Another chapter for you guys. Some of the comments from the last chapter really made us laugh. Glad you liked it. XD
Heads up, I (Jessica forthoseswhodon'tknow) will be away in France until Friday night starting tomorrow so I won't be able to write with Rayne. I might be able to leave my details with Rayne and let her write chapter 17 but it is usually a thing we do together and I do adore editing this thing (because I am a saddo).
So yeah, enjoy.
The room around him was cloaked in darkness but his eyes remained vigilant. He was accustom to the wondrous feeling of the inky black surrounding his body. Protecting him. No one can see in the darkness. No trained sniper or bumbling police idiot. The dark was his territory. Something he had come to trust. It was best that he faced it alone. To search the house over. It meant he only had to concentrate on one set of footsteps. His own. Barely making a single sound. Sherlock was alone. That was until he heard the echoing steps trying to follow him in the darkness. How disappointing. He thought that this might have been entertaining.
Working his way to the edge of the wall, he heard the soft click of a gun. By the sounds of the footsteps the owner was about six foot five' and weighed roughly seventeen stone. Shoe size eight. He crashed about the place which made him stick out like a sore thumb. This wouldn't be hard at all.
The man was inches away. Blinded by the darkness that Sherlock depended on so desperately now. Without he would be perfectly fine but this worked to his advantage. People were blind to their sense in the dark and all it would take was a simple attack for Sherlock to have the upper hand. Putting his foot out, the man stumbled and lost coordination. Giving Sherlock the perfect amount of time for him to disarm him and placed the man in a position that would be beneficial to himself. No sooner had he had the man unconscious Sherlock heard the fumbled footsteps of John Watson outside.
John stumbled into the open front door of the dark house, his eyes finding it hard to adjust to the inky darkness that filled the old building. He was aware that he was making too much noise, but he couldn't walk any quieter.
Sherlock slipped out of the room, his footsteps made no sound. His eyes couldn't see much further than his hands, but he could hear John's heavy breaths. He reached out and placed a hand firmly over John's mouth.
"Shh." He whispered. "And get out. Or make yourself useful."
"Mmmm." John mumbled, "Mmm mhmmm mmm." Sherlock drew his hands back to his sides and nodded at John. He walked past John and headed towards the stairs at the end of the hall.
John noticed a door in the wall, he gently pushed it open and saw in the darkness a few men, tied up and knocked out. Clearly Sherlock had been here. He shut the door and followed Sherlock.
The stairs were steep and old. They creaked under John's feet, although they didn't make a sound for Sherlock. John heaved himself up the stairs, feeling ungainly and bulky against Sherlock's gentle step and light touch.
Sherlock disappeared into another room, leaving the door ajar to let John in afterwards. John muffled a sigh and followed Sherlock into the room.
It was obvious that they weren't going back tonight. Sherlock wanted this case solved as soon as possible. The room they stepped into had a single dim light emitted from the bare light bulb. John saw Sherlock searching a bookshelf for something. Surely it couldn't be that obvious. Could it? Sherlock scanned the bookshelf intently until he did a sort of giddy jig when pulling out a book on horses.
John stared at him, puzzled. Horses? What was so important about horses? As if he had read John's mind, Sherlock walked over to John and opened the book to reveal a cut out section. Inside was the memory stick. Right, so that was what he was excited about then, John thought. He watched as Sherlock produced a replica of the memory stick out of his coat pocket and placed it inside the book.
John contemplated the speed in which Sherlock was completing these cases. It had obviously been a long time and he itching for the chase. It was inspiring and it made John beam inside. A happy Sherlock was good enough for him. Even if it meant him being his usual asexual, sociopathic, ill-timed self. It was what John loved. He especially loved this. The seedy cases. The dark rooms. The thrill of it all. Looking up, he saw Sherlock looking at him. Miming instructions to him.
"Move." Sherlock mimed. "Leave the house."
John backed up, after three steps he could no longer see the detective's face. A stab of pain ripped through John's heart, somehow he felt like he was losing Sherlock again. Stupid thoughts, John knew, but he couldn't help but feel lost again.
He shook his head and felt his way out of the room. He walked out into the hallway, looking around in the darkness he realised that his eyes were adjusted to the darkness, that meant that walking outside would be painful. He sighed and walked down the stairs.
"John," Sherlock whispered into his ear. "Do not move. If you take one more step, you will die."
"Okay" John whispered, trusting Sherlock to make the right decision. "What do I do?"
"Run."
"What?"
"Take my hand," John felt Sherlock slip his hand into John's, "And run."
"When?"
"NOW!"
They ran forwards, the detective and the soldier, hand in hand. Behind them the house exploded. Fire and smoke billowed out of the wreckage of the building. There were several smaller explosions. The heat blasted across their shoulders and the shock waves pushed them forward, onto their knees.
Ash fell around them as they tried to regain composure. The new addition of light to their eyes hurt momentarily. White spots flashed before John's eyes before he realised that he was still holding onto Sherlock's hand. Gripping it tightly. Sherlock didn't seem to be pulling away so John wasn't going to do it either.
Soon there were kneeling in the middle of the road, people from the pub rushing out, still holding hands. Sherlock was the first to pull away but only when he had gone to stand up. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his phone and dialled a number. "Hello, Lestrade. Explosion. Yes, there. I take somebody already rang. No? Oh. No, I can't tell you. I'll be gone by the time you get here. Goodbye." He turned to John, who was still on the floor. "Come along, John."
John nodded and silently followed Sherlock, who was rushing away. He couldn't make a sense of his thoughts again. How can, after such a little time of having Sherlock back, explosions already be happening? Then again, that was the Sherlock way. Mad, insane, wonderful, intelligent, cocky, arrogant, beautiful bastard that he was. John knew he would be thinking about that minute touch of flesh for a while. Why did he have to be acting like a pathetic teenage? He cursed under his breath. He wondered where Sherlock was taking him. Possibly home maybe. Though he doubted it.
Sherlock walked briskly ahead, calling a cab with remarkable ease. The black taxi pulled up and the two men climbed in. Sherlock shouted an address on the far side of the river, one that was not 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock turned to John, "Aren't you going to ask how?"
"How what?"
"How I knew where to go... Usually you ask."
"Oh," John frowned, "I figured you got it from some rare mud on his shoes or something... Like you normally do."
"No, that would've given me an approximate location. This is more specific."
"Oh, I've no idea then." John admitted, shrugging his shoulders.
Sherlock sighed and shifted in his seat. "I saw his business card, John. You should learn to observe, not just to see."
"Something that simple? Really?" John sounded almost amused. "Sherlock Holmes going for simple."
"Shut up, John."
"Fine. I'm just saying." John turned and changed the city pass him by. He watched the scene change from the lower end until they finally reached an obviously upper class area. He doubted nothing less. Especially after that bloody suit. John's thoughts were cut off by short by the chiming emitting from his pocket. He couldn't repress the noise of disappointment. "Mycroft." He directed towards Sherlock, who seemed to ignore him, before answering his phone. "Yes, Mycroft?"
"Such a delightful greeting, John. A source informed me that you were both in an explosion."
"Good deduction, Mycroft. Sorry, I don't have time for this."
"An explanation is all I require, John. I could easily find out."
"Then why don't you?" John huffed as he cut the conversation short and banished his phone to his pocket. Sherlock chuckled from the corner.
"He won't like that."
"He doesn't like anything." John added 'but cake' mentally because although he often found Sherlock's jibs at the man entertaining, he shouldn't encourage him. He was immature as it was.
The taxi finally pulled up to a giant building, white stone and elegant tall windows. Typical, thought John. Trust Mycroft to be associated with one of those people. Though, that was Mycroft all over.
John opened the door of the taxi and walked up to the house. He stepped over a few weeds, disappointing that a man like Samuel would let that happen. John commented on it. Sherlock seemed amused and followed at a slower pace.
There was a black painted door in the white stone wall, John reached it and stopped. He looked back at Sherlock who was examining a footprint in the mud.
"No one's been in the garden for a few days..."
"A few days?" John raised an eyebrow, making a signature John Watson face.
"Three days, maybe four." Sherlock nodded. "Let's see if anyone's home."
Sherlock rapped gently on the door of the house. The black paint made his white knuckles shine. No one answered; there was no sign that anyone inhabited the house.
"Maybe he has a London flat?" John suggested.
"Maybe..." Sherlock nodded, "But I doubt it. Let's go around the back."
It didn't take long for the pair to move around to the back. John couldn't even imagine the price of the building. That or he didn't want to. The back was very simple, simple garden and a little bit of a patio. The back door was ajar.
Sherlock and John exchanged looks before Sherlock placed his finger to his lips. Indicating John to be quiet, John nodded in agreement. Reaching behind him, John pulled out the gun that he had secretly brought with him. Like all those times he had done in the past. Always prepared. Like the proper little solider he was. Sherlock pushed open the door slowly and entered. John followed suit.
The lights were off and there was obvious sign of a struggled, Sherlock though. The lock had clearly been picked and by the way in which the room was organised he could tell Penber had been disturbed going about his daily life. A cry could be heard coming from what appeared to be the drawing room.
Slowly the pair moved through the house until they reached the door to the drawing room. Sherlock looked at John who simply nodded before pushing down the door handle and opened the door to find Samuel Penber on the drawing room floor. Beaten and bruised.
"Oh shit." John gasped upon seeing the broken body of Samuel Penber. Sherlock nodded and walked delicately around the room. Sherlock looked up at John who was hovering above Samuel's prone form. Sherlock nodded at John, but continued to look around the room for any sign of what could've happened.
John crouched down and took Samuel's bruised wrist in hand. He checked for a pulse, irregular and weak.
"Sherlock, we need to get him to a hospital." John said quickly. "Now."
"Fine. But you know this is Mycroft's work, don't you?" Sherlock smiled weakly, his eyes grim. "My brother was never one for games."
"Games?" John's eyes widened, he pointed to Samuel. "He's in need of urgent medical attention."
"Call the ambulance then." Sherlock sighed.
"There's not enough time!"
"Give me your gun." Sherlock demanded, John handed it over without a question. Sherlock marched outside and raised the gun, firing 6 shots in quick succession. "They're coming."