Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC version to Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat. No money is being made off this document and is purely for enjoyment. Rating: PG for mild violence.

1. Mucked shoes
His arm jerked as he clipped a bricked corner. Stumbling slightly from the unexpected jar, he side-
stepped awkwardly to regain his balance on slick, paved streets. As soon as possible, he resumed
sprinting down the street, relying on his near perfect sense of direction and unparalled memory map of
London roads Garmin could only dream of having.
He withheld from cursing. Speaking would steal breath that he could otherwise use for running –and
then fighting when need be. But his mind, bored with the asinine tasks of navigation and nerve and
muscle orders, berated his utter stupidity in letting John go off alone into the decrepit neighborhood
when he KNEW the fiends resided in large, well armed numbers.
And John, the incredible idiot, was just supposed to observe, not jump to the defence of one of the
streets more disreputable denizens, thereby drawing much unwanted and hostile attention from said
fiends. It would be only the work of an utter imbecile to deduce John’s intent and connection with the
consulting detective that had badgered and annoyed them to the point of a drive by – one which he
barely escaped unscathed. And unluckily for John, most of the band of heavy-handed extortionists were
a few steps above utter imbecile categorization.
The streets had narrowed, and the pristine upkeep that London prided itself on in the main and tourist
thoroughfares had slowly disappeared into muck and grime of easily identifiable but ignorance-
preferred grudge that included decayed and rotting food and luckless vermin—alive and dead. Dark and
damp, the narrow alleys were noticeably more humid and stifling that the cool London air a few blocks
back.
Shouts, there are shouts, ahead, two blocks, turn left, not quite the right neighborhood as he suspected,
too far east. He was right to come this way. Three men, no, four, and one female. Doubtless the wench
who had embroiled John in a useless business dispute. Gun: clip loosed, rounds present, clip full, restock
clip, pull back lock, thumb off safety, prepare to fire. Step 1 -- Observe; Step 2 – Announce presence; Step
3 - Disarm fiends, starting with those closest to harming him then John; Step 4 – Dispatch others in
priority order; Step 5 – Deduce status of business associate; Step 6 – Go home.
Confident and having memorized his plan, Sherlock rounded the corner and immediately moved to Step
5. Since when did he abandon his own mind?
John was kneeling, or attempting to given a bleeding wound in one thigh, on the filthy paved and
cobblestone alley. Because of his obvious discomfort, he was leaning heavily to his left side, trying to
relieve pressure on the other. One hand pressed a torn piece of shirt down on the wound, which was
painful judging by John’s face. His other arm was wrapped around his torso. He looked terrified, which
seemed at once out of character, entirely in agreement with his character and was the most unsettling
observation of this entire scene. Off. Off now.
Finally, insolent self, Step 1.
Sherlock decided he had never been so happy to see an American in his entire life. Standing in front of
John, and his reason for fear, was a young American tourist gripping John’s pistol and glaring
challengingly at three ugly brutes, only one of whom Sherlock recognized as an extortionist’s muscle but
cataloguing the rest in the same profession could have been reasoned by Anderson.

2. The American, female, young, military, so obvious the way she held herself, just like John, military
bearing, unflinching sense of right and wrong, stupidly courageous in defence of the weaker, knew how
to shoot the gun; but it was again apparent in her stance, the way she held the gun as far away from her
body to still be useful, that she had probably never fired, or even drawn it, outside drill practice. And
judging again by her near book-perfect form, like she was re-enacting step by step to previously relayed
instructions in fear of accidentally shooting herself or an unintentional target, those practices had been
infrequent. Not Army or Marines then. Since alone, she was probably stationed in Europe, but not
England as her new footwear smacked instead of Italian style knee-high boots, which were probably
doing very little to keep out the wet damp.
Still, like John, despite her discomfort and lack of knowledge, she carried herself with enough confidence
and bravado to make the henchmen hesitant for confrontation, even though she would only be able to
kill at most two of them, if she were a crackshot, which she wasn’t, before being taken out of the game.
Then again, this standoff did not appear to be especially stale. A newer arrival then.
Bad guys: three thugs with impressive hand guns. Not really worth mentioning past that.
Step 2 – the favorite – dramatic entrance.
“Sherlock!”
Damn blogger stealing all my thunder. We will need to discuss this later. There’s a dead dog next to me,
at least two weeks deceased and partially scavenged.
Sherlock met John’s eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t. He had never had a “brain dump” before,
but he assumed it was something like this sudden free-falling feeling in his head as if the advanced
network of synapses and tunnels in his brain had simply vanished. As the tore them away, he observed
the American had swiveled and now pointed the pistol alternatively at him and the aggressors. Fool.
John did sound relieved at his arrival, had he not?
Sherlock turned to the three muscle-heads, raised his pistol and said in a clear, disinterested tone:
“Yes?” Oh, they were going to have to work on tandem entrances.
“Christ,” John muttered and attempted to stand, gasping when he tried to put weight on his bad leg.
Sherlock steeled against looking, keeping his nonchalant gaze focussed on the enemies, who were now
looking even more uncertain about progressing with their violent course of action now that the odds in
their favor had been reduced to next to nil. If only they realized their chances had changed against them
with Sherlock’s arrival, they would be running for their lives.
Fortunately, the girl maneuvered back a half step, forcing John back on his bottom. Continuing his
current ascent would have put his head in a very inappropriate place at the young girl’s bottom, and a
situation very nearly settled was not worth such a breach of impropriety.
Must revise opinion of Americans, well, American females in the military.

3. Now with an enemy only there because their flight or fight instincts chose this moment to take their
leave far ahead of the physical body, physical dispatchment became unnecessary. Sherlock decided to
stay with his automaton, strong but silent, emotionless but nearly infuriating simple, role he had
assumed for himself.
“Leave,” he commanded darkly.
And the minds returned to the brutes as they took off through the alley. One pulled out a cell phone.
Relief and escape would be a quick matter then if they were to avoid the reinforcements.
Steps 3 and 4 completed, Sherlock went back to Step 5 – a time-wasting, utterly ridiculous redundancy,
but one he completed anyway to keep with his plan.
A few quick steps brought him to John. “John, are you alright?” He noticed on the periphery that the
American had stepped back, gun lowered, but she stood warily watching them. But he regained his
wayward attention when she was not deemed to be a threat. John’s head was lowered, examining his
wound, knife, and he was panting slightly.
Sherlock had too many hands at the moment, and they flew about John’s physical space.
“Yes,” John grunted. “I’m alright. I’m fine.” He flinched away from Sherlock’s flapping appendages,
causing Sherlock to drop them immediately.
“Right,” he returned tonelessly. Step 6 was what again? Where was that dog? He strode away to his
former spot where he had defended John against certain death.
He ignored the pained grunt and shuffling of Italian boots edging closer to his associate. Sherlock turned,
watched her hold out an arm, and noted with some satisfaction, John ignore her offer and stand on his
own. Despite the slight, the girl looked almost relieved, dropping her arm and backing away again.
“The well-earned experience of self-aid buddy care,” she quipped with a sad half smile.
John looked surprised, but met her gaze with an equally sad but fully understanding smile of his own.
Sherlock felt like kicking the half disintegrated dog at his feet, but doing so would cause a disagreeable
mess on already mucked shoes. John and the girl stared at each other for a full moment and a half,
making Sherlock retract any nice or decent thought he had about Americans as she shared something
that he could not hope to understand or enter upon: some fraternal, everlasting bond, with John.
He grunted; she shifted; it was over. She returned John’s gun to him, handle first and careful not to
touch. Against his wishes, Sherlock came closer until he was only 15 feet from John. The girl met his
eyes, a haunted, empty look to them – so much like John--nodded and turned back to John.
“Might want to get that looked at,” she said. At John’s nod, she turned, almost a facing movement, and
strode from the alley.
John looked at Sherlock, a pained but knowing smile on his face, “How did you know I was in trouble?”
Sherlock sniffed and turned, “Good instincts and all. Come now, we should take the Airman’s advice.”

4. John opened his mouth, and Sherlock, sensing he wouldn’t get out of two in a row and this being the far
easier explanation, interrupted: “She’s obviously military and stationed in Italy as she’s a single
American female wandering in a foreign country, wearing well-worn foreign clothing from Italy, and
trained in weaponry and conflict management. She has deployed, though not in any capacity where she
was expected to use her weapon frequently, judging by her discomfort and unfamiliarity handling your
pistol. So not Army or Marines. She could be Navy, especially as they are the main American service
presence in Italy, but a Sailor’s chance of deploying repeatedly to a combat environment where they are
in some danger and see wounded enough to not be phased by it is reserved for mostly Navy medical
personnel serving with the Marines. And a medical authority she was not for she would not have given
in so readily at your insistence. So that makes her, most likely, an Airman in some type of support
function.”
John just nodded and shifted uncomfortably. Sherlock sighed and turned, ready to head to a major road
where a cabby may be found to transport his … John to a hospital.
“You know, the next time America and France play, I think I’m going to root for America,” John
announced, causing Sherlock to turn.
“Play what?”
John chuckled and shook his head, catching up to Sherlock. Sherlock noticed with what he guessed was
concern because it was suddenly more difficult to breathe, but it could be the foul air, that John’s small
padding of cloth was near blood soaked.
Sherlock pulled his scarf from his neck, snapping it in the air. “Put this over it.”
“Sherlock, that’s one of your favorites,” John pointed out.
Sherlock peered at it, “Well, so it is.”
The silence was awkward for a moment. If this lasts more than 2.3 seconds, Sherlock thought, I’m taking
it back.
“Thanks,” John said quietly, reaching for the scarf and using it to press firmly over the blood-soaked
cloth.
“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said, straightening. “Well, let’s hail a cab for the hospital.”
John grabbed his arm, causing Sherlock to startle slightly—stupid nerve endings. John immediately let
go. “No, that’s ok. Just back to Baker’s Street. It’s just a grazed knife wound.”
Sherlock grunted softly and started again. It took him three steps before he re-aligned his pace to match
his friend’s as they made their way in the misting London city.