Author's note: in the beginning, "A Study In Reverse" was supposed to be a one shot. But it worked well (especially on AO3) and few comments asked me for more. It made me think about it, and finally, I complied. Enjoy!
Thanks again to Asian-Inkwell for the beta! You're awesome!
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In The Middle Of Nowhere
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When the first ringing had sounded, I wasn't even paying attention. I had looked up at the phone booth, quickly, and then had looked at my watch, sighing at the late hour, and had passed my way. The ringing had stopped, and I had gone away, the light from the street rocked by the flashing lights of cars.
I had finally reached the avenue lined with lighted windows. People were walking around, lovers or friends, which had the deep knack of irritating me considerably. I never understood this liking that could have people to spread their happiness so childishly. I always hated these emotional expressions. And I hated them all the more at this moment that it was the momentum caused by my natural inclinations that had brought me here.
So far, I've never given importance to affect. Very few people were able to claim to be 'close' to me. Even fewer were these impulses which sent me without thinking God knows where. And John Watson had appeared, with his jumpers, his gentleness, his extraordinary gift, to give me a crime scene on a silver platter, and I have been unable to resist. I had found myself in the middle of a picture that I had only seen in my dreams, in spite of myself fascinated by the incredible faculties of my probable future flatmate. For several minutes, plunged in my element, I had been transcended, adrenaline pulsing through my veins, I had felt revived again. And then nothing. John had had an enlightenment and, transported by inspiration, had disappeared, leaving me stranded. Him gone, I then had become once again invisible. The DI had his men returned to the scene and had completely lost interest in me. And the only person who gave me her attention was that sergeant who openly disapproved the doctor's incursions on crime scenes. 'Stay away from John Watson', she had said, after introducing him to me as a potential psychopath. My shoulders tensed at the memory.
Leaning on my cane along the sidewalk, I finally raised my arm to hail a taxi, wishing to escape the crowds and go home, with the certainty of having needlessly lost my evening.
"Taxi! Taxi!" I called out.
But the black vehicle passed me without stopping. Holding a curse between my teeth, I resigned myself to walk a little. It was then that I noticed the insistent ringing phone in the cafe next door. Looking up, I saw one of the employees then reach out to pick up, but the ringing stopped even before he had reached the receiver.
I then thought back momentarily to the phone booth that had rang on my way, next door to the crime scene, and I felt my shoulders shrink under the weight of vexation. It seemed clear that these calls weren't a fluke. Who could call? A hoaxer? A bored communications employee? Renouncing to know, I turned away, determined to ignore these signals that, obviously, were addressed to me.
But when, a few yards away, another phone booth rang in turn, I stopped, annoyed. I immediately looked around, searching for the source of my trouble, but didn't find it. So I nervously opened the door, entered the phone booth and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?" I greeted with an unkind voice.
Not at all impressed by my lack of urbanity, a voice came through the phone, serious and calm:
"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it? "
My shoulders fell before the racy tone that was full of arrogance.
"Who's this? Who's speaking?"
"Do you see the camera, Mr Holmes? "
It was clear that I had no choice. I leaned on the window and looked up. At the corner of the building in question, a lens was indeed looking in my direction.
"Yeah, I see it", I sighed while wondering why this camera was so extraordinary.
"Watch."
I watched. The camera then swung to the right, pointing its eye on one end of the road.
"There is another camera on the building opposite to you. Do you see it? "
I remained silent, but nevertheless fixed my gaze on the lens, certain that no movement would be made without that I would be the viewer. It also swung, now eyeing to a portion of a wall.
"And finally, at the top of the building to your right."
I had to bend down a little to see, and then the camera swung in turn. In spite of myself, this little trick impressed me and worried me at the same time. All this for what?
"How are you doing this?" I asked.
"Get into the car, Mr Holmes", the voice replied then. "I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."
And the man hung up, leaving me alone in front of a car that had just parked beside the phone booth, and the driver opened the passenger door.
The receiver still in hand, my shoulders fell with an exasperated sigh. I didn't know who this clown was, but he had poorly chosen his moment. Unfortunately, the little trick of my interlocutor with the cameras made me understand that I had no other choice but to comply. So I put the receiver on the fork, left the phone booth and climbed into the car.
In the back seat, sat a young woman in a black striped suit. I quickly noticed the long brown hair and the Blackberry on which she typed continuously.
"Hello", I said.
"Hi."
There was a silence. Turning my eyes again on the woman, I finally finished to notice that this person was totally unknown to me. In vain did I observe her, she reminded me of no one in particular. She could be a secretary or a secret agent.
"What's your name, then?" I decided to ask.
She didn't even look up from her phone.
"Er… Anthea", she replied as if it was the first name that came to her mind.
"Is that your real name?"
I only asked for form's sake, already anticipating her answer. This time, she looked at me.
"No", she admitted with a little smile of apology.
But she didn't even so reveal her true identity. She returned to her Blackberry. I quickly looked through the rear window, trying to determine where we could go.
"I'm Sherlock", I introduced myself, more to fill the ambient silence than by real social interaction.
"Yes. I know."
Her tone, as if I had just stated the obvious, immediately tickled something in my mind. I looked at her, but she remained quietly focused on her phone. Not a muscle of her face had flinched. How could she know me? Would she…? It was then a huge doubt grabbed me. He didn't…
"Any point in asking where I'm going?" so I asked.
But then again, I came up against her refusal:
"None at all. Sherlock."
And I noticed her irony in the pronunciation of my name. Defeated, I resolved not to insist. However, knowing that she knew me without knowing her back annoyed me deeply.
"Okay."
The car went on its way, silently, and then came down in a basement to stop in what looked like a warehouse. The high ceiling covered with pipes neon lighted rows of metal shelves cluttered with various objects.
The car moved forward, slowed, and the headlights revealed to me, about fifteen yards ahead, the presence of a chair, in front of which stood a man in a suit with his legs crossed, casually leaning on an umbrella. I recognized him immediately, and a ball of rage went up in my chest.
I got out of the vehicle, teeth clenched, and limped to him. Raising his umbrella, he pointed to the chair before him.
"Have a seat, Sherlock."
But I set a firm silence as I approached. This big fat slob had dared. He had dared to treat me like all the strangers he could pick up along the sidewalk. By sending me his car and his assistant.
"You know, I've got a phone", I hissed. "I mean, very clever and all that, but you could just phone me. On my phone."
But Mycroft didn't get flustered before my mood. He looked at me quietly planting myself fiercely in front of him.
"When one is avoiding the attention of John Watson", he explained, "one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."
"I don't want to sit down", I replied sharply, irritated by the honeyed smile he served me.
My reaction seemed to surprise him.
"You don't seem very afraid", he noticed.
"You have never seemed very frightening."
My answer made him chuckle.
"Yes… The bravery of the detective. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to John Watson?"
His question took me almost by surprise. How did he know John?
"I don't have one", I replied spontaneously. "I barely know him. I met him yesterday."
"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"
The condescending and slightly mocking tone he used displeased me deeply. Who was he to judge my relationship with John? And most importantly, why was he interested in John? He was a doctor. Certainly with faculties and activities that went far beyond medicine, but why a doctor would interest someone like Mycroft?
"Who are you to him?" I wanted to know.
"An interested party", Mycroft replied, and his voice had the accents of a truth he wanted to hide.
His answer, however, was far to satisfy me.
"Interested in John? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."
But his uncommunicative face made me understand that I had played the wrong card. Friendship. This is a vast subject on which Mycroft liked to expound at length with me.
Certainly, I didn't have any friends. Or very little. With the notable exception of Mike that I had seen the day before completely by chance, my friends list was reduced to nothing. And this list was a lever on which Mycroft loved to pull.
"You should meet yourself. How many friends do you imagine you have? I am the closest thing to a friend that you're capable of having."
"And what's that?"
"An enemy."
He had said it as if it was obvious.
"An enemy?" I repeated.
That was new. An enemy?
"In your mind, certainly", Mycroft justified himself serenely. "If one was to ask you, you'd probably say your arch-enemy. You do love to be dramatic."
"Well, thank god you're above all that", I retaliated coldly.
I felt the atmosphere warm up very quickly. Until now, I had the courtesy to oppose certain calm. But Mycroft had the unfortunate knack of getting me out of my temper easily without even raising his voice.
My answer seemed to offend him, to my delight. But he had no opportunity to argue. My mobile phone rang in my pocket, signalling me a text. Without paying any more attention to Mycroft, I put my hand in my pocket, pulled out my phone and looked at the message.
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Baker Street.
Come at once
if convenient.
JW
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"I hope I'm not distracting you", Mycroft worried ingenuously with his so wickedly smooth voice.
To agree would have given him too much credit.
"Not distracting me at all", I replied calmly.
And I put back my phone in my pocket.
"Do you plan to continue your association with John Watson?"
This time, I couldn't help a frustrated breath to escape.
"I could be wrong", I hissed, "but I think that's none of your business."
"It could be."
"It really couldn't."
But Mycroft obviously didn't care about my position. He hung his umbrella on his arm, then drew his lapel and pulled out a brown leather notebook that he opened quietly.
"If you do move into… 221B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."
Then he closed the notebook and put it away in the most natural way.
I was visibly affected before the luxury of details he knew, wobbling slightly on my legs, clinging to my cane. At the same time, I less understood Mycroft's motivations.
"Why?" I wanted to know.
"Because you have never been a wealthy man."
"In exchange for what?"
He had a split second of silence. He seemed to understand by my question that I hadn't believed the argument a moment.
"Information", so he replied. "Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."
"Why?"
It was the only question that haunted me. Why? Why pretend to give me money for this reason when he could offer me when he wanted to? Not that I attached importance to the gesture, I had always been proud to refuse his help. But why would Mycroft make the effort to pay me money, his brother, for a reason as trivial as a ridiculous domestic spying?
I saw the expression in his eyes that he had followed the trajectory of my thoughts. His face had suddenly softened, mixed with a kind of sadness that I didn't care about.
"I worry about you", he admitted as if it explained everything. "Constantly."
"That's nice of you", I replied abruptly.
Mycroft understood with my irony he would have nothing to gain by striking a chord. Renouncing to call on the good feelings, he returned to the heart of the matter, as if the exchange we just had had never occurred.
"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned", he continued then. "We have what you might call a… difficult contact."
But I didn't want to feel sorry about Mycroft's failures about trying to spy or to attach John's services, and even if I wanted, I didn't have the time. My mobile phone rang again the receiving of a second text message. I immediately took my phone out, with the certainty of already guessing who the message came from.
.
If inconvenient,
come anyway.
JW
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I couldn't help but smile. Obviously, John needed my cooperation again. Immediately, my mind went back to Lauriston Garden. The extraordinary display of strength that I had attended. Then I imagined John, nice John, with his jumpers and his real camaraderie. The indulgent smile he had before reading me as an opened book, as if apologizing in advance for what he was about to do. 'Piss off ', people generally said after that. Could they even understand the man they had in front of them? I had underestimated him, initially; I thought it was a simple trick to impress his audience. But I was wrong. Lauriston Garden had made it clear. He had a perfect knowledge of his faculties, of course, but was far too integrated to use it for third-rate reasons. Intelligent and responsive, he was the brilliant mind that I had always dreamed of becoming. And for some reason that escaped me, he asked after me, Sherlock Holmes, a detective without talent coming out of rehab. This thought immediately blew me energy and confidence that Mycroft's millions could never give me. One needed me, and that was all that mattered to me at that moment.
"No", I replied simply, putting away my mobile phone.
"But I haven't mentioned a figure", Mycroft protested.
"Don't bother."
But my new determination did nothing else than make him laugh.
"You're very loyal, very quickly", he found amusing.
"No, I'm not", I claimed, "I'm just not interested."
It wasn't quite true, but I didn't care. Mycroft's smile soon disappeared, and he took his notebook back from his jacket.
" 'Trust issues ' ", he quoted, waving it in my direction, "it says here."
His quote made me frown. 'Trust issues '. That was what my therapist had written word for word in her notes no later than during our session yesterday. Could it be possible that…
"What's that?" I inquired to be sure.
But Mycroft didn't even look up at me, absorbed in his notebook.
"Could it be that you've decided to trust John Watson of all people?" He wanted to know.
"Who says I trust him?"
"You have never been the kind to make friends easily."
The lever of friendship, again. I was getting tired of this despicable resort. But even more despicable was the way he had to obtain information that weren't in any way his business.
"Are we done?" I hissed.
"You tell me", Mycroft replied with complete peace of mind.
He put the ball in my court. My hand tightened on my cane while we exchanged a long and resentful silent look. None of us flinched. Very well. So I turned on my heels, and signified my leave by taking the direction of the car. John had requested my help, so I had no intention to continue this insipid conversation any longer.
But Mycroft's voice rose in my back:
"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."
Sergeant Donovan's words came back immediately to me: 'Stay away from John Watson '. But more than the allusion to that tart, it was my left hand that made me see red. I turned, full of suppressed anger.
"My what?" I grinded.
"Show me", he invited me with a smile that made me understand that he knew a lot about it.
I remained motionless, refusing to grant Mycroft the pleasure, glaring at him. But Mycroft merely rely on his umbrella casually, as if he had all the time in the world. Never mind, determined to put an end to this game, I raised my hand, and showed it to him as he had asked.
Immediately, Mycroft approached hanging his umbrella on his arm and tried to grab my hand, but I concealed to his gesture, openly hostile to his touch.
"Don't."
Mycroft first gave me a scolding look, and then raised encouraging eyebrows with a kind of smile, like to a child to encourage him to finish his spinach. Finally, I agreed to give my hand to Mycroft, to finish, and to be left alone. He took it in his, examined it a few seconds, and his verdict was unexpected:
"Remarkable."
"What is it?" I asked, removing my hand immediately.
Mycroft turned away.
"Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars", he explained quietly. "When you walk with John Watson, you see the chase. You've seen it already, haven't you?"
But I didn't give a damn about what people or I could see.
"What's wrong with my hand?" I asked.
Mycroft looked at me right in the eyes.
"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your… accident."
This new evidence proving he poked his nose into my business made me grit my teeth. I was definitely on the verge of making him swallow his umbrella.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" I hissed. "How do you know that?"
"Fire her", Mycroft exhorted me. He didn't seem to notice my anger or had decide to ignore it. "She's got it the wrong way. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the chase, Sherlock… you miss it."
He leaned over me, slightly mocking, as slightly as could by Mycroft Holmes.
"Welcome back", he breathed.
But I refused to meet his eyes, knowing that if I did, I couldn't be responsible for my actions. Mycroft then turned and walked away, turning his umbrella between his fingers. Then my text alarm rang for the third time.
"Time to choose a side, Sherlock", Mycroft threw at me as a last warning.
I heard a noise of doors, but I remained motionless, looking at Mycroft, our conversation turning my head in utter disorders. At that point I didn't see this girl – Anthea – approaching behind me, eyes still on her Blackberry.
"I'm to take you home", went her voice on my back and I turned.
She had said it as a mother would about taking her child home. But I didn't care about her opinion.
I put my hand in my pocket and took my mobile phone once more.
.
Could be
dangerous.
JW
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I read the message, put away my phone, and then looked at my hand. Not a tremor. My hand, usually so hard to keep up, didn't show the slightest tremor. I smiled.
'Could be dangerous '. Dangerous? That was my case. I had always loved danger, it made me feel alive. And once I had the wonderful idea of chasing an armed suspect being completely high, what could I risk more dangerous than that?
Mycroft's words came to me, but I banished them without a shadow of remorse. There was someone, somewhere in London, who needed my help, for me it was worth all the money and all the families in the world.
"Address?" Asked 'Anthea'
I didn't hesitate a second.
"Baker Street", I replied with self-insurance. "221B Baker Street."
Then I walked to the black car.
"But I need to stop off somewhere first."
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I opened my door, closed it behind me and turned on the light. Without waiting, I walked to my desk and opened the drawer. I grabbed my gun and checked the magazine, out of habit. Then I slid the gun under my belt, on my back, and left without looking back.
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