Part III

Sherlock: Light

October 12th

STOP AT RUN RIR… Sherlock scratched a jagged line through the letters on his yellow note pad, growled, and ripped the sheet from its moorings, flinging it in a crumpled ball across the living room. It bounced off the overflowing wastebasket and joined the other wads on the floor. He slipped from his chair to thump onto the floor, staring over his knees into space.

He was so close – he knew it in his bones. But there was something missing, something that was probably so obvious that it was nearly biting him in the nose, but he couldn't grasp it. Probably because it was something dreadfully dull, some key to the universe of ordinary people that his extraordinary intellect couldn't focus on long enough to understand.

Mycroft's men had been a little too thorough with the American Tyrone: instead of breaking his will, they had broken his wits. Now, he sat in his cell day by day, rocking on his bunk and gibbering nonsense. "It wasn't the hats," he'd explained to Sherlock, when the detective paid a visit. "Not the hats, never the hats. I swear, it had nothing to do with me—everything was baguettes. Baguettes and books and that stupid house all covered with vines…" And then he'd broken into a sobbing mess, and Sherlock had left, disgusted and frustrated. Since then, he had refused to utter another word—let alone anything that actually made sense or had to do with reality outside of his shattered nightmares.

Sherlock sighed, and leaned his head back against the seat of his chair, draping his hands over his knees. It was only in these last few months that he'd realized just how much he had come to rely on John's solid presence. After having someone to talk to while he was working a case, someone who could actually comprehend some of what he said, and sometimes offer input of his own…a skull simply didn't do the trick anymore.

Sherlock's phone chirped, and he glared at it. Mycroft was the only one brave enough to text him right now—in the last week, all others who had tried received lengthy, infuriated responses bitingly insulting their intelligence and parental units. He flicked open the message with an impatient finger. If John were here, he'd say—

Suggestion: baguettes and an "old house IN PARIS all covered with vines" from a children's book. Paris, France? –MH

PARIS. Scrambling, Sherlock grabbed up his scratch pad and ran his finger over the jumble of remaining letters. Already, he had decoded: Everything is ready, bring the package. And now, if he put the name of the city of light…

Like the last jigsaw puzzle snapping into place, Sherlock saw it. The corner of his lip twitched—the name of the city of light made him see the light…There was probably a lame joke in there somewhere.

Everything is ready. Return to Paris. Bring the package.

And then a warning: Do not fail again.

He tapped the decoded message into his phone, sent it off to Mycroft, and sat back with a slow blink of satisfaction. Luminosity could still exist without the presence of an actual conductor…afterimages could be very bright indeed.


John: Shadow

October 12th

John watched Sherlock walk to the grocery, and then went for a run in the walled-in garden.

He watched Sherlock disappear into St. Bart's for three and a half hours, and did his therapy calisthenics while he waited.

He'd given up on the idea of stalker—he was more like an invisible shadow, flitting from security camera to security camera and keeping his guarding eye on his erstwhile flatmate. Frankly, he was getting bored. One can only watch so much television, after all. Mycroft told him that his suggestion had apparently broken through whatever mental block Sherlock had been struggling with, and that the detective would be on the first plane to Paris in the morning.

"Great," John replied, "But I'm guessing you don't have access to as many eyes in France."

Mycroft smiled that secretive, confident, v-shaped smile of his. "Oh, you'd be surprised," he said.

John rolled his eyes. "Save your James Bond act for someone else," he said wearily. "What's your plan?"

The elder Holmes, apparently unperturbed by John's rebuff, withdrew a small device from the pocket of his suit coat. "Sherlock will wear this," he said, holding it out for John to take. "And I've got a few other tricks up my sleeve, to use the colloquialism."

John wrapped his fingers around the tiny gadget. "An earbud?"

"Technically, a two-way communicator," Mycroft corrected, taking a seat behind one of the other desks.

"Two-way."

It wasn't a question, but Mycroft answered anyway, with a small smile that might have had just a dose of compassion mixed into its usual bland formula. "You'll be on the other line," he said. "If," and he stressed the word, "If you can keep him from knowing who you are—you'll be Ross, you'll be careful not to say anything he might pick up on as sounding familiar, and you'll be talking through a voice-distortion device."

"Why?" John clicked the tiny communicator down on the desk. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I know you will do more than any other operative to keep Sherlock safe, and because…" Mycroft cleared his throat and twisted his head as though his tailored suit was chafing his neck. "You…deserve the chance."

Ah. John understood. "You think you owe me," he said flatly. "After everything you put me through—everything you put your own brother through—you feel like you owe me."

Mycroft didn't answer.

John sighed. "Well, I'm not going to complain," he said. "You do owe me."

The elder Holmes, again, didn't answer. But he inclined his head, ever so slightly, as if in agreement—an agreement he would never actually confess.

"Right," John said, standing. "Better go over the plan with me, then." He held himself to military attention. "First things first: What time does the plane leave?"


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A/N: Hey, folks: sorry for the long delay here. Last week was midterms, and I REALLY didn't have time for much fun writing. So, if you'll notice, the dates on these entries are for last Friday - which means that, as of now, Sherlock has been in Paris for about a week. What has he been up to all this time? And is John not going MAD not being able to get out and about? Well... in the interest of keeping my readership (small though it may be) happy, I'm going to be very nice and post the next bit, Devils and Angels, within the next day or two, and hopefully be back on track by next weekend. Reviews are my happy-buttons, so drop me a line to say what you think!

Keep believing!

~Essie