((I know this is an old prompt now but hopefully someone will read and enjoy anyway. :D))
Sherlock wasn't the only man to have mastered the art of hiding in plain sight. Every single day, right under everyone's noses, the lowest scum of London gathered together. Well lit street corners, cozy little cafe's, fancy restaurants and the back rooms of clubs packed tightly with writhing, grinding, ignorant bodies all played host to their vile transactions, and nobody was any the wiser. Nobody really used their eyes and ears, they couldn't detect the difference between a group of men celebrating a stag night and a drug trafficking ring. Nobody except Sherlock that is. He saw everything, heard everything, knew London and it's people like the back of his hand, and mostly left well alone.
That is until one of the idiots was unlucky enough to bring the attention of Sherlock Holmes onto themselves. Then they were fucked, royally fucked, because they had nowhere to run. He knew their little hidey holes better than they did themselves.
Someone had been a very bad boy, and the clock was ticking against them. Sherlock almost felt sorry for the poor bastard, blissfully unaware that his freedoms were soon about to be stripped away faster than a chippendales clothes.
Most unlawful doings were too banal for his attention. Sherlock only cared about the cases that had the capacity to beat him. He would be the first person to admit that he was no saint, he did what he did because he enjoyed it, and he couldn't care less if that was morally wrong. The force did need to do some of their own legwork anyway or the art of policing would soon fall into distant memory, and when he did finally bite the dust all hell would break loose. Not that any of his dear friends at Scotland Yard would admit to relying quite so heavily on their very own consulting detective. He couldn't blame them, if he swapped places with Lestrade he wouldn't either. It was quite frankly embarrassing.
Despite Sherlock's heartfelt desire to keep the police in training however, there were times where pride must be set aside, and he must resign himself to a boring case for the greater good of London. This was unfortunately one of those times. He did after all rely on Lestrade to keep him involved legally in cases, and wasn't quite ready to go vigilante just yet. When they truly needed him, Sherlock had to deliver, and so it was that he found himself with the detestable task of locating a kidnapped nineteen year old girl. Dull. One look at the evidence gathered so far made it glaringly obvious that they were all after the wrong man, but not one of the constables had listened to his advice, much to their detriment.
Oh well, at least they would be out of his way. He would be free to shadow his own suspect, find out where he was keeping the girl, and have the whole case neatly wrapped up in time for supper, when hopefully John could provide more entertainment than the day was so far promising. Lestrade would thank him, he'd play verbal tennis with a few of the officers who were easily provoked, and he could pretend he'd never sunk so low as to get involved in such an easy case. Mycroft would have a field day if he knew his little brothers talents were being used in such a fashion.
Sherlock shuddered briefly and fiddled with his scarf in an effort to pass it off as being chilled by the frigid November air as he exited the cab. Bright lights in garish shades of acid green and pink immediately assaulted his eyes, and it was an effort to maintain a furtively excited air as he approached the bouncers. Loud music was thumping out from the interior, loud even before he reached the door, and Sherlock was briefly distracted by the dispersal pattern of a small puddle on the pavement as the water bounced in time with the beat.
Until a scratchy voice broke through the mathematical algorithms speeding through his synapses. "Name?" Eloquent..
Complications Part 1
Sherlock wasn't the only man to have mastered the art of hiding in plain sight. Every single day, right under everyone's noses, the lowest scum of London gathered together. Well lit street corners, cozy little cafe's, fancy restaurants and the back rooms of clubs packed tightly with writhing, grinding, ignorant bodies all played host to their vile transactions, and nobody was any the wiser. Nobody really used their eyes and ears, they couldn't detect the difference between a group of men celebrating a stag night and a drug trafficking ring. Nobody except Sherlock that is. He saw everything, heard everything, knew London and it's people like the back of his hand, and mostly left well alone.
That is until one of the idiots was unlucky enough to bring the attention of Sherlock Holmes onto themselves. Then they were fucked, royally fucked, because they had nowhere to run. He knew their little hidey holes better than they did themselves.
Someone had been a very bad boy, and the clock was ticking against them. Sherlock almost felt sorry for the poor bastard, blissfully unaware that his freedoms were soon about to be stripped away faster than a chippendales clothes.
Most unlawful doings were too banal for his attention. Sherlock only cared about the cases that had the capacity to beat him. He would be the first person to admit that he was no saint, he did what he did because he enjoyed it, and he couldn't care less if that was morally wrong. The force did need to do some of their own legwork anyway or the art of policing would soon fall into distant memory, and when he did finally bite the dust all hell would break loose. Not that any of his dear friends at Scotland Yard would admit to relying quite so heavily on their very own consulting detective. He couldn't blame them, if he swapped places with Lestrade he wouldn't either. It was quite frankly embarrassing.
Despite Sherlock's heartfelt desire to keep the police in training however, there were times where pride must be set aside, and he must resign himself to a boring case for the greater good of London. This was unfortunately one of those times. He did after all rely on Lestrade to keep him involved legally in cases, and wasn't quite ready to go vigilante just yet. When they truly needed him, Sherlock had to deliver, and so it was that he found himself with the detestable task of locating a kidnapped nineteen year old girl. Dull. One look at the evidence gathered so far made it glaringly obvious that they were all after the wrong man, but not one of the constables had listened to his advice, much to their detriment.
Oh well, at least they would be out of his way. He would be free to shadow his own suspect, find out where he was keeping the girl, and have the whole case neatly wrapped up in time for supper, when hopefully John could provide more entertainment than the day was so far promising. Lestrade would thank him, he'd play verbal tennis with a few of the officers who were easily provoked, and he could pretend he'd never sunk so low as to get involved in such an easy case. Mycroft would have a field day if he knew his little brothers talents were being used in such a fashion.
Sherlock shuddered briefly and fiddled with his scarf in an effort to pass it off as being chilled by the frigid November air as he exited the cab. Bright lights in garish shades of acid green and pink immediately assaulted his eyes, and it was an effort to maintain a furtively excited air as he approached the bouncers. Loud music was thumping out from the interior, loud even before he reached the door, and Sherlock was briefly distracted by the dispersal pattern of a small puddle on the pavement as the water bounced in time with the beat.
Until a scratchy voice broke through the mathematical algorithms speeding through his synapses. "Name?" Eloquent..