Sherlock (BBC) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 3
Title: Survival (Chapter 3)
If you missed them, here are Chapter 1 and Chapter 2.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,159 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
A.N.: Thank you so, so very much - the responses I’ve received have been absolutely wonderful, and I really appreciate them all. Again, I have to thank the lovely, lovely betas who have so generously offered me their time and expertise - interjection, velveteenkitten, patchsassy and infinityuphigh. Thanks to them my sanity is still somewhat intact and you won’t have to be distracted by any daft mistakes. Thank you very much!
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 3
ooo
The skies have opened and it is raining heavily when he leaves a few hours later, dressed in clean jeans, t-shirt, and a thick, green jumper. Buckner’s freshly cleaned knife is in his left trouser pocket and his reloaded revolver tucked is inside his jacket. His gloves are clean as well, a pair of chocolate-brown woollen ones he took from Mycroft’s office a few years ago during a particularly infantile moment, and he wears them over the fresh bandages and plasters decorating his hands. If the slight bulge in the left is noticeable, no one will be paying enough attention to wonder about it. He is not so willing to take risks with his hair - it has still only been washed twice, and there are a couple of blond marks on the towel currently abandoned over the end of his bed - choosing to don a beanie he had not known he owned (no label and kinks in the seam; likely hand-knit, therefore a forgotten gift from Mrs. Hudson or previously owned by one of the Network) in an attempt to keep it dry. Short as they now are, his curls seem to be tucked quite securely away from the downpour.
The train is packed through London, and the streets of Hammersmith are no better. The crowds provide camouflage, which is all well and good; however, they also impede his ability to spot Lestrade’s unhappily nondescript car and force him to move with their flow rather than allowing him to find a shadowed corner and wait quietly as he had planned. After an hour and a half Sherlock is forced to admit defeat and ducks through the door of the warm, little pub on the corner, buys a lemonade and parks himself by the window, stripping off his gloves and jacket reluctantly when he realises how horribly close to the radiator he is.
It gets dark. Teatime ticks by. Sherlock buys three more lemonades and fiddles around with his phone, trying to appear occupied. He is close to giving up, heading back to the flat and trying again in the early morning, when the pub door opens to admit a blast of damp, cold air and one Greg Lestrade.
He looks as bad as John, if not worse, and the immediate order of a scotch does not exactly fill Sherlock with joy. Particularly when three beers and another scotch follow it swiftly. By ten thirty the DI is well on the way towards ‘plastered’ and stumbling as he turns to leave. It should not be a cause for concern, considering Lestrade is a grown man and can handle himself - and his inebriated state is not an issue in itself. Unfortunately Sherlock’s seat is close to the door; he had not thought of the possibility (probability, Lestrade has had problems with drinking for years so the suicide of someone reasonably close to him would of course cause a reaction like this - a careless oversight on Sherlock’s part) of Lestrade coming in for a drink before going home. He had only considered the view from the window and the speed with which he could leave once he saw the car pull up or the house lights switch on, and it is too late now to do anything about his mistake but hope Lestrade fails to recognise him. He continues tapping on his phone, fabricating a message to an annoyed girlfriend until Lestrade’s thigh bumps his table and he flinches, glancing up and feigning surprise.
Lestrade’s eyes go wide and watery, the older man breathing a hoarse, “Sh’lock?” before he shakes himself, mutters an apology and hurries out into the street. Sherlock is left to sit and ache.
Watching Lestrade make his way up his front steps is what Sherlock wants to do, but he is here for a reason and casts his gaze over the rest of the street instead, his eyes flicking from deep shadow to deeper shadow until they latch on to what he is looking for. The young man is in his mid-twenties, probably blonde although it is difficult to tell with only streetlights, and is watching Lestrade like a hawk. His face is one Sherlock recognises but could never put a name to - new to the force, seen at one or two scenes within the past month, specifically asked to be placed under Lestrade, apparently - and he turns to head through the park once the heavy, wooden door slams closed behind his target.
Sherlock follows him to a perfectly unremarkable townhouse approximately three streets away, rushing up behind him and stunning him with a short, sharp blow to the back of his skull as he shoves them both quickly inside. He reaches back, tugging the door closed behind them without allowing it to slam. Unfortunately, this does not appear to be a beneficial use of his time.
The young man (a military doctor, just like John but as different in personality as it is possible for a man to be) is not surprised. Barely five seconds pass, and then an elbow smashes back against Sherlock’s ribs, winding him and knocking him back against the solid front door - if not for a dose of the drugs Molly had so kindly provided (snuck into his system under the pub table when Lestrade appeared to be preparing to leave) Sherlock knows the pain would have incapacitated him completely. He had known that someone was following him, had been expecting an attack and easily anticipated the blow to his head, allowing him to brace himself and recover markedly faster than Sherlock had hoped. Still, he has not observed everything; his eyes go wide when Sherlock draws the revolver from his jacket and it is clear he never expected a civilian - even a vigilante - to risk carrying what could only be an unlicensed gun in public. He cannot reach his own quickly enough. Sherlock can afford to risk the noise of one shot.
A stomach wound would be preferable, much as it is a nasty, messy way to die. It would allow him time for what are currently vital questions and observation. This man, however, is a professional, and as such would be far too likely to fight back. There is a good chance he would attempt to take Sherlock with him should he be given even the narrowest opportunity (particularly if he is also given any confirmation of Sherlock’s identity - at present still a blessed mystery due to disguise and darkness). Interrogation would be noisy too; the reality of what he would have to do in order to gain any valuable information would take long enough to draw attention and dangerously limit the options for his escape. A pointless risk, then. Sherlock directs the bullet through the would-be assassin’s skull instead, allowing himself a dissatisfied snarl as he does so.
It is loud, and it is still very messy, and he lets out a shout of, “Fuck, my toe! Jesus Christ!” to dispel the sudden silence on the other side of the hallway wall.
He is lucky that the area is considered one of the safer places to live. The blare of the neighbour’s television restarts after a few moments of Sherlock bashing about and cursing imaginary boxes and injuries, the tension in his shoulders easing when it does so. Time, he has time. Now all he needs are clues.
ooo
It is three in the morning when he stumbles down the steps and through his own temporary front door. There was far more in the way of paper and digital records than he had dared to hope for. Unfortunately this also points to there being far more for him to do than he had originally believed. Moriarty’s network is either distinctly larger than he had predicted or Lestrade’s tail had been rather higher up on its proverbial food chain than he had thought. The latter is overwhelmingly unlikely. The former is… The former is unbearable. Sherlock had known he would miss his home and his life and his friends, but he had never thought that it would feel like this. He had assumed it would be similar to missing Mycroft, all those years ago, when he was away at university and Sherlock was left with largely uninterested parents and a mind that could not stop whirring. Instead he is left feeling entirely bereft, alone in ways he never thought he would resent, and he simply wants to go home.
He could, he knows. The immediate threat has been removed and Mycroft would probably delight in Sherlock going to him for help in protecting those he has come to care for from any further, similar dangers. He could go home to the flat, tell John he isn’t dead after all, not begrudge him the punch Sherlock knows he will deserve despite his good intentions, and solve his usual crimes whilst allowing someone else to handle this behemoth. It would be so, so easy. His feelings are such a mess of desperation and loneliness and pain, such a mess as he has never known before he could happily take months of boredom in exchange for being able to wipe the grief he saw today from Lestrade and John’s faces. To have it be over now…
It does not “break his heart,” as so many are so fond of saying, to know that it would not truly be over; however, he will confess to a bone-deep sorrow and a resentment that scorches with every breath. The knowledge that if he leaves this here, if he backs away now, they will all spend years under the surveillance of both friend and foe makes the idea intolerable. To condemn them to forever being suspicious, to endlessly checking over their shoulders, to the constant dread of feeling that knife, that bullet… God, he would loathe it. It would drive them all insane within a month.
He ends up on the chair propped in the corner of the living room, so similar to his own and yet with none of its comfort. His elbows are propped on his knees, his head heavy against his palms and his fingers pulling fiercely at his newly blonde hair. The choice he is wrestling with has already been made; he made it almost two weeks ago and asking himself now whether to continue is an exercise in futility. This ‘choice’ is in fact no choice at all if he still wishes to protect those for whom he was willing to risk a six-storey leap. There had been no guarantee then, for all his hopes and planning, and there is none to be had now either - he simply has to keep going until his return will not bring yet more trouble. When it is all said and done he will be able to go home and enjoy it.
He unfolds himself from the chair gingerly, careful of his still-damaged ribs. They are healing, the pain receding faster than expected (likely to be badly bruised rather than cracked, although he has no present means of checking). They are still tender though, and between the day’s exertions and sitting for almost half an hour with his torso curved as he has, they are beginning to give him a little trouble. A groan tears free with his first step, the sound of his own voice in the silent flat yet another reminder of how desperately he wishes he could have brought John with him. The short walk to the bathroom takes five minutes when it should barely take one - although he is, admittedly, being far more cautious than strictly necessary due to the steady throb of his side. After several aborted attempts he gives up on raising his right arm and washes his hair one-handed, careful not to irritate his cuts or catch the stitches.
That is another problem, one he considers whilst the soap and shampoo are sluiced off him in the rush of hot water from the showerhead. He was incredibly lucky and has, for the most part, been able to take adequate care of his injuries alone. However, those stitches will need to come out at some point and Sherlock doubts that he could do a clean job himself, especially one handed. It is too early to worry about it, he decides; stitches are usually removed in around ten days so John would be fussing by now, but Sherlock knows he can leave them a little longer without there being any serious consequences. Risking a visit to a doctor, even in a walk-in clinic, in London would be inadvisable at the moment, and going to Molly is out of the question. They will need to be removed by the end of next week at the very latest though, and right now Sherlock has no idea whether he will even remain in England that long (no, he knows that he cannot stay, that he has to press his advantage while he still has one and so will have to leave as soon as possible - certainly no later than two days from now). The thought of tugging them out of his scalp himself is distasteful and he dreads the thought of the scarring; he will seek help unless absolutely necessary.
So many plans to be made. So damned much to do, his head is whirling with it all, and he doubts that he will sleep tonight. Instead, he packs again - an easy job, thanks to his decision to travel light - and spends three hours studying the materials taken from Hammersmith (pointless leaving them when a break-in is so entirely obvious - Scotland Yard would be considering theft anyway) before trying to snatch a couple of hours of sleep. He manages one; the first hour tucked under the thick winter duvet is spent remembering the heavy slump to John’s shoulders, the slight-but-there return of his limp, the almost defiant misery written in his expression. It is maddening until he manages to turn his mind to his advantage, drawing on an instance of illness (a common flu virus, nothing particularly interesting and an unfortunate contaminant to three of his experiments). He recalls the sensation of John’s warm, strong hand smoothing over his forehead and petting his hair; he simply could not bear to delete the memory afterwards, despite knowing that he probably should have - sentiment is, after all, foolish weakness.
ooo
He moves again in the morning, leaving East Ham on the eight-forty-five Hammersmith & City train and losing himself in the rush of office workers and students. It is only when he sees himself on the front page of almost every morning paper (yet again - do these people have no memory at all, or are their own lives simply dull enough that they do not care that they read precisely the same things two days ago?) that he realises his mistake, realises that the crowds could easily become more of a risk than an advantage. He is, fortunately, able to school his expression to reflect the unruffled boredom of the other passengers and none are any the wiser; the man in the papers is dead after all, and the obtuse minds around him would chalk it up to nothing more than odd resemblance even if he was still wearing his wonderful scarf and coat and had never bleached his hair the colour of butter and honey. In his spectacles, tan slacks and jacket he is of no more interest than the next man.
He leaves the train at Moorgate, meaning to wander through the crowds a little before finding a route to Kew Gardens which will not take him too close to Baker Street again, but instead finds himself swept up in the mass rush for the Northern Line towards Edgware. The doors close before he can extricate himself and off he is sent. Not that it matters - he has nowhere to be, can spend his day wherever he ends up as long as his mind is allowed to work in peace. Perhaps a nice cup of tea would be an appropriate goal for the morning - he hasn’t had one in over a week, cannot seem to make them the way that John and Mrs. Hudson do. He misses the small comfort terribly. It is this thought that propels him from the moving sardine-tin at Camden Town; there is a small café close to the market he often frequented in the pre-John years where they make a marvellous English cuppa.
As with most of Camden, the place is packed with students and so-called ‘alternatives’ when he arrives, but there is a tiny corner table still available that he does not hesitate to claim and soon enough things quieten down - the shops are open, the students heading off towards libraries and universities. Sherlock is left with quiet jazz, a pot of tea and a myriad of thoughts and plans. It takes hours to sort through them all, and at one point he is left with no choice but to fish out one of the notebooks and a pen if he wishes to keep hold of his decisions. The notes are short, barely more than a few random letters and numbers on each line, however they keep the chaos in a more coherent order and soon he has something resembling a final strategy.
He will stay the night in Camden, making use of the third of his five ‘spares’ rather than making the trek to Rickmansworth (Camden is busier, easier to be lost among the crowd in, than the quieter town on London’s outskirts), and get a last-minute flight out to St. Petersburg tomorrow using Robert Clarke’s passport. From there he will have to remember not to follow patterns of any sort with regards to choosing his next targets, and somehow scrape together a little money wherever he stops. His hidden accounts are healthy enough to sustain extended travel if they must, but they are not endless and he will be staying in rather questionable dives more often than he would ever care to otherwise.
Sherlock drinks his way steadily through four pots of tea. At some point the girl on the early shift leaves and an older woman (early fifties, widow, had a date last night, enjoys knitting and owns the café) takes over delivering them and periodically halting within range of Sherlock’s tiny wooden table to check that all is well. She could be Mrs. Hudson’s younger sister in appearance and her voice and gaze take on the same maternal warmth the older woman has always shown him - she must think him terribly odd, the way he looks as though he is torn between contentment and quiet grief each time she addresses him. Eventually it becomes too much and he makes tracks, booking his flight on his phone as he rides the bus. Still, Mrs. Hudson’s face refuses to shift from the inside of his eyelids until the slightly stale air of his newest hideaway swallows him.
ooo
Thank you so much for reading my scribbling, and I hope I have yet to disappoint anyone. If you have the time, I'd love to hear what you think so far (no flames please, but con-crit is very much appreciated).
Continue to Chapter 4...
If you missed them, here are Chapter 1 and Chapter 2.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,159 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
A.N.: Thank you so, so very much - the responses I’ve received have been absolutely wonderful, and I really appreciate them all. Again, I have to thank the lovely, lovely betas who have so generously offered me their time and expertise - interjection, velveteenkitten, patchsassy and infinityuphigh. Thanks to them my sanity is still somewhat intact and you won’t have to be distracted by any daft mistakes. Thank you very much!
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 3
ooo
The skies have opened and it is raining heavily when he leaves a few hours later, dressed in clean jeans, t-shirt, and a thick, green jumper. Buckner’s freshly cleaned knife is in his left trouser pocket and his reloaded revolver tucked is inside his jacket. His gloves are clean as well, a pair of chocolate-brown woollen ones he took from Mycroft’s office a few years ago during a particularly infantile moment, and he wears them over the fresh bandages and plasters decorating his hands. If the slight bulge in the left is noticeable, no one will be paying enough attention to wonder about it. He is not so willing to take risks with his hair - it has still only been washed twice, and there are a couple of blond marks on the towel currently abandoned over the end of his bed - choosing to don a beanie he had not known he owned (no label and kinks in the seam; likely hand-knit, therefore a forgotten gift from Mrs. Hudson or previously owned by one of the Network) in an attempt to keep it dry. Short as they now are, his curls seem to be tucked quite securely away from the downpour.
The train is packed through London, and the streets of Hammersmith are no better. The crowds provide camouflage, which is all well and good; however, they also impede his ability to spot Lestrade’s unhappily nondescript car and force him to move with their flow rather than allowing him to find a shadowed corner and wait quietly as he had planned. After an hour and a half Sherlock is forced to admit defeat and ducks through the door of the warm, little pub on the corner, buys a lemonade and parks himself by the window, stripping off his gloves and jacket reluctantly when he realises how horribly close to the radiator he is.
It gets dark. Teatime ticks by. Sherlock buys three more lemonades and fiddles around with his phone, trying to appear occupied. He is close to giving up, heading back to the flat and trying again in the early morning, when the pub door opens to admit a blast of damp, cold air and one Greg Lestrade.
He looks as bad as John, if not worse, and the immediate order of a scotch does not exactly fill Sherlock with joy. Particularly when three beers and another scotch follow it swiftly. By ten thirty the DI is well on the way towards ‘plastered’ and stumbling as he turns to leave. It should not be a cause for concern, considering Lestrade is a grown man and can handle himself - and his inebriated state is not an issue in itself. Unfortunately Sherlock’s seat is close to the door; he had not thought of the possibility (probability, Lestrade has had problems with drinking for years so the suicide of someone reasonably close to him would of course cause a reaction like this - a careless oversight on Sherlock’s part) of Lestrade coming in for a drink before going home. He had only considered the view from the window and the speed with which he could leave once he saw the car pull up or the house lights switch on, and it is too late now to do anything about his mistake but hope Lestrade fails to recognise him. He continues tapping on his phone, fabricating a message to an annoyed girlfriend until Lestrade’s thigh bumps his table and he flinches, glancing up and feigning surprise.
Lestrade’s eyes go wide and watery, the older man breathing a hoarse, “Sh’lock?” before he shakes himself, mutters an apology and hurries out into the street. Sherlock is left to sit and ache.
Watching Lestrade make his way up his front steps is what Sherlock wants to do, but he is here for a reason and casts his gaze over the rest of the street instead, his eyes flicking from deep shadow to deeper shadow until they latch on to what he is looking for. The young man is in his mid-twenties, probably blonde although it is difficult to tell with only streetlights, and is watching Lestrade like a hawk. His face is one Sherlock recognises but could never put a name to - new to the force, seen at one or two scenes within the past month, specifically asked to be placed under Lestrade, apparently - and he turns to head through the park once the heavy, wooden door slams closed behind his target.
Sherlock follows him to a perfectly unremarkable townhouse approximately three streets away, rushing up behind him and stunning him with a short, sharp blow to the back of his skull as he shoves them both quickly inside. He reaches back, tugging the door closed behind them without allowing it to slam. Unfortunately, this does not appear to be a beneficial use of his time.
The young man (a military doctor, just like John but as different in personality as it is possible for a man to be) is not surprised. Barely five seconds pass, and then an elbow smashes back against Sherlock’s ribs, winding him and knocking him back against the solid front door - if not for a dose of the drugs Molly had so kindly provided (snuck into his system under the pub table when Lestrade appeared to be preparing to leave) Sherlock knows the pain would have incapacitated him completely. He had known that someone was following him, had been expecting an attack and easily anticipated the blow to his head, allowing him to brace himself and recover markedly faster than Sherlock had hoped. Still, he has not observed everything; his eyes go wide when Sherlock draws the revolver from his jacket and it is clear he never expected a civilian - even a vigilante - to risk carrying what could only be an unlicensed gun in public. He cannot reach his own quickly enough. Sherlock can afford to risk the noise of one shot.
A stomach wound would be preferable, much as it is a nasty, messy way to die. It would allow him time for what are currently vital questions and observation. This man, however, is a professional, and as such would be far too likely to fight back. There is a good chance he would attempt to take Sherlock with him should he be given even the narrowest opportunity (particularly if he is also given any confirmation of Sherlock’s identity - at present still a blessed mystery due to disguise and darkness). Interrogation would be noisy too; the reality of what he would have to do in order to gain any valuable information would take long enough to draw attention and dangerously limit the options for his escape. A pointless risk, then. Sherlock directs the bullet through the would-be assassin’s skull instead, allowing himself a dissatisfied snarl as he does so.
It is loud, and it is still very messy, and he lets out a shout of, “Fuck, my toe! Jesus Christ!” to dispel the sudden silence on the other side of the hallway wall.
He is lucky that the area is considered one of the safer places to live. The blare of the neighbour’s television restarts after a few moments of Sherlock bashing about and cursing imaginary boxes and injuries, the tension in his shoulders easing when it does so. Time, he has time. Now all he needs are clues.
ooo
It is three in the morning when he stumbles down the steps and through his own temporary front door. There was far more in the way of paper and digital records than he had dared to hope for. Unfortunately this also points to there being far more for him to do than he had originally believed. Moriarty’s network is either distinctly larger than he had predicted or Lestrade’s tail had been rather higher up on its proverbial food chain than he had thought. The latter is overwhelmingly unlikely. The former is… The former is unbearable. Sherlock had known he would miss his home and his life and his friends, but he had never thought that it would feel like this. He had assumed it would be similar to missing Mycroft, all those years ago, when he was away at university and Sherlock was left with largely uninterested parents and a mind that could not stop whirring. Instead he is left feeling entirely bereft, alone in ways he never thought he would resent, and he simply wants to go home.
He could, he knows. The immediate threat has been removed and Mycroft would probably delight in Sherlock going to him for help in protecting those he has come to care for from any further, similar dangers. He could go home to the flat, tell John he isn’t dead after all, not begrudge him the punch Sherlock knows he will deserve despite his good intentions, and solve his usual crimes whilst allowing someone else to handle this behemoth. It would be so, so easy. His feelings are such a mess of desperation and loneliness and pain, such a mess as he has never known before he could happily take months of boredom in exchange for being able to wipe the grief he saw today from Lestrade and John’s faces. To have it be over now…
It does not “break his heart,” as so many are so fond of saying, to know that it would not truly be over; however, he will confess to a bone-deep sorrow and a resentment that scorches with every breath. The knowledge that if he leaves this here, if he backs away now, they will all spend years under the surveillance of both friend and foe makes the idea intolerable. To condemn them to forever being suspicious, to endlessly checking over their shoulders, to the constant dread of feeling that knife, that bullet… God, he would loathe it. It would drive them all insane within a month.
He ends up on the chair propped in the corner of the living room, so similar to his own and yet with none of its comfort. His elbows are propped on his knees, his head heavy against his palms and his fingers pulling fiercely at his newly blonde hair. The choice he is wrestling with has already been made; he made it almost two weeks ago and asking himself now whether to continue is an exercise in futility. This ‘choice’ is in fact no choice at all if he still wishes to protect those for whom he was willing to risk a six-storey leap. There had been no guarantee then, for all his hopes and planning, and there is none to be had now either - he simply has to keep going until his return will not bring yet more trouble. When it is all said and done he will be able to go home and enjoy it.
He unfolds himself from the chair gingerly, careful of his still-damaged ribs. They are healing, the pain receding faster than expected (likely to be badly bruised rather than cracked, although he has no present means of checking). They are still tender though, and between the day’s exertions and sitting for almost half an hour with his torso curved as he has, they are beginning to give him a little trouble. A groan tears free with his first step, the sound of his own voice in the silent flat yet another reminder of how desperately he wishes he could have brought John with him. The short walk to the bathroom takes five minutes when it should barely take one - although he is, admittedly, being far more cautious than strictly necessary due to the steady throb of his side. After several aborted attempts he gives up on raising his right arm and washes his hair one-handed, careful not to irritate his cuts or catch the stitches.
That is another problem, one he considers whilst the soap and shampoo are sluiced off him in the rush of hot water from the showerhead. He was incredibly lucky and has, for the most part, been able to take adequate care of his injuries alone. However, those stitches will need to come out at some point and Sherlock doubts that he could do a clean job himself, especially one handed. It is too early to worry about it, he decides; stitches are usually removed in around ten days so John would be fussing by now, but Sherlock knows he can leave them a little longer without there being any serious consequences. Risking a visit to a doctor, even in a walk-in clinic, in London would be inadvisable at the moment, and going to Molly is out of the question. They will need to be removed by the end of next week at the very latest though, and right now Sherlock has no idea whether he will even remain in England that long (no, he knows that he cannot stay, that he has to press his advantage while he still has one and so will have to leave as soon as possible - certainly no later than two days from now). The thought of tugging them out of his scalp himself is distasteful and he dreads the thought of the scarring; he will seek help unless absolutely necessary.
So many plans to be made. So damned much to do, his head is whirling with it all, and he doubts that he will sleep tonight. Instead, he packs again - an easy job, thanks to his decision to travel light - and spends three hours studying the materials taken from Hammersmith (pointless leaving them when a break-in is so entirely obvious - Scotland Yard would be considering theft anyway) before trying to snatch a couple of hours of sleep. He manages one; the first hour tucked under the thick winter duvet is spent remembering the heavy slump to John’s shoulders, the slight-but-there return of his limp, the almost defiant misery written in his expression. It is maddening until he manages to turn his mind to his advantage, drawing on an instance of illness (a common flu virus, nothing particularly interesting and an unfortunate contaminant to three of his experiments). He recalls the sensation of John’s warm, strong hand smoothing over his forehead and petting his hair; he simply could not bear to delete the memory afterwards, despite knowing that he probably should have - sentiment is, after all, foolish weakness.
ooo
He moves again in the morning, leaving East Ham on the eight-forty-five Hammersmith & City train and losing himself in the rush of office workers and students. It is only when he sees himself on the front page of almost every morning paper (yet again - do these people have no memory at all, or are their own lives simply dull enough that they do not care that they read precisely the same things two days ago?) that he realises his mistake, realises that the crowds could easily become more of a risk than an advantage. He is, fortunately, able to school his expression to reflect the unruffled boredom of the other passengers and none are any the wiser; the man in the papers is dead after all, and the obtuse minds around him would chalk it up to nothing more than odd resemblance even if he was still wearing his wonderful scarf and coat and had never bleached his hair the colour of butter and honey. In his spectacles, tan slacks and jacket he is of no more interest than the next man.
He leaves the train at Moorgate, meaning to wander through the crowds a little before finding a route to Kew Gardens which will not take him too close to Baker Street again, but instead finds himself swept up in the mass rush for the Northern Line towards Edgware. The doors close before he can extricate himself and off he is sent. Not that it matters - he has nowhere to be, can spend his day wherever he ends up as long as his mind is allowed to work in peace. Perhaps a nice cup of tea would be an appropriate goal for the morning - he hasn’t had one in over a week, cannot seem to make them the way that John and Mrs. Hudson do. He misses the small comfort terribly. It is this thought that propels him from the moving sardine-tin at Camden Town; there is a small café close to the market he often frequented in the pre-John years where they make a marvellous English cuppa.
As with most of Camden, the place is packed with students and so-called ‘alternatives’ when he arrives, but there is a tiny corner table still available that he does not hesitate to claim and soon enough things quieten down - the shops are open, the students heading off towards libraries and universities. Sherlock is left with quiet jazz, a pot of tea and a myriad of thoughts and plans. It takes hours to sort through them all, and at one point he is left with no choice but to fish out one of the notebooks and a pen if he wishes to keep hold of his decisions. The notes are short, barely more than a few random letters and numbers on each line, however they keep the chaos in a more coherent order and soon he has something resembling a final strategy.
He will stay the night in Camden, making use of the third of his five ‘spares’ rather than making the trek to Rickmansworth (Camden is busier, easier to be lost among the crowd in, than the quieter town on London’s outskirts), and get a last-minute flight out to St. Petersburg tomorrow using Robert Clarke’s passport. From there he will have to remember not to follow patterns of any sort with regards to choosing his next targets, and somehow scrape together a little money wherever he stops. His hidden accounts are healthy enough to sustain extended travel if they must, but they are not endless and he will be staying in rather questionable dives more often than he would ever care to otherwise.
Sherlock drinks his way steadily through four pots of tea. At some point the girl on the early shift leaves and an older woman (early fifties, widow, had a date last night, enjoys knitting and owns the café) takes over delivering them and periodically halting within range of Sherlock’s tiny wooden table to check that all is well. She could be Mrs. Hudson’s younger sister in appearance and her voice and gaze take on the same maternal warmth the older woman has always shown him - she must think him terribly odd, the way he looks as though he is torn between contentment and quiet grief each time she addresses him. Eventually it becomes too much and he makes tracks, booking his flight on his phone as he rides the bus. Still, Mrs. Hudson’s face refuses to shift from the inside of his eyelids until the slightly stale air of his newest hideaway swallows him.
ooo
Thank you so much for reading my scribbling, and I hope I have yet to disappoint anyone. If you have the time, I'd love to hear what you think so far (no flames please, but con-crit is very much appreciated).
Continue to Chapter 4...