It doesn't make sense.
It doesn't make sense.
The window...
The door...
The old man...
Why?
Why would he break the window if the door was unlocked?
Why didn't the old man hear anything?
It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense! IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE!
Sherlock was ripped out of his mind palace by the sound of glass shattering and a girlish shriek. He flung his eyes open, only to find a broken petri dish and a horrified looking Molly Hooper standing before him.
"You did it again!" she shrieked.
Sherlock stared at the broken glass for a moment before saying, "Terribly sorry. You'll want to clean that up," and swiftly heading toward the door.
"Wait!" Molly called, "Where are you going?"
Sherlock stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, trying to control his anger towards Hooper for interrupting his train of thought. "I need to heighten my thought process," he said.
Molly opened her mouth to protest but he'd already gone before she could say anything. "Oh... not again!" she muttered to herself as she jogged over to her desk and grabbed her phone, quickly locating Mycroft's contact and pressing the call button.
It rang only once before he answered. "What is it this time?"
"Oh, well... he was mumbling to himself about how it-"
"The phrase, Miss Hooper."
"Oh... um, 'I need to heighten my thought process.'"
There was a short pause before Mycroft mumbled, "Damn," and hung up.
Sherlock threw his coat on as he strode down the hallway, knowing full well that Molly would have phoned Mycroft by this point. That gave him approximately 15 minutes to get what he needed and vanish.
Mycroft hung up on Hooper before quickly dialing his assistant, Anthea. It rang only twice before she answered.
"What now?"
"Sherlock."
"Again? He's been doing that a lot lately."
"No. It's different this time." Silence. "Just follow him."
"Yes, sir."
Mycroft hung up and began pacing. It had been a long time since Sherlock had been this stuck on a case.
Sherlock bolted up the stairs of his building. He ran all the way up to the 5th floor before turning his key in the lock and opening the door. He stepped inside his flat and slammed the door behind him. The place was tiny. There was barely enough room for his skull or experiments. Sherlock made his way over to the dresser, nearly tripping over his violin case as he did so. He opened his sock drawer and pulled out the only pair of stripped socks he owned and headed back towards the door, pausing when he heard footsteps. He checked his watch. 10 minutes. Anthea was getting faster. Knowing that he couldn't leave through the door, he stumbled over to the window, opened it about a third of the way, and slipped through the gap onto the fire escape.
