Exception to the Rule

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Chapter Two


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Sunlight filtered through the windows of 221B Baker Street, highlighting dust and casting fuzzy halos across every surface. In the corner, blending into the motionless scene, slept Dr. John Watson with his mouth half open. As the sun slipped over the London sky line, bright rays of white light penetrated further into the room and made the man slumbering within groan in protest. Slowly, John twitched and blinked himself into consciousness, wary that it was now morning and he had most likely made himself late for work. The sounds of early traffic outside dissolved any half-remembered dreams and left him feeling oddly vacant, as if some sort of life shattering epiphany had been forgotten in his mind.

A rather painful epiphany from the feel of it.

Starting at the base of his neck and curling into his temporal lobes was a headache that could kill a small child. With a stiff motion, the doctor raised one of his arms and held it against his eyes, silently begging the world to end so that he could sleep on indefinitely.

Yet, like a timid spirit, the smell of smoke wafted into his nostrils and John widened his eyes in confusion - desperate to determine its source. Had Sherlock burned something? It wouldn't be the first time he awoke to find something in flames. He had never forgiven Sherlock for setting his military trousers on fire to see what color the flame was.

"They're standard issue John; you can put the gun down now…"

John had his gun cocked and loaded that time. He was so angry and so intent on controlling the situation in the only way he knew how, that his temper got the best of him; but the look in Sherlock's eyes had held him. It was those eyes that said a pair of pants didn't matter in the grand scheme of things and that John was being a fool by holding onto such simple rules society gave him. He might as well have been brandishing a stick at the whole of the universe rather than aiming it at Sherlock Holmes.

Sometimes that man could get under his skin in ways the sands of Afghanistan could not.

From the limitations his chair, John looked around his cluttered apartment. His bleary eyes took in certain discrepancies, most of which he would have to bring up with his flatmate the moment he was presented the opportunity. First was the disappearance of Bill Murray.

His friend wasn't exposed to personalities bordering on the insane and may be bullied into participating in an unethical experiment. John rubbed a hand sleepily over his face, picturing the orderly downing a flask of questionable chemicals. The mental imagery was frozen as a strange texture was felt upon his face. Pulling his hand away, the doctor noticed some chalky blackness smudged around his fingertips. He seemed to be covered in something sooty.

Charcoal?

With some creaking of unyielding joints, John stood from his chair to get a proper look of himself in the mirror. Not only were his hands coated in ash, he also had traces of it on his cheeks and around his right eye. For the life of him, the doctor could not fathom the meaning of it.

"Morning," came a voice from the entrance. "Trust you slept well… had a busy night from the looks of you."

John swung around, wincing at the sudden pain in his head. A sunbeam had decided to spear him right in the eye, giving Sherlock a dramatic silhouette.

"Sherlock, you didn't scare Bill into leaving did you?"

Sherlock tutted and distracted the doctor by shifting some of his common room rubbish from one pile into another; it was a prime example of his non-existent domestic skills.

"Of course not. He left for his own reasons." He stared at the new pile he made and then back to John with a smile; for a moment the doctor wondered if Sherlock were awaiting praise for his failed attempt at tidying.

"I made you breakfast." The detective said suddenly - and far too cheerfully for John's liking.

"What did you do now?" The tone used was similar to that of a tired mother speaking to a particularly uncooperative child. The doctor regretted it the moment he heard himself say it.

Sherlock's face fell, and for some reason that marshalled more concern in John than did the unexpected breakfast. It wasn't like the usually detached detective to act emotionally affected by the words that came out of John's mouth, and it made him scrutinize his flatmate a little bit more thoroughly. Doing so, John knew Sherlock was acting; it was something in the way his mouth moved that gave him away - too much pout, and not enough of it reflected in the eyes.

Good lord, he was starting to observe and deduce on his own now.

"Honestly, it's not what I did from the looks of things. You're a proper mess by the way - I hope you've noticed." Sherlock looked the doctor up and down with a disdainful eyebrow before continuing, "If you really must know, I came to the conclusion that it would be more efficient to prepare your breakfast before you awoke. Now you have time to shower before you're due at the clinic."

John looked even more suspicious, "Awful nice of you."

"Yes… quite."

Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa and helped himself to John's laptop. The bewildered doctor couldn't help but notice Sherlock was no longer making eye contact with him – just another anomaly to plague him throughout the day. This morning reeked of eccentricity.

"You've obviously been leaving me alone with Mrs. Hudson for too long. She came in this morning to check on you by the way; followed your muddy prints right into the flat." Sherlock paused as if he were letting the information sink in.

John merely nodded, his guilty face falling upon the shiny floors. They smelled of Mrs. Hudson's cleaning solution.

The detective grinned as he glanced at the computer interface and typed in John's passwords as if they were his own. "Her habits are starting to encroach on my own. If you're not careful I might be tempted to make you tea."

"That would be the day." Knowing Sherlock, he'd be safer drinking bleach.

With some residual misgivings, John made his way into the kitchen and spotted the toast and jam his flat mate had prepared. It was balanced precariously within a sea of Erlenmeyer flasks and peculiar beakers - all of which were crowding out the table. John sighed and resigned himself to plucking an overloaded slice and putting it in his mouth. He tried not to think about what had previously been in those flasks while he chewed.

"So, last night… you got a case? I can hardly remember…" John spoke around his toast, trying to get the volume of his voice high enough for Sherlock to hear him from the sofa. It was difficult, so he gave up early in the sentence. Every memory from the previous night seemed to be lost in an impenetrable haze – which was odd since John knew he didn't drink that much. Almost subconsciously his eyes lingered to a mug resting alone in the dish bin; it looked neatly washed and very familiar - another oddity in a small space of time.

"John, you're going to be late."

"Oh. Yes, well…" He put away the rest of his toast and headed to the shower. His headache must have been addling his mind, for something still didn't feel right about this morning. There was a voice in the back of his head screaming at him to put it all together – but put what together? What was he missing?

The sound of his footsteps faded towards the bathroom, leaving Sherlock alone in the common room. His eyes flickered to the stairway and his face contorted into one of curiosity. The expression only lasted for a moment as he refocused intently on whatever he was working on.

Ten minutes later, a shiny John in a dress shirt and plain trousers came bounding down the steps. He paused during his downward journey to grab his jacket hanging on the coat rack. As his fingers grazed the material, John slowed down, his face slackening as if he were entering a trance. Once the jacket was in his hands, he frowned and stared at it as if it offended him in some way.

"Sherlock, I noticed it before, but… the smell of smoke - it's coming from my coat."

"Brilliant observation John. Time to work on your deductive skills." Sherlock sat up a little straighter and looked up from the laptop.

John's frown grew more prominent. "There was soot on my face and hands when I woke up." His eyebrows knitted together and his voice faded into thought. When he spoke again Sherlock's attention span had expired. "Were they there when I came in last night?"

"I couldn't be bothered to retain such trivial information John." The detective's eyes went back to the computer screen. His body seemed to condense, drawing less attention to itself.

"Sherlock, I'm serious." John decided to fetch a different coat, which happened to be an embarrassing shade of teal. The weather was still too cold to forgo outer apparel - much to the doctor's misfortune. "I don't remember being anywhere near the fireplace." He cast a worried eye in that direction as if it would hold the answers he sought; but the hearth seemed even tidier than the rest of the house - not a cinder to be seen.

"The clock John."

"Right…" John gave his flat mate one last look of concern before disappearing down the stairs without another word.

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Sherlock shut John's laptop gently before getting to his feet and fetching his coat. As usual, his mind was running on more than one track, and it was obvious from his expression that one of them was not pleasant. He cast an eye around the still room, looking for anything of importance he may have missed from the set-up that morning. Finding nothing, the man wasted no time pulling on a pair of gloves and heading for the door.

He turned up his collar on the way downstairs to fend off the breeze he knew was sweeping in from the west. His stride was confident as he popped out onto the street - until a black car subtly sidled up to him from the road.

It was compact and shiny, the sort of vehicle one would appreciate in thought, only to move onto whatever colourful contraption was parked next to it. The plates were government issued, but Sherlock didn't need to glance in its direction to deduce its true source. The door opened with a smart click and a young woman stepped out. Sherlock knew her as one of Mycroft's attendants; but even with his meticulous attention to detail, her name had escaped him throughout the years. He merely referred to her as 'the girl' if it came up in conversation.

"Morning Mr. Holmes, care to join us?"

A few seconds of tension seemed to stretch the moment into something longer. First, then second thoughts came to a standstill, and in the shadows of the car Sherlock could see the outline of his brother waiting patiently for a decision to be reached.

Breaking the awful mood, Sherlock brushed past the girl - his back rigid and his movements lacking their usual fluidity. As he entered the backseat, the girl shut the door with an efficient snap and relocated herself to the passenger side. In the time it took for the car to take to the street, Mycroft had turned his face toward Sherlock and with a look of bewilderment settling on his brow, he fidgeted with the handle of his umbrella.

The sound of the child-locks clicking in the background made an odd chill crawl up the detective's spine. He wondered what careful words his brother could possibly say.

"What on earth are you doing - or planning on doing – since I know that mind of yours is buzzing with some foolish idea. One that is going to place me in a very difficult position."

It was daringly blunt, but Sherlock understood. His brother was no fool.

"You had a camera installed in my light fixture. I noticed it a week ago and was going to see what sort of mischief I could get up to."

"Yet you used it to make sure I kept an eye on John whilst you were away framing him for something devious no doubt. The only conclusion I can come up with is: you want him out of the way for something cunning." The look of accusation hardened into one of suspicion. "What is it?"

Sherlock's eyes strayed to the window. "I don't intend to tell you."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Then why are you here?"

The man shrugged, "You tell me."

"You've been threatened."

Like Sherlock, Mycroft's powers of deduction were powerful and he didn't hesitate to reveal it. His little brother clicked his tongue impatiently, but it didn't stop the politician from running with his theory. "I knew that look on your face the moment I saw it - Fear Sherlock. Fear as clear as day."

The detective kept his eyes on the passing store fronts, refusing to give the elder Holmes any more information. Unfortunately this left him open to a firm umbrella strike across the chest, which slowed his arms reacting to Mycroft's fingers slipping into his jacket pocket and pinching his phone.

"Mycroft! You fat-"

The man sighed as he fended off a furious Sherlock with his umbrella while simultaneously accessing his recent calls.

"Name calling Sherlock? You're much too old for that sort of rubbish… Mummy would be very disappointed if she were here."

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "Give me back my phone."

"I wouldn't have to resort to such underhanded methods if you hadn't blocked off any feasible method of remote access." The elder brother peered at the picture Lestrade had sent, then flicked through some of Sherlock's latest texts. He frowned when he found nothing of particular interest. With the air of a defeated man, he threw the phone back to his younger sibling. "If there was a threat in the photo, I don't see it; then again, that might have been the point."

With eyes like cold steel Sherlock sneered at his brother. "This is my business Mycroft."

"And yet you're the one who silently asked me to babysit your inebriated side kick." The older sibling gave his usual haughty grin.

"I wasn't one hundred percent certain you were paying any attention at that moment in time… and if you were, it would have been an added reassurance - that's all."

Mycroft took a moment to try and read his brother's body language; it was one of Sherlock's very few weaknesses. Though, it wasn't always an entirely reliable source of information. Sherlock had the habit of misleading others by using twisting subtle movements the same way bad liars could capably deceive using poor delivery of the truth. Nothing was more dangerous than a man who knew how to utilize his faults. Despite this, Mycroft gleaned some valuable information - only because Sherlock was playing this game very close to his chest.

"You think your new enemy might target John, and that is why you're framing him. The DI will be forced to watch him whilst you go out to amuse yourself." The silence made the man more confident in his conclusion. "Smart Sherlock… but John is not going to like this."

The consulting detective practically rolled his eyes. "That has nothing to do with it."

Mycroft decided to try and press for more pieces of the puzzle.

"Who is threatening you Sherlock? You know you don't have to play their game… I know people-"

"I don't need your help Mycroft!" The man finally shouted, showing his temper. "I am perfectly capable of solving this problem myself. Why can you never grasp that?" Sherlock's eyes flashed with something akin to desperation before he regained control of himself and pointedly glared out the window. His voice calmed, leaving only a faint bite in his words.

"You're putting yourself in my way."

Mycroft clenched his jaw, his own temper simmering just beneath the surface of his calm visage.

"No Sherlock, I'm trying to help you and you're pushing me away. That's always been the trouble with you - you can't tell an enemy from an ally." Silence punctuated Mycroft's sentences as the younger Holmes was determined to tune out his brother. "It's going to put you into a precarious situation – and I know you walk away from them unscathed most the time, but there is going to be one where you won't. It's a fact Sherlock – a fact that we both know very well. But in your head, you think the sacrifice is something you'll choose - your life, your career. What you don't know is that, yes, you will lose something Sherlock - but it won't be you. It will be something you didn't even know you had – and it will tear you apart."

"Are you quite finished?"

Sherlock's tone indicated that he was closed to an outside opinion, but Mycroft continued anyway while he still had him in the car. Dark things followed his brother like a shadow, and the man seemed to throw caution to the wind in favour of upping the ante in during his sinister games with London's underworld.

"You're stubborn, arrogant and selfish Sherlock… and you're playing with fire."

"Driver! St. Bart's please." Sherlock was now ignoring his sibling entirely. It was a juvenile pastime, but it was one that worked.

The Driver gave Mycroft a quick look in the rear view mirror to confirm the destination, to which the man gave a restrained nod. They traveled to the hospital in uncomfortable silence, both Holmes' staring intently out of opposite windows. The pair twitched occasionally at the memory of each other's multifaceted words.

When the car finally came to a stop Sherlock exited at top speed. He nearly tripped backwards when Mycroft caught his forearm and locked eyes with him for a final confrontation.

"Don't do anything stupid."

Sherlock tugged his limb roughly back to freedom, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. "I'm a genius Mycroft; there is nothing stupid in the work I do. Goodbye and good luck with the diet." His sentiments were caustic, earning himself an angry flush of red on his brother's face before the man retreated into the shadows of his car.

The door slammed behind him ominously; the tension still managing to penetrate the sudden barrier between them. It was only when the car finally drifted away from view that Sherlock started feeling in control of the situation at hand. He discarded the multiple warnings of his brother like a pair of soiled gloves the moment the smell of death and mystery beckoned to him from the hospital. With a focused mind he wandered towards the morgue – ready to examine the heartless body within.