Five minutes earlier...
A tall, lanky man stared out the window of a sleek black car, ignoring the black leather seats as his nose fairly pressed into the window. The details of London went by, the same and yet different, as he saw several new developments, an empty space where a building had been torn down... He had the sudden, almost overpowering urge to leap out of the car and walk, but restrained himself. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be dead; people would likely start screaming if they saw him, even though he had been cleared of all charges. There was no accounting for sentiment, he supposed.
Sherlock spoke without moving his eyes from the seat. "How long will this take us?"
He could almost feel the driver giving him an exasperated look. "You lived here, sir. It will be another fifteen minutes at least."
Sherlock slumped back in the seat with a huff. Mycroft's deliberately unmarked cab, Mycroft's driver - but at least it was on his side of the channel, instead of back in France.
And no one was calling him 'Freak' either, which was an improvement.
Sherlock leaned forward, perching nearly on the edge of his seat with complete disregard for the seat belt somewhat pointedly arranged behind him. The gray landscape went by, the buildings appearing and disappearing through the fog as the car drove on.
What he wouldn't give to be chasing some brigand through the fog with John.
Galvanized by that thought, he leaned farther forward. "Could you take the route past John's apartment?" he asked.
The black suited driver shot him a look. "That will take another ten minutes," he pointed out.
Sherlock scowled out the window. Stating the obvious again... Of course it would take longer, but maybe - just maybe - he could catch a glimpse of his friend before meeting up with Mycroft.
"You are already several hours late, sir."
Sherlock's glare could have melted steel, but the driver didn't seem to notice. Either he was incredibly dull, or he had spent too much time with dear brother to care. "Then take us by NSY headquarters. The streets haven't changed that much, have they?" he added scathingly.
"Of course, sir." The driver shifted obediently into the next lane as if he had intended to take this route all along.
As they made their turn onto the final street, Sherlock leaned forward to see if he could catch a glimpse of the Yard, three blocks down. He could barely make out several forms as they drew closer, on the steps and apparently walking down to greet another man who was walking purposefully toward them.
His eyes narrowed suddenly. That car, the brown pickup...
"Driver, quickly. I need to get closer."
A slight acceleration thrummed under his feet, and suddenly, in a flash of perfect horror, he realized just what that vehicle had been waiting for at the same moment he recognized their target.
"John!"
John barely heard the yell before he was suddenly tackled from the side by a flying black blur, which flattened him to the ground as the pickup missed by inches. A scream of tires was heard as the vehicle beat its escape, and suddenly a familiar black limousine blocked his view.
"Get in!" yelled his rescuer.
John took one look at the indisputable form of Sherlock Holmes, hair wild and eyes fairly blazing, before he launched himself into the back seat, nearly being flattened by Sherlock in the next second just as the limousine sped away.
Left on the pavement, Lestrade and Anderson stood in shocked silence as Donovan's mouth opened and closed numbly.
Neither man could afterwards decide whether the piercing, ear-splitting scream she let out moments later was of fear, shock, frustration – or a mixture of all three.