Warnings this chapter: language.

CHAPTER 2

PREDITORS

The world's only Consulting Detective and his good doctor moved stealthily in the shadows along the parking structure's inner walls, pausing occasionally when Sherlock needed to fight off a wave of nausea or dizziness. They slowly made their way toward the street. Although there had been no further sight or sound of people or autos, they remained watchful.

Coming into the open of the street and the oddly comforting red lights of the CCTV cameras, they walked with more purpose. Sherlock's balance was somewhat better now, and he needed to pause less frequently. As they passed under a streetlight, they heard the soft purr of an engine. John pivoted quickly toward it, Browning in hand, only to be met by the sight of a reassuringly familiar black limousine. He and Sherlock huffed out breaths of relief as their tension drained away. The door opened, and Althea's passive face greeted them.

With the appearance of Mycroft's operatives, it was now readily apparent who the "more dangerous predator" was who had frightened off Sherlock's abductors.

oOo

"Who did you piss off this time, Sherlock?" John asked from the comfort of the limo's back seat. Sherlock's upper lip curled but he didn't respond. Anthea took her eyes from her Blackberry long enough to give John a sidelong glance and a suppressed grin.

Through a mouthful of biscuit, John rattled off a list of neighbours, shopkeepers, disgruntled clients, and New Scotland Yarders, all of whom Sherlock had recently pissed off, but none of whom had the brains, brawn, or wherewithal to overpower Sherlock. As John stuffed another McVities into his mouth, Sherlock turned away, fighting the nausea.

"John, must you?"

"Sorry. Adrenaline ramps up my appetite." He rummaged through the limo's stock, found a bottle of water, and thrust it at the still-pale detective. Sherlock pushed it away.

"Sip. Slowly," the doctor said in his most authoritarian voice.

Sherlock sulked, but opened the bottle. He didn't move it toward his mouth. John cocked his head, and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock knew the index finger-point was next. He sighed, took a sip. Anthea pursed her lips to hide her smile.

John gestured once more at the food supply and small fridge. "I'm starving. May I?"

Anthea nodded.

John saw enough food essentials to survive a week of post-Apocalyptic isolation, along with a bottle of chilled champagne, and two small glass jars of caviar on ice.

"Ooh, this looks good." He twisted the lid off one of the caviar jars. Althea let out a small gasp. Sherlock raised a stunned eyebrow. John put several scoops of the milky-white eggs into his mouth with the delicate mother-of-pearl spoon.

The look of bliss on John's face was almost orgasmic. "Oh, God," John breathed, "this is… is…!"

"Quite." Sherlock's eyebrow just would not come down.

"What? I have had caviar before, you know. I'm not a total barbarian. Must say, I've never seen white before."

"I think that I can say with certainty that you haven't had this kind."

"Why's that, then?"

"Because what you are eating is Almas Iranian Beluga, John, and you have just consumed approximately"—his calculations were slower than normal—"£200 worth."

John paled as white as the Almas and tried to imagine under what possible contingency pre-chilled caviar would be considered an essential, then he remembered in whose car they were riding.

As if on cue, Mycroft's image appeared on the limo's secure computer screen.

John lowered the jar of caviar below camera range.

Without preamble, Sherlock asked, "What on your surveillance cameras triggered a red flag?"

"Good evening to you, too, Sherlock. You are operational, I take it?"

"Mycroft, let's not get overly sentimental, shall we? Agitated emergence from the anaesthesia. Otherwise, fine."

"Curious."

"Indeed."

"I'm fine, too, Mycroft, thanks for asking."

"Your face is cut," Mycroft said, as if just noticing John's presence.

"Collateral damage." Sherlock answered for him.

Mycroft looked totally disinterested.

"Beginning two days ago, surveillance cameras picked up an unmarked van cruising Baker Street no fewer than five times a day, always slowing as it passed 221B. There was ample parking available, no stopping for deliveries, no discharging or picking up of passengers; report on the licence plate revealed that the vehicle had been stolen three days prior. The windows were heavily tinted, prohibiting visuals on the number of people involved or their identification. The behaviour suggested that they were reconnoitring to ascertain your travel patterns."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said impatiently. As he stared at the screen, he realized that he was listing about thirty degrees to his left; he overcorrected, sighed, and settled for 20 degrees to his right, his hand on the seat to steady himself.

"The van went off the grid for twenty minutes in an area where the cameras have been a bit troublesome of late. We lost sight of you, brother mine, in the same general area. The network re-sighted the van entering the gymnasium parking lot at a time when the building was known to be closed. I thought it prudent to send a car to survey the area around the gymnasium. Concurrently, we observed John leaving Baker Street with some haste. When he leaned forward to enter the taxi, we also observed the outline of his Browning in his waistband… Anthea, remind me to compliment the team that developed the new CCTV high definition lens that we are testing in certain areas. Remarkable clarity."

Sherlock nodded slowly, making a concerted effort to process the information.

John filled the awkward void. "Whatever your reasoning, Mycroft, it worked. Your presence scared off whoever was there. I think it's fair to say that your presence would frighten the wings off the Archangel Michael." Mycroft took that as a compliment. "And, I appreciate the lift home. Taxis are so awkward when Sherlock's in a strop."

"I can only imagine."

"And when was the last time you were in a taxi, Mycroft?" John asked. Mycroft made an unpleasant face. "Thought so," John said, not daring to grin.

"Which raises several questions, John. How were you able to locate Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, as if talking to a maths dolt who had somehow stumbled upon the unified field theory.

"I got a text, totally out of character, asking me to meet Sherlock outside the Egg."

"What do you mean, out of character? Out of character how?" Sherlock pressed.

"It said "please."

Sherlock harrumphed.

"It was suspicious. Either Sherlock hadn't sent the text or had sent it under duress. Either way, not good.… You're not the only one with resources, Mycroft." John said, with a bit more attitude than Anthea was used to hearing from him. This was turning into a truly entertaining evening.

"I have a…contact…who works at Sherlock's phone carrier. Triangulated the location of his mobile."

"And who might that person be?"

"That's not a question you get to ask, Mycroft." His contact's actions walked a fine line of legality. Crossed it, actually. "And don't bother trying to figure it out. The person in question," he said, carefully not identifying the person by sex, "made sure there were no paper or electronic trails… The trace showed that Sherlock's mobile was nowhere near the Egg, but was at or near the gymnasium."

Sherlock looked surprised, then impressed.

"The best course of action would have been for you to contact me," Mycroft said sternly.

John's eyes narrowed, and with more than a little heat, he countered. "The best course of action would have been for you to warn us of the 'suspicious activity.' This whole thing could have been avoided."

"Perhaps." It was as much of an admission as they would get.

"And a second, perhaps more disturbing question, John. How did you evade detection by my team?"

John snorted. "I'm not telling you!"

"The cameras lost sight of you after you after you left the taxi some distance from the gymnasium, then you traversed a rather high wall and disappeared into a building."

"Hmmm. Imagine that." He sounded casual, even a bit taunting. "Mycroft, I never saw your team's car anywhere, certainly not at the gym."

"And they never saw you, because by the time you arrived, they were already in pursuit of the van. One can only surmise that they had seen the car surveying the area. They left, shall we say, with justifiable haste. Unfortunately—"

"You lost the van." Sherlock sighed.

Mycroft sighed. "The location of the van is…temporarily…unknown."

"Not one of your better days, brother."

"Moving on. The CCTV cameras near the gymnasium neither saw you approach nor enter the facility."

John nodded but said nothing.

"John?" Mycroft said, with a slight tilt of his head—the closest Mycroft ever came to saying please. Or it could have been a command; hard to tell with the elder Holmes. John kept him waiting—just because he could—then finally spoke. One teased Mycroft at his own peril.

"As I said, I'm resourceful. Hanging about with you two teaches a man a thing or two about stealth. Not to mention a little place called Afghanistan." A hint of a smile tugged at Sherlock's mouth. "Used side alleys, greenery, shadows, walked inside the parking structure. I made damn sure that no-one outside or inside the gym saw me coming."

"Which raises another question, brother. How did they take you? You're hardly an easy man to overpower."

"Uncertain." Sherlock mumbled. Did he actually look embarrassed? He pressed his palms to his forehead; cohesive thought was a struggle. Stalling for time, he took another sip of water. John and Mycroft exchanged glances.

"Oral administration is slower acting," Sherlock ventured, "and might have allowed for one to be unaware of its administration. However, that would have required my being followed for some length of time until a decidedly chance moment when I opted to eat— hardly likely. And I know when I am being followed."

"Unless there had been a team," his brother added.

"Quite so."

"Likewise, you would have been aware of any intrusion into 221B."

John felt like he was watching a ping pong match and decided to remind the brothers who the physician was in the group. "Aerosol would have caused a greater level of retrograde amnesia. Which leaves—. "

John reached over and undid the buttons on Sherlock's cuffs. "Sherlock, drop your trousers."

"John, really. This is hardly—"

"Needle stick."

"Anthea, interior lights, if you please," Mycroft asked.

John examined each arm, then took Sherlock's face in his hands, turning his head to each side, examining his neck for a puncture. "Sherlock, do you remember feeling a sting? Did anyone bump into you on the street?"

Sherlock's left hand drifted to a spot on his hip. His eyes widened as the memory surfaced. "It had started to drizzle. People began rushing. Someone, a man—White, early 50s, short, haggard—stumbled into me. I thought it a crude attempt at pick-pocketing. I remember checking my wallet. Then moments later, feeling light-headed."

"Which, of course, you attributed to not having eaten since St. Swithin's Day." John offered.

"There was a scuffle, and then…"

Sherlock scowled, unfastened his belt, and dropped his trousers a bit. Anthea pretended to be elsewhere. The mark on his hip was small, tinged with red, but clearly visible both to John and Sherlock. Sherlock got himself sorted, redid his belt and cuffs.

"So, now we know the how, but we still need the why and who.

In unison, Mycroft, Sherlock, and Anthea said, "Whom."

John rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft, turn the car around. Now! Get me back to the gymnasium before it's reopened to the public. I need to examine the area, there may be—"

"No offence, brother dear, but you might be more yourself in the morning. I doubt that in your present condition you could deduce the location of your loafers."

"I never wear loafers." Sherlock's temper flared. "I need data, Mycroft! I have nothing at the moment! Nothing! I cannot work without input. So turn this car around—" he slammed his hand into the seat "—and get me there! Now! Or let me out and I'll take a taxi—"

"Sherlock," John said softly, laying a hand gently on his wrist.

"Don't patronize me, John!" He spit the words out like venom, throwing John's hand off his wrist.

"I'd say he's pretty close to normal."

"We are targets, John! And we are losing time. I have no intention of doing nothing, but I cannot do anything, I cannot do my work, if I don't have data. I won't have the evidence at the scene being trampled by idiots."

There were times when John needed to walk on eggshells with Sherlock; other times, he needed his arse kicked; still other times, he needed a gentle hand. It took John a millisecond to decide which approach was needed here.

He met Sherlock's anger, decibel for decibel, with a challenge, using the only argument that might possibly work. "Think, Sherlock! For Christ's sake, take a moment and just think! Reason it out."

Sherlock turned his head toward the window.

"Don't you dare turn away from me, you arrogant twat!"

Sherlock was seething, but he re-established eye contact.

Mycroft, out of common courtesy—yes, he actually did have some—averted his eyes and scrupulously studied his well-manicured fingernails. But like the pull of a train wreck, his gaze kept drifting back. He had never been in the presence of such acrimony between his brother and the Army doctor. It was fascinating, and he wasn't about to miss it. Sherlock rarely surprised him. John, on the other hand…

John was brooking none of Sherlock's shit. "We can turn this damn car around right now, you stubborn prat, and you can go back to that sodding gymnasium, and deduce the hell out of it, and possibly, just possibly miss something important, something vital because you were too sodding obstinate to do the logical thing, or you can use that fucking brilliant intellect of yours, reason it out, and conclude that your best option for finding accurate data is to wait until morning when the damn drug is out of your system and you're thinking clearly."

John's jaw was clenched, determined, but his breathing was slow, deep, and controlled. Sherlock quivered with anger, and his breath came in short, staccato bursts. The stare-down seemed interminable. Neither man wavered. Finally, Sherlock's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. Game over: logic one, emotion naught. Sherlock nodded fractionally. The men's eyes softened, as did their postures.

John returned his hand to Sherlock's arm. And there it stayed.

Mycroft softly cleared his throat. "I have already dispatched a team to secure the gymnasium until the morning. If you agree, I see no need to involve the Yard yet. The paperwork—"

"Tedious."

John finally looked at the screen. "About the van, then? You're looking for it, of course."

"With all of our resources, John," Mycroft said, deliberately using the wording John had used previously. "But may I suggest we return to your initial question? Who have you 'annoyed' this time, Sherlock?"

John's brow furrowed. "But you weren't on screen when I asked that. How—?"

Mycroft's smiled tightly.

"Ah." John nodded. When Mycroft said that he and Sherlock were under constant surveillance, he meant constant.

"The usual rabble," Sherlock responded to his brother's question. "There have been no overt threats, nothing which would lead one to…" His voice trailed off. He took another sip of water.

"Then one might reasonably surmise that another attempt will be made."

There were murmurs of agreement from the back seat.

"Until tomorrow, then," Mycroft nodded in dismissal. "John, I do hope the caviar met with your approval."

OOo