John
Throughout the journey to the first warehouse, which I hoped, and was fairly sure was the right one because Lestrade's professional pride wouldn't let him ask for our help unless he was in dire trouble and because, regrettably, Sherlock never makes mistakes; I tried Lestrade's phone number again and again with no success.
"He's not answering." I said to nobody, making a conscious effort to stop my leg nervously jiggling up and down.
"Obviously." Sherlock sighed with frustration as the car tyres crunched over the gravel in front of the warehouse, "Wait." Sherlock ordered, throwing a liberal fistful of notes at the driver before sprinting with me to the doors. It occurred to me that we should probably have made some sort of plan of action; then it occurred to me that Sherlock probably had made a plan but just chosen not to tell me. No change there then.
The beginning of dawn was on the horizon but the warehouse looming in front of us seemed to have no shape, just a size-less structure of concrete and steel silhouetted against the faded sky. I didn't know what I wanted to discover within its walls; whether I wanted it to be storage or the headquarters of the Moonblood Cult; whether I wanted Lestrade to be alive and well or bleeding to death; whether I wanted to crack this case or find nothing. My knees were shaking with adrenaline as if I was about to go on a raid with the rest of my platoon in Afghanistan except all there was, was an empty or not empty warehouse full of alcohol or not alcohol complete with the dead or not dead body of someone I'd consider a friend. And Sherlock Holmes. He held my hand then, slowly gripping my wrist and silently snaking his fingers around my hand until our fingers were interlocked. And I wasn't as scared anymore.
Sherlock
The heavy padlock on the double doors of the warehouse had obviously been recently forced and even more recently replaced. The job was badly done so I easily opened the door with two swift sharp kicks to the right of the lock and shouldered the doors open, dragging John behind me by the hand. I didn't need to look at him to know he'd sensibly have his army issue Browning L9A1 Pistol out and ready. The interior of the warehouse was not completely surprising to me but I must confess I was a little shocked by the blatantly obvious crates of alcohol numbering over one hundred in the middle of the almost blindingly floodlit space. Besides the stock of alcohol there were a cluster of armchairs around a coffee table, a few computers, all of which seemed to be off, but one of which wasn't and, hanging from the steels balcony off which several thick doors (probably leading to interrogation rooms) led, a double sheet sized banner which read 'The Moonblood Cult' and was liberally spattered with something that looked like blood but wasn't, it was a mixture of Dulux's 'Celebration' and 'Raspberry Bellini' paints; I noticed a snake nose piercing only slightly different to the one we saw Harry wearing on the CCTV footage. The people who worked in the Moonblood Cult were watching us though CCTV set up in a room off the main room where I assumed they also kept the rest of the alcohol. I guessed they would wait for us to find Lestrade before revealing their presence to us and probably attempting to launch some sort of attack so I took the opportunity of a few spare moments to stride across the room with John still clinging to my hand and slip the piercing into my coat pocket.
"Where is everybody?" John asked, sweeping the brightly lit room with his pistol.
"They're hiding in a room off this one, watching us and waiting for us to find Lestrade. They will've made it quite easy for us to find him so they can deal with us when we're all in one place so I'm guessing Lestrade's in one of the rooms off that balcony up there; the doors will be easy to open if they're unlocked but almost impossible to escape from if you're on the other side of them."
"Right…" John said in his usual bemused way which used to irritate me, as did most of his incessant burbling. But I now found it quite endearing.
I decided to play along with the Moonblood Cult's pathetic little hiding plan and started off up the spiralling steel stairs to find Lestrade. John's hand was small and sweaty in mine but it felt good, somehow, to know that I was looking after someone who'd kissed me, who needed me who, perhaps, wanted me. I gave every door off the clanging metal walkway a kick, stuck my head into each four metre squared room and then ran onto the next one.