Repens

The police had moved Sherlock into his own holding cell after he punched his cellmate in the face- the homosexual actor only lasted seven and a half minutes. That's what he got for coming onto the once famous detective. The flirty ginger should have known better than to ask Sherlock how he had faked his death, interested in the theatric tactics and all. Then his lights were punched out. A broken nose and crushed jaw was his deserved fate.

Now, Sherlock sat on the side of the sorry excuse of a mattress, his elbows on his knees and hands quickly running through his hair. The typical thinking position he always found himself when everything was almost too much to handle- almost. As he sat here, unable to control anything beyond his own personal hell.

Not only did Moriarty have one up on him, but precious time was being wasted. There was no way John and Lestrade were going to solve this, even if they worked together. Knowing sly Jim as he did, Sherlock couldn't help wondering if he had made Stephanie the offer yet- her chance to save Sherlock by giving her own life. What would she look like in that moment? Would the perfect young woman cringe at the thought of death after a short misunderstood life? No, not his Steph. He could imagine the brave girl offering her life for his without a second thought. A few tears would fall from those green sparkling eyes but not from fear. Knowing that their future plans were suddenly cinders of the flame they shared would stir her more than her own death. James would stare down at her with the most horrible full smile. As the tormented soul imagined the evil scene, he ran over to the corner and vomited. He regretted not grabbing something to eat this morning when thick stomach acid was the only thing to come up. Moriarty had the certainty that Stephanie's death would bring Sherlock pain that would top his own life coming to an end. But Jim wouldn't stop there; he would never stop until the great Sherlock Holmes, was finally buried underground.

"What's wrong, Holmesy? Nervous behind bars?"

The small group of officers let out a wave of amused chuckles. If only they knew.

For the first time since childhood he could remember Sherlock closed his eyes, his back towards the snickering men, and said a short prayer.

"I question you're very existence," he whispered, his nose almost touching the wall. "But if you are what everyone says you are," his breathing hitched. "Please." A long pause. "Please, keep her alive. At least give me the chance to save her." His forehead fell onto the wall and he lost all feeling of his body- all but forced to give up.

The officers had begun chatting again when doors opened.

"Inspector detective Lestrade. I'm here for him."

Sherlock's attention darted towards the familiar voice he had never been so glad to hear. Lestrade was flashing his badge to the reluctant mob when a smirk crossed the prisoner's lips.

"Do it!" Greg shouted, obviously loving the authority he had over these guards.

The officer who had mocked Sherlock only seconds ago was the one who walked towards the cell with his tail between his legs. Once the cell was opened, Sherlock had to swallow the perfect comment he had been saving for this exact moment. There was no point in his being returned to the cell- his comment wasn't worth the seconds it would take to utter the words. But judging by the guard's slumped posture, twitchy callused right index finger, the bags beneath his eyes, and breathing patterns he was certain that this guard was a guilty adulator who had a recent internet porn addiction.

Sherlock paused just before exiting the cell, looked the man in the eyes, and gave him a wink to accompany his victorious grin.

"Get out of here," the man growled. He seemed to be as upset as the released prisoner was pleased.

"Um, and the piece of evidence?" The guard rolled his eyes, officially humiliated in front of his peers, and produced the bag from the desk's top drawer. "Thank you, gents. Now, we'll be on our way," Lestrade announced, far more delighted than he should have been.

As the two walked away, Sherlock asked, "Some friends of yours?" The bag was handed over to Sherlock as soon as his leather gloves were on.

"They went against orders and got me in trouble a while back. That group loves holding people like yourself- citizens usually out of reach or protected."

Lestrade was proud of himself and walked with his chest held high until Sherlock moaned, "Speaking of going against orders, where's Miss Hooper?"

"Oh, don't worry. I've got my best man watching her."

"If Anderson is your best man, I'm afraid I'll have to-"

"No, it's not Anderson. If Anderson was my best man, my team would be in a world of trouble."

They walked out of the building when Sherlock finally asked, "I assume John has you up to speed?"

"Yeah, sorry about that. Usually we're the ones who get a call. Any idea who framed you?"

"One guess," Sherlock sighed, not even wanting to think about Jim.

"Well, what now?"

"We go back to Bart's and you stick around while I take a look at exhibit A."

"And you need me for?"

"I need you in the room in case something goes wrong with our evidence. I can't waste another two hours in a cell. Our deadline is quickly approaching."

"And you're worried about her," Lestrade added, doing his best to be delicate.

But Sherlock turned on his heels, stared down at Greg, then hissed, "Not a single word about HER."

"Alright, sorry. Was just trying to acknowledge what you must be going through. I mean, if someone kidnapped my wife-"

"Exactly which part of my request did you not understand, inspector detective?"

"Fine," Lestrade mumbled.

They hailed a cab and arrived to the hospital on a mission. Sherlock didn't respond to John's warm and relieved greeting. The man of stone simply walked towards a microscope, removed the bag from his coat pocket, threw his coat onto a nearby chair, and began the examination.

A worried John walked over to Lestrade and whispered, "How's he doing?"

"What you see is what you get," Greg muttered, still upset that Sherlock had gone off on him earlier.