Blind Man's Bluff

Summary: "We are gods among mortals. But even gods must be tested." Sherlock loses his sight temporarily and must rely on his other senses and John in order to solve the case at hand. But as the killer draws closer, could the pair be in more danger than they first thought?

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. I wish I did but I'm just not that lucky. I am, however, lucky enough to be able to write about them.

Story notes/warnings: Timeline wise I'd say this could be set either just before episode 1.03 (The Great Game) or after it so basically – spoilers for season 1.

A/N: Thank you for reading and for the reviews! I am completely in love with this show so am truly enjoying writing this and playing with the characters.


Chapter 4

"Stop rubbing your eyes," John snapped, chastising his dark-haired flatmate and slapping the man's hands away from his eyes for the umpteenth time.

After the incident in the alleyway, John had suggested they go to the hospital or, at the very least, the clinic. Sherlock had flatly refused both. John was a doctor and therefore, he was quite capable of doing what needed to be done. But rather than head back to Baker Street, they had wound up at Scotland Yard, sitting in Lestrade's office.

"And for God's sake, don't poke at them!" he reprimanded further, half considering asking Lestrade if there were a pair of handcuffs lying about that he could use on the consulting detective.

"You're taking too long," Sherlock droned, slumping further into his seat.

"That's because you keep fidgeting." He stopped himself from mentioning that the younger man behaved worse than a child. This was proved to be even truer when Sherlock sulked and let out a long huff.

"This was exactly what I was trying to avoid," Lestrade grumbled from behind the pair, his arms crossed over his chest. "You must have some kind of death wish."

A twisted smile slipped onto Sherlock's lips. "What was it you called me before? An arrogant masochist, I believe."

"Who will get himself killed one day," John finished, recalling what the DI had said when they had first entered his office. "And he's right, you know."

"I had everything under control. If the killer had seen so much as one member of the police, he wouldn't have made his move."

"He made his move alright," Lestrade growled out. "And look where that got you."

Sherlock didn't have a chance to reply, John stopped whatever retort he had dead as the doctor, growing increasingly frustrated with his patient, pushed Sherlock's arms down to his side. "Hold still!"

"Where's the note?" the consulting detective questioned instead, choosing the ever favourable option of changing the subject.

"The boys in the lab have it – they're checking it over for fingerprints." Lestrade's answer was quick but Sherlock's response was quicker.

"They won't find anything. That would be far too careless and our killer is too smart for that."

"Then maybe you could give us a little more to go on then, such as what he looks like as you're the one that saw him."

Sherlock grumbled and shifted, earning himself a sharp exhale of breath in warning from John. "A physical description would be far too generic and given my current condition, I doubt an e-fit would be of any help."

"Done," John announced, cutting into the conversation and moving back away from Sherlock. "You can move again now – just leave your eyes alone. Please."

"How's it looking?" Lestrade asked, voice lowered, softer around the edges.

The doctor opened his mouth to answer but Sherlock saved him the trouble.

"Temporary loss of sight due to direct contact with a chemical or toxin – plant most likely in this case. Annoying but clever… I have to give him that."

Lestrade continued addressing John as if Sherlock hadn't spoken up. "And how long until he gets his sight back?"

"Hard to say really. It could be anywhere from a couple of days up to a week, depending on whether or not he. Stops. Rubbing. Them." A glare joined the emphasis placed on the last few words and though John knew very well that Sherlock couldn't see it, he also knew the consulting detective would be able to feel its intensity. "I'll get him some drops from the clinic later. They should help ease the burning."

"As fascinating as my well-being may be," Sherlock interrupted, scrubbing his hands across his face, careful not to rub his eyes, as that familiar bored tone settled into his voice. "We are currently wasting time that could be spent looking into our killer's latest note."

And sometimes the worst thing about working with Sherlock Holmes was that he was, more often than not, right. Of course, that also happened to be the plus side and led to cases being solved, but it was the way in which he did it that rubbed people up the wrong way. Lestrade had long since grown used to it and John was fast learning how to ignore it.

"We are gods among mortals. But even gods must be tested," John voiced, remembering the words written on the slip of paper clearly. "What does that even mean?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"If it was obvious, I wouldn't be asking." Because as much as the great consulting detective liked to believe that everything should be blatantly obvious, John had to disagree.

"Our friend thinks of himself as a god," Sherlock explained in short, his mind going over the words again.

"Great," Lestrade mumbled, leaning against his desk. "As if these psychopaths weren't bad enough already now we have one who thinks he's God."

"Not the God," Sherlock corrected. "A god. And not just any god. Loki – the trickster."

"Loki? How could you possibly know that?"

"Urnes Snake," he said as though it were something that frequently appeared in everyday conversation. "The symbol from the crime scene – that's what it is. Frequently thought of as the symbol of Loki."

For anyone who knew Sherlock Holmes, they learned very quickly how pointless it was to argue with the man. Both DI and doctor were no exception. That said, it didn't stop Lestrade from pulling up the web browser on his computer to confirm what Sherlock had been saying. Sure enough, a quick internet search brought up several images matching the one they had found at the crime scene.

"How did you…" John started, but his voice trailed off and he could only stare at Sherlock in amazement.

"It was something you said. It made me think."

"And what was it I said?"

"Twisted."

John shook his head. "You got this from 'twisted'?"

"You made me realise I was focusing on the wrong thing. The way the snakes coil around one another, the pattern around the edge… I should have been looking at the style."

"The style," John repeated because he still had no clue.

"Yes." Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, his leg twitching from the need to move about. "Norse to be exact. Norse. Snakes. Norse snakes."

"Brilliant…" The word was an awed whisper, slipping from John's mouth before he could stop it.

"Yes, quite," Sherlock replied but whilst John's words were meant in praise for him, Sherlock was lost in thought over the game the killer had set up. "What else did the note say?"

"It didn't say anything else," Lestrade answered.

"There has to be something else – something more."

"I think there was a picture… a silhouette of some kind." John attempted to recall the small image that had been below the words but found himself thinking instead how it would have been much easier if the lab was done with the paper.

"Specifics, John, specifics. What did it look like?"

"I don't know – a bird maybe. Bird of prey I think."

Sherlock's head tilted to the side and he stilled. "Long or short beak?"

"I don't know!" John repeated but he closed his eyes all the same, searching his memory. "Short, I guess. Why?"

"Eagles have larger beaks so it's more likely a hawk or a falcon but why? What does it mean?" Fingers interlocked, Sherlock rested his brow against his thumbs and thought back on what he had learned about Loki. Everything was in there somewhere, he was sure of it.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and Sergeant Donovan slipped into the room. All eyes moved to her, even blinded ones, and the evidence bag and folder she held.

"Sir." She inclined her head toward the DI, sending a look of wary disdain Sherlock's way.

"Ah, Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock greeted with false cheer. "Always a pleasure. Do we have a date tonight or are you just trying to impress a certain member of the forensic team with that new perfume of yours?"

A tight grimace slid across her features but she was saved the trouble of answering when Lestrade spoke up – opting to stop the childish back and forth before it could truly start.

"What have you got, Donovan?"

"Fingerprints. Four sets – three have been accounted for."

"And which three would they be?" Sherlock drawled.

The tightness in her voice was back but she flipped open the folder. "Sarah Harrison, the waitress at the restaurant, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson."

"You…you have my fingerprints on file?" John questioned before a vague memory of spray paint and delinquents dawned on him.

"Yeah, something about defacing public property?" She frowned, gaze narrowed as she considered him before taking on a look that clearly said 'I warned you about being around Sherlock Holmes'.

"And the fourth set?" Lestrade asked.

"It'll be a dead end," Sherlock chimed in, his voice almost sing-song in its lightness.

Lestrade ignored him – as did the sergeant.

"They're searching the database now. If he's in it, we'll get him."

"I'm telling you, it's a waste of time."

"You also told us there would be no fingerprints," Lestrade countered.

Sherlock growled in frustration and pushed up from his chair. "What part of 'too smart for that' don't you understand? Any fingerprints on that paper, our killer put there for a reason."

He set to pacing a small square metre of floor, the lack of sight limiting him from anything larger. Back and forth, back and forth.

"Go home, Sherlock," Lestrade growled out but there was concern hidden under the aggravation. "There's nothing else for you here at the moment."

The consulting detective came to a stop, his attention focused on the DI. "That fingerprint isn't from the killer," he said, tone flat, pure certainty lining each word.

"Maybe it isn't," Lestrade conceded, "But it's the only lead we've got. So until you come up with something more, I can't do anything else."

And even Sherlock couldn't argue with the logic there – though really, if he wanted to be pedantic, he could have pointed out that there was plenty that could be done.

"Call me when you get the next body," he said after a drawn out silence, spinning on his heel with dramatic flourish to face the doorway – and even Sergeant Donovan had to be impressed by the grace he held even when blind.

"Next body?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, the word a hiss on his tongue. "The next body. This is a serial killer after all."

And as Sherlock and John left the office, the lingering, ever so slightly scathing reply was, "Of course, how could I forget?"


"So if he's Loki," John started when he and Sherlock were once again back at 221b Baker Street. "Who are you?"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked from where he lay on the couch – spread out, legs crossed at his ankles with one arm draped over his eyes as the other hung loosely over the edge.

"The note – it says 'we'. We are gods."

Sherlock's lips twitched, a smile dancing on them for a moment as 'well spotted, John' ran across his thoughts. "I believe the clue lies in my lack of sight."

John pursed his lips in thought but, in the end, shook his head. "Nope, I don't follow."

Swinging his legs out, the detective sat up on the couch. Fingers templed together, he tapped them against his lips and closed his eyes – not that it made much difference but it was more out of habit than need.

Since hearing the message on the paper, his mind had been working through it, connecting it to what he had discovered about the symbol and Loki. But it had been such a long time since he had needed Norse mythology that he only remembered lingering details. And he knew, he just knew that the blindness was in amongst those details somewhere.

It irked him no end, being unable to work it out straight away – set him on edge because he should know. He was Sherlock Holmes and nothing, not one single detail, should get past him.

"It's a test." The chaos from inside his mind slipped out into his words, too much going on inside of his head for him to keep it all there. Still, he searched his internal catalogue.

"Yes, I gathered that from the note." John played with his laptop, pulling up the browser history and looking over the pages Sherlock had visited the night before. He was left wondering if the man had slept at all but dismissed the thought, knowing it was a stupid query as Sherlock so rarely slept whilst working.

"In order to gain wisdom, the god Odin gave up an eye…" Sherlock frowned. He was inclined to believe that the killer was using the same logic in order to test him but if the killer believed him to be Odin, then surely he wouldn't believe a test was needed? No, there was more to it. He just had to figure it all out and fit the pieces together.

John stilled at his laptop, his fingers hovering over the keys, a brief thought flashing across his mind. He had thought to ask 'why you?' but he already had his answer, he just didn't like it. After all, Sherlock appeared to have a habit of attracting unwanted attention.

"This…" He paused, not quite sure if he wanted to raise the question. He continued all the same though, like a curious cat treading on deadly territory, but the curiosity had been spiked and he couldn't let it go now. "You don't think this is Moriarty, do you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. He would want us to know if it was – though I have no doubt that he will be connected somehow."

The question had crossed his own mind before but he had dismissed it then just as he did now.

Several more moments passed and John fought back a yawn before it finally won and came out more as a lengthy groan, his hand doing little to suppress the noise.

"Go to sleep, John," Sherlock instructed. "You'll be no good to me brain dead."

"I'm fine," the doctor lied, casting a worried glance in Sherlock's direction.

"It is my sight that is hindered, not my intelligence."

"More's the pity," John grumbled under his breath as sometimes, he did reflect on what it would be like not to have a genius for a flatmate. What he said aloud though, was, "And what will you do while I sleep?"

"Attempt to solve the case of course."

And John just couldn't argue with that because, as Sherlock had so kindly pointed out, his mind was still intact and he was quite capable of thinking things through if nothing else.

As he made his way upstairs to his room, John just hoped the consulting detective had more sense than to go swanning about London on a darkened night in his blinded state without John to guide him.

He locked the front door and hid the key just in case.


The sky was dark, the streetlights lit, and London slept somewhat undisturbed by the sirens and flashing red and blue lights that raced through the streets. They wailed and screamed. A fingerprint match had been found and the police were desperate to get their man – a Mr. Michael. P. Weathers.

It was too bad then, that when they reached his office building, they had just missed him. The falcon of Falcon Industries had learned to fly.

And he was still soaring, or more accurately, plummeting to the ground, tied to his office chair and coated in thick, burning flames when Lestrade's car pulled up outside the building. Lestrade stepped out just in time to hear the sickening smash of body hitting ground.

He would not be eating again for a long while.


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