*** Author's Note ***
Towel Day Prompt: "I think the problem, to be quite honest with you, is that you've never actually known what the question is." ― Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Sherlock hunches his shoulders against the bracing wind and tucks his chin into his collar. He's smoking - because what the hell else is he supposed to do in a situation like this - and holding two greasy paper bags as far away from himself as his arm will allow. One is filled with chips and sandwiches, the other filled to the brim with pastries. The combined smell of congealing grease and excessive sweet is making him feel nauseated. He'll have to have his coat cleaned.
He tries smoking more aggressively.
Waiting is making him itchy. It could be the nicotine, but it's the only vice he's allowed anymore, and there's no one around at the moment who cares if he smokes himself to death standing on the street corner. So that's what he decides to do. He smokes. He waits and he smokes.
The waiting is unbearable. But it's the only way he can think of to find what he's looking for.
Not what. Who.
"The eyes aren't right," he growls, his voice is wrecked from the smoking and the cold. He coughs, clears his throat, and continues smoking.
"Well I'm not the one who saw 'em, am I?" The young woman - who goes by Bill - with the too large threadbare coat (all of her clothes are too large and threadbare) and the messy curls tucked up under a knit cap glares at him. She's crouched over a worn and dirty sketch pad, using the light of a street lamp to work by. Tucking her nub of a pencil behind her ear, she admires her work, snaps a photo of it with the burner phone Sherlock gave her, tears the page out of the book, and thrusts the drawing at him as she stands.
Sherlock huffs out a breath and passes her the bags of food. "Passable." It's not passable. It's the single most beautiful piece of art Sherlock has ever seen. It's a goddamn masterpiece. A bit not good, this infatuation with a man he just watched murder a German dignitary. But people are so predictable, and Jack is… not. He shrugs as he drops the cigarette on the pavement and kicks it into a puddle.
"Piss off," Bill mumbles around her mouthful of chips. "These are cold."
"Improve your technique and the portraits won't take as long." He narrowly escapes the half eaten biscuit she throws at his head. "I am attempting to impart sound financial advice. Quicker sketches equal more income."
"Bastard." She throws a handful of chips. "Look. You're making me waste food." Bill holds out her hand palm up. Sherlock stares at her as she wiggles her fingers. "You promised me a tenner."
"That's twenty quid worth of garbage you're shovelling down your throat." Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest. Unmoving, but careful not to crease the drawing.
"Consider it a sitting fee." She's relentlessly shaking her palm at him.
"Sitting fee? What kind of scam are you running here?" He's not going to fight her on the cost. She does good work. Not just the sketch (he considers having her do another just so he has one to frame), but as unofficial overseer of the homeless network.
"No scam. Negotiation," she winks and he intentionally coughs to hide the fact that that particular word causes him to blush.
He pulls the last of his cash from his wallet, twenty-three quid, folds it in half, and drops it in her hand. She pockets it without counting it. Bill is quick. Observant in a way most people aren't. And that is dangerous. Sherlock turns to go, but it's a moment too late.
"Who's he anyway?" Bill unwraps a sandwich and Sherlock gags as she downs half the cheese toastie with tomato and pickles in three bites.
"A person of interest." He lights another cigarette to distract from the fact that he's still blushing.
"Mhmmm." She wipes her mouth on her sleeve. "And who's interested?" She flashes a cheeky grin and shoves a whole chocolate biscuit in her mouth.
"Charming." He pauses before leaving, and they stare at each other a moment. "You have a place to sleep tonight?"
Bill swallows her too big bite of sandwich and nods. "It's a sight better'n that dump you call a flat too."
With a sigh that does nothing to mask the fondness he feels, he pulls a pack of pre-sharpened pencils from an inner coat pocket and tosses them to Bill. She looks at them in stunned silence, and blinks back tears she normally fights so hard to hide. Sherlock nods once, sniffs, and turns quickly on his heel, ensuring his coat swirls dramatically behind him. "Make sure that picture gets out to everyone."
He is nearly half a block away before Bill shouts after him, "but who is he?"
"You ask the wrong questions! You're better than that." Sherlock doesn't spare a glance back, only chuckles to himself when he hears a handful of cold chips scatter on the sidewalk behind him.
She's right, of course. Bill calls his little flat on Montague Street a dump. It's actually more a bedsit. The kitchen, bedroom and sitting room are all one moderately sized room. The loo is a toilet and a narrow shower stall in a converted closet. It resembles closely a skip Sherlock would never condemn his worst enemy to.
There's mould. Two types. One under the kitchen sink, one growing up the wall behind the single worn out armchair. The wall one is his fault, the kitchen one is not. There are scorch marks on the ceiling above the stove, the table where his makeshift lab is, and above the shower - he tries not to think about that one. There's more exposed plaster than wallpaper, acid spills on the rug, and every available surface is covered in lab paraphernalia or precarious stacks of notebooks and case files.
It was once a perfectly liveable space. Outdated fixtures, but clean. Now, even his landlady doesn't step foot inside. And she refuses to rent him her other rooms, the flat on Baker Street. It's centrally located, spacious, and perfect. And she'll only sign with him on two conditions. First, he has to fix the mould issue at his current place. And second, he has to find a flatmate.
One of those two things is highly improbable - Sherlock has been working on a treatment for the mould, and it's actually working - so he isn't surprised that she's renting Baker Street out to some average, probably middle aged, general practitioner who pays his rent on time and doesn't cause her any trouble whatsoever. Dull. If he knows Martha Hudson at all, she's bored out of her mind.
Just thinking about it makes Sherlock twitchy. So he doesn't. He turns his mind to more important matters.
Namely, the new blog entry he's spent the past three hours agonizing over. Not that his entries aren't typically grammatically perfect and scientifically sound, he is who he is after all, but this one is different. This one is a departure. A step outside his comfort zone.
In the midst of his detailed studies of ash and decimation of internet trolls, he's decided to use his blog as the launching pad for his manhunt. It won't be obvious to anyone but his intended audience, but this is Sherlock Holmes taking the biggest risk of his life. He's going after a mercenary assassin - the most interesting man Sherlock has ever encountered - and he has no idea what he'll do with him once he catches him. But he's going to. Catch him. Yes. He will.
If he can stop himself thinking about denim clad thighs wrapped around a tree branch for five bloody minutes.
"Jack" is clever. He won't be drawn out easily, and only if he thinks Sherlock is playing by his rules. But Sherlock is Sherlock, and solving impossible things (he thinks Jack might be the very definition of impossible) is what he does best. It's who he is.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he publishes the post. "A Guide to Identifying Coniferous Trees for the Common Idiot" is live, complete with detailed color photos of a very specific kind of pinecone. He powers down his laptop, slams it closed, and tosses it away from him to the foot of his bed. Sherlock, who never just assumes, assumes Jack is familiar with his blog and will understand. Even if he doesn't see the flirtatious nature of the post, he'll know it's Sherlock reaching out to him.
Flirtatious? Why flirtatious? Fuck. What the hell is he doing? Pinecones. Sherlock just admitted to a trained killer, for the world to see, that he's been fixated on his arse for the past six hours. He is in full crisis mode, cursing the hateful laptop for taking its time booting back up, when his flat door swings open.
"Piss off. I don't have time for you," Sherlock growls, refusing to look up from the computer screen. It's thinking, taking it's time. He's certain the delay is intentional.
"We agreed you would report immediately." Mycroft takes one step into the flat, glances around, and doesn't come any closer. Sherlock smirks, even as he's ready to smash the wretched laptop to bits.
"Oberstein's a German spy. There, confirmed." Sherlock flicks his hand dismissively at his brother. "You can go now." He slams the uncooperative laptop shut and searches the bed for his mobile.
"Oberstein is dead." Mycroft's voice carries no inflection, he's demonstrating no obvious tells. "Care to share any insight into this development?"
"I'm sure I'll have nothing of importance to add that your hired gun hasn't already reported. Yes." Sherlock unearths the mobile in time for it die in his hands. He groans and scrounges under the edge of the bed for his charger. It's only once the phone is plugged in that he finally looks up.
Mycroft, despite the fact that he has perfected the appearance of calm under duress, is noticeably affected. "You were the only one I sent, Sherlock." He risks a step closer. "I didn't send a team. Not even a security detail. This was a highly sensitive extraction."
"No. He said…" Sherlock freezes. He and Mycroft stare at one another, and they both already know all that needs to be known. Jack never actually said he worked for Mycroft. Sherlock had allowed himself to get distracted. Flustered. Infatuated. And Jack. Jack. Liar. Opportunist. Mercenary. Murderer. Had capitalized on his sloppiness.
"Where's the drive, Sherlock?"
"I've already got the network looking for him." He tries the laptop again, and fumbles his mobile trying to turn it on.
"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice is edged with uncharacteristic rage.
"I don't know. He has it. And I don't know…" Sherlock stands and faces Mycroft. He shrugs in rare defeat. "I don't know who he is. Former military. Wounded in action. Calls himself Jack. That's all. That's all I have, Mycroft." He considers giving Mycroft the sketch, but he can't. It's not logical. It's downright unethical. Maybe even treasonous. But he just… He can't.
Looking grim, Mycroft narrows his eyes. "You'll contact me if you remember anything."
"Yes." Sherlock nods.
"I'm monitoring your every move. Any contact, I will know."
Sherlock closes his eyes and exhales slowly. "Of course."
"This is a matter of national security. The utmost urgency." Mycroft's rage is displaying in terrifying, calculated calm.
"When is it not?" Sherlock flinches. He knows it's no time for snark, he just can't help himself.
Mycroft's right eye twitches. He glares and smooths his jacket before turning and marching from the flat. He slams the door behind him.
"Fuck!" Sherlock shouts as he drops onto the bed. The laptop is finally awake, and he brings up his blog. Only one new hit, but it's accompanied by a new comment. An anonymous user.
You have something of mine.
Sherlock smiles. He can't help himself. The penknife is in his pocket even now. There's a ding and another comment.
Is this you flirting?
Sherlock weighs his options. Knows Mycroft monitors the blog. He should really just delete the whole post. He hesitates only a moment, then responds with the name of a cafe and a time early tomorrow afternoon. He waits ten minutes, and when there's no reply he deletes the entry.
"Fuck," he huffs, tugging at his hair. If he were ever going to start using again, this would be the time. He taps his mobile on his thigh twice, tosses it aside with a sigh, and lights another cigarette.