"BORED!"
He was now in possession of a slingshot.
Mrs. Hudson, the poor woman, looked terrified as she stood in the doorway. So did Lestrade, though he was sitting on the couch. He'd been there for a while, though Sherlock hadn't really taken notice. His gaze flitted over Mrs. Hudson. Recently gone out shopping; there's mud on her shoes, and it stopped raining recently. She's been at Tesco's, the bags in her hands suggest it was merely for food. She bought milk three days ago; so it's for us, then. Hmm. Good, we were out of milk, I was about to text-
Sherlock rolled over on the couch with a huff before standing, a flurry of movement in his blue dressing gown. His landlady- not his housekeeper, she chided- went to set the groceries in the fridge. Sherlock tossed his slingshot to the side before beginning to pace.
"Sherlock, where's your phone? I texted you, asking if-"
"Somewhere. In the flat. Doesn't matter." He waved his hand dismissively, still pacing, before he broke the silence again.
"Do you know how long it's been, Mrs. Hudson?"
"It's been ten days," she replied quietly. Sherlock looked at her, eyes wild in confusion.
"What? Oh, no, of course not. Nine. It's been nine days."
Lestrade cut in worriedly. "No, Sherlock, for ten days he's been-"
"Nine! And he's been silent, dead silent for nine whole days! Why? Is he doing it on purpose? What, what, what is he waiting for?" Sherlock muttered, scratching his head.
Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson exchanged worried glances. "Sherlock, wh-who- what are you talking about?"
"Why, Moriarty, of course." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Simple, simple minds. Can't even figure that out. "His last little trick with the garbage bins wasn't even all that difficult to deduce; so why, why, why is he laying low? Why is he hiding?"
"So you're not-" Lestrade broke off with a sigh, shaking his head. "You know what? Nevermind. Yes, Moriarty's been silent for quite some time. We don't know why- everyone at the station is holding their breath."
Rumpled shirt- three, no, two days old. Jeans, folds at the knees where he's been sitting down. Dark circles under his eyes, strained forehead, coffee stain on his shirt sleeve and crumbs around his mouth. Shoes caked with mud, some of it from yesterday; he's been out, probably searching for clues. A slight tremble in his hands; barely noticeable, but it gives away his agitation and exhaustion. The station's been busy, yes. Productive? Unlikely.
"I assume you've done away with the garbageman."
"Nah, we're still holding him. He won't say a word, even though we found him with the salt and oil. The dogs went crazy, Sherlock- but you were there, you know that."
"He hasn't said anything?"
"Nope. Nothing at all."
"Let me speak to him." Sherlock started towards the door, and Lestrade nearly choked.
"Sherlock, dear!" Mrs. Hudson stopped him. "You can't go out in your dressing gown, that's just- it's 1:00 in the afternoon!"
"Oh. Right. My mistake." He looked down, rattling his head a bit before turning and striding down the hall. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson exchanged glances, again.
"Inspector, I'm worried." Mrs. Hudson waved him downstairs, shutting the door to 221B. "He's faster than ever; oh, he deduces everything; but he's not... he's paying attention more than ever, and yet, he's not. I'm rather worried. The old Sherlock would never have tried to leave the flat without wearing his coat and nice clothes. He seems so preoccupied, and yet- and yet-"
"And yet he's seemingly unfazed by John's state? Ten days, and the only thing that's happened to the man was when he took a deeper breath a few days ago. I don't like it, Mrs. Hudson. This- this mystery of Sherlock's brain, piled onto being constantly on the watch for Moriarty, along with worrying if John will wake up."
"Oh- I'm sure he will, Inspector. John's not really one for leaving people; he'll come to in time."
How much time?, Lestrade wondered, scratching the back of his head.
"Yeah, well. We've had a few odds-and-ends cases, you know; a runaway teenager, some small robberies. I've piled them onto Sherlock- God, it's like finding something to entertain a child, just to keep him busy, y'know? But I do it, and I know his mind is grateful- even if he isn't, and even if it's momentarily. Half the time he just scampers around London, doing who-knows-what. Has he- you know- have you seen him visit the hospital, since that first day?"
Mrs. Hudson shook her head wearily. "And if he has, he hasn't spoken about it. His brother, Mycroft, would be the better person to ask if you want to know what Sherlock's doing."
They both pretended not to notice she hadn't said best- there was really only one man who could properly keep track of the detective, and he wasn't around.
"Right, well. We'll be off then." Lestrade started for the door as Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in his usual attire.
"Now, I'm going to be honest, I don't expect him to say much," Inspector Dimmock said with a weary sigh, glancing at the files. "We've held him here for a good seventy-two hours, constantly monitoring him for anything, but we don't have anything. Not even a name. We're-" he glanced up as the door opened, his mouth going into a thin line as he saw the tall consulting detective enter the room.
"Inspector Dimmock," Sherlock rumbled coolly, glancing through the window at the 'garbage man.' Tall, lean arm muscles, especially on his right, strong legs; no contacts or glasses, he isn't squinting, so fairly excellent vision; cuts under his chin, scruff growing back; he's operated between growing and shaving a beard and mustache. Impatient tapping on the desk; slight ring around one eye from repeated pressure, as well as early-onset wrinkles that are asymmetrical; messy, plainclothes hair; large feet, planted firmly on the ground yet light enough to stand quickly; other than the fingers, tense, yet still. Smoker? No, his breathing is perfectly regular, barely noticeable. Lowered brows, wide eyes; he's intelligent, too, then. Otherwise, he would have talked already. Silence shows some sort of dedication to a mission, especially concerning his emotionless expression. Hardly anyone can undergo holding in a police station for over a day without displaying anxiety. This man is good at staying perfectly still and waiting.
"Well, let's have a look at our sniper-slash-garbage man, shall we? Of course, none of you had figured that out yet, but still," Sherlock said, glancing around the room. Anderson scoffed, and Donovan curled her lip. Inspector Dimmock bit back a sigh as he opened the door to the holding cell.
Sherlock stepped through the door; instead of opting for the chair, he stood behind it, perfectly statuesque, watching the man. He glanced at each wall in succession, slowly turning around; first, the wall behind the man; then the one opposite the window; third, the one behind himself; then, the one with the door and 'mirror-' the window for the police to watch. Everyone on the other side of the fourth wall collectively drew in a breath.
"How does an ex-militant sharpshooter end up driving a garbage truck? Please, do tell me everything I need to know. I'm intrigued, honestly."
The man let out a short laugh, his eyes widening slightly; he was obviously not expecting the question. "So you're Sherlock Holmes."
"The one and only." He was met by silence, which he broke again with a harsher, sarcastic line: "In conversation, it's considered polite to offer your name after the indulger has stated theirs."
"Yeah, well, I don't do niceties."
"Oh, shame." Sherlock pulled out the chair and flounced- there really wasn't another word for the way he sat- into it, eyeing the man.
"So. Again. How does an ex-militant sharpshooter end up driving a garbage truck?"
"Difficult times. Army pension's terrible; but then, you would know that." The man's mouth twitched up into a smile, and Sherlock's gaze turned to ice.
"The tan line of the watch around your wrist suggests money isn't a problem for you. Neither does your posture or word fluency; you've come from a good school, meaning money. The cuts from your expensive razor aren't really working in your favor. No, smart men are never poor; which also begs the question- if you're not a complete dolt, why let yourself be captured? That's not really a clever move." The intercom buzzed, and Sherlock ignored it.
"Not gonna get that? Your friends are calling." The man sat back as much as he could with his wrists handcuffed to the table.
"I don't have friends."
"Nope, you've just got one," the man mocked, making Sherlock's blood run cold. How...? "And he almost died." The man raised his eyebrows innocently. "Don't you feel guilty, Sherlock? Remorseful?"
It was silent. The intercom stopped buzzing.
The man let out a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes before he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. "Leaving me to do all the talking? Well, it's a nice change. I let myself be captured because it was a strategic move. Don't let those idiot coppers think for a moment they caught me of their own accord. I'm not a stupid pawn."
It is marvelously easy to move, to sway, to... sacrifice a pawn.
"So what are you, then? Enlighten me."
The man smiled wickedly. "I'm a rook."
"Crook? As in criminal?"
"No. A rook; you know, the chess piece? They can move in any cardinal direction. I told you I wasn't a pawn." The man laughed, while Sherlock maintained a stone-cold glare. The intercom buzzed again; they both ignored it.
"Oh, you're no fun, then. Sarcasm aside, I guess you could say I'm a... henchman, of sorts."
"Oh, how quaint."
"It's humble," the man snarled, bristling like- well, like a giant dog, before relaxing. "I would say partners in crime, but he and I aren't exactly on the same level, now, are we? We work together; I get the fun parts."
"So you know."
"That he's a mad genius?" The man grinned. "Yes. Of course. That you're a genius, as well?" An exaggerated frown slid onto his face. "Well. That's what I had been told."
Sherlock practically bared his teeth; if human ears could flatten, his would have. "No- so you know where he is. You're partners."
"Wha- oh!" The man threw his head back, laughing loudly. "You think- oh, god, no, Mister Holmes. Moriarty moves wherever he wants. When he wants me, he finds me. Simple as that."
Sherlock sighed loudly, pushing to get out of his chair. The man sobered up immediately. "Wait- where are you going? I was just warming up."
"I thought you would be useful. You've proven me wrong, apparently."
"Now, hey- I'm useful, just cryptic."
"Is that what Moriarty tells you? Ooh, you're such a good pet for him. We geniuses do get attached, you know. You're so cute when you're stubbornly loyal. Stupid, yet loyal."
"I'm not stupid, like your Doctor Watson was when he let Moriarty shoot him," the man hissed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"John at least has enough brain cells to realize when he's been fooled. You don't, of course." Sherlock sighed, heading towards the door. "You're just another one of Moriarty's trigger-pullers. Nothing special; nothing important."
"I'm not useless!" The man roared, trying to yank himself up from the table.
"Oh, really? Quite the temper there; that can't be good. John's always had such a quiet temper."
"I know that!" he roared, trying to break his cuffs. "I know I'm not useless; I know John's got a great temper. I've been watching- longer than you have!"
"Oh, I don't think so."
"I know so!"
"Oh, another thing; I do know Moriarty likes to have fun, but he's a terrible shot. If you're so good at what you do, why would he shoot John himself?"
"Because he- shut up!" The man was struggling like a dog chained to a fence. "I'm from the Army! I was in the third damn Northumberland fusiliers! I'm a perfect shot!"
"Of course you are. Thank you for your time. You've given me all the information I'll need, really."
"You didn't even get my name!"
"Why would I care?" Sherlock opened the door, glancing at the man. "I'm after the real game; Moriarty's. You are a pawn, and you've been captured. Even if I did want your name, you've already given it to me. Thank you for your time."
"I know Moriarty's game!"
Sherlock stopped. "Oh, really?"
"Yes. He's quite the master at chess. You're going to lose. You'll lose everything."
Sherlock let the door slam shut, realizing he was walking into an empty room, spare one woman scribbling notes into a large file marked '9-10.' Small file, not too much information. Nine, he's been here nine days, but they wouldn't mark a ten; they can hold him as long as they want. She's right-handed, been writing a while; recording the conversation, perhaps? Her ID's on the table beside her; can't make out her name, but by the smaller lettering and lack of medallions on her clothes, she's most likely new. Not someone close to Lestrade, so not high up on the chain of command. An Agent, then.
"Where is everyone?"
"Oh, Lestrade said to tell you-"
"And you are?" he interrupted.
"Oh- um. Agent Bristow. I stayed to record your conversation."
"You're looking for a man, early forties, who served at least five years in the third Northumberland fusiliers in Afghanistan; a regular, though, not a Captain or Lieutenant. Most likely no more than ten years. A sniper or sharpshooter, though most likely the former. Left-handed. He is, of course, working with Moriarty. Check if any of the army men have recently purchased weaponry; handguns, snipers, even ammunition." Please, do tell me everything I need to know... You've given me all the information I'll need, really. "The Inspector's message?"
"Oh, yes. Sorry, um... he said it was something about Jacob."
"Jacob?"
"N- no, not a Jacob. Sorry, I'm terrible with my memory at times."
"Obviously." Sherlock glanced through the halfway window; the man was positively fuming, but sitting quite still. A rook; you know, the chess piece? They can move in any cardinal direction.
"George- James? Jamie? no... it was.. something about a... Jonathan?"
Sherlock's head snapped back. "John?"
"Yes. That was it, John." Agent Bristow nodded her head, curls bouncing. "John... John had- something about the monitors? He had stopped them or something. They... um. Sorry, I'm not too sure..."
Sherlock strode out of the door before she even finished speaking. He reached into his pocket for his phone, but came up empty-handed.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" He growled, hailing a taxi.
Author's Note:
Ah, yes. Filler chapters? No. Cliffhangers? Um, yes. Sorry about them, though, I hate reading them as much as the next person. I'll throw you some ropes in the next chapter, I promise.
Also, sorry this chapter's taken a bit longer than the rest. I've been rather busy this week; and unfortunately, I'm going on vacation for most of next week, with limited internet access. I will write, though, and upload a bunch of good stuff the week after.
No but you guys don't understand how excited I am about this story, because I had an epiphany the other day and I now know what I'm going to do for Moriarty's game and all these little fangirlish details I'm going to write in and just, ohmygosh it's exciting.
It's getting harder to keep Sherlock in the character I want him to stay in. Whenever I think of the Holmes-Watson relationship, I realize they do rely on each other quite a lot; however, I don't necessarily agree with post-Reichenbach John 'breaking down' and giving up, nor do I particularly like stories where John is hurt/gone and Sherlock is a mess of wild emotion and deduction. John brings out the better emotions in Sherlock; in my opinion, when John leaves, Sherlock loses a lot of his personality other than the cold, deducing detective he is. I'm trying to add his infamous 'sassy Sherlock' remarks into his cold, calculating, 'unattached' self right now; because I see Sherlock becoming unattached if John ever left. He would never abandon the work; he would abandon anything but, and become obsessed; hence, his obsession with Moriarty and lack of remorse for John, and how half the time he blurts out deductions and others he stops himself because he realizes he isn't speaking to John. Sherlock's in a difficult place right now, and as he's never really dealt with too much emotion in his lifetime, he's going back to what he knows how to do.
So, yeah, that's my explanation for any harsh/mean/slightly-OOC Holmes you might be seeing. I'll fix it, don't worry haha.
Five points to anyone who figures anything out, sees specific details, decodes a few certain choice words, all that stuff; I don't know about anyone else, but whenever I read a foreshadowing/allusion element in a story that refers to something in the shows or something big about to happen, I practically squeal. And I love writing them in. So there's that.
One last thing before my author's note becomes longer than the chapter itself- I prrrobably won't usually reply to a review, but not because I'm trying to be above it all or rude or anything (I promise I'm not!). If I haven't replied, it's most likely because I'm too busy having a mini-seizure from excitement. I'm serious. I've actually bounced up and down in my chair while reading reviews, I love that people are reading and liking and commenting on my story.
Thanks for reading, again! Comments/critiques/reviews are greatly appreciated :)