[Pokémon] The Hounds of Actaeon (A BBC Sherlock crossover)

"Religious ministers across the country say that the folly of man has led us to this point, that our foolhardiness in allying ourselves so closely with beasts had caused God to strike us down-"
"You don't agree with them?"
"Of course not. The idea is preposterous. The Lyssavirus is a strand of rabies, it's just an illness. Our scientists will isolate the virus and cure it. This is no wrath of God, this is no Rapture."
"With all due respect, Sir, people have died. Are dying, at the claws and fangs of their own Pokémon. And yet you stand by that this is a normal illness?"
"Absolutely. By this time next year, no one will even know what it means for a Pokémon to turn Lys. The public is safe."
--- Excerpt from an interview between Diana Waite, a journalist with the BBC, and politician [NAME REDACTED], three days before public outcry led him to be stripped of his office.
Two months after the outbreak of Lyssavirus in England. Eight months before the collapse of the British Empire and the formation of the Catastrophe Act, 1956

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John Watson had never quite understood the travelling trainers when they spoke of the immediate bond they felt with their first Pokémon. He watched them and listened to the tales of the dangerous roads they walked, as they drunk and ate with their Pokémon, of all types and colours, faithfully at their hips. He listened, and tried without much success to imagine what that instant connection would feel like.
It didn't stop him from devouring their stories. Inevitably the trainers, new in town, would find their way to the smoky bar where travellers dined for half-price, and the young barmaids listened to their tales with jealous ears and a cheeky smile. Food was sometimes scarce, but there was always alcohol and eager ears, and that was enough for most.
Some trainers grimly talked of the state of the roads, with rogue Pokémon attacks on the rise daily. Others spoke of friends lost to Lys, or Pokémon killed in battle. Others talked of the wonders they'd seen, the lessons they'd learned. And a few, a few whispered darkly of corruption and deceit.
Often his sister Harry sat at his side, listening just as eagerly. When the talk turned quiet and rebellious however, John pulled her away, even as she complained bitterly. The rumours made his gut twist uncomfortably, as he was content to view the Policeguards as mere officers of the law, rather than corrupt hands of the Parliament.
"We need to know what it's like out there, John!" Harry would complain, coppery hair framing her young face. Precocious in her youth, she hadn't quite learned what John had picked up at his father's knee.
Ignorance was safety. Someone was always listening. Of course, that mantra hadn't helped his father either, killed in a military procedure up North seven years ago. Harry had no memories of him past a few of being bounced on a knee. John held too many memories.
"We don't need to know that," he told her. "Now go see if Mum is getting up today."
Sometimes the travellers would tell stories of picking their starter Pokémon. Chosen at sixteen, allowing for two years of crucial bonding time before starting the traditional Journey at eighteen, the starter was one of a few carefully bred species of Pokémon. Known for their reliability and steadfastness, every new trainer picked one of the available lines, the first taste of the bond between a trainer and Pokémon.
And an obsession with John's peers, all fast approaching sixteen themselves.

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"Pikachu's so cute," the girls chattered at school, ignoring John sitting on his own watching a ball game nearby. "And so fast, who wouldn't want to pick one?"
John didn't really see the appeal in the gimmicky little thunder mouse. Harry had once almost electrocuted herself when she was small, and ever since then he'd regarded electricity as sort of a necessary evil.
Plus, the idea of a tiny mouse Pokémon facing against something like a Khangaskan filled him with horror.
"I was sure I'd pick a Bulbasaur," the trainer told them, eyes bright and eager. She looked down at the turtle with the bushy tail curled up next to her stool. "I mean, I've always loved plant types, but then I saw my Ashen here, and I just knew. Sometimes the Pokémon chooses you, you know?"
Harry leaned closer to get a better look at the blue and cream patterns on the turtle's shell, face greedy with want. John pulled her back, not wanting to disturb the sleeping Pokémon, his eyes noting a jagged scar across one side of the small Pokémon's neck.
A water Pokémon would be all well and good really, but how could he love something that could slip into water like a ghost and swim away? It wasn't in water's nature to be tied to one place.

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"He's one of the last in New England," Harry said, bouncing eagerly on her heels. The small TV crackled and spat, the screen barely showing the battle through the static. John could barely make out the shape of the Charmeleon battling the Ekans, the two moving so fast the cameraman could barely keep up. "No one else has been able to keep one so long!"
Sherlock leaned over, twitching the antenna. "Fire Pokémon show a propensity for Lyssavirus, that's why. The breed is unstable. They'll ban them too, soon. I told you we should have used the set at my house, the top of the rise has far superior reception."
John shrugged, looking back at his book. Braveheart, the illustriously named Charmeleon battling at the London arena, had been with his trainer with seven years.
Most fire Pokémon lasted three before becoming Lys and either escaping to the wild to sicken and die, or being killed during rampages. The Charmander line was the only legal fire species left, and their popularity was dwindling.
"I thought you weren't interested in battling," he asked his friend. Sherlock shrugged, shaking dark curls from his eyes.
"I'm not. But the last captive fire Pokémon in New England does present some interesting opportunities to gather data."
John could see his friend's brain flickering through the opportunities for research a Charmander would offer him. Reckless and unstable, a Charmander would suit Sherlock perfectly. John wasn't so sure he wanted a bond with a creature who would more than likely be dead or mad within five years.
"They're not captive, Sherlock. Pokémon are our companions. They like battling." Harry was indignant.
Sherlock looked at her sneeringly. "Kept in Pokéballs, battled for amusement and the protection of humans. I should rather ask a Pokémon their opinion of the practise, over asking a human."
The TV squealed and cleared just in time for the Charmeleon to leap in the air and land a vicious slash on the Ekans, sending the purple snake sprawling to be recalled into its ball. John stared at the dark grey patch, spreading wetly on the sand.
Had anyone ever actually asked the Pokémon?

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In the end John picked his Pokémon the same way thousands had before, by walking into the Pokémon Station in town on his sixteenth birthday and stopping in front of the first enclosure that felt right.
Later John would be sitting in Sherlock's extensive back gardens watching as his younger friend prowled around his new companion, muttering under his breath.
"Presence of chlorophyll giving the blue-green cast to the skin, fascinating… I wonder if the bulb is symbiotic to the Pokémon. Can you feel this? John, can it feel this?"
"Don't pull his bulb, Sherlock." John looked at his Bulbasaur as it grunted and bared its small fangs at his friend. "And don't call him it. His name is Sig."
And suddenly he understood what they meant by the instant bond. The small, warty creature with the oversized bulb didn't look like much, but it's dark eyes met his and he felt his heart twist in a way it hadn't since the first time he had seen his baby sister, as a tiny infant.
Suddenly he understood very well.

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Chapter Two​

No one knows where the Lyssavirus originated. Some reports say that it blew in on the wind from a lab in Scotland. Other reports said it originated in Africa, caused by the ingestion of infected brain matter. There were those who said it was an apocalypse event, sent from God to teach humankind the error of their ways.
Origins aside, the Lyssavirus proved to be a greater destructive force than expected. Within two years from its discovery, the illness was in almost every Pokémon population in every country. Hardest hit was the African countries, with their large populations and complete assimilation of Pokémon into their culture. In the year 1958, South America went silent, others following in short succession.
Pokémon attacks continued daily, killing millions and damaged countless numbers of infrastructure. Soon the world lost the ability to communicate across countries, as radios and televisions across nations fell silent.
Smaller countries closed their borders against the Lys menace. Iceland, Greenland and Madagascar among the first to do so, it is still unknown whether they survived the initial outbreak.
The United Kingdom was one of the few countries able to rally together and create a defence against the sickness. Within ten years, they had effectively driven the illness away from population centres and created walled and guarded cities to keep any rogue Pokémon out. Eventually, they managed to recover infrastructure enough to return modern facilities to the population, although intermittent.
The argument continued however. Should Pokémon still have a place in society?
- Excerpt from the book, " Pokémon in Modern Society: Studies of the Lyssavirus and other Communicable Diseases" (1972) by Doctor Andrew Oak

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Two weeks after signing the papers that granted him guardianship over Sig, John was issued with a Mutualist. The small communication device came in three parts, two earpieces and a rounded disc of hard plastic. The Doctor at the Pokécenter smiled as she examined the device.
"In perfect working order of course. And your Bulbasaur passed every health check, a wonderfully healthy specimen in fact." She showed him the disc and the smaller of the two earpieces. "These are for your Bulbasaur. The disc adheres quite permanently to the base of his throat, right here where I've placed this mark. The earpiece is made for the Saur line, and fits just in here, like this." John watched soundlessly as she applied the device, flinching slightly at the snick of the device locking on. His hand crept out to stroke along his Pokémon's side, finding comfort in the warm, rough skin.
"Now, the device will take time to function correctly," the Doctor said, still smiling in an inane way. John wondered what had made her decide to take this path, to work in a Centre. He could only imagine what they'd be called upon to do. "It needs time to familiarize itself with his vocal patterns and register properly, but eventually you should be able to hear him clearly." She handed John the other earpiece, motioning for him to put it on.
John did so, disliking the cool weight in his ear. The device would be a permanent addition, allowing him to communicate effectively with his Pokémon. He would be the only one who would hear Sig speak, the device requiring his DNA pattern before it would function. Every trainer wore one like it, registered to their three allowed Pokémon.
The Doctor kept prattling on about diet and care, even as Sig leapt down from the table and butted his thick head against John's leg.
"Sig?" he whispered, curious.
The Bulbasaur blinked up at him, resolutely silent.

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John lay sprawled on Sherlock's bed, staring up at the youngest Holmes' pockmarked ceiling, the victim of 10 years of science experiments. Sig curled up next to him, snoring softly. John allowed himself a moment to listen to the Bulbasaur's breathing, steady and rhythmic. Curious to think that this living, breathing creature allowed itself to be tied to John in any way, although John had chosen not to place him in a Pokéball yet.
Sherlock himself was bent over his desk, scribbling away madly at a notepad. The scattered remains of experiments lay about him, shoved haphazardly aside when a new fancy struck him. Heavy textbooks were piled alongside the back of the desk, almost hidden under crumpled balls of paper and a half-eaten bread roll gone crusty and dry.
It was a scene they'd re-enacted time after time since they'd first made friends, some six years ago. John wasn't even sure how it had happened anymore, he only remembered hating the posh git who'd rocked up at his school with his shaggy hair, fancy clothes and violin. Somehow, that had led to them becoming friends, although no one was really sure how or when.
Most people in town if asked would say that John and Sherlock had always been friends, the idea of them not being at each other's side unthinkable.
In two years John would leave on his Journey, and the idea of doing so without Sherlock was strangely unpleasant. The idea of waiting another three after that so that Sherlock could follow him was if possible, worse.
"John?" Sherlock asked, his face so close to the notepad it muffled his voice. John hummed slightly to show he was listening, trying to imagine what had caused a particularly large dent in the ceiling plaster. "If I ran away, would you come with me?"
John craned his neck to look up at his friend, but Sherlock didn't meet his eye. "Guess so, couldn't let you go on your own you daft bugger," he said, fondly. He doubted Sherlock was serious, he rarely was when he asked these questions.
Sherlock tapped his pencil against his jaw and said nothing, mouth twisted thoughtfully.

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John and Harry stood awkwardly by Sherlock's side at the town gates as those who turned out to farewell those leaving on their Journey flocked around them, alternately cheering and crying, depending on the person. Sherlock's parents stood in front of them, stern faced and stiff backed, his mother allowing only the slightest smile to grace her lips as they farewelled their oldest son.
Sherlock shared his wild dark hair with his father, along with the long, delicate fingers stained by chemicals and burns. With his mother he had inherited her sharp boned features, and cutting wit. Their shared gift to their offspring, a sharply honed intelligence. John could see his friend watching the gates of their walled town open slowly, a restless hunger in Sherlock's pale eyes. Trapped in the town they'd grown up in, Sherlock chafed to see more. John shifted uncomfortably, aware of the five long years before Sherlock would be permitted outside the walls.
Travel for non-trainers was illegal unless it was with one of the registered Caravaaner groups that travelled the heavily guarded roads. To travel alone and without Pokémon would be suicide.
Mycroft stopped in front of them, his Wartortle silent and still at his side. The creature stood slightly taller than others of his type, and there was intelligence in his eyes to match his trainer's. Mycroft had taken an extra two years to prepare for his Journey, instead leaving at twenty years of age. John had stopped asking Sherlock why, the younger Holmes refused to speak of his brother. "Farewell little brother," Mycroft said, voice low. Sherlock met his eyes and sneered.
"You won't last five minutes out there, Mycroft, before you run home and beg Mummy for a packed lunch," he spat, the old animosity alive and well between them,
Mycroft frowned slightly. "Show some respect, Sherlock. "This could very well be the last time we speak for years." Unspoken but at the top of everyone's minds was the knowledge that out of the seven trainers leaving the town today, more than half would never return.
Sherlock huffed furiously, stalking away and tossing one last retort over his shoulder. "One can only hope to be so lucky."
Mycroft turned his head to face John, expression impassive. "Goodbye, John. Do look after my brother, would you? Ensure that he… behaves."
Harry snorted loudly at the idea of Sherlock behaving, as John mumbled his assent. Mycroft glanced at her and a rare smile graced his lips as he nodded his head farewell to her as well. He had always been very tolerant of the youngest Watson.
Harry giggles cut off into a soft sigh when Mycroft turned and walked sedately towards the gates, Pokémon at his side. John looked away, unwilling to see the tears welling in her eyes. Harry hated crying, and rarely bothered. Out of the three of them there today, it wasn't Sherlock who would miss Mycroft the most.
The gates slid shut behind the trainers, cutting out the narrow strip of path John could see through the gap, leaving them closed behind thick walls once more. The celebrations abruptly ceased, as people begun to filter away, leaving behind a few children chasing each other around in the dust, and one sniffling mother staring forlornly at the vacant gate.
John recognised the woman as the lady whose daughter had never returned from her Journey three years ago. Now every time the clanging bell announced the opening of the gates, she could be found standing by the side of the road, watching hopefully at the empty expanse.
John wondered if one day it would be his mother standing at the side of the road, waiting in vain for him to return. He doubted she would get out of bed long enough to notice he was gone.
He guessed it would probably be Harry.
He didn't think for a moment that it would be Sherlock.

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The pub was silent, eyes on the battered TV set. A woman read the news in a monotone voice, looking bored even as she announced the deaths of five in a Lys driven Pokémon attack in Manchester.
"The Parliament would like to remind citizens that the laws are in place for their own safety. Failure to adhere to the laws posted in every town and cities public square can result in arrest or death. The Lyssavirus will not affect those who abide by the laws set aside for their safety." John tried to tune out the droning voice, but it ticked on, a familiar speech to everyone in the country.
"Citizens will not leave their towns unless registered as a trainer or in the proper escort of the Caravaans." The bartender shifted uncomfortably, his eyes locked on a pair of Policeguards drinking at the back of the pub.
"Citizens will not keep unregistered Pokémon. Only three Pokémon may be registered to one trainer at any one time. Citizens under the age of 16 will not be permitted to keep Pokémon." A woman coughed loudly, earning a glare from the Policeguards.
"Citizens will not keep fire-typed or psychic-typed Pokémon, nor permit these types to be kept in their towns or cities, and will report any of these types to the proper authorities." A cool breeze and a tug on his sleeve.
John turned and looked up at Sherlock, his friend's nose and ears pink from the chill outside. The taller boy bounced on his heels, tilting his head towards the exit. John glanced towards the Policeguards, and stood to follow his friend, Sig at his heels. The Guard closest to him, a stern looking woman, glanced up at him for a moment, earning her a disarming smile from the blonde boy. She shook her head disapprovingly before returning to her drink.
John felt his breath catch in his throat at the chill outside after the warmth of the pub. "Christ, Sherlock. You know the Guards hate it when people walk out on the news, what are you playing at?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "Ridiculous. They don't care for the Parliament's whining any more than we do, they'd have to be idiots to believe it." John rather thought that for once Sherlock was overestimating the Guards intelligence. Sherlock grabbed his arm and half dragged him up the street, Sig following grumpily. The Saur' hated cold weather, preferring to bask in the heat of the fire when it was chilly out. "Hurry up John, I've found something! Hurry!"
"What on earth could possibly be so important that you feel the need to yank my arm out of its bloody socket," John snapped, pulling his arm back and rubbing it irritably.
Sherlock turned, eyes as wild as his hair, and uttered the words that the world had been waiting to hear for thirty-nine years. "I've found the source, John. I've found the source of the Lyssavirus."

This is great work! You're really good at writing, and Chapter 2 was an epic cliffhanger. I haven't noticed any errors, except...

He it would probably be Harry.
He didn't think for a moment that it would be Sherlock.

Click to expand...

Thank you! I've fixed that error, thanks a lot for pointing it out! I leave my chapters a few days to proof-read them, but I always miss something.

The hardest bit about it is the world-building, it's hard to put into words what's happened to make the world the way it is, without sounding like an encyclopedia!

Chapter Three​

While all involved in the creation and production of traditional Pokéballs stress that the practise is entirely humane, animal and Pokémon rights activists have for many years protested the activity, likening capture in a Pokéball and battling to the tradition of dog fighting. Many groups also protest the battling and training of Pokémon, stressing that as our friends and companions Pokémon are more than just entertainment.
Before the spread of the Lys virus in the mid-20th century, Pokéballs were falling out of favour with younger trainers, with the increasing popularity of relationships based on natural trust. Spurring on this new trend was the invention of the Mutualist device, a small earpiece and chip that enabled humans to finally communicate with their Pokémon, and named after the biological term for symbiotic partnerships between organisms of different species.
Pokémon breeders also contributed to the new age of Pokémon trainer, with more and more of them offering Pokémon bred specifically for their loyalty and temperaments. The early 20th century would be seen in the future as the golden age of Pokémon rights.
- Excerpt from the book 'The New Age of Pokémon in the 20th Century' (1976) by Doctor Andrew Oak

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They were standing in John's room and the world had gone insane.
"No," John said, voice kept low with great difficulty. "Don't you understand what you're asking?"
Sherlock paced back and forth in the small room, barely making three strides without having to turn. John wished he'd stop, the space was claustrophobic enough. He was furious, shaking his head frantically as he paced. "No, don't you understand what you're passing up?" He thrust the crumpled documents in his hands at John, waving them in his face. "Don't you realize what we could discover?"
John hissed air out between clenched teeth, sitting on his shabby bed with a thump. His room was clean, sparse. Nothing much in the small space except his bed, a shabby chest of drawers, and a few rugby trophies from school. A large cushion in front of the one small window allowed Sig a comfy place to lay and catch any weak sunlight that trickled through. Everything was second hand, dull. Sherlock was the only thing in the room with life, with any sort of energy contained within him. "Sherlock, these might not be… we could end up looking for answers where none exist!"
Sherlock stopped pacing, and spun to face him. "You think I'm wrong?"
Yes. Maybe.
Sherlock was rarely wrong.
But to leave the town on a whim? Leave Harry and his Mum, especially when his Mum wasn't coping as it was. He glanced at Sig's empty bed and his breath caught in his throat.
"It's illegal, we'd be arrested or killed by Pokémon…" he whispered, eyes locked on the bed, imagining his Pokémon bleeding, hurt. "We'd have no protection, Sig's not strong enough."
Sherlock snorted. "He's plenty strong, trainers used to take young Pokémon out on Journeys straight away."
Before Lys they had. John didn't think the risk was comparable.
"Besides you've battled him before."

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"Watson! Watch his flank!"
John squeezed his hands into fists, attention split between his instructor's voice, the other students watching curiously, and his Pokémon battling valiantly in the small arena. "Sig, your left!" he shouted, not trusting the small device in his ear to deliver the warning in time.
The other trainer's mouth moved, words impossible to hear from this distance. Unlike John, he felt no need to shout his instructions. Neither he nor his Pokémon had any trouble with the Mutualist.
John knew it was his fault the connection wasn't working, not Sig's. He was doing something wrong. He just didn't know how to fix it.
Sig leapt around to avoid the quick moving Pikachu circling him, but the yellow mouse changed direction faster than John could process, and slammed an attack into the Bulbasaur's right side, before leaping out of range. Its thin cry issued a challenge, and the Saur' roared back, staggering slightly on a bruised leg.
His instructor was frowning. "Don't let him lose his head, Watson. He's getting frustrated. Stop broadcasting your attacks."
John could see why. The mouse was faster than his grass-type could possibly ever be. It made his Pokémon look lumbering in comparison.
He tried to keep his voice low, desperately hoping that Sig would pay attention to the earpiece. "Sig, you need to throw him off balance. He's smaller than you, one tackle will win. Stand your ground." The green Pokémon showed no sign that he had heard him, pacing in a circle trying to keep the rapidly moving Pikachu in his field of view.
"Make him stand his ground Watson," the instructor warned him.
John glared at the man. "I'm trying!" But even as the words left his mouth, he saw the disappointment and irritation on the man's face, and knew Sig had ignored him.
He faced the arena again, just in time to see his Bulbasaur charge the Pikachu, snarling. The Pikachu stood its ground until the last moment, then leapt up and used the heavier Pokémon's momentum against him with a thunder wave that set John's hair on end. The lightning crackled over his Bulbasaur, paralysis kicking in instantly, and he slammed to the ground, skin twitching horribly. They'd lost.
John sprinted onto the sandy field to check on his Pokémon, hearing the instructor's last words float out behind him.
"You lost that match, Watson, not your Bulbasaur. You've still got trust issues."

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"And as you keep reminding me, I lost that battle." John was still bitter over that. Sherlock had picked at him for days, until John had been forced to point out that Sherlock had always professed his disgust of battling, so he was hardly one to give pointers. He ignored Sherlock's angry huff and squinted at the paperwork still crumpled in Sherlock's long fingers.
…Midlands Regional Pokémon Genetics Laboratory in Birmingham is excited to produce results in… leading researcher Dr Tristan Holmes's work with military grade weaponry under the guidance of Major Moran… existence of genetic weaponry…
"Are you reading my notes upside-down?" Sherlock asked him curiously.
John looked up into his friend's pale eyes, his own widened. "Your Dad was involved? In this lab you're so eager to go see?"
Sherlock's face brightened, perhaps seeing John's curiosity as him weakening. "He used to work there, before he met Mother in the town gym. He's never talked about it before, I found these by… accident."
Stolen them that meant. Or found in the process of stealing something else. "Why don't you just ask him instead of this ridiculous idea of walking there?"
His friend's face stilled. "He won't… he doesn't talk about his research. I even tried to get into his lab at home, but between him and Mycroft I couldn't get in." A vicious sneer. "He's using Mycroft to do his legwork. I heard them discussing the Lab in Birmingham before He left."
John knew how much using Mycroft against him must have infuriated Sherlock. He'd never admitted to being unable to get into somewhere before. And for Mycroft to know secrets that Sherlock wasn't permitted to know? Infuriating.
"You couldn't get in?" John's voice was incredulous. After all, Sherlock was the one who'd taught him how to pick locks.
A sharp grin, triumphant. John watched his friend draw himself up, clearly quite pleased with himself. "I couldn't." He paused for dramatic effect, knowing how much it irritated John. "But Mycroft isn't here anymore, is he?"

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John twisted his fork through the rubbery looking noodles unenthusiastically. Harry sat across from him, her nose pinched in disgust.
Their Mum had made it out of bed today. In a rare attempt to try and be the Mum she was before their Dad had died, she'd cooked them dinner. She'd even mostly managed it, before the alcohol had kicked in and driven her back to her room, pot still boiling away merrily on the cooker.
Luckily Harry had found it before it had burned their house to the ground, even if it was too late to save the food. John had already checked the cupboards for anything to eat instead of the overcooked mush in front of them.
Nothing but a few bottles of cooking grade sherry, an old battered can of lentils, and an empty bottle of whiskey. John glared at it, before resigning himself to another hungry night.
The idea that Harry would also be hungry left a sick feeling in his gut.
John looked at Harry, anger making his head thump unpleasantly. He could hear their Mum snoring up the hall in the room she shared with Harry. When Harry bothered to come home anyway, which she only ever did if she thought John would be home without Sherlock. She didn't like leaving him alone in the house.
Mostly her friend's had adopted Harry into their households much the same way John had been absorbed into the Holmes'. If John wasn't there, she just wouldn't come home. She'd be ok.
But would Mum?
John listened to his Mum snore drunkenly in the room she only left to get more alcohol, as his stomach growled miserably, and he saw the next two years before he could leave stretch off endlessly in front of him. More nights spent making sure his Mum hadn't choked on her own vomit and cleaning up after her like she was a child. More nights trying to pretend to Harry that they were coping as a family. More nights trying to ignore the cold looks Sherlock gave his Mum, and the concerned tightness around Mrs. Holmes' eyes when she looked at him.
More nights watching Harry start to eye off their Mum's alcohol collection that took up her entire widow's allowance every fortnight.
Nothing would ever happen to him if he stayed here.

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Sherlock picked up a map of New England and smoothed it out on the bed next to John, finger tracing the path that they'd have to take to reach the lab.
If they travelled on foot, it was a week of travel easily. Sherlock was mad, absolutely bonkers.
John couldn't help the way his heart beat faster in excitement at the idea.
"You do realize how long it's going to take to walk to Birmingham from here, right?" he asked Sherlock, checking one last time that his mad friend was actually going to attempt this. "We won't be able to stick to the main roads, or we'll be arrested for sure."
As though he could heard John's silently thoughts about his sanity, Sherlock glanced up and grinned at him. "Just think, if we solve this John, we could save thousands. Millions. We'd be famous."
John knew for a fact that Sherlock didn't care about the people they'd save, or the fame. He was in it for the mystery, for the challenge he craved. And possibly to show up Mycroft.
"Besides," Sherlock mused with an air of finality, as though John couldn't possibly argue with what he was going to say next. "You like danger. And this will certainly be dangerous."