Author's Note: Thank you reviewers for your kind words and constructive advice! It means a lot to me to know you are still reading :) I'm hoping for this to become a pretty long and complex story, so knowing I have support in the beginning really motivates me to push through. Go to the Author's Note at the bottom to read my direct responses to your comments. Lot's of love!

Estella Jean

They were once again stumbling around in the darkness of underground London. The cobblestones beneath their feet were slick, and treacherous if they did not watch their footing. The torch Sherlock carried was the only available light source. It sent a white ray across the tunneled walls, and annoyed the sleeping people who huddled in the corners underneath layers of mismatching clothing. It was many degrees cooler in these underground caverns than on the surface. The air was thick, centuries preserved into stagnant moisture. The smell of sewer and mildew assaulted their senses, causing the pair to cover their noses. For a while they navigated the tunnels in silence except for the clatter of their damp footsteps. Strangely, John didn't feel uneasy walking the dark musty tunnels. In fact, he might even describe it as comforting. He sensed the presence of his friend beside him. He sensed the heat Sherlock radiated, and even with the smells of the tunnels, he could pick up on his faint aroma of tea, tobacco, and smoky licorice cologne. It was almost as if they were home in 221B still. The elements of danger and the unknown were the only things to differentiate the two in his mind. John looked over at Sherlock and noticed the way the torch glowed in his eyes and cast shadows across his cheekbones.

Him and his silly cheekbones he thought with a gentle half smile.

Sherlock caught John staring at him in his peripheral vision. He gave the blonde a questioning look and John cleared his throat and searched to find something to say.

"Who are we looking for?" he asked to break the ice. Sherlock accepted the conversation without suspicion.

"A man who used to be a hacker. He worked with the internet black market to create fake auction profiles for stolen goods, faking users and reputability. I've worked with him a few times."

"You worked with a criminal?" John asked incredulously.

"Well he was reformed...until he got back into the business. He was recently discovered by police, which is why he's in hiding. We're getting close!" Sherlock explained. He turned off the light and they walked blindly in the surrounding darkness until their eyes adjusted.

"And what makes you so sure he's going to want to talk to you?" John questioned.

"He won't," Sherlock replied, "Did you bring your gun?"

"Yes," he replied casually. Less than three steps later he realized.

"Oh no. No. You better not be asking me to shoot someone before I've even had my breakfast. Sherlock, I'm not going to let this be one of those days," he stated indignantly.

"One of what days? Never mind. Give me the gun then," Sherlock commanded with his palm outstretched to receive it.

"But you're a lousy shot. And if my life is going to depend-"

"A lousy shot!" Sherlock interrupted, repeating the words with bitterness to mask his hurt pride.

He stopped walking abruptly. His face contorted into an affronted expression and he eyed John with confusion. John sighed and looked to the ground.

"Fine I'll keep the gun. Let's not do this right now okay? We have some cybercriminal friend of yours to find. Which way?" He asked gesturing to the corridor on the right as if to question if it was the one to take. Of course, Sherlock ignored him, still focused on his previous statement.

"A lousy shot? Granted I might not have military training but statistically speaking I'm nearly the average of an authorized firearm officer regarding a target range of 10-30 meters," he bragged. John glazed over his words, hoping he would feel satisfied with his point soon so they could move on to bigger priorities.

"Is that so?" the doctor indulged him, realizing he wasn't going to continue until the discussion had been settled.

"I would say that for a private citizen with typically no access to handguns that is rather impressive, don't you? I mean look at Lestrade. He might have a badge and an official title and even a host of mindless servants like Donovan and Anderson following him around, but do you think he can shoot for the life of him?" Sherlock asked John heatedly.

"Um..." John awkwardly attempted to respond.

"Of course not. The first and hopefully only time he's ever picked up a gun he shot me in the shoulder."

"Are you serious? Lestrade shot you?" John asked in complete disbelief of the unexpected information.

Sherlock seemed to relax now that he had proved his point and began to stroll further down the tunnel again, John by his side as always.

"Yes," he replied smoothly and succinctly.

"...Intentionally?" He wondered. Sherlock gave him a ridiculous look.

"No of course not intentionally!"

"Are you sure?" John questioned with a tinge of humor in his voice. "You know you can be quite an arse sometimes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "He's over it by now I'm sure."

There was a pause as John waited for Sherlock to elaborate, watching their strides fall into synchronization, but after a full minute he realized it wouldn't happen without some form of prompting. A focused look graced the consulting detective's features as he sorted out an important internal thought.

"Well?" John broke him from his train of concentration.

"Hm?" He hummed in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing at the shorter man.

"Tell me the story. About how Lestrade shot you. You didn't tell me anything."

"Oh that. Lestrade's wife had just cheated on him for the first time. He hadn't mentioned it, but of course I knew the signs. We were finishing up with a double homicide case and he asked me if I would like to go get a drink with him. I then knew it must be a desperate situation."

"Clearly," John inputted with a laugh, finding it hard to imagine anyone going to Sherlock for emotional comfort.

"I told him I wasn't interested in alcohol. The last thing I wanted was for him to get drunk and tell me his life story, utterly dull, so I tried to imagine what kind of things I would do if I suffered such inconsequential human emotions that wouldn't be entirely mundane in practice. I would either play the violin, or act on a violent whim, but since Lestrade doesn't play the violin it narrowed down the options to one. Lestrade has never shot a gun before, never experienced the invigorating feeling it leaves, the power it gives one, you understand John," he paused.

"Yes definitely," John agreed with a nod, thinking of the military gun in his pocket.

"And Lestrade wasn't going to break the law by shooting the wall of our flat with an illegally acquired handgun, my ex landlady would have protested the point anyways, so I had to find a way that would satisfy Lestrade's oh so moral conscience. Mycroft has a collection of antique guns which precede the Firearms Act. In a rare moment of complete stupidity on my part, Lestrade and I paid a visit to Mycroft. I honestly didn't expect him to be that embarrassingly incapable, good god John, he was awful. He's worse at shooting targets than he is at solving a case."

John laughed at the scenario, finding it funnier that Sherlock actually attempted to cheer up the inspector, and in doing so, went to Mycroft of all people, than the fact the man shot him accidentally. The Holmes brothers weren't particularly experienced with human emotion. And Lestrade wasn't particularly experienced at anything. It would be like watching them try to babysit a child.

John laughed even louder at the thought. Sherlock felt a smile quirk at the edge of his mouth and began laughing as well at the memory, the sound echoing against the enclosed stone walls. It was one of those moments when one another's presence became a contagious rebound of energy. John always remembered moments like this, and surprisingly so did Sherlock, even though for him, most memories were often "deleted" for being unessential and impractical. Sure he deleted some memories with John, but typically they were memories about needing to pick something up from the shops, or John's plans to go out on his day off. John referred to this as his "selective memory". But memories like these ones, he kept despite the fact that they had no practical or applicable value, unlike the rest of his "undeletable information" reserve, and the recollection of such bonding moments always came at the strangest of times. Usually they imprinted themselves in his conscious when he woke up in the morning, when John was working late at the hospital, or when they walked side by side in comfortable and familiar silence. The consulting detective slowed down his laughter to breathe again.

"It was painful but at least it was worth it," he chuckled, "Lestrade felt so bad he never even thought about the infidelity in his marriage. And the next three cases I assisted with, he gave me complete control of which was quite advantageous for me."

John was entertained by the absurdity of the situation and the image of the event which formulated in his mind. He imagined Lestrade's panicked expression as he realized what he'd done or Mycroft rolling his eyes in the background, leaning on his umbrella as it all unfolded. Despite this amusement, he was dearly thankful that the bullet had not hit his friend in a more vital area. If it had, he wouldn't be in that dark musty tunnel, tracking down a criminal with his pulse racing and the most interesting man he has ever met by his side. No, if that bullet had struck Sherlock through the heart, John would be sitting on the edge of a plain bed in a plain flat, with a blank screen in front of him, and no words with which to write the story of his plain life. Except for his crutch, he would be alone. There wasn't a day that went by when he took that for granted.

It's strange to think someone so aggravating could be so necessary to me. Or even more strange, that I could be so necessary to him. What bizarre friends we make.

They fell into silence again as Sherlock return to his previous thoughts, which John could only guess were case related. When the doctor's eyes adjusted to the dark, he began to see Sherlock's outline fill in with more detail. He could point out specific curls and the edge of his turned up coat collar. He wondered what Sherlock could see in this darkness. With the extensive training of his senses and his state of alert, it wouldn't surprise the doctor if the man was unaffected by the lack of light. What he couldn't see with his eyes he could probably still calculate with his ears, his nose, and the sensitivity of his skin.

The man in question stopped short.

"Shh!" He hushed insistently, stretching his arm out to stop John from continuing. He pushed his back against the damp wall of the tunnel and he hit the stone with a painful thud. The doctor looked confused.

"But I wasn't talking-" he whispered.

"You were thinking. It was interfering with my thinking," the consulting detective growled.

"How does that even work?" John asked of the man's incredulous thought process. Sherlock sighed with aggravation.

"When you're on a plane, you have to turn off mobile devices because the wavelengths they emit interfere with the plane's communication controls," he eagerly stated. John furrowed his brows.

"Yes..."

"You're the mobile device!" Sherlock whispered severely. John pushed Sherlock's arm away from his chest in an attempt to restore his dignity.

"Well, you can't turn me off," He stated firmly.

"Shh!" Sherlock insisted again, his back still pressed against the wall, gazing at something far away in the dark.

"What? What is it?" John asked, holding his breath in, his heart pumping quickly. His felt his fingers instinctively reach into his coat pocket and curl around the trigger of his gun. He suspected the man they were looking for was close at hand. Sherlock closed his eyes and began to gesture with his hands as if he was tracing his steps with them. He mumbled to himself as he did so.

"Two down, 1 to the right, two to the left, 3 down. Pass the station at Winchester road and Eton Avenue..."

Suddenly he opened his eyes and turned to John.

"He should be in the tunnel to the left," he concluded. John rolled his eyes and peeled himself away from the wall.

"Well, what was all that then?" John pointed to the wall. Sherlock looked at the wall and then back to him with confusion.

"You shoved me into a wall. Let me guess, I was in the way of your wavelength emission or something.

"Don't be ridiculous John. People don't have wavelength emissions. Unless you're referring to sound or heat waves. In which case-"

"Let's just...get on with it. Before I threaten the wrong person," he interrupted with a heavy sigh of annoyance, and all previous thoughts about the gratefulness of their friendship were temporarily forgot.

"Right," Sherlock agreed. The men took a few deep breaths, the tension inside building as their adrenaline levels increased. Sherlock clenched and relaxed the muscles in his hands, a trick he learned increased circulation and calmed the nerves. They sucked in a final breath and peeked around the corner. Partway down the long corridor there was a dark figure sitting with his back against the wall. John glanced to his partner for confirmation and he gave a brief nod in response. Sherlock and the doctor shared a look to communicate without words.

5

John's hand clenched around the gun, he felt the coolness of the metal sink into his skin.

4

Sherlock calculated the possible outcomes of the actions about to occur, and the probability of their success.

3

John felt his heartbeat pounding through his veins and steadied his breathing.

2

Sherlock slowed down his mind and prepared his body for the chase.

1

They ran into action.

John was on the right with Sherlock to his left. They dodged towards the dark figure, feeling their feet hit the solid stone beneath them, splashing rotten water in their wake, and reflecting echoes off the walls. The shadow man suddenly animated, they could barely see his outline as he leaped up and dashed down the tunnel.

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted, despite knowing it was purposeless. He flicked the torch on as he ran, bouncing streams of light into the darkness haphazardly. Their bodies throbbed as they pushed them to go faster yet, their muscles giving way to their commands. John balanced his arm in front of him, aiming as best as he could while moving at such a fast pace, he took a breath and his finger squeezed the trigger. The sound of his warning shot tore through the tunnel and ripped apart their eardrums with its echoes, leaving them numb and buzzing in the aftermath. The subject of their chase covered his head with his arms and continued to gain distance between himself and his assailants. He turned down a side tunnel.

The two partners glanced at one another, eyes burning with aggressive energy and determination. They doubled their speed with unrestrained effort, veering violently down the side tunnel where the man escaped.

The beat of their hearts matched the slapping of their feet against the ground. The space between them and the man decreased. He looked behind his shoulder at them to gage their distance and in doing so tripped on an unlevel cobblestone. He cried out in pain as he hit the ground but scrambled to get up and limped quickly into the darkness. They were very close now, The man in front of them was no longer an outline, but a complete image of a person. John could see the beads of sweat on the back of his neck from exertion and fear. John stopped and this time when he held the gun up, he aimed to hit his target.

"Stop or I will shoot," he threatened with absolute conviction in his voice. The criminal finally collapsed to the ground in a combination of pain, exhaustion, and surrender. He gasped for air through struggling lungs. Sherlock and John also made an effort to catch their breaths but John never moved the position of his gun. The doctor took this time to truly look at the subject of their chase for the first time. The gasping man was in his mid to late thirties, wearing layers of dark, thick clothing, concealed under an oversized gray winter coat. His skin was oily and his facial hair had grown out into an uneven beard. Clearly he had been in the underground for several months, judging by his appearance and his stench. His narrow eyes squinted in the accusatory light glaring from Sherlock's torch.

"Ah, Sherlock. How've you been?" he rasped. Sherlock looked down at the man smugly. His usual poise had been revived from the chase. He straightened his signature overcoat before replying.

"Good, Davidsen. And that's a suitable look on you, the beard and the rummaged charity shop clothes. Regrettably, the men back at Scotland yard believe you'd look more suitable in handcuffs."

The man squinted back at him, wincing at the grim idea of prison.

"Is that where I'm going?" he asked, attempting to manage his fear and to accept his fate.

"Hm," Sherlock hummed, looking away in thought, "Well that's up to you," he replied.

The man sighed and rubbed a dirty hand across his downcast face, judging his options before responding.

"What do I need to do?" he asked finally.

Sherlock grinned with satisfaction

…

By the time the partners and the hacker had reached Speedy's cafe it was nearly noon, despite the convenience that the underground provided against traffic. The consulting detective had directed them down the incorrect tunnel and once on the surface, they realized they were several streets away from their destination. Sherlock blamed this on a blocked off tunnel of course, stating there was no way around it. John knew by his tone that it was a flat out lie but nodded regardless, knowing how much the arrogant git hated being wrong.

So here they were finally, sitting in a corner table where they would remain unnoticed for the sake of Davidsen's temporary freedom.

Sherlock refused food, as he often does, claiming it slows his mental capabilities to theorize during a case. Instead, he sat with his elbows on the table and his hands steepled, observing the other two men as they ate their lunch.

Davidsen ate his sandwich with desperate vigor, clearly making up for the starvation he suffered while in hiding. He was sloppy, not caring when half of the meat in his sandwich fell out the other end. There was no tact or strategy with how he ate. Sometimes he would take a bite from one end, other times taking a bite from the middle for some unexplained reason. There were moments when he would pause to pick up his dropped fillings and eat them separately with greasy eager fingers, and then return to the rest of the sandwich.

John, on the other hand, was hungry but restrained, with a sense of care and method. He cut his breakfast of fried egg on toast in a particular way.

He cuts three bites, crookedly I might add, and then eats two. He cuts the next three and so on, so that the number of bites on his plate always increases by one each time. How strange. The etiquette is to cut a single piece one at a time so that there is never food previously cut on your plate but obviously he isn't following a form of etiquette. What is this strange habit? When did it formulate? John is filled with so many small mysteries. It's almost mesmerizing.

The doctor looked up from his plate to see Sherlock staring at him scientifically and felt self-conscious immediately.

"What?" he asked, setting down his utensils. Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

"Nothing, continue," he told him. Although uncomfortable, John shook the feeling away and did as Sherlock said, too hungry to care he was being watched. Davidsen finished the end of his sandwich with one giant bite. He looked from Sherlock to John, and John to Sherlock, as he chewed thoughtfully. When finally he had swallowed the last bite, he spoke.

"So this is your partner, eh Sherlock?" he asked the focused man.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied without tearing his eyes from John.

"Yeah I recognise him from the papers. He's always right next to you in all the headliner photos. Even the one with the hat."

Sherlock scoffed, "I do not want to talk about the hat," he said sternly, internally cursing the newspaper reporters for his idolized image. John laughed a little at what was quite possibly the only thing which made Sherlock visibly uncomfortable.

"Hm," Davidsen hummed, in consideration.

"You know…" the hacker started, "I never would have pegged you for a romantic man, but seeing you two together... it's strange, but I can understand it. It seems to click."

John stopped midway from swallowing a bite of food and nearly choked. He coughed and shook his head simultaneously.

"No-" he rasped and coughed again before he could finish. Sherlock shifted awkwardly in his seat, disproving John's previous assumption that the hat was the only thing to make him visibly squirm.

"Well, I'm afraid… I mean that's not really… we're not really-" he attempted, stumbling over his words, but was cut off by the ringing of his mobile phone. He looked to John, who had finished gaining control of his lungs. John knew what he was asking for and rolled his eyes. He reached across the table and took the mobile phone from Sherlock's right overcoat pocket.

"Hello," John greeted with an annoyed voice.

"It's Donovan. We are with a city electrician right now. He's examining the underground electrical station connected to the art gallery," she told him.

"Oh okay. Keep us updated," John said and looked to Sherlock.

"They are talking with the electrician," he relayed. Sherlock's interest peaked and he gestured to the doctor to give him the phone. John handed it over but soon after realized he should have mentioned Sgt. Donovan was on the other end.

…

Meanwhile, across town, the detective inspector spoke with an electrician from the London electric company. Above them, the sky darkened overhead with greying clouds, bringing an ominous energy to the atmosphere. The threat of rain was nearing. Lestrade hoped they would be finished by the time the downpour came upon them.

"Yeah it's been turned off alright," the lanky electrician said as he ascended from the underground electrical station.

"Turned off, not vandalized?" Lestrade clarified. The electrician took off his glasses and returned them to his shirt pocket, then nodded to the inspector's question.

"Yes, someone who has worked for city electrics most likely. An electrician in a rural area wouldn't know how to deal with these distribution lines."

"But they broke the padlock on the grate," Lestrade mumbled, bending down to examine the smooth cut, They must have used a lock cutter, he observed.

"Do you happen to have records of all the employees that have recently resigned or been let go of?"

"Oh yes we do. The management office would be able to help you. I have the number," the man said as he fished around his pocket for his mobile.

"That would be great!" Lestrade said and the two men exchanged the number. While they did so Sally explained the situation over the phone.

"Lestrade talked with the electrician. He said it must have been an employee who works in the city. They broke into the station and turned off the power. They used a lock cutter to cut the padlock," she explained. There was a sound of disgust through the phone.

"Ugh, Donovan?" Sherlock spat with distaste.

"Freak? What happened to John?" Donovan asked with as much revulsion in her voice.

"What happened to Lestrade? Give him the phone at once. I'm sure you missed vital information. You always miss the most important points," he commanded aggravatingly.

"He's busy," she replied shortly, "Give the phone to John."

Frustrated, Sherlock huffed and struck his hand toward John to take the phone. John rolled his eyes and took the phone back to talk to Donovan.

"What's up?" John asked with a sigh. Donovan relaxed when she heard his voice replace the consulting detective's

"Tell the freak that the electrician told Lestrade that the person who broke into the electrical station works for city electrics but because he didn't have a key to the station and used a lock cutter, Lestrade figures it was someone who recently resigned or has been let go. So the electrician is giving Lestrade the number for the management office so we can access the records," she told him in one long string of words.

John was confused, but after a minute, he sorted out the information in his mind and repeated it to Sherlock. He couldn't help but think Sherlock created a very ironic situation. It seemed like a game of telephone rather than a serious investigation. But that was nothing new, he always treated their investigations like games.

"Ask her what the number was," Sherlock ordered his friend. John did as he said, accustom to being ordered by then.

"What's the number Sally?" he questioned. The woman read them off as John recorded them on a cafe napkin. He thanked her and they ended the call.

"What next Sherlock?" John inquired. The consulting detective mulled thoughts over in his mind, then looked towards Davidsen who had been sitting quietly the entire time. He dragged his chair over to the man, until he was positioned directly in front of him. He rested his chin on his clasped hands and stared at the scruffy looking man critically.

"We need to get down to business Davidsen. We need inside information about your network," Sherlock told him bluntly.

He could sense the hacker considering this with fear, knowing the consequences this could bring him.

"I don't think I need to remind you what happens to you if you don't," Sherlock threatened. The man averted his gaze and nodded, deciding nothing was worse than prison.

"What do you need to know specifically Sherlock?" he asked with defeat. Sherlock glanced to John and John understood. The doctor set a folder on the table and pushed it towards the two men. Sherlock nodded to it and Davidsen picked it up, flipping through it carefully.

"What do you know about them? Have you heard anything about them? Even a whisper. Have you had any contact at all?" the consulting detective pushed. The hacker thought about it for a moment before responding.

"Yes...anonymously. I had one of them reach out to me for information."

"Information? What kind?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"He wanted to know if there was a way to hack into an art gallery in Germany. From the outside. I told him no. The only thing I could think of was creating a device that could jam the system, but obviously that isn't my area."

Sherlock nodded for him to continue, knowing that wasn't all.

"He asked if turning off the main power would cause the system to go down and I told him yes, but only temporarily."

"When was this?" Sherlock interrupted. The man paused to think.

"It was...three years ago I think. Roughly."

"How did he contact you?"

"Same way as always. Private chat room."

"Can you still trace that account?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

"From three years ago? Are you kidding?" Davidsen laughed. It was evident from Sherlock's expression he was dead serious. Davidsen sighed and ran a palm across his face at the idea.

"I can't guarantee it. But I suppose...yeah I suppose it's possible," he admitted. Sherlock seemed satisfied with that answer. He unclasped his hands and stood up, pushing the chair back as he did so.

"Where are we going?" John asked with confusion. Sherlock looked to him and then Davidsen.

"Scotland Yard," he said. The cyber criminal look up at him with horror and betrayal.

"We have some hacking to do," Sherlock told him.

Author's Note to the reviewers:

Cliapatra32

Thank you! But I can't take credit. My lovely girlfriend and editor came up with that one :P she's creative like that.

abutterflymind

You are just wonderful for helping me make my story more genuine! I knew nothing of British culture until you gave me a little guidance. I'm glad I'm not just winging it anymore and I have more accuracy involved. After all, Sherlock takes place in England and it's only respectful that I stay accurate to that culture! Hopefully now my British readers won't shudder at my "Americanisms" :P