Sherlock Fic: The Frailty of Genius (2/3)
Part 1 of 3
PART TWO
Why? Why? Why?
John couldn’t stop asking himself. He thought back to the first twenty four hours after he met Sherlock Holmes. He’d said Lestrade knew Holmes better than he did, and then Lestrade said something that stuck with him: “I’ve known him for five years, and no I don’t.”
But somehow, in one year, he’d got to know Sherlock Holmes. The brilliant, irritating, self-proclaimed “high-functioning sociopath” was his friend. In fact, he had begun to hope that Lestrade’s prediction had come true-that the great mind was becoming a good man.
What would this do to him?
And what was he doing to himself? Forcing that fight and then breakup with Sarah had been just as hard on him as on her. He wasn’t sure yet that he wanted to marry her, but she was one of the first friends he’d made since he’d come back from Afghanistan-one of the only three, if the strange camaraderie he and Lestrade shared counted as friendship, and one of the only two if it didn’t-and whatever happened with their romance, he had promised himself he’d never repay her kindness with something like this. Now he had broken that promise.
Still, as strange as it seemed, he was most worried about Sherlock.
Sarah was a capable, intelligent, beautiful woman. She would hate him, most likely. And he didn’t like to think that she’d hate him unjustly for the rest of her life. But she would move on. Find someone else.
John was hurting himself, but he’d come home from Afghanistan a broken man already.
But when he thought of what he was about to do to Sherlock, he just put his head in his hands, and tried to forget the pain of self-loathing in the pain of the headache that was coming on. He wouldn’t take anything for it when he got home. It would be a good distraction-maybe it would make his mind go blank. Was this what Sherlock felt like all the time? If it was, he thought he might begin to understand the temptation of drugs.
What would Sherlock say to him if he knew? But then, he couldn’t know. That was the point. Would he think he was more of an idiot than ever? Fool me once-he remembered his mother reciting the old proverb to him when he was a kid-shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
But then, Moriarty hadn’t really fooled him. It wasn’t like last time when he’d followed the instructions in a text from “SH” and walked down that dark street…he should have noticed that wasn’t Sherlock’s number…but he didn’t, and Moriarty’s men had cornered him, and knocked him out cold…and he’d woken up in that vest…
This time he’d a message from a blocked number, and the threat was quite clear. He got a video of Sarah preparing dinner in her apartment with a timestamp from just moments earlier. When she turned around to place the roast in the oven, she couldn’t see the little red laser pointed at the back of her head. The short video was followed by a text: Walk to corner bakery. Any funny business and she dies.
He walked into the ordinary looking bakery. Moriarty must have had some sort of hold on the proprietor, because the man at the counter just jerked his head towards the “employees only” entrance. John pulled himself up, marched in, and forced himself not to look surprised when a tall thug put a gun to his forehead, and James Moriarty grinned at him.
“What do you want from me this time, Mr. Moriarty? You know I’m not afraid to die!”
“Oh, I know that, Johnny boy, I know! But I know what you are afraid of.”
Of course he did. John glared at him.
“You never have been very communicative have you, John? No? Or maybe you used to be, but you’ve just gotten practice listening to our dear friend Sherlock. He doesn’t usually let you get a word in edgewise, does he? Must be bloody boring, listening to him run on like that.”
John just stared mulishly.
“I said, must be bloody boring. Don’t you agree?” Moriarty stepped forward threateningly with the grin wiped off his face, and the man beside him cocked the gun.
“Maybe. Sometimes.”
“That’s better. We have to admit how we feel, John. It’s the only healthy thing to do. Bottling up all that emotion-it’s terrible for you. You should know, you’re a doctor!”
Moriarty pulled a chair out from behind the desk and sat in front of him, like a therapist.
“Now John. What else is troubling you? Anything else that the nasty Sherlock Holmes is doing to make your life miserable?”
John just looked at his feet.
“So quiet, Johnny boy? Well, then, I’ll tell you. He doesn’t treat you like a friend most of the time. He just assumes you’re there to wait on him hand and foot. He expects you to follow him to hell and back at a moment’s notice, but he hasn’t thanked you above three times since you first met him. He thinks you’re weak and pathetic for needing your little girlfriend, and he doesn’t care if you know it. But don’t worry, we’ll fix that problem soon enough.”
John’s eyes widened.
“No, not that way. Don’t worry. Be patient, my dear boy. Be patient. Where was I? Oh yes, ways in which Sherlock hurts you. Really it all boils down to one thing: He doesn’t care about you at all. Isn’t that right Johnny? Nope. He cares about what you can give him-fawing adoration or support in a fight-the same things that anyone’s pet can give really. You’re his puppy dog, aren’t you? And you hate it?”
John wasn’t sure who he hated more: Moriarty for saying what he did, or himself for agreeing, even a little bit. He knew it wasn’t completely true. Sherlock was his friend, but he did not always know how to show it. Sherlock hadn’t had any idea, John thought, until Moriarty forced him to. Moriarty knew that too, though, didn’t he?
“Yes. Yes, Johnny. You’re a smart doggie, aren’t you? Sherlock is no fun anymore. Still, I don’t want to stop him, yet. I just want to slow him down, so we can play again. And you are going to help me do that. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“First, because one of my men has little miss Sawyer in his sights as we speak. Don’t worry. She’ll get off scot free if you do as I say. But you’ll hear me out first. Second, because I have my eye on Sherlock as well.” He walked over to the desk and turned on the screen of the computer behind him.
The picture was a live feed from the living room at Baker Street. Sherlock was lounging in his chair with his eyes closed, and his violin on his shoulder, scraping away as usual. He could tell where the camera must be based on the angle. “The picture!”
“Yes. It was so easy to bribe the framers to let us make some alterations.”
It was over the spray painted smile and the gunshot holes in the wall. Sherlock had refused to let Mrs. Hudson patch it up, and Mrs. Hudson had refused to let it be entirely, so they had compromised on a picture-one that Mrs. Hudson would choose.
It was a pretty landscape that clashed horribly with the picture of a skull, but it could have been worse. John didn’t suppose that Sherlock regularly swept the room for bugs. It put John in mind of 1984, but he didn’t suppose Sherlock had read that, or if he had he had probably deleted it from his mind-it being written in response to a now-defunct regime and all.
“So you see, John, I can watch everything that goes on in that room. Think how easy it would be to set up a sniper in one of the houses opposite, and when Sherlock was staring out the window, or lying on the couch, or doing any other ridiculous thing, feeling perfectly safe in his own home, one crook of my sniper’s finger and WHOOSH! He’s dead. You don’t want that to happen, now do you?”
“No.”
“Well, then, this is what you’ll do. You’ll stop being his friend. I said I would burn the heart out of him, and I also said I don’t get my hands dirty. You know I don’t lie-not unless it’s convenient. So you are going to do it for me. You will remember the things I told you. It shouldn’t be too hard, because it’s true. He doesn’t appreciate you. He cares. Oh, yes. I know that he does. But he doesn’t ever let you know it. You’ll remember that, Johnny boy, or he dies. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.” John said softly.
“And one more thing. You care about this…this Sarah Sawyer, don’t you?”
John flinched involuntarily.
“Well, you’ll make sure she has no idea. You’ll break up with her tonight. Give me your wallet.”
John handed it over. Moriarty took out a ten pound note, and then handed the rest back with a handful of change. “You just bought this chocolate cake.” He handed him a pastry box. “You were supposed to bring the dessert, I believe? Well, that is it. You’ve paid for it. Oh, don’t worry. There is nothing wrong with it. You’ll have to trust me on this one. But I don’t want his nosey brother on to me again. Anyway, as I was saying, you will break it off with her tonight and that will be the end of it. If you do that, she will be safe. I promise on my honor as a gentleman.”
John looked his incredulity.
“I know, I know. But it’s all you have to go on, isn’t it? And remember, John. I have that room bugged, and I may have more cameras in your flat. If I see you trying to hint what is going on, it will be the end. Do you understand?”
John nodded his head, and stalked out the door.
And now he had broken up with Sarah, and was on his way home…or on his way to the flat that had been home.
The first week or so had been unbearable. Sherlock didn’t even notice that he had broken up with Sarah. He’d thought Sherlock would, and even though he didn’t expect much sympathy, he felt that just an acknowledgment would have been something. And then Sherlock didn’t even notice that he’d stopped doing little things like making tea, or running errands. John kept reminding himself of that, so that when everything got harder, he would play his part convincingly enough for Sherlock. He knew Sherlock wasn’t good with emotion, though, so this would be much easier than anything else Moriarty might have asked him to do. If Moriarty had asked him to do something criminal, Sherlock would know the who what why when and where the moment he opened the door. But pretending to be angry or hurt-that would take Sherlock a bit longer to see through.
By the end of the second week, he didn’t think he could do it any longer.
“Come on, John. We’re going out”
“Can’t.”
“Why not this time?”
“Because I’m going out.”
“Where are you going?”
“On a date.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I…you can’t just order me…”
“I’m not giving an order, I’m stating a fact. You are not going on a date.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I happen to know that you broke up with Sarah two weeks ago.” Sherlock had noticed. He just hadn’t said anything. And of course he wouldn’t. He didn’t know how to deal with situations like that.
“Well, maybe I’ve got another girlfriend.” He cringed. He knew he sounded pathetic.
“No, you haven’t. If you had, you would not have said ‘maybe’ just now, and you wouldn’t be going out at 2 AM. “
Yes…even he could have explained that. He would have to pretend to be angry and leave the house.
“You know, Sherlock, where I go is really none of your business. We are both adults. At least I am. So, I’m off.”
He stormed out and found the nearest pub. He ordered a beer and nursed it for a while, unable to completely ignore his surroundings, in the fear that Moriarty or one of his people would make contact with him. He had to make his plan for the next few weeks. He couldn’t just stay in the flat and watch Sherlock becoming annoyed, and even (though he probably wouldn’t recognize it) hurt by John’s refusal to work with him. When he had made a list of places where he could spend his time whenever Sherlock was in the flat and he could not just lock himself in his bedroom, he went back. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that Sherlock had definitely gone out, and went up to his own room to sleep.
A few more days of refusing Sherlock any help or encouragement, while keeping his face as blank as he possibly could, and he was beginning to wonder if he could keep up the charade any longer before Sherlock saw through it. Sherlock knew something was wrong, but just didn’t know what. John’s only relief was leaving the house so that he didn’t have to watch his flatmate watching him, and analyzing his behavior.
Until he got a text on his phone directing him to a specific used book shop, and Moriarty.
“Well, Johnny boy. Enjoying yourself? Giving Sherlock a bit of his own back?”
“You know I’m not, so why don’t you just tell me what you want and go!”
“My, my, but we are defiant today. I’ll let you go in a moment. But I want you to enjoy yourself more. You’re not really keeping up your side of the deal.”
“What deal?”
“The deal I made with you-about not killing Sherlock.”
“I think of it as blackmail.”
“Well, call it what you like. You’re not keeping up your side of the bargain. You’re just leaving him alone. Coming up with excuses. I want your indifference to be obvious at all times. Do you understand me?”
“No.”
“Let me be a bit clearer: You are not going to leave the flat unless absolutely necessary. You will remain in your sitting room whenever Sherlock is there, but you will make absolutely clear that you are not interested in him or his work. Just keep reminding yourself of all the things I told you when we last had a little chat. I’m sure you can do it. Because I’ve still got an eye on him, John. Ciao.”
And he was sent out of the store, back to Baker Street.
The first day he managed to focus on the telly. Sherlock had a tantrum, but that was not unusual. Besides, it was irritating.
The next day, though, he could practically feel Sherlock thinking in the chair across from him. When Sherlock started to talk, he tuned it out as well as he could. Tried to convince himself that he was interested in Judge Judy. Sherlock was just trying to impress him with his deductive abilities again. But then he realized there was more to it when he heard something about breaking up a trafficking ring, and rescuing 12 women. Sherlock was trying to get him to see that he cared about people. That he was helping people. And then he heard that Sherlock had managed to save two girls. He wanted so badly to know if they were okay. To congratulate his friend for a job well done. To encourage and admire. But he couldn’t. He had to pretend he didn’t care. He had to.
“Well, aren’t you going to say something, John? I just singlehandedly restored a dead man’s reputation, and saved twelve people, including two kids, from sexual slavery. You aren’t going to congratulate me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because only I could have figured it out, and because lives were saved. You’re always on about saving lives. This time I saved some-saved twelve. So why aren’t you interested?”
“I’m glad those girls were saved, Sherlock. I don’t need to dance around the flat to prove it.”
“Never mind that then. It’s just that you’re acting differently. Still. What I meant to say is that I have some possible leads to more of the same. I’m going to try to follow them. Will you come too?”
We wanted to go!
“Why should I?”
“I already told you once: I am lost without my blogger. And if we should stumble across people who are hurt, you would be much more useful than…my skull!”
“Yes.” And suddenly, he managed to direct his anger at Sherlock. Maybe Moriarty was right. Maybe Sherlock really did only want to use him. “Yes, I know you’re lost without me. And I’m flattered, of course, that you prefer me to your skull. That’s all that this is about, Sherlock, isn’t it? You need someone to listen. You need someone to do your dirty work. You need to make use of me.”
“Well, you’re no use to me at all like this.”
“I’m sorry. Standing up to you makes me useless, does it? Maybe you should hire a maid. Or maybe I should just make a recording, Sherlock. I’ll say ‘cool!’ ‘wow!’ ‘fascinating!’ ‘remarkable!’ ‘I’m about to wet myself with excitement because you’re so bloody brilliant!’ That’d be enough. You could put it on an iPod, and play it while you think out loud. You could even put a speaker under your precious skull and pretend it’s worshipping the ground you walk on. But you won’t get any worship from me anymore.” The look of confusion on Sherlock’s face was softening him again. He had to get out. “I’m sick of this. So sick of this. I’m leaving now!”
He ran out onto the sidewalk and walked down Baker Street. He didn’t have any particular destination in mind. Just to walk. To clear his mind. To slow down his emotions so he could go back to the flat and sit calmly while Sherlock solved mysteries without him.
He walked for about an hour before he got cold. Then he looked for a taxi to drive him home. It was rush hour, and took a bit longer than usual. He hoped against hope that Sherlock would be having a tantrum, or out on a case when he got back.
No such luck. He was afraid, when he saw Sherlock pocket his phone, that he would invite him on a case and he would be forced to refuse again.
“Where have you been, John?”
It was his wheedling voice. John told himself it was insincere. “What business is it of yours? I wasn’t getting milk, if that’s what you wanted to know.”
“Do we need more milk?”
“Yes, Sherlock. You might have noticed if you ever actually got anything for yourself. And by the way, don’t even think about asking me to make tea!”
“Any more locum work?”
Sherlock was trying so hard!
“No, Sherlock. Nothing. Do you think I’d just sit and watch telly all day if I had a job?”
“John. You do know that I care, right?”
John stopped pacing around in the kitchen. What had Sherlock just said? “What?”
“I care about you, not just about what you are able to do to help me. Even though, of course, those things are part of you, so you shouldn’t mind that I appreciate your helpfulness. But I…I care about you as a person, too. You could not be replaced with…well with a maid and a recording as you suggested earlier, because they would not be you. “
He was shocked, and so pleased that Sherlock had gotten up the nerve to tell him that he cared, he almost wanted to cry. But he was a grown man and would never do that in front of Sherlock. This…this made pretending that Sherlock didn’t care…nearly impossible. When he thought of how much effort it must have taken for Sherlock to say that!
And then Sherlock came in with the most absurdly large bouquet of flowers he’d ever seen in his life.
“Sherlock, what…”
“For you, from me.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. Hudson said…”
“He…he talked to Mrs. Hudson…”
It was not the first time Sherlock had innocently acted on advice that Mrs. Hudson had given him on the assumption that they were a couple. There was the time that Sherlock had locked John out of his own bedroom when Mrs. Hudson had suggested he make him sleep on the couch. [i] Granted, it was very irritating, and probably successful, from Sherlock’s point of view. But at the time John had wondered if Sherlock wasn’t just playing dumb to irritate him even more. Now he was sure he wasn’t. And the generosity added to the complete cluelessness was almost heartbreaking.
And then the humor of the situation added itself to the horror, and he realized he was cackling like a madman…and he couldn’t stop. Finally he decided that he couldn’t keep up this show for Moriarty any longer. He would have to go to Moriarty: find him, and tell him that he’d followed his directions, but he couldn’t stay in the flat and do this to his friend any more. Perhaps Moriarty would consider his leaving Sherlock alone punishment enough? Surely it was. And he wondered-what kind of a punishment was it? What would this do to Sherlock? Would it burn, or would this just cauterize his emotions? No time to think about it now. He just had to get out.
“I wouldn’t go to Mrs. Hudson for advice in things like this, Sherlock. She’s a nice woman, but she hasn’t got the right idea about us, and you’re too blind to see it. The flowers were a stupid, stupid idea. You would only get flowers if I were your boyfriend. And you must never have noticed, or maybe you deleted it from your hard drive as not important, but I have allergies. So, get rid of them! Or…no…don’t worry about it. Because I can’t do this anymore. I’m going up now to pack my things. I cannot stay in the flat with you any longer and keep a shred of sanity. “
He stomped up the stairs and started pulling everything he had out of his chest of drawers. He would talk to Moriarty, and convince him this was the only way to hurt Sherlock. And then he would find a way to get in touch with Mycroft safely if it was the last thing he did. He could not kill Sherlock, and at the same time he could not continue hurting him day in and day out. He just had to keep up the pretense for a few minutes after he packed up his room…the few clothes and odds and ends that he had-they all fit into one large suitcase. At least it wouldn’t be hard to just get a room in a hotel.
“Goodbye, Sherlock. I’ll thank you not to follow me. Don’t bother to send texts in the middle of the night asking me to join you at a crime scene or pick up bread or do anything else to make your job easier. I have to go. I have to go now…”
He was afraid Sherlock might have seen the last second in which he let his anguish show on his face. But he ran out and caught a taxi that was driving down the road.
Once he had checked into the hotel, all he really wanted was to lie down and sleep. But instead he knew he had to try to find Moriarty and make absolutely certain that he would not kill Sherlock for this. If Moriarty said he had to go back, then he would, and he would continue to plot a way to inform Mycroft that he was a hostage at Baker Street. Mycroft would figure something out.
Finding Moriarty, he thought, could not be that hard. He would wander around London on foot, and wait for a summons.
But he did not get one. For days he wandered aimlessly. As he walked he tried to think out some sort of plan. If only he were clever like Sherlock. Then he might…come up with some signal to give at traffic cameras. But he couldn’t think of anything that Moriarty wouldn’t notice as well. And he was terrible with codes. He didn’t even remember Morse code, though he knew he learned it as a little boy And even if he could remember some marvelous codes that Sherlock had cracked, he couldn’t use any, because Moriarty would know who he was trying to contact, and probably wouldn’t care much what he was saying to him.
He watched the papers anxiously, afraid to see something about a gruesome murder on Baker Street. He hoped against hope to catch some glimpse of Sherlock in the streets. He thought he did once, but then he walked away as quickly as he could.
Finally after a week and a half of waiting, he got another text from Moriarty. This time he was to meander towards a specific Chinese place and go in. He prepared his arguments for Moriarty as he walked. Tried to think of a way to not sound like a desperate man. He walked in and looked to the owner, who, he was not surprised, pointed him to the “employees only” door. When he opened the door it was dark, but he was jerked in, and before he could cry out, a hand went over his mouth, and there was a sharp blow to his head, and everything went black.
[i] Yes, that is Shameless Self Promotion
Part 3 of 3