Chapter Three: The Catalyst

Two weeks had passed since Artimes's explosive distraction and once again, the young detective was pacing the length of his flat. He had started doing it more often lately; especially since he was having difficulties figuring out his personal puzzle, Artimes. She was proving to be more of an enigma than he had originally presumed.

John was sitting in his chair, scowling at the newspaper in his hands. Due to the hormones during pregnancy, Mary was being a bit more volatile than usual and John pretty much fled for his life to the safety and security of Baker Street.

Artimes, herself, was rather happy. She was humming along and practically dancing through the kitchen as she was preparing tea for the three of them.

"Settle down, Sher, before you catch the floor on fire with all that pacing." She joked as she placed three cups and saucers on the tray in front of her.

"John, where is it?" Sherlock asked ignoring the red head.

"No." John answered already knowing what his best friend desired.

"It's either that or your gun." Sherlock warned holding out his hand towards John.

Artimes snorted and placed the kettle on the tray.

"The wall would not survive another smiley incident, Sher." She commented as she brought the tray into the living room.

She knelt down and set the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch. She then proceeded to pour the tea into the cups. Once her task was complete, she tried to hand Sherlock his tea, but he waved her off.

"John." Sherlock tried again his eyes practically begging.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't help you." John replied shrugging.

"I never knew you could be so cruel, John." Sherlock countered his hand dropping to his side.

The army doctor opened his mouth to say something, but Artimes spoke first.

"He's not being cruel, Sher. You ran out over a month ago. There simply isn't any to give you." She informed as she stood up and handed John his tea.

John sipped his tea quietly and decided that he would let Artimes handle the detective. She seemed to be better at it than he was most of the time.

"Then I will get some more." Sherlock stated stubbornly.

Artimes giggled softly and shook her head at him.

"As I seem to recall, you paid off all the shopkeepers within two miles of Baker Street so they wouldn't sell you any." She commented picking up her own tea and settling into his chair.

She smiled into her tea as the young detective growled in annoyance. Within moments, he was back to pacing the room.

"Just calm down, Sherlock. I'm certain something interesting will happen soon." John stated trying to diffuse the tense atmosphere.

"We are trapped in a state of stagnation until the series returns and we have yet to locate a suitable writer." Sherlock countered.

John glanced over at Artimes who was sipping her tea peacefully. He smiled slightly as a thought occurred to him.

"We don't need a writer. We have Artimes." The former soldier said matter-of-factly.

Said red head choked slightly on her tea. She quickly set her cup down on the table in front of her.

"And how exactly would my being here alleviate Sherlock's boredom?" She asked bringing her legs up into the chair and tucking them under her.

"You're the only writer that both Sherlock and I actually like; the only one we both agree on. You have already proven that you are more than capable of shaking things up. There must be something you could do." John answered.

Artimes looked over at Sherlock. She could see his silent request burning in his eyes. He obviously didn't get it yet and neither did John. There was something she was trying to teach them, but they refused to see the bigger picture.

"I don't write the story, John. It writes itself. I simply pen the words." She stated her eyes never leaving Sherlock.

"That may be true, but you do provide the catalyst, the idea that sets the story into motion." Sherlock countered a knowing look in his eyes.

Sherlock believed himself to be so clever, but he was thinking so small. He was only seeing a fraction of the whole picture and even then it was hazy due to his biased views about writing.

"There's more to being a writer than what you understand." She replied.

"Then help me understand." He stated kneeling down in front of her, "What does it mean to be a writer?"

She reached forward with her right hand and stroked his left cheek. Finally she cupped his cheek and looked into his eyes. She couldn't tell him what he wanted to know. It would defeat the entire purpose of what she was trying to accomplish.

"Tell me, Sherlock. What is the point in playing the game if you are simply going to skip to the finale to see how it all ends?" She asked being both cryptic and poetic all in the same breath.

His eyes widened slightly as understanding flickered through his eyes. He placed his hand over hers.

"All I'm asking for is the catalyst. I'll take it from there." He answered bring her hand from his cheek to his lips and placing a gentle kiss to the back of her hand.

"Be careful what you wish for, Sherlock. Life has a tendency of not going according to plan." She warned.

"Things are more interesting that way, wouldn't you agree?" He asked smiling.

She sighed heavily and reached for her laptop on the side table.

"On your own head be it, but don't say I didn't warn you." She conceded.

"Thank you." He replied releasing her hand so she could type.

She opened her laptop and began typing. After a few seconds, she was ready. Her hand hovered the enter key, but she was hesitating. She looked up from her computer and at Sherlock. He nodded and she glanced over at John, who also nodded. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She reopened them as she pressed the enter key.

"The game is on and now we wait." She stated closing her laptop and returning it to the side table.

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Two and half hours passed and nothing of consequence had occurred. Sherlock was in the kitchen conducting yet another experiment and John was reading the newspaper once again. Artimes was pacing the room, wringing her hands occasionally.

"Are you certain that it worked?" John asked setting the paper to the side to watch the young writer pace back and forth.

"Of course I am. Life may be spontaneous, John, but it is rarely instantaneous." She snapped.

John was becoming very worried. Artimes seemed more emotional than he was used to.

"You seem nervous." John commented trying to find the right word to describe what he was seeing.

He had never before seen Artimes so worked up. It was a little scary. The red head was always so calm, so laid back.

"I have a bad feeling." She replied shooting a worried glance in Sherlock's direction.

So she was worried about Sherlock?

"I'm sure everything will be fine." John replied trying to soothe the distressed woman.

"Feelings are nothing more than an outlet for irrational human emotions and cause unnecessary strife in an otherwise calm situation." Sherlock stated as he removed his safety goggles and came to lean on the opposite wall of the windows with his arms crossed.

"Says the man who succumbed to his boredom and carved a smiley face into the wall of his flat via a gun." John countered rising from his chair so that he could glare at his best friend more easily.

"I am well aware of your views on sentimentality, Sher, but sometimes it's best to go with your instincts. Intuition can be just as useful as deductive reasoning; that gut feeling when you know that danger is lurking nearby." She replied coming to a stop near the window.

She leaned against the wall and looked down at the street below. Sherlock watched her carefully. He saw how the tension was rolling off her in waves and her eyes were storming with great levels of emotion.

The simple act of observing her in this distressed state was stirring some very powerful and very primal instincts, the kind he usually ignored or simply didn't have as a general rule. The fierce need to protect what was his was at the top of the list. In a sense, Artimes was his, his own personal enigma.

He focused his mind, forcing the strange and unwelcomed urges away, until his once again calm and still, but the need to protect her lingered in the recesses of his mind like gentle whispers in the wind. He needed to find some way of calming her without those instincts reemerging.

"What was the catalyst?" Sherlock asked.

She looked up at him, slightly shocked by his question.

"Why?" She asked.

"It could prove useful to know how the story began." He answered.

"I highly doubt that." She replied.

"Why's that?" John asked.

"Well, the catalyst was…" She started pausing a moment to find the right word, "…vague, at best."

"Artimes." Sherlock said looking directly into her eyes.

The two stared at each other for a few moments until Artimes finally conceded.

"In an odd twist of fate, Sherlock's life becomes very interesting." She spoke.

Special Shout Out to Protagonist of Life for being the first person to review Dancing Minds! Much love, my friend! I posted this chapter early just for you!