Title: The Game's Afoot
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Author: Derry
Disclaimer: It's all rather petty to talk about who owns what, don't you think? Shakespeare, Doyle, Gatiss, Moffat, the BBC, whoever. They all own various parts of this stuff. Not me. I'm not responsible. Ask anyone.
Characters: Tall, Dark and Scathing & Short, Fair and (Mostly) Deadpan. [Gen]
Warnings: Lack of character nomenclature. Precious little in the way of plot. Implied off-screen violence of undisclosed severity.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: References to the limited space in someone's hard drive, allusion to someone else's military history. No major plot twists from the series revealed.
Notes: Much, many and more thanks to Starrylizard and Rinne who beta-ed this for me, but any mistakes that it still contains are down to me. All feedback, including criticism, is appreciated.
Summary: "Please tell me there's some room in your hard drive for Shakespeare."
The City of London. An alleyway not far from Tower Hill Tube Station, on a cold, dark night.
Cold enough for a person to be able to see their own breath, if there is enough light, and while the alley itself is bathed in dark shadows, pale yellow light streams in from the street around the corner. Enough to illuminate the approach of two people, moving with haste, but making minimal noise as they do so.
The first is a tall, thin man whose dark curls tumble over his ears to almost merge with the upturned collar of his long coat. His features are pale and sharp, his eyes narrowly focussed and his movements quick and abrupt. As he comes to a halt at the alley entrance, he snatches a glimpse around the corner, before pulling back to plaster himself against the alley wall. He breathes rapidly from the exertion, but each breath still seems measured and controlled, visible in the faint light, but quite inaudible.
He spares a brief glance for the shorter man who has also arrived to take position against the wall, alongside him. The tall man returns his gaze towards the light, scrupulously holding himself back in the shadows, but the tension in his stance clearly illustrates his impatience. Even standing perfectly still, he almost seems to vibrate with barely contained energy.
His companion has kept to the shadowed side of the alley, but there is enough light to see that he too is breathing rapidly and inaudibly. His hair is shorter and fairer and his features appear softer and milder, but the ghost of a smile on his lips has a predatory edge to it. His movements are not slower, but more purposeful and economical than those of his companion. He calmly waits in the shadows, rather than trying to peer past the taller man, into the next street, for himself.
"So, how long do you think?" It's not a true whisper, just a quietly efficient tone, only slightly out of breath.
The tall man shrugs very slightly, without looking round. He too speaks softly, but even at low volume, his voice has a slightly theatrical cadence to it. "They would have taken Commercial Road rather than the Whitechapel Road. We've been quicker on foot than they have so far. I'd say probably somewhere between three and six minutes." He can't seem to prevent his entire body leaning ever so slightly towards the light, before he remembers and pulls back again.
His companion observes this with a wry smile and huffs a very soft laugh. "The game's afoot."
The taller man turns abruptly to face him now, irritation emblazoned on his sharp visage. "What?"
The other's more gentle, but equally expressive features show mild surprise, then growing amusement.
"Please tell me there's some room in your hard drive for Shakespeare." He makes a vague hand gesture towards his companion's head, before continuing, "I see you standing like a greyhound in the slips, straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'"
Tall, dark and scathing actually sniffs in disdain. "Why would I want it? So that I could also partake in your ridiculous patriotic fervour?" He turns his gaze away again, but after a half-second, his head tilts in a considering fashion and, without turning back, he adds, "Although, I must admit that I did not anticipate that you would be a such devotee of the Bard."
His disdain has no visible effect on his companion's good humour. "Well, I'm not really, but I do recall one well-meaning English teacher back in high school taking our whole class to see Kenneth Branagh's Henry V. After the St Crispin's Day speech, half the lads were ready to grab a sword and start killing Frenchman and some bright spark, I think it might have been the theatre manager, had given us all souvenir movie posters. So, after the movie, we rolled them up to use as swords and tried to re-enact Agincourt in the car park." He pauses to consider this before adding, "I suppose you might have a point about the patriotic fervour."
"And thus the genesis of your military career is revealed." Dryly dismissive, as only someone unconditionally certain of their own superiority can be.
"Yes, I ran away to join up that very day. Later, I deserted to attend uni and get my medical qualifications. So, when I re-enlisted it really was very lucky that I've got such a common unremarkable name. And it's not like the British Army ever bothers to check up on that sort of thing."
The smaller man's voice lacks the vindictive undertone of his companion's. Almost as if he feels that the idiocy of the other's previous statement speaks for itself and he doesn't need to overstate the sarcasm. That nuance is apparently not lost on the other man whose head whips back around, wary and surprised, but still trying to look forbidding as he glares downwards, only to be greeted by a smile that is somehow impossibly pitched at the midpoint between disarming and smug.
Their gazes lock for a second, before the shorter, fair-haired man affably changes the subject. "So, Shakespeare's not your kind of thing then?"
The other's movements stutter slightly. He breaks eye contact, then looks back, then away again - all of which takes less than a second. It's as if he's unsure if this is a genuine truce or a precursor for another stealth attack. Then he purposefully turns his gaze back towards the alley entrance and resets his poise to calm vigilance, as if the awareness of any potential incursion has been deleted from his internal record and everything is now quiet on that front. His reply is delivered with the matter-of-factly derisive tone that appears to be his default setting.
"Overreaching melodrama, woefully inaccurate historical propaganda and/or improbable farce, pretentiously declaimed in iambic pentameter? Not really. No."
His companion still wears an amiable smile, although a spark of mischief also dances in his eyes. But as his mouth opens to launch another rejoinder, the sound of approaching footsteps echoes from around the corner. A steady pace and steadily growing louder. The signal they have been waiting for.
As the dark-haired man glances back, confirming that the battle proper is about to commence, the shorter, fairer one deadpans, "Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more?"
There is a millisecond of silence, because they both know the value of a dramatic pause, before the tall man speaks in an uncharacteristically placid tone.
"There will be no closing up of any walls with our English dead."
The smaller man's head shoots up, eyebrows lifted in surprise. Then, a fond, gently rueful smile plays across his face, even as his right hand goes to the small of his back to retrieve the handgun which is tucked into his belt, under the jacket.
The tall man allows himself a faint smirk, as he turns and steals another furtive glance around the corner. Silently, he lifts one hand with three fingers extended and sequentially folds each one down.
The instant his hand closes into a fist, both men surge forward into the light.
Exeunt. Alarum, and the handgun goes off.