wall is up.
Scissor hands
Sherlock stared at the falling snow. It drifted in a light airy way a way that he had long thought was natural. But it wasn't. It was falling in a pattern of 1 and 0. It was coded, just like his prison. Sherlock wondered exactly how much money it cost to get this place. A special prison built just for him. Him and his scissor hands.
It wasn't like it was a choice really. People are born with these tendencies. Mycroft had telepathy. Lestrade had a small touch of clairvoyance, nothing strong or useful. Mrs. Hudson had a pheromone to calm people down or rile them up. It was quite common. Even the girl, Molly, had necromancy. Sherlock had an ability like no other, to take things apart. They could blow apart or negate in his hands. Poisons had cures, guns lost bullets.
It was good. Until, it turned on him. The day he found out that Dr John Watson of the fourteenth regiment was gunned down. He sent letters every few days to the curious and honest doctor. They had met by accident at a correspondence party for soldiers. For a while, they built up a rapport. And even from so far away, John held him. He was a pillar. Then he crumbled and Sherlock fell and fell and fell.
He remembered waking up in his flat. The apartment was shredded. The couch cushions had been reduces to fluff and ribbons. The wood was in chips. He tried to pick up a cup and it exploded into shards. He was in the hospital as they tried to dig out the little chips embedded in his skin. Mycroft stood by the while making sure Sherlock didn't take off the restraining gloves.
They burned at his wrists. The power was building and soon he could blow up the place. But, what then? He would be restrained again and again. He didn't blame John. He blamed the war.
Sherlock was almost used as a weapon. Dropped into enemy territory to just touch his enemies or rip then apart with his eyes. But, that wouldn't bring John back. It would cause more pain. Still, the idea appealed.
Sherlock had tried to live on and he did. The Baker street irregulars and the Scotland Yard made do with him in the middle of god-knows-where.
The intercom buzzed.
"Meal time. And you have a new toy."
Sherlock got up and exited the little house. There was a force field around it to keep him from escaping. The person who kept it up lived in a cottage just out of visual range and in town. The house was built to withstand even his most violent tempers. It could weather out any storm.
Anthea, Mycroft's assistant controlled minor weather patterns. Somehow, she set the force field to snow all the time. It was frankly very annoying to see snow on and off every day. But every few weeks, 24 days to be exact, the sun would shine to drive away the snow. And it would begin again.
Scissor hands 2
Sherlock stepped into the snow. It crunched under his shoes. A gift? From Mycroft? Very rare indeed. His brother sent little. He would send clothes when Sherlock's closet was empty. Sometimes furniture when he discovered something was broken.
Never gifts. There was the typical box of food. Most of it was good for storage. This time the box looked larger. He noticed the inside had a few more cans and a piece of paper. The note could wait. The box beside it interested him. There was a thumping noise and the box rocked with the force. It startled him.
A living thing. And Mycroft forgot the air holes. Sherlock was careful removing his gloves. He taped his index finger against the box and holes appeared. The box jerked again. This time a golden cat tumbled out. It looked about with large blue eyes. Sherlock didn't know much about cats. He deleted everything Molly ever said about them. He returned his gloved and picked up the boxes. He moved to read the note.
It was typical. The page said what sort of diet the cat had. A diet similar to his own. The cat meanwhile started digging through the bags of vegetation and pulled them out. The food was arranged by storage. By the cat. Sherlock just put it where he was directed.
An hour later Sherlock drew several deductions. The cat was of strict bearing. Though he moved with grace, there was stiffness to his posture. Sherlock also had a few guesses to the cat's owner after Googling the dietary needs of cats. The fluffy beast pulled him out of his reverie, brushing against his face. I was the first creature to touch him voluntarily since...since... There was a rumbling sound clearly the cat was hungry.
It was about mealtime. Sherlock put on the kettle and took everything out of the microwave. Just because he didn't have eyeballs didn't mean there weren't other things he could microwave. Sherlock tossed one of the microwaveable meals in and nuked it. The cat started washing himself on the counter. By the time it was done the cat was, for the most part, clean.
He placed the Italian monstrosity before the cat. I looked up at him. Sherlock thought about the silent challenge Mycroft sent. Who knew? This cat could be his ticket out. Sherlock grabbed a plate from the cabinet. When he turned the cat was gone. He found it pulling open a silverware drawer and procuring fresh forks.
The cat sat expectantly at the table. Sherlock doled out a portion serviceable the creature. It ate. Sherlock watched. The cat looked up, confusion clearly imprinted on the little features. Sherlock watched the little beast roll a meatball over to him. It was like something out of a movie. Sherlock took a fork and began to eat. I was the first time he had eaten of his own volition since John.
Scissor hands 3
The next day a congratulatory note arrived. Mycroft thanked Sherlock for not killing the little animal and thanked the cat for surviving. The note made the cat uneasy and Sherlock wondered if it could read. He dismissed the idea.
The cat stayed a safe distance away. They rarely interacted except when the cat was hungry. Sherlock was at the kitchen table eating for the first time in months. They made a considerable dent in the supplies that Mycroft sent. The cat for the most part wandered around looking in every room. It found its own place to sleep.
Sherlock did go up there. He found the cat staring out of a window. The second floor was a modified attic. There were blankets on the bed which looked recently slept in. Gray light drifted in from the windows. The cat was illuminated. Spark on color in the dull grey landscape. Sherlock left as silently as he came and left the room on the second floor to his new companion.
Sherlock kept to his room and stayed on the first floor. The kitchen and therefore neutral ground was on the ground floor. Sherlock ratcheted up the heating at the cats request. It was awkward taking orders from an animal but he realized that the cat planned to live comfortably.
Scissor hands 5
They eventually fell into a comfortable routine. The cat, as Sherlock now knew was male, was up with the sun. Everyone in a while Sherlock would get up earlier, for a smoke. He would see the little cat lapping from a tea cup as it sat in a window sill. It stared into the old snow. Sherlock couldn't help but be mesmerized. It was supposed to be a dumb animal, but it acted like a human.
To Sherlock that was the most puzzling. The cat opened doors and made itself tea. If it couldn't do something it would tug at Sherlock's shirts sleeves until he noticed. And it worked. Sherlock realized the place looked cleaned. The he remembered exactly what he had deleted. The cat started him on household chores. It was a miracle.
Every afternoon they met for a noon meal and the cat would go back to basking in the dim sunlight. Sherlock would go back to his dark study and solve mysteries from his chair. He had Lestrade and the Network wear cheap miniature cameras. That way he could see things for himself.
Eventually, the little cat joined him. It sat by his computer watching and re-watching footage. They started spending their mornings and afternoons that way. The cat stayed in his lap and cuddled into him as they watched Lestrade arrest a triple-murderer. It was a great win for the Yard. And for Sherlock.
The cat pranced around the room, very glad. It padded up to him and licked his face. That motion sent Sherlock mentally reeling. The cat left the room and Sherlock to his thoughts.
Scissor hands 6
Mycroft sent another little gift with their next meal delivery. It was a book on quitting smoking. Sherlock knew Mycroft had no qualms with his brothers many addictions. There were a few people but the only one bothered by it was...
The cat nosed at the book, turning it open to the first page. Sherlock looked over it. Quitting? This cat was asking him to quit drugs?
The cocaine disappeared first. It was usually in the second drawer of his bedside table. Now that drawer was empty. Then his morphine vanished too. The needle vanished the day after that. Finally, his Persian slipper of cigarettes vanished.
Sherlock took the lonely trek up to the cat's room. So far he searched the lower levels to no avail.
In the cats room he found one cigarette. Next to it was a printout.
Sherlock read the print out. It sounded a lot like John. The same way of saying it was all fine. The stubborn caring feeling his words always conveyed. Sherlock recalled that once John had asked him to stop smoking. Sherlock wondered if it was time to start.
Scissor hands 7
They were almost immediately plunged into another case. Sherlock scent his networks off to track down the thieves. He eventually traced it to a circus. One of the homeless, a man named Dimmock, dressed up and watched. Sherlock remarked to himself that he should have Lestrade pull a few strings and get the man into police training. He was actually useful. The cat watched the whole thing unfurl on screen by his side.
Sherlock stayed in the room most of the time. He was glad when the cat returned. It pulled a great trick by dragging tray of food. He recalled that in the house schematics there was a dumb waiter.
The cat once again proved in valuable. They were looking at footage when the cat pulled a stop frame. It nosed at the distant wall in the background. Zooming in, he discovered the faded graffiti was a code. Sherlock sent Lestrade and Dimmock back. It was gone. But it was caught on film.
Sherlock was quite put off for a day. He went about looking for the book finally he discovered it in day one footage. The only book not on the girls shelf was a London A to Z. He cracked the code and sent Lestrade and Dimmock in. Lestrade somehow managed to get captured. Sherlock and the cat were glued to the screen watching the woman call Lestrade, "Sherlock Holmes". It was unnerving and Sherlock was disturbed that she thought someone so unintelligent could be him.
Dimmock came to the rescue. He ended up calling a few officers and they had it all under control. The mastermind escaped but it was under control. Dimmock was welcomed to the academy shortly afterwards.
Sherlock and the cat snuggled in the plush armchair. A good three days work.
Scissor hands 8
Sherlock had an idea. A challenge was sent to the Scotland Yard for him. Sherlock wanted to be in on the action. He sent the cat.
Donovan's first question was if he had finally gone off his rocker. Anderson seconded her opinion. Lestrade accepted it without quarrel. He learned to balance the cat on his shoulders and the cat followed everywhere.
It was poison that killed the swimmer.
The man hid in a non extraditing country.
Connie prince was a joke.
The painting was a fake.
And the cat was gone.
Sherlock was on his feet the moment he heard the cat was gone. He was up and about. For once, he was in control.
Sherlock stripped off his gloves and pushed against the force field. It ripped to expose a sparkling sky. He raced down the country lane getting to the cottage.
There he busted the lock and hot-wired the van. Mycroft's men watched him leave with their only way to get to the town. If they wanted to go anywhere they had twenty five kilometers to walk.
Sherlock found the station. It was a small local place. He snuck onto a train and hid amongst the luggage. It was headed to London.
Arriving in London, Mycroft was waiting. He didn't say a word handing over a gun and an ID.
Scissorhands 9
Sherlock approached the pool. He had gone back to Baker Street and found John's gun. It was as before, a complete mess. He wasn't sure if his scissor hands would be able to be of any assistance. He had damaged to get them under control, but what if he took down the building with him and the cat in it?
For some reason, he couldn't bear to submit his fuzzy friend to his fate.
His shoes clacked as he walked on the tile. A name was on his lips.
"Moriarty!"
"Evening. This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" Sherlock's eyes widened as he took in the face he never thought he would see again.
"John, What the hell?"
"Bet you never saw this coming." John looked uncomfortable in his jacket. Plastic explosive and an earpiece were stuck to him. "What would you like me to make him say next?"
John shivered as he continued, "Gottle o'gear, gottle o'gear."
"Stop it." Sherlock growled. It was one thing to send him into a spiral of depression. It was another to take away John, for real.
"Nice touch this." John looked warily at the pool.
"This pool. Where little Carl died, I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too." Sherlock's hand tightened around the gun.
"Stop his heart." John's voice went hoarse. He looked terrified.
Sherlock' bit back a snarl. "Who are you?"
They both turned to see a short and spritely figure walking towards them. "I gave you my number. I thought you might call." The man sent Sherlock a dirty smirk.
"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?
Taking a deep breath, Sherlock replied, "Both."
"Jim Moriarty, Hi." The man kept grinning like a mad man. No, he was a mad man.
The short bloke continued. "I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, Just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."
"Dear Jim… please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?" He bit out the words. They were a bitter orange rind in his mouth. "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South American?"
"Just so." He had the gall to smile.
"Consulting criminal. Brilliant," Sherlock muttered.
Jim did a little twirl. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."
"I did." Jim stopped his little victory dance.
"You've come the closest," he admitted. "Now you're in my way."
John's eyes darted from Moriarty to Sherlock to the pool and back. He seemed to be thinking something. Sherlock paid no mind and kept going. "Thank you."
"Didn't mean it as a compliment." Jim's brows went up in amusement.
Sherlock smirked. "Yes, you did."
"Yeah, OK, I did." Jim chuckled darkly. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now. So, take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off."
"I will stop you." Sherlock never took his eyes off the figure.
"No, you won't." John took that moment to strike.
"Sherlock, run." Sherlock blanked. H had never seen a look so desperate, so care worn.
"Oh. Good. Very good." Moriarty just laughed in his headlock.
John's eyes were begging. "If you sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." Please go, he said. Sherlock didn't move.
Jim smirked. "Isn't he sweat? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal." His voice turned ugly. "If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."
Sherlock kept his voice controlled, "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." At that moment a dot drifted over Sherlock's chest. Actually, several did.
John gave him a pained look and let go. The snipers vanished.
Jim straightened his tie. "But we both know that's not quite true. Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." The man turned to go.
"Catch you, later," Sherlock called.
"No, you won't," was the reply. Everything stood still as the earth stopped to catch her breath.
Sherlock dove as John tearing off the jacket. His hands shredded the material leaving jagged edges of fabric all over the place. "All right? Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine, Sherlock. Oh, Christ. Are you OK?" John seemed to fall to pieces. All the fight went out of him.
"Me? Yeah, fine, I'm fine. Fine." Sherlock scratched his head with the butt of the gun. "That er… thing that you… that you did. That um.., you offered to do. That was, um... good." John breathed a sigh of relief.
"I'm glad no one saw that."
Sherlock made a little noise.
"You ripping my clothes off, in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk," he said by way of explanation.
"They do little else." They chuckled. For the first time since John was gone, they had had a proper conversation.
"Sorry, boys." Their heads snapped to the origin of the sound with an audible crack. Jim gave them an unpleasant pleasant smile. "I'm so changeable. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you. But everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.
Sherlock hauled John to his feet. "Probably my answer has crossed yours."
He pointed the gun as the vest.
Scissor hands 10
Sherlock woke in Baker Street. He had fallen asleep on his couch again. The clock told him it was four in the morning.
Three months ago, he had gone to the pool. Three months ago, he had seen John again.
Three months ago, he had woken in his hospital room with a ginger cat on his chest and no sign of John Watson.
Since then, he had had a lot of time to think. He thought about his ideals. His choices and decided on one thing. He wouldn't let himself fall apart. He knew. He knew that John had been there. He wouldn't fall apart.
In that moment, he could take off his gloves and touch another living thing.
"Sherlock," a soft voice whispered in his ear. Sherlock kissed John's head.
"Why?"
"I happen to like cats," John purred.