***A/N: Please go to Google Maps and type in 22 Northumberland St. London, U.K. and then use street view if you'd like a better idea of the scene. And yes, there is actually a restaurant there called Sherlock Holmes Restaurant. (and yes I'm dying to eat there) Warning: There is some homophobic language used in this chapter by the bad guys. This in no way reflects the authors opinion and if you think it'll offend you please don't read it. Message me and I'll give you a chapter summary. (though it's not that bad so hopefully you won't find it necessary)

Sherlock took a cab to Northumberland Avenue and got out in frolnt of a building labeled "Edward VII Rooms." 22 Northumberland Street was accross from it but he'd had the whole cab ride to think and he'd realized that caution might be a good thing to employ about now. John would be dreadfully upset if he got himself killed if he ended up needing a place to stay- No. Sentiment being distracting again. Brush it off. Keep moving.

"OI! HEY, YOU!"

Oh- cabbies appreciate being paid. So much for discreet. He quickly paid the cabby and continued accross the street. Sitting down in a seat with a good view at the cafe there he waited. A waitress approached him immediately and he almost waved her away but for the menu she thrust at him- it had his name on it. Not just scrawled on it- it was as if... well it seemed like- huh. It appeared the restaurant was named after him. He stood, scaring the waitress (irrelevant), and checked the sign. "The Sherlock Holmes Restaurant." Why? Why name a restaurant after him? What was the purpose? He sat back down and pulled out his phone.

Fr: S.H.

To: uNkNoWn NuMbEr

7:49p.m.

I'm here. Where is your "lackey"?

No reply came for twenty minutes and Sherlock was getting twitchy. He'd even been forced to order something (he wasn't sure what it was but when he'd snarled at the timid waitress to just GET HIM SOMETHING if it was that big of a deal, and then thrown and ten pound notes at her, she'd returned with it.) He amused himself briefly as he calculated the probability of it being poisoned (disappointingly low) and took an experimental sip. Ten minutes later he was even more twitchy, an empty Caf-Pow cup in front of him.

Then he saw them. Three teens, big hulking guys dressed entirely in black but for their right shoe laces. Those were blood red and looped in what looked to be a Carrick Bend knot... Definitely suspicious. And.. hold on. There was a fourth! Much smaller and not dressed per uniform. Dark-haired and terrified-looking, he wore street clothing and one of the hulk-boys held him by the scruff of his neck, dragging him along with them. Sherlock dropped a pound on the table and followed as they went down Northumberland Street (at a distance.) It was a dark and quiet night, (for London), so he took great care in following them silently down the dark alleyway. Both sides were blocked off from the moonlight by tall buildings and eerie shadows danced through windows. They reached the intersection with Corner House Street and stopped. It was accross frolm a parking garage and under half a building.

It was also the darkest and most out-of-the-way place in a 3 block radius as far as Sherlock's mental map showed. He crouched low and ducked into the parking garage entrance to watch. What was going on? Who were these guys- ah. Part of the gang, no doubt about it. And the kid? Sherlock squinted at him in the bad lighting and tried to recall details from when he'd been illuminated by the cafe's lights. Not a kid- a highschooler then. With a good deal of personal grooming, underwear showing- ah. Gay. Did the gang have something against homosexuals? Sherlock strained to hear what was being said.

"You dirty little homo" *SLAM* That'd be a yes then... The teen was pressed against the wall in a painful looking position by an elbow to the throat. At least no weapons had made an appearance yet.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He'd rather not observe this awful display of unintelligence and crude behavior but he was also rather outnumbered. What to do? Suddenly John's face flashed accross his mind and "What to do?" became "What would John do?" The answer was obvious. He'd try to help, no matter what the personal cost. D*** it.

See what sentiment did? Mycroft, Sherlock grudgingly admitted as he strode out of the shadows of the garage toward the teens, was right. Caring was NOT an advantage.

***A/N: Did anyone catch the NCIS reference?

***A/N: BLOOPER

SO GUYS I MIGHT MAKE A BLOG FYI. IT'LL BE THIS STUFF BUT YOU WON'T GET A BREAK FROM IT. I WILL BE RELENTLESS. LIKE A BLOODHOUND. OR HITLER. I'LL HIT YOU UP WITH THE DEATS IF I FOLLOW THROUGH, ASSUMING YOU CARE.

But no time for digression today, nossir. I have an idea to pitch to you guys, assuming your author is cool with me advertising for a friend. Imagine this. A line of toys.. that allow kids to interact and experience, without harm, the dangers of the real world. Lemme give you an example, so I know we're on the same page. A doll, called 'Ken, Your Stalker Friend' or perhaps 'Stan, The Touchy Ice Cream Man'. Interactive, educational, and fun for the whole family! Brilliant, I know.

Think about it.