Gideon finds himself in the quiet wood outside his holiday home in Cobham, whose peaceful air has been tainted by his distress, and whose open acres now felt like a prison. He tries desperately to calm himself; figuring that hyperventilating would surely give away his location to the gunman he knows is on his tail.
He sprints on, changing course in as crafty a manner as his panicked state will allow in an effort to throw off his pursuer. He tries to work out in his mind how long it will take him to reach the town if he maintains his velocity.
He knows that if only he could find his way to people, then he'd be safe from his assassin.
His heart sinks when it occurs to him how grand the property is, and that he has neither the speed nor the stamina to save himself by running away. He sternly reminds himself that he makes a living of diplomacy and makes a decision. He straightens his spine and comes to a halt.
Turning around, he sees at a close distance a gaunt young man with ginger hair, disheveled clothing and bags beneath his eyes. He holds in his right hand a gun, and blood is dripping from his nose from when Gideon had punched him minutes before back inside his house.
He, too, stops running, and the two stare at one another in silence for what seems like an eternity. The assassin, Gideon observes, is easily just as terrified as he is. Putting on a mask of confidence, he raises his gun, holding it protectively with both hands and points it at Gideon, who in turn puts his hands above his head. The man clenches his jaw, and before he can prepare himself to shoot, Gideon interjects.
"Sir, listen to me. You don't have to do this." he says, calmly.
"I do." The man assures him, unfazed.
"I am an important man. You would be found out. You won't get any money, you won't get any glory. Killing me would be a mistake." he tells his pursuer; his deliberate cadence ensuring that each word sinks in.
"I know who you are." The assassin argues, his off-puttingly large eyes stabbing Gideon with their intensity. He has the look and disbanded energy of someone who uses meth. He swallows hard before continuing. "Your name is Gideon Lewis, you're 35 years old. I know you attended Oxford. You work for the British government and you have a young daughter named Briony, but you're not married to her mother." He says in an almost robotic fashion.
Gideon's face reddens, and he listens in horror as his attacker lists off facts in rapid succession. His thorough research, he realizes, suggests full, personal intent to end Gideon's life. He numbly wonders if he would have made it out of the woods by running after all.
"I dunno if you're a bad person, Mr. Lewis. I won't remember you that way." He says softly, tilting his head sympathetically. "And I'm sorry. I truly am very, very sorry."
Gideon licks his lips, carefully contemplating what he'll say next. Cautiously, he takes a step forward, which obviously alarms the gunman and he shoots. The birds in the surrounding trees swiftly disappear, but the bullet has narrowly missed Gideon, who is made pale as a ghost. He licks his lips and in his desperation opts to plea. "Listen, whatever you want; I can give it you. I'm telling you, you don't-"
"You cannot talk your way out of this! Please, just shut up." The man says, exploding. He is shaking violently now, and he once again cocks his gun. "Please. Don't make this harder for me than it already is." He adds, his eyes filling with tears. He looks on the verge of an ugly breakdown. "I don't want to do this to you!"
"Then don't." Gideon whispers, just loud enough for the other man to hear. He looks him in the eye for a moment or two before gently asking, "What's your name?" A heavy silence fills the air, as the tears falls from the gunman's eyes and down his face. Slowly, he shakes his head.
"I'm so sorry." He says, and before he can watch for too long as all the hope drains from Gideon Lewis's face, he pulls the trigger.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooo
"No." Sherlock says, smacking my hand away from his face with one swift, spastic motion. "None of that. I'm fine."
"Sherlock, I have to disinfect the wound. You're gonna have to hold still." I explain, moving the iodine-soaked rag back to the bloody cut on the right side of his hairline. He puts a foot to my chest and gently shoves me back in protest. He hops off the couch with catlike agility and makes his way to the window, where a sudden stoicism washes over him and he adopts a statue-like stillness. I shake my head in disbelief and ask him, out of necessity, "Sherlock, how long exactly has it been since you last slept?"
He acknowledges me by briefly rising on his heels and squinting his eyes in my general direction. "Four days, perhaps five now. What time is it?" I look at my watch, but before I can answer he faces me and gleefully tells me, "You must understand by now, John. There's no time to sleep in the midst of a great game!" he says, as he steps onto the arm of the recliner and stands there as tall and proud as a king.
"Ok." I say, humoring him in my concern. "Sherlock, sit down. You may need stitches." He looks at me disappointedly and steps down from his throne and unto the couch opposite me with his arms crossed.
"Thank you. Now, tell me about this case." I ask partially because I want Sherlock to have something to focus on other than the pain that might be coming up, but also because I'd recently gotten a job at St. Bart's as a pharmacist and had been unable to accompany him in many of his adventures within the past few months. I press the rag to his forehead and he inhales sharply, but goes on with great excitement to tell me the story.
"Well, it started off with a woman dead on her living room floor, small enough a thing, but ah- it gets much better." He begins.
"Aha." I say, only half-listening as I observe his wound, concluding that it was not nearly as bad as the amount of blood would suggest. Deciding that he'd need to wear butterfly stitches, I stand up to fetch the required material, to which Sherlock takes no apparent offense and merely adjusts his volume.
"A man's instincts would tell them that it was the maid. A stupid man's instincts, anyway. That was Anderson's theory. I knew within a few seconds of speaking with her that she hadn't done it. I worked out that she had indeed been having an affair with the husband- obviously- but the wife wasn't aware of it. When I confronted her about the affair, she… didn't respond well. But she obviously cared deeply for the wife due to her distressed state.
"Now, this woman was thorough when it came to her job. Yet the house had not been thoroughly cleaned, her hair was disheveled and I could see she'd been biting her nails. It could have been because of the murder but no- no, she was a wreck before then as well. What does it seem like, then? Like the secret of the affair was eating her from the inside out. Sounds like it might be motivation to kill the wife, doesn't it? I figured it was more interesting than just that, though. You see, John, they were friends. And the wife, Mrs. Crowley, had been receiving anonymous letters- a note, a number each day, like a countdown."
I return from the bathroom and he channels his excitement into a more hushed tone again as he allows me to begin applying the butterfly stitches along his cut. He flinches ever so slightly, still raw to the touch, but never stops with his storytelling.
"She had no idea that Mrs. Crowley knew precisely what the letters meant, and that her death was imminent."
"Oh, wow!" I comment. Shit, I think to myself, having poorly placed one of the butterfly stitches. I carefully remove it and reach for another, all the while becoming rapt in my work. How do you peel off this damn paper? Evidently, I haven't done this in quite a while. I just hope they'll stick once I've properly placed them. I have two more to apply, and by the time I am finished Sherlock's big reveal is that he'd spent his day quite productively while I was at work in the hospital, having unearthed one of the vastest crime syndicates in London.
"Jesus, Sherlock! That's amazing." I exclaim, genuinely this time. I feel incredibly impressed and at the same time grossly inadequate.
"Mm." Sherlock responds, still smirking with pride. I study my friend for a moment, and begin to feel a great sense of pride myself.
"So, em- how did the wound come about?" I calmly inquire.
"What?" he replies, snapping back to reality.
"The wound, Sherlock. Your wound. The one I've just been working on for the past 15 minutes."
"Oh, yes. The maid." He says, grimacing. "She hit me with a frying pan."
"Is that bloody all?" I ask, flabbergasted.
"She was a strong, big woman." He responds defensively. "Robust."
At that, Sherlock's phone rings and he springs up to answer it. He rummages through his coat pocket with alarming intensity and retrieves it, loudly groaning as he examines the caller ID.
"Sherlock Holmes." He states as he answers it and starts pacing angrily about the room as he listens to the response. "Yes Mycroft, I know it's you." He spits, looking to me and rolling his eyes. As Mycroft tries to explain his reason for calling, Sherlock huffs and puffs impatiently, not-so-subtly prompting him to cut to the chase. I try to conceal my amusement, not wanting to advocate his rude behavior but inexplicably finding myself charmed by it.
"Cobham?!" he exclaims suddenly, making me jump. "We better have a bloody good case on our hands if you want me to go to Surrey to investigate it." Well it must be, I almost say allowed. This isn't Lestrade calling about your run-of-the-mill homicide, this is Mycroft Holmes; the British government, calling to personally request the help of the greatest detective in England.
As he listens, his pacing slowly comes to a halt and he stations himself once more at the window. He glares out unto the London street beneath our flat in deep concentration, his free hand caressing the side of his chin. An almost eerie grin crosses his face as the sounds of Mycroft's chatter on the other end die out; his explanation proving satisfactory. Sherlock calmly confirms that he's on his way, and hangs up the phone.
He immediately turns to look at me with an eager expression and claps his hand together. "Two members of the British government, offed within a week. This could be an interesting one, John!" he yells, putting on his long back coat. He examines me with confusion, wordlessly inquiring as to why I'm still sitting on the couch. He steps towards the door and gestures with his head towards my coat.
"You're not going, Sherlock. The case can wait." I tell him, not amused.
"What?!" he replies, with a sort of urgency that suggests that I'd told him he'd no longer be allowed to breathe.
"You haven't slept in four days, you said? Maybe five? No. They've already got a dead body on their hands, it wouldn't be proper to expect them to deal with you when you pass out at their crime scene."
He scoffs. "Who cares about propriety, John? After all, we've got a doctor on hand to make sure that doesn't happen." He says with a wink, grabbing my coat and placing it on top of me. I sigh, accepting that Sherlock Holmes is about to have an adventure, and I'm accompanying him whether I will it or not. He makes his way to the door and I hurry on after him, struggling to put my coat on and run at the same time.
As we descend the stares, I watch in awe as Sherlock's lips move silently and his eyes shift about. I decide not to engage him in conversation, for it is safest not break his brilliant brain's train of thought. A cab conveniently drives by as soon as we make it outside, which Sherlock successfully hails and the two of us approach it. He seems to have relaxed at this point so I ask him, "If two government officials have been murdered, why weren't you consulted about the first?" He scornfully shakes his head. "Good question."
He gives the cabbie the address of the home in Cobham to which we are to report. "Surrey." I say, making no attempt to hide my annoyance. "We better be rewarded for this."
Sherlock gives me a flirtatious look and gently entwines his fingers with mine. "I'm guessing that you will." He whispers in a distracted attempt at seduction, and I blush.