The Undefined Criminal - A Sherlock Fanfic

"Grab and Go" Job

       The sounds of footsteps and heavy breathing echo through the tight alleyways of hidden London streets. Not exactly how I thought my hundredth "grab-and-go" job to go, but I guess the cops were gonna catch on at some point. Though it is strange that these are detectives... Anyway, my adrenaline kicks in as I roam the next corner. A crowd of people gather outside a shop on the main road ahead of me. My route couldn't be easier. If I just outrun them-
Nope. Two men in police uniforms turn in my route from the main road. In a swift effort to keep my speed, I slide to the ground and turn in another direction. As I pick up speed again I can feel my pursuers on my heels. I need a new plan. Think. Make these seconds count. Think.
Time slows to almost still. My mind can only think so fast. What are my options? Another alleyway to my right. Service door to my left that I would have to hope to be unlocked. Nothing works! I can't keep going straight without the cops catching up. Options. I need more options! My breathing slows, my mind makes the world a blur. It knows what I have to do. I cast my gaze ahead of me along the alleyway. One object remains clear. A stack of crates, ten or fifteen of them. That's it! For my last few moments of thought, I signal my arm to reach forward and tell my legs to go faster...
       Everything speeds up again as I leave the eternity of my mind. My arm shoots forward and grabs a crate. My increasing speed sends my arm forward and pulls down the whole stack of crates, and they came toppling over the men behind me. I turn onto another street to lose them when I ran straight into a wall. Who blocks off a bloody alleyway? I asked myself as I try to climb the solid brick wall.
       "Stop right there!" A deep voice calls from behind me. The voice is breathing heavily. I could practically see the sweat dripping down his forehead from the way he was panting. I hear another set of footsteps trudge around the corner. This one's much more tired than the other. You could tell by the way he tried to speak, but couldn't get a single word out between all of the wheezing and gasping for breath.
"Ok, hands over your head and turn around slowly," the deep voice continues
More footsteps arrive. All of them are out of breath.
I have no other options. My arms raise to my head, and my feet slowly maneuver my body around to face the men. Five of them. Three have guns pointed at me, of course. Another, average height, graying hair, quite tan for London, must be the head of this division, starts walking towards me with handcuffs in his hand-
Everything goes still. Two men, the first to arrive, I recognize them in an instant. On the right, a short man, average weight, heavier set though. Dirty blond hair that reeks of product. Black jacket with black leather patches. Broad shouldered, military man, but where was he stationed? The one on the left. Tall, pretty well built, pale, light green eyes. His hair was dark and curly, like it didn't have a specific place to be. Sure, his features aren't hard to mistake, but what brought it all home was the scarf. Dark blue wrapped in a classic loop. There was no mistake.
       "Well shit," I finally said.
       It's Sherlock Holmes.