Chapter Text
“Watch where you’re going, freak.” Sally Donovan smacked into his shoulder unapologetically and sneered at him before quickly moving on.
With a long look back, Anderson made his way to the DI’s office. It was already humiliating enough having to be back here without Sally’s bitterness to contend with. He made eye contact with a few former colleagues but kept it brief. They all seemed surprised he was there; as if he may have actually been banished from the premises for his unrelenting search for the truth in a certain consulting detective’s death. He’d been right, hadn’t he? He had in fact been given strict instructions to stay as far away as possible, or he’d be arrested, Lestrade’s personal order to him. Now, though. Now was no time to be a coward.
He got as far as the third floor before he was met with resistance. An officer was posted by the door to the offices. That was new, but the officer was one he was familiar with.
“Fletcher,” he acknowledged with a nod, making to go past him. A hand came up to forestall him.
“State your business,” Fletcher requested in a formal tone.
Anderson laughed and gave him a look. “You know who I am, Dex.”
“I’m sorry, sir. No one goes in or out without stating their business.” He shrugged as if to apologize.
He doubted that. With a sigh, he gestured to beyond the door. “‘Sir’? I need to speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade. It’s urgent!”
Fletcher shook his head. “I’m sorry; he’s out to lunch and hasn’t returned.”
They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. “Well? Can-I-wait-for-him?”
The burly man appeared to think it over, and after a second, his veil of formalness visibly lifted. He looked uncertain. “You’re not gonna, y’know, go crazy again, are you?”
Anderson’s shoulders fell; he shrugged and nodded at the same time. “I promise,” he sighed with a look heavenward.
Successfully through the door, Anderson found Lestrade’s office and took a seat in front of the desk. It was slightly messy, but at least the phone on the desk wasn’t covered by random papers. The number of times he’d watched Lestrade search for his own phone on his own desk. He never saw it enough to remember where it was under all the disarray. Smiling despite himself, he fished out his phone from his coat and sent off another text to the man himself, his fourth in the last hour since Moriarty had taken over the airwaves. He’d failed to get a response so far.
I want to help. At your office now.
Anderson sighed and snapped his sliding phone shut. He got up and paced a bit; his nervous energy was trapped without an outlet and it was starting to drive him mad. If he didn’t get in on this case soon enough, Lestrade would never listen to him. Moriarty was back, and he’d been studying the man for two years, he could help, damnit. Lestrade had to see the value in that, he just had to.
He jumped when the desk phone rang and stared at it while it continued to fill the room with sharp chimes, over and over. When he couldn’t take it any longer, he walked over and picked up the receiver, only to get a dial tone. They’d hung up just as he was answering. Anderson almost laughed at the chances, though it had been a lot of rings. And he was far too easily amused, it seemed. He replaced the receiver and sighed in boredom. Standing next to the cushioned chair behind the desk, he glanced at it, then the door, then back again.
“Who’ll know?” he asked himself aloud.
He sat and put his feet up on the desk as he quickly glanced up to see that the blinds were closed and he wouldn’t be caught unawares. He grinned and leaned back with a puffed up chest, relishing the comfort of the faux leather. He should get himself one of these, he decided. Black, not brown, and with wheels that glided smoother than air, oh yes. If only to be able to afford such things anymore. Anderson felt his expression sink a little without giving himself permission to spoil his moment of fun.
To have luxuries, one must first have money, and to have money, one must first have a job. To have a job, it was generally required to have a good reputation, and he wasn’t fooling himself that anyone was going to forget about his Sherlock-Freak-Out of late 2012. Very doubtful, indeed.
Not paying attention, he had to nearly throw himself out of the chair and off of the desk when someone turned the handle. He ended up on the floor, face smashed onto the plain, hard carpet. But my, he was graceful, he thought sardonically as he picked himself up with a wince. Peeking over the edge of the desk, he saw a man in a suit staring at him, clearly perplexed. After a pause, the man spoke, hand still on the door handle.
“Sir, there is a security situation. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the building. All non-authorized personnel must be seen off the premises.” His tone was blank, not accusing or condescending.
Brushing himself off, Anderson was quick to reply. “Of course we have a situation. It’s that Jim Bloody Moriarty that’s the problem. I’ve come to help find him; I’m waiting for D.I. Lestrade, and he knows I’m here, and I’m not leaving until I see him.” The man looked unconvinced and merely stared expectantly. “I’m not going anywhere; I’m needed here,” Anderson insisted with finality, holding his ground.
The man in the suit was escorting him by the arm through the stairwell downward when the fire alarm sprang to life, its sirens bouncing off the walls of the closed-in space and its lights swirling around behind glass. Anderson cried out and covered his ears, but the man beside him grabbed his arm tighter and tugged him roughly down the stairs. They ran down the steps, nearly falling over each other in their haste—Anderson attempting to keep his ears covered in the cacophony, and the suited man trying to drag him along and hold the railing at the same time. They were headed for the door outside, not the main lobby because that was what back doors were for, escaping fires. It was a haze of rushing and red lights and piercing sirens, and when they burst out the emergency exit, it was a relief to see the grey sky and smell the crisp, cool air instead of the stuffiness of the stairwell. Hands on knees, Anderson caught his breath and his racing heart. He turned his head in the direction of the man who’d dragged him out of the building who’d let him go when they got outside.
“It’s probably a false alarm, you know,” he accused between breaths. Anderson ran a hand through his hair and looked around the quiet, fenced-in courtyard that they’d appeared in. There’d been no one behind them, so they were alone, but he could hear one of the sergeant's grumpy and confused shouting from around the front of the building.
“Oh, I do not think so,” the suited man said with a lilt of humor. Anderson didn’t bother turning to face the man; he was obviously an idiot if he didn’t know that 90% of fire alarm alert instances in public buildings were false alarms, computer malfunctions, or just simply drills.
“There was no need to nearly kill us both by rushing for the door,” Anderson bit out as he rubbed his ear. They were both ringing the same sound as the alarms like some bizarre echo in his eardrums.
Something pierced him in the top of his neck, and the shock of it froze him. It was quickly removed, and he flipped himself around to demand an explanation as his hand flew to cover the pain of the sting. The man who was dressed so impeccably was watching him closely, waiting for something.
“What the hell did you—” He cut himself off. The color blue was bleeding into his vision like a doctored digital photo. Anderson blinked rapidly, but it wouldn’t shift. Come to think of it, his neck was starting to burn, and he grabbed at the punctured side with both hands, blinking rapidly, panicking. “What-ah!”
Anderson was on his knees on the concrete, but he couldn’t remember getting there. He was hot, burning up, seeing blue, and he was careening to the ground face first again. Bugger. Danger. Clue.
With one hand scratching at his chest, his other rummaged in his pocket to get hold of something, anything, small enough.
He was hauled to his feet by both elbows, but he forced his arm to stay put and his hand in his pocket. He was in front of a blue van. All blue. Everything like swimming in an ocean. He wrapped his fingers around his Oyster card and hid it in his fist as best he could. The breath he breathed was warm, and then hot like a small fire. It burned his throat and he coughed on the intangible flames. Why was everything so fucking blue?
His face hit the floor of the back of the van, and the man was trying to wrangle him inside. Anderson managed to get a weak punch in to his face with his fist and let the Oyster card fly from his fingers at the last second. He didn’t see where it landed, but the man wrestling with him didn’t take notice as he returned the favor of his hit with one of his own to Anderson’s stomach, and that was the end of his putting up a fight. Trying to catch his breath while trying not to breathe was making him go cross-eyed and confused. The slam of the doors behind him and the darkness afterward was like a switch to his consciousness, simply gone.