My Significant Other?

Chapter 8-Getting There

Sherlock jumped into a cab, John followed suit. "King's Cross Station," Sherlock demanded. John looked at him. "Oh, John make the connections. 'Magical' trains and nine. Nine and three quarters." John's eyes widened as the pieces clicked.

"Why there?" John inquired. Sherlock sighed.

"Something on that paper," was all Sherlock muttered. He turned away from John and looked out the window. The paper must've been a note. Shelby looked concerned, for a small amount of time, but still concerned. Sherlock knew that look. There was sentiment in it. Then, he remembered.

The time when he was twelve and broke his arm when he fell out of tree. He was playing Pirates and had wanted to get out of the tree, wanting to see Redbeard. Mycroft was reading a book and only sometimes playing along. Sherlock accidently tripped and landed on his arm. Mycroft rushed over. His normally emotionless face showed that face. The face of sentiment. It was only there for a few seconds before returning to it's normal state. Sherlock had been taken to the hospital and forced to wear a cast. It was completely terrible.

Also, it was the face John had when Sherlock was in danger.

What was that emotion?

Before Sherlock could find out, the cab stopped at King's Cross Station. Sherlock jumped out, leaving John to pay the cabbie. Sherlock had to find out what was going on.

Was Shelby hurt? Sherlock thought. Instantly Sherlock's face filled with disgust. Like I care.

But, what if you do? A small voice called to him.

I do NOT!

She understands you, Sherlock. Maybe, she feels the same way.

She does NOT! SHUT UP! He thought as hard as he could. He had no feelings. Especially for Shelby. Shelby was just another sociopath in this world. Who wasn't a psychopath. Probably the only one to understand him. SHUT UP! Sherlock sighed. He stopped at the doors of the station and rubbed his temples. John caught up, panting a bit.

"What was that? You were angry and crazed at the same time. What's wrong?" John asked, concern clear on his face.

"Nothing," Sherlock spat. He didn't want concern. John's eyebrow quirked. Sherlock never snapped like this. "Sorry, I'm just..." Sherlock searched for something to say. "Tired. I didn't sleep well." He lied.

"Okay," John responded warily.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock clarified. John sighed and shook his head.

"I know." Sherlock turned and put his hand on the door handle to open it. Suddenly, John's hand was on his shoulder. "But, if there's anything bothering you, tell me."

"I know."

"No," Sherlock turned to look at John. "Seriously, Sherlock. If something is bothering you, I can help you." John's eyes were filled with devotion. Something Sherlock had never expect from anyone else other than John. John cared.

"Okay," Sherlock whispered and smiled. John was his best friend. He might understand these emotions Sherlock was feeling. "Let's go." They both straightened up and walked in. The place was empty. Normally, there was something going on here. Sherlock started to run to platform nine, John pursued. When they started coming close, Sherlock slowed and started creeping. John padded behind him. Voices echoed through the barren station. One was definitely Shelby's, the other was male. They got closer and could make out what they were saying.

"I know you're not the one who wrote the note," Shelby responded, loud and clear.

"I know that," The man replied. "I'm here to give your next clues, as I said before."

"And I asked, who do you work for?" Shelby defended.

"I can't tell you. Anyways, here's your clue:

"Potato's have it and so do you. Well, actually you have two. It attracts tourists seeking thrill. But, sometimes it gets too high and they get chills. Find the red one and you'll get the clue. Lose and someone might turn blue."

"How do I know you're not lying?" Shelby demanded.

"You know me, Shelby." Shelby became silent. She must've known who he was. Sherlock peeked around the corner. The man's back was to him, so Sherlock couldn't see his face. He wore a trench coat, a fedora and had a suit under it. Shelby was looking away, guilt etched in her face.

"You're right. I'm sorry." Shelby looked up, guilt fading. A smirk took it's place.

"For what?" The man asked, confused. John had shuffled next to Sherlock to see what was happening.

"This." Shelby uttered. Suddenly, Joan erupted from a doorway next to them. She hit the man in the head with the butt of her gun before he could even comprehend what was going on. The man fell. Sherlock and John walked in.

"Well, that was tedious," Joan stated. Shelby nodded.

"That was amazing," John whispered.

"It happens all the time," Shelby responded. "Joan is merely being loyal."

"So, what about this man?" Sherlock asked, trying to change the topic.

"We get answers," Shelby stated. She reached down and put cuffs on him. Then Joan lifted him up, without struggle, and slung him over her shoulder. John looked even more amazed. Sherlock was a little impressed. "You guys follow Joan. I have to call someone." Shelby whipped out her phone. Joan started walking to another part in the station. Sherlock and John followed, John was still impressed on how Joan was able to grab a full grown man and keep him on her shoulder without any struggle. Joan didn't complain and muttered to herself on how Shelby did this every time.

"Do you need any help?" John inquired, helpful as always.

"No," Joan replied. "But, thanks for asking." John looked at Sherlock, pleading for him to go up and talk to Joan. Sherlock smiled and nodded. John smiled and ran up to Joan. Sherlock walked behind them. They started talking about their jobs and other things that Sherlock didn't care about. All Sherlock could think of was that Shelby knew the man. Did she care about him? For once, Sherlock didn't understand what he was feeling.