(Author's note: Chapters 1 and 2 have been reworked from the original "light" version to give it more substance. For those who might choose to reread it, I hope you will find this second reading worth your while. A special nod to Honourable for her kind candor.)

Outside the Yellow Tape

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"Is John with you?"

At the kitchen table, Sherlock turned down the flame on his Bunsen burner and tilted his neck to hold the phone. "Mary?" Leaving his goggles in place, he examined the results of his ongoing experiment, the charred scrap of fabric in his occluding clamps.

"…I'm, I'm looking for…John." The desperate worry she tried to conceal prompted Sherlock to shut off the burner and shove the safety glasses onto his head.

Receiving a call—not just a text—from Mary was not out of the ordinary, but her trembly voice was.

"Are you all right? What's wrong?" Quickly, the detective sifted through the current status of Mrs. Watson's condition as last reported by John. "Bed rest...any day now." The proud father and doctor, all smiles and eyes twinkling, could not have been more hopeful …or anxious. Sherlock had the same mixed emotions, but he wouldn't let on.

"Oh, no! It's not me. I'm fine, well mostly, except for feeling constantly irritated and weepy, my hormones must be so out of control, and yes, I've now been ordered to stay off my feet…." Mary dismissed the question with wearied nonchalance. "Anyway. Nothing, yet."

Right! So, where's John?

The question about John's current location rewound Sherlock's memory. The final vivid image was the back of John's head as he headed out, the last sound was the parting words tossed over his shoulder: "Okay, right then," and the "loci" for remembering it all was yesterday's newspaper, the headline in plain view, draped over the armchair. It was still there, where John left it yesterday.

Was he supposed to be with me today? The consulting detective reviewed his mental checklist for the day. Whilst he often merged John's actual presence with the useful one in his mind, he was certain they had not planned to meet, nor was his partner off on an investigative errand.

It was part of an unspoken agreement among the three of them. As the due date drew closer, the investigative team of Holmes and Watson (mostly Watson) had scaled back on cases. Lately, the "deplorable" conditions of London crime scenes had yielded 3s and 4s on Sherlock's Beaufort scale of Crime Scene Interest, not requiring either of them to leave the flat—thereby avoiding dangerous situations—and allowing them to be on call for Mary and baby or B.S.W.

Sherlock could not discount the influence of the yet-to-be born presence in their lives. Referencing the unborn in his thoughts had become unavoidable, especially as her impending arrival was the constant focus of both Watsons. For simplicity's sake, Sherlock had decided on the acronym B.S.W. At least it was more efficient than the awkward full nomenclature: Baby Shirley Watson, which seemed to be occupying her still tenuous spot in his Mind Palace.

Whilst John and Mary's anticipation of childbirth were matched by his own, the detective was more looking forward to when they could resume The Work without such encumbrances and distractions.

"Did he plan on coming here?" The graduate chemist stepped away from his lab equipment, tossed the perishable materials into the refrigerator for preservation, shrugged off his tartan dressing gown, and headed to his bedroom.

"Actually, no. This afternoon, he was supposed to be picking up…oh, well…that's not important. It's …I'm worried. Have you seen the telly? Some breaking news is giving me a bad feeling." Mary's voice caught. "There's been an explosion or a fire… They think it's due to a power surge, but it caused a derailment, and massive Underground disruptions…."

Rummaging for cleaner socks whilst he listened with the phone wedged between ear and shoulder, Sherlock selected the day's pair as noted by his sock index, slammed the drawer shut, slipped them on, and headed to the landing.

"Metronet say," Mary continued, "this occurred in the Hammersmith & City line, late in the morning, more like lunch hour, but the number of passengers were near peak, due to some traveling international art exhibit, of course, there's the annual Boat Show, maybe something else. A lot of January attractions, I don't know what really. What I do know is all this happened about an hour ago…many injuries…some fatalities feared…It's on the telly!"

"Hmmmm… didn't hear. Been caught up in experiments…." Among her many talents, Mary's intuition had been one Sherlock most admired, but his own powers of deduction had prepared him for what she was about to say. He put on his shoes, and grabbed his overcoat off the peg on the landing.

"I'm, I'm afraid…he was there…," voice cracking, Mary cleared her throat, "I can't ring him up…can't text. His phone's not working…If doctor's orders didn't have me on bed rest, I'd be there myself. Still might go... "

"No! Take care of your baby. I'll go take care of John for you," he knotted his scarf, "but tell me where, exactly…."

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Sirens wailed, the Doppler effect swelling and fading, producing an overlapping frenzy of noise, until the ambulances and police cars moved past. Swirling red and blue lights signaled that rescue and recovery operations were underway. The cautious evacuation of vehicles and the crush of people heading away, with alarm plainly on their faces, impeded Sherlock's progress toward the hectic scene. The taxi had had to discharge Sherlock blocks away or turn back. Now, with collar raised against the mid-January chill, his scarf wrapped tighter, the deliberately hatless Sherlock Holmes braced himself as he walked through the enormous crowd toward a strategic vantage point. No view was unobstructed, but the consulting detective found a location at the edge of the crowd where he observed nearly a hundred passengers, some with soot-blackened faces looking dazed, others merely frightened, and still others relieved. They were leaving the Tube station with assistance and being guided toward first-aid stations.

During his cab ride, Sherlock had calculated the number of carriages per train (six or seven), each with a seating capacity of 152 passengers, totaling a maximum of 1,064 during peak ridership. At the actual scene, it appeared to his discerning eye that many more passengers were still subsurface in the Tube. And if more than one train were affected, one could double that number.

A large area surrounding the Farringdon Tube Station in Clerkenwell had been cordoned off by yellow police tape to create triage stations for those in immediate or urgent need. Police and fire service vehicles along with London Ambulance Service had parked in a strategic herringbone pattern to prevent penetration by unofficial vehicles. Lingering outside the yellow tape, camera crews accompanied BBC and CTV reporters in heavy coats, who searched for sound bites among the gaping onlookers and concerned citizens, poking microphones under their noses and waiting.

Since these observations were scarcely providing pertinent information to further his data collection, Sherlock moved methodically through the mob searching for better views. At one point, he stood on tiptoes, looking for Lestrade, or any familiar Met official who might give him special clearance.

Instead, his elevated advantage showed him the grim sight of recovered bodies laid about twenty meters away in orderly rows on the cold street. Only shoes, socks, or bare feet were sticking out from the blankets. At quick glance, Sherlock counted the feet of seven men, three women, and two smaller bundles completely covered, no feet showing. Determined to keep on track, Sherlock blocked the shock of the children with clinical detachment.

The cacophony of sirens and shouting made listening impossible. Since his arrival, Sherlock had been regularly checking his mobile for missed calls or texts; yet, neither his contacts, his network, not even Mary, had tried communicating with him. Nothing was as it should be. If he were running a typical investigation, Sherlock wouldn't have considered connecting with anyone with so little substantive information, but something he had learned from John—"one word was all I needed"—compelled him to be atypical. He called Mary.

"Mary! Has John called? No? All right, then. It's still early, and locating authorities has been a challenge. Certain there will be an opportunity to connect with them quite soon."

It was hard to hear her. Either the nearby noise was too loud or her voice was strained from worry.

Uncertain how to assuage Mary's fears, Sherlock pondered, what would John suggest I do? The answer seemed suddenly obvious. With precision, the detective got to the heart of the matter, "Don't worry. I promise you. I will find him."

"…I know you will, Sherlock." At that moment, she clearly heaved a sob. "If anyone can…." Her faith in him, like John's, was humbling. Ending the call, Sherlock could only hope how he might find him would be "alive and well."

The detective thumbed a quick text to Lestrade and Mycroft: JW missing. At derailment site. Need information.

He paused thoughtfully, then, reluctantly forwarded the same message to Molly Hooper. The only one he did not want to hear back from was Molly, but the lack of an immediate reply from the other two tested his patience. Give them some time, John would say. It only took a few moments for Molly to reply with: Don't Worry, followed by a smiling emoticon. Whilst Sherlock realized she was attempting to distract him from worry, it was quite unnecessary. He was perfectly equipped to control fears or anxieties through his normal methods of reason and logic. Perhaps, her desire to comfort him was a reflection of her own sense of worry.

Indeed, the worry of the masses surrounded him and forced him to become more detached to keep his mind clear. Listening to the shouts and murmurs from the crowd—endless questions and comments in chaotic spurts—the consulting detective attempted to gather empirical data through their emotionally-charged chatter.

"How did this happen?"

"On the telly, they saying it could be as many as four trains involved…"

"Oh, My God!"

"Do you see my daughter? Tracy, do you see her? She's not picking up her mobile."

"There's Bret! I see Bret! He's okay! BRET! BRET! Over here!"

"Lightning. They say it was a lightning strike…"

"Not in winter!"

"Too cold, too cold out."

"Bet it's a terrorist thing!"

"Look at them. Who is responsible here? This is an outrage!"

"SHUT UP! Can't 'ear what the constable's saying!

"Move. Must get through! My wife's there…Help? Help me? Let me by!"

The intense emotions were over-stimulating, however. Sherlock needed to ground his sharpened senses from excessive sentiment with a different focus to help him differentiate the irrelevant fretting from the important facts.

Looking across the way, his eyes were drawn to A&E teams from Hammersmith and Bart's hospitals. Standing ready in the street, heavy jackets covering those who were still in scrubs, the men and women were watching for orders to assist. Immediately he thought of John. He'd be one of the first to respond.

Maneuvering through the pulsing crowd, Sherlock approached the doctors and nurses with intentions to overhear, if not to engage them, for more information about the crisis. Tapping the shoulder of a young woman doctor for attention, Sherlock guardedly produced his purloined copy of Lestrade's Inspector's ID, and leaned closer. "What do you know?" His baritone was barely loud enough to be heard over the noise of the emergency vehicles on site and the blended yowl of the distressed.

"No one knows yet what caused the derailment, but there are definitely two trains incapacitated with loads of passengers needing to be evacuated through the Tube," she shouted her reply.

The man beside her added, "casualties are coming in. Helpful passengers have been assisting rescue operations, but we're still unsure of how many and what kind of injuries we will be dealing with. Looked bad at first, some burn and smoke inhalation victims, but most coming out right now seem ambulatory." Even as he finished speaking, he and the woman were summoned to a triage station and sprinted away, leaving Sherlock at the kerb.

An RN, who had just broken off a conversation with a Met officer, caught Sherlock's eye. Perhaps his perplexed face compelled her to relay the information. "Apparently, in one of the trains, there are three derailed carriages full of passengers at the Underground derailment site. Several passengers are critical, and they can't be moved out until the equipment can be moved, and rescue can get past the blockage. I'm told there are medical people staying with them."

Nodding his thanks to her, Sherlock stepped away, unable to side-step the frustration and helplessness of being excluded from the rescue operation for which his skills were nonessential. He had to resign himself to only one role—that of a mere observer—and wait until the truth unfolded. Patience was hardly his best attribute, but with a timely text from Lestrade: Working on it, Sherlock had enough confirmation to send a quick text to Mary. Composing it in haiku format was a private exercise in self-control:

Some progress at site

Mycroft Lestrade are on it

Waiting to hear more

Mary texted back: Staying positive. The way she had sounded earlier, Sherlock found that hard to believe.

Moments later, Mycroft actually called. "Well, the good news is they ruled out a terrorist act."

"What about casualties?" His phone pressed into his ear, head bowed as he weaved through the crowd, Sherlock was momentarily uninterested in hearing raw statistics. Fortunately, Mycroft had none.

"In that area, regrettably, you know as much as I. The Met and Metronet are coordinating rescue and recovery activities and that will take time. One derailment, but two trains are immovable in the Tube. That's almost two thousand people who have to climb back out. Some are elderly, some unfit for unusually rigorous activity, and then there are safety issues with the power shut off. Most people find total darkness unsettling."

"Let me have access!" Determination had restored Sherlock's focus. Information was what he sought. "There is nothing like first-hand evidence."

"And what would you do? Deduce your way to find the cause of the power surge? I doubt their experts would tolerate your meddling. Find John, then? Once the blocked Tube is opened and the engineers can ensure that no structural damage would jeopardize evacuation, those trapped passengers will be pouring out. John Watson will probably be one of them."

Sherlock kept silent and let his brother ramble. Mycroft had sunk to offering hope in probabilities as though he doubted his younger brother's ability to rise above strangling sentiment, even about John.

"Excepting your friend, I find most ordinary people are easily frightened by change in their daily routine. Now imagine those same poor souls are thrown into a situation that is not only unexpected and startling, but catastrophic. How, Sherlock, do you expect to handle that emotional tidal wave when it rises to the surface? My advice to you, dear brother, is stand back. Or better, go back to your flat as fast as you can, let the experts handle this crisis, and John will contact you when he surfaces."

"You underestimate my tolerance, as usual. Rather, I need clearance to stay. Don't want to be shooed away like one of the curious spectators. Just permission to remain on site, for information, until I am satisfied…."

"Satisfied? We all know that's not possible for you."

Perpetuating the volley of verbal taunts was pointless. It would only prolong the delay of the resolution he wanted. Sherlock held his tongue, grudgingly.

"What have we here? Restraint?" his brother marveled, although light sarcasm laced his words. "That is a good sign, Sherlock. Even regarding your friend, you still have control. You will need it, especially when the emotional floodgates burst." Mycroft inhaled thoughtfully before delivering his decision. "Fine, then. You'll get your access, but stay out of trouble!"

"Well?" The younger brother could hear in his elder brother's voice unfinished advice. "What else?"

"Yes, there is one more thing, Sherlock." Mycroft's tone dropped to a serious level. "Don't let sentiment warp your sense of probability. So far, the ratio of fatalities to passengers seems to be relatively low. Do the calculations and focus on probability, not possibility!"

The call ended before Sherlock could reply.

As the afternoon sun sank, the crisis also seemed well passed its zenith. The noise level had dropped. Within the three hours since his arrival at the site, (in which time Sherlock texted Mary an update per hour), the mass exodus from the Underground slowed to an occasional surge, then ultimately a trickle of stragglers that included some Metronet workers in reflective vests, and Met personnel on the investigation.

There was still no sign of John, however. The 'ratio of probability to possibility' was becoming problematic.

The clamor of humanity surrounded him, but Sherlock resolved to remain isolated and disconnected. Mycroft's past warning "…hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage," and his own words; "All emotions, and particularly love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things,"(pronounced publicly at John and Mary's wedding so many—actually so few—months ago), were unfailing tenets that carried him through every crisis. He especially needed to uphold them now….

Despite his commitment to keep the requisite emotional distance, Sherlock couldn't keep a physical one. He wouldn't leave, because the greatest probability was that John was still there. He couldn't let Mary down. Hadn't he vowed to do whatever it takes for all three of them?

Under the fading light of day, the evening had become coated in a thin fog. Loved ones huddled, expecting answers from the hustling officials who were too worn to offer any. Sorrow and distress were written on the faces of those who waited beside Sherlock in the crowd. Although he chose to stand apart, the detective understood their sense of hopelessness and uselessness. For reasons he did not want to entertain, it was becoming much harder to detach from the immense worry, the absolute dread about the possibility of losing his loyal friend—"the bravest and wisest and kindest human being," Sherlock Holmes had "ever had the good fortune of knowing."

It was abiding allegiance to John Watson, not just cold reason, which gave Sherlock the strength to stand opposed to despair in that moment. And stand he would, along with all the worried people around him, until he found John.

And finally he realized that by sharing in this clamor of humanity, he was not actually alone.