Chapter 8

"John! John!" Sherlock called from the living room, as he was rushing about getting his things together. He popped his head into the bedroom. "John! Get up! We've got a case!" And then he was gone again.

John groaned. "Why are you already up anyway?" he mumbled sleepily. He turned around, but thought better of it before he let his head fall into the pillows again, and hoisted himself out of the bed to find his clothes.

Sherlock looked back in, his eyes sparkling. "Hurry up John. This is a good one. I'll get us a cab. Meet me outside in two minutes." He rushed off, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"Yes, yes, coming," John called after him, feeling a bit grumpy because that meant that there wasn't even time for tea. He hurried down the stairs to join Sherlock.

Down on the street Sherlock was almost bouncing up and down as he waved at the cabs going by. Finally one stopped, and as John came out the door at the same time, he grabbed his arm and hauled him into the backseat. He gave the address and then looked eagerly out the window as if already searching for clues.

John looked at Sherlock. "Um, good morning. What happened?"

"Lestrade called." Sherlock grinned happily. "Triple kidnapping. Time is an issue, so they're bringing me in. This is great."

John smiled and shook his head. "Well, it probably was about time you got a case again to keep you from being bored."

"I know." Sherlock reached out, took John's hand and squeezed it. "I really needed this."

John smiled down at their hands and stroked his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand.

The cab took them to a rather glum residential area, out in Mile End. A reluctant Donovan was waiting to take them up to the flat on the fourth floor. Sherlock smiled sarcastically at her, as she hissed: "The freak and his pet are here," into her radio.

John's jaw clenched as usual when she called Sherlock a freak, but they ignored her and walked into the flat.

"So," Sherlock exclaimed, as soon as he saw Lestrade. "What have you got for me?" He listened eagerly as the situation was explained: a woman and her two young children, girl 6 years old, boy 7 years old, had apparently been kidnapped from the flat the night before. There were some signs of a struggle and the door being forced open, and a kind of ransom note had been found.

"What does the note say, exactly?" John asked.

Lestrade picked it up from the table, already sealed in a plastic bag. He was about to hand it to John, when Sherlock snatched it out of his hand and started studying it intently.

John's gaze followed the quick movement of the note and he sighed, but of course that was only to be expected. "What do you make of it?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock started pacing the small kitchen as he rattled off his observations: "Cheap paper, ballpoint pen - old, written with the left hand, though the person writing it is right handed, poor spelling, probably someone with little or no education." He looked up at Lestrade. "And no ransom demand...?"

"Then why would they write?" John asked, confused.

Having learned all he could from it at this point, Sherlock thrust the note at John before stalking off to examine the living room. The note was brief, stating that the woman and kids would not be harmed if the 'demans' were met. The kidnappers would 'be in tuch'.

John frowned at the note for a moment before he followed Sherlock. He had always liked to watch him when he was like this, flying around through a room and completely focused.

Sherlock was absorbed in examining the room and hadn't noticed Anderson in the door to the bedroom before he snickered at the sight of John. Sherlock's head jerked up and he stared at him. "What?" he demanded. Anderson just shrugged, looking falsely innocent. His eyes darted between John and Sherlock, then he smirked as he turned around and left.

John frowned, wondering what Anderson had to snicker about now. How on earth was Sherlock the freak when he was the one busy solving the case while Anderson was walking around laughing at them?

Sherlock shrugged. Anderson had always been an idiot. No reason to expect him to act like anything else. He crouched down to examine the tea stains on the floor, where a small table and its contents had been knocked over. He thought he heard whispers from the bedroom. "Anderson, shut up!" he yelled. "You're wasting sound waves."

John hid a small smile and looked around in the room. It was decorated nicely and should have a cosy atmosphere, but something was off. It was as if there was a chilliness coming off the walls, as if it was a house that was perfectly decorated, but really no-one's home. He wondered if Sherlock felt it to, but didn't ask so he wouldn't disturb his thought process.

Sherlock immersed himself in the scene for a while. When he was satisfied that he had overlooked nothing, he went to shoo Anderson and his assistants from the bedroom.

"So, he's home again?" Lestrade asked John. They hadn't talked since their night out, now a week ago.

John nodded. "Yeah. He has been out of the country for some case for Mycroft."

"For Mycroft? He didn't tell me anything about a case abroad," Lestrade said, puzzled.

John quirked his eyebrow. "Mycroft never tells anything to anyone. Top secret spy stuff, remember?"

"Yes, of course."

It very much looked like Lestrade was blushing, but John decided to let it go for now. "Sherlock? Anything you can share with us yet?"

Sherlock didn't even look up as he answered. "It definitely looks like there's been a fight, but something is not quite right. There were four people here, two children, two adults, one male, one female. Someone fell to the floor over there," he pointed. "Probably the woman. At some point the children hid under the bed. The girl was dragged out by the hands, the boy crawled out." He muttered something and got down on the floor lying flat on his stomach, so he could look under the bed.

"Anything about where they could have gone?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not before I've done some analysis on those particles in the rug that Anderson is almost stepping in."

Anderson jumped aside, earning a reproving glare from Lestrade.

"I'll need samples. Could you get them for me, please?" As he looked at John, there was a pronounced snicker from the door where Donovan had just appeared. Sherlock snapped his head around to glare at her. "What?" She just covered her grin with a hand and looked at Anderson before leaving the room. Sherlock followed her gaze, just in time to see the man turn away to hide the smirk on his face. What was going on? Sherlock turned to John, a bewildered look in his eyes.

John shrugged. "I'll get you the samples." He plucked a small flask from the inside pocket of Sherlock's coat (which the detective was of course wearing) and tweezers from his own pocket, both without thinking anything about it and just as the most efficient way to get the requisites.

As John worked, Sherlock kept his eyes on Anderson's shaking back. Was the man giggling? Had he finally lost it completely? He had always been an idiot, but this was a whole new level, even for him. It was quite unsettling, and Sherlock needed to get away. He put his hand on John's shoulder. "Meet me at St. Barts." And then he swooped out the door and down the stairs.

John nodded and looked at Sherlock's back for a moment too long before he went back to his task.

"Aww, has your shag just left the building?" Anderson mocked.

"What?" John looked up, confused and not really listening as he had been focused on plucking the bits Sherlock needed from the rug.

"Well, you two are very touchy-feely of late, aren't you? Is he also a freak in bed? Does he use you as a pet there too?" Donovan asked.

"Could we please try to have some professionalism on the scene?" Lestrade said, authoritatively looking from Anderson to Donovan.

John clenched his jaw and stood up. "I have what we need," he told Lestrade, and he left the building as soon as possible, without sparing the two others as much as a glance.