to figure out, John finally told himself when no answer appeared. He was the medical consultant, not consulting detective, and hopefully soon Sherlock would reappear to take back his place as the latter. He'd probably already be chasing the perpetrator, John reflected ruefully; probably ranting under his breath about Scotland Yard and their methods even while hurtling down the street in pursuit. He'd always been like that.
John abruptly noticed he was clenching his fist and crumpling the all-important photo, so he rolled his eyes and pulled out his wallet. At least there it would stay flat, even if the corners were creased. He shoved the wallet back in his pocket and resumed his purposeful stride toward Scotland Yard.
He didn't notice a beat-up old pickup, which had been behind him for several blocks, pull out from a fast-food restaurant's parking lot and continue tailing him.
John was almost to the station when he spotted Lestrade and Anderson coming down the front stairs, Donovan just behind them.
He smiled slightly. That was convenient – this way he didn't have to go through the front desk and however many curious faces to talk with Lestrade. John waved to them, and Lestrade waved off a comment from Donovan (probably a half-hearted insult) and started toward him.
There was a screech of tires behind him, and the former army doctor whirled to see a brown pick-up hurtling at him from across the street. There was no turnoff, nowhere for the car to go, and John very abruptly realized that the vehicle's driver was wearing a ski mask.
The accomplice. Of course.