Sherlock and John

The Shudder

Sherlock grabs his coat from behind his chair and buttons it up. He leaves the collar free, and pulls it up to his chin.

'For gods sake.. It's not even cold!' I grumble, slipping on a jacket. Sherlock looks at me, with the expression of an owner looking at their puppy which has just peed itself, and strides out of the door.

'Sherlock!' I shout, running after him. I slam the door and the whole house vibrates. I hear a faint tinkling sound, but I know that I can't investigate because if I am not quick. Sherlock will leave without me.

Seriously. He's done it several times before.

It's not even funny.

Many a time I've been a millisecond too late out the door, and have been greeted with the rear end of a taxi zooming off into the distance, with a familiar crop of untameable black hair occupying the back seat. This time though, I'm relieved to see Sherlock waiting, his foot pressed against the door, holding it open. The driver is slumped over the wheel, staring at his watch, obviously willing the seconds to pass just that little faster.

'Get in.' Says Sherlock, shifting over to the other side. He stares ahead, and I duck inside the taxi and shut the door.

'Where to?' The driver rasps. Sherlock mumbles a name, and quotes a postcode, and before long we are speeding down the road.

'So.' I say, trying to start a conversation. 'What's going on?' Most people wouldn't dream of getting into a taxi with someone who's lied to them so many times before and set off going to an unknown destination. But this is Sherlock we are talking about. He wouldn't have time to dream up a kidnapping plan what with all the cases he's taken on lately.

'We are tracking down the murderer.' Says Sherlock, his blue eyes shining over.

God. He's back in his mind palace again. I wonder what he has in there that keeps him so preoccupied. Ponies.. Unicorns. I shudder, and wrap my arms around my stomach.

'You're cold?' Sherlock asks, his eyes running over me. Well, it's not concern but I'll take what I can get.

'Yeah.' I lie. He sighs and leans forward and taps on the glass separating the two halves of the taxi.

'Driver. Can you turn the heating up?' He asks. We both hear a small grunt, and gradually warm air flows around the car. Maybe I was cold. Well, I'm much more comfortable now.

'Anyway,' Sherlock continues, 'as you know, last month we found that body in the broom closet of the museum.' I nod along, anticipating the moment when he turns on the intelligence and the information throws up out of him.

'Lestrade and his posse of idiots all thought it was the janitor. Yes?' He says, a sneer creeping into his tone. I nod again, fearful of what would happen if I said otherwise.

'Well, on the body I found a scrap of paper, I looked around and found similar scraps, all with the same density of paper and watermarks. I've spent ages trying to put them all together.' He says, shrugging his shoulders, as if putting together hundreds of identical pieces of paper together again was child's play. Well, to him it is.

He ruffles around his pocket and pulls out his phone, and swiped a few times, until he opens a file that has a single line of text on it.

London 11:34 Platform 8

'Its a train ticket!...right?' I say, looking up at Sherlock. He smirks, and tucks the phone back into his pocket.

'Yes. And that is where we are going today.'

'But we don't know what the culprit looks like!' I protest.

'Ah. But I know someone who does!' Sherlock smiles, as he sits back in his chair.

And that is the most I can get out of him for the rest of the journey.