A Day in The Life
Series
Story II
They can be read separately as stand-alone stories.
Story I: London's Lullaby (A Day in The Life)
...
...
New York's Nocturne
(A Day in The Life)
HOUR 1:
Location: The Brownstone, owned by the father of Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Holmes.
Time: 8 AM [Saturday]
Joan stepped down the creaking stairs. She was wide awake, dressed, and ready to take on whatever the criminals New York City could possibly devise. As she stood on the first floor, she noticed something was different. The general feel of the room was abnormal.
The front door was ajar, and Clyde was waddling toward it.
"Clyde!" Joan reached forward and picked him up. His legs started digging through the air, and then he went inside his shell. She looked around skeptically as she shut the door.
"Sherlock? Sherlock. Where are you?"
"In the kitchen."
She walked through and saw him in the middle of the floor. The table and chairs were pushed up against the wall.
"What are you doing? Why was the door open? Clyde almost got out!"
"Clyde is fine, Watson. He's in his terrarium in my room."
"No he isn't, Sherlock. The door was open and he was stepping outside when I found him!"
"Why did you open the door then?"
"I didn't open the door! It was open when I came downstairs!"
"Then how did Clyde get out of his terrarium?"
"I DON'T KNOW," she said frustratingly. "That's why I'm asking you."
"You're a detective now, Watson. You figure it out."
She rolled her eyes. "Is this another test?"
"If it is a test, I couldn't tell you. But no, it isn't a test," he said and got up off of the floor.
"Why were you on the floor?"
"You said the door was open?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the last question.
"Yes, it was half-way open. Why were you on the floor?"
"And Clyde was near the door?"
"Clyde was stepping through the door."
"Maybe Clyde opened the door."
"Clyde can't open the door! He's a tortoise!"
Sherlock's face went blank as he looked at her. "Really? I thought he was a cat," he said and squinted at her. "I know he can't open the door, Watson. I was being sarcastic."
"I don't think this is a time for sarcasm, Sherlock. The door was wide open, you're lying on the kitchen floor for who-knows-what-reason, and Clyde almost got loose!"
"And on top of that," she continued, "he's still scared and hiding in his shell."
"I'm sure he's just reading a book. Why don't you put him back in his terrarium and see if there is a way he could have gotten out of it?"
Joan made a ticking noise with her tongue, sighed, and walked into Sherlock's room to put Clyde away. It was a mess… and not the usual Sherlock forgot the throw the pizza boxes away mess. "Sherlock! SHERLOCK! Your room!"
"Yes?" He followed her into his room. It was torn apart.
"What do you think they would be looking for?"
"I don't know… I don't really have anything valuable. Except Clyde."
Clyde's head popped out of his shell as Joan sat him in his terrarium.
"Why only this room? Maybe they heard one of us and didn't have time to check the rest of the place out?" Joan pondered. "And why didn't you hear anything?!"
"Why did you not hear anything?" Sherlock asked and squinted his eyes.
"I was upstairs. I figured you were making all of the noise."
"I hypnotized myself. How could I have been making that much noise?"
"Well, I didn't know you did that! Why did you do that?!"
"To see if it would work while lying down. I know I can do it sitting, but I have not been able to accomplish it while lying down—I know that I now can."
Joan rolled her eyes. "Don't you have a camera hidden in this room?"
"No… why would I have a camera in my own room? Watson, do you really think I need to see myself undressing? That's what mirrors are for."
Watson looked at him with a strange, yet repelled look on her face.
"I jest. Of course I have a camera in my room. It's the most important room. Clyde's terrarium is in here."
Joan rolled her eyes again as he climbed up on a kitchen chair, which he had cleared, considering it was his makeshift bedside table holding his clock, half a glass of water, and some light reading: Deductive Logic by St. George William Joseph.
He reached for the camera. "It doesn't look like they took anything," he said as he looked around from atop the chair. "Besides," he continued, "we'll have them on this camera and in a cell soon enough. Why don't you grab the camera from the entry hall and I'll start uploading this on the computer."
She walked out of his room and pulled another chair to get the camera above the front door that was angled toward the stairs.
9AM:
The two files had finally finished loading on to the computer and Sherlock and Joan were eagerly waiting with hot tea in hand.
"Okay, let's see who our culprit is," Sherlock said as he clicked play.
They fast-forwarded through a few hours of Sherlock sleeping and rolling on his mattress that lies on the floor. "Turn that way," he said to Joan as he noted his wake up time and watched himself get dressed for the day. "Okay. You can look now."
"Good," she said and opened her eyes.
Suddenly, Sherlock stopped the video from fast-forwarding and they were watching real time footage. Something dark had entered the corner of the screen at 7:39AM.
"Yes, I was in my trance at this time," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.
"I was probably in the shower," she said and took a drink of tea.
An arm extended at the corner of the screen, a small gun appeared, and the video turned into a rainbow of pixels before it went dark.
"What?" Joan asked. Sherlock was silent. He played the other video, skipped until the video went blank, and then played the moments just before. Someone had picked the front lock and just as the person had done before, the video went blank.
"I don't get it. The gun made the video shut off?"
"This is serious, Watson. Whoever they are, really wanted to get in here without being seen, and they know us well enough that they needed to have an EMP gun."
"A what?"
"An electromagnetic pulse gun. It makes the electronics go all wonky—kind of like using a computer during a lightning storm without a surge protector…"
"So this wasn't a random hit. They were looking for something. They knew you would have the cameras."
"Yes, but…" he sat further back in the office chair in front of the computer and pursed his lips. "What would they be looking for? I don't have…"
His eyes widened.
"What?"
She followed him back to his bedroom. He lifted his mattress off of the floor.
"It's gone."
"What's gone? What have they taken?"
"My file on the Red Team."
"Why did you have it? And why would you hide something that important under your mattress? That's the worst place to hide anything."
"Honestly, I had it for casual reading. The file doesn't say what the Red Team found out."
"So, why would they want it?"
"Probably because they didn't know it wouldn't say what they had found out."
"Someone is trying to steal the plans?"
"Apparently so, Watson."
"Was there anything dangerous in the file?"
"Well… sort of."
"What do you mean?"
"The remaining Red Team's names."
"But, Sheldon Frost and Veena Mehta, they were put into the relocation program, weren't they?"
"And their new names."
"Report it now, Sherlock! They need to move. They're compromised."
"Right."
He didn't move.
"Sherlock! Now!"
"I have a feeling they're already dead."
"What?!"
"Why would they come to me first? They don't really know that I know. The only people that know are Gregson, you, and Harold Dresden, but he's in prison for the murders of the rest of the Red Team."
"Then how did they find out that you might know, or have a copy of the file?"
"Well, I would have been in the final report considering I was the one to stop Harold Dresden from killing everyone and himself for the greater good of humanity."
"That's true. But we need to call anyway. They could still be alive."
She took out her cellphone, dialed Gregson, and explained to him what had happened.
10AM:
Joan desolately poured another cup of tea for herself and Sherlock.
Sheldon Frost and Veena Mehta had been tortured to death. All of them were found less than a week ago… and all of them had known their secret was too apocalyptic not to take to the grave.
"If any of them had revealed, they wouldn't have come here."
"What if they're trying to take out anyone who knows, so they know that no one else knows? What if they're trying to protect more people than it takes to kill off the secret?"
"Then, Watson, we would be dead already. Those people wouldn't have been tortured to death."
"So, what do we do?"
"Well… we don't exactly have any leads. Thus, we must take shelter in another location."
"Where?"
"Gee, I don't know, Watson," he said very loudly and clearly. "LET'S JUST TALK ABOUT ALL OF OUR PLANS RIGHT NOW. YOU KNOW, BECAUSE IF THEY HAVE AN EMP GUN IT'S NOT LIKE THEY WOULDN'T BUG MY ROOM WITH A LISTENING DEVICE OR CAMERAS OF THEIR OWN. WHY DON'T I TELL YOU RIGHT NOW ALL ABOUT WHAT THE RED TEAM FOUND OUT."
Joan stared at him blankly. "You don't have to get all fussy about it." Sherlock raised his eyebrow and went to pack a few things. She went to pack as well.
11AM:
"Sherlock, are you ready?"
"Yes," he said holding a duffle bag and a box with holes in it she assumed Clyde was packed away in.
She pointed to it skeptically and nodded once.
He nodded back, understanding her.
"Maybe you should leave him here with water and food. I don't think anyone is going to steal him. Someone can stop by and feed him if we're gone very long. He won't do well in a hotel."
"True," Sherlock said, sat him in his terrarium, and sighed.
Sherlock and Joan left the brownstone.
They started walking down the street and Joan got a cab to pull over for them. Sherlock instructed that he go around blocks for a while until they were further uptown. After about a half an hour, he paid the cabbie and got out of the car. They walked a bit further and found another cab, which took them to a cheap motel a few blocks away from the police station.
12PM:
When they finally got into a room, after paying cash and providing a fake ID that Sherlock had made at home, they began unpacking. Their double-bed room was not very spacious, but it was clean, and that's all Joan really wanted at this point.
"You were able to get how much money from your father on a whim when your drug-dealer Rhys's daughter was kidnapped, and all you can afford is a standard double-bed?"
He furrowed his brow at her. "I gave that money back so I wouldn't have to pay any debts."
"Still…"
"I like this room," he said and unzipped his duffel bag.
"It's tiny."
"It's cozy."
"It smells like feet," she said.
"But it's clean."
"But it smells like your feet."
"My feet don't smell."
"Yes they do. Those Oxfords smell like they've been in our refrigerator next to Clyde's old lettuce when he's on a banana binge!"
Sherlock snorted and put his shoes in the far corner of the room as he opened his duffel bag.
Joan's jaw dropped.
"You didn't pack any clothes!"
"What's essential now, Watson? My clothes or catching the culprit?"
She just sighed as he pulled out a scanner, all of his other documents on the Red Team, a laptop, cameras that he began to hide in the motel room, other surveillance gear, and his violin.
"Why did you need to bring your violin rather than a spare change of clothes?"
"Quit looking at me like that. You think I'm incapable of taking care of myself. I'm smarter than that, and you know it, Watson. Predicting your behavior of being good at predicting my own… I knew you would have packed a spare for me anyway," he said and pointed to her bag. "You knew I would do this. I have trained you to think ahead."
Joan started laughing.
"Think again. I did not pack for you. I am not your mother. If you wanted a spare change of clothes… that is your responsibility."
Contrarily, Sherlock started chuckling. "You knew I would pack gear, not clothes. Don't dumb yourself down just to prove me wrong. We're a team, remember?"
She put her hands on her hips and looked at him with a cold glare. "Fine." She unzipped her travel case, and threw jeans, a tee shirt, and a pajama set at his face. He caught them before they hit his face and smiled. "That was a close bet. But don't worry, I did pack spare underwear, considering I figured you wouldn't want to dig into my underwear drawer."
"Correct," she said and sat on the bed with a huff.
After a few moment's silence of unpacking his equipment, he looked over toward her.
"Thank you."
"You—in capable of packing correctly—are welcome."
"I'm not incapable. I knew you would think that I was incapable and would do it for me. It saved me time and I was able to make room for more gear."
"What are we going to do? Just sit here and watch food network?"
Sherlock snorted again. "Not that you ever cook anything."
"Speaking of which… it is lunch time."
1PM:
Sherlock and Joan made their way down to the motel's small restaurant and each ordered a salad and sandwich combo. When Joan went to use the restroom, he stole her tomatoes.
"Sherlock," she grumbled upon her return.
"You needed the loo more than the to-may-tooos," he said trying to rhyme.
She couldn't help but laugh over his poor phrasing and finished her lunch.
"We're on the run," she said ominously.
"Kind of."
"From an unknown force."
"Pretty much."
"Which means…"
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"I dunno. I was hoping you would answer."
"Oh. Which means… that we must find out who wants the secret and keep them from destroying the city."
"I gathered that much. I was thinking more of an in-the-moment plan."
"I always have a plan."
"Then what is the plan?"
"To think of a plan, of course."
"Oh great…so your plan, is to… think of a plan. We are definitely the pinnacle of detectives."
"Well, we're safe for now. I have Bell on top of it. He's putting all the files on the details of the Red Team's death and putting them into a box. He's going to meet us at a secret location in a couple hours where we will pick them up."
"We'll look at those and see if we can gather anything about who might have killed them so we don't get tortured," Joan stated understandably.
"Correct."
"Would you… if they tortured you?"
"No. It's not something we could stop if they knew."
"And that's why you won't tell me? You don't trust that I would take it to my grave as well?"
"No, not exactly. I just think—the less you know the better."
"I know everything about them except the strategies… enough to make it look like I probably know what they had discovered. Harold Dresden killed Martin Negowski, and Len Pontecorvo… he poisoned Carlo Annilo, removing his memory. Then, He killed Todd Clarke, their contact, and his own friend, Walter McClenahan."
Sherlock just looked at her with an annoyed face, one eyebrow raised. Their waiter brought them the bill.
"Oh, and I would like a piece of bluebury pie…" Sherlock said and the waiter nodded. Joan returned the look he had just given her, and he simply shook his head.
And then his expression turned dark. Not the teasing mischievousness it had just held, but a different kind of dark altogether. "None of it mattered."
"What?"
"No matter what we did, the team was killed off. I didn't make a difference. All I did was put us in danger."
"You put a guilty man in prison, and you will put the other person in prison."
"We need to visit him."
"Dresden?"
"Yes. I know the people, or groups, who want the information are calculating, but how calculating, I don't know. Hopefully no one has gotten to him yet."
"But he's in prison."
"Yes, I know. That makes it worse."
2PM:
Joan and Sherlock followed a guard to a small, industrial room. The walls were cement and Harold Dresden sat in a chair, hands cuffed to the steel table, which was bolted to the floor. He was worn away and frail. Dresden's gray hair had turned even whiter than it had been the last time they had met. His eyes were dark and his face was composed but not lacking emotion—pain.
"Hello again, Mr. Dresden," Sherlock announced to him.
"Great. You again."
"Hello," Joan said softly and stood behind the chair that Sherlock sat himself down in. A guard stood by the door.
"Has anyone contacted you?"
"Contacted me, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes. Has anyone in here been asking you any questions about the…" Sherlock gave an expression to show meaning in the Red Team.
"No. Why?"
"Sheldon Frost and Veena Mehta have been killed. Not killed off as you tried to do, and partially succeeded, but...tortured until death. Because not only would they not sell the secret, they would not give it up under torture. You underestimated your peers, Mr. Dresden. But you were right about the impending threat. Although you were wrong about worrying they would sell the strategy, you were right about the people interested in buying it."
Harold Dresden did not speak. His eyes looked coldly into Sherlock's.
"And what do I have to say about all of this? I told you so. No, really, I think that now that they are dead, it doesn't matter anymore, does it?"
"It does matter. For one, you are under threat—even if you are in a cell, they can infiltrate the prison and get someone to you. That isn't difficult. Now, I am the only one who knows the secret besides the people where the details are stored in Washington, and unless there is a major attack or breach in security into the vaults where it is surely stored, I am sure that is not an option for the people who want the information."
"I don't see the relevance, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock sighed in frustration and rubbed his brow with the tips of his fingers.
"So it was all a trick?"
"What was?"
"You didn't tell colleagues or write it down, did you… to get me out of that hotel room?"
"No, of course not. Actually, I hadn't even figured it out until you had a gun pointed at my head. Like I told the Capitan, having a gun aimed at one's head is a very good stimulus. Yes—I guessed on the spot, but that doesn't make this situation less important."
"Yes… Yes it does. Now you're the only one who knows. You're protecting yourself now. That is all this is."
Sherlock took a deep breath of realization. He hadn't thought of it that way before.
With further realization into the situation, he could see clearly. Sherlock was the main target now. Dresden didn't matter.
Sherlock knew that Dresden would not tell the secret—he would allow himself to die before that. Sherlock did not see the relevance in Dresden's life anymore now that the threat he would reveal the secret was gone. Sherlock could not care if Harold Dresden lived or died at this point, because other than dying for his secret, all he had to live for was life in prison, and Sherlock knew Dresden was a lost soul—a lost soul that knew his life had already ended.
Joan put her hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We shouldn't stay here long if they're after us."
"We have to meet Bell now."
"Alright," she said softly as they were escorted out to the waiting cab.
"Drive toward downtown."
"Specifics?" the driver asked.
"No. Just drive, please."
3PM:
Joan and Sherlock sat in the car in complete silence. Every now and then, one of them would mention something outside of the cab windows.
They got out of the cab, and as Sherlock paid the driver, and noticed that his mobile phone was out. Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"Watson…" he said as they began to walk down the block to find another cab.
He looked behind them. "Run!"
Joan ran along with him, and turned her head to see what they were running away from. Two men in casual clothing were running after them.
"How did they find us?"
"The cabbie! FASTER!"
They hurried on and Joan followed him through the streets of New York City. The detective duo passed people watching them with confused eyes.
Joan followed Sherlock through alleyways, between buildings, and through parked cars. They ran in so many directions and circles Joan could picture a bee flying around the jumbled layout of the brownstone trying to escape back to the hive upon the roof.
Finally, he ran quickly into a large department store and sat down in the shoe section on a bench.
"I think we lost them," Joan said, clearly out of breath.
"Affirmative," Sherlock said and leaned back casually.
"Do that often?" she said with a hint of sarcasm, angled toward his cavalier attitude.
"Huh?" Sherlock was distracted.
"Do you run away from people like that often?"
"Well… usually I'm doing the chasing, but I've had my fair share of people running after me. Mostly angry people, not people that want to extract information from my brain."
Sherlock looked down at his phone. "We missed Bell at the pick-up point for the files."
Joan looked down at her phone as well. "He called me fifteen minutes ago."
We need to go back to the hotel and get our things and find another hotel… I—," he said and paused.
"What?"
"Nothing. It's nothing," Sherlock said and pursed his lips.
Joan looked at him with confusion and sympathy. They didn't have any leads—she knew that. For the first time since they met, she looked at him and saw on his face an expression that showed her he did not know what to do next. And in understanding that, she was able to deduce his thoughts.
"Don't."
He looked up at her. "There's no other way to get information and to bring them down."
"But you don't know who they are! They could be an operation the scale of Moriar—."
A clerk walked up to them. "May I help you with something? I saw you running in here. If you aren't going to buy something, we ask that you please leave, as we do not tolerate loitering."
Sherlock looked at her with a grimace on his face as he stood up. The clerk was standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. "Get out of my way," he said, "you vacant, motley-minded, twat!" Sherlock pushed passed her and Joan followed, whispering her apologies for him as they passed.
"Where are we going?"
"Hotel."
"Do you think it's safe?"
"I don't see why it wouldn't be."
4PM:
As Sherlock as said, the hotel room seemed untouched. "Pack back up. We'll find another hotel in case they bugged the room, but I don't see how they could have found the room. Precautions."
5PM:
From Joan's suggestion, they found a hotel and a nicer room. This one did not smell like Sherlock's feet.
Until he took his shoes off.
"Sherlock!"
"What? We were running! I can't help it!"
He grumbled and walked to the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower. Be quiet so I can think. Mute the television if you watch it."
Joan mentally snorted at him and sat down on her bed.
6PM:
Sensing Sherlock's anger, Joan decided to leave for the vending area for ice, drinks, and snacks—also known as dinner.
7PM:
Joan knocked on the bathroom door. "Sherlock?! You've been in there for two hours. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he said, muffled by the locked bathroom door.
"Are you sure? Isn't the water cold?"
"Hotels run on boilers. The water rarely gets cold."
Joan walked over to the window and looked outside. They were on the fourth floor over-looking an outside dining area.
She sat back down on her bed after a few moments turned the television on with mute. She began reading what little information they had on the Red Team to familiarize herself further in hopes of a light bulb turning on in her brain.
About a half-an-hour later Sherlock came out dressed with wet hair and looked at her.
"Well," he said.
"Well? Did your think-shower help our situation any?"
He gave a pondering-frown and nodded. "I'm going to meet Bell in a few minutes to get the files."
"Okay," she said and stood up, grabbing a purse.
He was putting his shoes on. Joan decided not to tease him and went to stand by the door. Sherlock looked up at her as he moved toward the door and smiled politely.
They found a cab and met Detective Bell behind a gas station near the bathrooms.
"Do you want to tell me what's going on with all of the secret rendezvous by bathrooms?" Bell asked, sounding fairly demanding. "Are you a target like Mehta and Frost? Is someone trying to kill you? Because if they are, we can get you a couple officers for protection to sit watch. We can move you somewhere safe."
"Oh, no, Detective Bell. It's nothing like that. We're just taking extra precautions."
"Yes, that would be very nice of you, Detective," Joan said and smiled coldly, staring at Sherlock.
He raised his eyebrow and rolled his eyes as he took the box of flies from Bell.
"We'll be leaving now," he said and took the box back to the cab. Joan ground her teeth together and turned around to follow him just as she thanked Detective Bell for his help.
8PM:
Once they arrived at the hotel, the television Joan had left on was turned off and they began reading the files of Sheldon Frost and Veena Mehta's death.
Just as they started, however, the disposable phone Sherlock was using rang.
"Holmes."
"I thought I would let you know," Gregson began, "Bell told me what was going on, and well… I just found out that Harold Dresden committed suicide in his cell. I don't know if someone threatened him, or what really happened, but it looks like everyone who was in the Red Team are dead."
"Thank you for the information, Captain Gregson. Your loyalty is appreciated," Sherlock said in an emotionless voice and hung up the phone.
"Dresden offed himself," Sherlock said vacantly.
"Are you sure it was suicide?"
"No. That's just what Gregson said, but it doesn't really matter anyway."
"It doesn't matter? That's a man's life! Even though he did kill people, he didn't do it to drive the price up. He did it to protect hundreds of thousands more from dying."
"Do not defend Dresden! It doesn't matter! He still killed people. He had a gun to my head. Right now, it's either life in jail or death. For him and us, his death was a better option. He cannot tell the people who after us and therefore, we can still put off our imminent tortures and the distraction of nearly half of the United States."
"Half of America?!"
Sherlock went silent and continued to read a file.
Joan sighed with exhaustion and sat down on her bed, pulled up the covers, and began reading Veena Mehta's file.
9PM:
Sherlock closed the final file and sat down on his bed with an agitated sigh. He looked over to Watson to begin a tirade on what was 'wrong with this picture,' but she had fallen asleep.
He sat in silence for a few moments, and then walked out the door.
10PM:
Joan woke up with a jolt and looked around. She hadn't meant to fall asleep yet.
"Sherlock?"
She didn't see him, so she looked in the bathroom. He was gone. A wave of concern rushed through her and she grabbed up her purse and left the hotel.
Sherlock was walking toward the brownstone. It appeared dark and vacant from the street, but he knew something was lurking inside.
He walked casually to the front door, pulled out his key, unlocked it, and stepped inside.
Everything was concealed in shadow and was completely silent except for the cars on the street. Nothing seemed disturbed except his bedroom exactly how they had left it that morning. Yet nothing, absolutely nothing, could get past his heightened senses in a state of calm apprehension. Although nothing was disturbed, Sherlock knew he was not alone.
Sherlock knew he was not dealing with the average criminal operation looking to get ahead in the world. If he was correct, which he usually was, they would likely have intelligence on him and his acquaintances through connections with Moriarty's former operation.
"Hello Mr. Holmes. Why don't you sit down? We can talk."
He was right. They were very aware of his situation and lifestyle. There was one thing Sherlock was not expecting, though. The man, sitting in a suit, had an English accent. Northern London. Sherlock cringed. Of course.
Sherlock did not speak. He turned toward the dark corner where a man was sitting casually on Sherlock's lumpy couch.
Sherlock stood toward him, back to the bookcase, and eyes forward.
"You want to know what I know."
The man sat silent, but nodded. He had helped himself to a glass of water from the kitchen. He was taller than Sherlock by a few inches, but leaner and lankier.
"You'll do anything to get it. You plan to torture me, but unlike Mehta and Frost, I don't think you will kill me. I'm the only one left. If you can't get it, you will just keep trying."
"Close, and partially right. I know you're smarter than average, Mr. Holmes… but I'm offering you something else as well. I'm not the only person who wants to torture that lovely secret out of you."
Sherlock was listening.
"I want to offer you security. You see, I'm not really an evil man. I'm a man of opportunity. I plan to sell the secret, not enact it myself. Imagine if the people with the guts to actually pull it off were here. They would skip tea and biscuits, I'm sure."
He shifted on the couch.
"But you know, Sherlock. I know you want to be a bad man. One just as bad as myself. Not evil—neither of us are evil—but I know you see the world in a different light than most. Surely an existential view of things is not unclear to you. You do good deeds simply to get attention, for people to admire you and respect you. The thing is, Sherlock, fame is fame—whether you are a hero or a criminal. The hate and love is equal no matter the deed. One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter."
Sherlock was roiling in silent anger. That's what he showed the man in the shadows. Secretly, Sherlock was ecstatic. Finally. Something fun was happening. Something stimulating.
"My proposition," the man said, "is that you tell me the secret, and I keep you and your friends safe from other outside forces until the deed is done."
Sherlock scoffed. "You are an idiot."
"Excuse me?"
"YOU," he pointed at the man. "IDIOT," Sherlock said very clearly and plainly.
The man was blank, understanding Sherlock's cynicism.
"I was never told the secret. If there are really so many people after me that want to know it, all they have to do is think about it. Hell, I am sure if they have enough money to buy it from me, they could buy a team of slightly intelligent Bonobo chimps to figure it out for you."
The man drew his eyebrows together.
"I guessed. I didn't know what it was until I guessed. I happened to be right about it, but I was never told. Therefore, if you and others need to come to me to learn the secret, that makes all of you idiots…"
The man sat awkwardly on the lumpy sofa. Sherlock stood and watched the man's tiny brain fire out thoughts through his miniscule facial expressions.
"You could just blackmail people into joining a new team. But that's not it, is it?" Sherlock said, a small smile dancing across his lips. "You want to know the exact secret. Sure you could get people to think up an idea, but it will never be the exact same idea—well, you'll never know if it is the exact same idea or not. That's what you want to pay for… and I'm your last chance to get that information."
The man took a drink of water. "The offer still stands."
"I can take care of myself."
"Joan?"
"Oh, she can take care of herself. I've taught her well."
The man stood up and smiled politely.
"As you wish, Mr. Holmes. I will be in contact soon."
"That's right. Because in a few hours, some of your men will be in here to lightly torture me into going back to you and taking your offer, am I wrong?"
The man's face went slack. "Well, that is a good idea. What a shame I can't use it since you gave it to me. Maybe another time," he started to walk out.
"Sometimes I'm too smart for my own good," Sherlock said and laughed, closing the door behind the man as if they were old friends.
Sherlock rolled his eyes with annoyance and climbed the stairs to the roof.
11PM:
Night had long fallen over New York City. The skyline was twinkling from atop the roof where Sherlock stood with his beehive. He could feel the city miles around him vivacious and full of life. Sirens wailed and the wind carried vacant shouts and laughs through the air around the roof.
The sirens grew louder. The street began to glow red and blue. Sherlock's brow furrowed and he walked to the side of the roof that was closer to the street. Cruisers parked quickly all around the brownstone below his feet.
"What?" he shouted down from the roof.
"Are you alright?" Gregson yelled up at him.
"Do I look harmed?"
"No. Why don't you come down?"
"Because I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
"Standing on my roof. What do YOU want?"
"Joan said you were in trouble."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Have I taught her nothing?"
Gregson was silent.
"You've taught me enough… enough for me to know when you need help," she yelled up at him from the sidewalk.
She waved off Gregson and the rest of the officers who had followed them to the brownstone. They began to leave and pull away as Sherlock replied to her.
"No," he said down to her from the roof, "I was teaching you to have faith in me, Joan," he said, calling her by her first name.
She looked up at him from the ground.
"To trust me," he continued, "and to know that you have helped me become a better person. You helped me find myself, even when I didn't know what I was looking for. No matter what…" he trailed off.
Men, who had been prowling in the shadows, were now walking behind Joan, crossing the street. He watched their trained footsteps carry them gracefully across the street and grab Joan roughly by the arms. She resisted them, but was not strong enough to escape. She went limp as cold metal pressed against the back of her skull. Suddenly, the situation became very real to her as she composed herself and tried to calculate all of the possible ways to escape with the least possible bodily harm.
They looked up at Sherlock from the sidewalk. Joan couldn't look at him. Being handled by men and under their command with a gun to her head, she felt as if she let Sherlock down.
"No matter what," he continued, "even though I drag you into the heart of danger, I will always keep you safe. Watson…" She looked up at him with a blank, strong expression on her face. She couldn't show him that she was afraid. She would be strong for him.
Joan's face was stone, until a shot rang out.
Her face exampled so many emotions at once, in a fraction of a second, it became a confused mess of pain, anguish, and anger. The shot echoed through the street, and the men around her scrambled. One man held Joan down to the street—the side of her face pressed against the bumpy asphalt, tears creating light mud on her cheeks. Her dark hair was becoming tangled under the man's strong hands, but the gun was still against her head. He pulled her from the ground and began to lead her into the brownstone. The other two men had already made their way to the roof.
In the dark of the night, they were standing over Sherlock's body. Blood was slowly crawling over the bumpy cement of the roof from his head. The gun was lying in his limp hand. Joan was pushed into the scene by the man with a gun to her head.
A wail began to escape her mouth, but the gun pressed harder against her head and she closed her lips tightly. Her clothes were covered in dirt from the street and the light sound of bees buzzing from the hive made her cry harder knowing their keeper was dead.
The man leaning over Sherlock stood up and looked at the other man. "No pulse."
"You sure?"
The man checked again. There was no movement in his veins.
He pulled a phone from his pocket. Joan couldn't move now.
"Sir, we had the woman as you instructed… threaten her life so he would tell us, but he, well, you're not going to like this."
The man who had checked Sherlock's pulse rolled his eyes.
"Holmes shot himself."
The man nodded to the reply from his caller. "And what about the woman?"
"Right," he said and put his phone back into his pocket.
"Let her go. We're done."
The man threw Joan forward, closer to Sherlock's body. The three men rushed down the stairs, the last one nearly tripped over Clyde, who was waddling toward the stairs.
"Damned turtle," he said and rushed forward, in a hurry to leave before the woman could alert the police the three men had been there.
12AM:
Emergency lights once again painted the street red and blue, windows reflecting the light. Gregson's car pulled up and he ran toward Joan, who had made her way down to the street. "I heard over the radio. What's going on?"
She couldn't speak. Two stalky men carried a long, black bag out the front door of the brownstone.
His eyes widened as he rushed forward to request information about the emergency call.
"Come on," he said and put his hand gently on Joan's shoulder. "Why don't you come back to the station and just…" He didn't know what to say. She obeyed regardless.
They followed the ambulance as it drove off toward the hospital with its light bar turned off. After nearly a mile, the ambulance in front of them came to a screeching halt.
The black bag was very difficult to breathe in. For cases such as these, Sherlock would be writing to the medical supply company about having two handled zippers installed into their body bags. He was punching at the inside of the bag. Bells were still placed into coffins upon request. He did not see why a dual zipper would be too much to ask for. An EMT unzipped the bag and stared at Sherlock with wild eyes.
"Did you not even think to check the back of my head? There isn't even a wound, you imprudent cavemen!" He kicked the bag off of his feet as he stood up. Subsequently, Sherlock was slammed against the back doors when the ambulance came to a complete stop in moving traffic. The driver was nearly traumatized to see him alive. Sherlock watched, pressed against the windows, as the unmarked police car behind them nearly rear-ended the ambulance. He opened the doors and stood in front of the car which he saw contained Gregson and Joan. Her brown eyes were wide.
His hair was matted down and covered in what she thought had been blood, but before she could get out of the car, Sherlock ran off toward the brownstone. Gregson's car made a U-turn and they sped back down the street.
The lights were off in the brownstone. Sherlock ran inside and picked up Clyde. He pulled a small black object off the top of his shell.
"Good work, Clyde. You may have just saved the day."
Sherlock sat Clyde back in his terrarium and then went to his computer.
"Here! Quickly!" he said as he heard Joan rush in and Gregson following her.
"They're on this. I put a tracking device on the roof door. It's really tiny. I strung it across like a web. It should have attached to one of them. Also, Clyde should have their faces on his camera. They will have taken out all of the other hidden cameras. Ever since Joan wanted more privacy, I've had to keep all of the cameras in plain view. We wouldn't have had all of this trouble had they not known where all of the cameras were.
Joan didn't move toward him. She was still standing in the doorway watching him rattle on about tracking devices and cameras to Gregson.
"Also," Sherlock typed on his computer to show Gregson in case the brownstone was still bugged, "I know it is against policy, but I would like to release a full disclosure about what the Red Team found out, not the details of course, but stating that a meeting took place earlier this afternoon where I discussed with important members of the police department the details, and I would also like to make it clear that I was never told, that it was already a guess. I would also like to state that the breach in security made aware by the Red Team has been fixed." Sherlock typed, and then quickly held down backspace.
Gregson reached over his shoulder and typed. "Can't you just tell us what it is so we can fix the breach?"
"Irresolvable," Sherlock simply typed.
Gregson sighed. "Okay," he said aloud and turned around. Joan was still standing in the doorway facing them. "I think you owe someone an apology," Gregson said as he walked out.
Sherlock twirled around in the office chair and faced her, slumped down, and hands crossed. His hair was making the top of the chair red.
"Was that really necessary?"
"They would have hurt you."
"I could have taken it."
"I never get to use my fake blood."
"SHERLOCK!" she screamed.
He flinched lightly. "Watson…I had to get them to leave without hurting you. They may have even killed you."
"Then why did you leave the hotel in the first place?"
"I thought I could talk them out of it."
"Then why didn't you ask Gregson…" she pointed to the computer to finish asking him why he didn't just release a statement earlier that day.
"We never would have caught them. Now, we have their location, identity, everything."
"But they are only caught for breaking and entering… maybe some assault and battery charges on me."
"They will face heavier charges. Watson," he said trying to get her to listen very distinctly to his words, "you read the files. There were fingerprints at the torture and murder scenes of Veena Mehta and Sheldon Frost. Who wants to bet they will match the men who nearly tortured and killed you?"
Joan sighed. "I'm just glad you're alive," she finally admitted.
Sherlock sighed too. "I am as well. I was really worried they would do a double tap and shoot me in the head to make sure that I was dead… I guess they rely on pulse well enough. With a drug and some meditation exercises, one can learn to slow their pulse to a near stand-still… You underestimate my talents at times, Watson!"
"Drugs?"
"Non-addictive, herbal supplements."
"Right," she said suspiciously. "And where did you get these… non-addictive, herbal drugs?"
"Supplements. I got them from Bruce at the morgue. The overweight younger man who frequents the online beekeeping forum that I visit online daily. You've met him. Remember? Your memory should be better since we've been doing those brain-teaser exercises every Tuesday. We met him just before we found that janitor was killing people."
"Yes, Sherlock… I do remember."
"Oh, well. Alright. Him, then. You can speak with him if you would like. They are in the bathroom cabinet. I assure you they are only herbal supplements."
Joan sighed. "He was the one who let me check post-mortem stranglehold bruising. A very nice man, you know. Very nice. I quite like him."
"Then why don't you ask him out on a date."
"Don't be ridiculous, Watson. Though I think I will need his services in the future. I may have to trade said services for one of the Euglassia Watsonia bees though. I'm sure he's very interested in those… and possibly an autographed copy of Practical Handbook of Bee Culture with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen if he doesn't already have my book, of course."
"Why does that book need to have such a long title?"
"It's a long book," he said simply, and began to climb the stairs to the bathroom. She followed him.
"Why are you coming into the bathroom with me? I'm taking a shower."
"I want to see the pills."
He raised his eyebrow and quickly pulled open the medicine cabinet. A tampon fell out into the sink.
"Girls. Blegh."
"I can't help it," she said as she put the tampon back into it's box.
"That's just gross."
"It's still in the wrapper!"
He raised his eyebrow. "There," he pointed between her concealer and a tube of lipstick. She looked at it, shrugged, and dumped them down the toilet, even though she agreed they weren't addictive drugs. "Girls need so much stuff. Why do girls need so much stuff? I understand why, but I don't understand why that has to be why it is."
Joan was confused. "Why do boys have to be so annoying?"
"Testosterone."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh good lord, just get into the shower already. You stink. What did you even use for fake blood?!"
"It's from a company out of England, actually." He sounded elated that she had bothered to ask. "They make it out of an organic syrup and use a red ant from Africa as a natural dye for the color. It's expensive, but it flows so much more like real blood than that stuff from the costume shops."
"That was too much information, Sherlock. I don't care where the company is based. You are so obsessed with details."
"And you're obsessed with me. Everything goes full circle."
"I am not obsessed with you."
"Then move out and go be someone else's Addict Sittaaa."
She rolled her eyes and left the bathroom, closing the door behind her to allow him some privacy for a shower.
Joan was still upset about what he had done, but the sound of the shower was comforting knowing he was in the next room.
She climbed the stairs to the roof and saw where the scene had taken place. The bees buzzed softly to her left as she saw the pool of fake blood. She thought about Sherlock's attention to detail, how he would know the perfect amount of blood for a gunshot to the head… how he would have angled his body to the street to make it seem as though the bullet went into his head…how he would have prepared the false bullet and put that perfect amount of blood around his head… how he would have made his body jolt perfectly to appear as though the bullet hit his head. Would he have been thinking of me and how I would feel? Did he assume I would know he was faking? Did it not matter as long as he knew I would see him alive again later? She swallowed hard and turned toward the bees. They continued to buzz softly. She pulled up lawn chairs and a radio. She turned it to a midnight jazz station in the eight-hundreds of the FM. She closed her eyes and sat in silence.
1AM:
Suddenly, a burst of hot air hit her face. "Gah!" she screamed.
"Wake up," Sherlock said roughly. He was dressed pajamas and his hair was wet. Another burst of air hit her face. She coughed. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Trying to calm you down so you don't wake up angry," he said with an impish grin on his face. He was using the bee smoker on her, pumping the bellows.
"Stop that!"
He chuckled and put it down and walked over to turn off her jazz.
"Hey! I'm listening to that."
"That racket?! No, you were sleeping."
"So I drifted. That doesn't mean I don't want to listen now."
He made a ticking noise with his tongue and sat in the other lawn chair on the roof.
"Just listen to the city."
She furrowed her brow.
"It's one in the morning and this is the city that never sleeps," he said with a charismatic tone.
She closed her eyes. There was a blaring horn miles away, a siren, a quiet rumbling, and music coming from a house a few doors down.
"It's beautiful," he said and closed his eyes too. "It's a nocturne made up of unintentional instruments. If you listen closely, you can hear a pattern within it and enjoy it," he said.
Just as she began to relax to the sounds of the city…
"and then you can hear what all of the police are doing set to the pretty music of the city, and that can be your lyrics," he said enthusiastically and turned on a scanner.
Joan made a low growl, but Sherlock was too encouraged by the fact the scanner was on to hear her.
Suddenly, the lovely nocturne he had brought to her attention was ruined by words she could not understand and numbers she did not know the meaning of... and in that bittersweet moment, she felt complete elation in the idea that within the chaos of their life, there was always beauty.