Saturday, 30 Jan 2010
Sherlock Holmes paced through his new flat, trying to feel the space, moving his files for optimal accessibility. He crossed to the mantle and adjusted the position of the skull just slightly, turning it toward the kitchen. His laboratory was already set upon the table in there. He liked it here. The space felt right, the location was ideal, and Mrs. Hudson was far more clever than she let on. She'd be the perfect guardian for this space, her curiosity written off as a side-effect of her age and living single. And his flatmate...
He'd met Doctor John Watson for all of five minutes at Barts, and already he was fascinated. He wanted to know more. What had he done in the wars that he'd followed across the globe — Europe (Kosovo, Sherlock suspected) and Iraq and Afghanistan most recently? And why had he reacted so strongly when Sherlock had thrown out the line about the riding crop? He'd only meant it as a test — it wouldn't do to have a flatmate with inappropriate sympathies regarding the use of corpses for forensic experimentation — but John had reacted in an almost hostile manner, as if he'd taken the words as a personal insult. His body language betrayed not only his sudden aggression but also the fact that his military service hadn't been somewhere safely behind the lines: breathing elevated, pupils dilated, body subtly shifted away from the nearby worktable to give himself room to move. The doctor's mask had slipped just enough to betray the soldier beneath.
But then John had compensated, speaking in a mildly soft voice and holding himself very still, all done so smoothly and easily that Stamford probably had never even noticed anything unusual. He was very, very good at it, from his unassuming dress to the way his shoulders relaxed as though emphasizing the fact that everything about him, on the surface at least, was average and harmless. He presented such an ordinary facade that it was only natural for Sherlock to want to know more about him.
So Sherlock had pressed, rattling off his observations with sharp precision, waiting for an offended, indignant reaction that never came. John simply regarded him without saying a word or batting an eye, until Sherlock turned and swept out. He'd even come back with one last parting shot, offering his name and their new flat's address, only to be faced with the same controlled blankness.
Nothing about the encounter had gone predictably, from his decidedly not-hostile reaction to Sherlock's analysis of the facts at hand to the very interesting way he'd challenged Sherlock's conclusion that they would, of course, be ideal flatmates. Which Sherlock was coming to realize might very well be the problem.
He looked at his watch, betraying his irritation with that one quick motion because he knew what time it was already. Ten till eight. Damn.
"Sherlock, I'm so sorry, dear, but I can't afford to drop the rent any more than I've already offered," Mrs. Hudson said, wringing her hands as she followed him. One hand swept out, and the skull was buried under a yellowed, lace-edged handkerchief.
Back in the stairwell, he heard a soft, familiar thump. Not the thump of an unneeded cane, but of a man who walked heavy because he was used to carrying ponderous bulk, despite liposuction and dieting and whatever exercise allowed him to lose weight without sweating. Damn again.
The thumps ended with a creak of the flat's front door. "That won't be a problem... Mrs. Hudson, I presume?" said the one person whose voice Sherlock least wanted to hear.
Sherlock snatched the phone from his pocket and quickly unlocked it to check for any messages of interest, needing the distraction. Behind him, Mrs. Hudson spun around with a startled little gasp. "Oh! Sherlock, is this your doctor friend?"
"Doctor friend?" Mycroft asked, voice thick with skepticism.
Sighing deeply, Sherlock turned to the unwanted sight of his brother and Mrs. Hudson facing one another. He was tempted to sneak out the back exit. He'd lay money that Mrs. Hudson could hold her own, even against Mycroft.
"Unfortunately not. That, Mrs. Hudson, is Mycroft Holmes. He is my brother and otherwise entirely insignificant and unwelcome," Sherlock said.
"Oh! Well, ah, do come in," she offered a bit redundantly, since Mycroft was already well across the threshold, umbrella tip planted against the worn carpet like a battle standard he wouldn't easily surrender.
"Or don't, Mycroft," Sherlock added, frowning down at the text on his phone. He'd set it to mute earlier and hadn't bothered to check until now. He didn't recognize the number, but still opened the text.
Thanks for the offer, but I'm no longer available to share a flat. Can I buy you a pint to apologize? -John W.
"Damn," Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes. He'd gambled and lost, which happened only rarely. And it had been an expensive loss, costing him the cheap Montague Street garret he'd abandoned that morning and most likely his shot at this much more desirable flat.
Worst of all, it was going to cost him his freedom.
Right on cue, Mycroft said, "Well, this is a step up for you, isn't it, Sherlock? Yes, this will do very nicely."
"What exactly are you talking about, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped, pushing between Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson.
He needed his violin. That would help him to concentrate, to think of a way to keep the flat, get rid of Mycroft, and, most importantly, determine where he'd gone wrong with John Watson. He was certain his deductions had been spot-on —financial straits leading to the need for a flatmate to stay in London, no family connections to help pay his way — and his response to Sherlock's brilliance had been surprisingly mild, compared to the usual.
"Given the state of your former residence," Mycroft said stiffly, "I am inclined to approve heartily of this place, despite the frankly appalling condition you've created with your... clutter. Thus, I am of a mind to increase your allowance — directly deposited to Mrs. Hudson, as your landlady, of course. You needn't trouble yourself with the details, Sherlock."
Glaring out the window, Sherlock scraped the bow harshly across the strings, letting his music speak for the state of his thoughts at the moment. "Keeping me on your leash, you mean," he muttered too softly for Mrs. Hudson to hear.
"We're on the same side, Sherlock. You'll come to realize that, one day. For now, Mrs. Hudson, if you'd help me make the arrangements, we can leave Sherlock to organize all this, if it's not too much trouble."
"Oh! Well, I'll — Yes, of course," Mrs. Hudson stammered, her iron spine folding under the full force of Mycroft's charisma. It was a weapon he'd learned to wield early in life, one Sherlock had never bothered to master beyond a certain point. Now, as Mycroft led away Sherlock's one and only real ally, he wondered if that hadn't been a mistake.
"Mistakes," he muttered over the sound of the closing door. How could he have been so wrong?
None of this was happening in accordance with Sherlock's plan, which was unacceptable. Everything in his life was ordered precisely as he wished; there was even method to the state of his flat, though no one else would notice it. Except Mycroft, damn him. The only thing Sherlock could not control was the behavior of the local criminal class — with only one current exception, they were being predictably boring, much to his frustration. And now, he had to contend with his missing flatmate. Why had John Watson failed him so dramatically? This move was meant to free Sherlock from Mycroft, not to give Mycroft an even stronger hold on him.
Wagner suited his mood, and he lost himself in his playing, letting his thoughts roam free in hopes that his subconscious would see the links that his conscious mind missed. But he had no further answers when he heard the door open again, followed by the soft shuffle of Mrs. Hudson's feet and the crinkle of a newspaper.
"What about these suicides, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked curiously. "Thought that'd be right up your street. Three, exactly the same."
He was still watching the street, though Mycroft's sleek black sedan had long since pulled away. Nothing so gauche as a limousine for him; it would ruin his falsely modest image. Besides, any form of honesty was anathema to him. He was far more addicted to deception than Sherlock ever had been to any chemical.
Then the windows across the street reflected strobing blue lights, and Sherlock permitted himself one quick, thin smile. He inhaled. Exhaled. Set down his violin.
"Four, Mrs. Hudson," he said, forgetting all about John Watson and Mycroft's damned leash and everything else in the surge of excitement. The game is on! he thought, and waited for Lestrade to come begging for his help, as he always did.
Saturday, 30 Jan 2010
John Watson was used to making quick decisions and living with the consequences. He refused to succumb to regret or to play the game of 'what if'. But he couldn't help a little bit of both as he quickly typed on his phone, thinking of pale skin and eyes that defied description and the challenging wit and brilliant mind of the man who was waiting for him.
Stamford had been particularly close-mouthed about this Sherlock Holmes, claiming that no one really knew the man, and that John would learn for himself. But John couldn't afford to live with someone so sharp-eyed — not with the future he was building for himself. Privacy was essential, and that meant that he had to keep Sherlock Holmes at a distance, at least until John was ready to deal with that particular challenge.
Thanks for the offer, but I'm no longer available to share a flat. Can I buy you a pint to apologize? -John W.
The woman's soft voice intruded on his quick typing. "Well? What do you think?"
John quickly sent the text and replaced the phone in his pocket, turning his attention back to the exquisitely appointed dungeon. He ran a hand over the waxed surface of the X-shaped St. Andrew's cross near the center of the room. It was as exquisitely made as everything else in the dungeon, constructed with the type of solidity to hold a strong man but polished smoothly enough that it wouldn't leave a single unintended mark on the most delicate skin. The anchoring rings were countersunk and concealed, leaving no exposed bolts. The cross wasn't even hinged on its stand so it could be easily moved or stored; it was solidly, permanently constructed.
"It's beautiful," he said appreciatively.
"I'm glad you like it," Irene Adler said, her smile matching John's as she moved around the cross to the cupboard. "Of course, if there are any changes you'd like to make..."
"No, not at all," he answered, both truthfully and because she expected him to appreciate the dungeon as it was, the product of her own artistry. He didn't bother inspecting anything else as meticulously, knowing that there was no need. It would all be of the same quality, and besides, the St. Andrew's cross had always been a favorite of his.
"I would ask that you keep your clothing tasteful," she said delicately. She wasn't so crass as to brush a hand over her dress, but John caught her meaning all the same. Nothing so common as leather or PVC for her. No, she wore something from a designer that John couldn't recognize in fabrics he couldn't identify, something that gave new meaning to the concept of a little black dress. The only concession to her lifestyle, in fact, was her shoes: black pumps with spike heels in gleaming metallic gold, with red soles that flashed like she'd walked through blood. Well, the shoes and the stockings with a seam drawing a thin line up the back of her calf and knee, disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt. John had always had a weakness for that sort of subtly provocative look.
"Miss Adler," he said reassuringly, "for more than ten years, I've worn nothing but uniforms and blue jeans. Feel free to make suggestions."
"Oh, my poor captain." She wasn't quite able to hide the laughter in her voice, making John smile. "Kate will help you with that, if you'd like."
"I'd be grateful." It wasn't precisely a lie — he really did need a wardrobe that came in colors other than washed-out denim blue and desert camo.
"Captain —"
"Please, call me John," he interrupted.
She smiled prettily, moving around to the front of the cross, and gestured to the door. He fell in beside her as she said, "John, I realize this is very sudden. I hope you know how much I appreciate the opportunity to work with you."
"I'd love to say the same, Miss Adler, but —"
"Ah, ah. Irene," she said. "I insist."
He met her smile with one of his own. "Irene," he said, nodding as he opened the door for her, and then followed her out into the hallway. In contrast to the dungeon, with its floor of black marble and tiny halogen spotlights, the hallway was airy and light, with landscape paintings on the walls and a floral carpet warming the hardwood floor, muffling the sound of his cane.
"Thank you. You were saying?"
"Yes, well... I'd love to say the same, but I really have been out of touch with things. You wouldn't make this offer based on Corporal Murray's word alone."
"Mmm, Bill is nice enough, if you like that type, but no. Not his word alone." She glanced sidelong at him, red lips curved up in an impish smile. "But the word of Colonel Sebastian Moran...that's a different story altogether."
"I see," John said, and fell silent, before he laughed softly and followed Irene back downstairs, to where Kate was waiting.
"Miss Adler. Doctor Watson," she said, giving them both a nod that was too deep to be mistaken for anything but a slight, respectful bow. John couldn't quite hide the wince at being called 'doctor' in this situation.
"No, not doctor," Irene said, glancing John's way thoughtfully. "Captain Watson sounds much better. Do you mind?"
The title settled into him in a way that felt right the way nothing quite had since he'd come back to London, even if it was incredibly inappropriate. "I don't mind. Assuming you'll back me up if anyone of higher rank comes calling," he added with a laugh, thinking of Colonel Moran.
Irene's smile turned hungry. "Just remember, you're a professional now, Captain Watson. We charge extra for that sort of thing."