Hi everyone thanks for the favorite story/author etc and especially the reviews, from Lumoa and KMM I really apreciated them!
This was a really tough chapter to write just because of the mix between the information of John's tactics I wanted to convey, and my usual style of writing. Hope you guys enjoy it anyway! The next chapter will involve some Sherlock POV again and I'll get it up asap!
-BellaD

I fiddled with the gun in my hand, let my fingers run across the cool metal surface. Systematically 'click' Sliding the clip into the weapon, 'click' flicking off the safety switch -pausing...- 'click' moving the switch back into place and 'rrrrft'letting the full clip slide back into the palm of my hand.

Some people tap their feet or bite their nails when they are anxious. I, being an ex soldier, repeatedly loaded and unloaded my gun.
I stood up from my position at the end of the bed and padded over towards the hotel window. The moon was full and reminded me vaguely of the marble statues of ancient Greece, it reminded me vaguely of Sherlock's skin at night; when he slowly shed his silken purple shirt and lay silently beside me, how the shadows would slide over the smooth plains of his chest as he lent towards me and...

Stop. Shut it, shut up! No need to make this more difficult than it already would be.

I threw an amazingly small amount of things in my sturdy backpack. Money (cash obviously, with non sequential numbers, that took a while to acquire...), my gun and my ever present journal and pen. This was all I had ever needed. Oh, and I had a spare pair of shoes I'd need to make a clean get away -last thing I needed now was Mycroft trying to make excuses for his brother-.

I discovered a while ago that having lived with Sherlock gave me an advantage over even the most genius of criminals: I knew how both men thought.

In making my way to my chosen mode of transport I reversed the method I had applied only a few days before. I walked in my usual tidy, neat, shoes to the town square where I sat down (as did hundreds each day) on the side of the fountain in the middle of the plaza. I lifted my feet off the ground, climbed onto the fountain and walked 43 degrees counter clockwise on it's basin. Here I changed my shoes to a pair of sneakers; then I set my feet down upon the slightly sand covered cobble stones and walked off.

Walking away from the Town square my gait and stance had altered completely. I let my shoulder relax, shortened my stride, walking at a slow pace; leaving the impression of a cocky, unhurried youth with nothing to do yet never bored. As I walked I became this new, different me.

Sherlock was a master of disguises as was I, if in a different way entirely. Where Sherlock excelled at faking, acting and deceiving – a skill honed by necessity throughout his childhood-, I could become someone else in the blink of an eye by my near flawless ability to categorise and file away my feelings, a skill I, like Sherlock, had developed from a young age.

By now I had reached the other end of the square and if someone had seen me now, however well they knew me, they would have to look me straight in the face to recognise me. No make-up or wigs had been used, yet many a time someone had stood less than 2 feet away and still looked straight past me without a glimmer of recognition in their eyes.

John Watson was no longer a tidy, quiet, pleasant army doctor. My hair was messed up and my eyes looked around cheekily, my lips quirked up slightly at some unknown joke. I looked closer to 25 than the 40 years that usually lined my face. I was completely unrecognisable.

Shortly I arrived at my destination, a well used parking lot where, perched against the far wall, stood a black Yamaha yzf r125. I pulled my black leather jacket tighter around me and slid the helmet off the steering wheel and placed it firmly on my head, before easily swinging my leg over to straddle the bike. With one firm twist the machine roared to life.

Despite it having been years since I rode a motorbike, it came naturally to me ( I knew it had been a good idea to not disclose this particular skill to Sherlock). I controlled myself until I got out onto the highway. Suddenly I revved and went up on my hind wheel, throwing my head back, revelling in this long lost joy.

The tarmac stretched out in front of me, shimmering with fallen rain, reflecting the starry sky like an ocean in the night. Oh God, this was living! I felt free, Zorro on his steed, off to slay his arch nemesis, possibly off to my death. But I was free!

If anyone had seen this shadow driving swiftly through the night they would surely have been spell-bound by the scene's splendour, but none did, save for a startled deer and a single car with tinted windows, hidden deep in the bushes out of view of our lonesome rider.

Hoped you liked it, either way please tell, I'm need sufficient data to assess the success of each chapter and how I can make it better. This was a bit of a in between chapter I know but a lot of stuff will be referred to later on ( I'm hoping my writing will let me put Sherlock in some motorbike leather ;) PLEASE review!
Love, BellaD