Well, I mean–

Barely an hour had passed before Sherlock’s mobile rang, making Sherlock freeze in place and John’s head snap up to lock eyes with him. The detective whipped out the phone and checked the caller ID.

“It’s Mycroft,” he confirmed.

John’s brow arched. “That was fast–”

Dean! ” Sherlock called, cutting off John’s comment as he took long strides toward the kitchen.

Lestrade was more than a little frustrated, having drilled every single guard who’d had shifts since the day before, and all of them swore up and down that nothing had happened. None had let anyone into the crime scene for any reason since last Lestrade had been there. Storming back up the stairs, Lestrade swore that if Sherlock didn’t have a good reason for this…

Well, he didn’t know what he was gonna do, but he was sure it would come to him.

All feelings of exasperation were out the window as soon as Lestrade stormed in to find Sherlock flat on the floor near an air vent in the wall, giving him an almost feral look. He quirked an eyebrow at the detective until his gaze wandered to the small figure in front of him.

The small, shouting figure.

We totally haven’t not written this exact thing out already…

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