Chapter Three: Masters of Disguise

He seemed to pace endlessly.

Sometimes, he slowly placed one foot in front of the other, as if he were deep in thought. Each step would meticulously emphasize a heel-to-toe pattern. Other times, he would vigorously pivot, pacing with an extreme purpose. His cold turquoise eyes were always burning with a cold, ferocious fire, black curls bouncing slightly on his head. Even when he wasn't pacing, his hands always tremor violently, his feet dancing the jig of a madman.

A madman like himself should never be enclosed in a small facility for as long as he had been. His brain sent electric pulses, jumping from neuron to neuron, at an unusually high pace. This left him feeling as if each nerve in his body was alive and buzzing anxiously. He had not slept for months, he never ate, but worst of all he hardly uttered a sound. He was a ticking bomb, and Irene knew it.

Irene had adjusted well to welcoming Sherlock into her home. Most people would become frazzled the second day, and by the end of the week they would become completely irritable and grouchy. Miss Adler had lasted an outstanding eight months without any serious complications. No police investigations, no high profile criminals invading, even the assorted body parts did not decay.

Like Irene's iron will, the conditions of the varying digits, limbs, and unidentifiable portions of the body were not affected by the atmosphere. Irene had thus far managed to quell any of Sherlock's tantrums, his anxiety, his nicotine addiction, even his absolute boredom. His chaotic and destructive behavior would forever leave a tense and horrible atmosphere in the house, but her character never deteriorated because of it. In Irene's house, a dead man would always be cared for regardless of his mental state.

The only thing that ever wore her down was the Lab Rat.

The Lab Rat stopped in frequently to check on her precious Sherlock, too frequently. Irene found her shyness and awe of Sherlock amusing at first, but irritating none the less. Her name is Molly Hooper, Irene recalled, and she was the one who helped Sherlock fake his death. She brought Sherlock all his collections from 221B; the body parts, the lab equipment, but no books. Those, Sherlock assured Molly, could always be found in his head. After the first month, Irene was finished with the Lab Rat's visits, hoping she'd realize that Sherlock was as settled as he could possibly be, and no amount of lipstick could help him be comfortable.

None the less, Irene Adler continued to aid Sherlock to her fullest ability through this tense waiting period.

Sherlock needed space. The walls of Irene's small countryside house were caving on him. He had deduced every inch of the house, of Irene, of everything, and his mind screamed for more.

He needed more.

More liberties

More air

And a case!

Sherlock stormed to Irene's grand kitchen, grabbed the saucer she was using for her tea, and blatantly threw it against the wall. Irene raised her eyebrows, amused rather than startled.

"Let. Me. OUT."

His ferocity did not faze her in the slightest. Irene lazily turned her head towards him, finally acknowledging that there was a potentially dangerous man standing right in front of her.

She mumbled slightly when she replied, not having put in the effort to take her chin off her delicate palm, elegant fingers drumming against her jaw. "Sherlock Holmes. Do you not remember when we made our agreement? You are not to be released from me… I have full power to do anything to keep you in here for your extended vacation. You, Mr. Holmes, are mine. You may go outside, but I'll be watching you… not too far from the house, understood?"

"Please, try to leave my good china in its current state on your way out, won't you?"

Sherlock scowled bitterly at her. She had always liked to play the alpha, though this is a simple deduction considering her career choice. But treating him like a child? She was full heartedly enjoying herself. Sherlock's eyes seemed to burn brighter than ever, the retorts feeding his flame. Lamely, he turned on his heel and practically flew out of the door, slamming it so hard behind him that all the windows shuddered throughout the entire house.

Sherlock had not considered exactly how ridiculous he looked, standing in his normal pants, a white shirt, and his blue bathrobe. This did not matter, of course, because he was safely tucked away in the heart of the English countryside, where few knew he resided.

Sherlock grabbed a stone and hurled it at what appeared to be nowhere in particular. But not to cunning Irene, who watched from the second story bedroom. She smirked and walked away from the curtain.

Sherlock knew Irene had a general idea of what he was up to, and knew she would keep quiet.

Irene knew what Sherlock was doing, but did not interfere.

This silent agreement had abled him to be distracted enough to not march straight to Baker street, burst through the door, and holler 'I'm home!' to his dearest, most unfortunate flat-mate. But, then again, John himself had not been in 221B for eight months either; Sherlock did not need his spies inform him of this. Not even John, Sherlock's brave veteran, could face the high emotions of staying in 221B. The disbelief, the denial, the self-doubt, the memories would be haunting every inch of their home.

As the stone landed in the distance, a nearby bush quivered slightly. Even if anyone had been watching, there was absolutely nothing suspicious about the leaves of the bush dancing like so. It would actually be expected, considering bulging thunderclouds threatened to release a torrent of pounding rain – leaves always shook before a storm's eruption.

The clouds had been a constant omen for months, sometimes releasing a downpour of rain, sometimes simply staying in the sky as a constant threat; a reminder. Even as they released steady flows on occasion, one could tell it was not exactly the full storm that was brewing. One could only wait for the skies to break open to rumble and shake their delicate home.

The bush rustled again, a confirmation to Sherlock. He strode over, half his mouth lifting involuntarily. As discreetly as possible, he bent down and gazed anxiously into the brown eyes of a small, dirty face.

The owner of this face was covered in a layer of dirt and grime. He wore shabby clothing, little holes and tears over every inch of fabric, on each of the many layers. The man was stout, broad, slightly red in the face, and missing a few teeth. He looked back at Sherlock bravely, especially for the news he was bringing.

He spoke. "Sherlock… good tah see ya. I've just been runnin' afer yer friend, Jawn, ann' I gots sum bad news fer ya."

"Go on." Sherlock replied.

"Well, yer friend went teh 'is therapist, ya see, ann' there weres a 'ole lotta screamin' goin' on. It star'ed off about the normal stuff. Howwas that make yer feel, the 'ole lot of it. 'N then, Mr. Jawn-"

"-Doctor, Doctor John"

"Erm.. yeah, yeah, Doc'er Jawn star'ed talkin' about the other Mr. Holmes. Yer brother." The man paused, trying to see any sort of reaction in Sherlock's face. There was none. "Ann' I heard 'im sayin' tat Mr. Holmes has been gone the entire time youse been gone. They say he jus' up and disappeared. Tat's what happened. Anyhows, Mr. – I meanen Doctor – Jawn… well the therapist went ann' brought yeh up agin, Sherlock. Ann'… Ann' Dr. Jawn dinnit hold back this time round. Dr. Jawn went ann' screamed inner face, tat's what. She wus tellin' 'im tat you isn't real, agin, but this time 'e wasn't gonna hear it no more."

"This time 'e told 'er, 'you are WRONG.'" The man's voice boomed. "'Sherlock Holmes is REAL. There is NO SUCH THING AS RICHARD BROOKS. YOU CANNOT TELL ME OTHERWISE, YOU DON'T KNOW SHERLOCK. YOU DIDN'T SEE HIM, LIVE WITH HIM, WATCH HIM SOLVE CASES. THERE IS NO – and I mean NO – POSSIBLE WAY HE COULD BE A FRAUD.' 'N the lady got right quiet, I could hardly 'ear notin', ann' she right out told 'im tat Dr. Jawn wus insane. She said right innis face, 'You need to calm yourself, Doctor. I'm afraid you're suffering a bit of insanity.'. Don't the therapists' have a differen' word fer it though?" The dirty man questioned the brilliant man.

"Yes… yes there is." Sherlock muttered under his breath. The toothless spy watched Sherlock as he stared at the ground, eyes flickering back and forth as if he was rapidly reading a long text in the dirt. He suddenly looked up, coming to a conclusion from his brief deduction, and urged the spy onwards. "That's it?"

"No sir. Then Jawn stood righ' up, and walked righ' outta there. The therapist was ascreamin' af'er 'im, 'SHERLOCK IS DEAD' 'n stuff like tat." The grimy man finished. "Ann' this is from the man tryinna find yer brother." He said, handing Sherlock a note.

It read:

Sherlock,

I have done as you instructed, and have been searching thoroughly for your brother. He is nowhere to be found. Not a soul has heard from him for months, not his most trusted consults, not even a suspicious car outside your flat, waiting for John. Lestrade and company have been searching as well, more for your and John's sake than that of the government.

Also important news: John may have convinced Lestrade to (finally) run the DNA from the St. Bart's roof against the entire criminal database, not just the DNA they got from Richard Brook's old roommate, which was most likely planted. This could be what will end John's ridicule and the defacing of your grave; given Moriarty's actual DNA is in the system. Who knows what he could have done to avoid that.

Speaking of defacing and vandalism, there has been a large amount of graffiti wars over you. Your grave, as I said before, has been destroyed multiple times in retaliation to a common slogan on buildings and in the alleys of London, 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' and 'Moriarty was REAL'. It's all interesting enough and it might even be amusing if you didn't know how much it's torturing dear Mrs. Hudson and John.

Just another little note: John is having a horrible time with this. It needs to end soon.

-Will update again soon

Sherlock folded the paper, his brow furrowed over his eyes as he placed the letter in his pocket.

"Thank you." He said to his loyal spy of the homeless network, one of many. Sherlock slipped him some money and strode back into Irene's house, the cool tiles and high ceilings matched his cold fear of what could be going on in London. The only things on his mind for the entire time he had passed under Irene's command were of returning to John and 221B, Mycroft's highly out of character absence, and Moriarty.

How could Moriarty have survived? Sherlock distinctly recalled the sun glaring off the metal gun, Moriarty's eyes widening in excitement as he slid the barrel into his mouth, angling it to the base of his skull, where his spine met his cerebellum. A perfect shot, instant death. The only fault in this logic was that Sherlock instinctively jumped backwards, eyes slamming shut and hands flying over his ears to protect him from the awful blast of the gun. Sherlock had only heard the shot, he had not seen it.

Could Moriarty have pulled it off? Could he have possibly faked a gunshot wound to the head? The blood? The lack of a pulse?

Sherlock ran through possible scenarios as he walked into Irene's room, where she sat waiting for him.

"You want to go to London." She stated, not questioned. He only nodded in response. "Alright… I'm sure we can figure out disguises for both of us… after all, we are masters of deception, am I right?"

Sherlock looked at her sharply, surprised by her choice of words.