Wait for the Ricochet (2b)
John had seen a fair share of trouble in his life. Not so much in his days of an Army doctor - the life was always played out outside the barracks - but only God and the bottom of the bottle know what an Extractor has to face sometimes. He fairly doubted that he was about to see any worse with Sherlock. A dead body cannot harm anyone, at least.
If the permanent, dull echo of pain in his left shoulder wasn’t telling him otherwise, he would believe that he hadn’t entered the dream until he stepped onto the crime scene a moment ago. Outside the doors, the quasi-real London was convicting enough to fool even the best of John’s ilk. This room with its hardwood floor, dust and dirt standing out sharply in the merciless spot lights, forced itself into one’s mind as a scene on a stage.
The body was laid out in the middle of the room and arranged artfully, legs straightened like a marionette and the nails of one hand still digging in the floor as if trying to finish the scratched message. This wasn’t a suicide note; it wasn’t even a dying woman’s last word - it was a line in a play, a cue for another actor’s appearance, entrusted in the fingers of the actress instead of on her lips, and delivered dutifully.
John wondered if he didn’t become one of the puppets the moment he knelt down beside the woman to sniff the smell of bile on her lips. If this was a puppet theatre, who was pulling the strings? Sherlock could. Since they met, John found himself following the unavoidable path of an iron filling in a magnetic field, spiraling around Sherlock like an object lifted by a storm and carried towards its eye. Sherlock was the centre of a gravitational pull, the cause and the purpose of everything in here. He could have staged a string of suicides, if only to get the opportunity to show off; he could have. But something in John doubted it. Sherlock was in the middle of this web, yes; but his role would be that of a fly, caught and observed from above, all the threads converging on him only to keep him trapped, and his every movement being registered by the sensitive limbs of the spider waiting in the shadows, near and yet invisible. John thought of the Navigator and prayed that his presence didn’t pluck at the spider’s web enough to draw attention.
On the outside, he kept his suspicions to himself as he watched Sherlock examine the body: flipping his magnifying glass here and there, carding his fingers through the victim’s clothing, poking at her jewelry. Such enthusiasm, completely inappropriate and oddly fascinating, simply couldn’t be put on. Sherlock didn’t question this would-be-suicide presented to him like a delicious meal on a silver platter. He just dived into the investigation, the gears of his clockwork mind spinning at such rate that his whole body was thrumming.
When he took off so abruptly that it reminded John of a genie being called back to the lamp, nobody seemed too surprised. Maybe this was a part of their roles as well; to back-vocal Sherlock’s dazzling solo. If the Navigator was the listener, how far from them was he actually?
“He doesn’t have friends,” a sour-faced Constable told him, holding the police tape up for John on his way out. Her tone was a bit concerned, her shrewd eyes assessing John as if she was pondering the odds of him being the next victim of a mysterious crime.
“None at all?” he asked, leaning heavily on his cane even as he stood. He did learn his lesson with the asking for a chair, after all. The young Constable eyed him pityingly.
“You know, sometimes people would show up and ask for him, claiming to be his friends. We never see them again.” That would be the ones before me, those who tried and failed. He graced her well-meant parting words ‘Stay away from Sherlock Holmes’ with a dumbfounded expression and set out to limp towards the Brixton main road.
Ten minutes and three corners later he was sure that the CCTV cameras were following him.
John cursed under his breath. It could mean only one thing: Sherlock’s subconscious was becoming aware of John’s intruding nature. He forced himself to stay calm. Any outburst of action would alert the brain security mechanism even further. Sometimes he only had to stay low and all the alarm would fade out on itself.
That’s why he was relieved, of all things, when he was abducted into another dream-like experience of this eventful evening, this time a complete deja vu - minus the tea and plus an umbrella. John snickered to himself as he was brought before the personification of Mycroft Holmes in Sherlock’s mind - the entire attitude of this mental image speaking of sibling rivalry at its finest.
“You don’t seem very frightened.” The rise of Holmes’ eyebrows indicated that he’d expected better impact of the scenic atmosphere he’d set out with such care.
“You don’t seem very frightening,” John told him, relishing in the opportunity to take out on him a small revenge for some of the real Mycroft’s attempts to intimidate him. This picture of Mycroft painted by Sherlock’s memories would be to no ends chuffed to know that John was already working for him. It made the rebuff of Mycroft’s offer to spy even more satisfying.
When John finally arrived back at 221B Baker Street, he told Sherlock that he’s met his self-proclaimed archenemy.
“By the way, people don’t have archenemies. In real life. Normal people have brothers and sisters.”
“Says the man who won’t go to her sister’s for accommodation,” Sherlock retorted, but he failed to hide a hint of impression in his voice. “How did you know he was my brother? He’s a spitting image of our father, he looks nothing like me.”
“Height, accent, mannerism.” John enjoyed the scowl on the detective’s face upon hearing the last item. “Besides, who else would want to mess with your life at a daily basis if not an over-protective elder brother?”
Sherlock smirked and then he all but pressed him to join the further investigation of his case. It was still a long way toward the trust but John was sure he already managed to win the younger man’s interest.
Meeting Angelo was very interesting. The restaurant owner stated that Sherlock had done him a favour three years ago, using his detective skills already. How long was Sherlock acting as a detective? How long was he dreaming this dream? John knew that in a dream, time didn’t have to be linear.
Then Sherlock noticed a cab slowing down to fall into their trap and every sense of time John had lost its linearity between one heartbeat and the next. One moment, they were summing each other up over the silly candle; the next, they were racing up the stairs and down the fire escapes, leaping across the gaps between buildings and running through the alleyways.
Somewhere in the middle of this madness, John thought he caught a glimpse of Mary. She stood in front of a restaurant; perhaps waiting for a cab, arms folded against the night’s chill in her white silk dress, hair done in a becoming fashion. She appeared lost in thoughts, smiling to herself.
“This way!” Sherlock shouted and John sped forwards, catching up with him.
John started to worry at the amount of attention they were attracting. Any other Extractor would never get away with such ruthless behaviour, showing people aside and dodging cars, the angry sound of horns following them. It seemed that Sherlock was allowed a lot in this dream. Once again, John got the impression that the chase was staged by someone who enjoyed watching Sherlock run. Why would the Navigator do such things?
Pushing his worries aside, John realised that he enjoyed running with Sherlock. Yes, it was only a dream, such a dream where you always find sure footing and never miscalculate the length of a jump, such a dream where you can almost fly - but it still was the most hilarious thing that happened to him in months.
Sherlock seemed to think the same.
The not-exactly drug squad in their flat though, apparently, was thinking the exact opposite.
John half-expected the police to show up sooner or later - after all, Sherlock’s first clue turned up to be a flop, he needed new data to feed the consuming flames of his mind, stirred by the mystery. This was Sherlock’s play, the screenplay didn’t account for a side-kick. John sat himself in a corner, his back to the door, and pretended to google up some information about the victim. He listened and watched, every nerve ending tickling with anticipation. The case was drawing to a close, gaining speed like an avalanche. If the Navigator had any taste for drama, and John suspected that this was the case, he wouldn’t miss a chance to appear in the last scene. Whatever was about to happen, it would happen soon.
The faint ping of a text alert on Sherlock’s phone was so soft that almost everyone missed it.
John’s back was to the door. He didn’t see the man coming up, yet he knew there was someone; his instincts of an Extractor all but screamed about the presence of someone real.
Something has changed. John was so attuned to the rules of this dream that he instantly felt the change in the pattern. The Navigator no longer wanted to watch. He wanted to play.
When Sherlock left, following the shadowy figure on the stairs like a moth fascinated by a flame, John had to use all his willpower not to get up and go after him. He knew that Sherlock was the target but he couldn’t show his hand yet. He couldn’t stop Sherlock with the coppers still around - some of them could be armed and the Navigator could have them shoot John on the spot.
He had to wait for the last one of them to leave before he collected his gun and set out, hoping to get to Sherlock in time. The tracking software in the victim’s phone showed him the place where the murderer intended to strike next. As fast as he could he made his way to the Roland-KerrCollege.
Two identical buildings. John mentally tipped his hat to the finesse of the Architect of this dream. This was a maze within a maze.
Room after room, nothing. He ran down the corridors, calling Sherlock’s name. He hoped there still was time - there had to be. He couldn’t rely on the assumption that it still was Sherlock dreaming - the Navigator could take over any moment.
When he spotted them, Sherlock and a shabby-looking cabbie, a cry of horror escaped John’s lips. They were in the identical classrooms, each in one half of the mirror symmetry the buildings were forming. Two windows and an expanse of yard separated them. He could see the cabbies lips moving as he talked, as he wormed his poisonous thoughts inside of Sherlock’s head; he could see the tall idiot moving the pill towards his mouth with a trembling hand.
John’s hand didn’t tremble when he aimed his gun and fired.
He hoped he’d shot to kill. But the distance, and the double glass reflection, was too much.
John couldn’t hear what Sherlock was yelling at the dying man, taunting him under his foot. He couldn’t see how the man’s bleary eyes suddenly darkened, their colour changeable as an oil spill on the asphalt, when the Navigator realised how little time he had before he would die and Sherlock would be released.
But John could feel the pull when the time stopped, when everything slanted and shifted. He looked up from the window. The stars above began to rearrange.
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