A Miniature Bouquet of Obsession
It began on a Thursday – one that could only be described by Sherlock as 'not horribly tedious.'
He had opened the door of 221b to find on the top stair three plants, wrapped in a red ribbon.
The first was a four leaved clover. Be mine.
The second was a white clover. Think of me.
The third was a purple columbine. Resolved to win.
Sherlock had carefully examined the plants for a few seconds and once he had matched each one to their individual Victorian meanings, he put on his gloves and bent down. He carefully picked them up and then turned round to face the open doorway again. He inwardly shrugged and then started to walk up the stairs, (after closing the door, of course). John could wait for the bread. He had been going to use an excuse so that he didn't have to go shopping anyway. This one would be as good as any.
Sherlock hurried up the stairs, taking particular care not to step on the ones that creaked and crept into the living room. John was there, glaring at Sherlock's bookcases. Sherlock didn't even want to ask.
He tried to make his way through the flat without John detecting him, but, regrettably, failed. John turned round.
"Sherlock?" Exasperation replaced the previous look of irritation. "Why are you back already? What happened to the bread?"
"This happened, John." Sherlock strode across the room to where John was standing. He held the plants out to John, who looked at them in confusion for a few seconds and then his expression cleared.
"Sherlock, look, we've talked about this before. I'm sorry, but I just don't swing that way, and –"
"Dear non-existent God, they're not for you. Do you think that if I were to give you flowers – this is assuming I would do something as stupid and clichéd as giving flowers – that I would give you this odd assortment?"
"Well, no, but –"
"And anyway, if I wanted to I could romance you in better and quicker ways than giving flowers, John. I could make you follow me around in an hour." John had crossed his arms and had the expression on his face that he got when he was certain that he was right; something that Sherlock always enjoyed disproving.
"Um, what?" John raised one eyebrow at him. "I'm pretty sure you couldn't."
"As eager as I am to have this debate, John, I would like to first point out that a) I consider myself married to my work so I wouldn't anyway, b) think about it, I already have managed to do so, and c) I need to tell you about these." He pointed to the flowers.
"Four leaved clover. Be mine. White clover. Think of me. Purple columbine. Resolved to win. I found these three plants outside the door of 221b on the top stair. What does it mean?"
"Well," John began to turn back to scrutinizing the books, "it seems that you have an admirer." He gave the strange collection of flowers a glance. "A rather odd admirer, apparently."
"A what?"
"Someone that finds you interesting and in a different way from a friend? Someone that wants to be in a relationship with you?" Sherlock found this idea preposterous.
"Why?" John turned his head to look at a perplexed Sherlock. He rolled his eyes.
"You see, Sherlock, when two people like each other very much, they get together and have a special cuddle –"
"Do not treat me like an imbecile, John, I am not one," Sherlock practically snarled.
"Sorry. Well, somebody finds you attractive and would like to pursue you." Sherlock frowned.
Why didn't they go with conventional (and boring) roses? This must be somebody who either knows me well enough to know I would get bored enough to learn plant meanings, knows plant meanings themselves, or has bothered to spend the time and effort finding out the meanings of the plants.
Or perhaps it was just a huge joke. Something to make him look stupid. Lestrade, maybe. Or somebody else on the force. If it was Donovan or Anderson, so help him, he was going to murder them.
Stop. Reigning in psychopathic thoughts regarding those two buffoons.
Although, in all fairness, he'd probably be doing the world a favour if he disposed of them. Oops. John was speaking again.
"Was there a note?"
"No."
"Are you sure? It seems a bit odd to send flowers without a note."
"I am sure there was not a note, John."
"Go and have another look, Sherlock. Go on."
So Sherlock went, not because he doubted the fact that there was not a note there, but because he knew that John would be unbearable until he did so.
He opened the door of 221b and looked down. There, sitting innocently on the ground was a sealed envelope. Written in beautiful script with bright red ink was his name. Sherlock picked it up and turned it over. Nothing on the back. He opened the envelope, trying not to make too much damage. There were a few things inside. He pulled each one out carefully.
The first was an old badge, the pin a bit rusty. It had the name of an unused cinema on it. Sherlock could recall reading an article about the cinema's closure in the paper. As far as he knew, it wasn't being used for anything else.
The second was a small picture of Julius Caesar. It had been taken from a newspaper and badly; the edges were sloping all over the place. On one edge it looked like the picture had been torn and another of the edges was perfectly smooth.
The third was something that had been ripped out of a book hurriedly. Sherlock held it up closer and read the writing on it.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
The fourth was a piece of paper on which the sender had written two short sentences.
5 o'clock. Don't be late.
Well, it was obvious what was meant from that. It was a place, a time, and a specification for company. Sherlock almost snorted. Was this the person's attempt at being mysterious? If so, it had failed.
They wanted him to be at Greenview Cinema at 5 o'clock on the 15th of March. They wanted him to be alone. They also possibly wanted to meet him by the highest seats, or that could be just them being too lazy to acquire only the first line of the poem.
That was child's play.
No, that was a lie. Toddler's play, maybe. But no further than that. As confident as Sherlock was in his abilities, he was pretty sure that as a foetus he would not have been able to solve even laughably simple mysteries. Being attached to one's mother would not help. So. It was toddler's play.
He even had a pretty good idea about who it was.
Sherlock went upstairs. He put the envelope and its contents down on the table, John watching as he did so. He straightened up.
"Moriarty."
John's face was aghast.
"Oh, fuck."
John, Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson (ugh) were sitting round a table, drinking coffee. Sherlock approached them, and before sitting down slipped off his coat and scarf. He hung them on the coat stand, and then sat down next to John. It took him only a few seconds to realise that something was wrong.
There was a certain – now, how might he describe it – tension in the air. Donovan was smirking slightly and Lestrade was looking downwards at the floor. Anderson, on the other hand, was looking slightly repulsed. It made his face look even more irritating than normal.
"What is it?" Sherlock demanded. "Have I got something on my face, is that what it is?" Donovan shook her head slightly, acting as though she was going to collapse into giggles at any moment.
"Moriarty, Sherlock? Seriously?" Sherlock rounded on John.
"You told them?" He hissed, anger and humiliation laced into his voice.
"Sorry." John at least had the decency to look vaguely ashamed. "They could sense something was wrong and they kept on pestering me, so I accidentally kind of blurted it out."
"You idiot," Sherlock hissed in annoyance. "And why do you find it funny? It's not funny at all." Those last two sentences were directed at Donovan, who had chosen that moment to start laughing at Sherlock's misfortune.
"He's right." Lestrade's voice pierced the conversation. "Jim Moriarty is a dangerous man and his attention being even more focused on Sherlock than it already was is a very bad thing." Donovan managed to stop laughing, and tried to justify her behaviour.
"I'm sorry. It's not the fact that it's Moriarty that makes it funny. It's just the idea that anyone would be, you know..." Donovan trailed off and then tried again. "It's just that – it's difficult to imagine you with anyone. You always give off this rather... asexual air."
"Asexual?" Sherlock looked affronted. "I'm not asexual. What makes you think that?"
"Well, you've never really shown much interest in women, or men, or – well, anything that wasn't dead bodies or criminal cases." Donovan cleared her throat. "The only people that think you're not asexual are your fans and the press, and they all think you're shagging John."
"I'm not shagging John. And I'm not asexual, so can you please stop saying that!"
"Have you ever, you know, actually had sex, or –"
"Oh, God," Anderson snapped, joining in with the apparent interrogation. "Can we please not discuss the psychopath's sex life?"
"As I have told you before, I am not a psychopath, but a high-functioning sociopath. I suppose your limited brain capacity makes you unable to remember such details, but I do happen to remember that I was having some rather psychopathic thoughts about killing you earlier which could help prove your theory of me being a psychopath. Hmm. Interesting. Perhaps that's a point we should delve into later."
Anderson glared at Sherlock. Lestrade intervened before anything more could happen.
"John tells us that you received flowers and an envelope from Moriarty."
"Three plants –" Sherlock refused to call them flowers, "and an envelope. In the envelope contained a series of objects, giving me a time and a meeting place."
"Where and when does he want to meet you?"
"Greenview Cinema at 5 o'clock, 15th of March. He wants me to be alone."
Lestrade looked thoughtful.
"So, of course, you aren't going to be, right?"
"Exactly." Sherlock crossed his arms. "Somehow we're going to have to figure out a way to trick Jim into thinking that I'm alone. It's going to be tricky, but I have been told before that I'm a genius."
"I'm here at 271 Bakeman Road, on the 15th of March, where a murder has just been reported. According to Mrs Sandra White, who phoned in a little while ago, she could hear sounds of struggling from the house next door. Detective Inspector Lestrade and his team are investigating as I speak.
"And look, there is one of his team on their way in: Sergeant Sally Donovan." The cameras went away for a moment from the reporter, and focused on Donovan's face. "Can you tell us anything about the case?"
"I'm sorry, we can't comment right now – sorry, we really can't." The reporter looked a little irritated, but let Donovan walk into the building.
"And that's all for now, we'll get back to you from 271 Bakeman Road when there is more news. I'm Abigail Smith; back to the studio."
The image flickered, and then died as the screen was turned off. Jim Moriarty leant back in his chair, and regarded the cinema screen without interest. He rolled his eyes.
"Boooring," he said, drawing out the 'o'. He ran his fingers through his hair, and then yawned. He reached down and plucked a single piece of popcorn from the bag. It had been given an entire seat to itself, although the bag itself was quite small. He popped it into his mouth, somehow making that one small movement graceful. The crunching sound echoed around the almost empty room in contrast.
Jim stared at nothing much for a few minutes, and yawned, looking decidedly feline. He took an iPod out of his pocket, and turned it on. He plugged in the earphones, put them in, and then flicked through the list of music. He did this for a while, but then eventually found something he wanted to listen to.
Ludwig van Beethoven - 5th Symphony, 1st Movement.
A rare smile appeared on his lips. It was practically poisonous.
Donovan ran quickly down the path. She looked around cautiously as she did so, her eyes darting round the street. She needn't have bothered though. It wasn't just Greenview Cinema that had gone out of business in this part of town. This particular street contained mostly bust local companies and small shops that had gone out of business. There was the occasional house, but they all contained pensioners of the sit-inside-and-don't-do-anything-at-all variety, so they weren't exactly watching her.
Donovan looked about herself once more, and then quickly darted round a corner. She slowed her pace to just walking. She didn't need to catch her breath, but did so anyway. She reached the end of the path. There stood Lestrade, Anderson, John. Lestrade and John looked slightly anxious, Anderson irate. Donovan nodded as a sign of greeting.
"You're late!" Anderson hissed. Donovan bristled. Just because you're always too early all the time, she thought angrily. She calmed herself before replying.
"I'm sorry," Donovan said coolly, "but it took a bit longer to get away from the house than we planned."
"Look, forget about that," Lestrade instructed. "We're going to go in now, so if we could all kindly forget about any arguments we have with each other."
John had been fiddling with the lock for a little while.
"Lestrade?" John said. Lestrade turned to face him, and raised his eyebrows slightly.
"Yes?"
"I can't get this door open."
"What? Here, let me try." Lestrade took the key from John, and twisted it about inside the lock. It remained firmly put and didn't budge.
"What the hell?" Lestrade muttered. He took out the key and looked into the keyhole. As it was pitch black he couldn't see anything, so he used the light of his phone to shine in and he looked at it in confusion.
"What is it?" Anderson asked.
"There seems to be something... wedged in. I've almost got it, just wait a moment... ah, there we are. Got it."
In Lestrade's hand was a small piece of paper, folded up surprisingly neatly. Lestrade carefully unfolded it and scanned the message that was written. Lestrade's eyes narrowed and he made an agitated noise.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock slipped through the open door, and closed it quietly behind him. The room in front of him was typical for a cinema, with it being darkened inside, and rows of chairs facing a large screen. Sherlock was at the top of the stairs. Sitting about half-way down he could see Jim Moriarty in his seat. He waited for a moment. Then,
"Hello, James." Jim turned round in his seat, and looked at Sherlock. Jim removed his earphones, and the ending phrase of music could be heard. Beethoven's 5th Symphony - 1st movement, if Sherlock wasn't mistaken, and he was quite sure that he wasn't – as per usual. Jim waited until the music had completely finished, before sighing in distaste and turning the device off.
"Why do you insist on calling me that? You know I don't like it when you do." Sherlock smiled, not unpleasantly.
"Which is exactly why –"
"Exactly why you do, I know." Sherlock began to walk down the stairs, and loosened his scarf from around his neck. He placed it on his arm, and began to take off his coat. By the time he had done this, he had reached where Jim was sitting on the left side of the aisle, on the first seat. Sherlock took the exact seat on the right side, and sat down, his coat and scarf kept on his arm.
"I believe... it is customary... at times like these, to ask about one's family and loved ones. How's your dear mother, Sherlock?"
"My mother is fine, thank you for asking."
"And your brother?"
"Mycroft is fine as well, thank you."
"And how about dear little John, your... pet." Sherlock managed to keep reasonably composed, apart from the slight frown he adopted, and the way he asked his own question next.
"Enough about me, Jim. How is your family?" Sherlock asked, a hint of anger in his voice.
"Dead, last I checked. At least, they should still be. I mean, I should know. I was the one that killed them, you see." Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"Yes, I see."
"Are you sure you want to?" Jim's voice was coated with fake disgust. "'Cause, if you don't mind me saying so, Sherlock, that would be awfully rude of you."
Silence reigned throughout the room.
"I see you didn't bring your team."
"No, I sent them on an errand. Not urgent, don't worry."
"Oh, ok." Silence, again. "Did you want me to return the courtesy?" Jim grimaced at the lack of reply being painfully obvious as to what Sherlock wanted. "All right then, you can go now." The last four words were directed towards the back of the room. Sherlock waited, as the sound of footsteps got quieter. He tapped his foot up and down impatiently. Jim let out a quiet sound of annoyance. "And the other one," he called out to a different place in the room. Sherlock's tapping persisted. "For goodness sake, Sherlock, aren't you going to leave me with anything?" Tap tap tap. "Fine. Off you go now. Mind you, you're not getting paid!"
"Thank you." Sherlock folded his hands in his lap. "I don't know whether to be flattered or not that you thought I would need three snipers to control me." Jim smiled.
"I don't need snipers to control you."
"Really?" Jim shrugged.
"Well, I got you here, didn't I?" Sherlock made an amused noise in the back of his throat.
"Touché."
"Indeed." Jim coughed pleasantly and looked over at Sherlock, who was just putting his phone back into his pocket. "Now, I believe it is time we got down to business, don't you?"
John grabbed the piece of paper that Lestrade was glaring at and scanned his eyes across the writing.
I've gone to meet Jim. Don't follow me, and don't enter the building. Don't worry, SH.
John felt a buzz in his jeans pocket, and reached down to find his phone. There was one new message from Sherlock. It read:
I mean it. SH
"For god's sake!" John exclaimed. "Why does he always do this: running off into god knows what kind of situations and then leave us behind? We could have helped him!"
"Perhaps that's what he was afraid of?" Anderson pointed out. John scowled.
"Shut up, Anderson." Anderson raised his eyebrows so far, they almost fell off his forehead. John couldn't help but wish rather viciously that that would happen to his entire face.
"Well, sorry."
"Apology accepted." Lestrade narrowed his eyes.
"All right, you two, shut up. We've got to now think about what to do."
"We go in and stop him, obviously," John said immediately.
"I don't think so," Donovan said cautiously. "I mean, if he's got a plan and we ruin it by going in, he's never going to forgive us."
"Yes, but he has been known to make mistakes before," Anderson pointed out. "I think we're perfectly within our rights as members of the police to go in and stop him from doing something utterly stupid."
"No. We're not going in." Lestrade.
"Oh, come on." Anderson said incredulously. "Are we really going to leave him in there doing God knows what?"
"We are not to go in, Anderson. That is a direct order from me." Lestrade looked at him sternly. "That's you as well, John." John had drawn his eyebrows together. "John? Understand?" John looked angry, but nodded his head once. "Ok, then, we're just going to go back to the cars and wait. From there we're close enough if Sherlock needs any help or if we decide to go in."
The team and John nodded, and followed Lestrade down the path towards the police cars.
Sherlock settled down for the opening credits of the film that was playing on the screen. Although he knew he looked relaxed outwardly, inwardly he was still trying to get himself to be calm – but that was increasingly difficult when he could sense Jim's gaze drilling into the side of his skull.
The film choice was an interesting one; it was an old black and white film, one from the silent films era and featured a comical chase between two men, who were, if not enemies, very close to being so. Sherlock knew traditionally, live piano music would have been played to accompany the film, but recorded accompaniment had been added to this film. He could understand why. Jim disliked too much company, and he probably felt that the presence of another person (the pianist) would rather spoil the effect he had conjured up.
The film was not bad, although Sherlock's humour was decidedly more dark. Not surprising, really, considering his line of work and the amount of death and violence he had seen over the years. Ever since the first time he had been interested in solving crimes and catching criminals, he had started finding ways to further develop his (already really quite brilliant) mind and the way he thought, in order to catch criminals and solve the cases.
Many would say that a lot of young boys liked the idea of detectives and the police, of superheroes and government agents. All positions needed flare for the job and a dash of style. They involved making ingenious choices and saving the day at the last moment, locking up the criminal in prison – and when the boys grew a bit older – saving the (conveniently) pretty girl at the end.
Sherlock knew it wasn't as simple as that from a lot of experience. For him it went deeper than saving people and punishing the baddies. He pursued the imprisonment of criminals not for the recognition and the thanks, but for the glory of revelling in the moment and enjoying the wonderful feeling that you cannot recreate of when you're on the brink of making a vital deduction that could bring the whole case to a close.
He delighted in that feeling and sought it out as often as possible. He loved the thrill of the chase and satisfaction of the ending. In that, he could see that him and Jim were similar. They both needed something to occupy themselves with, otherwise they would almost die of boredom. But, he concluded, as he had done many times before, the difference between him and Jim was that Sherlock would wait (albeit impatiently) for his entertainment, whereas Jim felt the need to take the provision of interest into his own hands. Although, not his own hands, not really. God forbid he dirty his nails, or get mud on his suit. Or blood. That would be most distasteful.
While he had been thinking, the film had almost come to the end. It wasn't long. It ended with the the person that had been chased waving goodbye to the other as he disappeared over a wall, and the man left behind cornered by people talking quickly at him.
It was a bit of a shock when Jim's voice came slithering out of the darkness towards him.
"That film's a bit like us," he said, "me and you, always chasing, always trying to catch the other out. We are more similar than you could ever imagine, Sherlock. And because of that, we are always trying to find out if we are each other's true equal."
A pause. Sherlock cleared his throat, and continued to look at the now black screen, before speaking.
"We are always resolved to win."
A sharp intake of breath.
"Hello, I'm Abigail Smith and I'm back at 271 Bakeman Road, where are a supposed murder has taken place. The crime is meant to have happened about an hour ago now and was reported by Mrs Sandra White. The police are going to be coming back out of the house any moment now to report to us the details that they have so far, so just give me a second." The reporter got out her phone, and quickly typed in a number. She frowned as it rang repeatedly, and then had a slightly embarrassed look on her face as she reached voice mail.
"Ok, they seem to not be answering. Could we have some people go in and ask them what's going on, please?" She smiled pleasantly as a few people nodded and entered the house. About thirty seconds later, someone came running out, and leant in to whisper something in the reporters ear. She frowned in confusion.
"Well, it seems that something strange has happened – the investigation team are not there, I repeat, the investigation team has vanished from the house."
Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan had just made it back to the car. They leaned on the doors, and then, Lestrade, puzzled, looked around him.
"Where's John?" Anderson and Donovan both looked around and Lestrade answered his own question. "Oh, for goodness sake! He's gone in after him, hasn't he?" Their silence spoke for them.
John ran towards the cinema doors, shoving the piece of paper with Sherlock's note back in his pocket.
"Donovan and Anderson might be under your command, Lestrade," he said determinedly, "but I'm definitely not."
"You got my present, then?" Sherlock couldn't help but give an involuntary shiver as those words dripping with seduction travelled through the air.
"Yes," he managed to say curtly. "It was a bit of a surprise, I must admit, although terribly easy to work out who it was from."
"Oh?" Sherlock could hear the rustle of cloth as Jim stood up. "And how did you do that? Although I've got to admit I wasn't trying to make it tricky. Just half a minute for you to occupy your mind."
I appreciate the thought, Sherlock thought sarcastically to himself.
"The picture of Julius Caesar was cut out from a newspaper, that much was blatantly obvious from the type of paper. I could tell the picture had been on the left-hand side of the paper because of the smooth left edge. Two of the other edges were sloppily cut, like someone left-handed had used right-handed scissors, someone who couldn't be bothered to find left-handed ones. The final edge had been torn out, probably from frustration of the failure of the earlier ones.
"The way my name had been written showed me it was a man, and was left-handed – although they didn't leave any smudges, the ink was pressed slightly harder into the paper than normal, showing me they were making effort not to leave smudges. Would ruin the image, I presume.
"The pin had nothing complicated about it, simply an old unused cinema where you wanted to meet me. Useful that it was unused because it didn't have working security cameras, which was convenient for you.
"You tore out the extract from the poem after you had cut the picture out, probably because you were tired with trying after you had cut something out before. The handwritten sentences were slightly slanted to the right, and confirmed the left-handed theory, as you had started to get bored by the end of this little 'plan' – that's the problem with you, Jim, sometimes you just can't be bothered to put the effort in near the end. And finally the contents of the sentences told me the time, but also that you were very picky about me not being late.
"So, who do I know who is a left-handed male with a short attention span, choosy about time-keeping and has a liking bordering on obsession with me? Jim Moriarty." Sherlock licked his lips slightly. "The flowers were a bit strange, though. I never liked flowers much, but that's probably why you put them there."
"But I suppose you still 'deduced' their meaning, detective." Jim said the word 'deduced' differently, almost mocking the dark-haired man.
"Four leaved clover; be mine, white clover; think of me, purple columbine; resolved to win."
"And what does that add up to?"
"You find me interesting." Jim snorted quietly.
"I think my meaning was meant to be a bit more adult, Sherlock." Sherlock refused to look away from the screen, even though he could hear Jim's footsteps approaching him at a pace fast enough to be uncomfortable.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, Sherlock." Sherlock's head whipped round to face Jim standing beside him, eyes glistening unusually bright as he concentrated on Sherlock. "I think you know perfectly well what I mean." Sherlock was dimly aware of his scarf dropping to the floor as he loosened his hold on it. "Innocence does not suit many people well, Sherlock, including and especially you."
Sherlock tried to swallow, and was surprised to find he seemingly had no saliva left to swallow. He glanced to the back of the cinema, and his eyes widened momentarily, before snapping back to the man beside him.
"We could be so good together," Jim murmured, who had missed Sherlock's little show of distraction. "You just need to get rid of your little problem with emotion. You're nearly there, but for certain things and certain people it is obvious the sentiment you hold." Jim had growled the last few words and Sherlock shivered. Jim bent down slightly, and clawed his hands onto Sherlock's shirt. He pulled Sherlock forcefully towards him, and then pressed his mouth against Sherlock's, hard.
A single gunshot rang through the room.
John had gone back to where Lestrade, his team, and himself had previously been standing. He had a sneaking suspicion about something and he knew that if he was wrong it would be difficult to find another way inside.
He went up to the lock which had originally held the message from Sherlock. Like Lestrade had earlier, he used the light of his phone to shine into the lock, and made a triumphant sound when he saw what he was looking for.
Wedged further in was another sheet of paper, one that had been behind the first, one that Lestrade, in his hurry, had missed. John internally punched the air, but quickly managed to dislodge the paper. He rolled it open hurriedly, as he knew it would be only a matter of time until Lestrade noticed his Houdini disappearing act and ran back to the cinema. Written on the paper was a six numbered code.
836107
Not bothering to wonder how on Earth Sherlock had managed to get the password, John jabbed the numbers into a security lock on the side of the door, which was designed to overrule the normal lock. A few seconds and a massive groan later, the doors were opening and John was darting through them. Pulling them closed behind him, John followed the signs to the main screen room, and found himself behind the doors of the room. Slowly, ever so cautiously, he opened them, praying that they wouldn't make a sound. They didn't and John silently gave a sigh of relief and thanks.
Reaching inside his coat, he drew his gun out carefully from an inside pocket. He could see Sherlock talking to Moriarty, who was standing up and facing Sherlock. Moriarty walked towards Sherlock, who stubbornly kept looking away from him, until he realised Moriarty was standing right next to him. Sherlock glanced back, and for a mere moment their eyes locked onto one another. John could see Sherlock's eyes widen only for a fraction of a second, and then he returned his gaze to Moriarty.
Moriarty continued speaking and bent down. He placed his hands on Sherlock's shirt and then pulled the man towards him. Angered, John's hand found itself ready on the gun. Moriarty closed the space and kissed Sherlock. John pulled the trigger without giving it a second thought.
Back at 221b Bakers Street, all was well. The daylight was just leaving the sky, and Mrs Hudson had gone upstairs to find the flat abandoned and in semi-darkness. Shadows were cast by the large number of various objects littered around; some John's, but mostly Sherlock's. Mrs Hudson sighed as she thought of the two of them, polar opposites in so many things, and yet such good friends.
It was nice for Sherlock to have finally made a friend, a proper one. And John was a lovely man.
Mrs Hudson switched on the lights, and they flickered for a moment before turning on. She went over to the windows and drew the curtains.
"I'm not your housekeeper," she muttered to herself, if only out of habit. As she turned to go through to the kitchen, she caught sight of three flowers wrapped in red ribbon lying on the table, making a curious collection. Next to them in half elegant, half messy script that could only be recognised as Sherlock's handwriting, was a word; a name on a piece of paper. The name was Jim. Mrs Hudson smiled fondly. Was Jim someone who had given Sherlock flowers, or was he someone who Sherlock was going to give flowers? Either way, it was nice (if unusual) that Sherlock had found someone else he didn't think was too dull or stupid.
Mrs Hudson made her way through to the kitchen, turning on the lights in that room as well and straightening a few things here and there. The tap was dripping slightly, and she turned it off with a tut. She opened the fridge door in order to check if the boys had any food – she worried for them sometimes, she really did – and then partly because of the bruised hand she had found inside, and partly because she had suddenly remembered who Jim was,
"Sherlock!"
As soon as he heard the gunshot, Sherlock ducked down below the seats and grabbed the scarf he had dropped. He heard Moriarty drop as well, but it was too controlled for him to have been hit. Sherlock's heart was beating wildly and he delighted inwardly at the sensation.
John bent over as he ran down the steps, dodging in and out of the rows of chairs. It reminded him of his army days, but the rubble and shakily designed buildings were replaced with chairs and armrests. He hadn't aimed to shoot Moriarty, only to create a diversion for Sherlock to get away, but as it was done on an impulse, he wasn't quite sure what to do now.
He'd also done it to get Moriarty to stop kissing Sherlock. Watching that psychopathic man do something like that to him had made his skin crawl, as though tiny bugs were scurrying about over his flesh.
Sherlock had made it near the exit of the room, but he waited momentarily and his eyes scanned around wildly for John. He kept seeing movement close to the ground, but he was unsure as to whether that darkened figure was John or Moriarty. At the moment he had no desire to be near Moriarty, and that feeling was strengthened when he heard a gun being cocked.
"Not Sherlock!" John heard a voice with an Irish accent call out desperately. Moriarty. "Not him!" John felt his heart sink as he looked down at his chest and saw the ominous red dot floating on his chest. He dived into the shadows, but it followed him every step of the way. He repeated these actions, until finally standing up wearily, standing simply.
"John!" Sherlock saw John standing up, accepting the large possibility of his death. He did nothing to hide his self, just stand there in the open, his arms by his sides. John's head turned to face where Sherlock's voice had come from for a second, and then turned back. Sherlock felt a twinge in his stomach as he saw John's expression.
It was almost completely free of emotion with only the tiniest bit of fear was showing through. The worst thing, though, was the absence of anger. John didn't even hold him responsible for this, he didn't even think to point the finger of blame at Sherlock, who had put him in danger so many times since their fateful introduction.
Sherlock whipped out his phone and tapped in a six character text. He sent it and then put the phone back, locking his eyes deliriously on John.
"Jim! Not him! Don't, please!" Sherlock yelled, his voice hoarse.
Now all he could do was pray to a god he didn't believe existed.
"For God's sake!" Lestrade growled at the door as it refused to open. Along with Donovan and Anderson, Lestrade was leaning heavily on the door, trying to force it to move but it stayed stubbornly put.
"Why are they both so stupid?" Anderson asked, exasperated. "You would expect it from Sherlock, but not from John!"
"I swear I'm going to kill them if they don't end up dying after all this, I don't care about the prison sentence." Lestrade said angrily.
"How can he go on and on about being so much cleverer than all of us all the time and then be so stupid?" Donovan muttered.
"I don't know," Lestrade replied, "I really don't know."
They all stopped pushing, and breathed heavily for a few moments, all slightly tired and very annoyed. Vaguely, Lestrade became aware of a buzzing sensation on his upper thigh. It was coming from his pockets – it was coming from his phone. He eagerly reached into his pocket and snatched at the phone, fumbling wildly in his hurry to bring the screen towards his gaze. He answered the password quickly, getting it wrong the first time but thankfully correct the second. He had one new text from Sherlock and he scanned it furiously.
"836107, GO GO GO!"
Anderson and Donovan both jumped, then Anderson entered in the password and Donovan leapt through the doors as they opened. Anderson and Lestrade followed immediately after her. They dashed down corridors, avoiding the entrance to the main screen, and went up to a sort of balcony looking over the room. Sherlock was shouting at Moriarty, and John was just standing there looking as though he was in a slight daydream state. They crept through the room to the man that was standing there, poised with a gun.
Instantly he turned round to find three members of police holding weapons of their own directed towards him. His eyes narrowed and he glanced down to Moriarty momentarily, before looking back.
"Drop the gun," Lestrade said whilst advancing slowly. The man did nothing and Lestrade reached him. Lestrade repeated the sentence.
"Drop the gun." The gun clattered slowly to the floor, and a loud 'thwack' was heard as Lestrade's fist connected to the man's sallow cheek.
A crash echoed out as a thing that sounded suspiciously like a body fell to the ground. Jim immediately turned his face to the back of the room and looked up.
"Seb..." he whispered, slightly breathless. "What have they done to you?"
"Sherlock?" A voice came shouting from above, and both Sherlock and John looked up. "Sherlock, John, are you both ok?" Sherlock glanced at John, who nodded.
"We're both ok, Lestrade," Sherlock called up.
"I think," John added, breathing heavily and wringing his hands.
"Thank God," Lestrade said.
"You really are idiots sometimes," Anderson told them. Sherlock scowled irritatedly.
"Oh, shut up, Anderson."
Suddenly the slam of a door was heard, and Sherlock spun round wildly.
"Jim!" He shouted. "Where has he gone?" The screen flickered for a few seconds, before turning on to a picture of Moriarty.
"Bye bye, Sherlock," he said, giving a little jaunty salute and a knowing half smile. "Kiss kiss."
The screen turned back to black, and Sherlock roared in frustration.
They had made their way back to the flat in complete silence. John wasn't in a particularly good mood as Lestrade had lectured them for the danger they had 'ran head first into' and he was pretty sure Sherlock wasn't all rainbows and sunshine at the moment either.
The whole way in the taxi Sherlock had had this face, this expression. It was almost as bad as the look. He wore a slightly different face now, though, it was the one that screamed 'if you dare disturb me while I'm thinking now I'm going to bite your head off'. And he had been thinking, John had been sure of that. Not that he wasn't always thinking, but he seemed to have been concentrating extra specially hard, his lips turned downward slightly and his eyes narrowed.
He had been staring straight in front of him the entire journey, barely moving except to now and again note where they were, and occasionally mouth a word or figure. John had been perfectly happy to leave him to his thoughts and half-fell asleep with his eyes open, mind blank to the world around him.
So it came as a bit of a shock when they arrived at 221b and he was pulled by an exasperated Sherlock out into the biting night air. Before he knew it he was through the door and up the steps. They went into the flat where Mrs Hudson was waiting for them, looking a bit worried.
"Are you two alright?" She asked. "It's just I saw Sherlock had something from Jim, and..." Her words trailed off at the black look Sherlock gave her and she sighed. "Oh dear," she mumbled. "Oh deary me."
Sherlock made his way over to where his violin was and almost wrenched it out of its case, before angrily starting to play a fast movement from a concerto. John and Mrs Hudson exchanged looks with each other.
"I'll get you some tea, John," she offered, and started to move towards the kitchen. John looked concerned.
"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, I can do it..." They both made their way to the kitchen, debating pointlessly over who would make the tea.
Sherlock glanced at them out of the corner of his eye, and slowed his playing down slightly, to a more acceptable pace which wouldn't make the composer weep. He walked over to the window, continuing to play whilst glaring at innocent passers-by on the street.
God, Jim was always so infuriating. He always had to waltz in with his snipers and his threats and then no matter how hard Sherlock tried, he always managed to slip away at the last second. He had been certain he'd got him, this time. His only sniper left had been apprehended and because of worrying about John, Sherlock had let Jim get away. No. He mustn't blame John, it wasn't his fault.
It was Sherlock's own.
Sherlock was certain that made it even worse. It meant he was responsible for the defeat they had all suffered. Oh, Lestrade would be satisfied, having captured one of Jim's snipers. He'd most likely be happily interrogating away, completely unaware that the sniper would have most likely been trained and on orders not to let anything slip, on pain of death. And if he was the last sniper left, then he was obviously one Jim trusted; although probably not so much any more.
Only Sherlock would have the fact Jim got away nagging him like an irritating itch that would not leave him. Only Sherlock would have his days filled of ideas and theories and plans of how to catch Jim and put a stop to this petty game. Only Sherlock would continue to dash around searching for clues of where Jim might be.
It both thrilled and repelled him.
Jim was good. Jim was a challenge. But Jim had recently got annoying because of his cleverness. And he was clever. Sherlock would be a fool to deny that. But the game had gone on for too long now, like Jim, he was anxious for it to finish.
A few days later, Sherlock was lying on the sofa delighting in the pleasures nicotine patches could offer. John was looking hard at the books in one of the bookshelves, like he had been on the first day of all this dratted mess. He was trying to find a specific book, one that he knew Sherlock had, but couldn't find.
"Sherlock?" John called to him. There was no response, the dark-haired man's eyes staying shut. "Sherlock?" Sherlock waved a hand airily at John, signalling he didn't want to be disturbed. "Oh for goodness sake – Sherlock!" John picked up the nearest thing to hand, one of Sherlock's slippers, and lobbed it at its owners face.
It hit him straight on, and Sherlock sat up with a scowl.
"What did you have to do that for?"
"You weren't answering, sorry."
"I didn't realise you were talking to me." A pause. "What do you want?"
John scratched his head absent-mindedly.
"Where's Pride and Prejudice?"
"Top shelf, absolute right." John struggled to reach the book but eventually managed to after jumping a few times, a slightly embarrassed expression painted upon his face and a smirk upon Sherlock's.
"You know, it would be so much easier if you arranged your books alphabetically."
"Why would I need to? I know exactly where all of them are."
"Good point, I s'pose." Sherlock looked at John.
"Why do you want Pride and Prejudice, anyway?"
"What? Oh, Sarah wants to read it, and I said I'd get it for her." John started to walk out of the room, after putting on his coat. "Wait a minute, why do you have Pride and Prejudice? It doesn't strike me as being your sort of book."
"Christmas present, from Mycroft." Sherlock looked distinctly ruffled. "I would've burnt it, but I never seemed to have the time." A slight smirk made its way onto his face. "Then again, it is a nice little memento. I seem to remember that he gave me this present the Christmas after I announced rather loudly the amount of weight he had put on – at one of his terribly important social gatherings."
John snorted.
"Christ, Mycroft must have been furious."
"He was. Kept phoning and texting me every hour for weeks. If he had ignored me completely he knew I would have seen it as a victory."
"Yeah, I somehow didn't see you two as the calling-every-night type siblings."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John, before slumping back on the sofa and closing his eyes. John opened his mouth to speak.
"Bye."
Sherlock gave a lazy salute and then started muttering to himself. John shook his head at him and walked down the stairs.
He had barely gone ten metres down Baker Street before a sleek black car appeared practically out of no-where and slowed down next to John. A woman got out, and gestured towards the car without looking away from her phone.
"For goodness sake," John muttered. "Speak of the devil and he doth appear."
"I don't know why you always refuse to call, or text," John complained to the man who was standing in front of him. "From what I've gathered, you didn't mind contacting Sherlock."
Mycroft Holmes gave a greasy smile.
"What do you mean, John?" John brought forth the copy of Pride and Prejudice that he had been holding cover towards his coat. Mycroft curled his lip in distaste.
"Yes, well, we tend to try to forget about that."
"I bet," John said, raising his eyebrows. Mycroft cleared his throat in the distinct way that someone who wanted to change the subject if not desperately – John doubted either of the Holmes brothers could be desperate for anything other than perhaps drugs or power they denied – then at least actively. That was rare.
"Why is it always one of these abandoned warehouses? Why not somewhere with, for example, central heating?" John could feel the chill already enveloping him.
"Surely it's obvious," Mycroft drawled. "Why don't you deduce?" John folded his arms.
"You probably think like this: warehouses are generally out of the way without unwanted security cameras – only the cameras that you've planted. Because of warehouse designs being fairly similar it's difficult for me to tell where they are."
"Well done, Dr. Watson. I'll have to inform my brother you're after his job."
"But really why you choose these places, as I've said before, is because you like to be dramatic and try to intimidate me. Just being able to take me off the streets whenever you feel like it isn't enough, you need to feel important as well."
Mycroft scowled briefly, before returning his face to its neutral state.
"Perhaps," he murmured, folding his hands together, "you and Sherlock have more in common than I otherwise thought."
There was a slight silence, then Mycroft sighed, and walked forwards slightly, looking a little lost without his umbrella.
"Now, down to business," he said briskly. "This is of course, as one might expect, about Moriarty; or more specifically, the sniper that we apprehended." John nodded his head in recognition. "We have him no more."
John could feel a hollow space in his stomach start to form.
"The sniper, which we managed to discover was called Sebastian Moran, disappeared from his heavily guarded cell late last night. When we arrived, all but one of the guards were lying passed out on the floor, and the final one, as you may have already guessed, had vanished along with Mr Moran. All the security cameras were smashed including the ones designed to be hidden from everyone, even me." The expression on Mycroft's face made it all too clear what he thought of that.
"Oh shit, Sherlock's going to be annoyed," John swore. The reprimanding glare that Mycroft gave John for his slip of language made him feel as though he was about six years old again, and getting told off by his parents. It had at least the same degree of unpleasantness. "Sorry," he apologised. "So, are there any clues?" Mycroft allowed himself one grimacing smile.
"Of course there are clues, John, there always are, but the question is whether they are of any use or not."
"Am I allowed to tell Sherlock about his?" John asked.
"I expect he already knows," Mycroft said. "Which was why we weren't too bothered about losing Moran in the first place."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"It wasn't meant to." John rolled his eyes – internally, as a precaution – although he was pretty sure that Mycroft could tell anyway.
"So there are no leads or clues of any importance, nothing that could help us track him down?"
"There probably are, but I'm not sure if it's really worth shifting through everything. Most likely Moriarty will make contact with us before we would be able to catch his sniper."
"Surely if you and Sherlock worked together, it wouldn't take too long to find him. Get rid of all the clues that are obviously wrong, isn't that how Sherlock does it? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" Mycroft Holmes looked at John kindly.
"Sometimes, John, that's just not the way the world works."
After that, John couldn't be bothered to stop by and have to make small-talk to Sarah, so he just put Pride and Prejudice through her letterbox and then went home in the car, Anthea texting rapidly the whole way. It started raining, which was convenient. It was a bit like a film – after all, in films the weather always reflected the mood or what was happening, so it obviously must do in real life as well.
He hurried to the door as soon as he got out of the car, getting unpleasantly wet even by the time he was inside. He stood there for a second, breathing heavily, before swearing quietly under his breath and making his way up the stairs to 221b.
As John had expected, Sherlock hadn't moved from his position on the sofa since he had left, but had at least managed to sit up and was now perched on the edge of the seat and whispering impossibly fast.
John knew better than to interrupt him, so he just sat down in his armchair and watched as Sherlock continued to think out loud. About fifteen minutes later, Sherlock stopped.
"So, what do you think, John?" John gave him a look of confusion.
"You haven't been talking to me."
"Yes, yes, I have. I've been talking to you just now."
"No, you haven't, Sherlock, you've been whispering to yourself, far too quietly for me to hear."
"But you were here all this time, surely you were listening?"
"Sherlock, I was g – you said goodbye to me! I left and then Mycroft abducted me again!" Sherlock frowned.
"Oh, really? I didn't notice." He ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. "I presume you have something to tell me."
"Yes. The sniper, Sebastian Moran, escaped, along with a guard."
"I already know that, was there nothing else?" Sherlock sighed.
"No... so, how do you think he did it without any of the cameras recording him?"
"I have a quite a good idea and I really couldn't care less."
"Sherlock, surely it's important to catch them? What are your ideas on how they Moran and the guard escaped?"
"I don't know, perhaps a well-meaning priest rescued them and they skipped off happily to get married."
John inwardly scowled slightly. Sometimes when it had been a long day, he got really annoyed at what Sherlock said. There was no point dealing with him in this state, so John went through to his bedroom, and opened up his laptop. He created a new blog post, and paused when he reached the title. He considered his options for a moment, and then wrote,
A Miniature Bouquet of Obsession
A bit different from normal, he thought, but fitting.
John was eating his dinner whilst Sherlock watched some sort of crap TV program that John hated. Midway through the program, Sherlock suddenly turned to face him.
"John," he said carefully, "I realised I forgot to... thank you, for what you did."
"Um, you're welcome?" John replied slowly. "What did I do?" Sherlock looked incredibly awkward all of a sudden.
"Well, you know, that thing back there, with the coming back for me, that was, well, you know... good. Of you."
"No problem. No problem, at all..."
They settled into an uncomfortable silence.
"You see, I realised recently that when I interrupt your various encounters with females, or say certain things, that I might be upsetting you." John yawned.
"No shit, Sherlock."
"I am sorry and all that... but I would like to inform you that I plan on continuing anyway." John looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, and that was all that it took to set them both off laughing.
"In all seriousness though, I am going to continue."
John picked up the closest pen and threw it at Sherlock.
"Why do you have to have such good aim?" Sherlock complained bitterly, nursing his watering eye.
"I'm a crack shot, Sherlock, haven't you forgotten?"
"Well, my eye is being reminded of that fact, certainly."
Sherlock's mouth jerked up slightly, and that was all it took for them both to collapse into uncontrollable giggles for the second time that night.
Dark shadows and vividly contrasting pale limbs, slender and long and sinfully inviting; gasps of pleasure and whimpers echoing into the night; dark hair being pulled and expressions contorted; Sherlock's strong hands pulling him closer; then suddenly an aching burning needing painful heat enveloping him and whispers shouting –
Anderson woke up with a jerk, shooting straight up into a sitting position, and breathing heavily. He felt sweaty and disoriented and frowned as his eyes adjusted to the dark, throwing off the covers to get rid of the heat. He tried to concentrate on what happened in the dream, and then realised with a start what had been happening outside the dream and in reality. He looked down at his lap and then both saw and felt the warm, sticky sensation pooled in his boxers.
He stayed there, just looking at it for a moment and then leaned back and felt his head slam heavily onto the pillow.
"Oh, fuck."
Authors Note: I hope you enjoyed my attempt at breaking into the fanfiction genre - and what better way to do it than with Sherlock? I really enjoyed writing this, although I did debate with myself for a little bit as to whether I should put one of the genres as humour or not. I eventually decided to as there are some funny moments in the story. Also, I wasn't sure who I should put as the second character. It could have been John, but I think Moriarty probably deserves the grand title of 'Second Character' in this story more than John, as awestruck as I am by him.
Anyway, thanks for reading again.
silverflash101