Dead Ends, Literally and Figuratively (Sherlock's POV)

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"LESTRADE!" I bellowed as I tore into his office.

"Bloody hell mate!" Lestrade shot from his desk, "What the hell is so important that you need to come barging in and scaring me half to death?" He rubbed at his eyes and glared at me. They were bloodshot. Obviously up for hours trying to solve...nope, marriage problems. His ring had been recently removed and put back on, repeatedly. It now lay forlornly on his desk.

"I need to know everything about this picture!" I threw my phone at him and he barely managed to catch it.

"Why? He began to walk out of the room.

"John." Was all I offered in reply.

"Alrighty then." Lestrade gave me an odd glance but went right away to examining the picture.


We arrived at the Dolphin dockside warehouse a whole twenty minutes later. I raced out of Lestrade's cop car and into the warehouse. A lone chair sat in the back, the exact one from the picture.

"WE ARE TOO BLOODY LATE!" I felt close to tears, barely managing to shove my heart back down into the basement of my mind palace. I took a deep breath and examined the room. The ropes on the arms of the chair had been cut by a slender and sharp knife. A few strands of John's hair were stuck to the cushioned back of the chair. Obviously John by how the hair was concentrated a few inches from the top. The seat was now cold, meaning that they had left before the sun had set.

"Sherlock, you might want to see this..." Lestrade's voice echoed in the dark night. I aimed my flashlight about until I found the doorway and scuttled out of it. I caught sight of Lestrade's flashlight and quickly made my way over to him. He looked sickened and sad. A woman's corpse lay on the ground. I bent down and began my deductions.

"She's about seventeen years old...she was obviously turning away from the gun man who shot her, her back to him...smiling right before death from the crinkles on her face. Didn't feel much pain at all." Lestrade gazed in wonder as I crouched and crawled around her body, "There's a concealed knife sheathed on her thigh, hidden by the dress. There is still some sweat on her brow so she was running from something." I looked up.

"Maybe she was helping John escape and had believed that she had achieved freedom." I pondered to myself.

"Bloody hell, mate." Lestrade scratched his head. Looking down at the corpse. I noticed that she wore no shoes, her heels had fallen and tumbled away from her as she had died.

"Someone had fallen beside her...the dirt is disturbed greatly, so he struggled as someone came up behind them and grabbed him..." I could see it playing out now. I began to walk back to the warehouse, flashlight zigging and zagging across the ground.

"What are you looking for?" Lestrade trailed behind me.

"There!" I pointed at the tire tracks.

"Limo, long and light..." I deduced, but there was nothing else to be learned. I sighed in frustration when I saw that the tracks ended at the street.

"Damn it!" I exhaled. My control was slipping. I was going to break and turn into what Donovan knew I could be.

"Lestrade, find me one of Moriarty's men." A look of terror dawned in the Detective Inspector's eyes at the wrath in my voice.

"Why?" His voice even shook slightly, wavering in the stale, cold night air.

"I wish to question them, why else?" The outrage had disappeared from my voice, I was now calm, cool and collected. The Sherlock Holmes who John presented to the world in his blog.

"By our guidelines?" Lestrade questioned.

"Of course, Graham." I drawled.

"Greg." A small chuckle had entered his voice.

"Of course, Greg." I amended. I slid into the back seat of Lestrade's car while he hopped into the driver's seat. I had absolutely no intention of following their guidelines, I would kill everyone who got in my way of finding John.

We drove in utter silence for a while with annoying pop music blaring quietly from the radio. The town was falling asleep, lights clicking off and fewer and fewer pedestrians were on the streets. The clock was reaching midnight, Big Ben getting ready to chime.

"So...?" Lestrade started. He was never very good with silences, believing that all were awkward.

"Hmmm." I hummed. I delved into my mind palace, I reveled in silence for it allowed for no interruptions.

"What does this have to do with John?" Lestrade asked, his voice grabbing me and ripping me from my palace after a seemingly blink of seconds, "And where is that Doctor anyway?"

"Jim took him." I murmured angrily, "Do you mind? I prefer the silence to your grating voice." Of course his voice wasn't at all grating, but I-as John had told me on many accounts-had no people skills.

"Jim? Grating?" Lestrade's expression was both a glare and overflowing with worry as he gawked at me in the rearview mirror.

"Yes, George, Jim Moriarty! Do keep up!"

"Greg." He groaned, "Why the hell would Moriarty want John? Did you know that something like that would happen?" His tone was accusatory.

"We had been texting prior to John being taken. And Jim just wants John, nothing more and nothing less." Even I didn't believe that he didn't want more, though I knew that he didn't want less.

"Dear God, Sherlock!" Lestrade pulled up to the Yard.

"Do you have someone who works for Moriarty?" I leaped out before he could respond.

"How would I know?" Lestrade asked as he came around the car. But I was already sprinting away, on a man hunt to release my fury.

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