Disclaimer: I don't own Moftiss' Sherlock or John.
Play the Game
Sherlock Holmes lay upside down on his couch, head hanging off the edge and the tips of his curly hair just brushing the floor. His eyes were closed, his long fingers steepled and just touching his lips as he listened.
He tuned out the hum of his refrigerator and the buzz of the fluorescent lights in his flat; the noises from the street were as dull as usual, but he kept some attention on them, just in case. Downstairs, he could hear Mrs. Hudson's television playing far more loudly than was good for her and in turn laughing so loudly he felt sure that it was audible in the building next door. He tuned that out as well; boring.
Far more interesting was the sound of pacing coming from upstairs. The steps were uneven, indicating a limp, which clearly meant that John's psychosomatic injury had come back. Reasonable, Sherlock thought, since they hadn't had a case for several weeks now. There were periodic, regular pauses, as John reached the center of the room where Sherlock knew a table stood. It seemed a reasonable conjecture to assume there was bottle of beer on that table, and that with every pause John was taking a drink.
A small smile curved his lips as he heard John limp across his flat, slam his door, and come down the stairs. One, two, three steps towards the door…
"Come in, John," Sherlock said without opening his eyes. He heard the door squeak open, then three thumps. John was using his cane.
"How did—no one else lives upstairs," John said. Sherlock could hear the amused exasperation in his voice as he made his way clumsily across the flat. One, two, three, four steps…
"Watch out for the jar," Sherlock said, then frowned as heard John's cane clunk against it.
"What is this?" John asked, disgust coloring his voice. There was a quiet scrape against the hard wood floor, and a slight creak as John picked up the jar, his bad leg protesting.
"Blood samples," Sherlock replied. "My own," he said, anticipating John's next question. He opened his eyes, letting his vision acclimate to his position upside down. John was wearing a tattered thermal and a pair of flannel pajama pants. His thumbs were poked through holes in the sleeves, and even as he settled himself on the easy chair he was tugging at the loose threads. There was a slight smell of alcohol hanging on him—Sherlock hadn't been wrong about the beer.
"Problems?" Sherlock asked.
John squinted for a moment. "I suppose it would be stupid of me to ask why you're on your head?"
"I doubt you'd understand," Sherlock said absently.
John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn't like Sherlock was paying attention to his responses anyway. "Oh. Uh. My room. Something jammed the heater. It's a bit chilly. That's why I'm here."
"We'd be able to smell it if something was caught in your heater," Sherlock said disdainfully. "You really came here because—"
"I do love this part," John muttered.
"If you'll excuse me," Sherlock said irritably. "You keep reaching for the phone in your pocket, but I haven't heard you talking, which means that you are either texting or waiting for a phone call. The first explanation seems unlikely, because if you were truly texting as often as you are reaching for your phone, I would have seen you send one by now. Which means, therefore, that you are waiting for a phone call that may or may not come. Furthermore, you stopped checking your phone several seconds after getting here, and it seems unlikely that you're waiting for a call from Sarah, since it is now—" Sherlock peered at his watch, "—eleven at night and she has work tomorrow. " Inference, he continued mentally, you were waiting for me to text you, and when I failed to you decided to take matters into your own hands, knowing that I would be awake as well. "So who were you hoping would contact you, hm?" He raised one eyebrow.
"You know," John said conversationally. "I never thought I'd get tired of watching you do that, but it seems I have."
"Then I'll stop, and in turn stop paying my half of the rent," Sherlock returned. It wasn't his fault John didn't properly appreciate him.
"Oh, shut up," John snapped.
Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally. John hardly ever snapped—he had the patience of a saint. "I—"
"No, shut up." John leaned back in the chair, covering his eyes with his hands. "You know, when I talk to you, I feel like a lab rat being herded through the maze. What did you want me to say this time? I'm lonely? You're really the only one I have? Congratulations."
"John," Sherlock said, sitting up. "I regret that you've ever felt that way, but I assure you, that was not my intention." He crossed his arms over his chest and folded his legs under him, bunching himself as small as he could get. Was he…embarrassed? What had been the purpose of pushing John to admit his reasoning in visiting him? Sherlock had already known the answer. What could possibly be the benefit of having John say it himself? Sherlock pushed this minor mystery to the part of his mind where he stored such things.
"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock." For the first time that night, John met Sherlock's eyes, and Sherlock wasn't sure he liked what he saw there. Anger, humiliation…hurt?
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, re-examining his partner. Rumpled hair and clothing, bags under his eyes, hand shaking on the doorknob, limp returned, not in full capacity but still noticeable—stressed, certainly, slightly inebriated, enough to cause this outburst but not enough for John to fully lose control of his temper.
The detective chose his next words carefully. "I did not mean for you to feel that you were," he said, wishing John would stop looking at him like that and just close the door and sit down. He stood up slowly. "Your leg is hurting again," he stated, watching John's face carefully. "If you'd like, you can take my room here and I'll—"
"Damn my leg," John spat. "Just because I'm not as smart as you doesn't mean you have to coddle me." With that, he slammed the door of the flat behind him.
Sherlock stared at the door, listening to the arrhythmic thumps (one step conquered, two, there John's cane slipped and he caught himself against the wall, four…). All at once, he collapsed to the floor next to the couch. He wrapped his arms around his knees and glared pointedly at the skull on the mantle.
"You never did this to me," he accused. Apparently nothing he could do would appease John that night. Objectively, Sherlock knew that John was in a bad mood for one reason or another, and was thus more likely to take offense to things he usually tolerated, but there was a shred of truth to what he'd said.
Sherlock had been toying with him, much as he disliked admitting it even to himself. He sighed heavily and dragged his hands through his hair. He'd been trying to work on that…at least with John. He pursed his lips. He supposed he'd have to make this up somehow. After all, he told himself, it would be detrimental to their work if John was still angry with him.
The next morning found Sherlock sitting where he'd dropped after John had left, head tilted slightly and fast asleep. He jerked awake at the knock on the door.
Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible in the general direction of the door and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, stretching out the kinks in his shoulders. Transport it might be, but that didn't mean his body didn't object to sleeping sitting up on the floor all night.
John poked his head sheepishly through the crack in the door. He held up a bag of bagels like an offering. "Morning, Sherlock."
Rising slowly, Sherlock rolled out his shoulders, then put his hands on his hips and bent backwards, wincing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John bite back a grin. "What?"
"Sounds like popcorn," he replied, slipping through the door and closing it behind him.
Sherlock straightened up. John was dressed in jeans and one of his typical sweaters; he wasn't expecting to see Sarah, then. He was keeping his chin tilted down and looking up at Sherlock from that angle; he was ashamed. Good, then, Sherlock thought, feeling a disconcerting wave of relief. John wasn't angry at him anymore.
"John, I wanted to –"
"Sherlock, I—"
"Go ahead," John said.
"By all means, John. What I have to say can wait," Sherlock replied, retying his robe.
"I was…out of line last night," John confessed. "I know you didn't mean to come off that way—God knows, I know you don't think I'm one of your experiments." He laughed self-consciously. "Well, maybe at first, but you're not nearly as heartless as you pretend—"
Sherlock's expression fell flat, and he had to consciously stop himself from crossing his arms across his chest. "I am a sociopath, John." He put up one finger to stop his partner from speaking. "It's been confirmed by a good many doctors. You can look it up yourself. I am heartless."
John stepped back, turning his head away. "Right," he said. "Of course you are."
Sherlock frowned; John was disappointed in him again. Why? He quashed down the answering tug in his chest—for whatever reason, John being disappointed with him made Sherlock feel like he was a child again, disappointing his mother when he came from school bruised and bloodied from a fight on the playground (not that the little bastards didn't start it, of course, he'd only been telling them things they didn't want to believe-).
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, ignoring the inherent irony of that statement.
The two men stood in silence for a moment, until Sherlock's phone buzzed on the coffee table. He lunged for it, unbelievably grateful for the diversion. The opportunity to get his mind off John and John's disappointment.
"Lestrade," he said. He flashed a quick grin at John, who slowly smiled back. "Write this down, John," he ordered. "Two bodies, both appear to be homeless…both…what was that? One unidentified, broken arm, one with a deck of cards…alright, I'll see it when I get there." He snapped his phone shut and pumped his fist. "Yes!" He whirled around, his face aglow with excitement.
"The game is on?" John asked, smiling hesitantly.
"Precisely!"
Sherlock climbed out of the cab with John close on his heels. He ignored Lestrade's greeting in favor of inspecting the area; sidewalk under a bridge on the Thames, possibly formerly used as a tourist trap, now littered with trash and the remnants of the camps of the homeless.
"Freak," he heard Donovan say, but he ignored her and pushed beyond the police tape blocking off the area where the body was still lying. He was dimly aware of John fending off Anderson; he'd have to remember to thank him for that later, but for right now the case demanded his attention.
The body was that of a man, most likely in his late forties. He was lying on his stomach, arm bent strangely (clearly broken in not one but three places) and outstretched before him. His left leg was clamped in an old fashioned bear trap, padlocked shut and recently secured to the side walk. Freshly poured and dried concrete formed a small mound around the spike driven into the pavement.
He was obviously homeless; his boots were of a sturdy variety, but worn through and caked with mud. He wore three pairs of socks on each foot, the ones on his left leg stiff with dried blood. It was dark, rusty brown, and the body was stiff with rigor mortis. However, there were few visible signs of decay, so the body could not have been there long.
Sherlock gently tilted the man's head to the side; long, scruffy beard, a nose cross-hatched with blood vessels. "Hm." An alcoholic, then, possibly the reason for his homelessness, or at the very least a contributing factor. A scarf of once-expensive cashmere was knotted neatly around his neck, covering old scars and stubble. It was dirty, and at least ten years old, but as well tended as a homeless alcoholic might manage, suggesting it was his own scarf and not stolen. So he'd been wealthy once, Sherlock thought. A pair of dice was scattered on the ground not far from the pavement.
"He was reaching for something, most probably a key," Sherlock said aloud. John squatted down next to him, his arms balanced on his knees. The detective broke his gaze for a moment to glance up at John. Was he still disappointed with him? He didn't seem to be acting like it. In fact, he was acting entirely normally, but there was a tightness around his blue eyes that wasn't entirely characteristic, and his hands were still shaking even as he leaned over the body, conducting his own tests.
"Dead about forty-eight hours, I'd say," John said, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie. "Blood loss."
Sherlock nodded. "Correct," he said, and was gratified by the small quirk of John's lips that counted as a smile while they were on the job. Maybe he wasn't disappointed? Sherlock sincerely didn't want John to look at him like that anymore.
He shook his head violently, his dark curls flying wildly as he tried to clear his head. "The killer brought this man here; he put the trap in before the victim arrived. The marks around it show he actually poured new concrete around it and gave it time to dry."
"The other victim is also held by a bear trap," Lestrade said.
Sherlock turned his pale eyes towards the inspector angrily. "And you didn't think to tell me this earlier?" he snapped, jumping up. "That's a rather critical fact, wouldn't you agree? Anything else you forgot to mention?"
Lestrade paused. "DNA testing confirmed that the victims are siblings," he said, after a moment.
Sherlock jerked his head almost convulsively, his leather-clad hands clenching and unclenching.
"Sherlock." The detective looked down at the slight pressure on his arm—John had put his hand on his arm, his grip tightening as he looked up at his flatmate. Sherlock swallowed and looked away, pulling his sleeve out of John's grasp.
"Anything else?" Sherlock ground out.
"We've managed to contact their father, a Mr. Wilson. Apparently he works at a nearby church," Lestrade said.
"Give me the address," Sherlock demanded. "We'll be visiting him soon. But first, I want to see this poor slob's sister."
The second body, a young woman, she was seated upright, leaning against the wall of the disused tube tunnel where they'd found her. Like the previous location, it was generally remote, but a haven for the homeless as evidenced by the flimsy cardboard and rag tents leaning up against the walls.
The left leg of the body was, again, trapped between the steel jaws of a bear trap. Falling from her limp grasp was a hand of cards. What appeared to be the rest of the pack was scattered haphazardly around the rest of the tunnel.
"How is the killer getting these here without anyone noticing?" John asked. He put his hands in his pockets and shivered as he looked around, Sherlock noticed with interest—perhaps a touch of claustrophobia? It was oppressive in the tunnels—airless, lightless, all sounds echoing and amplified. It also smelled quite rancid, which was only to be expected, Sherlock supposed.
"When was she found?" Sherlock asked Lestrade. He picked up the woman's free hand; chipped pink nail polish, plastic bead bracelet. An expensive gold, heart shaped locket around her neck. New , most likely received within the week, since there was no corresponding tan line as with the plastic bracelet. A gift from a client to a prostitute, most likely.
He tilted her chin up; remnants of blood crusted the edges of her nostrils, smudged onto the back of her right hand where she'd tried to wipe it away. Her mucus membranes were swollen as well; cocaine addiction.
"Two hours after the first," Lestrade replied.
"She's been dead longer," Sherlock stated.
"How can you tell? They've decayed the same amount," Lestrade said, frowning.
"Exactly," Sherlock said, standing and rounding the body to inspect the cards. At Lestrade's continued silence, he glanced up irritably. "Don't you see? The first body was out in the open. This one is in a cool, dark place, though damp. The rate of decay is naturally arrested."
Sherlock tuned out the Inspector as he murmured something to John, who knelt and began tapping certain parts of the body, pulling open and eyelid with a plastic gloved finger, probing the back of the head. "Less blood around the trap," John said finally. "She must have struggled less. Bruising around the throat says she was strangled. But no signs of a struggle against that, either."
"There's a small dot of blood on the inside of her wrist; she was drugged before being strangled. And, if you look under her finger nails, you'll find a few scraps of cloth, not enough for an analysis, but enough to show she fought at first, if weakly. Now, the cards…John, take a look at the cards," Sherlock said absently. "Inspector, if you'd take prints after we've finished I suspect that would fill a dotted line in your official records, though I doubt you'll find anything of note."
The cards were well-worn, soft around the edges from use and ripped in several places. "A three of hearts, a three of clubs, a three of spades, a king of hearts and a queen of spades." A code, a message from the killer, certainly, but what? Sherlock frowned intently—a heart, like the one around her neck? That put the client as a suspect, though why he would go after her brother—
"It's a poker hand," John said. Sherlock looked up at him blankly. "A pretty good one, too," John continued, by way of explanation. "Close to a full house."
Sherlock sat back on his haunches, gazing at John intently. "You know," he said eventually, "I never would have thought of that."
John tried to repress a grin, biting his lip as his cheeks reddened. "I try," he said modestly.
"No, that was really very good," Sherlock insisted. Part of his mind was telling him that this was ridiculous—anyone could have figured that out, and it was only because Sherlock had been over-thinking the matter that he'd missed the obvious—but the other, more vocal part of his mind was enjoying the look of pleasure on his partner's face.
"Are you quite done flirting now? Some of us have work to do." Sometime during their conversation Anderson had approached, and was glaring down at them with his arms crossed.
"Yes," Sherlock said, rising briskly. "Some of us do. Feel free to follow along and watch, Anderson." Sherlock bit back a smile of his own as he heard John smother a laugh.
After a brief stop at the Yard to discuss how the investigation would proceed, Sherlock and John returned home to Baker Street, whereupon Sherlock immediately threw himself onto the couch, rolling up the sleeve of his dress shirt and pressing two nicotine patches to the inside of his arm. John sat at the desk, cane nearby, typing up the case file for "The Blind Banker".
"If I were homeless," Sherlock said aloud, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes, "Who would I ignore coming into my territory to lay bear traps?"
"I hear there's quite a bear problem in tubes this year," John remarked offhandedly.
"Yes, very funny," Sherlock replied. "But…perhaps…rats…" That may have been the cover—a flimsy one, true, but the London rats were known to be large and vicious, and to a population especially vulnerable to them, perhaps putting down bear traps wouldn't seem so absurd.
The cover story itself was irrelevant, Sherlock decided. The only important thing was that the homeless in the area were not alarmed. Someone they trusted then, and not one of their own, since a person with no income would be hard pressed to purchase any of the things involved in the murders. Impossible for someone to be disguised as one of their population; the denizens of any particular area would know. Assuming the "rat trap" theory for a moment, someone working for or masquerading as pest control? No, that would raise questions from anyone who saw it about possible fees. Good will, then. The church their father worked with….
"John!" Sherlock suddenly sat bolt upright. "John, email Lestrade! Write exactly what I say!"
John, well used to Sherlock's spontaneous orders, immediately pulled up his flatmate's email and tapped in the password as quickly as he could. "Ready."
"Need…a…list…of all charity organizations active in London—Oh, hurry up John, I swear I could train Anderson to type faster than you!" Sherlock said exasperatedly, leaping up and crossing the room in two long strides.
"I'm going, I'm going!" John replied irritably.
"Active in London within the past week—Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock leaned over John, resting his arms on the ex-soldier's shoulders and reaching for the keyboard. He pushed John's hands out of the way impatiently, his long fingers dancing over the keys. He sent it and waited, hands hovering anxiously for a moment longer.
As his initial excitement faded, Sherlock slowly became aware of the sound of John's heartbeat—rather, the feeling of it. Sherlock's chest was pressed against his back, and John's hair was just brushing his chin (he smelled like soap and coffee and sweat). John was sitting ramrod straight, not panting, but certainly not breathing easy. A rush of heat washed through Sherlock from head to foot, and he quickly pulled back, his hands trailing over John's shoulders.
He stood a few feet away, straightening his shirt and calming his own short breaths. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to breathe slowly, bringing his heart rate down. Not now, he thought. There would never be a good time to deal with this, but definitely not now.
"There's a reply," John said, with audible relief. He turned around and locked eyes with Sherlock for a long moment.
Blue eyes, Sherlock thought distractedly. Recessive trait, pigmented by eumelanin. Most likely with some Nordic ancestry, judging by his blond hair and fairly broad features.
Very blue eyes.
"A concussion," Sherlock murmured, after a long moment.
"Sorry?" A frown creased John's brow, but he didn't look away.
"Your pupils are dilated. You might have a concussion," Sherlock elaborated.
John rubbed his eyes, as if that would remove the symptom. "No," he said shortly, then turned back to the computer. "Umm…looks like the local Red Cross has been working in teams to collect food—"
"Too big," Sherlock interrupted. He rubbed his arms briskly, relieved to be on firmer territory. "Too noticeable."
"Next one is a Girl Guides group doing toy collection," John said doubtfully.
Sherlock paced across the small room, running his hands through his hair. "Leave them on the list," he ordered.
John shrugged. "Next, Holy Trinity Church. Last one is a high school project."
"Right." Sherlock clapped his hands together. Holy Trinity was Wilson's. "You're taking the Girl Guides. I'm going to the church."
"Wait, what?" John put both his hands on the table and pushed himself upright with a bit of a struggle, his knee giving out under him once. Sherlock darted forward, catching him under the arms and pulling him upright before hastily backing away. "But I thought we were going to talk to the father."
"I thought I was very clear," Sherlock said coldly, pulling his coat from the hook and knotting his scarf around his neck. "You'll be investigating little girls; their address should be online- and I'll be likewise interrogating the priests." And the father, he added mentally.
"Why…why-?" John asked vaguely, waving his hand. He nevertheless shook out his leg and pulled on his coat, following Sherlock out the door and down the stairs.
Sherlock did not reply until he'd hailed a cab. Just before he got in he turned to John. "I can't be distracted," he said, and slammed the cab door shut behind him, leaving a bewildered John on the curb.
Sherlock rested his forehead against the cool glass of the cab window, after having given the cabby a quick cursory inspection. He'd learned his lesson about cab drivers.
Dice and cards. Games, then. Simple ones; whoever they were dealing with was no Moriarty, to be sure. Games played for what? The victims' freedom? Why would one victim struggle but not the other? Perhaps they'd been convinced to play. Then why would they need to be chained up in the first place?
There were still too many missing pieces, Sherlock thought. Hopefully, visiting the church and the victims' father would fill in a few of them. He doubted that the Girl Guides would provide any though. Like the Red Cross, the organization was just too big. Besides, little girls moved in gaggles, with their mothers hovering over them. It was unlikely one of the adults could have slipped away to pour concrete.
Besides, John's leg was hurting. If Sherlock ran into trouble, which he suspected he would, he'd rather not have John present. Maybe they should start taking cases separately, Sherlock thought disconsolately. He was sure there was something he'd missed that he wouldn't have if John had been less distracting.
"Holy Trinity," the cabby said. Sherlock dutifully counted out a few bills and handed them forward before climbing out onto the sidewalk.
Holy Trinity Church was a small clapboard thing in a sad state of disrepair. Its grayish walls had almost certainly once been white, and several shingles were missing from the roof.
Sherlock let himself in, emerging from the small entrance hall to the main body of the church. He frowned as his footsteps echoed through the empty space. Crucifix on the far wall. Typical altar, if a little threadbare. Wooden pews with visible signs of wear.
There was a door on either side of the altar—he chose one at random, knowing from experience they would both lead to the same place. Sure enough, he entered into a long hallway lined with offices; the business half of the church.
Here there were a few more people; he stopped a passing girl with a stack of papers and adopted a look of wide-eyed nervousness.
"Um, excuse me, miss, I, could you help me?" he said, making sure his eyes darted around, as if he were still trying to find something even as he spoke.
The girl, initially irritated at being stopped, softened. "Sure," she said softly. "What do you need?"
"I, um, I'm interested in doing some volunteer work, I'm new here and I want to get involved, and, well, I heard I could start here—" he babbled.
The girl smiled, quirking her eyebrows in a way Sherlock recognized as pityingly. "You want Mr. Wilson. He's right back there." She pointed to an office door a few meters down the hall.
"Oh, thank you!" Sherlock gushed, stepping away.
"No problem, " the girl said. She pushed her hair behind her ear. "I—it's nice to meet you."
Oh dear. "And you as well," he said briskly. "Perhaps we'll meet again," he lied, and turned on his heel.
He knocked on the door to Mr. Wilson's office, then let himself in anyway. He scanned the room quickly; bookshelves lined with tattered board games, children's toys and books, all obviously second hand, a wilting potted plant, and a cheap ply wood desk painted to look like real wood. Frosted windows behind the desk showed the church's cemetery.
"Hello," he announced to the portly gentleman behind the desk. "You're the Director of Charitable Services?" he said, having read that off the sign on his door.
Mr. Wilson nodded. He had a wrinkled, kindly face, tanned and careworn and crowned by thinning blond hair. He was wearing a plain, functional flannel shirt that fit him rather poorly—he'd recently lost weight, Sherlock thought. He had a Rolex on his left wrist, and though he wore no wedding ring, there was a tan line on the fourth finger of his left hand. Divorced, then.
"How can I help you?" Mr. Wilson said, folding his hands on his desk. The cuffs of his sleeves were dusted with a fine gray powder.
"I'm here for the Scotland Yard," he lied, flashing one of Lestrade's pilfered badges as a sense of triumph filled him. Concrete dust.
Mr. Wilson covered his face with his hands. "Ellie and Matthew?" he asked hoarsely. "I've already been questioned."
"Just a few more," Sherlock said soothingly.
Mr. Wilson sighed. "I'll tell you what I told the last man. They're from my first marriage with Eleanor Gray, you can talk to her too, she's a nurse—"
"Please continue," Sherlock interrupted, forcing back his impatience.
"I raised them. We were well off, but when they were young I lost my job—" Mr. Wilson shrugged sadly. "Eleanor and I had some fights, she left. Ellie and Matthew stayed with me. And I—I did my best, I really did, but I was working two, sometimes three jobs, and I couldn't keep tabs on them, and before I knew it—" he broke off, burying his face in his hands once more. "Eleanor remarried, had another daughter. I got involved with the church. It saved me," he said, looking up at Sherlock with exhausted eyes. "Now, if that's all you need…." Mr. Wilson said tiredly. "This is, if you'll excuse me, a bad time."
"Oh?" Sherlock said, leaning forward.
"One of our, one of our members," he said, his voice hushed. "Her husband just died, but she's in a bit of bad spot and couldn't pay for the burial. So, me and couple of the others did it ourselves. Could you maybe come back later?"
A slow sense of dread sank into Sherlock's bones. Concrete dust. At that moment, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the caller ID: John.
"Excuse me for a moment," he told Mr. Wilson, and exited the office into the hallway. He flipped open the phone. "John, I was wrong, you need to—"
"Is that how you greet everyone?" It was not John's voice. It was soft, female, elderly, most likely the true speaker because of the lack of hesitation between words. Not a game like Moriarty's, then. The thoughts raced through his mind—the only reason this woman would be using John's phone would be if she'd taken it from him.
"Eleanor Gray," Sherlock said, recovering quickly. "Why are you calling me?"
"Because I have John!" Eleanor replied brightly.
Sherlock shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to fight the sick wave of helplessness that threatened to make him useless. This seemed to happen every other day, he thought irritably. He was never letting John out of his sight after this.
"What do you want?" he asked tiredly, but he was already moving briskly towards the door of the church, breaking into a sprint when he reached the street. He waved an arm frantically for a cab until one pulled over.
"Scotland Yard," he ordered the cabby, holding the phone away from his mouth and covering it with one gloved hand.
There was silence on the other end of the line. "You're not going to ask me to prove it? That I have him?" Eleanor asked.
"No," Sherlock replied, willing the cab faster and wishing a swift and painful death to the lost tourists going what seemed about two kilometers per hour in front of them. "Obviously you do, because it would be a foolish bluff to make, since it is so easily disproved."
"Well, then," she said, sounding a little put out. "Aren't you going to ask me why I did it?"
"No," Sherlock said again. "You never left Ellie and Matt as thoroughly as their father thought, but taking care of them proved too painful. You wouldn't risk your daughter turning out like them, so you removed evidence of your failure."
"What about how?" Eleanor asked eagerly.
Because you're absolutely insane, Sherlock thought, mind racing. "The people around them were used to your presence, took no note of you. You let your children be caught, coming home drunk, or high, so they wouldn't notice the traps. Then you offered them a bargain—" He could see it clearly in his mind now—their mother stepping out from the shadows, giving her children a deal; play a game with her. If they won, freedom from the trap, money to get back on their feet. If they lost….
"Matt won his game," Sherlock continued, "but you never had any intention of letting him live. You left the key to the trap just out of his reach, let him bleed to death. Ellie lost—you stole something from your work, some kind of drug, and you knocked her out, then strangled her."
There was another drawn out silence from the other end of the line, and the cab pulled up to the curb in front of the Yard. Sherlock threw a twenty pound note at the cabby, not bothering with change and leapt out, shoving through the crowd and into the building. Once again, he pulled the phone away from his mouth.
"Lestrade!" he bellowed. "Lestrade!"
"What was that?" Eleanor said. "You should know, if I think you're cheating, I'll kill him."
Sherlock's blood ran cold. "Cheating at what?" he said calmly. "I never agreed to play a game with you."
"Oh, you will," Eleanor said lightly. "I'll offer you the same thing I offered them; what you want most in the world—"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock said impatiently.
Sergeant Donovan appeared at his side. "This had better be good, freak," she said. He waved her off, holding up one finger, then strode off towards Lestrade's office, Donovan on his heels.
Eleanor laughed, a chilling sound. "I know you like a challenge, but that's not what I'm talking about. That's a means to an end. See, I've been watching you for a while now, and I know what you really care about."
Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock thought. Sociopath—did these people not understand?
There was muffled protest on the other end of the line, and Sherlock strained his ears. John, doubtless.
"Of course he'll come for you, honey." Eleanor's voice was also muffled, probably by an ineffective hand over the mouthpiece.
"Put a trace on John Watson's phone," Sherlock said, then rattled off the phone number to a surprised Donovan as they burst into Lestrade's office. To Sherlock's relief, for once she did not question him, instead disappearing into a neighboring computer lab.
The Inspector looked up from his paper work in surprise, but remained silent when he saw the look on Sherlock's face. Anderson, standing behind him, scowled and opened his mouth to speak when Lestrade held up a hand. Sherlock immediately pulled a wire up from Lestrade's laptop, plugging it into his phone.
"How do I know you'll honor your half of the bargain?" Sherlock asked flatly. "You've already cheated one victor out of his prize."
"I suppose you'll just have to trust me. Are you interested?" Eleanor's voiced echoed loudly through the office.
"Propose your game," Sherlock said coldly. He had no choice. At the moment, Eleanor held all the power, and Sherlock would just have to go along with her and wait for a moment to seize it back.
Lestrade and Anderson shared a confused look, and Sherlock snatched a piece of paper from Lestrade's desk, scribbling a summary of events. Sherlock watched as the blood drained from the other two men's faces—nice to know he wasn't the only one disturbed by John's fascinatingly frequent habit of getting kidnapped by madmen.
"Oh, wonderful!" Eleanor said delightedly. "I'll give you the same terms I gave my children-if you win, you get what you want most. If you don't, I take it."
Sherlock shut his eyes tightly. "The rules?" He'd endured jokes about his relationship with John before, but damn it all if this wasn't the sickest.
"I have a gun on him, you know," Eleanor said. "If that door opens and you haven't won, I'll shoot him right between the eyes."
"Then I suppose I'll have to win, won't I?" Sherlock began pacing the room, tangling his fingers in his hair and rubbing his temples. "What shall we play?"
"Hmm," Eleanor hummed. "My daughter plays the cutest game with her friends, but I doubt you'll know it—"
"Try me," Sherlock replied impatiently.
Donovan burst into the room. "Room off—"
Lestrade hushed her, and she wrote the address on a piece of paper. Sherlock spared time for an impatient headshake; criminal classes these days. But then, they couldn't all be Moriarty.
"Surround it, but don't make a move until I give the order," Lestrade murmured.
Donovan nodded, sprinting off down the hall to assemble her team.
"Two truths and a lie?" Eleanor proposed. "The first one to get one wrong is the loser."
Sherlock blinked slowly. "Why not?" So, he would be playing for John's life at a game bored teenage girls invented in order to gossip. He'd done more absurd things in his life.
Moriarty's face flashed through his mind. "I'll burn the heart out of you."
"I'll go first," Eleanor said. "I was 30 when I first got married, I've had three children, and my youngest daughter is a straight-A student."
"The first one is the lie," Sherlock said instantly. Wilson looked about sixty; chances were good Eleanor was the same age. Matt had been at least forty, and Eleanor was the kind of woman who got divorced over financial insecurity. She wouldn't have had a son out of wedlock.
"Correct! Your turn, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock thought for a brief moment, watching over Lestrade's shoulder as he activated a camera in one of the police cars. It showed an average townhouse, fairly wealthy, with flowers in window boxes. Armed police were surrounding it, pointing guns at the windows, the doors. Sherlock saw a curtain twitch on the second floor, and he tapped the grainy image on the screen.
There, he mouthed to Lestrade, who nodded and alerted his team.
"I graduated high school when I was fifteen, the only thing I can cook is toast, and I hate animals," he said.
"You're a smart man, and following directions is easy…the second one is a lie."
"Correct," Sherlock replied, biting his lip until he tasted blood.
"And I do see the police, by the way, Mr. Holmes. It's a good thing that you haven't told them to move."
"Let me talk to him," Sherlock said suddenly.
"I can't do that—you two are tricky," Eleanor said.
"Put it on speaker," Sherlock said impatiently.
"Well…" There was a brief rumbling on the other end of the line, the phone changing hands, and then—
"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?" John's voice, tight with stress but undeniably alive filled the room.
Sherlock's shoulders sagged. "My God, John, why are you asking me that?" he retorted.
"I went to the house and she opened the door and clubbed me, Sherlock, with a frying pan, I swear I—"
"John, stop. We can talk about this later," Sherlock said, forcing his voice to remain level. "Right now, I need you to not move. Do you understand? Don't make her angry. Do not move."
"Right," John answered.
"My turn, Mr. Holmes!" Eleanor chimed in.
Sherlock leaned over Lestrade's shoulder, scribbling on a piece of paper 'Where's Donovan?' Lestrade tapped the screen, indicating the building across the street. Sherlock nodded, and wrote a few directions that Lestrade quickly passed on to the Sergeant.
"Go right ahead, Mrs. Gray."
"My mother was a drunk, I never knew my father…and, I loved Ellie and Matt."
"Getting a little personal, aren't we?" Sherlock said, playing for time. He tapped the piece of paper asking about Donovan again, and Lestrade tapped the second floor of the grainy picture of the house across the street.
"Just choose, Mr. Holmes," Eleanor replied testily.
Sherlock closed his eyes, images of John looking up at him in that ridiculous parka, pounds of explosives strapped to his chest crowding into his mind. The feeling of pulling the trigger, John's warm weight slamming into him, sending them both tumbling into the pool as the world exploded above them, John curling up around him, protecting him as best he could as the pool shattered—
"Mr. Holmes, you're running out of time," Eleanor said.
"You can't change the rules half way through the game!" Sherlock snapped, eyes flying open in an uncensored display of panic.
"Ten…nine…eight…"
"Fine! Fine!" Sherlock jabbed frantically at the paper again, and Lestrade tapped a quick message into his phone.
"Three…two…"
"The second is the lie," Sherlock said quickly.
"How did you know?" Eleanor's voice sounded surprised, and Sherlock exhaled slowly, falling back against the wall and sliding slowly down it.
"It was obvious," he lied coolly. But thank God he had had a fifty percent chance—he didn't much like those odds as it was, gambling with John's life. "If you didn't love your children, you wouldn't have tried to help them for so long."
"But my father?"
"I believe it's my turn," Sherlock deflected. "First…my brother is very likely watching this entire scene play out. Second, there is currently a head in my refrigerator. Third…I love."
Lestrade looked up at him in open surprise, which Sherlock replied to by slamming his hand flat on the note insistently. He responded by writing quickly 'Ready'.
"Love what?" Eleanor said irritably.
"Triviality," Sherlock replied. Lestrade picked up a hand radio, finger hovering over the call button.
"Then…I'd have to say…"
Sherlock nodded.
"Now!" Lestrade bellowed, and a shot rang out. There was a muffled cry from the other end of the line, and on the screen a police officer kicked down the door.
Sherlock grabbed the phone. "John? John, are you alright? Answer me!" More thumping from the phone. A lot of shouting. Then—
"Sherlock? My God, what the hell was that?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall he was leaning against. A smile spread across his face unheeded. "I got the idea from you, you know."
"Could you have someone get me out of the bear trap?" John suggested.
"Oh, God, yes, alright, Lestrade, tell them, go, faster!" Sherlock snapped incoherently. How had he missed that bite of pain in John's voice? Stupid! "I'll be there in twenty minutes, faster if I can get the cabby to let me drive."
For an extra tenner, Sherlock got behind the wheel and there in ten minutes. He screeched to a halt as close to the scene as he could manage and leapt out of the car, stumbling a little when he hit the curb. Sherlock spun wildly for a moment—there, sitting on the back of an ambulance, an orange blanket draped around his shoulders.
"John!" Sherlock shouted, relief making his voice hoarse.
The ex-soldier looked up then broke into a smile, struggling upright until an irate nurse pushed him back down. Sherlock wove through the crowd of officers, stopping briefly to clap Donovan on the back. He stopped a few meters away from John. Right leg of his jeans cut off, bandages wrapped around underneath—where he was caught in the bear trap. Stitches already done, apparently. His gaze swept upwards, taking in every detail of John's appearance until it reached his face. Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, mouth open in consternation.
"You…You…are never allowed to leave the flat again," he said finally.
John scowled up at him, and Sherlock didn't think he'd ever been so happy to see him mad. "Then you'll have to buy the groceries."
"You have yourself a deal," Sherlock said instantly, his gaze tracing every inch of his partner, memorizing him; his eyes, the shape of his mouth, the slope of his shoulders, his rough hands.
They froze like that for a moment (eumelanin, Nordic descent, 33.3% of the population and decreasing), and a slow, mischievous grin spread across John's face.
"Concussion, Sherlock?"
"Doubtful, as I'm not the one with the penchant towards letting myself become a hostage with horrifying regularity," Sherlock snapped back. "I rarely get hurt. It comes with being a genius."
John stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. "You're fantastic," he said.
Sherlock's brow wrinkled in confusion as he watched John laugh at him, and briefly considered how nearly he'd lost that. Then he said, his voice catching, "Oh, God." He seemed to break at the waist, dropping his forehead against John's and clutching his shoulders. He closed his eyes tightly, oblivious to the stares they were accumulating.
John pulled back a moment, surprised, then leaned into his touch, letting the tension melt out of his body. "It's fine, Sherlock, I'm alright, and you're alright, and it's all fine…" He kept up a constant stream of murmurs, his hands coming up to grip Sherlock's, his thumbs rubbing circles into his palms. Their breaths mingled in the cold air, twin clouds of steam.
Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath, then straightened up. John tilted his head; it was like watching a steel door come down over his features. One minute, John could've sworn he'd seen concern, fear, affection and then…nothing.
"Well. Then. If you can walk we should go back to the Yard," Sherlock said, clearing his throat and looking away. He straightened his scarf, tying a neat knot it in it from where it had been haphazardly thrown around his neck on the way to the scene.
"Right," John said, grabbing hold of the ambulance door and pulling himself upright. "Only I…I left my cane. Back at the flat," he said awkwardly. "My bad leg is fine now, but…" He gestured helplessly to the bandaging around his leg, under the ragged edges of his massacred jeans.
Sherlock stared blankly at him for a moment. "Oh!" He slid his arm around John's waist, and together they made their way to a police car, whose hapless driver was unprepared to deal with an impatient and haughty Sherlock.
"There's an arm in the fridge. Not a head. So," John said lightly, looking out the window once they were both seated in the cab. "You love."
"A bluff," Sherlock scoffed. "To play for time."
"Alright," John said mildly. "Whatever you say."
Sherlock sent him a venomous look, and John gazed back innocently. "Of course whatever I say. I'm always right."
"Of course," John replied, looking back out the window. A few moments passed in silence. "You're a terrible sociopath you know," John remarked.
Sherlock glared daggers at the back of his flatmate's head. "Oh, shut up."
BFFLS