Warnings – quite a bit of language & mild references to violent crime.

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The low black car glides up to the pavement, the familiar purr briefly drawing Greg's attention. He looks up from his phone, eyes darting to register its arrival.

His focus returns quickly to the screen, however; he only half hears the muted click of the door. His pulse thunders in his ears, his eyes frozen on the little glowing square in his hand, re-reading, again, again.

Piccadilly Circus. Two shot. Broad daylight. Hysteria. Get here NOW. – Sally.

Greg fumbles in his coat pocket for the car keys, haste making him clumsy. Fingernails scrabble helplessly against the metal and the phone shifted to his left hand clatters to the ground.

Oh, bollocks. Shit.

He stoops to pick it up as his fingers finally close around the keys. The case has scuffed on the concrete, but the screen winks reassuringly up at him, and he hardly cares anyway as he jams the thing firmly in his pocket, already turning towards the car and Sally's summons.

He wonders where the shooter is now, what he's doing, if people are in danger. Daylight shootings are scary, unpredictable – these people just don't care, not about anything, and they're dangerous.

Even the familiar trace of Mycroft's cologne on the air isn't enough to distract him as he runs for the car.

"I s'pose you've heard?" he calls, turning sideways to brandish the car keys and give a rueful smile as he passes the man on the pavement, who is leaning oh-so-casually on his umbrella.

"Quite. No word on the gunman's whereabouts yet, he's still on the tube. I'll text you, rest assured."

"God, I love you," Greg says, meeting the taller man's gaze as he wrenches open the car door. Mycroft's followed him, he watches serenely, and Greg leans over the top of the door to land a fleeting kiss on his lips. "Texting, eh? Things are getting serious."

He flashes a cheeky grin, slams the door shut, and starts the engine.

Hard to tell through the dark glass, but Greg thinks he sees an answering roll of the eyes before Mycroft turns away – not that he can spare it much thought – he switches on the siren and pulls away from Baker Street in a storm of protesting rubber and screaming blue lights, desperately hoping that he's not too late.

His phone buzzes in his pocket 2 minutes from Piccadilly Circus:

Paddington Station. 10.15 to Cardiff. Platform 4. Do be careful. MH.

Well, shit.

Greg swerves round a van and down a side street, back the way he came, away from the tinny pleas of his colleagues over the radio.

He can't give a violent gunman a half hour head start on a train full of innocent members of the public, for God's sake. It's his fucking job.

Christ.

10:12.

Sally's voice crackles in on the radio, a momentary lifeline, stop that train…but she fizzles out into white noise. Greg swears, slams his fist into the steering wheel, and tries to think straight.

He grits his teeth, forces the accelerator to the floor, and all but prays for a miracle.

Two seconds later, and his phone pings on the dashboard:

Train unexpectedly delayed.

…please slow down, Gregory. MH.