[FIC: BBC SHERLOCK] Strangers: Part IIb
Title: Strangers
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, gore, and all their friends, with a dash of swear words and allusions to sex on the side.
Summary: "The average human being is subject to a thousand different bothersome weaknesses every moment of every day, with hunger, thirst, fatigue and lust being the most prevalent. But would it be possible for one to create a human being sans the trivialities? All the strengths of man, and none of the weaknesses?"
In 2110, Sherlock Holmes builds a machine.
--
Sarah doesn’t recall seeing a kitchen as gone-to-wrack-and-ruin as this one since… well, since ever. The table is piled high with what looks like a high school chemistry set, there are burn marks on every single surface-ceiling included-and she’s been warned not to open the fridge door. At least, not if she still wants to eat dinner later.
She listens to John as he places his order on the phone. She doesn’t usually go out with guys this soon after meeting them, but then, there’s something a little different about this one. He’s charming and sweet and… and he always looks like he’s trying to recall something long forgotten.
They move out into the living room eventually; “Bit less cluttered,” John tells her.
It turns out to be a loose definition at best.
Sarah gently shifts a stack of papers aside to make room for herself on the far end of the sofa. “Still get the paper subscriptions?” she says, surprise coloring her voice. “Wouldn’t have pegged Sherlock as old-fashioned.”
“Well, erm.” John folds his brow up again into an endearing expression of concentration. After a few moments, he simply shrugs and says, “I think he was cutting out bits for research. Or something.”
“Really? Hm. He must be one of the last… oh, thirty people in Central who still get these old things sent to them…” She picks up the paper on top of the pile and leafs through it. “Can’t see anything missing.”
“That was just the explanation he gave me,” John chuckles. “God knows what-”
“Ah! Here.” Sarah holds the paper up and smiles at him through the empty, near-perfect rectangle. “It’s… God, I’m so not used to reading these… It’s… the…”
She starts.
“Hm?” he says.
“It’s the obituaries.”
“Ha.” He flops down on the opposite end of the sofa. “Not too surprised, to be honest. Sherlock’s a bit, erm… strange.”
“To say the least,” Sarah agrees, laughing. She sets the paper back onto the pile before moving the whole lot to the floor and sidling closer, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear. “But look, we’ve gone and talked about him the whole time. Thought this was supposed to be a date.”
“Well.” John clears his throat. “Yes, I’m really quite sorry, I’m not… Bit out of practice, I’m afraid.”
“It’s quite alright.” Sarah feels sorry for him, in a way. She really does. He tries too hard is all. It’s almost as if he were born to try to please others and do nothing else. She smiles bracingly and quickly tries to change the subject. “I do like the flat… Funny lay-out.”
“Right.” He chuckles and glances around. “Funny.”
“Well, interesting, then. That door for example; where’s it go?” she says, with a quick point over John’s shoulder.
He spins around and tilts his head.
“Dunno,” he replies, after a brief moment’s silence. “Never really noticed it.”
“Well it’s padlocked. Must be for a reason.”
John gets to his feet and walks towards it slowly, one hand outstretched. He touches the lock, then the handle, then the flat, wooden surface of the door itself. “Bit odd,” he admits, so quietly Sarah almost doesn’t catch it.
“Maybe-” she starts to say. The doorbell interrupts her.
John seems to snap out of a trance. “Blimey, that was quick,” he says, lips quirking upwards. “I’ll just pop down.”
“D’you want me to, erm…” She gestures gracelessly towards the lost cause that is the kitchen. “Lay the table?”
He pauses.
“Um… Eat off trays?”
“Yeah.”
Passerby are starting to send strange and worried looks in his direction. Sherlock ignores them and continues the steady stream of near-incoherent muttering that’s flowing out from between his lips. The book is shaking in his hands; the pen even more so.
He’s one word away from finished.
“…station,” he mumbles, tongue clenched between his teeth. Tube station. Ah, yes. Ever since they replaced underground mass transport with overhead carriers, all the old tube stations were abandoned.
The German tourists are gone-small mercies, and all that. He races back into the building and barges through the door.
“John! John, I’ve got it, the book, it’s…”
Yellow on the windows. Silence in the room.
The smell of the paint is still thick and heavy in the air. And John’s missing.
Sherlock never has been one for obsessing over material possessions, but that’s not what John is, not anymore, he’s…
Well, he’s not bloody here, for one thing.
“Heavier than he looks.”
Shan glances up from her nails at the man’s grunted complaint and rolls her eyes. Incompetence. She won’t stand for it.
In the background, there’s a quiet and muffled sniffling as the woman begins to wake.
“Put him in the chair,” Shan snaps. The two men-hands under Sherlock Holmes’ arms, dragging him across the tube station floor-are short and lean and not cut out for this sort of thing. She’d like to stop doing her recruiting in the slums, move a little higher, as it were.
This job. Heavens preserve her.
She can’t wait to get it over and done with. Never trust an Englishman, after all. Greedy bastards, the lot of them. Insane, too. Must be, to live in a country like this one. She’s already beginning to itch for the familiarity of a sweltering night, heat waves coming up over the horizon, distorting all the lights.
London’s a gray and wet little icebox filled with madmen.
Sherlock Holmes begins to move. He blinks and twitches and lets out a low keen; funny, there’s no blood on his head. Well, he certainly was hit hard enough.
Shan fingers the little gun in her pocket and smiles, all the same.
“A book is like a magic garden,” she says. “Carried in your pocket. Chinese proverb, mister Holmes.”
Finish this. Finish this and she can go home.
The station’s walls are curved and smooth; bits of paint still clinging to the bricks. Been, oh… Forty-some years now since they closed the place down. Long time ago, a gradual shift to newer, better things.
Things change far more quickly these days.
Sherlock runs, thinking about none of this. The chase is in his bones, his arms and legs and breath. Up ahead, the flicker of fire.
Silhouettes, strong and black. One of them’s holding a gun.
The other one’s shouting.
“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!”
“I don’t believe you.”
Sherlock presses himself against the wall, within the shadows, and breathes in. “You should, you know,” he calls out. She really should. Because if John’s Sherlock, then Sherlock would be John, and that… is…
A shot rings out. The games restart.
New London Times, March 25, 2010
Who Wants to be a Million-Hair?
Secretary Amanda Rich Meets with Unexpected Windfall From Sale of Jade Hairpin
“Nine million pounds! Million!” she told reporters enthusiastically…
As post-case withdrawals go, this one could be worse. The two of them are at the table, John’s looking pained as he watches Sherlock leaf through the digital newspaper, and Sherlock is trying his damndest to remain his usual, apathetic self.
“You did crack the code, though,” John says, frowning. He’s probably hoping for some sort of ENIGMA-esque miracle, a linchpin. Good of him to be so optimistic. It seems to be a constant in machines.
“No,” Sherlock sighs, flicking his index finger across the screen of his digi-press reader. “No, I crack this one, all the smugglers have to do is pick up another book.”
Hudson rolls over with a tray in her arms. “I’ll just take these plates up, then, shall I?”
There’s a quiet clink as John places his dish onto the tray. It’s accompanied by a soft, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
She gives him her subtle version of a smile before tottering off.
Sherlock sets his paper down and rests his chin upon a small, pale stack of intertwined fingers. He stares.
John blinks.
“Why do you do that?” Sherlock asks at last.
“Do what?”
“Call Hudson ‘missus.’” He pauses to sip his coffee, before setting the mug down, a slightly more relaxed expression on his face. “It’s pointless.”
“It’s polite,” John points out.
“You don’t have to be polite to a robot,” Sherlock counters. He stops for a brief moment, chews on what he’s just said, glances askance at John, and keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the morning.
01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001
It’s a calm and lovely evening. Quiet, too, now that the clean-up crew is gone-broken glass swept into a waste bin, blood scrubbed out of the carpet, body wrapped up in a bag and conveniently dropped into the Thames.
Sebastian is cleaning his laser gun with methodical precision. Jim watches with a glow of appreciation in his eyes, his fingers laced together, legs crossed. He’s always liked guns. He likes the zzzzuup they make when fired and the neat, precise little holes they punch.
A siren wails, a distant cruiser alights, and smoke rises in the east. Londoners have always known how to do a riot up right.
Jim smiles calmly and leans back in his seat.
“Do you think we’re ready, Seb?”
“Yes.” Pause. Three heartbeats. In Sebastian’s case, anyhow. It’s more of a figurative thing for Jim. “Don’t you?” Hint of worry. Hint of uncertainty. Easily forgiven.
Only human, after all. To doubt.
Jim giggles, and wriggles his shoulders, and smiles and shows all his teeth.
“Always.”
3. five (5) pips
You should consider getting rid of it.
MH
YOU should consider learning how to keep your promises.
SH
Simply a kind word of advice.
MH
Enjoy your root canal.
SH
The New London Times, March 27, 2110
Priceless Painting Found Moldering in Attic Due for Reveal
Vermeer Painting Valued At Over £20 Million
Experts are calling this new discovery “the find of the century”…
This ending starts with a head.
“A severed head.”
Sherlock grins. John’s opened the fridge door, then. Normal reaction, he notes, watching as his flatmate turns around with a horror-stricken look upon his face.
“Just tea for me, thanks,” says Sherlock, before saying, “Oh, and before I forget: do me a quick favor and tell me your name, would you?”
John stands before the fridge with his hands on his hips. “The matter’s with you?” he says, so incredulous his voice starts to waver. “I… My name? Severed head next to the milk carton, the empty milk carton, and now you want to know my name?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Consistency.”
“Yes, but why?”
Sherlock licks his lips; they’ve gone dry for some reason, then blinks rapidly and says, “Alright, then. What’s my name?”
John’s mouth opens, snaps shut, opens again. “Sherlock-”
“Correct.”
“No, Sherlock,” John snarls. “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?
Sherlock doesn’t respond-silence is always the best form of evasion. It works so well that John doesn’t bother speaking to him for a whole half a minute.
“Are you sure the neighbors don’t mind you using our wall for target practice?” he gripes. It’s accompanied with a huff of air and hands on hips. Sherlock glances over and scratches his jaw with a listless flick of the fingers.
“Positive,” he murmurs; “They moved out at least a fortnight ago.”
“Probably took issue with the laser shots going through the wall, I expect…”
Sherlock smiles in spite of himself and swings his head back. “Enjoy yourself while I was gone?”
“Not particularly, no. Spent an entire afternoon helping Mrs. Hudson clean out the upstairs lavatory, didn’t know you could even fit that many-”
“You went out with Sarah at least four times-wouldn’t that count as enjoyable?”
John’s initial reaction is, “What?”, then “No!”, then “I mean, yes, but how… Never mind. Yes.”
“Two lunches and a dinner. Dinner! A marked improvement, John.”
“Right. Right. Now I know you don’t like her, Sherlock, but there’s no need to be all patronizing.”
“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffs into the sofa, having flipped around entirely. “I’m simply expressing my genuine delight at the fact that you’ve found sufficient distraction from our work, John…”
“Oh, hilarious. Hilarious! Absolutely hilarious; really, Sherlock, you missed your calling, should’ve gone into stand-up, because this… this is really… Have you any idea what it means, to be a normal human being?”
Sherlock sits up and blinks slowly at the wall. “Funny you should say that.”
John’s reaction, unwieldy though it is, is to throw his arms up into the air and cry, “Oh, sod it!”
There’s a loud clunk of footsteps and the rustle of fabric on fabric; Sherlock rolls over and looks up with eyebrows raised. “Where are you going?”
“Out! I need some air.”
I could make you stay. One word and I could have you back up here, standing at my feet, a syllable and you’d be tied to the ground and unable to move. I could.
Sherlock’s chest feels ready to explode with the thrill of it.
John bumps into Hudson on his way down-there’s an “Oops,” a “Sorry, love!” and a laugh. Sherlock’s too busy inspecting the thread of the sofa to pay too much attention. By the time he manages to swing himself back up to his feet, Hudson has set down the shopping and is rocking over. “Argued?” it blips, before glancing down the stairs. “Cold outside. Perhaps he should have worn more.”
Sherlock glances over from his perch at the window. “Makes no difference; you know that.”
Hudson makes a noise that’s very nearly terse in nature.
“Mycroft’s been getting on my case about getting rid of John. How hard do you think it would be, Hudson? To start from scratch.”
“Why would you wish to?”
“General procedure,” he mutters, watching John walk off into the evening, arms swinging, “To re-do an experiment when the error grows too high.”
“Is that what John is?” Hudson’s neck joints whir as it swings its head ‘round to stare at Sherlock, eyes wide and posture stiff.
“It’s what he’s been all along, you ridiculous thing. What’s gotten into you, Hudson?”
The housebot sniffs. “John doesn’t call me Hudson,” it says. “John calls me-”
“Don’t you start getting ideas,” he snaps, moving away from the window. “You work for me. I saved you from the scrap pile. If it weren’t for me, you’d be stuck to the underbelly of a greasy airship.”
He used to say this sort of thing often. Hudson still remembers heavy objects and heavier insults thrown with wild abandon during drug-induced fits, and the clumsy-caring repair jobs each morning afterwards, the long fingers working the welding tools and fresh screws still trembling.
Things are a little different now.
“Of course, Sherlock,” Hudson says. It spares the massacred wall a weary glance, before retiring downstairs for the evening.
Sherlock watches his housebot go, irritation playing interest in an elaborate chess game upon his face.
They learn. They follow leaders. They change-
BOOM!
Never understood the appeal of a woman’s figure, has Jim. He watches contentedly from a distance as two men stuff their hostage back into her car. There’s a prolonged struggle, pretty little cries of anguish borne up by the night wind and an earpiece ringing in Jim’s ears.
He’s reminded of the first time he knew a human. She had been short and thin and black-haired; he fucked her against a wall lit up by a thousand flashing LEDs advertising trips to Mars, his mouth pressed to her ear so that she could hear every slow, controlled breath that crept out of his lungs.
And now, of course, there’s Molly the Mouse, dear thing.
“How long should we wait, before we make the call?” Sebastian asks, the low hum of his voice winding over the woman’s vain little whimpers of terror.
“Let her squirm a little longer,” Jim replies. He snakes his arm back, drags his nails across the hard ridge of Sebastian’s cheekbone, hard enough to leave three long, red marks. Jim’s fingers slide down to snake around the human’s neck; a shudder ripples across his skin. “It’s fun to watch them struggle, don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” Seb says-pants, even-his lack of control throbbing through the quaver of his voice.
Jim smiles smugly to himself, and lets go.
There are stars in the sky and lights on the ground. Sherlock is being surrounded by men in uniform. Police, yes, and emergency response people, all asking questions. Ambulances at the mouth of the road, old women being comforted by distant-sounding nurse bots.
The blast is still ringing in Sherlock’s ears, and there are small cuts on the palms of his hands and glass dust in the fabric of his shirt.
“Did you smell anything in the air before the explosion?” Someone prods him in the ribs. “Sir. Talking to you.”
He turns away from watching bots paper the windows to see a red-headed woman at his elbow. 5’7’’, dark-skinned and slender.
“Yeah,” she sneers, popping her gum. “S’ me again. Gawd, is this street, like, some magnet for explosions or what? Damn dangerous coincidence.”
“No such thing as coincidence,” he tells her. “Explanation for everything.”
“…right.” She punches something into her info-pad. “Listen, if you’re gonna tell me off, I’d prefer you did it quick. I’ve at least twelve more people t’ interview, there’s clean-up to deal with…”
“I know the signs of a gas leak. Didn’t smell anything, didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anything. Wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t a gas leak at all.”
She narrows her eyes. They’re dull, the color of muddy rainwater. “Wha’re you hintin’ at?”
“Absolutely nothing.” He swings his head about and watches the worker bots roll out, crunching the glass into the carpet with their wheels as they go. “Now, if you’d kindly leave-I do believe you mentioned a dozen other unfortunate citizens you need to speak to.”
She sighs and spins around on her heel. Knows when to give up this time. Learns, unlike most people.
There’s a quiet noise and Hudson is beside him, box of sticking plasters extended. “For your hands,” it murmurs. “Would tea be a very bad idea right now?”
Sherlock pushes the plasters away, but doesn’t say no to the tea.
Later, John will come home, pushing his way down the street with worry on his face. Later, the phone will ring, and it’ll be Lestrade on the other end. They’ll go down to the Yard, and this game of hide and go seek will begin.
But for now, the men are leaving, the kettle is singing, and the sun’s beginning to rise.
It isn’t the first time Jim has spoken to him, or seen his strange and oddly-featured face. But the proximity is rather electrifying.
He sets his hand in the small of Molly’s back and acts his part with aplomb, a smile on his face all the while. In the darkest little corner of his mind, however, he’s thinking at a mile a minute.
The trainers are in Sherlock Holmes’ hands, being turned and twisted and inspected, and Jim’s memory kicks sharply into gear.
A shrill call of the whistle, a harsh splash of water, and they’re off! Only Carl’s not, only Carl’s having some sort of fit, oh quick pull him out! Pull him out! Pull him-
“...out for a while now. Office romance.” Molly giggles; he can feel her warm little body move under the palm of his hand.
“Yeah,” he says, pulling away to look around. Knocks over a tray, slides the paper underneath it as he replaces it on the tabletop, apologizing profusely.
There’s irritation in Sherlock Holmes’ eyes that stays until Jim leaves, sidling out the door.
An hour later, his cheek still stinging from the force of Molly’s slap, he stands on a rooftop overlooking the parking lot and downs his third glass of cheap wine.
“What does being intoxicated feel like, Seb?” he asks.
“Dunno. Dizzying. Loads of fun sometimes. Like you don’t have a care in the world. Invincible.” Sebastian inspects the wine bottle for make and vintage, and grimaces.
“Hm. Invincible.” Jim tosses his wine glass off the rooftop and watches it shatter into a thousand pretty little pieces on the pavement below. “I like the sound of that.”
FOUND! Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (2078-2089). Botulinim toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.
“Decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house.” Lestrade frowns deeply and shoves his hands ever deeper into his coat pockets. “Told her to phone you.”
“Oh… elegant.”
Lestrade’s face fairly collapses like the proverbial London Bridge. “Elegant?”
“Well. I can’t be the only human being on the planet who gets bored, now can I?”
“Wait a little longer, darling.”
“Waiting. Worst part, the waiting.” Sebastian has his arms folded across his chest and a scowl tied onto his mouth. He keeps on scratching at the scarred skin over his ribs. Man’s body is a veritable weather report some days. “When do we shoot them?”
“Hopefully, a very very long time from now. If he sees fit to cooperate.”
Jim has a knife in his hands. Good weapons, knives. Old fashioned, but good. Guns are fine if one wishes to be clean, but sometimes, oh sometimes.
He sighs gently and leans back. “Lovely ambience in here.”
“I cannot understand how you can stand three months of living out of warehouses.” Sebastian’s scowl deepens even more. “Eating takeout. Watching CCTV footage. I’m bored out of my mind.”
“Most fun I’ve had in years.” And Jim’s been around for quite a while. He twirls the knife, sharp tip pressed into the palm of his hand. The small jolts of pain are absolutely fascinating to him, and he pushes harder, until the metal slips through his skin with a small pk.
A dribble of translucent fluid comes out and slides towards his wrist bone. From across the room, Seb smiles. “Shall I clean that up for you?” he says.
Jim leans back in his chair, balancing it on the back two legs. In one quick and unannounced motion, he swings his arm forward, and the knife goes flying, handle over blade through the air, to whizz just above Sebastian’s head.
The human can’t help but flinch once, then twice as the knife shatters into monitor screen.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” he snarls, running one hand through his hair before dragging it down to check for blood.
Jim sways his chair back and forth and shrugs a graceful shrug.
“Oh, well. Did say you were bored, didn’t you?”
Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia.
“And how long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?”
“Oh. Um. Eight, ten days?”
John keeps on looking around. His head swings about in nervous arcs and he rubs at his bad leg and stays close all through the inspection. And it’s true, machines never do do well around the dead.
Sherlock finds himself finishing faster than usual.
It’s on the way out, though, that Lestrade stops them both very briefly with an, “Oh, wait. Sherlock, you’ll wanna know this. Word came back from the tech office about that cab.”
“What, now?”
“Listen, they’ve got a backlog a mile long, it’s a miracle got ‘round to it before Christmas. Anyways, there wasn’t much to salvage, apparently, but from what was left, they…” He briefly consults an info-pad; Sherlock clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in impatience. “Ah, yeah. They said it didn’t look like any re-programming was done at all.”
“That’s impossible,” Sherlock snaps, already turning to leave.
“Yeah, well, s’ what they said. No re-programming, nothing touched. ‘Cept for the laser hole through the command center, of course,” he adds, chuckling.
“Rather goes without saying, doesn’t it?” Sherlock’s voice is terse. “Come along, John.”
The mortuary door closes behind them.
They walk down a brightly lit corridor that makes their steps ring loud, John doing his best to match Sherlock stride for stride. “What next?” he says.
“Well, we wait for Lestrade and his data.”
“And? Meanwhile?”
“Hm.” Sherlock knees a door open and they burst outside into the sharp, cold air. “And people tell me I’m keyed up.” He glances down beside him to see a warm little smile on John’s face. Surprisingly enough.
“Think we’ll have any trouble fetching a cab back t-”
“John!” The shout rings out from down the path. “John Watson!”
Turning, they see a dumpy man walking towards them, an arm raised and a grin on his face. “Stamford, Mike Stamford!” he’s saying, stretching his hand out. “We were at Bart’s together.”
“Um. Were we?” John moves ever closer to Sherlock in a small sidestep not even he seems to be aware of. “I don’t… quite…”
“Oh, yeah, well, I’ve gotten fat, but… You seriously don’t remember? Mikey? The one who left the mold samples under the counter by accident and managed to grow a garden of… Asked your sister out once, Harriet, when I was drunk?”
John blinks three times, very quickly, before a light breaks across his face and he laughs. “Aw, yeah. Disaster, that.”
“Ha, yeah! Hey, I didn’t know you knew Sherlock.”
“Mike,” Sherlock mutters, driving his hands ever deeper into his pockets before clamping his teeth down upon his tongue. His heart is in his throat and his head is pounding. He might as well be standing on toothpicks.
“Yes, we’re rooming together. At the moment,” John’s saying.
“Ah! Are you?” A surprised raise of the eyebrows, a sympathetic twist of the mouth. “Last I heard, you were somewhere getting shot at.” Mike laughs a little to himself. “Even heard you were dead, but I suppose not. Can’t get rid of Johnny Watson that easily, eh?”
John’s mouth opens again, and Sherlock decides he’s had enough.
“Listen, Mike, lovely to see you, but we’re really quite busy. Things to do, people to see.”
“Oh, alright, I see. Well, listen, John, maybe we’ll get together for coffee-”
“He can’t!” Sherlock shouts over his shoulder, hand clenched around John’s arm as he leads him away towards the street.
“It’s funny,” John babbles, “I can’t remember a thing about him other than that bit with my sister. I can’t remember a lot about uni at all actually, it’s all this horrific blur, god, I must’ve been terrifically drunk, how’d I even graduate...”
“In.” Sherlock stuffs him into the closest cab and slams the door behind them.
It’s only when they pull up in front of Baker Street that he finally allows himself to breathe again.
“Ough! Glad I’m not McIlvain. Flat reeks of cat piss.”
“Does it really.”
“Yeah, we thought about tossing one o’ the buggers over the balcony railing.”
Jim glances up from his tea and waggles his eyebrows. “And did you?”
“Obviously not,” Sebastian replies, a cleft digging its way into his forehead.
“Hm. Shame.”
Slurp.
“There a reason why you’re always drinking crap tea and crap wine and crap coffee?” Sebastian mutters, inspecting the teabags.
“Well, if you must know,” Jim says, setting his cup down with a far too polite clink of china, “it’s to lubricate my joints.” He smiles devilishly and watches Sebastian settle down in his chair.
“Made that up, didn’t you?”
“Possibly. Do you want to find out?”
“God no.”
Jim huffs out a long and exaggerated sigh, before turning back to glance at the clock.
ROWL, the housebot, botox.
“Another killer robot? The press is gonna have a bloody field day.”
“Yes. Have fun with that, Inspector,” Sherlock mutters, his brain still buzzing on the high of being right once more.
“Well, at least we’ve got this one in… quasi-custody.” Lestrade’s eyes are the size of saucers. “Housebots. Never liked ‘em. Always too bloody… nice.”
“Mrs. Hudson’s a housebot, you didn’t mind her,” John says.
“Hush, John.”
“Don’t hush me, Sherlock-”
The phone rings. Sherlock snatches it up and puts it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“H-help me!”
Everyone lets out a collective sigh. “Tell us where you are!” Sherlock fairly shouts into the mobile. “Address?”
“He… was so… different… His voice…”
“No, no, no, tell me nothing about him, tell me nothing-”
“He sounded so soft…”
BZZT.
Sirens are wailing. Sebastian is cleaning his gun again.
“Shame,” Jim says. “I liked her.”
“Did you really?” Seb slides a fresh energy cartridge in with a smooth zzzip. “It’s the cats that did it for me.”
Jim snorts out a laugh.
Sebastian hikes his gun over one shoulder and gets to his feet. “Well, where to next?” he says, glancing around at the dismal building they’ve set up temporary shop in. “Somewhere a bit prettier, I hope?”
“Depends,” Jim replies, “on whether your feelings towards children are a warmer than those you harbor for cats.”
“Oooh,” Sebastian goes. “Excellent.”
The New London Times, March 31, 2110
Massive Explosion Causes Death of 12
Entire Block of Flats Affected-Cause Attributed to Gas Leak
…a spokesman from the utility company told the Times that his company was doing all it could to keep such a tragedy from occurring once more…
“Well, at least now Lestrade needn’t worry about that killer housebot taking up all the news slots,” Sherlock mumbles, turning of the telly.
“Is that all you can say? Is that really all you can say? A dozen people dead, and all you’ve got is news slots?”
There’s outrage in John’s voice, and disappointment too. Sherlock looks up at him in surprise.
“How very, very interesting,” he says.
“What is?”
“You.” He quirks his mouth up in an awkward smile. “You’re actually feeling empathy towards the dead. You don’t even know who they were.”
“Don’t have to! Normal people don’t even have to think about it-”
“Neither do you, it would appear.”
“Well, I’m a damn sight closer to an actual human being than you are, obviously.”
Sherlock throws his head back and laughs. John looks about ready to strangle him.
The mobile phone going off at last saves them both.
Sebastian had done a sham job of hiding his shock when Jim told him he was going to put on the bomb himself. “Well, if you’re sure,” he’d said, and then he handed the vest over, smart fellow. Jim likes him, in spite of it all. He looks forward to killing him more than everybody else, almost. It’ll be fun, they’ll make a game of it.
For now, though, there’s a little boy who’s home alone and he needs some company. Jim’s got just the thing, looped about his arm.
He goes up the garden walk. There are dead husks of flowers pressed flat against the dirt and yellow bits of grass all over the lawn, and a tree off in the corner, bare and bony. A few stubborn leaves chitter-chatter as the breeze comes by.
Jim rings the doorbell and waits.
Moments later, a small voice on the other side says, “Who’s there?”
“Oh, well! It’s a friend!” Jim declares.
“Are you here to see daddy?”
“Mmm… depends. Is daddy home?”
“No. He and mummy’ve gone out t’ see my aunt. She’s getting a sugrey.”
“How dreadful! Well, if your daddy’s not here, then I’ve come to see you. I’m a very good friend of yours, you know. I have a fantastic new toy with me right now. It makes all sorts of bright lights and loud noises-and I’ll bet you’re very bored at home, aren’t you?”
There is a small silence on the other end, but not so long that Jim begins to get worried. Finally, the boy pipes up again with, “But mummy told me not to open the door for strangers.”
“Oh, but I’m not a stranger! Go on then, open the door. I promise I won’t bite.”
Another lull. Then, “Okay,” and the lock is pulled aside and the door swings open.
The boy is small and skinny, with short brown hair and dark eyes. He has chocolate all over his chin. Jim watches as he shuts the door behind them both, and locks it again. “I don’t think I’ve met you before,” he says. “What’s your name?”
“But we must’ve! Don’t you remember me? I’m Jimmy! I’ve known you for a very, very long time. I’ve known you since you were little. I knew your brother.”
Jim watches the boy quiet. “M’ brother’s dead,” he whispers.
“Yes,” Jim agrees, nodding. “Yes, he is. Terribly sad. He knew me, too. I remember him very well. I remember his laugh. I was very small then, I was about your size. I’m different, now, of course. I found a new body.”
The boy doesn’t quite seem to know what to say. He sways from foot to foot, before pointing at the vest. “Whassat?” he chirrups.
“Oh, this? This is that toy I was telling you about.”
“How does it work?”
“Well, it’s very complicated, but I think you’ll like it. I played a game like this with Carl, once, but he didn’t listen to the rules closely enough.” Jim lets the child lead him into the living room. There’s an old-fashioned fireplace with nothing in the grate save a plastic log for decoration, but there are plenty of things on the mantle-photographs and medals and dried flowers.
“What happened then?” the boy asks.
“Well, he lost. He lost very badly. Come on, sit on the sofa and I’ll show you. Perhaps you’ll be cleverer.”
“I’m loads clever, you know. I’m the best at maths in my class.”
“Well, how wonderful! I love maths.” Jim lifts the vest up and slips it carefully onto the boy. “Maths is a lot like chemistry. Have you studied chemistry yet?” The boy shakes his head. “Oh, well, it’s quite fun. Lots of explosions. Do you like explosions?”
“Like the ones in Attack of the Xigans?”
“Even bigger. And brighter. And hotter! Good fit? Yes? Now, here’s the game. I’m going to give you a mobile and a phone number. And when the clock says three forty-don’t be early and don’t be late, now!-you’re going to call that phone number, and start counting down from ten. Can you do that?”
The boy’s lower lip sticks out immediately. “That sounds boring.”
Jim ruffles his mop of brown hair and smirks. “That’s what everyone says, until they start to play.”
“Well… okay,” is the slow and measured response. “But whaddoo I get if I win?”
“Hm. How ‘bout I tell you what you get… if you lose?” Jim says, letting his smile stretch so wide it hurts. The boy nods, and so Jim leans in close, puts his mouth right next to a little ear, and he whispers.
When he pulls back, two previously curious little brown eyes are wide and horrified.
“I don’t want to play anymore.”
“Oh, but you’ve already started!” Jim cries, fiddling with the straps of the vest. “And if you quit once you’ve started, then you’ve already lost. And we wouldn’t want that, would we? You do love your mummy and daddy, don’t you?”
A frantic set of nods. The tears are starting to come down, fat and clear and fast.
“Well, we’re set then!” Jim chuckles. “Remember what I told you. Three forty! And if you call anybody else…” He gently pokes the boy’s wet and salty chin with his index finger. “I’ll cut your tongue out.”
As if on cue, the bawling begins.
“I’ll be watching!” Jim coos over his shoulder as he walks out the door. Before he leaves, he makes sure to blow Carl Powers’ smiling photograph a loving kiss.
For old times’ sake.
“…three…”
“What’s brilliant?! What is?!”
“This is beautiful.”
“…two…”
“Sherlock!!”
“The Van Buren Supernova!”
Silence. Burning, and alive. And then:
“Please, is somebody there? Somebody help me…”
“Did you want the kid to, you know.” An explosion is mimed. Small, gutteral noises are made. Jim rolls his eyes. Humans can be so crass sometimes.
“Not particularly.” He sighs. “It would’ve slowed things down considerably.”
“So… appetizers done with? Main course… primed and ready to go? Ship-shape, Bristol fashion? Jim?”
“Hm? Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, I do believe we’re ready. Now… Now, all we need to do’s wait for him to make a mistake.”
Part IIc