Chess between automatons
"April rain is unlike May rain, or June rain. As a matter of fact, it differs from any other seasonal rain and very much so from any other rain in the world entirely. I can probably make a study on rain, but it sound too much like poetry so I'll pass. April rain in London smells like deposits of smoke blown in from the west and ice from under stony bridges across Thames not yet melted and most definitely smells like permeated wood. Even if rain is outside the glass windows of 221B. And even if it's been three years. I know it. I always know. And as of now, thanks to John's 10 minute detour -another coffee, in Pembridge Square most likely-you know too. Oh, the wait! My brain rots, I know it. I feel it. Tick-tock, this is really not the grand entrance I was preparing. Yes, I had an entrance planned. Well yes, I know I should have calculated the risk of delay. No, coming later myself was not an option. Imbecile! Now shut up!"
Downstairs, the door to 221B opens and closes with barely a sound.
"Idiot. Trying not to wake Mrs. Hudson. It's obvious she's way too engulfed in her sofa and pillows, put down by her herbal soothers, to hear any sound. It's Thursday! Obvious. Look, John. Just look!"
The good doctor starts his ascent, and isn't it ironic that the fall magic trick will end in an ascent and it's the harmony of this scene that makes Sherlock a violin cord in a chair – his, still present chair- as he prepares himself for the second door to be opened.
"Your limp is back. Interesting, but not unexpected. I have that to repent for too. I'll do it, with more than saying sorry. That would be too trivial. And most likely earn me a punch. OH, just come in already. It only took you 9 second before, even when tired."
John almost does come in, slow breathing increased a notch, maybe because of the stairs, but because maybe he heard it, or most likely he imagined it and it can't be, because this flat doesn't have one, not even one baritone voice on a record or any other piece of music for that matter. So it can't be. And John presses over his ears with both palms, one step behind the door, trying to remain calm and land his stomach back -bad seventh coffee, uncalled for glass of scotch-and fails, because the word "land" is nauseating and Jesus, it's been three years and his thesaurus of the English language should really come back to what it was before the...
"I'm not-"
Yes, he stars to say it just as the door opens eventually. And just in time, I might say, because Sherlock is about to throw a tantrum, and that would be a little not good, when trying to come back and build a case on why you had to die, but now that everything is a-okay, let's be friends again, it's not like Sherlock has more than one. He said it himself. So here he is, with his failed entrance and not a very complicated case to hold.
Or so he used to think, but now rethinks it, and shuts it, sentence left in mid-air. And suddenly this is a seven, maybe an eight on his case worthiness scale. And it's worth getting up from the chair and reaching. Because of the way John stands, and the way his brows are drawn together, but more likely because of his left hand - the dominant hand, the one that killed for Sherlock and the first to miss the blood in case John gets shot. And it's absolute insanity to let that precise hand without blood running through its veins, he though, he thinks, so the heart set so nearby had to be protected. Ergo, the fall. But now that hand shows tremors. And this is definitely an eight.
If things could be different, if Sherlock could be different, not that he wants to, not that he cares, but let's say they could and he does, a barrister job would suit him. Or land him in jail for court contempt. Still...in his head, the arguments are valid and without the embellishment of sentiment, they can do the job of making John observe. And that would be so much more important that what he saw.
"You were talking to the skull."
From across the room, John speaks a monotone sentence. The variables fly out the window, into the rain. He seems neither in the mood to see, nor observe. And that is what makes Sherlock stop his grand beginning. And makes him start again, nonetheless.
"I'm not-"
"Yes, I know. Stop it now."
Sherlock frowns, a little annoyed, a little more taken aback. So he resumes with something he's very good at. He'll strip John into pieces, pealed from bone and so concrete they will only lead to the truth and not some irrational reaction. He'll deduce his way out of deducing this first meeting with such a great margin of error.
"Contracted pupils, in a 20% lit environment means you're not focusing. You don't observe and the tremor in your left hand did not stop. You don't consider the danger, even if you heard a voice behind the door, even if you entered and distinguished a body in the dark. Now you see me, I'm not different than I was three years ago -well, two stones lost, two or four scars (four), hard to tell, even for a doctor, especially for a normal person-and you react with nothing more than a blatant obvious observation, the least probable action (5%). Given that I'm alone in here -the most obvious thing you could think, but also not true, somebody could be hiding in the kitchen, impossible for you to see- and you still hold yourself as if you are alone, you either got a lobotomy -no reaction to a joke, interesting- but more likely, from the way you almost look through me and the visible tiredness -overtime, not the first shift-and the single glass of ...scotch, you must think I'm a ...Oh! OH! This is novel. You think I'm a figment of your imagination. I'm...well, flattered actually. Others thought so, right before I ki...well, we'll leave that for another time. Did it happen before? And you're not worried? Of course you're not. Your hand reacts as if this is mundane. Brilliant!"
"Bit not good, this..."
"Oh."
Sherlock takes two graceful paces forward, only to be mimicked by the body standing in the door frame, a counter movement, like a positive field rejecting his positive action, only it's not positive, is it, the retreat, like in a strange dance they never practised and still works perfectly.
Except for that less elegant move, and the tremors in his hand and the beating pulse in the middle of his irises, black pools of "NOT believing this", John does little else. Shoulders hung low and his head tilts a fraction to the left. Kind of like Forrest Gump, but the association is useless, because Sherlock never read Winston Groom and God forbid to make him watch the movie. That level of entertainment could permanently affect his brain before he could delete it. But John does that, the little tilt and his lips quirk with the mild, internal self banter of a lunatic that any day now will begin adressing his insanity and even take it out to dinner.
"You're not."
"Sorry?"
"You said "I'm not". And then all sorts of words in phrases came out your mouth. Not sure about those. But I'm sure you said "I'm not"."
"Oh."
"You say that a lot, too. Guess I'm really really tired. Be free to wander about. I'll assume you wanted to say that you're not really here. At least I hope my brain is clever enough to put my eyes to rest and put some reasonable words in the mouth of an illusion. God, this day was too much."
And just like that John turns his back and walks -stumbles is the more accurate description- over in the hallway. Sherlock expects him to take the stairway.
"No, I don't."
John turns for a second, a sign of recognition on his face. So small, so fragile.
"Not you, I was answering to...Never mind."
"It's worst than I thought, my hallucinations are having hallucinations of their own. I must be coming down with something. Better call Mary and get her to come over. Just for tonight."
"No! I mean, you're obviously not going upstairs. Patterns of shoe prints on the stairs, old, only go up there to retrieve things and every other night when you're not alone. You've been sleeping in my old bedroom. Not all the time, but tonight you will. Maybe because of the state you're in, maybe because of your leg -no, you had worse- it's more likely because of sentiment. Doesn't get better, this caring lark. And who's Mary and why are you taking her to your room twice, no, three times a week and never to mine-yours too, now. A dancer, mignon, gracefull, a ballet dancer. Mycroft never said anything about-"
He stops because the fragile glimpse of recognition ignites for a second time in John's eyes as he looks back now. It's joined by anger, pain and maybe a little madness. The power of it all burns for a little while and dies under Sherlock's eyes, under John's palm as he smothers a yawn and then goes back to shaking his head and retreating into the bedroom.
"No, no, no, don't go back to blank John!" Sherlock pleads under his breath, even after recognising the futility of trying to convince the man in front of him he's as real as he can be and not actually under two feet of dirt. The frailty of the human mind. Fascinating, but infuriating at the same time.
"You know"-John says with his back to Sherlock, hand -right hand- on the handle of the bedroom's door – "I almost believed it. For a second, you deducing me and my ..."sentiment", with that tone, as if you were spitting out the word, you were the same cold git I knew and ...I'm a doctor, I should prescribe myself something and stop with the triple shifts. You're not here. I get it. I'm sure as hell not entirely here either."
And then the door closes, just as soft, inexplicable result of a calculated meeting. This parody of a scene is so idiotic Sherlock considers to recheck he's actually there himself and then gets to infuriated by the blatant mistake and punches the wall, just for good measure. They never observe, not if their mind tells them it can't be. A little trick and they all forget to observe every other thing that contradicts what the think they saw.
He feels betrayed. By John, by his own mind, by the plane landing on time, by the cabbie who for once knew the fastest route. Maybe if he stormed into the flat, bells and whistles, to shake the man sober...He even feels betrayed by the door to his old bedroom, now protecting John from observing.
All the signs are there: the exaggerated eye-roll, the huff and the puff and the storming out the front door, the banging of the said door, just out of spite and the completely unnecessary, annoyed and heard by absolutely not even a skull "Idiot" that his very much alive mouth utters with false disdain.
Tomorrow is another day. And maybe a rested mind will suit John better in observing. Although the percentage of the fist in the face scenario just improved by a large margin. Rested mind, rested body.
"I should have taken the skull. For practice."
His jokes don't amuse him any more than they amused John. But it does provide the aforementioned practice, of getting back into human behaviour and interaction mode and out of the shell he's been living in in order to survive. The lack of feeling, not much to begin with, he may counter, but enough, the lack of it crept into him and stayed. The alternative was just unthinkable liability that he could not afford. And now, what kept him safe out there turns out to be a disability faced with his old life.
" I wanted to say I'm not a machine," Sherlock mutters.
But he's not so sure it's the truth now.
"A pistol. A rapist. The metal worker from India. The physicist. 75%. The phone."
He shifts in his new best place to shift in and misses the couch in 221B. Well, as best as someone who left another someone believe he was dead for three years can feel or even understand the concept of "missing". He pick us the phone, a compulsive need by now and types again, his mind on forgery and small carbon residues. Then, as he realises what he does, throws the innocent black machinery to its death on the wall across, to bury the "I am" words in the never sent message.
With a three seconds delay to the act, a knock on the door announces him the new phone waits there, as it did the last eight times he played this game.
"Mycroft."
And true enough, the phone, same brand, same colour, same blank address book, lighted by the pre-sent text: "Moran in town tonight. Need details. MH"
"Pff," he scowls at the screen and that says about everything his brother needs to know. It's the much tamed version of what he really means to say.
The Colonel, a title that gets the same tone as "Mycroft" in Sherlock's low, deep voice, and if not with as much hate, then certainly with much more promise of revenge. After all this time, his last target comes by its own to play the Game. Sherlock's game, this time, and what a better way to end this than to have Moriarty's second do the unthinkable and blow his own head off.
The right corner of his lips rises into a machiavellic grin and this time the knock on the door, one step away from his standing form, comes before the act. Two seconds before he throws the new phone against the paper covered wall, the new one waits there, trembling in fear of destruction similar to its fellow gadgets. A knock which accomplishes and proves two theories: Mycroft's deductions are one second faster than the CCTV image feed he constantly watches and two, his mark is getting better by the day. On the abused wall, among maps, pins and strings, the blonde man in the picture set to place of honour is stroke perfectly in between the eyes. Mid thirties, thin lips, uneven set of teeth, the smile of a psychopath, fake and yet alluring to the girl he presents it to, this man is what kept him going for all this time and what kept him far from London. From John. John's designated killer.
Blue eyes, reddish strands of hair betraying the Irish gene, much to the man's irritation, but left visible instead of hiding them with dye. Left eyebrow a little higher than the right, on a marksman, the sign of his trigger hand preference. A never closing left eye, trained on John and John's mourning, a brain sharp enough to process clues, links and deduce that the pain is real, that Sherlock is dead, that killing John can lead to nothing more than another line on his ribs, sign of another twisted manhood ritual he performs after every target.
Even then, with John nearly collapsed from the shock, he wasn't sure Moran will put the gun down. With the master dead, no one knew, dammit, not even him, how the killer was going to respond in his insanity. John was never safe that day. All that Sherlock did was place a gamble and wait for one of the two results. If John got shot even with him presumably dead, Mycroft's men, instructed to keep a low profile, would have shot dead the marksman.
He could say it was more of a calculated risk, but even now, as he thinks about it, the possibility (27% possibility) of John getting shot for pleasure makes his stomach turn and he's disgusted with himself and the impossibility to make an accurate prediction. But that won't happen again.
Sherlock memorised that face and deduced every part of the man's life from it and from the gigabytes of CCVT recordings he keeps on the silvery thing in the corner of this shabby room. Everything he needs to know, from the man's military career to the fall in Her Majesty's disgrace, to mercenary hell and the obsession euphoria. Enough to become the perfect opponent for a true war machine.
One so perfectly calibrated it's almost a thrill to expect the sight of that brain blown away by the perfectly accurate finger of his own perfectly trained left hand.
As he thinks about it, Sherlock moves his long pale fingers, a rehearsal of the movement he'll never make, squeezing an invisible trigger he'll never feel and stares into the torn picture at the man he'll never get to feel under his hands, as the last breath leaves him.
The phone makes a possibly self destructing noise, and Sherlock snaps back to the reality of a London evening in April, moist and cold down here, in his makeshift room.
"Mycroft."
"Yees."
"Your plan is ridiculous."
"Any other obvious things for you to say. I actually expected the "let my men take care of him" and "you didn't change at all", of course, all irrelevant, because you have the faintest idea of what my plan is."
"I know it's ridiculous."
"Hmmm. Now you're repeating yourself. Don't bore me Mycroft. You know what I do when I get bored."
"Jesus Sherlock. You got him here. Now try to stay alive. You know what I think-"
"Yes."
"I mean about your trip to 221B. Unfruitful insanity as it turns out."
"Shut up."
"The only thing to make him flee again or even better, get hunting, is for you to show up on his radar and expose this for what it is."
"You don't know what it is."
An annoyed huff on the other side of the line makes Sherlock smile as he sits.
"Anything useful you want to tell me now?"
"The physicist is ready."
"Fine," he replies and ends the call. The last pieces fall into place.
He touches the phone's screen in a sort of a caress and stops himself before composing another "I'm not" text. The wall took it's fair share of pounding. As alluring as the prospect of depleting his brother's stock of phones is, he lays back down on the foreign couch and replays the string of data.
"A pistol. A rapist. The metal worker from India. The physicist. 75%. The phone."
The box in the masked corner makes a noise. A one by one prison, away from Mycroft's camera. The reason for the fowl smell. His piece de resistance.
"Time for another shot already? You develop an immunity, as expected. Now, now, put out your hand and spare yourself the pain of being awake while contorted in not enough space. There you go, good boy."
The muffled sound of a responding body does nothing to impress Sherlock. He doesn't need the skull, after all. Not when he has this.