23:38 hrs.
Sherlock was running at full speed in pursuit of their suspect, desperately ignoring the awkward gait caused by his missing shoe. He had lost that when? Probably when he had had to jump that fence, he answered himself. Damn, those shoes had been expensive. He had hoped to put minimal wear on them with the thought of being able to return them.
A steady rhythm of "thump, thump, thump" let him know John wasn't too far behind but he dared not look back to confirm it. His target was so close.
Sherlock reached down mid-stride and pulled his other shoe off. He tried not to wince at the sound of fabric tearing. This was it, the last projectile Sherlock possessed. He brought the shoe up and eyed the sharp edge of the heel with a powerful toss he sent the blue velvet pump sailing through the air and watched triumphantly as it hit its mark.
Hunt went down, face first on the sidewalk clutching at the back of his head.
"Do you have any idea how much those pumps cost me." Sherlock huffed out between ragged breaths, his chest heaving from his late night sprint. He came to stand over Hunt letting his shadow fall across the man. "That was for you touching me with your filthy hands." He spat.
…
John was running double time trying desperately to make up the gaping distance between him and Sherlock. He was almost there; just ahead he could hear the click of Sherlock's heels. Then he ran into a fence. John pulled himself up and over thankful for the added height the platforms gave him. Upon landing though John stumbled over something. He picked up the item and discovered it to be one of Sherlock's pumps. Not wanting to linger on the fact Sherlock was now running around London, barefoot John took off at a neck breaking pace, the shoe still clutched firmly in his grasp.
When Sherlock and John got back to the club with Hunt an ambulance and two police cars were sitting out front. The two unknowns as well as Williams and Crieff had already been taken to the hospital. Jones sat at the edge of the ambulance, an orange blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, his wife stood next to him.
John shoved an already handcuffed Hunt at Lestrade and Lestrade threw him in the back of the car. Sherlock sat down on the back of the ambulance next to Jones and began rubbing at his bare and bloodied feet. He had walked the whole way back with no shoes on.
"Here" said John kneeling down in front of his friend once his feet were cleaned, "put these on so we can go home." John slid the velvet blue pumps onto Sherlock's feet one at a time. Somewhere in the distance the Clock Tower chimed midnight.
"I can't wait to read about this one on your blog, John." said Sherlock smugly.
"Me either" Lestrade intervened.
"Ha-ha. Very funny guys, but I think I'll skip this one. My heterosexuality suffered enough for one night, don't you think?" John was leaning against the side of the ambulance utterly exhausted.
"You shouldn't say things like that." Jones said. It was the first time he spoke since they'd returned and it took a minute for John to register his voice.
"I'm hetero I just like dressing up in women's clothes sometimes." He explained, "You shouldn't be so quick to judge others."
"I- I'm sorry" John apologized, "I didn't mean to offend you, it's just been a long night. You're lucky to have someone as kind and understanding as your wife. Not everyone might be so." John shifted his eyes to Sherlock who still sat dangling his legs over the edge.
"You've got a tear in your dress" Jones suddenly said to Sherlock.
John looked at the slit that now ran up the length of the short dress a good portion of Sherlock's pale thigh was now visible, but the tear was nothing compared to the blood stains. Both of their dresses were ruined. John vaguely wondered how much money he would owe Sherlock. If there was one thing John knew well it was women, and knowing women, meant knowing brand names. Sherlock had purchased some very pricey numbers.
"It's not fair," Jones wife said suddenly in the lull.
"What's not?" John asked
"He looks better in that skirt than I ever did." She confessed, and they all laughed.
…..
Later, when they were walking home, after Lestrade had taken some photos he promised on his life to never show anyone, ever John let out a little laugh.
He waited a bit, but when Sherlock didn't bite he voiced his humours thought.
"I've thought up a last name for you." He said.
"John, I have a last name." Sherlock was tired; he didn't have time for this silly game.
"No sorry, you're right, you do, but Shirley doesn't."
"Go on; let's hear it then, if you think it's all that clever."
"Swallows." said John, doing a damn good job of keeping a straight face.
"Swallows?" Sherlock repeated. "I don't get it."
"Shirley Swallows, surely- never mind."