Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

The room is cold and grey – it looks like a basement, and the only source of light is from a light bulb that buzzes and hums with electricity, offering a flickering luminescence to the dull walls. It is grubby with years of neglect, caked in a layer of black filth and the carcasses of dead cockroaches. There are live ones as well, scuttling over each other indiscriminately. In the centre of the room are two chairs.

Tied securely to each chair back to back are Sherlock Holmes, and a young, twenty-something woman with ash blonde hair tied in a ponytail which has become loose and bedraggled. She is small and slight, and while Sherlock is conscious, staring at the grey wall in front of him as if trying to make it crumble with his mind alone, the woman's head lolls to the side, and her eyes are shut.

…

Madison Smith is a very ordinary person. Nothing remarkable ever happens to her.

As the great majority of people, she leads a pretty normal, uneventful life. What we can deduce from her love of reading novels is an appetite for adventure. What is not so apparent from her preferred method of consuming them, (on the sofa, with a large bowl of pasta and a generous glass of red wine) is that she greatly feels the lack of any excitement or adventure in her life. To understand Madison, you need to understand one basic fact about her: she yearns for an adventure, a break from the monotony of routine, a much dreamed of escape from the constraints of her dull-as-ditch-water reality. What Madison didn't know was that very soon, she would get a whole lot more excitement than she bargained for.

**…**

Monday morning. Madison's least favourite part of the week aside from Thursday afternoons. Yet unusually, so far, Madison's day is going very well. Too well. Suspiciously too well in fact. Unbelievably perfect, as smoothly as squeezing toothpaste out of a tube. Only when you squeeze toothpaste out of a tube, there comes a point when it runs out, and this rule would prove the same with Madison's luck. OK, I've basically force fed you the idea that something is going to happen to Madison. Unfortunately for her, Madison cannot be at the receiving end of my warning, and remains blissfully oblivious to her imminent plummet into chaos. Being of a particularly optimistic disposition, Madison is also not one to envisage wild, apocalyptic scenarios that could arise in her life at any instance, so she is just enjoying the moment.

This is how well Madison's day had been going: She woke up on time, giving her sufficient time for breakfast. The toast popped up at _exactly _the same moment she walked past the toaster, so she caught it (earning a sneaky high five from herself) and she added the perfect amount of milk to her tea. She remembered her bag for once and a not unattractive gentleman gave up his seat on the tube for her. She actually got to work 5 minutes early, and strutted past Mrs Smug-pants the secretary, who could think of nothing to say now that Madison was on time, although she did raise an eyebrow in an 'am I meant to be impressed?' kind of way. We shall join Madison when she sits down to her desk to begin working …

"Hey Maddie!"

The enthusiastic greeting was from Jeff, the pimply, half-brained office mailroom delivery boy who had managed to get himself under the entirely false impression that Madison was deeply in love with him, despite her cold rejection of his affections. Like a puppy who loves his owner unconditionally, he managed to kid himself that the cold shoulder treatment actually signified a deeper meaning in their relationship.

"Madison" growled Madison, paying particular attention to annunciating the 'son' as clearly as possible. Why did people always feel the need to shorten her name to such a saccharine appellation? Jeff didn't seem to recognise the dangerous inflection her voice had acquired with her irritation, and carried on in his same cheery manner.

"Ah, Madison. A name as sweet as …" Jeff trailed off, unable to think of anything suitable to compare it too. Looking around the room for inspiration, he finally settled on:

"…You!" Originality wasn't his strong point.

A snort emitted from the photocopier. It was soon revealed to have come from Jill, another office worker, when she stood up after reloading the paper, grinning mischievously. This was met by a withering stare from Madison.

"Don't be mad, Maddie!" Jill chuckled to herself at the pun, as if it had been comedic genius, while dumping a mountain of paperwork in her lap. Madison, unwilling to bear the brunt of anymore infantile jokes from her giggling colleague released her frustration by slamming the pile on her desk, and attempted to make sensible conversation.

"How's Mr Hobson today then, Jill?"

Jill snorted incredulously. "How would I know? How would anyone know? It's not like he ever graces us with his appearance."

It was a peculiar quirk of the office (a fairly obscure financial firm), that the manager stayed in his office all day, and forbade anyone to enter at all. His eccentricity meant that any work he wanted to give to his employers would be left on the chair outside his office, along with instructions, and any work they wanted to send back to him, was placed on the chair for him to collect unseen. He got to the office at an ungodly hour in the morning, so people rarely saw him, and left at an equally ungodly hour at night. The caretaker would occasionally cause a hum of excitement in the office by relaying a new sighting, for he would on rare occasions see him, being the first and last in the building, although the boss had an uncanny ability of remaining anonymous even then. Speculation on the matter ranged from the boss having suffered from a nervous breakdown, causing him to have an acute fear of people to him actually being a famous celebrity, who took on the role as a day job and would eventually reveal his identity, and preferably large amounts of money to his hard-working employees. The success of him remaining anonymous was founded on two facts: firstly, the office, although passively interested in this little mystery, were far too busy to do any serious digging. Secondly, it was no secret that to walk into his office was a sacking offence.

Madison rummaged through the pile of papers she had to catalogue, looking for something easy to start off with. Everything was so dull! She flicked through quickly, a little too quickly in fact, causing the papers to spill onto the floor. To an accompaniment of uncontrollable giggles issuing from Jill, Madison began to collect everything up again, and arrange it in a fairly decipherable order. Jeff also rushed to her rescue, retrieving the scattered papers with a ferocious enthusiasm, on his hands and knees. When the pile was nearly neat and in its proper place once more, Madison's eyes fell on something Jeff was examining. Jeff, noticing her interest, placed it in her opened palm. It was a small, black memory stick.

"Did this come from the pile too?" he asked, in an attempt to be helpful.

"Well I don't know where else it could have come from. The floor was clear before I dropped everything. I'm pretty sure I shouldn't have it though, it's not in my instructions to use any memory sticks. Must have been a mistake. I'd better go and return it."

"And how exactly do you propose to return it, to a boss who never leaves his office?" quizzed Jill.

"I dunno. Leave it on the chair I guess?"

Madison made her way to Mr Hobson's office. It was a fairly long walk, being situated at the opposite end of the building, and it was pleasant to get away from the harsh glaring light of the computer screen and to stretch her legs. It wasn't a very relaxing walk though; something in the aspect of the corridor gave her an uneasy, insidious impression that she was being watched, and it was eerily silent. As she approached the red door to his office she felt subconsciously obliged to walk a little more softly, so as not to disturb the mysteriously elusive Mr Hobson. Madison lingered a little on the threshold, undecided on what to do about the memory stick. Of course, the simple answer would be to leave on the leather chair next to his door, as traditional. Yet it didn't seem right to leave the memory stick there – what if the information was important? It wouldn't be wise to leave it somewhere where anyone could get it. She considered sliding it under the door, but the gap wasn't sufficiently big enough. So Madison just stayed there for a minute, panicking at her indecisiveness. What if he grew suspicious and ordered her to be sacked for showing too much curiosity in his affairs? She shifted her weight from foot to foot, absentmindedly scratching her left ankle with her right foot, and licked her lips anxiously. The red door was directly in front of her, and a thick, oppressive silence prevailed, so overwhelming that she could hear the second hand on her watch ticking irrevocably away.

A combination of the door's vibrant colour and the tension of the wait provoked a devil-may-care sense of bravado in her. You know that stubborn, defiant feeling you get when someone tells you not to do something and you think why the hell not? Well, that's the feeling that got the better of Madison. She knocked on the forbidden door three times, each knock sounding clear, and resonating dutifully through the silence. Madison's heart froze petrified, and her whole chest cavity heaved upwards and remained suspended there in crushing tension, her breath caught in her throat, as she listened to the echoes dying away.

Three words sack, bankruptcy and ruin teared around her brain wildly, and she obsessed over them monomanically in those tortuous moments.

_Shit, Shit, Shit!_

Why did her authority complex have to manifest itself at that precise time, in an action that would be sure to get her sacked! She had only just gone and signed her resignation!

The silence reigned once more, however. There was absolutely no reaction at all, and the red door continued to glare at her. This struck Maddie as a bit odd – surely, even if Mr Hobson wanted to remain entirely anonymous, there would be some sign of life coming from his office – pacing foot-steps or tapping at a keyboard perhaps, or even making phone calls. He had to do that, right? How could the company possibly survive with a boss who had no human contact EVER? An insatiable curiosity to know the truth of the invisible Mr Hobson spurred Madison on to reach out tentatively for the door handle. She twisted it slowly and pushed.

The door glided open smoothly over the pristine carpet. Inside, there was a typical office: a desk, a computer, a chair, filing cabinets. But something, other than the absence of any life whatsoever, not even a nonchalant spider, was not quite right. Everything was unnaturally neat and pristine – there wasn't a speck of dust on the desk, nor a paperclip out of place. It was as if nothing had ever been used. Madison gingerly tiptoed inside, closing the door behind her. On the shelves, there were many colour coded folders, and Madison flicked through one entitled January 2005 – the numerous pages were completely blank. Very fishy. At the opposite end of the room, a black, high-backed rotating chair faced an immaculate, untouched whiteboard. Madison sat down on the desk facing the other direction in order to collect her thoughts- this was all a scam. Somebody was trying very hard to give the impression that the company had a boss, when it didn't. Who was responsible for this, why they were doing it and how they were getting away with it was too much for her to comprehend however.

Madison spent about a minute there, coming to terms with her newfound knowledge, and examining yet more empty folders. The longer she spent however, the more uneasy she became, and again she got that niggling feeling that she was being watched. The harder she listened, the more conscious she became of her breathing not being alone. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled uncomfortably, and she gulped to lubricate her drying throat. Simultaneously, she heard a badly disguised cough, and in a reflex reaction she spun round, her ash-blonde ponytail whipping around her neck.

'Who's there?' Her voice sound dry and cracked, with a defensive quality like that of a child being surprised.

She looked around the room slowly, trying to pinpoint the location of the noise. But the room was empty, and there were no cupboards. She kept as still as possible, her every sense on standby. Gradually, to Madison's horror, the black rotating chair spun round…

Seated in the chair was a man in a smart black suit, with a long, black, high collared coat and a blue scarf. He was very lean, and you could tell he was tall despite him being seated. He had a messy array of black curls, which emphasized the paleness of his skin, and his cheekbones were exceptionally high, and well defined. The stoic lips betrayed no emotion; the deep Cupid's bow was firm and controlled. The ice blue eyes penetrated Madison's green orbs that were now brimming with guilt and panic.

Madison's first impression was that she had been wrong and idiotic – that there was in fact a Mr Hobson as eccentric as the stories about him, and here he was all along. She launched into a desperate apology, full of remorse:

'Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, I am _so, so _sorry …'

The man jumped up from the chair, assuming an extremely friendly countenance:

'Nothing to worry about. No, I should be apologising to you. Allow me to introduce myself: Mr Barrett, I'm an accountant, come to check your finances. I do apologise for … '

Both simultaneously launched themselves into bumbling explanations of why they were in the office, each ignoring the other's excuses, being far too concerned with their own:

'… I found this memory stick, you see, and I thought, well that's a bit funny since I only ever deal with hard copies …'

'…taking the liberty of letting myself in but, well you see there was no one around, so I …'

'I thought it was best to give it to you personally rather than leave it on the chair, you don't know who you can trust in this day and age, ha ha ha …'

'… I thought why not go in and get started?! I've already done a check and everything seems in order …'

' … trouble is, you weren't anywhere to be seen, so I thought, why not just leave it on your desk? And, well …'

' … so I better be going, actually, then … ahem, sooo Good Day to you!'

'… and … Oh my goodness, please don't sack me!'

The man's brow furrowed with the sudden realisation that this woman was not meant to be there either, and would therefore not mind his presence. In an instant that boyish affability he had just assumed vanished, as if it was wiped off his face, and was replaced by an indifference to Madison's presence and a brusque, unfriendly manner.

'Mr Hobson, I had no idea you were in here, I didn't mean to disturb you. You're not going to give me the sack are you?'

'Clearly I am not Mr Hobson' he stated simply, in a deeper voice than the one he had just been speaking in.

He proceeded to examine the chair very closely, putting on a pair of leather gloves and picking up a hair he just discovered with a pair of tweezers, before depositing it in a plastic bag.

Madison just looked dumbfounded.

'Oh … er, I …'

'Do shut up, you have been in my company a grand total of 5 minutes yet you have filled the room with so much stupidity it is difficult to think straight. And I wouldn't go for help if I were you, I have already calculated 3 ways to incapacitate you if you try anything, none of which involve me moving from this spot. Oh, and I don't believe a particular person who works here will be especially thrilled if they know you've discovered their little secret, so staying put is just as much in your own interests as of mine.'

The man was now flat out on the floor, squinting, with a small magnifying glass held to the carpet. He then jumped up with immense energy, got out a little tape measure and began measuring the distance from the chair to the desk.

Madison didn't really know what to feel. She felt she should definitely say something to the strange man, but didn't know if she should express her relief at not being sacked, her anger at been bossed around in such a rude manner, her consternation as to what the hell was going on, or her anxiety which was bordering on fear because a random man had broken into the office, and was making threats to her. She decided to keep silent, because she was afraid her voice would betray her fear, and the last thing she wanted to let the man know was that she was terrified. Her mind was racing with theories (most of them ridiculous) about what was going on, but she managed to settle on a particularly worrying one. What if the strange man had murdered Mr Hobson, and robbed the files? This was a fairly neat conclusion to come to – it explained both the lack of Mr Hobson and aforesaid files - but equally scary. It meant she was top of this man's hit list.

'I told my colleague Jill that I was going to Mr Hobson's office, and that I wouldn't be more than 2 minutes, so people know where I am, and they'll come to find me'

It was the first thing she could think of that might dissuade him to murder her. Her voice wavered feebly as she said it, and she blushed at how pathetic she sounded.

The man, who seemed to have forgotten about Madison's presence quickly got up, retracting the tape measure, and inhaled sharply.

'You've just proved my theory'

This made Madison extremely worried. What had she done?

'Err, what theory have I proved?' She asked, in a wavering undertone.

'My theory that you are an idiot'

Madison just stared at the impenetrable, cold glare she was at the receiving end of, and said nothing.

'I presume that look of morbid terror combined with the fact that you just told me that people know where you are, insinuating there'd be back up if I harmed you, means that you are afraid that I may kill you? Please tell me why you've decided I'm a murderer, I need a laugh right now.'

Madison looked a little taken aback, but bravely preceded with her explanation.

'Mr Hobson's not here, and you are, so you killed him for some reason, probably you were disturbed while stealing some files, you've hidden the body, and you're now going to kill me because I'm a witness to you being here'

The sides of the man's mouth twitched in a fleeting smirk.

'Please rest assured that I'm not going to kill you, although I'm very tempted to, in order to stop your insane theories and moronic brainlessness from infecting me. Let me tell you all the many levels at which your deduction fails, although I don't see much point in bothering, for they'll all drift over your infantile brain capacity. One, if I killed Hobson, then why would I be wasting my time examining the room of the crime, getting my DNA all over the evidence? I would have left as soon as the deed was committed, so as to get as far away as possible from the scene, don't you think? Two, if I killed Hobson where's the body? There are clearly no hiding places in this room, and I've been in here since you came, so I had no opportunity to hide it elsewhere in this building. Three, if I wanted to kill you, I've had plenty of opportunity to, yet you are still breathing, so you are obviously not in danger. What can we infer from these facts?'

Madison shrugged.

'Mr Hobson has not been killed, yet here we are having a conversation in his office? If someone had stolen the files, they wouldn't bother replacing them with blank paper. So there's an obvious lack of both Mr Hobson and any files in an office that should have both. You work for a faceless boss unquestioningly. If you've never seen Mr Hobson, how can you be sure that he exists? Thus we come to the conclusion that he doesn't, although someone wants to create the impression that he does. Honestly, I'm surprised that such a blatant trick has managed to fool so many people, although if they're all like you, I take that back.'

Madison got very annoyed by the man's arrogance and rude manner. Who was he to call her stupid? And this was the precise conclusion she had reached herself before it was confused by his presence.

'Now look here Mr I'm-so-clever-I-don't-need-to-bother-about-manners, what the heck do you think you're doing here yourself?'

The man sauntered to the window, opened it, and peered out. He then looked back to Madison.

'What am I doing here? Mr Sherlock Holmes, the word's one and only consulting detective? I trust I don't need to explain to you what a detective is? I do hope we never meet again.'

With a faint nod of his head, Mr Sherlock Holmes leapt out of the window.

'Show-off' Madison shouted after him – she was not going to let him have the last word.

She ran to see where he was going, only catching a flap of coat disappear around the corner. It annoyed her how a small part of her brain kept obsessing over the gorgeous mess of curls on his head, while she was still fuming about how insulting he had been. She slammed the window in indignation.

Madison returned to her desk looking flustered, and deep in thought. She excused the length of her absence, by saying she felt a little ill, and went to get a glass of water from the cafeteria – luckily there was nobody to challenge the credibility of this claim. The rest of her day was uneventful. In fact the next two days passed without anything to note of consequence.

Let us meet Madison again three days after her discovery …

It was only Thursday, yet it felt like it should be the weekend already to Madison, as she trudged back after a particularly tiring day at the office, 15 minutes later than usually due to hold ups with the underground. Upon reaching the door to her flat, she dropped her bag from her shoulder into the crook of her elbow, and began rummaging around for her key.

This proved to be a fruitless effort.

So here she was, locked out of the house, on a chilly January evening, when all she really wanted to do was collapse on the sofa in front of the TV.

She slid her back down the door in despair, until she came to a squatting position. Although it was only quarter to six, the night had pretty much completely descended, and was diffused only slightly by the dull orange glow of the street lamps. Madison lived on the outskirts of London, so the incessant din of the city was fairly distant. She sat there, wondering what to do, the cold penetrating her to the bone.

Then she heard the sound of a window banging, round the side of her flat.

Standing up slowly, gathering her tattered senses, she grabbed a pot plant, and walked confidently around the side of the house to confront whoever was fiddling with it. As she did so, a large black figure dropped gracefully out of the second floor window. Its coat billowed around it as it fell, giving it the appearance of an enormous bat. She froze and stared.

The figure came into the feeble light of the streetlamps, which exposed his features – it was Sherlock Holmes, the mystery man. A pair of icy blue eyes penetrated Madison's stony stare, which crumbled into panic when he began to run towards her. She threw the plant pot, and missed; Sherlock reached her in a heartbeat, grabbed her firmly around the upper arm, and dragged her along. Madison was unable to counteract his strength, and so was forced to half run, half be dragged by this stranger down the street, at a full sprint. Blood pounded in her ears, dulling the sound of the night, and her heart was gripped in an icy, terrifying fear – Madison began to wonder if her theory about him killing Mr Hobson was right, and this was him returning to drag her to some dark alley and murder her, so the one witness was silenced. It soon became apparent why they were running however.

Suddenly, the night became charged with an intense energy and heat, an unstoppable, invincible wall of force that ripped through the suburban road and tossed both her and the strange man into the air with horrifying ease. The air became consumed in suffocating dust and debris, and a sound, unimaginably deafening, howled so vociferously, Madison's ears popped and bled. She was not aware whether she was upside down or not, just that she was airborne.

The next moment, she collided with the pavement, gritty and cold and hard, and her mouth filled with something warm and piquantly metallic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the review Mine Alice, it is lovely to have feedback on my story. Here's the 2nd chapter - enjoy! :)**

Madison lay spread-eagled for a while on the cold, damp pavement, shivering with shock and pain and the dread of what she would see when she sat up. She wasn't_ exactly _sure what happened – just that the strange Mr Sherlock Holmes had jumped out of her house, pulled her away from it, and then there was an explosion. Her head throbbed and it was as if a thousand church bells were ringing in her ears. She slowly pushed herself up by the elbows, grimacing with the pain. She knelt for a little, swaying gradually, her eyes squeezed firmly shut, to catch her breath and gather her tattered senses. Her knees where grazed, her ribs were bruised, and her face was caked in blood from when her chin collided with the pavement and her teeth bit hard into her tongue. But considering the force of the explosion, she had gotten of lightly, for despite her war-torn appearance, most of the injuries were superficial. She managed to get back onto her feet, wobbling slightly like a newly born foal, and checked herself over. She was conscious of a sharp ache in her chest, but none of her bones were broken.

Madison then turned around to assess the damage. Her flat was now reduced to a pile of rubble, and tears stung her grazed face when she noticed various treasured possession now littered in the ruins, in shreds and charred – there was her collection of books, her dresser, her TV …. All of it gone, ruined, decimated. With her hands pressed against her head, she sank to the floor, wailing. What could she do now? Why was all this happening to _her _of all people?

Sherlock, meanwhile, seemed pretty much unfazed by the fact he had almost been blown up. He stood up, looking a little worse for wear but still intact, brushed himself down and quickly phoned in the emergency services, before fiddling with his phone again. People were coming out into the street, looking dazed and overwhelmed to see what had just happened. Some of them began filming the wreckage with their mobile phones, so no one noticed Sherlock when he began to melt back into the shadows. Well, no one except:

'Where the hell do you think you're going?' screeched Madison.

Sherlock froze in his tracks, before swinging back round gracefully to face the furious woman. Her eyes looked bloodshot with exhaustion, pain and despair, and her fists were in tight balls. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully at her, and as he was noted for his consideration and unparalleled sympathy to the human condition, offered some thoughtful words of comfort and advice to soothe her. Nah, only kidding, the sadistic git with as much emotional intelligence as half a brick retorted thoughtlessly and sardonically, completely indifferent to her upset.

'Oh, so I see we've finally finished with the mental breakdown. The ambulance should be here in a few minutes. Do me a favour and go, your presence is very trying and I've got so much to do. Go tootle off and do so more crying or something, although make sure you don't do it near me.'

He then turned on his heel and began striding off into the night.

Madison wasn't going to be evaded that easily though – Sherlock Holmes had a lot of questions to answer. With an immense effort, she sprinted after him and tugged at his coat so he came to a stop. Sherlock turned to face her once more, his brows deeply furrowed. Why wouldn't this woman just leave him alone?

'If you try anything, I've got 999 already entered into my phone so I just need to press dial, and the police will be on their way.'

She said it with such assertiveness and determination that Sherlock blinked a little in surprise. He soon smirked however.

'Oh please, do you really think that scares me? I'd be long gone before PC Plod eventually gets here. And why do you still think I'm a threat anyway? I've told you, I'm a detective, I'm on a case. And its success is being greatly hampered by you. Ta-ta!'

Sherlock began walking off again, but Madison kept a firm grip on the tail of his coat.

'What kind of detective breaks into people's houses? And just before an explosion like that? At the moment, it looks very much like you planted that bomb! You've got some explaining to do! I almost died, and my house is now a heap of rubble. Now in my experience, if people go around blowing up people's houses, it's generally because they're wanted dead'

'Oh for god's sakes I was on a bloody case, and at the moment I am still on it, so it would be most useful if you just went and talked to the police or paramedics or something.'

Sherlock strode off with Madison trotting at his heels.

'Why were you in my house?'

'I knew you were stupid, but an average goldfish has a larger cerebral capacity than you. What don't you understand about .on. ?'

'Well it may be news to you _sunshine, _but I don't care what kind of detective you are, or what kind of case you're on, I do not take kindly to people breaking into my house, _especially _when their visit coincides with a GODDAM MASSIVE EXPLOSION!'

Sherlock stopped overdramatically, rolled his eyes with as much sass as he could muster, and dragged Madison by the coat sleeve into a little alleyway. They were now several streets away from Madison's house.

'What do you want to know?' whispered Sherlock impatiently.

'Err, well how about for a start, WHAT THE HECK WERE YOU DOING IN _MY _HOUSE?!'

Sherlock signalled frantically for her to shut up. He seemed to be looking over Madison's shoulder. She turned around to see what he was looking at, and seeing nothing but an empty street, turned to face him again.

'_What?'_

'The curtain twitched in the house opposite – _no don't look around again_!'

Sherlock grabbed Madison's wrist to prevent her from doing just that.

'And?'

'Well if you actually bothered to observe rather than just looking around aimlessly like a child who can't read, you might have noticed that when a curtain twitches in a house that clearly hasn't been inhabited for years, someone's in there who shouldn't be.'

'And how can you possibly tell that the house hasn't been lived in?'

'Well, do you know anyone who lives in a house with its door off its hinges?'

'But that's just obvious!'

'Well you didn't notice yourself, did you?'

'You didn't let me look around!'

Sherlock continued to stare at the house, looking for any more signs of life.

Madison thumped him on the arm to make him concentrate on her again:

'Quit you're paranoia for God's sake; it's probably just squatters'

Sherlock ignored this.

'So?' hissed Madison

Sherlock directed his gaze back to Madison, shooting her a quizzical look.

'_So, _what kind of case required you to be in my house?'

'Well I thought you might have some inkling by now, considering you discovered a rather revelational fact about the running of the office you work at a few days ago-'

Madison cut him short with a threatening glare.

'Look, instead of going on about how stupid you think I am, why don't you prove that you're not an idiot yourself and tell me what's going on.'

Sherlock sighed heavily.

'This goes _nowhere _you understand, or my elder brother will make sure you're incarcerated for the rest of your living days.'

'Ooh, I'm _really _scared now your big brother's on my case,' replied Madison with mock fear, 'what are you going to threaten me with next? My Dad's bigger than your Dad?'

'I'm being serious.'

'Whatever, just get on with it.'

Sherlock's stare bored into Madison's eyes with such intensity that she involuntarily looked away. Sherlock then launched into his explanation:

'The company you work for is a façade for a highly elaborate criminal organisation, with some extremely dangerous criminals at its helm. The masterminds in charge are behind many different crimes – drug trafficking, people trafficking, fraud and even murder. They mainly deal with drug shipments however, and extremely large amounts of money have to be transacted. Now this would look a bit fishy if they used their own accounts, or even fake ones. The continuous flow of large sums of money through regular bank accounts would immediately alert the secret service to foul play, and those accounts holders would soon be investigated, and their secrets discovered. So what do they do?'

'Well I don't know.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently.

'They use a company that regularly deals with money, as a front. That's where your office comes in. What does the company you work for ostensibly do?'

'Well, we mainly lend money to businesses so they can expand, and in return we get a certain share in the business.'

'Exactly. It's a company that deals with large sums of cash on a regular basis. So, it's not suspicious when the cash the ringleaders earn from their own illicit trading also gets transacted via the company. People don't give it a second look. But this cash is immediately reinvested back into their drug business, or their pockets.'

'Well I follow so far. But why do they want to make it look like there's no boss?'

'None of the employees know about the secret organisation running the firm. If you add a boss into the mix, who's also ignorant of what the firm really is, it's getting risky. It's easy to hide the secret from the basic office workers. But from a boss, who will regularly get access to information about the various transactions, it is much more difficult. Sooner or later he's bound to smell a rat. Solution: don't employ a boss. They create the illusion of there being a boss, with the office and rather clumsy cover stories about why he's never seen, and why no one is allowed in his office. The employees are too busy to care, and too concerned about keeping their jobs to ask any questions.'

'Why couldn't one of the criminals involved pose as a boss? Surely that would be safer than the melodramatic deal of the non-existent Mr Hobson?'

'Too risky again. All of these men are on the radars of the secret service. Surveillance would be instantly tightened if one of them suddenly became manager of a well-established financial firm; they'd be investigations, and the truth would be found out. They don't want to involve anyone else either. These men are greedy and cautious. Another one in on the secret both means less cash for them (it takes an awful lot of money to shut people up) and an increased likelihood of exposure.'

'So they're behind the explosion at my house? Why am I wanted dead?'

'Two reasons. One, they know about you going into Mr Hobson's office and finding the truth about him being non-existent. Two, you have something they want – a memory stick.'

'Oh my God! I'd forgotten all about that. It's still in my pocket!'

'I'm surprised they were so careless as to let it fall into the hands of the employees. Where did you find it?'

'In my pile of documents to file on excel.'

'Very careless indeed. Whatever's on that device is important. I broke into your house to try and find it – I remembered you telling me about it on that day when I broke into the office. I can bring about their downfall with that memory stick. However, when I broke into your house they were too quick. They'd been there before, looking for it too. Being unsuccessful, they planted an elaborate explosive device to finish you off instead. It was activated when I switched on the light to your living room. I had 15 seconds to vacate the house. Luckily, you hadn't found it first, and I was able to pull you away from the vicinity. You're not in danger for the time being, although when they find out you're still alive you're in big trouble.'

'And you were going to leave me ignorant of the danger I was in?' Madison growled this, anger boiling up inside her.

'I was going to leave you in the charge of my brother. He practically is the government, and would have offered you protection. This is why I was so desperate for you to stay near your house, with all the police and paramedics. There is safety in numbers. My brother would have found you, and escorted you to safety.'

'Oh, and is this the same brother who's going to lock me up and throw away the key if I leak any of this information?'

Sherlock wasn't listening anymore however. His focus was on three shady looking men who had since accumulated on the street corner, smoking, and looking over at him and Madison every so often.

'Whatever you do, do not look around. If you have any desire to remain alive, you will do exactly as I say.' He whispered.

Madison froze every muscle. Her pupils dilated with fear.

'What's going on?' she barely moved her lips to say this, so softly, that it was lost in the cool breeze. The only evidence of her having spoken was a little mist around her mouth, where her breath was rendered visible in the chilly night air.

'Run.'

Once again, Sherlock grabbed her by the upper arm and half dragged her back down the alley, for she couldn't keep up with the speed of his massive strides. She became conscious of heavy, rapid footsteps following them. Her senses reached a vivid sensitivity, her skin prickled and she sprinted, side by side with Sherlock, running for her life. It was funny to think how only last night she had been reading a thriller in which the main characters were pursued through a city by foolhardy criminals from the comfort of her sofa. Now the sofa was blown to pieces, and here was she, dashing through the night in a bid for survival, from a deadly criminal gang. She was living an adventure. Something remarkable was happening to Madison Smith, the humble office girl. And it seemed like she would pay for it with her life.

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	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock and Madison sprinted through the lugubrious night, shoes making fat slapping sounds on the pavement that shimmered with recent rainfall mirroring the orange glow emitted by the streetlamps. Sherlock's scarf and coat flared out behind him, flapping like a cape and his jaw was held tight in determination, his piecing blue eyes narrowed and focused; Madison's long mousy ponytail whipped around her neck, errant waves tumbling down, giving her a wild, frenetic appearance. _Her _eyes were wide like a startled rabbit's, yet a certain flash of green and a fleeting coruscation showed her thrill at the night chase; never had she felt so palpably alive before, never had she lifted the chalice of danger up to her anxious, trembling lips and tasted the full-bodied essence of life and mortality than when she teared through the slumberous crepuscular streets with the blood pumping unadulterated through her feverish veins, fuelled with neat adrenaline and terror. Neither dared to look round, and Madison could barely keep up with Sherlock's pace. He never loosened his iron grip on her wrist. Her throat started to ache sharply, the cold night air rushed through her nostrils making them sore and a tight stitch had formed in her stomach, yet her legs dutifully pummelled on, working instinctively. A few times she almost stumbled as her ankle buckled in, cursing her choice to wear heels. But she still had to go on. The alternative was suicidal.

Suddenly, Sherlock turned sharply down an alley, yanking Madison with him, who stumbled, but was soon up on her feet, her knees freshly grazed. The alley was narrow and dark, and Madison's heart felt like it had just fallen off a cliff when she noticed that it was blocked of by a fence.

'Fucking hell Sherlock!' she cried painfully through frantic gasps for air. They were done for surely – the thugs would easily catch them now. The fence was about 6 foot – easy for Sherlock to climb over, but for Madison a near impossible feat, especially as there were no crevices to grab on to. Sherlock firmly gripped her around the waist, throwing her into the air. Her hands grasped the top, and with a helpful shove from Sherlock she hauled herself over, falling heavily over the other side. Her hands were now peppered with splinters and she'd bruised and cut her knees badly, but at least she'd cleared it. No sooner than she'd picked herself up, Sherlock leapt over nimbly, earning an a fleeting admiring look from Madison and grabbed her by the wrist again, heading for a metal staircase at the side of a warehouse. Madison looked around briefly, to catch the head and shoulders of a burly man emerging over the top of the fence. There were some angry shouts, and the head went back down again. This puzzled Madison – had they given up, or did they somehow know a quicker way to catch them? Nevertheless, the pair scrambled up the staircase, Sherlock taking three steps to a stride with Madison struggling and floundering behind him, being half dragged up.

The roof of the warehouse was flat, with a barrier around the outside to prevent accidents. There was a large tube with a grate over the hole one side, presumably a ventilator of some description, and a door that gave access to the rooftop from the inside – this was most likely going to serve the way up to their pursuers. Sherlock and Madison didn't stop for one second, but sprinted together across the roof – to her utmost horror, Madison soon realised that Sherlock was going to jump to the adjacent building.

With her.

I mean a death defying jump across a fair sized gap, risking a nasty fall onto concrete many meters below. She would rather face her chances with the gang of criminals – she just knew that she'd never make the jump. At the last moment, she broke Sherlock's grip on her arm, and watched him gracefully clear the jump with all the agility of a greyhound, while she remained stuck and quivering with agitation on the other side. Sherlock turned swiftly around, glaring at her.

'What are you waiting for? Now really isn't the time, if there ever is one, to be deciding you suffer from vertigo. Jump for God's sakes.' There was a distinct urgency in his voice. 'Jump. I'll catch you.'

Madison just looked into the determined eyes helplessly. She felt so pathetic, standing there all bruised and grazed, shivering , perished to the bone, knowing that her inability to jump was holding them both back, not only putting her own life in danger but Sherlock's as well. The night was quite still, but the added height of being on the roof of a tall building meant that there was a strong, wintery breeze. The rooftops of London were illuminated with an eerie glow emitted by electric lights.

'I can't Sherlock, I just can't' Madison said weakly.

The gap between the buildings was about a metre and a half, and although Madison would have easily jumped it if it was on the ground, the rational, self-preserving part of her brain was paralysing her with fear at the thought of dropping all those many feet to certain death. This was ironic really, considering how she was in more danger staying on the other side to be left to the non-existent mercy of the gang who had just tried to blow her up. For the second time that night, tears began misting her vision. She was losing hope. All the former thrill of running for her life through the streets of London had gone, to be replaced by the harsh reality of her present situation – she was without a house, all her possessions were in a pile of rubble, she was hurting all over and soon to be killed by a ruthless gang of murderers. She shivered, teetering on the precipice.

Much to Madison's surprise, Sherlock began to talk to her softly in his thick, baritone voice– it was almost as though he was an empathetic person – although the tone of resolution still remained.

'You can do it. Trust me.'

Madison nodded quickly, walked back a bit, and started a half-hearted run up. However she hesitated, wobbled a little on the brink, and promptly retreated back to safety, a familiar lump welling inside her throat.

'There's no use!' she wailed, 'I just can't do it.' She was beginning to really panic now. The sound of heavy footsteps was rapidly approaching. She was a lame rabbit, feeble, defenceless prey, being hunted by a pack of ravenous wolves, baying for blood. Tears streaked her face which was scrunched up with pain and dread. She had never felt so vulnerable in all her life

Sherlock crouched a little, holding out his arms to be ready to catch her.

'_Trust me.'_

The door to the roof began banging ominously, with the gang ramming it. Thankfully, it was locked, although it wouldn't hold for long. They had finally caught up. It took all of Madison's strength to gather her remaining shreds of self-control, and spurred on by an irrevocable desperation to survive, she took a final run up, and leapt.

It was as if time was suspended; her feet kicked off from the roof, and she glided in the thin air across the gap. Her eyes were fixed on Sherlock's, and she didn't move her gaze – if she looked down, she would fatally succumb to panic again. She was focused. Everything else around her became a hazy blur, she heard nothing but blood pounding through her ears and her tongue felt dry and shrivelled in her mouth; yet the other roof and Sherlock and survival was lucid, a vivid light at the end of a tunnel of helplessness. It was over in a few seconds, and her high-heeled foot reached sturdy ground.

Her other foot only managed to get halfway onto the roof however, and this completely ruined her equilibrium, causing her arms to fly backwards, clutching helpless at the air to find anything to hang on to. She felt like she'd vomit with the terror and dizziness. It is immensely difficult to convey in words exactly how she felt, but if you imagine the feeling you get when you miss a step going up a flight of stairs, and magnify that by about a million, you've got a good idea. She was drowning in panic.

Sherlock grabbed the flailing women, his strong grip removing her from the edge. The only casualty was one of her shoes, which plummeted into the urban abyss. There was no time for her to thank Sherlock or to regain her breath however, for the men had finally broken through the door. They just had to keep charging into the night, Madison now with one bare-foot being assaulted by the unforgiving concrete. The shouts of their followers seemed to get ever closer, until the night was punctuated by a blood-curdling scream, the last thing to ever pass the lips of one of their hunters who had missed his footing when jumping across to the building that Sherlock and Madison were now dashing across. Madison turned around, her white face moistened with cold sweat looking to the direction of the death scream. She was heaving with shallow, desperate breaths and her green eyes shone with shock. The men, seeing the death of one of their comrades had stopped, and were now anxious at completing the jump themselves. This reassured Madison somewhat – surely they'd leave them alone now? She was in urgent need of a break. Her naked foot was cut and bleeding, and she was choking wretchedly for air.

Still, Sherlock tugged her onwards. They were not yet clear of the danger. These men were brutal and cold-blooded; the death of their colleague would not stop them for long. But now Madison was unobliging to his yanks at her arm. She was simply physically unable to run anymore. She had given up.

Sherlock spun round to look at the pitiful, broken Madison. His eyes implored her to move – even for someone as seemingly inhuman as Sherlock, it is hard to not become a little attached to someone you have being running for your life with. He was not going let her fall prey to the thugs after all that.

'Jump onto my back.'

Madison didn't waste any time. Soon she was supported by Sherlock's strong arms, and he piggybacked her away from the swears of the men, away from the danger.

After a while, it became apparent that the men were not going to follow them. It seemed like they had given up this particular attempt on Madison's life. Sherlock carried Madison on his back down the metal stairs at the opposite side of the building they were on, and began to carry on through the spookily empty industrial estate they had found themselves in. It was a maze of warehouses, just like the ones they had just run across the roofs of- the sooner they got out of it, and into a busier area where they could catch a cab to safety, the better. Madison flinched at every shadow; a pernicious feeling of being followed by lurking figures, ready to jump out and ambush them, haunted her like a curse.

When her racing heartbeat had slowed to a near normal pace, she began to try to talk to Sherlock, the man who had saved her life – there were so many moments during the chase when he could have deserted her to ensure his own safety. But still he stayed with her.

'Err, Sherlock?'

No answer.

'Well I just wanted to say thank you.' From her perch on his back, she gave his shoulders a little squeeze to show him how much she meant it.

'If I were you, I wouldn't tax yourself with anymore proclamations of my undeniable brilliance, dynamism, intelligence, bravery, etc. etc. John reminds me every day anyway. It's not as if don't know it.'

Not the response Madison was expecting.

'Well, you really are the definition of modesty, aren't you? Actually, don't flatter yourself with the other compliments, I was only saying thank you for not leaving me. If you were really intelligent, you would have made sure I stayed near the police, out of danger.'

Sherlock was immediately on the defensive.

'Well if you'd actually listened to me, you would have done that anyway. Instead, you insisted on following me.'

'_Well, _if you were maybe a_ little_ more understanding and a _little _less arrogant, rude and downright obnoxious I would have done just that.'

'Maybe that would be possible if you were a _little _less moronic. I find it incredibly difficult controlling myself when I have to deal with pigeon-brained people everywhere.'

Madison just sighed in disbelief – she'd only tried to thank him, and already he was back to his rude, cold manner. She'd thought that there was perhaps more to him when she saw his loyalty and compassion while they were being chased. But it seemed that he was just a man who needed to show off, and in order to do that successfully he needed someone to see him in action, and praise his brilliance while putting up with his deprecations.

'You know what? I reckon you secretly wanted me to follow you, so you had an audience to brag to. You're like an attention-seeking five year old.'

Silence.

'Who's John?'

A long pause.

'A colleague.'

'Well I think he needs to take you down a few pegs. If I were him, I'd –'

'Well, well, well. I can't deny you've put up a good fight. But I'd say that _the_ _game is over, _wouldn't you Mr Holmes?' The voice was quiet, mocking and utterly lethal. Oh, and it had a distinct Irish accent.

A smirking man, dressed in an immaculate black suit, clean shaven with short black hair sauntered out from the shadows. He looked very familiar. And then it dawned on her – it was Jeff, the mailroom delivery boy, the one who had a badly disguised crush on her. Madison was pulled off Sherlock's back by a strong balaclava wearing man, and she complied without a fuss when she felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed resolutely against her temple.

'Where's dear _Johnny boy? _Have you found a replacement? Well I won't deny that she's pretty.'

He giggled girlishly, and meandered closer to Madison, who was shaking, beads of sweat dripping from her brow, her heart thumping like it mighty burst from her chest. He stroked the side of her face, cupping his hand round her cheek.

'Shhhh, Shhhh. Don't cry. Sherlock does hate to see them cry.'

She looked into the manic eyes fiercely and spat in his face with venom. She didn't care about the consequences – she was already going to be shot anyway. And if she was going down, she wasn't going down without a fight. His mocking tone vanished in an instant however, and his eyes hardened like a cobra that's about to strike. He squeezed her jaw, digging his fingernails into her cheek, causing her to wince in pain.

'Be a good pet _Madison, _unless you want to be put down.'

He released his grip.

'Jeff, what is this about?'

'Jeff? Jeff? No sweetheart, it's Jim, Jim Moriarty. Jeff was a cameo role I played, and I must say it was _awfully _good fun.'

Sherlock had remained silent for all this time, another balaclava clad thug pressing a gun firmly into his back. He finally spoke.

'Are you really going to shoot us here? Really Moriarty, you're getting sloppy. You won't be able to get away in time – someone will come as soon as they've heard the shots.'

'How right you are Sherlock, how right you are. Isn't he a smart one Miss Smith? I can see why you like him. It would be very, very naughty to shoot you here. That's why I'm going to take you very far away where no one will hear, not even the birdies singing in the trees.'

At that moment, Madison felt a sharp jab of a needle in her neck. Her arms suddenly felt very heavy, and it was difficult to support the weight of her head. She said a few unintelligible phrases, and a nebulous mist descended across her vision. She felt her knees buckle and sink to the floor. And then she saw nothing, and heard nothing, and felt nothing but blackness.


End file.

Sherlock, Adventure, Mystery