AN: Hello! You've reached B. Sorry I can't come to the phone at the moment, I've lost all ability to speak with any coherence. Leave a review after the beep! - B.

Glass shone light into John's eyes, the watery grey it was reflecting made somehow colder, but all the more glamorous, by the obviously-expensive panes. Totally ignoring his surroundings, Sherlock made a bee-line for the lift, not waiting for John to step off the escalator and jog after him before pressing the button and tapping his feet in an almost comical display of impatience.

Though his face was drawn and serious – and blighted by several healing cuts from their adventures a few days ago at the tramway – John could see the gleam of amusement and schadenfreude in his silver eyes. It radiated, until the seriousness that had been a cancer on his handsome features was near eradicated. John preferred how he was now to the first time they'd stepped into the law firm; he was glad Dimmock had let Sherlock have this one, despite not being strictly on the force. But he owed Sherlock: unpaid, he'd unveiled and taken down a human trafficking ring, and an international gang of 'smugglers' (this was Sherlock and John's official line, and the line of all the former captives, and the police had been more than happy to accept this – especially with a little persuasion not to delve into the matter by Mycroft Holmes).

"Excuse me, sir!" Protested a secretary from behind the counter, standing up in annoyance and strutting over with a haughty look on her face. "You need an appointment to see-"
"Will this do it?" Sherlock asked in an innocent tone of voice, and promptly shoved a police warrant in her face. Her superior look – an expression so unpleasant and arrogant as to be a rival to Sherlock's default face when c confronted with those he didn't care much for – dropped off her face like a car over a cliff.

Oh God. We're finished.

"Indeed," Sherlock replied darkly, not bothering to hide the triumph in his voice from her, as she quietly shuffled back to her desk, going pale and whispering to her colleagues. John caught up as Sherlock stepped into the lift, barely catching it before the door closed. He panted slightly, and looked up at Sherlock, who pressed the button for the top floor, before holding his hands and the warrant behind his back and remaining demure and reserved for all of . . . Five seconds, if John had counted accurately.

It was John that set him off. John smiled, and shook his head, looking up at his friend, who stared straight ahead. He caught John staring, and looked down at him. He couldn't help but break his resolve and smirk; the smirk turned into a chuckle, to which John couldn't help but laugh. He just couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had laughed.

"This . . . Will be fun," Sherlock admitted, answering John's unanswered question.
"Well, don't be too harsh," Warned John, thought it was light-hearted: "Just don't do the same as you did to that Shadow bloke, alright?"

Sherlock laughed again, and it sounded like the strings of a cello being plucked at random. He just had a funny laugh – which was probably why he didn't laugh often, not wanting to be embarrassed by it.

I do not have a funny laugh.
Whatever! Just, don't hospitalise me over it, okay?
For goodness sake, John, I shot one man! You killed the taxi driver, not to mention you've been to war! I don't bring that up every five seconds, do I?
Alright, alright!
At least we know he won't be escaping any time soon. The pain of that leg'll stop him from changing.
Well, you know how being shot is. Terribly distracting.

Sherlock couldn't help himself, as they approached the correct floor, and he giggled again. The lift stopped to let in several bemused pencil-pushers, who all pressed their own buttons. Sherlock rolled his eyes, not wanting to defer his task any longer. He had a score to settle.

. . . I thought you were going to kill him.
Well, he did kill you.
True enough, but I'm still here!
Which explains why I didn't go through with it.
'Go through with it' . . . ?
If I'm totally honestly, yes, I wanted to kill him. But I can't help but feel that would wreck my chances of working with the police in future, don't you think? We can't all shoot people under the noses of the police and get away with it.

John snorted; several people turned around and looked at him, furrowing their brows and trying to detect exactly what was funny. They promptly exited at the next floor.

We can't giggle, it's a lift! . . . Fine. We're even. Shall we just, call it quits?
If you insist, yes. And don't worry, she's just sour because her boyfriend's a serial cheat, and he's just annoyed because his cat threw up on his best shirt this morning. Of course they won't find us funny.
That, plus the fact they can't hear us.
That too.

Finally, they reached the top floor, and Sherlock's amused expression disappeared all of a sudden, to be replaced with unbroken calm and solemnity. He strode out purposefully, eyes flicking round the office, staring down anyone who decided to take an unwarranted interest in him, and in John.

Again, almost as the crow flies, Sherlock marched to Sebastian Wilkes' office, and knocked once while entering, rather than stopping and waiting. When they entered, the lawyer was on the phone, and his eyes looked annoyed and slightly alarmed when they entered. He signalled 'five minutes' to them, but Sherlock said – without making allowances for the fact Sebastian was on the phone – "I don't think this can wait, actually,"

Sebastian sighed, and mumbled to the person on the end of the line that he'd call him back later.
"Really, I wouldn't be so hasty. You usually only get one phone call where you're going,"
Sebastian, who was in the middle of a sip of coffee, frowned and froze. He recovered his resolve, and his cold eyes watched Sherlock's hands: he'd spied the warrant. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was happening – and yet still, he insisted on going through banalities as if they were about to go out of fashion:
"What's that?"
"A warrant. For your arrest, Sebastian,"

Sherlock's eyes near glowed with the haze of revenge: a dish best served cold, as the old cliché went.

Sebastian was doing the maths in his head, visibly. Sherlock's face was stony, and John loitered behind him, folding his arms. Sebastian put two and two together and -= as may have been Sherlock's plan, John suspected – got five.

"It was years ago, Holmes. I doubt you have any evidence that could prove I was there. It'd be your word against mine – a former addict, who was drunk at the time, against a well-respected lawyer. You'll never make it stick," Sebastian said curtly, a tight smile pulling at his lips, and derisive amusement settling into the folds of his face.

Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows, making a face of mock-confusion, and looking totally unfazed.
"I wonder what on Earth you're talking about?" Sherlock said in a purposefully-unconvincing voice, making Sebastian go pale in the knowledge that he'd just accidentally confirmed his involvement in Sherlock's assault. ". . . No, my colleague and I are here on the myriad counts of fraud, corruption and perverting the course of justice that you and your firm have perpetrated,"
"What?" Spluttered Sebastian, looking rattled and going floury pale.
"You see, Sebastian, when we were investigating Van Coon's murder, we came across a safe in his flat that contained some extremely incriminating documents," Sherlock explained, sidling over to the window and taking a cursory look down in ersatz interest. "A series of cover-ups, each of which would be worth many years in prison – and that's just scratching the surface of what we found," He elaborated, laying it on thick as the lawyer began to sweat.

Then, the ace in the hole: "All signed off by you, in the name of your firm," He finished, turning to look Sebastian in the face with a look of hatred.
"Thus . . . The warrant for your arrest. Detective Inspector Dimmock will be around shortly to take you into custody,"
"But . . . This is-" Sebastian floundered, but Sherlock and John were already striding out of the office, their task performed and their victory and revenge enacted.
"Oh, and the break in?" Sherlock added, poking his head back into the office with a sly grin. "Don't worry about that. As long as you nail a board across the windows, no shadows will get it. Afternoon!" He left it at that, catching up with John, as they waited in amiable silence for the lift. Sherlock's breathing seemed a little erratic to John, who was very impressed:
"That was . . . Brilliant," He smirked.
Sherlock agreed, without a hint of modesty in the matter; his sly smile turning into a full-blown grin: "Wasn't it just?"

Ruby velvet and about 5x3 inches in size, the soft fabric only interrupted by a neat pressed-in seam where it would open with a little persuasion. It was obvious what the thing was, but John still didn't understand what it was, and why it was on their kitchen table without any explanation when they got back from the law firm.

"Sherlock, what . . . ?" John asked quietly, as a little voice in his head whispered at him, snagging at his consciousness and making him dare to suspect what it might be. He pored at the box: quite heavy, for what it was; the size it was. So it contained something heavy, perhaps?

"Oh, that?" Sherlock said casually. He was unwrapping himself from his scarf, and beginning to unbutton his coat. His nonchalance made John wary. "Just, um . . ." He didn't finish.

John had opened the box, and was gaping at the contents:
"Sherlock, how – where did you get this?" He asked calmly, looking from the contents to his friend's sheepish face and back again. Sherlock began to look amused.

It was a military medal for valour.

"I just . . . I read your file, obviously – oh, incidentally, Mycroft has it now, so don't worry. Actually, he's the one who procured that for me. I just thought, well – you did save the lives of several men, at the expense of being shot. You were owed some form of commendation, but didn't receive it because of . . . Well, I just thought-"

Yet again, he didn't finish. He hadn't anticipated the hug, which knocked the air out of him. John clapping him on the back felt strange and unfamiliar, and he was rigid with awkwardness. He just sort of, patted John's shoulder, unsure of what to do with his hands.

"Thank you," John told him, looking him earnestly in the eyes. Sherlock detected a few tears in John's eyes, but he thought better of mentioning them, and removed his coat. He usually wouldn't think twice about berating, insulting, or annoying his flatmate, but when it came to things to do with the war . . . He didn't have the inclination. This felt strange, in itself.

"Now," John began, turning to the medal again and eyeing it once more. He then looked up at Sherlock, and sighed in false-annoyance. "Just how am I supposed to write up this case?"

So, did you like it? A Scandal in Belgravia, I mean. But also the above. Did you like the above?

. . . Want to see some more? The prologue to the next one is now out. The story's called The Adventure of the Idle Hands (it'll be on my profile, you know how silly this thing is with links) and though the prologue's quite short, it's all you're getting for the moment. You know, what with lack of being able to think straight and exams and things!

Thanks for all your help and advice with the darkness of the next one, folks! Two thirds of reviewers (out of three O.o) seemed quite keen on a darker plotline, while one said it was okay as-is, but they wouldn't mind. You can still make your opinion known!

Thanks a lot for sticking with me and the story! - B.