John made it to the shop and was having a row with the cashier behind the counter. The cashier had to be only 16 years old and looked to either be drunk or stoned.
"Listen pal, I can't just give you some blokes wallet. Sorry."
"You're not listening to me, it's my wallet. I was in here not 20 minutes ago, I must have left it." John had been having this round-about conversation for about 10 minutes now, and he was getting extremely frustrated.
"You got any way to prove it's yours mister?" The clerk was lazily chewing a piece of gum while leaning forward against the counter. Definitely stoned, John thought as he caught a whiff of the unmistakable smell of weed.
"I told you, open it up and look at the ID, it's got my picture on it, that proves it's mine." John was trying very hard not to shout at the drugged youngster, but his patience was wearing frightfully thin.
"I can't just go round opening people's wallets can I?" The boy said, reminding John of when Sherlock used his "obvious" tone. "That's an invasion of privacy. I could go to jail for that."
"Oh for the love of..." John's voice faltered. A TV was on behind the boy at the counter, and the banner "Breaking News" was flashing across the bottom of the screen. A newscaster was explaining the situation, but John couldn't hear since the cashier had the volume muted. All John knew was that he had caught a glimpse of Baker Street.
"You okay mister?" The cashier asked when he noticed John had stopped talking. Realizing his line of sight, the cashier turned and gazed behind him in the direction of the telly.
"Can you turn that up please?" John asked softly, hoping that he had been wrong. The cashier obliged and turned the volume up. The last words John caught from the newscaster were "explosion in a civilian street. Derick Rodham is on scene, over to you Derick." John held his breath as the scene changed. His eyes widened when he saw, who he assumed was, Derick standing in front of Speedy's cafe on Baker Street.
John's ears began to ring and he only heard bits and pieces of what was being said. The cashier asking again, "You alright mate?" was what shook John.
"That's my flat," John practically whispered, still rooted to the spot from shock. Then it dawned on him. "Sherlock," he muttered and turned to leave.
"Oi, mate. What about your wallet?" The cashier yelled at John, but John ignored him and ran out the door and onto the street.
Sherlock woke up lying on his back. He blinked rapidly, taking in his surroundings, and deduced that he was on a stretcher in an ambulance. He tried to sit up, but was being restrained by a thick collar around his neck. He found the movement in his arms, hands, and fingers, and reached up to unbuckle his restraint.
As he was sitting up, a woman in uniform stepped in. She put her hand to his chest, and gently tried to force him back down. "Hey, take it easy," She said. Her voice was soft and concerned. She wore her long brown hair tied back in a neat bun, she was taller than most women, and she was thin, but Sherlock had the impression that her muscles were well toned underneath her uniform.
"I'm fine," Sherlock responded, as he again began to sit up. She was looking at him with an expression of concern.
"At least let me examine you now that you're awake."
Sherlock groaned, but allowed her the examination anyway. She shined a flashlight in his eyes and asked him silly questions like "how many fingers am I holding up?" Finally she gave him the clear to stand up, handing him a blanket as she did so.
"What is with you people and blankets?" Sherlock muttered, setting the blanket on the stretcher and stepping out of the ambulance.
His eyes darted around the street. He noted several news vans, a couple of fire trucks, and a second ambulance, though he didn't see anyone in it. He spotted a sleek, black car pulling up to a curb. Mycroft. He made his way towards the car, effectively ruining 2 separate cameramen's shots.
The door to the sedan opened and Mycroft stepped out. He wore a sleet grey suit with a red tie, as always his umbrella was in hand. "Hello brother," he said as Sherlock was striding the last few feet to stand before him. "I see you are alright after all."
"Fine. Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock knew that Mycroft kept tabs on their flat, so he would know more information than anyone else.
"She's visiting her friend in Sussex."
"Can I borrow your mobile? I need to call John."
"No need," Mycroft responded as another black car was pulling up behind the one Mycroft had been in. "Here he is now."
John practically jumped out of the car, rushed over to Sherlock and threw his arms around the tall man. He was breathing hard, and he had been so worried that he didn't care who would see this public display. Let them talk.
Sherlock was surprised at first, but then leaned into the hug, wrapping his own arms around John in return.
"God Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked into Sherlock's bare chest.
"I'm fine John." John pulled back and looked Sherlock over, easily making the transition from concerned flat mate to doctor. "Really, I'm fine," Sherlock repeated as John scrutinized him.
"You must be freezing. Here." John took off his jacket and handed it to Sherlock. It wasn't until this moment that Sherlock realized he was bare chested, not having a chance to put on a shirt, and that he was in fact cold. He pulled on the coat, which was very snug, but he was grateful for the warmth it gave him.
"Thank you John. So Mycroft, what happened?"
They were allowed to return up to the flat, which only minor damage of lost windows. Mycroft sat in John's armchair, and Sherlock sat across from him in his own chair. John was pacing back and forth, watching the men's silent conversation.
"Gas leak?" John finally asked, breaking the silence.
"Apparently." Mycroft responded, glancing over at John. Then he looked back at his little brother, who had pulled out his violin and was plucking at the strings. "Sherlock, we need you on this case."
"Sorry brother, I'm far to busy at the moment. I'm sure you can figure it out." Sherlock gave Mycroft a smug look, and plucked a particularly high note on the fine instrument in his lap.
"No no, I can't possibly be away from the office. Not even for a moment. Especially not with the Korean elections so..." John's eyes widened and Mycroft trailed off mid-sentence. "Well you don't need to know about that." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John continued to look dumbstruck. "Besides, something like this requires...legwork."
"What's the matter Mycroft? Afraid of a little excercise? Which reminds me, how is the diet going?" Sherlock's eyes glittered at the frustrated glare Mycroft settled on him.
"Fine. This is a matter of national importance Sherlock." Mycroft held out a folder in Sherlock's general direction, but Sherlock pretended he simply didn't notice, and went right on twerking the strings of his violin.
"Perhaps you can convince him John." Mycroft crossed the room to John, and held the folder Sherlock had declined out to John. John hesitated, but took the case file anyway.
"Civil servant, known as Westy has been found dead on train rails with his head smashed in."
"Bloke jumped in front of the train?" John asked as he leafed through the papers Mycroft had given him.
"It would appear so."
"But?" John glanced up.
"But?" Mycroft repeated.
"That can't be all, I mean if it was that simple you wouldn't be asking for Sherlock's help."
"Government defense plans. A new defense project's plans were stored on a memory stick."
"Well that's not very clever," John quipped. Sherlock beamed at John from behind Mycroft, and John had to fight the urge to beam right back.
"It's not the only copy. We believe West stole the memory stick. Now it is gone. Those plans are secret, and should they fall into the wrong hands..." John couldn't help but thinking how dramatic Mycroft always enjoyed being. "We need to recover those plans." Mycroft turned back to Sherlock, "Think it over."
Sherlock picked up his bow and began to scrape it along the violin's strings, sending a proper rachet through the whole flat. Mycroft fixed his little brother with one last glare before turning to leave.
When Mycroft was safely out of the flat, Sherlock ended his frantic scraping and set his violin back down into his lap. John moved and sat down in his own armchair, looking Sherlock up and down. Sherlock had put on clean clothes, and he looked marvelous. John decided that Sherlock's dark purple shirt was his favorite, and that's what Sherlock wore now.
"So why did you lie?" John asked after a moment's silence. Sherlock didn't answer the question, he simply looked curiously at John. "You told your brother you had a case. You don't have a case. You finished the only one you had yesterday."
"It's not worth my time," Sherlock answered with one brow raised ever so slightly.
"Oh I see," John was smiling. He thought this must be what it feels like to be Sherlock all the time, deducing everyone's emotions and intentions. "Sibling rivalry? Now we're getting somewhere."
Sherlock squinted at John, but didn't have time to respond because his phone began to ring in his pocket. "Sherlock Holmes," was Sherlock's version of a "hello." John strained forward, trying to hear the caller and what the conversation was about. "Of course, I'll be right there." Sherlock hung up, carefully placed his violin back in its case and then made for his coat. "I've been called on," he explained to John. "You coming?"
"If you want me to," John responded, hoping to hear a yes.
"Of course," Sherlock replied as he pulled his long coat around him. He turned to look back at John when he reached the top stair, "I'd be lost without my blogger." Sherlock leaned down and placed a small kiss on John's cheek, before bounding down the stairs.
John smiled and put his hand to where the lips had made contact with his face. He gave his heart a moment to slow down before following Sherlock out onto the street.