One line, different stories

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In a mad dash we make our way inside the train station. At the end of the day, even in the countryside, it's full of workers going home, school kids with bag packs and other commuters. For a few seconds Sherlock and I are left frozen in the bustling crowd, trying to catch sight of the suspect (actually, call him a criminal, Sherlock is very sure he did it, I'm just not sure how yet, Sherlock is milking it again).

'There!' Sherlock yells all of a sudden, grabbing me by the arm to push me along. Then we're running again, chasing the suspect Sherlock has spotted in one of the exterior platforms.

He jumps the tickets barrier (easy for his long legs), flashing the platform manager a police badge. Detective Inspector Lestrade's are his favourite acquired badges. I jump next (bloody things!) and luckily the manager assumes we're a team of undercover police officers (I haven't acquired a badge, thank you).

Sherlock is running like a maniac in front of me, shoving innocent people aside on his way to the suspect; I'm following, breaking my own record of voiced apologies for his rudeness. All in a day's work.

As we reach the right platform the train is leaving the station and for a moment all seems to be lost. Maybe the suspect didn't board the train? That would be too lucky. We catch a glimpse of the murderer eyeing us back through one of the windows. I start to curse, Sherlock just grabs my arm again to jerk me into another mad run, side by side with the last carriage of the train, through the platform. Surely it's too late?

Damn this new coat, it's hot and heavy and I'm sweaty and old. Anger at the coat just makes me run faster. Sherlock is still in the lead. The platform ends, suddenly we're running over gravel and dirt.

Sherlock just manages to grab onto the handles of the last door of the end carriage, breathless, his wavy black curls are swept back by sweat and wind, and yet he still looks all posh. 'John, hurry up!'

I jerk myself off my heavy coat even as I run to keep up with the train. Another yard before the train ends the curve on the tracks and then it'll really speed up. This is a last chance. My heavy new coat is on my hand, my legs are spread wide at every step in a way I wasn't sure I could since Afghanistan's emergency rescues, my breaths are painfully shallow, my head is all but dizzying from the lack of coherent oxygen input. God, I'm old. Damn me if I give up. Just three and a half years ago I was using a crutch, damn me if I ever go back to that.

In a mad Geronimo-ish jump I reach the steel handle with the tips of my fingers and I fight for a tight grasp even as my legs are still running the gravel alongside the tracks. Sherlock leans over from inside the train to grab my arm with one hand and the jumper at my neck with the other.

'Let go of the coat, John!'

The coat has nothing to do with it, I'd assure him if I hadn't the wind knocked out of me.

'Just drop it, John!' he demands, more loudly. There is something new in his voice, something I will never question. I drop the heavy coat and launch forward to the train door, he shoves me forcefully inside. Just in time, too. As I scramble over both detective and the floor of the carriage the train jerks suddenly, shaking its carriages and everyone inside.

'Train tracks', Sherlock reports. In my mad run, I never saw it coming. If I were still holding on to the handle it would have thrown me off balance, hard. Possibly fatally.

'Thanks, Sherlock.' My mad partner just acts like he hasn't even heard my words. He's already getting up. 'Are we going to get the suspect now?'

'Catch your breath, John.'

I think on how hard it was for me to keep up running and I'd bet I even pale. 'Look, back there...' I start.

'I'll get you another coat, John.'

'I don't need another coat! Actually, Mary is going to kill me. She gave it to me. Said I looked taller – I mean, nice in it. And good thing I put my phone and wallet in my jeans too.'

'Nice work', he ends up saying, and I just stare dumbfounded at him. Sherlock is complementing me? Is this a midget joke again? I'm average height, not everyone can be towering detectives with long legs, damn it.

I finally get up as well, in the trembling carriage, speeding up on its way to... I have no idea where. Sherlock has been waiting for me (like this is the time to be polite for once in a lifetime, you git). Together we make our way to the criminal, we can already tell he's not even going to put up a fight.

I just take out my phone and ring Lestrade to report our location and the collect point for one fugitive serial murderer. Then I realise Sherlock hasn't told me yet how the man's done it. Well, I'll leave that to him, anyway I'm just his blogger.

'Hey, Lestrade! Yeah, we caught him. We manage to catch him on board a train, nothing too hard.' I catch a glimpse of an amused smile in Sherlock Holmes.

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Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.