The Nothing Factor
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: T or PG-13 for blood and mention of drugs possessed by women of questionable occupations.
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Clark
Warnings: Abrupt ending and Holmes's overactive brain getting him into trouble.
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, not under fanfiction.
Dedication: To my Joker. Who's wonderful. Always. And patient. Always. And willing to read my scribbles. Always. And, erm, a great sounding board for just about everything in my life. Always. *big hugs*
Author's Note: Written in my 90 cent scribble book while I traipsed all over Germany. Huzzah. Enjoy.
It pans out far differently than he expects it to which is strange because he usually calls things with extreme accuracy. Mind, he draws the correct conclusion—if he had not, he would never live through this current humiliation—but he cannot savor it as he and Watson sit cuffed en route to the prison yard. He plucks at the band around his wrist in a plaintive manner which brings him no shortage of glares from his companion and sulks over the loss of his silver lock pick set. It lies forgotten at the scene, and if not found and confiscated by the Yard as evidence, it will no doubt find its way into the hands of some peddler who will pawn it for far less than its worth. Bad enough that he has these two things to contend with but it appears he will have frazzled nerves to settle as well, once this has all come to a halt; Watson refuses to look him in the face, his features stony and he finds that just as annoying as the cuffs.
He tugs, Watson glares and Clark wears an expression torn betwixt apology and utter amusement. But, then again, he's not the one currently soaked to the collar in mud and excrement; Watson, on the other hand, could be a swine on a farm and he doubts his appearance is much better. Clark has only ruined his shoes and possibly the hems on his pant legs which can no doubt be saved by some persevering maid. Watson's white shirt, on the other hand, will go in the ever growing pile of ruined clothing as will his leather shoes. Some gift from the new woman he has taken a fancy to. The name has slipped off into the unimportant information category for Watson takes fancies often and the relationships are frequently fleeting. He scratches behind his ear and watches flakes rain into his lap. Watson lets out a snort of disgust, punctuated by a sudden, vicious shiver.
At least, he ruminates, if he and Watson chose to keep piggy companions they would acquire the warmth of huddling down in the sty, and the generous comfort of a belly full of slop. He could use a meal right now, a bowl of Nanny's lamb stew with a helping of her warm, secret-recipe-which-he-already-deciphered-bread. The perfect addition, tea, and a blazing fire would cheer up even Watson's cranky attitude. He pushes it all aside in favor of the solution and fixates on how right he was about the case instead of how wrong he was about the amount of time they needed to escape.
"Well, Clarky," he begins, "How long shall we be in custody before the evidence vindicates us?"
Clark smiles warily. "I'm not sure, sir."
This man does not play with him, does not step into the traps, and not out of dumb luck but because he does not trust his own reason. How he longs to get Clarky to join the game, to train him in manners of deduction for he knows the yarder does not lack the ability so much as the courage. He sees the careful turning and deciphering in the man's features, the moments where he, unlike the rest of the bobbies, is completely unsurprised by the revelation. That, with Clark's undeniable wit and teasing, makes him an intriguing individual, and, possibly, a future companion. But for the moment, Clark has seen too many of Lestrade's paltry theories sent through the grinder to hazard his own guesses.
"I give it three hours before Lestrade comes to see me and an extra half hour for him to confirm my words," he overestimates in case Lestrade misses the dead cat on the veranda. And then, foolishly, sloppily, he adds, "Care to place a bet, Watson?"
This earns him a tightening about his arm as Watson slides as far away as their bonds will allow. The slightest of glances reveals his fellow's pale countenance and clenched fists, leaving him with a sensation that borders on concern. Then it flees when they hit a bump and Watson somehow, accidentally, kicks him in the shin. Childishness can go both ways; if Watson wishes to descend to that level, he has no issues with meeting his roommate and winning.
"Fine," he says. "I shall take between two hours forty five minutes and two fifty eight. Anything under belongs to Watson, anything over belongs to Clarky. Unless either of you find this dissatisfactory? No? Excellent. Five pounds, then?"
Antagonizing people loses its appeal when the targets do not respond. Watson remains silent and Clark holds onto a bemused quiet. Neither of these gives him even an ounce of fodder, so he falls back into the emptiness of the ride and the coolness of the air. He has already planned out his grand reveal so he can easily evict himself from the prison yard when Lestrade arrives. That route has sealed itself to him, tucked carefully in his neat and tidy consciousness, so different from his haphazard rooms and clothing. It leaves him with the space and the room and the echoing of his own streaming words. He hates the nothing, hates the way it lets his brain run amok, hates the way it amplifies sounds and sharpens his gaze; it doesn't fulfill a purpose or provide him with useful information but instead rots away his perfectly good storage with useless facts such as the rouge from Clark's wife on his chin and the obvious loosening of the left forward wheel of the cab.
He's bordering on dangerous inoccupation by the time they arrive and is only saved by unloading and processing. Apparently, when he reaches this stage, he becomes quite unbearable to be around though he rarely realizes it. He tends to wander off to a pit fight or fall into a black mood when it gets this bad, reaching out for drugs when violence cannot be found. When he finally comes out of the funk of adrenaline or hallucinations, he discovers some new mystery to occupy his mind and sinks into reasonable behavior. Or so he's been told; he really doesn't think he's that difficult to deal with.
The holding pen has a few residents, some of whom he recognizes while others are just faces in the crowd. Watson follows, gimping, his cane kept in the offices and he does not stop until he reaches one of the benches and settles on it. Petulant behavior, not at all necessary, he sniffs, not following because he doesn't have to. He doesn't need Watson's company; he has plenty of other targets within his range as he strides carefully around the perimeter. It's unbefitting of a full grown man to pout as Watson is. It's not as though they'll be stuck here for long and it's not the first time they've been here either. Watson should take it with grace, as he is, instead of this strange oversensitivity.
He reaches an edge, turns, reaches a corner, turns again. His mind flits about like a hummingbird, dancing around the facts and observations, landing only for the briefest second before taking off again. The woman in the corner has consumption, the man to his left hit someone far harder than he should considering that person had to be a foot shorter, the skinny man to the right of Watson will pass out in ten seconds or less—he turns a corner and nearly walks into a man who has no front teeth but makes up for it with muscles—the woman by the gates sells more than just the jewelry on her wrists. He's a tiger trapped in a cage and he will lose himself if he does not find a distraction.
Around again and this time he steps on the overly large man's foot. Later, Watson will say he did it intentionally but he actually had no thought on the matter. He wants to trade the prostitute his cufflinks—Watson's cufflinks—for whatever she has stored between her ample breasts and simply does not notice the thick boot until his foot's descended. The big man has blood on his collar, a cut over his eye, and absolutely no issue with bringing his fist into another man's face. All the training in the world doesn't help him when he's so hopelessly distracted.
He blinks up at the sky, uncertain of exactly what's happened, and listens to the cacophony about them. The consumption woman is screaming, the hooker is silent, the guards are calling order and someone else stands over him, trading blows with big man. Thump of boots, thump of shoes, thump of bare feet; his mind slows down to the point that they actually sound like ruckus instead of individual pieces of information and he lets out a soft huff of relief.
"Break it up, mates!" He doesn't recognize the voice of this guard. "I said break it up, or I'll have you both thrown in the cells without bail! Now!"
They listen for the noise dies down and the sky's replaced by Watson's face, a huge and spreading red mark across his cheek, blood dripping between his teeth. He looks distinctively frustrated. "Well done."
He can't form an answer. His lips won't work which he thinks Watson would find medically interesting but all Watson does is tug him upward, switching the sky and the ground. He cannot gain his feet which causes his fellow to drag him back to the benches and settle him so he leans against the uncomfortable wood. The muddy ground has added more grime to his clothes. Thank god he used the barter system today.
"Holmes," Watson says, catching his attention. "That was unbelievably stupid."
"Mmph," he manages and his head falls onto his shoulder. Everything's peaceful and calm. It's raining and he doesn't remember the chemical composition of the water. He tastes blood and wonders if all blood tastes unique; it could be a way of identifying criminals.
Watson pulls at his eyelids, sticks chilled fingers under his chin, palpates his left cheek. "Foolish."
He's sick on Watson's front. To Watson's credit, he says nothing, merely pulls off the waistcoat and wipes the trickle away from his chin. It's strangely comforting despite Watson's irritated expression. He woozily drifts off for a moment and jerks awake to find his head drooped onto Watson's shoulder, his body supported by an arm.
"Mm," he mumbles.
"I had dinner plans with Mary today," Watson says in reply. "But I suppose she shan't want to see me again after this."
His neck has gone lax so he can only twitch his head back and forth and drool. His cheek's numb. The bile in his mouth tastes terrible. The blood theory bubbles like chemicals in the burner of his mind.
"I should've stayed home," Watson murmurs, though the arm tightens around him in a protective manner. "I should've stayed home."
He thinks Watson's wrong. Lestrade arrives after two hours and forty two minutes. And Mary happily postpones dinner to the morrow.