CHALLENGE ONE FIC! (post five AND POLL)
Please read these final fics and then VOTE ON THE POLL.
41.
There is nothing in the world more hideous than boredom. Sherlock can tolerate conditions lesser men would deem intolerable, can ignore hunger until he collapses, has a pain threshold that has to be seen to be believed, but simple boredom is beyond what he can bear.
This allergic reaction to inactivity is what drove three of his previous four flatmates out within the first two weeks, never to return (the fourth hadn't even made it to the end of the second day, thanks to an incident involving a pint of cow's blood). It has not, for reasons Sherlock is yet to pinpoint precisely, been enough to drive out John Watson.
Not only that, but, during one of Sherlock's periodic fits of histrionics, when he'd declared himself to be officially dying of boredom (and would John mind terribly handing him his gun, to put an end to all the suffering?), John had laughed.
He'd laughed.
Sherlock has not told John yet, and possibly never will, but that moment is one that Sherlock will never delete. Not because it had been anything special, but because it hadn't been. What it had been was the first time Sherlock had taken notice of just where they stood with each other.
Contrary to what most of the people who know him (excepting Mycroft who knows too much) think, Sherlock is not the antisocial virgin his conversation style might suggest. He's also not really a sociopath, though the therapist he was sent to as a teenager (for depression, not suspected psychosis) had acknowledged his asocial tendencies. But high-functioning sociopath sounds better than asocial genius who sometimes thinks about dying, so he's stuck with it. People like labels.
But John doesn't care about any of that, and has never believed the sociopath bit, anyway, so it doesn't matter. What does matter is the fact that Sherlock is slightly more socially adept than he's given credit for and has been attracted to, slept with, and been fond of people in the time before John. So he is not completely out of his depth.
Unfortunately, but not entirely unexpectedly, John is lagging behind and taking his time in realising that their mutual regard is a sufficient base upon which to build a new relationship. Normal people start with far less than that and the human race hasn't died out yet. Clearly, they have the odds in their favour.
So he tries to get through to John subtly, without going so far as to talk about it openly, and fails spectacularly at every turn. He's actually starting to get the impression that, no matter what he does, John will never notice. It's frustrating, time-consuming, and possibly hopeless.
Sherlock is almost starting to forget what it feels like to be bored.
But, as life goes on and all his hints prove to be for naught, he is forced to consider the possibility of failure. He tells himself that it won't be the end of the world, or anything equally melodramatic, because, as long as John doesn't find a girlfriend (Sherlock is, fortunately, very good at eliminating potential mates-who-aren't-Sherlock), there's no reason they can't just spend the rest of their lives as they have been. It's not unreasonable to expect such commitment when they really are ideally suited to one another. It's logical and would be quite fine.
Except it wouldn't be and there's a part of Sherlock, lodged right behind his breastbone, that insists there will never be anything fine about a world in which John never gets to where Sherlock is waiting for him. Sherlock's been fond of people before and it never felt like this. Like he might die of it, even more surely than he might die of boredom.
It occurs to him, as he lays on the sofa, almost tired enough to sleep, that this might be what "in love" means, and that, if John's willingness to put up with all of Sherlock's bad habits is any indication, John is closer to joining him than he seems. He'd been looking at it wrong, is all, assigning the wrong motivations, missing the bit where they're probably, almost certainly, in love.
It's something new, something utterly novel. Completely uncharted and waiting to be explored.
And he can't help but smile, just a little bit, because, even if it takes years to win John over entirely, at least he knows he'll never be bored again.
Utterly novel, indeed.
42.
A new and somewhat unexpected development in my life is the sudden urge to count my blessings from time to time. To pinch myself on the arm, in between the bruises, and make sure even the clear flesh that still dapples my body here and there knows how lucky it is to be so very alive, and alive with you. A common thread in these mental memoirs is my somewhat dreadful luck with flatmates - In the last year three left me, each more trouble than the last, and it is with not inconsiderable surprise that I find myself typing this while you, a wholly unexpected forth, sleep at my side, lulled into weary rest by the motion of a tube carriage that neither of us really wants to be on.
The first had been named Adam, somewhat appropriately, and strictly speaking he was no trouble at all by normal standards. He had been clean, fastidious in his payment of bills, and respectful of personal space. Clean, tidy and completely, utterly dull. And squeamish, thankfully. He was disposed of quickly after a busy run of deaths, and all the talk that entails, and I am so very glad that he went with only the smallest of fuss, as the second had been Jane, and Jane was wonderful. Dull, again, so very dull, but in such a way as to be perfectly fascinating. Who knew that there were six acceptable ways that one could fold socks? And another four again that were disagreeable? There's a kind of morbid fascination inherent to such people, as there is with car crashes and volcanic eruptions, but I'm a busy man, and Jane went the way of Adam only a few weeks later.
Third was Stephen, and Stephen was certainly trouble. Though, that said, I'm not sure he's aware of this himself. Stephen was of average height and average build, had brown eyes and mousy blond hair, and worked in a medical temping agency. We saw each other professionally, from time to time, though never in environments particularly suited to less clinical acquaintance - the presence of one of us to the other generally spelled trouble, somewhere down the line, and it was for the best that we tried to avoid each other whenever possible. At home, I'm afraid I acted no more evasively. Stephen was, to put it mildly, distracting. He had a habit of showering so regularly that his hair was always damp and curling on his forehead, his chest permanently both damp and visible above the towel he would clamp to his waist as he prowled the flat after washing. I work in the living room, mostly, and my occupation dictates that I do frequent and detailed research on a range of fields, and so it is not an unusual day that will see me moving a stack of journals from the coffee table to reveal, sprawled on the opposite sofa, a half-nude Stephen, staring at the ceiling and apparently deep in thought. With some regret, and a little research into the detrimental affects of soapy water on leather sofas, I finally managed to offload him onto a friend from a now-distant life, and found myself once again in need of financial assistance.
And so I found myself on a park bench, drinking lukewarm coffee, talking to a man who knows you, and you are a kind of trouble I didn't know existed, and I can't thank you enough, Sherlock, I really can't.
43.
One, Two, Three...
"I don't think this is going to work," John said firmly.
"Of course it is," said Sherlock, not opening his eyes. "You are extremely coordinated - ballroom dancing will not present any sort of difficulty for you."
"Dancing of all kinds presents many sorts of difficulties for me," John said. "Why can't you dance with her?"
Sherlock opened his eyes then, but only to give John a disdainful look.
"I need to be able to observe everyone, not just her, and although that is technically possible whilst dancing a waltz, I fail to see why I should put myself to the effort and run the risk of missing something important when the obvious solution is for you to dance with her instead."
John scowled, but could feel himself weakening.
"I can't dance," he said, hoping he sounded as firm as he had before.
"I can teach you," Sherlock said, and John felt his stomach turn over.
"How? I'm too old to learn new things and besides, I'll need to know the man's steps, and although I bet Mrs Hudson knows the steps, I can't see you demonstrating with her."
"Luckily I know both the male and female steps," Sherlock said.
"You can't be serious!" John stared at him in disbelief. "You're six inches taller than I am! How am I supposed to see over your head?"
Sherlock snorted.
"Stop making excuses," he said, rising from the sofa and walking over towards John, who shrank back into the safety of his armchair and glared at him. Sherlock glared right back and extended his hand. John hesitated, then stood up and took it.
"If this ends in serious injury or humiliation, I'll never forgive you," he warned, trying not to think about the feel of Sherlock's hand in his.
"First step," said Sherlock, and was John's imagination working overtime or had Sherlock's voice really got lower? "Ballroom hold. I am the lady, so you must take my right hand in your left. Your right hand goes on my shoulder blade."
He pulled John into the correct stance, settling his left hand on the top of John's arm. This close, John could smell the faint hint of soap and shaving cream and something else indefinably Sherlock. He tried not to breathe too deeply, instead concentrating on the slightly awkward angle required to get his arm comfortable against Sherlock's shoulder.
"Step forward with your right foot," Sherlock said, and they were so close John could almost feel Sherlock's voice resonating in his own chest. Numbly, he did as he was told.
"Now with your left, turn me so my back's to the wall, then bring your feet together."
John swallowed, staring intently at his feet, and did so.
"Good, now do it again. Forward right, turn with the left and feet together."
Really, Sherlock was almost purring and John was sure he was blushing. He repeated the steps a few times, feeling gradually more confident with them. Sherlock didn't speak, but John could feel him watching.
"The thing about dancing," Sherlock said in a low voice, "is making your partner feel like the most attractive person in the room." His hand tightened around John's arm, just slightly, and startled, John looked up.
"You are very good at that," Sherlock said, and then leaned in. John leaned up to meet him and suddenly they were kissing. John gratefully abandoned ballroom hold for the far more interesting job of getting his hands under Sherlock's shirt.
Later, when they were sprawled naked on the couch, John spoke.
"The ballroom dancing thing all a ploy, was it?"
Sherlock looked grumpy.
"Not entirely. Although now, Lestrade will have to do it. I'm not having you dancing with anyone else."
John smirked.
"I can live with that," he said.
44.
Hope
It blooms in Sherlock unbidden: a weed, albeit one of curious beauty.
He finds himself craving things he would never have thought to want. John at home again, this instant, never mind that he's got to remain in hospital for at least another week. The peace and quiet ought to have been a relief, but instead, less than ten minutes home from the last dregs of visiting hours, Sherlock paces the living room, scowls at the skull, and throws on his coat.
Slipping past hospital security isn't difficult, and John's room is private. He's asleep when Sherlock enters soundlessly. Sherlock crosses to the bed, finding that the nurse hasn't even bothered to move his chair.
He wakes with his head against the mattress and John's fingers in his hair.
Mobile
John's phone had survived both the soaking and the blast, but Sherlock's hadn't.
He comes home to Sherlock furious that he hadn't been notified that it was time to go and collect him (Mycroft had sent a car) and cursing at what appears to be the same model of BlackBerry that Anthea uses. Sherlock puts it down and rushes to John's side, even though it's clear John has managed the stairs on his own. Sherlock's arm around his waist is strange and comfortable all at once, like something distantly remembered.
Once they're settled on the sofa, Sherlock resumes cursing at the BlackBerry.
“What's wrong?” John asks, realizing they're the first words he's spoken.
“It's stuck in silent mode,” Sherlock mutters. “I don't want silent.”
“Give it here,” says John, smiling at him, and, oh, it's good to be home.
Hobby
In the past month, John has brought home no fewer than five types of honey. He puts it on his porridge, in Sherlock's tea, and on just about anything that can stand sweetening. This list of things is much longer according to Sherlock than it is according to John.
Rosemary honey is dark and sharp, bites at the back of Sherlock's tongue like regret. Acacia is gentle and soothing, entirely agreeable (All-purpose, John calls it). Lavender is much less disgusting than it sounds, although Sherlock is not fond. Yorkshire wildflower is candy, addictive, well worth stealing covert spoonfuls (Sherlock! John shouts).
Sherlock tastes borage honey for the first time this way, falls head over heels.
Lover
They're motionless in the aftermath, somehow, save for the fact that Sherlock's heartbeat rattles in both their ribcages like a restless bird. John's is too knackered to join in, already slowing. He splays one hand over each of Sherlock's shoulder blades, can't keep himself from imagining wings.
“Penny for your thoughts?” John asks softly, fearing the answer.
Sherlock breathes in abruptly, as if startled, and kisses John's forehead.
“Again,” he says, and then adds, yawning, “later.”
World
There will be more hours like all of these: bitter and sweet, frantic and still.
Sherlock will fight for his life, and John will be there to welcome him home. John's mobile will die, Harry will buy him a replacement, and he'll chew his lip in frustration until Sherlock shows him how to use it. Sherlock will bring home an endless string of exotic consumables, and John will taste them one by one, make faces at the ones he dislikes, until ecstasy finally closes his eyes.
They will leave this city behind in the end, but, for now-
45.
New Part
Stamford led me down to the basement of old Bart's. "What on earth does he do down here?" I muttered.
"'She'," smiled Stamford, as he opened the door.
"I play the violin, frequently," said the young woman as she studied the hologram in front of her. "It helps me to think. I don't sleep much. I'm moody, and can be silent for days or talkative for hours. Would any of this be a problem?"
"I - What?" I said, articulately. "Be a problem for what?"
She glanced at me with some impatience. "For a home-share, of course. Although a doctor, you don't work at old Bart's, and Stamford didn't bring you down here for the delightful ambiance. Last I saw him, I mentioned needing a co-signatory for a lease, and now here you are, recently discharged from MedC-Afghan, likely looking for a place. Certainly looking for a housemate, as you're here to meet me."
"Well, yes, as it happens a home-share would be convenient right now. But how did you know I'm a doctor? And just back from Afghanistan?"
She had returned to the holograms, switching among several sets. Her thick dreadlocks hung all about her head, obscuring her face. "Your trousers have a pocket for a medpad, though empty now - therefore a doctor, unemployed. You have an unfashionable crew-cut and a military bearing. The faint tan-line around your eye shows where the scope was in place whilst you worked in the field. Finally, I can smell the skin treatment used to treat the dryness caused by the harsh conditions in Afghanistan. Soldiers returning from the humid Congo do not require it."
I was astounded. She had deciphered all of that in an instant. "You're amazing!" I exclaimed. This brought me a shy glance. "And no," I added, finally answering her question. "None of that would be a problem."
"Excellent!" She flashed a brilliant smile at me and then returned to her holograms. She had taken several from different scenes and strung them together into a vid. "Well, Stamford, Doctor, what do you think?" she asked, playing it.
Stamford nodded. "Seamless."
"Remarkable," I breathed.
She grinned smugly. Bringing up a vmail app, she spoke into it: "Gregson, the East London murders are linked," and sent it off.
I looked my incredulity at Mike, who chuckled. "Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes."
"John Watson," I offered, extending my hand to her.
She took it, saying, "Dr. Watson, I have in mind a lease on a flat in a townhouse. Shall we have a look?"
"Yes, certainly."
And with a sway of her dreads we were off to Baker Street.
While leap-frogging traffic in the hover-cab (Sherlock offered, I didn't object), my prospective flat-mate received a holo-page. As we viewed the small indistinct image of a room with a body sprawled on the floor, a man's voice spoke: "A case for you, Sherlock, has loads of odd clues. Three Lauriston Gardens, Brixton. Lestrade." She gave the address to the cabbie. "If you don't mind?" she asked. "You were wondering what it is I do."
Yes I was, but - "No, I don't mind."
"Excellent. This'll be much easier than trying to explain."
*****
How did I get here? a bewildered voice in the back of my head wondered.
This morning started normally enough. Got a coffee, ran into an old friend.
Now I was gripping my field laser-scalpel, sneaking up behind a hover-cab operator.
He was holding a knife to the throat of my new acquaintance.
The knife pressed in. Scarlet liquid trickled brightly against her dark skin.
"I will kill you with the knife for certain," the cabbie growled. "You've got half a chance with the pill. Take it!" He thrust the capsule against her tightly-closed lips. She stared back at him, cool and steady.
I crept closer.
A floorboard squeaked. The man whipped around, droplets of blood arcing through the room.
My scalpel flared into life, ready to cauter-amputate the man's wrist; but Sherlock was on him first, her arms coming up under his shoulders to lock behind his neck, her foot kicking his legs out beneath him.
The insane light in the man's eyes dimmed and his body crumpled, knife and pills scattering onto the floor.
"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, eyes bright.
"You're welcome," I said, catching my breath. "So, then, this a typical day for you? Solving cases, nearly getting killed, catching murderers?"
She grinned, "Well, it's not every day I find a new flat-mate."
46.
People always said that it’s the little things that made life bearable, or made it nice even. John agreed with this statement. For example: it wasn’t necessarily the solving of crimes and putting away the bad guys that made him happy. No, it was the little things that came along with it that put a smile on his face. It was the way Sherlock smiled when he discovered something important, something other people couldn’t see, that made John happy.
Other little things like these was mostly very random stuff which had nothing to do with crime solving, such as crawling into bed when he just changed the sheets - especially when they were still a little bit warm - or watching Sherlock while he slept. But his number one favourite ‘little thing’ in the world was opening a brand new jar of jam and sticking his knife in the previously untouched, sticky deliciousness. He considered the moment that his knife touched the jam as something magical. Unfortunately for John this was something he couldn’t do every day (or maybe not so unfortunately, John considered, because if you could do it each day, the magic would probably disappear and the action would just be another dull, everyday thing instead of a little thing).
Today was a special day. A brand new jar of jam was waiting for John in the kitchen. He had picked it up from the grocery store the day before because he had eaten the last of the jam that morning.
When John woke up, the jam was the first thing on his mind, but he quickly pushed the though away. He was going to take things slowly. Sherlock was still asleep, and probably would be for at least another hour since they didn’t have a case they were working on. So John could take a nice, long shower before breakfast. He’d wait for Sherlock to wake up, just like every day, so they could have breakfast together. No need to rush things, John thought. The jam would still be there later.
John enjoyed his hot shower and dried himself with a fluffy blue towel. He got dressed, combed his hair, but didn’t brush his teeth yet. He would do that after he’d had breakfast with Sherlock.
Sherlock had just stepped out of their bedroom when John left the bathroom.
“Good morning,” John said with a smile, his hand brushing against Sherlock’s.
Sherlock yawned. “Yeah, morning,” he replied, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “You look happy today.”
“Just in a good mood,” John answered and opened the fridge. There it was, his brand new jar of raspberry jam. He wrapped his fingers around the jar and gently picked it up. The moment of magic was nearing. “What do you want for breakfast?” he asked, turning around to look at Sherlock.
“I’ll have jam,” Sherlock replied as he sat down at the kitchen table -which was exceptionally clean for once. “And tea.”
Normally John would tell Sherlock to at least put the bread on the table or to prepare the tea himself, but he was in too good a mood to be bothered by Sherlock’s laziness. He put the jar on the table and quickly retrieved a loaf of bread from the cupboard. Then he put the kettle on and sat down. He reached out for the jam, but Sherlock beat him to it.
Sherlock unscrewed the lid of the jar and was about to scoop up a bit of jam, but he stopped before his knife touched it. “Here,” he said, offering the jar to John. “You always light up like a Christmas tree when you dip your knife into a fresh jar of jam.” He fixed his eyes on John’s face when he took the jar.
“This is why I love you.” John grinned and dipped his knife into the jam.
47.
Right turn, construction…
His running couldn't keep up with his thinking.
Yield sign…
Albert Hornsford, husband, banker, piss-poor murderer, was driving around, pretending to be an ordinary man performing ordinary errands.
Red route…no left turns…
He deduced from discarded receipts, the shovel binned behind the house, Hornsford was going to flee before Yard finally found the body Sherlock knew existed.
Unacceptable.
Shoes were soaked as they splashed through puddles. He ran so hard he could hear his echo doggedly behind him. He heard voices as he elbowed past pedestrians. He heard profanity, the stray apology, and shouting.
Irrelevent.
The only thing that mattered was arresting Holmsford for his wife's murder. Hornsford thought himself clever; called 999 pretending she went missing.
He ignored the burning in his legs. He fixed his gaze to the car. Dented boot, whitish mud. Dover. He's been to Dover, and it’s not since rained. Recently then. His aunt's cottage? Location of the body?
The deduction spurred him on. He didn't even register the dark shape off to his side until tires screeched.
Startled, he glanced off its bonnet. Before he went under its wheel, he was tackled, his breath forced out with a rush that left him dizzy.
The world grayed.
Sherlock woke to chaos.
"Should we call an ambulance?"
"I didn't see him. He flew out in front of me!"
"Is he all right?"
Sherlock struggled to get up. A hand gripped his shoulder, halting him. Sherlock huffed and knocked the hand away, then his wrist was caught in an iron grip.
"Stay still," a voice commanded. Sherlock bristled. "Sherlock, wait. Nothing looks broken but-no, ma'am, he's fine."
"If you're sure…"
"Didn't he see the light?"
"Couldn't believe…"
Sherlock stared at worn boots, leather bleached from sand, dry sand, but not from the ocean, hold on-
"John?" Sherlock rasped. The clamoring voices around him retreated. John guided him to sit on the curb.
"Hornsford," Sherlock scanned the streets. Nothing. He made to rise again when John crouched in front of him.
"Don't," John said bluntly, the hard tone of a soldier. His hands, however, were those of a doctor as he carefully probed the base of Sherlock's skull. Sherlock flinched as John found the gash under his hair.
"I rung up Lestrade. Told him about the car. They'll get him. Look over here. Follow my finger."
Lestrade? Sherlock ignored the finger and was about to argue when his mobile chirped. John sighed, reached in and rummaged around his coat pocket.
John didn't look at the mobile. He simply thrust it towards Sherlock.
Your Inspector caught Holmsford in a shop buying crimson paint. No point getting up. MH
Sherlock scowled at it with squinty eyes. Squinty because John was still probing the gash.
"Well?" John murmured as he peered into Sherlock's eyes with a frown.
"Lestrade caught him," Sherlock grumbled. He snatched back his phone. "Red handed."
John rocked back on his heels and stared at Sherlock. "We have time then. Explain to me why you took off like that?"
Before he could respond, John continued.
"Yes, the great Sherlock Holmes dashing off to catch a murderer. You could have waited one moment for me. What if I hadn't caught up? You think you're impervious to cars?"
Sherlock paused.
"Sherlock?"
"Actually," Sherlock said slowly, suddenly finding himself flooded with the alien feeling of being wrong footed, "I forgot."
"Sorry?"
Sherlock sighed, his eyes sliding away. "I forgot you were with me. I'm usually running after them myself." Sherlock shrugged. "Habit."
"Habit," John repeated flatly.
Sherlock coughed. "Yes." He got up unsteadily. He needed to blink several times before the streets, gray with the morning drizzle, sharpened. He raised a hand to hail a cab; it was pointless to continue.
"Habit," John muttered again as he stepped up next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "You should learn a new one."
Sherlock glanced over, eyebrow arched. The sudden lightness in his head took him aback. Concussion, perhaps?
"New one? Oh, I should be looking behind me from now on?" Sherlock guessed.
"Behind you?" John snorted. "Think I can't keep up with those ruddy skinny legs of yours?" John smirked as a taxi stopped. "Beside you. Get used to it, Sherlock." And with that, John climbed into the cab.
Sherlock shook his head, but found himself smiling as he entered the cab. "I can learn to get used to that."
The End
48.
Pain, sadness, helplessness-these were all familiar. He knew the sick, slow sinking in the pit of his stomach when a bigger boy turned to him on the bus; the hollow, numbing emptiness that crept up his spine when Mum announced she’d be gone for the night (the weekend?) again; and he knew the sharp, bloody tang of panic that came when he heard the sirens outside his window, as he did every night, lying alone in bed and wondering when they’d come for him.
These feelings he knew, better than any child should.
Power, though-he’d never felt power before.
*
He built his power slowly, just one small brick at a time. It came at first in the realization that just as he was afraid of the older boys at school, he could make the younger boys afraid of him: by tripping them in the halls when the teachers weren’t looking or by threatening to kill the class hamster, at night while everyone was gone, if they didn’t give him money or sweets.
A smart boy, he soon realized that the ease of these small triumphs diminished their importance. Who couldn’t make a six year-old wet himself, as amusing as it was to watch them cry and flush with embarrassment? The thrill was fleeting, and soon he sought a greater challenge.
Of course he couldn’t confront the older boys directly. Underweight and underfed, he had no chance to compete on the field of physical brutality his peers preferred. His strength was in his intellect. He didn’t need admiration of recognition-he stopped caring long ago what other people thought. Exerting his power, getting the best of someone without getting caught (or even suspected)-that was where his passion lie.
*
Most would identify Karl Powers as his first ‘victim’. He might have been the first to die, but what did that matter? Death isn’t the only way to end someone’s life. Sometimes dying is the easy part. In any case, he had much bigger plans for his true victim.
You see: Karl wasn’t the worst of them-not by a long shot. Truth be told, little Karl was hardly ever even there when his big brother Tom and his group of cronies were making their jokes and playing their games. Karl was quiet, unassuming-a fantastic swimmer and the apple of his family’s eye. Oh, but wasn’t it delicious, the look on big brother Tom’s face-that stunned and vacant stare he fixed on the coffin as it was lowered into the earth? One might have called it ‘broken’, but he wasn’t broken then-not yet. He would be, though; in time, he would be.
There is an art to revenge. It requires patience to follow that long and twisting path to its tragic and exhilarating denouement. Any playwright will tell you: you don’t kill off the nemesis in the first act. You’ve got to save something for the finale.
*
“I will burn the heart out of you!” It feels so good to say it-to feel the rage wash over him like a flash of fever. He has a purpose again. It’s been so long, so Goddamn long since he’s had a challenge. He’s almost giddy with the pleasure of it.
Perhaps he overdid it just a little with the theatrics, but he couldn’t help himself. It’s like a drug, that feeling of power, and his addiction is complete. Over the years, his threshold has risen, his tolerance grown-he needs a bigger dose to get the same high.
Thank God for Sherlock Holmes: intoxicating from the very first taste. What it will take to break him!
He hasn’t felt this way in years, not since he watched them drag little Karl’s pale and lifeless body from the bottom of the pool.
It makes him feel like a brand new man.
49.
**WARNING for CHARACTER DEATH**
Optimistic bias. Knowing that the muzzle velocity of the Sig in his hand is roughly 335 metres per second, Sherlock’s rational mind concludes that there is no possible way he and John can make it to the water in the time it will take the bullet to traverse the distance between himself and Moriarty, make contact with the Semtex vest, and cause a catastrophic explosion. And yet, it is his indulgence in irrational hope that allows him to pull the trigger. A gentle squeeze ignites a tempest, and he sails backwards, swallowed by a storm of white light and pain.
***
He awakes lying in the grass under a cloudless Sussex sky. The bright sun warms his skin, and he raises a hand to shield his eyes. There was something he had meant to say. He raises himself on one elbow and turns to speak to his companion. The garden is empty but for him, and he cannot quite place the source of the hollow ache in his chest. He lowers himself back onto the cool grass and closes his eyes. A slight breeze stirs the leaves of a nearby laurel, and carries to his ears the distant hum of bees.
***
Flickering lights cast shadows around them; the pong of chlorine and ozone is heavy. John’s face enters Sherlock’s field of vision, blocking the light. Blood runs freely from a gash in his head, drips down his chin, seeps warm through Sherlock’s shirt. John’s words are drowned by the dull roar of the storm in Sherlock’s ears. He constricts the aperture of his focus very precisely to John’s lips, reads, “Sherlock, can you hear me?”
A hand flutters at his throat; then, rhythmic pressure on his chest.
“Stay with me, Sherlock!”
A puff of breath expands his lungs.
“Please. Don’t leave.”
***
Afternoon light floods the garden shed through the open door. He slides his hands into canvas gloves, noting with mild interest the topography of wrinkles and irregular brown spots. Funny, he doesn’t remember getting old. But then, here there is only now; the past lies in the hazy blue of the horizon in his mind. He is restless, anticipating, like a sailor ready to embark on the next leg of an adventure, or a child poised to turn the page to begin a new chapter of a beloved story. He dons hat and veil, and goes to tend his hives.
***
The walls cry out in agony under the strain of cracked concrete and mortar. John pulls away and looks up. His eyes are wide and his face constricts in a grimace of fear. He shakes his head slowly, mouthing words that founder before they can reach Sherlock’s ears. Sherlock cannot see John’s lips from this angle, but deduces from memory their likeliest utterance.
“Please God, let us live.”
Sherlock hears the creak and groan of twisting metal pierce jaggedly through the incessant roaring. John casts his body forward, a fragile but indomitable shield, as the world tumbles down around them.
***
The very air around him vibrates into a crescendo - an alate aria played by a million tiny strings for him, their impresario. His anticipation grows until his entire body pulses and thrums in time with the bee song. When the tune changes, he knows he is no longer alone. He turns and sees the figure of a man approaching - an old soldier, by the cadence of his step. The bee keeper smiles and lifts the veil from his face, clearing his vision. The past now lies open before him like a well-worn volume. He reaches out and turns the page.
50.
John returned from work late in the afternoon, feeling completely exhausted. He was supposed to be temping, but sometimes, it felt like a full time job to him - besides, he was absolutely certain that, once he looked into their fridge, he would see nothing whatsoever - aside from the usual uneatable experiments Sherlock insisted on leaving there. He really wasn't in the mood to go shopping.
When he stepped into the flat, however, John froze on the spot. He half assumed he had gone into the wrong house, if it had not been for Mrs Hudson, wiping the floor of the hallway. This, most certainly, was not their flat.
The clutter was gone. There was not one sheet of paper on the floor, not one book, phial, discarded nicotine patch. For once, John could actually see their carpet - he really had had no idea that it was that particular colour. Sherlock's case files had been gathered up, as well, and placed in a neat pile on the side table. Whoever had done that would have hell to pay once Sherlock noticed.
The table and armchairs were carefully arranged, the pillows fluffed up and placed evenly on the armchairs - they usually had a habit of gathering on the sofa. The sofa itself, which, in the morning, had been occupied by a sleeping Sherlock (overwork finally taking its toll) was now empty, the blanket folded carefully at one end. Sherlock's laptop, previously on the floor beside the sofa, sat on the table beside the case files.
Even the boxes of the take-away they had had for dinner - which John had felt guilty about not throwing away all day, even though he had had to sneak out of their flat in absolute silence as to not wake his flatmate - were gone.
The mantle had been dusted. The jackknife pinning down Sherlock's 'boring' letters was still there, but the letters were gone. And the skull, usually appearing all the more grim for the layers of dust covering it, was now perfectly shining.
Even the violin was in its case, resting on the window sill.
Everything smelled of lemon.
There were three explanations for this. One - Sherlock had been abducted, and the abductor had planned to conceal the signs of a struggle by tiding up. Nonsense, John, use your brain! Two - Sherlock had tidied up, but that was a once-in-a-million-years occurrence, so hardly an acceptable theory. John hadn't tidied up himself since Sherlock had snapped at him for even touching his files... Three - Mrs Hudson had finally seen sense and thrown them out of the flat, making it ready for the next tenants. Why she would want to keep the skull, though, was beyond him.
John crept into the flat. “Sherlock?”
Of course, he was not there.
The kitchen was a sparkling clean as the rest of the flat, and John approached the fridge with trepidation. There were no body parts, no poisons, no bacteria - merely food. Lots and lots of food. This, most certainly, was not even remotely normal, and definitely not Sherlock's doing.
John slammed the door of the fridge shut as he heard Sherlock bounding up the stairs, as if trying to hide the offending orderliness.
Sherlock, however, came strolling into the kitchen with nonchalance. “Ah, John. You're back.”
“Yes, only just. It wasn't me!”
Sherlock regarded him as if he was wondering whether his flatmate had been deserted by the last scrap of intelligence. “What are you talking about?”
“Don't tell me you didn't notice!”
Sherlock leant against the kitchen table. “John, there is no need to get all worked up. Despite common belief, I am not able to read anyone's mind, let alone yours.”
John was not sure whether that was supposed to be a compliment, but in face of the enormity of the things at hand, he let it slide. “The flat! It's clean! No paper, no clutter, no dust!”
“Oh, that. That was Mrs Hudson. I thought you'd like it.”
“I... do.” John just failed to believe it - their landlady-not-housekeeper would never have touched their flat out of her own accord. “Why?”
“Oh, I did her a small favour. Retrieved her handbag from a pair of muggers. I suppose she was grateful.” A quicksilver smile flashed over Sherlock's face, then he retreated into his bedroom.
John stared after him, looking again at the flat. “Well, this is... new.”
Now vote!
41.
There is nothing in the world more hideous than boredom. Sherlock can tolerate conditions lesser men would deem intolerable, can ignore hunger until he collapses, has a pain threshold that has to be seen to be believed, but simple boredom is beyond what he can bear.
This allergic reaction to inactivity is what drove three of his previous four flatmates out within the first two weeks, never to return (the fourth hadn't even made it to the end of the second day, thanks to an incident involving a pint of cow's blood). It has not, for reasons Sherlock is yet to pinpoint precisely, been enough to drive out John Watson.
Not only that, but, during one of Sherlock's periodic fits of histrionics, when he'd declared himself to be officially dying of boredom (and would John mind terribly handing him his gun, to put an end to all the suffering?), John had laughed.
He'd laughed.
Sherlock has not told John yet, and possibly never will, but that moment is one that Sherlock will never delete. Not because it had been anything special, but because it hadn't been. What it had been was the first time Sherlock had taken notice of just where they stood with each other.
Contrary to what most of the people who know him (excepting Mycroft who knows too much) think, Sherlock is not the antisocial virgin his conversation style might suggest. He's also not really a sociopath, though the therapist he was sent to as a teenager (for depression, not suspected psychosis) had acknowledged his asocial tendencies. But high-functioning sociopath sounds better than asocial genius who sometimes thinks about dying, so he's stuck with it. People like labels.
But John doesn't care about any of that, and has never believed the sociopath bit, anyway, so it doesn't matter. What does matter is the fact that Sherlock is slightly more socially adept than he's given credit for and has been attracted to, slept with, and been fond of people in the time before John. So he is not completely out of his depth.
Unfortunately, but not entirely unexpectedly, John is lagging behind and taking his time in realising that their mutual regard is a sufficient base upon which to build a new relationship. Normal people start with far less than that and the human race hasn't died out yet. Clearly, they have the odds in their favour.
So he tries to get through to John subtly, without going so far as to talk about it openly, and fails spectacularly at every turn. He's actually starting to get the impression that, no matter what he does, John will never notice. It's frustrating, time-consuming, and possibly hopeless.
Sherlock is almost starting to forget what it feels like to be bored.
But, as life goes on and all his hints prove to be for naught, he is forced to consider the possibility of failure. He tells himself that it won't be the end of the world, or anything equally melodramatic, because, as long as John doesn't find a girlfriend (Sherlock is, fortunately, very good at eliminating potential mates-who-aren't-Sherlock), there's no reason they can't just spend the rest of their lives as they have been. It's not unreasonable to expect such commitment when they really are ideally suited to one another. It's logical and would be quite fine.
Except it wouldn't be and there's a part of Sherlock, lodged right behind his breastbone, that insists there will never be anything fine about a world in which John never gets to where Sherlock is waiting for him. Sherlock's been fond of people before and it never felt like this. Like he might die of it, even more surely than he might die of boredom.
It occurs to him, as he lays on the sofa, almost tired enough to sleep, that this might be what "in love" means, and that, if John's willingness to put up with all of Sherlock's bad habits is any indication, John is closer to joining him than he seems. He'd been looking at it wrong, is all, assigning the wrong motivations, missing the bit where they're probably, almost certainly, in love.
It's something new, something utterly novel. Completely uncharted and waiting to be explored.
And he can't help but smile, just a little bit, because, even if it takes years to win John over entirely, at least he knows he'll never be bored again.
Utterly novel, indeed.
42.
A new and somewhat unexpected development in my life is the sudden urge to count my blessings from time to time. To pinch myself on the arm, in between the bruises, and make sure even the clear flesh that still dapples my body here and there knows how lucky it is to be so very alive, and alive with you. A common thread in these mental memoirs is my somewhat dreadful luck with flatmates - In the last year three left me, each more trouble than the last, and it is with not inconsiderable surprise that I find myself typing this while you, a wholly unexpected forth, sleep at my side, lulled into weary rest by the motion of a tube carriage that neither of us really wants to be on.
The first had been named Adam, somewhat appropriately, and strictly speaking he was no trouble at all by normal standards. He had been clean, fastidious in his payment of bills, and respectful of personal space. Clean, tidy and completely, utterly dull. And squeamish, thankfully. He was disposed of quickly after a busy run of deaths, and all the talk that entails, and I am so very glad that he went with only the smallest of fuss, as the second had been Jane, and Jane was wonderful. Dull, again, so very dull, but in such a way as to be perfectly fascinating. Who knew that there were six acceptable ways that one could fold socks? And another four again that were disagreeable? There's a kind of morbid fascination inherent to such people, as there is with car crashes and volcanic eruptions, but I'm a busy man, and Jane went the way of Adam only a few weeks later.
Third was Stephen, and Stephen was certainly trouble. Though, that said, I'm not sure he's aware of this himself. Stephen was of average height and average build, had brown eyes and mousy blond hair, and worked in a medical temping agency. We saw each other professionally, from time to time, though never in environments particularly suited to less clinical acquaintance - the presence of one of us to the other generally spelled trouble, somewhere down the line, and it was for the best that we tried to avoid each other whenever possible. At home, I'm afraid I acted no more evasively. Stephen was, to put it mildly, distracting. He had a habit of showering so regularly that his hair was always damp and curling on his forehead, his chest permanently both damp and visible above the towel he would clamp to his waist as he prowled the flat after washing. I work in the living room, mostly, and my occupation dictates that I do frequent and detailed research on a range of fields, and so it is not an unusual day that will see me moving a stack of journals from the coffee table to reveal, sprawled on the opposite sofa, a half-nude Stephen, staring at the ceiling and apparently deep in thought. With some regret, and a little research into the detrimental affects of soapy water on leather sofas, I finally managed to offload him onto a friend from a now-distant life, and found myself once again in need of financial assistance.
And so I found myself on a park bench, drinking lukewarm coffee, talking to a man who knows you, and you are a kind of trouble I didn't know existed, and I can't thank you enough, Sherlock, I really can't.
43.
One, Two, Three...
"I don't think this is going to work," John said firmly.
"Of course it is," said Sherlock, not opening his eyes. "You are extremely coordinated - ballroom dancing will not present any sort of difficulty for you."
"Dancing of all kinds presents many sorts of difficulties for me," John said. "Why can't you dance with her?"
Sherlock opened his eyes then, but only to give John a disdainful look.
"I need to be able to observe everyone, not just her, and although that is technically possible whilst dancing a waltz, I fail to see why I should put myself to the effort and run the risk of missing something important when the obvious solution is for you to dance with her instead."
John scowled, but could feel himself weakening.
"I can't dance," he said, hoping he sounded as firm as he had before.
"I can teach you," Sherlock said, and John felt his stomach turn over.
"How? I'm too old to learn new things and besides, I'll need to know the man's steps, and although I bet Mrs Hudson knows the steps, I can't see you demonstrating with her."
"Luckily I know both the male and female steps," Sherlock said.
"You can't be serious!" John stared at him in disbelief. "You're six inches taller than I am! How am I supposed to see over your head?"
Sherlock snorted.
"Stop making excuses," he said, rising from the sofa and walking over towards John, who shrank back into the safety of his armchair and glared at him. Sherlock glared right back and extended his hand. John hesitated, then stood up and took it.
"If this ends in serious injury or humiliation, I'll never forgive you," he warned, trying not to think about the feel of Sherlock's hand in his.
"First step," said Sherlock, and was John's imagination working overtime or had Sherlock's voice really got lower? "Ballroom hold. I am the lady, so you must take my right hand in your left. Your right hand goes on my shoulder blade."
He pulled John into the correct stance, settling his left hand on the top of John's arm. This close, John could smell the faint hint of soap and shaving cream and something else indefinably Sherlock. He tried not to breathe too deeply, instead concentrating on the slightly awkward angle required to get his arm comfortable against Sherlock's shoulder.
"Step forward with your right foot," Sherlock said, and they were so close John could almost feel Sherlock's voice resonating in his own chest. Numbly, he did as he was told.
"Now with your left, turn me so my back's to the wall, then bring your feet together."
John swallowed, staring intently at his feet, and did so.
"Good, now do it again. Forward right, turn with the left and feet together."
Really, Sherlock was almost purring and John was sure he was blushing. He repeated the steps a few times, feeling gradually more confident with them. Sherlock didn't speak, but John could feel him watching.
"The thing about dancing," Sherlock said in a low voice, "is making your partner feel like the most attractive person in the room." His hand tightened around John's arm, just slightly, and startled, John looked up.
"You are very good at that," Sherlock said, and then leaned in. John leaned up to meet him and suddenly they were kissing. John gratefully abandoned ballroom hold for the far more interesting job of getting his hands under Sherlock's shirt.
Later, when they were sprawled naked on the couch, John spoke.
"The ballroom dancing thing all a ploy, was it?"
Sherlock looked grumpy.
"Not entirely. Although now, Lestrade will have to do it. I'm not having you dancing with anyone else."
John smirked.
"I can live with that," he said.
44.
Hope
It blooms in Sherlock unbidden: a weed, albeit one of curious beauty.
He finds himself craving things he would never have thought to want. John at home again, this instant, never mind that he's got to remain in hospital for at least another week. The peace and quiet ought to have been a relief, but instead, less than ten minutes home from the last dregs of visiting hours, Sherlock paces the living room, scowls at the skull, and throws on his coat.
Slipping past hospital security isn't difficult, and John's room is private. He's asleep when Sherlock enters soundlessly. Sherlock crosses to the bed, finding that the nurse hasn't even bothered to move his chair.
He wakes with his head against the mattress and John's fingers in his hair.
Mobile
John's phone had survived both the soaking and the blast, but Sherlock's hadn't.
He comes home to Sherlock furious that he hadn't been notified that it was time to go and collect him (Mycroft had sent a car) and cursing at what appears to be the same model of BlackBerry that Anthea uses. Sherlock puts it down and rushes to John's side, even though it's clear John has managed the stairs on his own. Sherlock's arm around his waist is strange and comfortable all at once, like something distantly remembered.
Once they're settled on the sofa, Sherlock resumes cursing at the BlackBerry.
“What's wrong?” John asks, realizing they're the first words he's spoken.
“It's stuck in silent mode,” Sherlock mutters. “I don't want silent.”
“Give it here,” says John, smiling at him, and, oh, it's good to be home.
Hobby
In the past month, John has brought home no fewer than five types of honey. He puts it on his porridge, in Sherlock's tea, and on just about anything that can stand sweetening. This list of things is much longer according to Sherlock than it is according to John.
Rosemary honey is dark and sharp, bites at the back of Sherlock's tongue like regret. Acacia is gentle and soothing, entirely agreeable (All-purpose, John calls it). Lavender is much less disgusting than it sounds, although Sherlock is not fond. Yorkshire wildflower is candy, addictive, well worth stealing covert spoonfuls (Sherlock! John shouts).
Sherlock tastes borage honey for the first time this way, falls head over heels.
Lover
They're motionless in the aftermath, somehow, save for the fact that Sherlock's heartbeat rattles in both their ribcages like a restless bird. John's is too knackered to join in, already slowing. He splays one hand over each of Sherlock's shoulder blades, can't keep himself from imagining wings.
“Penny for your thoughts?” John asks softly, fearing the answer.
Sherlock breathes in abruptly, as if startled, and kisses John's forehead.
“Again,” he says, and then adds, yawning, “later.”
World
There will be more hours like all of these: bitter and sweet, frantic and still.
Sherlock will fight for his life, and John will be there to welcome him home. John's mobile will die, Harry will buy him a replacement, and he'll chew his lip in frustration until Sherlock shows him how to use it. Sherlock will bring home an endless string of exotic consumables, and John will taste them one by one, make faces at the ones he dislikes, until ecstasy finally closes his eyes.
They will leave this city behind in the end, but, for now-
45.
New Part
Stamford led me down to the basement of old Bart's. "What on earth does he do down here?" I muttered.
"'She'," smiled Stamford, as he opened the door.
"I play the violin, frequently," said the young woman as she studied the hologram in front of her. "It helps me to think. I don't sleep much. I'm moody, and can be silent for days or talkative for hours. Would any of this be a problem?"
"I - What?" I said, articulately. "Be a problem for what?"
She glanced at me with some impatience. "For a home-share, of course. Although a doctor, you don't work at old Bart's, and Stamford didn't bring you down here for the delightful ambiance. Last I saw him, I mentioned needing a co-signatory for a lease, and now here you are, recently discharged from MedC-Afghan, likely looking for a place. Certainly looking for a housemate, as you're here to meet me."
"Well, yes, as it happens a home-share would be convenient right now. But how did you know I'm a doctor? And just back from Afghanistan?"
She had returned to the holograms, switching among several sets. Her thick dreadlocks hung all about her head, obscuring her face. "Your trousers have a pocket for a medpad, though empty now - therefore a doctor, unemployed. You have an unfashionable crew-cut and a military bearing. The faint tan-line around your eye shows where the scope was in place whilst you worked in the field. Finally, I can smell the skin treatment used to treat the dryness caused by the harsh conditions in Afghanistan. Soldiers returning from the humid Congo do not require it."
I was astounded. She had deciphered all of that in an instant. "You're amazing!" I exclaimed. This brought me a shy glance. "And no," I added, finally answering her question. "None of that would be a problem."
"Excellent!" She flashed a brilliant smile at me and then returned to her holograms. She had taken several from different scenes and strung them together into a vid. "Well, Stamford, Doctor, what do you think?" she asked, playing it.
Stamford nodded. "Seamless."
"Remarkable," I breathed.
She grinned smugly. Bringing up a vmail app, she spoke into it: "Gregson, the East London murders are linked," and sent it off.
I looked my incredulity at Mike, who chuckled. "Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes."
"John Watson," I offered, extending my hand to her.
She took it, saying, "Dr. Watson, I have in mind a lease on a flat in a townhouse. Shall we have a look?"
"Yes, certainly."
And with a sway of her dreads we were off to Baker Street.
While leap-frogging traffic in the hover-cab (Sherlock offered, I didn't object), my prospective flat-mate received a holo-page. As we viewed the small indistinct image of a room with a body sprawled on the floor, a man's voice spoke: "A case for you, Sherlock, has loads of odd clues. Three Lauriston Gardens, Brixton. Lestrade." She gave the address to the cabbie. "If you don't mind?" she asked. "You were wondering what it is I do."
Yes I was, but - "No, I don't mind."
"Excellent. This'll be much easier than trying to explain."
*****
How did I get here? a bewildered voice in the back of my head wondered.
This morning started normally enough. Got a coffee, ran into an old friend.
Now I was gripping my field laser-scalpel, sneaking up behind a hover-cab operator.
He was holding a knife to the throat of my new acquaintance.
The knife pressed in. Scarlet liquid trickled brightly against her dark skin.
"I will kill you with the knife for certain," the cabbie growled. "You've got half a chance with the pill. Take it!" He thrust the capsule against her tightly-closed lips. She stared back at him, cool and steady.
I crept closer.
A floorboard squeaked. The man whipped around, droplets of blood arcing through the room.
My scalpel flared into life, ready to cauter-amputate the man's wrist; but Sherlock was on him first, her arms coming up under his shoulders to lock behind his neck, her foot kicking his legs out beneath him.
The insane light in the man's eyes dimmed and his body crumpled, knife and pills scattering onto the floor.
"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, eyes bright.
"You're welcome," I said, catching my breath. "So, then, this a typical day for you? Solving cases, nearly getting killed, catching murderers?"
She grinned, "Well, it's not every day I find a new flat-mate."
46.
People always said that it’s the little things that made life bearable, or made it nice even. John agreed with this statement. For example: it wasn’t necessarily the solving of crimes and putting away the bad guys that made him happy. No, it was the little things that came along with it that put a smile on his face. It was the way Sherlock smiled when he discovered something important, something other people couldn’t see, that made John happy.
Other little things like these was mostly very random stuff which had nothing to do with crime solving, such as crawling into bed when he just changed the sheets - especially when they were still a little bit warm - or watching Sherlock while he slept. But his number one favourite ‘little thing’ in the world was opening a brand new jar of jam and sticking his knife in the previously untouched, sticky deliciousness. He considered the moment that his knife touched the jam as something magical. Unfortunately for John this was something he couldn’t do every day (or maybe not so unfortunately, John considered, because if you could do it each day, the magic would probably disappear and the action would just be another dull, everyday thing instead of a little thing).
Today was a special day. A brand new jar of jam was waiting for John in the kitchen. He had picked it up from the grocery store the day before because he had eaten the last of the jam that morning.
When John woke up, the jam was the first thing on his mind, but he quickly pushed the though away. He was going to take things slowly. Sherlock was still asleep, and probably would be for at least another hour since they didn’t have a case they were working on. So John could take a nice, long shower before breakfast. He’d wait for Sherlock to wake up, just like every day, so they could have breakfast together. No need to rush things, John thought. The jam would still be there later.
John enjoyed his hot shower and dried himself with a fluffy blue towel. He got dressed, combed his hair, but didn’t brush his teeth yet. He would do that after he’d had breakfast with Sherlock.
Sherlock had just stepped out of their bedroom when John left the bathroom.
“Good morning,” John said with a smile, his hand brushing against Sherlock’s.
Sherlock yawned. “Yeah, morning,” he replied, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “You look happy today.”
“Just in a good mood,” John answered and opened the fridge. There it was, his brand new jar of raspberry jam. He wrapped his fingers around the jar and gently picked it up. The moment of magic was nearing. “What do you want for breakfast?” he asked, turning around to look at Sherlock.
“I’ll have jam,” Sherlock replied as he sat down at the kitchen table -which was exceptionally clean for once. “And tea.”
Normally John would tell Sherlock to at least put the bread on the table or to prepare the tea himself, but he was in too good a mood to be bothered by Sherlock’s laziness. He put the jar on the table and quickly retrieved a loaf of bread from the cupboard. Then he put the kettle on and sat down. He reached out for the jam, but Sherlock beat him to it.
Sherlock unscrewed the lid of the jar and was about to scoop up a bit of jam, but he stopped before his knife touched it. “Here,” he said, offering the jar to John. “You always light up like a Christmas tree when you dip your knife into a fresh jar of jam.” He fixed his eyes on John’s face when he took the jar.
“This is why I love you.” John grinned and dipped his knife into the jam.
47.
Right turn, construction…
His running couldn't keep up with his thinking.
Yield sign…
Albert Hornsford, husband, banker, piss-poor murderer, was driving around, pretending to be an ordinary man performing ordinary errands.
Red route…no left turns…
He deduced from discarded receipts, the shovel binned behind the house, Hornsford was going to flee before Yard finally found the body Sherlock knew existed.
Unacceptable.
Shoes were soaked as they splashed through puddles. He ran so hard he could hear his echo doggedly behind him. He heard voices as he elbowed past pedestrians. He heard profanity, the stray apology, and shouting.
Irrelevent.
The only thing that mattered was arresting Holmsford for his wife's murder. Hornsford thought himself clever; called 999 pretending she went missing.
He ignored the burning in his legs. He fixed his gaze to the car. Dented boot, whitish mud. Dover. He's been to Dover, and it’s not since rained. Recently then. His aunt's cottage? Location of the body?
The deduction spurred him on. He didn't even register the dark shape off to his side until tires screeched.
Startled, he glanced off its bonnet. Before he went under its wheel, he was tackled, his breath forced out with a rush that left him dizzy.
The world grayed.
Sherlock woke to chaos.
"Should we call an ambulance?"
"I didn't see him. He flew out in front of me!"
"Is he all right?"
Sherlock struggled to get up. A hand gripped his shoulder, halting him. Sherlock huffed and knocked the hand away, then his wrist was caught in an iron grip.
"Stay still," a voice commanded. Sherlock bristled. "Sherlock, wait. Nothing looks broken but-no, ma'am, he's fine."
"If you're sure…"
"Didn't he see the light?"
"Couldn't believe…"
Sherlock stared at worn boots, leather bleached from sand, dry sand, but not from the ocean, hold on-
"John?" Sherlock rasped. The clamoring voices around him retreated. John guided him to sit on the curb.
"Hornsford," Sherlock scanned the streets. Nothing. He made to rise again when John crouched in front of him.
"Don't," John said bluntly, the hard tone of a soldier. His hands, however, were those of a doctor as he carefully probed the base of Sherlock's skull. Sherlock flinched as John found the gash under his hair.
"I rung up Lestrade. Told him about the car. They'll get him. Look over here. Follow my finger."
Lestrade? Sherlock ignored the finger and was about to argue when his mobile chirped. John sighed, reached in and rummaged around his coat pocket.
John didn't look at the mobile. He simply thrust it towards Sherlock.
Your Inspector caught Holmsford in a shop buying crimson paint. No point getting up. MH
Sherlock scowled at it with squinty eyes. Squinty because John was still probing the gash.
"Well?" John murmured as he peered into Sherlock's eyes with a frown.
"Lestrade caught him," Sherlock grumbled. He snatched back his phone. "Red handed."
John rocked back on his heels and stared at Sherlock. "We have time then. Explain to me why you took off like that?"
Before he could respond, John continued.
"Yes, the great Sherlock Holmes dashing off to catch a murderer. You could have waited one moment for me. What if I hadn't caught up? You think you're impervious to cars?"
Sherlock paused.
"Sherlock?"
"Actually," Sherlock said slowly, suddenly finding himself flooded with the alien feeling of being wrong footed, "I forgot."
"Sorry?"
Sherlock sighed, his eyes sliding away. "I forgot you were with me. I'm usually running after them myself." Sherlock shrugged. "Habit."
"Habit," John repeated flatly.
Sherlock coughed. "Yes." He got up unsteadily. He needed to blink several times before the streets, gray with the morning drizzle, sharpened. He raised a hand to hail a cab; it was pointless to continue.
"Habit," John muttered again as he stepped up next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "You should learn a new one."
Sherlock glanced over, eyebrow arched. The sudden lightness in his head took him aback. Concussion, perhaps?
"New one? Oh, I should be looking behind me from now on?" Sherlock guessed.
"Behind you?" John snorted. "Think I can't keep up with those ruddy skinny legs of yours?" John smirked as a taxi stopped. "Beside you. Get used to it, Sherlock." And with that, John climbed into the cab.
Sherlock shook his head, but found himself smiling as he entered the cab. "I can learn to get used to that."
The End
48.
Pain, sadness, helplessness-these were all familiar. He knew the sick, slow sinking in the pit of his stomach when a bigger boy turned to him on the bus; the hollow, numbing emptiness that crept up his spine when Mum announced she’d be gone for the night (the weekend?) again; and he knew the sharp, bloody tang of panic that came when he heard the sirens outside his window, as he did every night, lying alone in bed and wondering when they’d come for him.
These feelings he knew, better than any child should.
Power, though-he’d never felt power before.
*
He built his power slowly, just one small brick at a time. It came at first in the realization that just as he was afraid of the older boys at school, he could make the younger boys afraid of him: by tripping them in the halls when the teachers weren’t looking or by threatening to kill the class hamster, at night while everyone was gone, if they didn’t give him money or sweets.
A smart boy, he soon realized that the ease of these small triumphs diminished their importance. Who couldn’t make a six year-old wet himself, as amusing as it was to watch them cry and flush with embarrassment? The thrill was fleeting, and soon he sought a greater challenge.
Of course he couldn’t confront the older boys directly. Underweight and underfed, he had no chance to compete on the field of physical brutality his peers preferred. His strength was in his intellect. He didn’t need admiration of recognition-he stopped caring long ago what other people thought. Exerting his power, getting the best of someone without getting caught (or even suspected)-that was where his passion lie.
*
Most would identify Karl Powers as his first ‘victim’. He might have been the first to die, but what did that matter? Death isn’t the only way to end someone’s life. Sometimes dying is the easy part. In any case, he had much bigger plans for his true victim.
You see: Karl wasn’t the worst of them-not by a long shot. Truth be told, little Karl was hardly ever even there when his big brother Tom and his group of cronies were making their jokes and playing their games. Karl was quiet, unassuming-a fantastic swimmer and the apple of his family’s eye. Oh, but wasn’t it delicious, the look on big brother Tom’s face-that stunned and vacant stare he fixed on the coffin as it was lowered into the earth? One might have called it ‘broken’, but he wasn’t broken then-not yet. He would be, though; in time, he would be.
There is an art to revenge. It requires patience to follow that long and twisting path to its tragic and exhilarating denouement. Any playwright will tell you: you don’t kill off the nemesis in the first act. You’ve got to save something for the finale.
*
“I will burn the heart out of you!” It feels so good to say it-to feel the rage wash over him like a flash of fever. He has a purpose again. It’s been so long, so Goddamn long since he’s had a challenge. He’s almost giddy with the pleasure of it.
Perhaps he overdid it just a little with the theatrics, but he couldn’t help himself. It’s like a drug, that feeling of power, and his addiction is complete. Over the years, his threshold has risen, his tolerance grown-he needs a bigger dose to get the same high.
Thank God for Sherlock Holmes: intoxicating from the very first taste. What it will take to break him!
He hasn’t felt this way in years, not since he watched them drag little Karl’s pale and lifeless body from the bottom of the pool.
It makes him feel like a brand new man.
49.
**WARNING for CHARACTER DEATH**
Optimistic bias. Knowing that the muzzle velocity of the Sig in his hand is roughly 335 metres per second, Sherlock’s rational mind concludes that there is no possible way he and John can make it to the water in the time it will take the bullet to traverse the distance between himself and Moriarty, make contact with the Semtex vest, and cause a catastrophic explosion. And yet, it is his indulgence in irrational hope that allows him to pull the trigger. A gentle squeeze ignites a tempest, and he sails backwards, swallowed by a storm of white light and pain.
***
He awakes lying in the grass under a cloudless Sussex sky. The bright sun warms his skin, and he raises a hand to shield his eyes. There was something he had meant to say. He raises himself on one elbow and turns to speak to his companion. The garden is empty but for him, and he cannot quite place the source of the hollow ache in his chest. He lowers himself back onto the cool grass and closes his eyes. A slight breeze stirs the leaves of a nearby laurel, and carries to his ears the distant hum of bees.
***
Flickering lights cast shadows around them; the pong of chlorine and ozone is heavy. John’s face enters Sherlock’s field of vision, blocking the light. Blood runs freely from a gash in his head, drips down his chin, seeps warm through Sherlock’s shirt. John’s words are drowned by the dull roar of the storm in Sherlock’s ears. He constricts the aperture of his focus very precisely to John’s lips, reads, “Sherlock, can you hear me?”
A hand flutters at his throat; then, rhythmic pressure on his chest.
“Stay with me, Sherlock!”
A puff of breath expands his lungs.
“Please. Don’t leave.”
***
Afternoon light floods the garden shed through the open door. He slides his hands into canvas gloves, noting with mild interest the topography of wrinkles and irregular brown spots. Funny, he doesn’t remember getting old. But then, here there is only now; the past lies in the hazy blue of the horizon in his mind. He is restless, anticipating, like a sailor ready to embark on the next leg of an adventure, or a child poised to turn the page to begin a new chapter of a beloved story. He dons hat and veil, and goes to tend his hives.
***
The walls cry out in agony under the strain of cracked concrete and mortar. John pulls away and looks up. His eyes are wide and his face constricts in a grimace of fear. He shakes his head slowly, mouthing words that founder before they can reach Sherlock’s ears. Sherlock cannot see John’s lips from this angle, but deduces from memory their likeliest utterance.
“Please God, let us live.”
Sherlock hears the creak and groan of twisting metal pierce jaggedly through the incessant roaring. John casts his body forward, a fragile but indomitable shield, as the world tumbles down around them.
***
The very air around him vibrates into a crescendo - an alate aria played by a million tiny strings for him, their impresario. His anticipation grows until his entire body pulses and thrums in time with the bee song. When the tune changes, he knows he is no longer alone. He turns and sees the figure of a man approaching - an old soldier, by the cadence of his step. The bee keeper smiles and lifts the veil from his face, clearing his vision. The past now lies open before him like a well-worn volume. He reaches out and turns the page.
50.
John returned from work late in the afternoon, feeling completely exhausted. He was supposed to be temping, but sometimes, it felt like a full time job to him - besides, he was absolutely certain that, once he looked into their fridge, he would see nothing whatsoever - aside from the usual uneatable experiments Sherlock insisted on leaving there. He really wasn't in the mood to go shopping.
When he stepped into the flat, however, John froze on the spot. He half assumed he had gone into the wrong house, if it had not been for Mrs Hudson, wiping the floor of the hallway. This, most certainly, was not their flat.
The clutter was gone. There was not one sheet of paper on the floor, not one book, phial, discarded nicotine patch. For once, John could actually see their carpet - he really had had no idea that it was that particular colour. Sherlock's case files had been gathered up, as well, and placed in a neat pile on the side table. Whoever had done that would have hell to pay once Sherlock noticed.
The table and armchairs were carefully arranged, the pillows fluffed up and placed evenly on the armchairs - they usually had a habit of gathering on the sofa. The sofa itself, which, in the morning, had been occupied by a sleeping Sherlock (overwork finally taking its toll) was now empty, the blanket folded carefully at one end. Sherlock's laptop, previously on the floor beside the sofa, sat on the table beside the case files.
Even the boxes of the take-away they had had for dinner - which John had felt guilty about not throwing away all day, even though he had had to sneak out of their flat in absolute silence as to not wake his flatmate - were gone.
The mantle had been dusted. The jackknife pinning down Sherlock's 'boring' letters was still there, but the letters were gone. And the skull, usually appearing all the more grim for the layers of dust covering it, was now perfectly shining.
Even the violin was in its case, resting on the window sill.
Everything smelled of lemon.
There were three explanations for this. One - Sherlock had been abducted, and the abductor had planned to conceal the signs of a struggle by tiding up. Nonsense, John, use your brain! Two - Sherlock had tidied up, but that was a once-in-a-million-years occurrence, so hardly an acceptable theory. John hadn't tidied up himself since Sherlock had snapped at him for even touching his files... Three - Mrs Hudson had finally seen sense and thrown them out of the flat, making it ready for the next tenants. Why she would want to keep the skull, though, was beyond him.
John crept into the flat. “Sherlock?”
Of course, he was not there.
The kitchen was a sparkling clean as the rest of the flat, and John approached the fridge with trepidation. There were no body parts, no poisons, no bacteria - merely food. Lots and lots of food. This, most certainly, was not even remotely normal, and definitely not Sherlock's doing.
John slammed the door of the fridge shut as he heard Sherlock bounding up the stairs, as if trying to hide the offending orderliness.
Sherlock, however, came strolling into the kitchen with nonchalance. “Ah, John. You're back.”
“Yes, only just. It wasn't me!”
Sherlock regarded him as if he was wondering whether his flatmate had been deserted by the last scrap of intelligence. “What are you talking about?”
“Don't tell me you didn't notice!”
Sherlock leant against the kitchen table. “John, there is no need to get all worked up. Despite common belief, I am not able to read anyone's mind, let alone yours.”
John was not sure whether that was supposed to be a compliment, but in face of the enormity of the things at hand, he let it slide. “The flat! It's clean! No paper, no clutter, no dust!”
“Oh, that. That was Mrs Hudson. I thought you'd like it.”
“I... do.” John just failed to believe it - their landlady-not-housekeeper would never have touched their flat out of her own accord. “Why?”
“Oh, I did her a small favour. Retrieved her handbag from a pair of muggers. I suppose she was grateful.” A quicksilver smile flashed over Sherlock's face, then he retreated into his bedroom.
John stared after him, looking again at the flat. “Well, this is... new.”
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