Johnlock; Rehab

Calm Before the Storm

JOHN

I had to work hard to keep up with Sherlock's quick strides. I followed a few steps behind him, jogging occasionally to win back lost ground.

"Can we slow down?" I heaved, but almost as soon as the words left my mouth, Sherlock came to an abrupt halt.

"Mycroft is here." He stated, staring through the windows of the Diogenes Gentlemen's Club. I had never been in a gentlemen's club before and was acutely aware of my tattered jeans and worn cream jumper. I already knew Sherlock was wearing a suit but I glanced across in his direction. He looked perfect for the part.

I followed the tapping footsteps of Sherlock's Oxford shoes through the elaborate front door. A man behind a deep mahogany reception desk nodded his greetings.

"Hi there." I replied, which won me an amused smirk from my colleague. Sherlock then proceeded to move his fingers in an elaborate dance. Sign language. I flushed red.

At the end of the brief sign language conversation the man behind the desk pointed to a large wooden door to our left. I nodded a hasty thanks before making a quick escape from the embarrassing situation. On passing through the doorway, I spotted Mycroft relaxing in a heavy, expensive leather armchair. When he noticed us, he returned the cake fork in his hands to its rightful place: next to a huge slice of black forest gateau.

"Brother Mine. Doctor Watson." He greeted us both in turn, smiling instead of offering us his hand to shake. He seemed to have no intention of getting up from the plush armchair so Sherlock and I sat on a similar leather sofa opposite him.

"I need your help. In fact, the whole country needs your help." Mycroft's resentment and Sherlock's smugness battled for dominance in the dark room. "I need you, undercover preferably, to investigate a suspicious terrorist individual. Her name is Arisha Petrov. Age 31. Born in Saint Petersburg but she moved to the United Kingdom last year. Since then she's moved property four times but she vanished earlier this week. MI6 have been keeping a close eye on her since she moved here and know we need you to locate her whereabouts."

He slid a blurry photograph across the coffee table between us. The woman had very dark brown hair, verging on black. She had deathly pale skin and a pinched face. However, her eyes were by far her most prominent feature; huge and deep mahogany coloured pools.

I listened, mouth agape to Mycroft talking. I couldn't believe this was real. I was talking about MI6 and terrorists and spying to a key government member. What was even more ludicrous was that I knew I was about to end up on an undercover mission to take down a probably trained assassin!

Sherlock and Mycroft talked for a further 40 minutes, establishing plans and agreements. For the most part I just sat in shock and listened, occasionally moving to pinch myself to check I wasn't dreaming.

Eventually, Sherlock grasped my attention by asking me a question. "Are you ok to accompany me, John?"

"Um- I- Of course." I stuttered, blinking.

Sherlock knotted his eyebrows quizzically. "Are you... sure?"

"Yes." I confirmed, more confident this time but still slightly breathless.

"Perfect." Mycroft smiled."I will see the both of you outside Baker Street tomorrow morning." He then paused to glance at his watch. "Six o'clock sharp." At that, he returned to his half eaten slice of gateau and paid us no further attention.

I was encouraged off the sofa by Sherlock gently tugging on my coat sleeve. "You coming?" he prompted. I smiled and let him lead me out of the club and back to 221 Baker Street.

We arrived at the door to the flat and I felt elation spreading through me. I never expected to return here, certainly not under such amazing circumstances. Sherlock whipped the keys out his front pockets and in a swift, practiced movement, flung the door open. The sound of vacuum cleaning mixed with incredibly loud Iron Maiden swirled towards us from inside. Sherlock laughed and shrugged at me.

"Mrs Hudson's favourite cleaning music." He explained, stepping through the door and making his way into the living room.

"Mrs Hudson." He greeted her. She continued her swift vacuuming movements in time with the guitar solo, her head rocking to the beat. "MRS HUDSON" Sherlock shouted again, causing her to jump out of her skin. Within moments she had leapt to the speaker and hit the off button.

"Sorry Sherlock." She smiled sheepishly, smoothing her wild hair back behind her ears. I didn't know how to reply. Therefore, I just stood beside Sherlock trying to conceal my ever growing grin.

For the rest of the evening Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and I sat in the living room chatting. Mrs Hudson was intrigued about my job and asked me continuous streams of questions. The only break I received was when she got up to make three cups of tea, reminding us that she wasn't our housekeeper along the way. However, as the darkness grew stronger, she decided it was time for her to get back home and I took this opportunity to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day. Sherlock showed to my bedroom, at the top of a flight of rackety stairs before returning to the living room. I don't know whether he slept or not but I hoped so; he would need all his energy in the morning.