A/N:
What's that you say? You're wondering why I'm here, publishing this completely out-of-the-blue story instead of continuing with my other one, Shadowman? Well, that makes two of us. But I literally woke up with this in my head today, and rather than bang my skull against a wall to get rid of it, I thought I'd write it down.
Don't worry, Shadowman is still going (if you were actually worried). I just felt an uncontrollable need to ramble...
Disclaimer-if you recognize it, it's not mine! (Including this disclaimer!)
Thank you for reading!
~Knyle B.
Ding. D-ding.
Sherlock catalogued the sound of the flat's buzzer with a faint huff of annoyance. A client, undoubtedly: the timid ring suggested a tiring one. Without bothering to look up from the experiment on the kitchen table in front of him, the detective raised the volume of his sigh to audible levels and turned it into a call. "John. Door."
Silence answered. Unbothered, Sherlock plucked up his mobile and sent off a similarly informative text.
To: John W.
'Doors don't open on their own.'
Minutes passed by, but strangely, there was no immediate grumping or shuffling from any part of the flat to show that his message had been received. Instead, his phone pinged. His brow furrowing, Sherlock snatched it up in long, pale fingers and read the unhelpful display.
From: John W.
'And it took you how long to figure that out? Go and answer the door yourself, Sherlock.'
Momentarily distracted from the view down his microscope, Sherlock set the phone aside and glanced up, running his silver eyes lightning-quick over his surroundings. Empty kitchen. Empty sitting room. No sound of activity in any other parts of the flat. John was decidedly absent. He scowled for a second, ordering his mind to explain the unforgivable situation.
To: John W.
'You are not here.'
Ping.
From: John W.
'And you really are the world's greatest detective. You haven't answered that poor sod at the door yet, have you?'
Sherlock frowned at the mobile, back in his pale grasp. The search for justification of John's absence had been ongoing through the texts, and it alerted him tersely that a result had been found. Sliding the phone to the side, Sherlock reviewed his findings. A faint snippet had been dredged up in response to his search. Cast off to a corner of his "To Be Sorted" room, the receiving center for all new information within his Mind Palace, it consisted of a conversation between John and himself the previous morning. He was pleased to discover that a brief mental picture had been logged with the event as well: him lounging on the sofa whilst his flatmate stood in the doorway, a lightly-packed suitcase in hand.
"It'll only be for four days, Sherlock," John had been saying, his tone at once exasperated and placating in response to the pout on Sherlock's face. "Dublin isn't that far. I'll be back the night the conference ends."
Sherlock's scowl turned into a grimace as the occurrence was at last slotted into its proper place within the usable regions of his databanks. John was not home because he hadn't been since the day before. He'd gone off to participate in some dull medical conference. In Dublin. For four whole days. Well, three now. Unless John had discounted the previous day of travel and had meant that the first had started that morning. It didn't matter, Sherlock decided. It was still an unconscionably long time for the smaller man to neglect his tea-making, deduction-appreciating, flatmate-following, and blogging duties.
It was also horribly unintelligent. Being in Dublin whilst Sherlock remained in London meant that John was alone. Hadn't the bombings in one of their previous cases taught him anything about precaution? He had already been kidnapped twice in the time that Sherlock had known him, both times by the criminal element and both times narrowly escaping an early grave. The Chinese had most certainly been nullified, thanks to several discrete tip-offs that had been made to a relatively minor chapter of the British government, but that only took one of the offending parties out of the way.
To: John W. 'Being a doctor is an excellent excuse to carry a knife, Dublin barmaids known to be over-friendly, and alleyways unfit for even homeless occupation. Take precautionary measures.'
Sherlock had yet to track down and dismantle the second of his friend's captors, much to his vexation—and inner delight. Personal dichotomy aside, though, the facts still remained: A) Moriarty was still out there, and B) John was on his own.
He was on his own, too.
Feeling a bit peeved about the unnecessary importance that his thoughts had attached to that last statement, Sherlock shoved ungraciously away from the table and stood, sweeping out of the room with his black coat in tow. Now that he had sorted out the correct information, he was disgusted to find that he didn't want it. Where could the feeble inclination to reject true data have come from? And what was the most expedient way for him to eradicate it?
Ping.
He stopped and detoured back to the kitchen table, grabbing his phone and pausing to read the contents of his new message rather than simply slipping it into his pocket.
From: John W.
'Surgeons' conference and knives? Weird.'
Ping.
From: John W.
'Happen to know any barmaids in particular? And don't worry, I wouldn't go anywhere near an alleyway anyway. A comfortable room is generally more expected.'
There was a moment of weakness allowed as Sherlock felt a small smile curve on his lips. Shaking his head at his flatmate's sarcastic humor, he typed back quickly.
To: John W.
'Was referring to possible disguises for assassins and likely ambush sites. Idiot.'
Ping.
From: John W.
'Was trying to get world's smartest man to repeat the obvious. :-P Idiot: 1. Genius: 0.'
Sherlock allowed himself a full two-second's worth of grin before another text came, its contents stifling his blossoming good will.
Ping.
From: John W.
'Starting some sort of ruddy ice-breaking thing with the surgical crew. Phone's getting confiscated by the head nurse. Looks a right battle axe; I'll text when we're done, if I ever get this back. Oh, and try to remember to eat something when you finish with the fizzing-skull chap. And sleep. Toaster's behind the box of lajdiok—'
Battle axe indeed. She should know better than to hijack a flatmate's phone in the middle of a text. Even if it was a tedious one. Sherlock contemplated John's unfinished words darkly, hoping that more than ice—namely, the nurse—got broken in whatever inane exercise John was being put through that had cancelled his ability to be entertaining. His glower set firmly in place by the unhappy incident, he tucked the phone away and pulled on his coat, winding his scarf expertly around his neck. Well, if John had better things to do than talk to his best friend, then so did he.
Gliding down the stairs and over to the front door, he flung it open, fully expecting to step out into the foggy London morning and stride off towards the site of Lestrade's latest (non) puzzling dilemma. He was sick of sitting in the flat; his experiment needed time to propagate and the complete lack of ex-army doctor was hindering his ability to get a decent cup of tea. He would revisit the crime scene and test a few of his hypothesis about the nature of concoctions made out of the victim's specialized (tampered with) shampoo and a select range of cooking oils; never mind looking at the sight of the body's discovery in the backyard, he'd figured out who did it and why ages ago. All that was left was to work out the tiny detail of how—which poisonous combination of ingredients had the murderer utilized to literally eat through the man's skull?
The little brown presence waiting at the foot of the stoop brought him up short. Halting in the doorway, he stared down at the man waiting outside his home—professor at a small college, forties, disgraced marriage, two cats, estranged family except for a smothering mother—and cursed humanity for what must have been the four millionth time during his existence. The client. The doorbell-ringing, ungodly patient client. He'd deleted the bashful-sounding interference the moment he remembered about John. And with good reason, too: the man looked utterly boring. And repulsive. Sherlock could tell from the elbows of his slept-in tweed suit that he'd been up to no good with someone who was definitely not his wife the night before…and on the desk in his own lecture hall, no less.
Rearing up to his full height, the lanky detective focused the full intensity of his gray-green gaze on the mousy intruder. In his most imperious, scathing you're-wasting-my-time-and-contaminating-my-air-su pply-standing-there voice, he demanded, "Yes?"
The little man started. He was shorter than Sherlock by an even foot, shorter than John by six inches. Unlike with his flatmate, Sherlock didn't find the disparity endearing. He just found it small. For that reason, it was gratifying when the stranger cringed away from his glare. The sooner Sherlock could scare him off, the sooner he could get on to the more interesting parts of his day. And start distracting himself from the distinct, 5'6" void beside his shoulder.
Oh, for heaven's sake.
He was turning into milk toast, pining after one ordinary idiot with a predisposition towards army coats and woolen jumpers. Although, John's sense of humor was hardly ordinary, he amended, feeling the text messages on his phone weighing down his pocket. The blond man was the only person who had managed to consistently get a laugh out of Sherlock Holmes…
Stop thinking about John.
"M-Mr. Holmes?" the quaking professor ventured, paling dramatically at the sudden increase of hostility in the austere man's gaze. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock made a concentrated effort to reign his intensity in, reminding himself that having a fully grown man faint on his doorstep would be more of an inconvenience than to have that self-same man take his leave under his own power. "Yes, that would be me. The problem?"
The man's eyes widened, and he began to shake his head vigorously back and forth, blurring his words together and looking as if he might topple to the pavement with the force of his skull's gyrations. "N-no, no! I don't have—I didn't mean—I wasn't trying to say—"
"I know what you meant," Sherlock cut in, imbuing his tone with enough hard edges to halt the man mid-babble. "Now please reciprocate. What is the problem? Why are you here?"
Evidently, choosing to speak slowly and carefully—as if he were communicating with a particularly dense child—had been the correct choice. Blinking, the little man nodded and straightened up, losing most of his panicked air as he did so. Sherlock heaved an inner sigh of relief. He'd been on the verge of simply frightening the man witless and carrying on his way before he could recover—to hell with the trouble caused or the scolding from Mrs. Hudson. Not the scolding from John; he was gone. To Dublin. For four days.
Stop thinking about John!
Testiness flared up in his mouth again as he batted his inner distractions away, and he stared down at the man in utter challenge, daring him to say something of actual merit. He'd take a blackmailing case at that point, or even an unusually clever burglary. Anything to help to refocus his glitch-riddled hard drive. Anything…that he could actually get the cowering buffoon in front of him to say out loud.
Taking one looming step out of the threshold, Sherlock directed a flinty stare into the mud-colored irises gawking up at him and hissed, "Well?"
The professor actually jumped backwards. Sweating profusely along his hairline and rubbing his palms distractedly against the outsides of his thighs, he swallowed agitatedly and stammered, "I—well—there was—Samantha—last night—she's…she's…"
Sherlock had no patience left for whispers. Narrowing his eyes, he ordered, "Speak. Up."
"She's dead," the man squeaked out. He shuddered visibly at the sound of the words and buried his face in his hands. "My God, she's dead! Samantha's dead, and I didn't do it. I swear I didn't do it. But they'll say I did and I'm starting to think…I can't help but think…that maybe I did. I did kill her. I know I didn't, but I think I did."
"Samantha. Your lover." Sherlock sincerely doubted that the man would be so upset if the casualty had been his beloved wife.
With a gasp, the man jumped back again, gaping up at him. "How did you…"
"A student."
The professor covered his face again and let out a low, agonized groan, confirming the detective's carefully-disguised speculation. Sherlock raised an eyebrow while the "poor sod," as a certain jumper-wearing doctor would have called him, started to rock back and forth on his heels, cradling his head and moaning quietly. Ignoring the pathetic sight in front of him and the curious looks that the display was beginning to draw from passersby, Sherlock straightened and frowned. His expression wasn't for the other man any longer; that target would have at least deserved a scowl. No, it was directed inwards, at the new data swirling around in his head. A girl was dead. Samantha. And her lover/murderer there on his doorstep?
Well, the supposed murderer. It did seem slightly interesting. Still, he already had a destination in mind. Pursing his lips, Sherlock weighed the potential of the professor's case against his current plan of action. What was more worth his time? A small voice in the back of his mind, the one that kept vigil over the irksome timer that had sprung up unbidden in its corner—ninety-six hours, thirty-three minutes, and eleven seconds until proper tea could again be served—added in a murmur,
Which will be more of a distraction?
Unbidden, his thoughts went to the long, empty journey to Lestrade's crime scene. Nearly thirty minutes to be filled with nothing but his own silence and the rebellious thoughts in his head. To endure such a thing would be completely unacceptable, a firm voice told him, and he felt no need to think further than that. Stepping aside and sweeping and arm out expressively towards the building's interior, Sherlock indicated the still-open door of 221.
"This calls for further inquiry," he informed his nearly-hysterical guest. "Won't you come in?"