Anote: a reminder that my story is set in the interval between A scandal in B and Baskerville.

Chapter 17

'I do believe that Greg is well on his way to being inebriated,' Sherlock announced somberly.

John glanced at his flat mate out of the corner of his eye. This was first time his friend had addressed him directly, since he had re-entered the bar.

Was this pronouncement the proverbial olive branch?

'Yeah...I think he should have called it quits a few rounds ago, after that last goal.'

They watched in concern as Lestrade stumbled over to join the woozy conga line that was winding its way between the tables and chairs. It was well past closing time now, and the head bartender tried to chase the unruly group away with his dishtowel.

'You would think that England just won the Finals Cup, the way he knocked it back,' Sherlock agreed with a sanctimonious shake of his head.

John pressed his lips together to stop himself from suddenly laughing. 'You do know that both teams are from England, right?'

'Of course I do!' Sherlock snapped so quickly, indicating that he didn't realise that at all.

In the meantime Greg waved at them merrily, trying to get the duo to move their lazy bums and come dance. John and Sherlock waved back companionably.

'He had something on his mind from before,' John confided in a low tone, 'He's not usually so careless with his drinks.'

'Well, we are here,' Sherlock countered in a whisper, 'so perhaps he believed he could afford to be careless, do you think?'

Perhaps.

John glanced at him again, wondering exactly what was this mistake Lestrade had supposedly did that made him wish Sherlock would forget all about. 'Should we take him home with us?'

Sherlock's swift agreement in this case, seemed to indicate either he didn't remember himself, or there was no lingering resentment for past mistakes. John had a feeling it was a bit of both.

'So...are we good?' John added in a soft voice, 'Are you mad at me about, Mycroft?'

Sherlock stiffened noticeably at his side, causing John to frown.

The doctor looked down contemplatively at his hands. 'I am sorry that I upset you. You and your brother spar all the time and I don't normally interfere... '

'...and neither do I welcome it, I think.'

No, he didn't. John would shout himself hoarse and run after him to tell him to behave or be careful, for all the good it would do. The man rarely listened to his words of advice or caution.

John looked up stubbornly with a mutinous expression, only to be derailed that Sherlock was smiling so warmly down at him.

'Why are you smiling?'

'Why shouldn't I?' Sherlock added in an arch manner, his smile widening even further at John's discomfiture. It was so typically English for them to skirt around strong feelings. No, he didn't appreciate John interfering in his family affairs but he knew enough of John's character now to understand that he would always interfere, if he thought Sherlock could be hurt by anything. The man truly took his best friend duties seriously, and Sherlock found the trait deeply endearing.

John probably could have his pick of any friend he wanted.

A warm spot of pride glowed in Sherlock's heart to be the favored one, and his chest puffed out accordingly as a result.

'Well, stop smiling!' John groused in an irritable manner, turning his head away. 'It's annoying, and it makes your face look wonky. It's not you at all.'

For some reason, Sherlock found this rude response even more endearing, and it was with difficulty he restrained himself from throwing his arm across the other man's shoulders.

Greg and company regained their attention by launching into an ear splitting rendition of "Ole Ole" .

'No, Greg!' John shouted when he realized that the conga line was making its way out of the door and into the street, 'Come on, Sherlock, let's extract him. It would embarrass him to death if he got pulled in with this motley crowd for disorderly conduct.'

Sherlock turned to scoop up their jackets again, tutting in annoyance when John's phone accidentally fell off the counter and clattered to the ground. Carefully he checked for damage and was relieved to note that all the lights still worked, when he pressed the tiny buttons.

'Sherlock, keep up!' John yelled, 'Stay where I can see you!'

Startled by the shout he looked up in astonishment, only to see his friends pulled into the crowd and sucked out the entrance without him. By the time he barreled out the door, the two were lost in all the other fans who were also celebrating in the nearby pubs.

Oh buckets!

Instinctively Sherlock plastered himself alongside the wall of their pub, trying not to get swept up in the moving crush of people only a few centimeters away. He wouldn't say he was panicking just yet, but he was exceedingly dismayed to be separated from his mates.

Logically he knew it was better to stay in one place and wait for his friends to find him, but at this exact moment, he could understand why people lost in the forests never stayed put, as they were supposed to do. Any action had to be better than the growing feeling of helplessness that was building in his chest.

In the end, he had to force his feet to move in the direction of the pub entrance.

He still had his mobile and if John could only find a pay phone, he could call. For the time being, Sherlock searched their collective pockets and was relieved to find some spare change. Although he fully expected John to retrace his footsteps and collect him, he could also catch a cab back to 221B, if needs be.

'Sherlock?!' a scandalized voice came from his left. The detective clutched their coats like a protective talisman infront his chest, as he blinked down at the unfamiliar stranger by his side.

'Hello?'

A young man in a smart grey suit and matching coat, looked him up and down in utter amazement, 'were you robbed?!'

Now Sherlock had seen photos of himself, and he knew he cut a dashing and intimidating figure in his tailored, designer clothes. The disdainful way this new face was staring at him, made him sincerely regret that he was wearing an over sized football jersey and jeans with untidy hair.

'No, I haven't been robbed!,' Sherlock snapped in an unfriendly manner feeling his temper fray, 'having a bit of a night out, aren't I?!'

The man pulled him a little away into an alley so they didn't have to shout each sentence. 'Let me call Watson. Why are you out here alone?'

'Thank you, but that is not necessary,' Sherlock replied trying for a calmer tone. The man was only attempting to be helpful and there was no need to take out his agitation on him.

However the stranger frowned, still apparently not pleased by the situation. 'Let me walk you to Baker street then. Bart's is closer though, perhaps Molly is still there.'

'I want to wait here a bit and see if John comes back,' Sherlock countered, 'he must be worried now.'

A strange hard expression of annoyance flitted unexpectedly over the man's features, 'I can't believe this! I thought this was a joke but it's not. You don't know me at all! I can't believe you've injured yourself and lost your memory. Of all the foolish things you could have done! How could you be so careless?!'

Sherlock's mouth hung open slightly during the man's tirade, confused by why anyone should be so angry that he was injured. It was an accident after all, albeit one that could have been prevented if he had been more cautious. The reaction of his companion had stunned him into silence though, so used he was to all the warm support from everyone else.

'Don't have anything to say?' the man added snidely, 'God! Could this night possibly get any worse?'

'Perhaps you should remind me of your name?!' Sherlock barked out in exasperation. 'That should make you cheerful again!'

'James,' the young man bit out with an exaggerated roll of his eyeballs.

Sherlock held out his hand politely but dropped it eventually when it was not taken.

'Did you go to the doctor, at all?' James wanted to know next.

'Of course I did,' the recovering detective replied, 'I was in the hospital. Why didn't you come see me if you were so bloody concerned?!'

James pressed his lip together in annoyance at this rebuke, 'I better keep you company until Watson comes. London is dangerous.'

The two men returned to the front of the pub, and silently stood side by side looking out at the noisy crowd. As the seconds ticked by though, Sherlock's skin prickled uncomfortably but he forced himself not to fidget. After a while he couldn't help himself, and he whirled on his companion with a fierce scowl.

'What the hell are you staring at?!' he bawled out, 'What is your problem?!'

'You have to get better!' the other man wailed in response, making no attempt to deny that he had been staring at the side of Sherlock's face in a horrified way. 'You just have too!'

Annoyed anew by this frustrating acquaintance, Sherlock waved his thin hands in the air, 'I'm working on it!'

'No need to shout,' the small man added petulantly.

Sherlock was breathing hard now, wishing for John to come back. He would know what to do. The detective didn't have the patience to deal with trying people like this.

'How do we know each other?' Sherlock asked, trying desperately to rein in the conversation, 'John's never mentioned you.'

He didn't miss the way James grimaced at the mentioned of John's name. It was the second time he had done so.

'I know you from work.'

'You are a policeman, then?'

'God no,' the man replied with a disdainful snort, 'I am more of you can say...criminal mastermind.'

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, completely astonished. That wasn't something you heard everyday, was it?'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

Sherlock supposed that a normal person would be running away as fast as they could but the fact that he wasn't, was just another indication that he didn't fall in the category of "normal". After all, one didn't normally stand on street corners and converse with criminals as though they were the lunch lady from the cafeteria, did they?

'Have I ever caused you to be incarcerated?' Sherlock asked eagerly, eyes widening with curiosity.

James snorted, 'Oh, you and Watson are working on it.'

One of the jubilant fans in the crowd fell against them, and together they automatically pitched the man back into the fray.

'All things considered,' Sherlock said, choosing his next words carefully, 'don't you find talking like this is a shade creepy?'

'I get that a lot,' the man beside him deadpanned.

Sherlock stared back at the crowd unseeingly, not sure what to say now.

'Okay, here comes your cavalry,' James announced. Sherlock frowned as a few homeless street urchins approached their corner.

'John?' Sherlock asked rhetorically, looking about him disappointingly when the man didn't materialize.

'Christ, why don't the two of you get married, already?!' the other man ranted out so viciously that it was almost like a hard slap across Sherlock's face.

It was plain as day that James was incredibly jealous of John's position in his life, but Sherlock couldn't do anything about that. It's not like you could have several best friends, and James was the very last person he would pick. They were on opposite sides of the law, for crying out loud!

For the first time in the conversation though, Sherlock began to feel afraid, but not for himself.

'I better get going. Watson doesn't like me talking to you,' the young man said so conversationally, it was almost like his earlier outburst never happened.

'I don't think I care for it myself,' Sherlock added frostily to the man's receding back, 'You leave us alone! Don't come around here anymore.'

'Oh, I don't think I can do that,' James retorted over his shoulder, 'I will see you and your little pet, soon. I promise.'

And as unexpectedly as he had appeared, the man was swallowed by the crowds.

Sherlock slumped heavily on the side of the wall. It didn't take a genius to realise that his sinister "admirer" had been patiently waiting in the shadows for him to be separated from John.

'Sir, are you alright?' asked one of the grimy urchins, 'We have found John and we are bringing him back to you.'

Sherlock tried not to be rude about it but he had to breathe sometime. He covered his nose and mouth with one hand to block out the smell of unwashed bodies.

'You work for my brother?' he asked incredulously,'you will never get me to believe that in a month of Sundays.'

'Of course not, sir,' a little blonde girl who couldn't be more than 16 piped up, 'we are yours.'

He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he had his own team of 'bodyguards' when John burst out of the crowd. It took a minute after that for the Baker street network to bring the good doctor up to speed, and by the time they were finished, John was holding on to a post as though he wanted to pass out.

This time Sherlock didn't fight his instinct to fold his friend tightly into his arms.

John was shaking.