So. I love this scene. Fucking love it. It gives me chills whenever I see it. And I like putting things into prose, so I thought I'd give this a go. Enjoy. :D

His head is swimming with the fact that she – The Woman – is alive, and he is drowning in it. She occupies his thoughts entirely, the centre of a whirlpool that's sucking him in from the straight and precise line of his thinking and leaving everything uncertain. Details, the things he lives for, suddenly hold so little significance in comparison to the fact of her existence, and he cannot file her away in his mind. Whenever he tries, she jumps from the draws and rips up his index, forcing him to look at her, think of her, and he tries for something that will stop it, but nothing comes. He needs something external to stop it – something of overwhelming importance that will overwhelm even her and focus him again – that will make him notice again.

And the fact that the door is off its lock is the thing that does this, and he forgets all things instantly, because his flat is not one that is victim to random and desperate break ins. The petty criminal network knows to stay away from 221B, and so the person who's kicked in his door is something above the average criminal. Unafraid, over confident , and strong if the torn wood and the smashed lock is anything to go by. But the door is closed. No normal person would notice it, whereas they would if the door had been left wide open – the typical sign of a flight after a robbery. No usual thief would stop to close the door.

And so he can only assume that whoever has broken in is still inside. And it is not material goods that he wants.

He pushes open the door, and observes. Nothing has been trashed, and everything is seemingly as it should be. But there are plenty of things amiss, and he registers every single one as he steps forwards. The door to Ms Hudson's flat – open. A crate of cleaning products – left on the floor for anyone to trip over.

Ms Hudson is not an untidy woman. Ms Hudson has never been the sort to leave doors open and things on the floor where they could cause harm to other people. And the very reason that the door is open and the bucket of cleaning things is on the floor is that there is something very, very wrong.

His eye moves to the foot of the stairs, and it sees two dirty lines on the wall that accompanies the stair case. A scuff from a shoe in the midst of a struggle as its owner battled with something. He can just about picture it in his mind – the way it moved as someone twisted desperately in his grip.

His eye moves again, and falls on the wall a second time, but higher up. Something interrupts the pattern on the wallpaper – a chip, roughly the size of a fingernail, from where someone has been able to lurch forward and reach out for something, anything to hold. He touches the flap of paper gently, and the picture he has been building in his mind becomes clearer, and now he can hear her crying. He can see her struggling as she was dragged up the stairs. He can hear her scream his name.


In normal people, anger is a wild and an untameable thing. It stops at nothing, breaks through walls, and consumes one utterly until there is nothing left of them but someone sour and bitter who carries their anger for the rest of their life. But in him, anger is calculated. Wielded as a weapon to his best possible advantage. His mind is never clearer than when he is angry.

And he is full of rage.

The door to his flat was treated much the same as the front door, and he steps in unhindered. He walks in calmly, immediately noticing anything and everything. Just as he expected, nothing has been taken and nothing has been broken. The three men in his flat want something far more important. Information. Ms Hudson begins to cry when he walks into the room. She is sat on a chair with the muzzle of a gun pointed at the back of her head.

'Oh Sherlock! Sherlock – '

His rage intensifies, and the part of him that is capable of emotion is drowned out in the midst of his anger. When the time for anger has passed, he can only then be emotional. He can only then be human.

'Don't snivel Ms Hudson. It will do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet,' Sherlock says, looking into the eyes of the man holding the gun and looking away only to briefly glance down at Ms Hudson, to collect the surface data, his eyes returning to his again. He's been staring at him all the while. 'What a tender world that would be.' Sherlock adds, talking to the man this time. He says nothing in response.

'Oh please – sorry – Sherlock,' Ms Hudson sobs quietly. Sherlock doesn't ignore her, although he says nothing. But the man holding the gun does. He addresses Sherlock directly.

'I believe you have something we want, Mr Holmes.'

Direct, straight to the point. Good. Sherlock has very little time for pompous criminals – especially Americans.

'Then why don't you ask for it?' Sherlock replies, using the distraction of tedious conversation to inform himself. Stepping forward, he reaches for Ms Hudson's shaking hands and peels back her sleeve, the flower and heart shaped buttons on it clicking together. There's a mark there, a bruise, but it's not enough to get Sherlock motivated.

'I've asked this one, but she doesn't seem to know anything.' The American volunteers, as if he's trying to be helpful. Sherlock ignores him, looks up, and notices that the shoulder of Ms Hudson's cardigan is torn.

'But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr Holmes?'

Sherlock looks at Ms Hudson then, and that is when he sees it – a cut on the side of her face, surrounded by a viscous looking bruise. He makes the connection then between that and a smattering of blood on a ring the American wears, and he is motivated. In the space of a second, he marks everything that could cause him agony. Carotid artery, skull, eyes. An artery, lungs, ribs. His mind allows his body the surge of adrenaline it's been seeking, and it sharpens his thoughts to the finest point.

'I believe I do.' Sherlock says simply, and stands back. 'First, get rid of your boys.'

'Why?' The American demands.

'I dislike being outnumbered – it makes for too much stupid in the room.'

The American sighs, as if Sherlock is going at great lengths to make his day difficult. 'You two, go to the car.' He tells his men.

'And then get into the car and drive away,' Sherlock adds impassively. 'Don't try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn't work.' He says, smiling slightly, pleased to see the American infuriated.

The two men leave the room, and Sherlock knows that this will be depressingly simple.

'And now stop pointing that gun at me.'

'So you can point a gun at me?' The American counters. Of course he thinks Sherlock is armed. What a stupid assumption to make.

'I'm unarmed.' Sherlock says, stepping back and opening his arms. The American tilts his head.

'Mind if I check?'

'Oh I insist.' Sherlock says. It almost makes him laugh. His plan – his trap – is so blindingly obvious that any moron would be able to point it out. But the American walks towards him anyway, pulling at the flaps of his coat and then patting down his back, searching for a weapon that isn't there. Small minded idiot – Sherlock snatches a spray from inside of his pocket and fills the American's face with a harmless cloud of gas when he turns around, lured by his movement. And when he is distracted, Sherlock brings his head forward and cracks his forehead into the American's. He goes down without a sound, and even though Sherlock will have a bruise that will last him weeks, his anger is satisfied. Slightly. And even as Sherlock deems him a moron and returns immediately to Ms Hudson, checking her over and holding her as she cries, his anger is still there. It boils.

And he knows that it is not enough.

'So exactly how many times did he fall out the window?'

'Oh it's all been a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count.'

Dat Cumberbatch in that scene. Blargharghthfff. Anyway, leave me a review :D