Baker Street Boys

15(iv)

*still continuing from previous chapt.

*The following chapter takes place a bit after The Blind Banker and is a bit in an Alternate Universe just since John has not yet been to Sarah's house in my story.

*have a lovely day :)

Chapter 4

Sherlock shook his head, ruffling his curly black hair as he lifted himself off the pillow with great effort. He couldn't tell exactly what was pulling him down, be it the lasting nicotine patch effects, his usual sleep deprivation (two hours today, less than the usual), or these new thoughts-

"No, that's not it, no," he wiped his face with his cold hand and let out a sigh. "Off to work," he set his jaw in a line and struggled over to the closet. He blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the blinding fluorescent light. He picked out a blue suit with a white button-up shirt, nothing special, deciding that his outfit was actually the least of his worries today.

Within just a few minutes, he had washed up, changed, swung into his coat, and grabbed his cell phone.

"Here we go," he muttered as he trotted out of his Baker Street flat and towards New Scotland Yard. He walked in comfortable silence, enjoying his the solitude he had grown accustomed to when walking the London streets at such an hour.

Despite being so eternally rushing, he did sometimes like to escape his boredom by walking early in the morning. There were usually no texts from Lestrade, calls from Mycroft, or even passerby he had to deal with. He felt, almost, at peace when he was alone.

His mind flitted from one thing to another as he mentally scanned his to-do list. Obtain the crime scene samples from Scotland Yard. See if there are any interesting cases. Go back to the flat and test the samples. He sighed. Dull.

Yet, often, the gift of silence was easily translated to a curse. When it was too silent, his mind had recently started to wander from where it needed to be. He all ways told others he only kept vital information on his hard drive, but that didn't mean that petty ideas such as easy cases or emotions, even, couldn't slip into his brain every so often.

He kicked the leaves up, watching them fall down to the street only to be rustled by London's biting wind. If there was one thing that worried Sherlock Holmes, it was mismanagement of his brain. He needed his command center to be solely focused on the task at hand, but right now it was doing anything but that.

His thoughts were interrupted by the dinging of a bicycle bell. He jumped out of the way of the cyclist, scowling at having his silence shattered. He looked up, noticing that he had arrived at New Scotland Yard. He glanced down at his watch, seeing that it had only taken him thirty minutes to walk there.

He grabbed the jangling keys he had pick-pocketed from Lestrade and shoved open the door. He passed by the familiar receptionist area and sauntered into the lab. He scanned rows of carefully labeled evidence, sneering at the thought of the forensic "professional" who had-usually wrongly, he might add-labeled the many ziploc bags and tupperware containers.

"Ah, there we are," he recognized the bag of white powder only by the date of the crime. Guess it's good that I read the obituaries in the paper the other day. I'll have to tell John not to cancel it just yet. Oh, Anderson, will you ever learn how to properly label evidence? He scowled, the mere thought of the man putting him off. He held up the bag, examining it in the light coming through the window. This is clearly not table salt-the fool! That's obviously why the murderer used it for this particular victim. How is Anderson one of the top forensic officers? He clearly knows nothing. If he were the victim, he would've died, too, the idiot. Would serve him right.