AN-Sonata for Violin and Piano No. 2 in D minor, Op. 121 is by Shumann. I don't own any of it.
An experiment in writing. I kinda slapped this together and in fair warning, I have never written a Sherlock story before. I'm a fan, don't get me wrong. I have just never had an inclination to write a Sherlock fanfic before now,
Can be seen as crack...kinda?
oOo
"It's positively obscene how happy you are. Have some shame."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at his blogger. "Why John? Because I enjoy a good spot of murder? Do you know how rare a real highly functioning serial killer is? The Chesapeake Ripper is the quintessential diamond in the rough. Show some enthusiasm."
"Actually I'm quite happy that something that disturbing is so rare. I don't fancy the idea of serial killers mucking about. Most normal people don't." John pointed out, because someone had to for Sherlock's sake.
"Psssssht. Don't be so boring. Normal people don't get a free trip out to the states for an adventure." Sherlock gestured vaguely around them, though location was a minor detail at this point in his opinion when there was a mystery to solve.
"Yes, to Maryland." John clarified because he was the only one actually looking at scenery. "It not exactly California now is it. We have perfectly good rain in London. I don't need to take a seven hour transatlantic flight with a two hour layover in New York to experience rain of all things."
"Well, it is called New England for a reason." Sherlock pointed out with a quirk of lips. He so loved riling up John.
"I'll remind you of that when we're looking for a decent pint." John sighed with a grumble. The mark of the good soldier was the ability to sleep anywhere at any given time because you never knew when you would get the chance to again. Unfortunately, this concept could hardly apply when one's seat was booked next to one Sherlock Holmes who had spent the entirety of the flights, both of them, passed out on top of John. It had been like being covered bodily by a furnace with knobby pointed ends that twitched constantly and talked in its sleep. Needless to say, it had been an especially long flight for John. Their cab let them out in what looked to be the richer part of American suburbia, a beautifully kept two story house in front of them. "Well, this is posh. Who are we meeting here again?"
"FBI and such. No one interesting. Just people insisting on wasting my time with unnecessary pleasantries. Apparently our host is an excellent cook." Sherlock sighed. Unlike John, he had slept quite soundly on the plane the entire way and felt fresh as a daisy. "You read the files."
"Yes, but it considered polite not to delete the names of the people you are going to be working with and…..you've stopped listening to me, haven't you? Well, let's get on with it then. I'm starving." John said, knocking on the door for them. It swung open soon enough to reveal a tall dark man in a suit.
"Ah Doctor Lector…" John greeted, reaching out to shake the man's hand.
"Don't be daft, John. That's obviously Jack Crawford, head of the Behavioral Sciences at the FBI and the lead agent in charge of the Ripper case." Sherlock corrected, shooting John a dismayed look of judgment about his ignorance which the doctor ignored out of old habit.
"Sherlock Holmes. Your reputation proceeds you. Tell me how did you know? I've read about your process. It's fascinating." Jack grinned. He was more than used to dealing with unusual people and he had been warned by his contact Mycroft that Sherlock was especially atypical.
"Google. Are we eating soon?" Sherlock breezed by the agent, more interested in looking around at the tastefully decorated foyer than exchanging pleasantries.
"Sorry about that." John sighed, pausing at the allure of smells that greeted him. "That smells divine."
"That would be Doctor Lecter." Jack chuckled, following them in. "You can't rush perfection and he'll have nothing less gracing his tables."
"Good cook?" John could already tell. He kept scenting the air, trying to decipher what they were going to be eating. It was something robust that promised a lot of meat.
"One of the best." Jack said, looking pleased with himself about something. It was bothering John but he was too tired and hungry to care.
They followed after Sherlock who had taken the lead, touching, looking, seeing everything about them, the men eventually coming to a stunning dining room. John admired the herb garden wall on the one side of it and the rather bold blue striped wallpaper accenting the other, the owner of the house obviously having a unique sense for interior design. The two other people in the room stared at him and Sherlock openly, well at least one of them did. The elegantly dressed woman with dark hair appeared to be amused as she stepped toward them. The dour man in the sports coat and plaid kept glancing at them and away, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark thick framed glasses. Jack introduced them to the duo as Alana Bloom and Will Graham.
Sherlock took little heed of them though, making no attempt to introduce himself as he came to a dead stop and turned a full 360 degrees, his strange eyes gathering, processing, and cataloging information at an astonishing rate. He seemed to come to a grinding halt, with his head tilted back staring at nothing and everything all at once.
"Is he alright?" Jack asked, sounding concerned as Sherlock stood in place like his batteries had run out.
"What? Oh him. Yes, he's fine. Just updating his memory palace." John hardly spared a glance over at his extraordinary companion, more interesting in the delicious looking appetizers set out on the table. If John had to wager a guess, he would have said that they were some sort of fancy tapas made from grilled artisan bread accented with vivid yellow and red sauces, and topped with generous heaps of thinly sliced prosciutto.
"Oh please help yourself. Hannibal is almost done with dinner." Alana offered. "Would you like some wine? Hannibal has a lovely rosé moscato chilled for us to have along with it."
"Don't mind if I do. This all looks splendid." John's mouth was already dripping. The appetizers looked and smelled divine. Just as John was about place one in his mouth though Sherlock snapped out of his daze, practically leaping forward to knock the food out of John's hand and onto the floor.
"Oi! What did you do that for?" John snapped, rubbing his stinging hand.
"Never mind that. We have to leave. Now." Sherlock said firmly, grabbing John at the waist and shoulder, dragging the man along with him back down the halls and out the front door.
"B-but…." John managed out, trying to decide if he should dig his heels in or not.
"Holmes! Where are you going?" Jack followed, Alana cleaning up the appetizer. Will just stared them down like they were an eclipse, very careful not to look directly at either of them.
Sherlock stopped himself and John at the entrance but only briefly to address Jack who had following close behind. "Sorry but you know how it is. Rush, rush, rush. I'm afraid something has come up."
"What's come up? What are you talking it about?" Jack demanded.
"Mycroft called…." Sherlock said.
"When?!" John interrupted. He had been with Sherlock the entire time and hadn't noticed a communication of any kind. He yelped when his side was pinched.
"…Government. Very important. You understand. Cheers." Sherlock finished, shoving John forward until they were both safely out the door and well down the street. Sherlock was already calling a cab and buying plane tickets back to England before John's tired brain caught up with current events. Mostly he was pissed about being denied what had smelled like a delicious dinner.
"Sherlock. I demand an answer. If you think I am going step foot on another plane for another bloody seven hour flight with you using me as a pillow, you're mad. I am tired, I am hungry, and I am horrendously jetlagged. Explain yourself." John snapped, fed up.
"John…were you aware that the Chesapeake Ripper is a cannibal?" Sherlock asked in his maddening way of making the question seem far more than it was. The consulting detective had made it an art form of rendering questions like obvious statements to people, like his words were a prompt for them to figure out all on their own. Sherlock's questions tended to have the answers in them already.
"No, yes, what? Really? That's disgusting." John mouth vomited words, trying to keep up and still felt like he was missing something obvious.
"Yes, quite." Sherlock nodded, waving at their cab. "Let's be on our way then. Our flight is leaving in about an hour. We need to be on it."
"Oh my god. You've figured it out already. That's brilliant. Wait, why are we leaving?" John said, his thoughts turning back to the house and what Sherlock could have possibly seen that everyone else was so blatantly missing.
"Bloody daft Americans."
oOo
"That was strange." Alana said, sounding thoughtfully displeased as she cleaned up the mess left by the Englishmen.
"Sherlock was shot in the dark anyway. He came highly recommended but has a notorious reputation for the dramatic. We can all see why." Jack muttered, trying to hide his disappointment and failing.
"He was spooked. He saw something. Something he didn't like." Will said, his words so soft they were almost missed by the other two.
"Where are our guests? I thought I heard the door." Hannibal asked as he entered the room, serving tray artfully piled high with delicate slices of pinkish meat garnished with a fragrant sauce.
"They left already." Will informed their host simply, sipping his wine.
"What a shame. I was looking forward to meeting Mr. Holmes." Hannibal said with a thoughtful look as he set down the tray, gesturing to his guests to take their places. He removed the extra two setting as everyone situated themselves, Will pulling himself away from the window to leave off his contemplation about the odd detective.
"Their loss. More for us." Jack stared hungrily down at his plate. "So what are we having?"
oOo
"That's strange. The number's blocked." John muttered, looking down at his phone. For whatever reason, that grabbed Sherlock's attention, the man practically leaping over furniture to get to John.
"Give it here." Sherlock demanded, holding out his hand.
"B-but…" John gave up some token resistance. He didn't know why he even bothered as he was met with a stern silvery glare.
"Now." Sherlock stated in a flat tone that brooked no argument.
"Fine." John scowled, slapping the phone into Sherlock's hand. He stocked off toward the kitchen.
"Make me a cuppa while you're in there." Sherlock called after him.
The answering "Piss off." from John was ignored as Sherlock answered the phone. He had been expecting this call for some time now.
"Hello Mr. Holmes. It was very rude of you to leave my home so abruptly without properly introducing yourself." said an accented voice of smoke and smooth violence.
"Don't be boring and start making threats at me." Sherlock sighed.
"I was attempting the make civil conversation but if you want to get down to business…."
"Now see here you nasty little man, this is what we are going to do. You keep to your side of the pond and I'll try to keep to mine. If you're thinking about popping in for a visit, I am letting you know now that I have already set up precautions if you even try to step foot in the United Kingdom. I will know and the game with be on between us. About being civil, I am warning you. Do not test me. I know how to deal with your kind rather well and I'll remind you that you stand to lose a great deal more than myself. Try my patience and I will be the one serving you up for dinner." Sherlock told him sternly.
There was a pause over the phone. "I do enjoy France." Hannibal sounding more amused than intimidated, much to Sherlock's ire. "Do you have any issue with that?"
"Keep the damn frogs. You deserve each other. For the sake of us never running into each other, I am keeping Russia for myself. You understand, I'm sure." Sherlock had his reasons.
"The Baltics are mine then." Hannibal countered easily enough. He couldn't go back to Russia anyway, at least not any time soon.
"Well obviously. Who am I to exile a man from his homelands." Sherlock couldn't resist showing off. "I might have some remaining business down in Florida to attend to."
"That territory belongs to another. I would advise you to be careful while you are there." Hannibal warned, his dealings with a certain blood splatter pattern analyst while in Miami short lived but highly entertaining.
"Fascinating. I'll keep that in mind."
"It is a shame we can not part on better terms. I would love to have you over for dinner and pick your brain." Hannibal's voice held a smile within it, one that held the flash of too sharp teeth.
"Oh how clever you are. I'm sure you would." Sherlock said sardonically in parting, snapping the phone shut. "Insufferable twat."
"Who was that?" John asked with cups of tea in hand and the biscuits Sherlock liked on the side.
"A snake."
oOo
"I would like an explanation." Jack said in way of greeting. "I was given the impression by your government that you were going to work with us."
Sherlock glared over at Mycroft who remained unrepentant. "Oh tsk, tsk, Agent Crawford. You do know what happens when you assume." Sherlock arched an eyebrow at his brother. Really Mycroft knew better than to try and lend out his services for political gain so he deduced that this was his brother's way of revenge for all the diet jokes Sherlock had been making lately at his expense.
"How so?" Jack countered.
"I never agreed to work for you." Sherlock smirked in open contempt.
"May I ask why?" Jack said, sounding like the feigned polite tone was being forced, gritted out through clenched teeth.
"You have a nasty habit of using people until they have nothing left to give you. Miriam Lass and Will Graham are evidence enough of that." Sherlock said, not holding back on Jack's account, but then he never did when it came to other people.
"If you're talking about…" Jack attempted to defend himself.
"Agent Crawford!" Sherlock cut the man off before he could get started. "Whether you realize it or not, you are in a very dangerous, very private personal war with the Ripper and you keep losing your generals to careless moves. Agent Lass discovered your Ripper but you sent her to him without any proper support system just like you did with Graham. All their roads led to Rome though one journey's end was a crucifixion and the other's an interment. Bit slow on the uptake, are we?"
"If you bothered to listen to Mr. Graham, you might have already have Ripper in your custody." Sherlock sighed, already done and bored with this tedious conversation. Mycroft looked amused, the bastard, Sherlock favoring him with a sour look of contempt for wasting his precious time.
"Are you trying to tell me that Will knows who the Ripper is?" Jack asked, making Sherlock wonder how the man managed to keep his job.
"I'm not trying to tell you anything. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that your special agent is quite aware of the Ripper's identity." Sherlock sighed. Why was everyone being so tedious?
"That doesn't make any sense. Why wouldn't he tell me?"
"Don't be dull. We both already know the answer to that. The man's faith and trust in you died when you put him in that cell, and rightly so. Which is where I will end up if I work with you. That or dead. More than likely dead actually. In any case, neither results are appealing to me, so if I haven't made it abundantly clear, I am declining your offer."
"I'm not giving you a choice." Jack said, making Sherlock chuckle at the man's sheer gall.
"I would like to see you try. I've heard worse and far more interesting threats from better men than you." Sherlock smirked. "Life is all about choices, Agent Crawford, and you have just made a terrible one."
"People are dying…."
"People die every day and in worse ways than your Ripper in providing. Save the emotional blackmail for someone who gives a damn. I never pity the dead. Come to think of it, I don't ever pity the living either. Waste of time really." Sherlock said in blunt truths.
"You can't walk away from this, not when there is a chance you can catch the Ripper." Jack was beginning to sound desperate.
"Oh, I know I can. I've read through all your files. I can catch your killer, but I won't."
"May I ask why?" Jack was a man on the edge.
"I don't care about your approval like poor Lass or want your respect like Graham did. You have no power over me and I have no interest in being pulled into your bloody little game, especially one that you are losing."
"Then tell me how to win the game."
"And help you cheat? Win the game for you? You keep treating me like a pawn when I'm not even on board." Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes at Mycroft who shrugged.
"Then what are you in all this?"
"A king who destroyed his throne to gain the world as his kingdom. Do not contact me again, Agent Crawford."
'click'
oOo
Thanks for reading. Your comments put on lipstick and look at themselves in the mirror, muttering about how fuckable they are. It's just going to get weirder here on out people. Strap in, shut up, and let mama drive with bus.