The Hacker's Service

The Bomb

Chapter 1: The Bomb 

(John P.O.V.)

"Violent explosions took place earlier today at the Victoria and Albert Museum. Behind me is the destruction the explosion left as firemen try their hardest to put it out before it spreads. The bomb damaged the museum beyond repair. It is in complete ruins. The police are unsure about who is responsible so early on in the investigation, but a terrorist attack is rumoured on the streets by onlookers and survivors. It is confirmed that over eighty nine people have died of severe burns and we can assume that that number is only going to go up. As well as this, hundreds of people who had been within a two metre proximity are injured, and five men-- all holding places in the British Government-- are said to still be missing..."

I look at the smiling woman on my laptop screen in utter shock (how can she be smiling? Coping mechanism...?) and disbelief. Sherlock and I were meant to meet a client there for a case earlier today, however they cancelled due to a family problem and we were given a day off. I suck in a deep breath. We could've been killed.

"Sherlock!" I yell, my eyes fixated on the screen. "Sherlock!"

I can hear his heavy steps bound up the steps two at a time. When he enters, he has his precious revolver in his hand and a haggard expression on his face that I've become accustomed to. It's as if he expects to be faced with something bloody and gruesome. His hair is a mess of unruly curls that have been half brushed, half yanked at, and his scarf is dangling just barely across his shoulder. When he catches sight of me, his face relaxes like a fresh sheet of paper for a second before his eyebrows knot together and a small crease on the bridge of his nose appears. He frowns deeply at the smiley as if it had said something rude about his mummy.

"Where is it? Where's the murderer?" he frantically screams.

I manage to stifle a laugh with a steeped cough at the detective's more than dishevelled look.

"There was no murderer, was there?" he asks, lowering his gun slightly.

"Nope." 

Bored and slightly miffed, he turns around to go back to whatever the hell he was doing before in Ms. Hudson's kitchen. He was probably eating some of her scones. I'll get him to admit he loves them one day. But before I can tease him he had turned to leave and I had to grab his sleeve and pull him back. "Just look at this, would you?"

He squints at the glaring screen. "Terrorist attack. Boring, John. I don't want another boring case!"

He stomps his feet like a petulant child, his squirming causing his tight shirt to bunch up around his torso slightly. He expertly curls his gun around his long finger before he lets loose bronze bullets at the infuriatingly bright smiley in rapid succession without warning. I can hear him groan despite my hands muffling the sounds of gunshots entering my ears. Smoke twists in wispy tendrils at the newly made bullet holes when he's done, and I see him take out a small knife.

I stand abruptly from my comfortable place in front of the computer screen and pull my coat from the hook's restraints before tugging it on. I call, "Grab your coat, Sherlock. Now, we're going," before running down the stairs quickly in case he accidentally turns the knife on me.

For an adult sociopath, Sherlock could be such a bloody child.