Chapter Text
It started as a routine case.
Sherlock had been so bloody bored at the flat. For the past three days he'd been openly wishing for a murderer to come to town or a nice arsonist to set fire to the Tate. Even the theft of something behind glass (which at the best of times was an optimistic 4 on the weird-case-o-meter) would break up this tedium. "Anything to spice up this dreary existence!" He'd wailed one Friday morning, falling to the sofa and staying there for the better part of four hours in a tragic mess of splayed dressing gown and sweatpant-covered limbs.
A text, Lestrade's preset alert, had him springing to his feet and scrambling for the little device currently residing in the fireplace. Sherlock nearly fell over the table in his haste and he dropped to his belly on the floor and plucked it from the hearth. He swiped his thumb over the screen to clear it of ash and read:
Got some body parts here. Two index fingers. No body to speak of. Can't promise this'll be an interesting case, but…interested?
Sherlock could have kissed him. He leaped to his feet and his fingers flew over the screen in response:
Yes. Details.
"John!" He called. He strode towards his bedroom to change clothes. He hit "send" and crashed right into his flatmate in the kitchen, so focused was he on the phone.
"Ow, what's gotten into you?" John gingerly rubbed his forehead where it had bashed Sherlock's chin. "A case?"
Sherlock clapped his hands to John's biceps and squeezed. "Fingers, John! We leave in five minutes!" He strode to his bedroom and slammed the door closed. John smiled and went to grab his shoes and jacket.
The case wasn't exceptional but it was enough to hold Sherlock's interest. A curious dog had brought the fingers back to its home and the owner called the police. A print revealed they each belonged to two white male stock brokers who worked for the same firm. Where the rest of their bodies were was anyone's guess. The fingers weren't that old. Anderson said they'd been severed between twelve and fifteen hours ago and Sherlock, who ran his own tests with Molly because he didn't trust Anderson's methods, grudgingly agreed.
Donovan checked local hospitals to see if anyone missing digits had come in. Sherlock was less optimistic. He suggested they check the morgue. Neither morgue nor hospital had any bodies with missing fingers. Questioning the employees of the broker firm yielded the names of two men who'd been absent for a few days last week: Samuel Ashton and Peter Blite. More questions and searches and they followed the trail led to a gym both men attended and a trainer there who was into homemade steroids. The steroids led to drugs and the drugs led to an unsavory fellow named Milo Kovac who liked lacing the steroids he sold with additives to keep his victims coming back for more. Milo had a police record for domestic battery and had been arrested before for fighting. Sherlock was certain Milo knew what happened to Ashton and Blite.
"Two muscle-bound addicts in need of a fix? They come knocking at his door, demanding drugs. Milo says they're not ready, things get out of hand. Milo overpowers them. Maybe he meant to kill them, maybe not. Maybe the fingers were a warning to someone? I don't have enough detail."
John hummed in agreement. "Anyone who purposely gets people addicted to this shite can't be entirely stable upstairs." He tapped this side of his head.
The case had been a whirlwind and only a two and a half days after the finger discovery, John and Sherlock were sitting by the window in a little café on Thurloe, keeping an eye out for Milo. He was due to walk by outside any moment. The Homeless Network had been keeping tabs on Milo for a few days. Every day around four in the afternoon he popped in to the Starbucks directly across the road to get his coffee. John had a paper cup of tea in his hand and his loaded gun in his jacket pocket. Sherlock hadn't ordered anything. The only thing he wanted was to solve the case.
They weren't sure which direction Milo was going to come from, so both men were keeping a keen eye on the street. Sherlock's knee was bouncing up and down under the table, anticipation taut in every line of his body. John tried to look calmer, but the thrum of the impending confrontation filled him to the brim. He opened and closed his fist and had to smash down the wild grin that was threatening to split his face. Sherlock could barely sit still. He shifted in his chair. He looked out the window. He drummed his fingers along the table. This was the calm before the storm. The clank-clank as they went up the roller coaster. The careful lining up of hapless prey in the cross hairs. Delighted anticipation lit their veins and they were coiled springs, ready to leap into action.
"There he is." Sherlock said, sitting up a little straighter. John sipped his tea and looked out the window. Milo Kovac looked like the human version of a bulldog, a bit brawny and bowlegged.
"Looks a little worse for wear, yeah?" John said.
Even from here they could see a livid purple bruise on Milo's face and John would have bet a month's wages that the man's knuckles were bloody with defensive wounds from getting into it with Blite and Ashton. Milo glanced around as he walked, looking shifty. He pulled his black leather jacket further up around his neck as if he was trying to hide his face. He wore tight blue jeans and leather boots. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Guilty as the day was long and no doubt an avid motorbike rider.
"Come on, John!" Sherlock said, rising. "The game is on!" He darted out the door, John right on his heels. An officer in plainclothes was approaching Milo from the opposite direction on the pavement. He halted, narrowing his eyes at the copper. He peered around, agitated. His watery gaze landed on Sherlock and John, trying to look like normal pedestrians crossing the road. Milo whipped around. Two more officers in plainclothes were in the crowd and Milo seemed to pick them out. Despite the lack of uniforms, something must have clicked in his brain. He darted off the pavement and into the road, running to the other side as fast as possible.
"Shit!" John hissed. They galloped after Milo. Cars screeched to a halt and horns blared as they ran across the road, ignoring the cars, and flew up the pavement. Pedestrians leaped to the side as Milo made a hard left onto Exhibition Road and seconds later, John and Sherlock pounded around the corner after him. For a moment, they lost him. People wandered about, sitting outside cafés, chatting on the phone, or window shopping. A few cars drove carefully around the milling people and a couple police vehicles were parked, empty and idling.
"Where?!" Sherlock snarled, peering around. He spun in a full circle, his coat flying up around him.
"There." John pointed at a figure getting on a blue and black motorcycle. Milo had put a helmet on but the jeans and leather jacket gave him away. He kicked the Yamaha to life. "No!" John said. "He's getting away."
"No, he's not." Sherlock snarled. He strode up to one of the empty police cars, opened the door, and dropped into the driver's seat. John skidded around to the other side and jumped into the passenger side. Sherlock punched the pedal before he had the door closed and the car leaped forward.
Milo drove on the wrong side of the road, blew through a red light, and turned east onto Cromwell. Sherlock did the same.
"Whoa!" John yelped. He crammed his seat belt into the buckle. A flurry of honking sounded after them. Sherlock paid it no mind. He was a man on a mission. He had a crazy smile on his face as the speedometer needle went higher and higher. John fumbled with the panel of dials, trying to find the one that worked the siren. Milo weaved in and out of the cars. The police car, much too large to weave like the motorcycle, got held back quickly.
"The siren, John!" Sherlock bellowed.
"Hang on, I'm trying, I‒" He hit a switch and the siren blared to life. Cars shifted out of the way very slowly. Sherlock took it upon himself to drive up onto the empty median and gun it, kicking up a trail of dust and pebbles under the tires.
"Excellent!" John growled. They gained on the motorcycle. As they left the city, Cromwell widened into the M4. By now, more police cars were following them. A radio crackled.
The voice was laced with static until the very end when they heard, "‒do you copy? What happened?"
John hissed and picked up the radio, fumbling it in his sweating hand. He couldn't think of anything to say, until… "Uh, everything's under control. Situation normal."
"Repeat?"
John kept talking. "Everything's fine. We're fine‒we're all fine here, now, thank you. How are you?"
"Repeat!? Who is this? What's your badge number?" The voice asked.
John turned the radio off and ignored it. "Boring conversation anyway."
Sherlock snorted. By now they were driving a solid thirty miles or so over the posted limit. More police cars were behind them but they were dropping further back. It seemed the officers weren't as willing to be as reckless as a genius detective as his blogger.
There were fewer cars as they got away from the city and Sherlock pressed harder on the pedal. The car roared and John grinned. This was downright fun. They caught each other's eye and smiled like madmen. Adrenaline pumped in their veins. Excitement vibrated along their muscles. It was dangerous and wonderful. Just the two of them against the rest of the world. Their hearts pounded as they honed in on their quarry.
A shadow fell over the car and John leaned forward, glancing up out of the windscreen. A sleek black helicopter pivoted and wheeled out of sight through the blue sky. "A helicopter?" He said.
"Fat, nosy git." Sherlock muttered.
John blinked. There was only one person Sherlock described like that. He looked at his friend incredulously. "Mycroft is involved now?!"
"Of course!" Sherlock thundered. "Can't stay out of my life! Has to know, has to be in my bloody business!"
The M4 turned into the M25. They still had Milo in their sights but, annoyingly, couldn't seem to gain on him. Every time they got closer, he'd give them the finger and speed up or change lanes. Flashing police cars were all around them and aside from some angry yelling at Milo through a megaphone, they couldn't get him to stop either.
"This is barmy. Someone needs to put a stop to this!" John scowled and pulled his gun from his inside pocket. Milo was in the middle lane and he and Sherlock were in the left lane. Sherlock glanced down at the gun.
"Are you going to shoot him?!" He blurted.
"No." John said in a grim tone. "I'm going to shoot his fuel tank. Drive as steady as you can."
"Okay." Sherlock gripped the wheel tight.
John rolled down the window. The wind clobbered his face. The scent of asphalt, oil, and car exhaust tinged the air. He held the gun up, taking aim. The wind made it hard to hold steady, and he used both hands to keep the weapon still. A couple of the closer police cars fell back at the sight of the gun. The megaphone blared again but they ignored it. Just a few more inches…"Speed up." John commanded. Sherlock did. The shot lined up.
Gunfire ripped through the air. Brown liquid started pouring out of the motorcycle. Milo glanced behind himself.
"Ha!" Sherlock laughed out loud. "Got the fuel tank! Oh, excellent John! Spot on!"
John smiled. He sort of didn't want the chase to end. This was the most fun he'd had in weeks.
What few civilian cars they saw were staying in the far lane, well out of the way. A single police car was trailing behind and just to the left of the stolen vehicle. They must have closed off the road somehow. There was more shouting from the megaphone: a very irate man yelling at them to stop and pull over.
"No." Sherlock said to John, answering the megaphone man. "After all this? We almost have this idiot. I'm not stopping now!"
John suppressed a giggle. He glanced at Sherlock and they both burst into laughter.
Up ahead, police cars were parked on the shoulder. As Milo approached, one officer appeared to fling something into the road with a sort of underhand motion.
A spike strip.
Milo zoomed across it, blowing both his tires. He instantly lost control of the motorcycle and careened into a police car.
"Slow down!" John yelled. He put his hands up as if he could block anything.
"Too late!" Sherlock shouted. They too slammed over the spike strip. There was a mighty whumpf noise and both seat belts locked as the car decelerated fast and started to spin. Sherlock slammed the wheel to the right as the car spun, trying to control it. It made three complete circles across the road before it rolled to a stop nose-first in a shallow ditch. Both airbags popped open after a second and John swore in surprise.
"Ow. Bloody, fucking‒" He whacked at the bag crumpled on his face. "Sherlock?"
No answer. John smashed the bag away in panic.
"Sherlock, are you alright?!"
"…yes." His voice was dull and soft. "Oh hell, my nose…." He lifted out of the airbag, clutching his bloody nose.
The helicopter's faint chakka-chakka-chakka sounded overhead. Officers converged on the car, tearing open the doors.
Shouts of "Get out of the car!" and "hands up!" assaulted their ears. Sherlock fumbled with the seat belt and stumbled out of the car, hands in front of him.
"He's hurt!" John shouted. "Be careful!"
John was ignored. Two officers grabbed Sherlock by the lapels and yanked him away. He looked back at John. The doctor was getting out of the car, arguing with the officers. His hands were up in surrender and a red gash was torn just above his left eyebrow. Blood oozed down his temple. Sherlock gasped. He was hurt!
"John!" Sherlock called over his shoulder.
"Shut up!" One of his captors yelled. Sherlock did. None of these police looked familiar. Where were Lestrade and Donovan? He glanced up. The helicopter was hovering, watching over everything. Sherlock scowled at it before he was slammed down, bent over the hot bonnet of a police car. His rights were shouted at him and cuffs tightened around his wrists.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes!" He shouted. "I work with Lestrade!"
He was ignored. The police were pretty upset with them both and arguing seemed like a bad idea. John was bent over beside him. His head wound dripped onto the metal. Rage bubbled in Sherlock's belly.
"He's hurt!" Sherlock snarled, trying and failing to stand up. "Call an ambulance!"
"It's not that bad, Sherlock." John said. "Just hold still!"
They were both shouted at some more. "Don't cuff us!" John said. "We work with Lestrade! Where is he?"
"Shut up!"
In a way, Sherlock couldn't really blame the officers. They'd lead them on a wild chase in a stolen vehicle‒their stolen vehicle. He wasn't surprised they were peeved.
John was shoved into the back seat of a squad car. Sherlock was shoved in after him. The door slammed and suddenly everything was much quieter. A few meters away, Milo was being stuffed into the back of another car.
"John, your head." Sherlock said, staring at the gash.
"It's fine." John said. "Barely feel it." He glanced at Sherlock's face. "Your nose, though." Crimson dripped down his lips and chin and he was breathing out of his mouth.
"Broken?" John asked grimly.
"Don't think so." Sherlock's voice was a bit stuffy sounding.
An officer got into the car and started it up. "You boys are in a world of trouble." He said, making a U-turn and heading back to London. John and Sherlock didn't say anything but they shared a little smile. Even bloodied and bruised it had been a hell of a fun ride.
Sherlock and John were brought through a door at Scotland Yard and deposited directly into a holding cell. The little room, made of reinforced white chain link, smelled of damp and regret. A wooden bench was against one wall and against the other, a metal all-in-one toilet and sink. They were uncuffed and given tissues to clean the blood off their faces before the officer locked the door behind them.
"Feel okay?" John asked. His voice echoed a bit. The holding cell was a smaller, portioned off area of a larger room. The walls and floor were beige. A unoccupied desk was in the far corner and beyond that they knew there was a reinforced door that lead further into Scotland Yard's offices. "Any sharp pain anywhere?"
"No." Sherlock's voice was still stuffy. He rolled his head back and forth on his shoulders to ease the budding tension. "My elbow hurts a bit. I banged it on the door when we were spinning and it might be bruised. I'll be sore tomorrow but I'm okay. How about you?"
John nodded. "Same, more or less. I'm sore too." The seat belt had pulled taut and pressed hard into his scarred shoulder. Already his back was starting to stiffen up and he put his hands on his hips, rotating from the waist to try and loosen the muscles. The gash on his eyebrow didn't feel too deep and he'd cleaned off most of the blood with the tissues. His right knee felt funny and he wondered if he banged it on something. He forced down a smile. This whole thing had been absurd. He bit his lips and glanced up, catching Sherlock's eye. They stared at each other for a moment before Sherlock erupted into giggles and soon they were both laughing so hard that their eyes were watering.
"That was," John gasped, "one of the most ridiculous things I've ever done!"
Sherlock chuckled, leaning against the chain link. "And you invaded Afghanistan."
John giggled some more and Sherlock's laughing baritone rumbled, echoing in the empty cell. The door by the empty desk creaked on its hinges and Sherlock's giggles devolved into growling groans as Mycroft strolled into view.
"What do you want?" He hissed.
He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit. Pearly pinstripes ran up and down his trousers and fitted waistcoat. A sky blue shirt was buttoned to his throat and his navy blue, diamond patterned tie was tucked impeccably in place. A silver pocket watch chain dangled from button to waistcoat pocket and it glinted in the watery fluorescent light. His royal blue coat was unblemished and unbuttoned and an infuriating little prim smile was on his face.
"Just visiting the jailbirds." He said pleasantly. "What an exciting afternoon!"
"Did you come just to gloat?" Sherlock snapped. He paced behind the bars like a caged creature, his eyes fixed on his brother.
Mycroft didn't speak. He just managed to look a bit more fluffed up and smug. "Stealing a police car, Sherlock? Goodness gracious. Mummy would have fits if she heard."
Sherlock whirled on his heel and bared his teeth in anger. "Get to the bloody point of it! Why are you here?"
"Tsk, tsk." Mycroft glanced over him, disapproving. He raised a brow. "That's no way to speak to someone who could potentially bail you out of there."
"We don't need your help." Sherlock turned away from him in a huff.
The door creaked open again and fast, angry footsteps sounded before Lestrade burst into view.
"What the bloody hell was that?!" He snapped. He stared at them both, amazed and speechless. "They told me a pair of nutters stole a copper car but I didn't think for a second it'd be you two!" He shook his head. "What the fuck were you thinking? No‒tell me there's been a mistake."
"It wasn't so bad." John said. His voice was a bit timid. "No one died."
Lestrade let out an exasperated breath. "Let's make a list‒and please correct me if I'm wrong. He held up his hand, preparing to tick points off on his fingers. "Tell me you two didn’t steal a police car," his index finger popped up, "speed down the bleeding M25," another finger, "fire a rutting gun in moving traffic!" A third finger, "and destroy said stolen vehicle's tires on a spike strip?!" He looked between them, horror wrought on his face. Mycroft shook his head, making a show of looking forlorn and somber.
"To be completely correct," Sherlock said after a pause, "we were speeding down the M4 as well as the M25."
"Sherlock!" Lestrade roared, stepping up to the chain link. He fisted his hands in his hair and growled. "That's not okay! Do you know how much damage you two caused? The car might have to be totaled! You wasted hours of police time! You both should go to jail for this!"
Lestrade was pretty angry and both John and Sherlock was glad there were was metal separating them. He looked like he wanted to punch something.
"We caught Milo." John said, trying to find a bright side.
Greg wasn't convinced. "Oh sure, you caught him, but you caused a bloody traffic jam‒nearly got people killed!"
"Please," Sherlock scoffed. He rolled his eyes. "The M25 is backed up on a good day, and no one was in any danger of getting killed."
Lestrade crossed his arms. He looked at the floor for a few moments, gathering his patience. He inhaled sharply through his nose and lifted his head. "Okay, John, what if the bullet went stray? Hit a driver?"
Sherlock looked personally insulted. "That would never happen‒John is a crack shot. He got the petrol tank in one try." Sherlock beamed, proud of his friend.
John shrugged and rubbed his jaw, remembering the punctured tank fondly. "It was a pretty good shot, wasn't it."
Lestrade didn't seem to agree. "John, give me your gun."
His mouth dropped open. "What?" His voice was high with disbelief. "No. I need that! So many people try to kill Sherlock‒"
Mycroft made an amused sound in his throat.
"‒We need it for self-defense." John finished.
Lestrade wasn't moved by this reasoning. "I don't give a toss." He shook his head. "Give me your gun. Now, or I really will put you both in jail."
John sighed and pulled his Sig out of his jacket. He passed it through the little metal slot in the door. Greg took it.
"I should leave you in there to stew, see if you still think this was a good idea in a week."
"I respectfully disagree, Officer." Mycroft said. "On the contrary, sending them back to Baker Street might be just the thing." He gave his brother a syrupy smile.
"Mycroft." Sherlock growled, his voice warning.
He continued to smile and said, "I think Mrs. Hudson would have a thing or two to say about what happened today, hm?"
John swore and Sherlock all but threw himself at the chain link. "Don’t bring her into this!
Greg looked confused. "Mrs. Hudson? Your landlady?" He drew up an image of the Baker Street home owner and remembered her talking at him about 'doing your colors.'
"Oh yes." Mycroft said, somehow even more smug than before. "Release them into her tender care, Gregory, and an event like this shan't happen again for a long, long time."
Greg still looked confused. "Why?" He shrugged.
Mycroft looked like every Christmas had come early (if he cared a whit about Christmas, that was).
"Because, Gregory‒," he began.
"‒Mycroft." Sherlock snarled.
"‒Stop, you git!" John snapped.
Mycroft did no such thing. "She'll bare their bums, take them over her knee, and give them each a sound spanking." He looked at his brother with a superior expression.
A beat of complete silence passed.
Greg shook his head. "Wait‒what?" It was clear he hadn't been expecting this. It was like someone had handed him a sandwich made of nails and told him to take a bite.
"You heard me." Mycroft said, raising a brow in delighted Schadenfreude. "Isn't it delicious? I speak the truth and anything they say to convince you otherwise is a lie."
"You've had your fun." Sherlock hissed. His neck was pink with humiliation. "Now get the fuck out."
"Tut, tut, dear brother." Mycroft said. "She can teach you a lesson on minding your manners as well, I think."
"Out!" Sherlock shouted.
Mycroft laughed low in his throat, satisfied with himself for having irritated his brother so much. He turned and headed for the exit. Greg, still looking confused, glanced at Sherlock and John and then followed him out.
John sighed and sank to the little bench in the cell. "I could have lived the rest of my life knowing that Greg didn't know that."
Sherlock clenched his fists. "That insufferable little…" He growled. "When we get out of this rutting cell I'm going to end up right back in it for fratricide."
"Do you think he'll really tell her?" John asked.
Sherlock stared down at him like he was an idiot. "What do you think, John?"