I AM SHERLOCKED Chapter 4, a sherlock fanfic

I AM SHERLOCKED:

Chapter Four:

The bills came in today. More of them, I should say. I'm starting to feel like a hoarder with more of these letters beginning to take up more space than I'd like.

Sherlock and I found our detective work had never been very lucrative, even with our success. It had been more of a public service, really. We were making the world a more just place. More precisely,we were solving the crimes more for ourselves than for the money. Sherlock was in it for the challenge, and I was along for the ride.

The blog did help. But, for obvious reasons I stopped keeping up with it and the savings gradually disappeared.

I thought about getting a job. I really had seriously considered it. I almost turned in another application to the hospital, but along with Sarah being there, undoubtedly she still remembered the terrifying date we had gone on, there was also reluctance on my part. I felt like I was turning my back on him. That I was giving our greatest adventures up.

I could never find a job quite as thrilling as the one I had employed myself with by staying at Sherlock's side. The thought of civilian life still scared me. The life without Sherlock was even more frightening.

When you have the time, come to the Institute. Quickly.

I had the strangest feeling he didn't really care if I had the time or not. Mycroft had not wasted a single moment in contacting me. I wasn't entirely surprised judging from when he last spoke to me. He did say to get better soon. At least now he couldn't call me a liar.

"Oh god," I sighed, running a hand through my short hair. What was I getting myself into?

I didn't waste time getting prepared. I already felt like a bloody mess, but I wasn't going to give Sherlock anymore ammunition to get under my skin if I could help it. And no matter how disturbing it was to think that Sherlock would try to unnerve me, I knew it was true.

I showered, running cold water over my body to try and wake up. I hadn't slept a wink last night and I didn't want it to be too glaringly obvious.

I combed through my hair and tried not to be too bothered by the amount of loose hair that came out with it. My hair didn't look any more thinned than normal, but the fact everything was taking a physical toll on me was unsettling.

I shaved my face for the first time in days. I had actually started to grow a patchy beard and a moustache. I almost kept the moustache, but I decided it would be best not to. I wouldn't let Sherlock have the satisfaction.

I looked myself in the eye in the mirror and picked out everything that was possibly wrong with me. I looked weak, stressed, thin, and paranoid. The bags under my eyes looked inflamed and worse than ever. My eyes were darting around like scared prey. My hands couldn't stop shaking, even when I pressed them against the sides of the sink. I couldn't stop moving my jaw or twitching my nose.

"Alright, okay…" I muttered to myself, not liking how faint I sounded even when directed towards my own reflection. I looked down, took a deep breath, and looked back up. "You haven't any money," I commented, furrowing my brows slightly. At least my voice had cleared. "You haven't got a girlfriend, you're lonely and you've got a damn psychosomatic limp" I surprised myself at how sharply I pronounced the profane word, a moment of anger taking over me. I muttered an apology at myself and then worried at how natural it came out.

I took another sigh and refocused. "You're John Hamish Watson, ex-army doctor of the fifth regiment Northumberland Fusiliers… I've been shot. I've killed more men than I'd like to remember and I've been held hostage by a criminal mastermind with c4 strapped to my bloody chest…" I felt a surge of confidence well up inside me and I started to believe that I could make it through this day alive.

I nodded as if confirming everything I had just said, my reflection returning a still apprehensive expression, but at least it retained some composure.

I heard something vibrate in the next room and left the bathroom feeling a little better about myself. I found my phone and frowned.

Your speech was endearing. Really. Get in the car.

I paused and had to read the message over again before I could let the embarrassment blanket my face. My eyes immediately began to scan around my room. At least I knew Mycroft had one camera in the bathroom. But suddenly, after thinking about it a moment more, that realization didn't give me any comfort at all.

I got dressed in my coat and shoes and limped my way outside. A black car sat at the end of the driveway, the exhaust running and the tinted windows glaring back.

I stood outside, hesitating for just a moment. That car was surely taking me to the Institute and this was the last time I'd be able to relax. I took a deep breath and tried to remember my little list of encouraging facts, using the cane to walk toward the car.

Before I could get too close, a man emerged from the passenger side and opened the door for me. I could see Mycroft waiting in the back, his large nose pointed towards the front of the car, not even looking in my direction. He looked focused, as usual, and was hard to discern. I got in the car and the door shut behind me.

The car started to pull away from the curb and make its way onto the road. Minutes of wordless time transpired between everyone in the car. I would've normally liked to spend my time with Mycroft in peace and quiet, recalling that he usually said something that upset me far too frequently. But today, I had too many questions.

"Sorry, but did you...did you bug my bathroom?" I blurted out. Strangely, this was the question that had been pressing me the most.

Mycroft only sighed and didn't look in my direction. "If you must ask, it's not just your bathroom. I took precautions. And don't worry, it's just a microphone. Not anything too invasive."

"Too invasive?" I parroted with a snort. "When has the concept of surveilling someone else's home not been invasive? The mere idea of it? Just because it's only a microphone doesn't make it any less discomforting!"

"Though I'd love to chat about something that's been installed in that home over three years ago-"

"What?!"

"-There are more important things on my mind…" Mycroft faced me at last, one brow raised and the other furled. "Take this briefcase."

From the floor of the car, Mycroft handed me a briefcase that was freakishly similar to my own. It was brown and even had a worn look. I took it with slight bewilderment.

Upon seeing my reaction, Mycroft nearly rolled his eyes. I could see his brow twitch. "Open it," he instructed when I failed to do so quickly enough.

I pulled the latches down and the lid popped open. I pushed it away from the other half and examined the contents. There were papers that looked like they belonged in a briefcase, a couple of pens, a notepad, and a curious item: a small, tiny earpiece. Something out of a Bond film.

"What's this?" I held the tiny device in my hand, knowing very well what it was, but not at all what for.

"You wear it in your ear," Mycroft stated blandly. I frowned slightly. "I'll have its twin with me. I'll be telling you what to say and what to do."

"What?"

"I simply cannot have a repeat of what happened last time. I need answers, and you're going to get them for me."

"So, I'm your puppet. Basically. That's what you're telling me."

"Do you have a problem with this, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft raised his chin, looking me in the eye with a haughtiness that was far too familiar.

I began to grit my teeth again, muscles bulging out on my jaw as I worked my anxiety away. "I'll get your answers, but I want to be able to speak freely. I don't need you talking in my ear." I hated the way I stammered on some words, but I hoped he took it as seriously as I wanted him to. I wanted answers just as much, but I didn't need Mycroft telling me what to say. I knew Sherlock. I didn't need his help.

"Are you absolutely certain about that?" Mycroft's gaze never left my eyes, even when I looked away to view the rest of the car. Black. Everything was black. The driver was dressed in black. The interior was black.

"I'll get answers. I will."

Mycroft didn't look convinced. "I believe you're having money troubles, am I correct? You admitted it yourself just ten minutes ago, so I wouldn't bother lying."

"Sorry, are you bribing me?" I shaped my mouth into a smile, narrowing my eyes and lowering my brows at the audacity of the man before me. A sound of disbelief escaped me, and I was almost tempted to laugh. "You are, aren't you? You really are."

"Call it whatever you'd like, Dr. Watson, but I know for a fact you're jobless and not in a position to change that anytime soon. I also know for a fact it's out of your own doing you haven't applied anywhere yet, so I'm led to believe you haven't got any source of income in the world." His words stung, but I said nothing and kept my face even and let out another snort. "So I'm offering to pay, if that's what it takes."

"How much?" I called his bluff, but he seemed perfectly genuine.

"A large sum," he responded immediately. We stared at each other. Both trying to predict the next move. It was beginning to turn into a more personal matter than solving the problem with Sherlock. "I know I offered you money before to look after my brother. You refused and now look where he's ended up."

My smile dropped and I felt an overwhelming wave of anger run through my veins. "Are you blaming me for what happened?"

"Of course not. I should've done a better job myself, but the truth of the matter is I'm offering you another chance. Ask my questions, get the answers, and I will pay you."

Although I was heavily agitated with the Holmes brother and I disagreed with the idea of having him using me as a translator, I did need the money. Maybe it wasn't actually a bad idea. Now that I thought about it, being alone with that man...what would I even say to him? What did I have to say to him? I fell apart last time, and even though I felt better prepared today, I still didn't completely believe I had everything in control.

Maybe Mycroft's proposition had more sense than I thought.

"Fine. I'll accept."

"Good," Mycroft made an attempt at a smile though it looked just as fake as the one he'd given me at the hospital. "Put this in your ear and follow my instructions."

I sighed and placed the small device into my ear, already regretting my decision but unable to go back on my word. I already felt trapped with the bloody thing stuck in my ear.

The car pulled to a stop and instantly I felt chills running along my skin. I froze up and had to close my eyes again and take a series of long, deep breaths.

"Good luck, Watson," Mycroft said. Even a positive message like that sounded demeaning in his voice. "Try not to let him get the best of you this time around." His inflection was light-hearted, his voice pulling up at the end of the sentence, and I found it annoyingly nonchalant.

The car door opened and I exited the car, pulling the cane close to my hip.

Here I was. Once again.

I watched my left hand tremble once again and stuffed it into my pocket. I stilled my body and forced my chin up as I started to walk towards my doom.

I entered the building and repeated the process of searching for my card, but I managed to hold some integrity intact this time around. I was once again led down the empty halls until I reached a stopping point. I could already tell it was a different room. Thinking back on it, I had broken the mirror. I suddenly felt embarrassed by the memory, but I didn't understand why it was affecting me so much now.

Keep it together… I told myself. The door opened for me and like the room before, there was a plain, simple chair bolted to the floor and another located across the room from it. Mirrors lined the walls like wallpaper and glared back at me. I averted my eyes from my reflection, already well aware of what I looked like.

I couldn't bare to see the fear on my face. Not right now.

"Please wait in your chair. He'll be brought in soon."

"John, can you hear me?"

Mycroft's voice was unexpected, and admittedly unpleasant. I flinched, momentarily forgetting I was wearing the earpiece. I fiddled with it, trying to discover if there was a way to possibly mute it or turn down the volume.

"For God's sake, stop picking at it. If I wanted him to know you were listening to me then I would've just interviewed him myself!"

"Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but I'm pretty sure he's going to figure it out eventually," I muttered under my breath.

"Well that's the idea. Eventually isn't immediately. The longer it takes for him to find out, the longer we have to be strategic about this. Just do whatever you can to keep him from finding out too soon. Reword if you like, but just don't ignore."

"Alright, alright...A please wouldn't be too devastating now and then, you know."

"You do know you're getting paid for this, Watson. Don't tell me you've already forgotten. It's only been five minutes."

That was the closest I was going to get to a thank you.

Of course, every thought I had disappeared when a door across the room opened and Sherlock was escorted in with two men on either side. His hands were cuffed behind his back and chains were shackled around his ankles. He looked like a murderer from the way they chained him up and treated him.

He was placed in the bolted chair, his ankles first strapped in, and then his wrists. He did not struggle or resist. He seemed more like a puppet than I, moving his hands when they pulled the strings and doing only what they wanted him to. He acted docile.

But his eyes had remained on me the entire time. The ice cold blues were marred with red, and they latched on to me so intently, I had the urge to squirm in my seat and look away. But I did not.

I sat still and matched his gaze. I did not blink and dared not avert my eyes should he think it a weakness. I was not going to give this man any validation that he was making me fearful or uncomfortable. No. I was playing his game.

If he wanted to intimidate, then I would play along.

The last of the binds had been strapped down and the men left the room. Sooner than I even noticed, I was alone with Sherlock Holmes. I knew the mirrors were really windows from the right side, but I could never have felt more isolated than in that moment when everyone left and all I could feel was Sherlock's gaze, analyzing.

"So my deduction was correct. You've come back," he smirked. his hair was more unkempt than the times he'd sulk on the couch from boredom. A grayish shadow masked over the lower half of his face and I could tell he hadn't been sleeping.

"Surprised? That doesn't sound like you," I folded my arms, leveling with his own tone and determined to win this game.

"You don't even know who I am," he chuckled. "I already told you, I'm not the consulting detective you thought I was," he leaned forward at this, hissing out the words.

"Well, I guess you're right about that," I took another deep breath, looking down as I unfolded my arms and clasped my hands instead, moving my thumbs absentmindedly. "But you still made a brilliant deduction. You couldn't have possibly researched that I'd come back, now could you?" I looked back up at him, smiling up at the man out of a growing feeling of courage deep inside me.

I wasn't going to let him see me react so easily.

"Come now, John. Anyone could have predicted that," I tried not to let my smile falter at what he said, but it was dreadfully difficult. "You're much too sentimental to leave me be."

"That may be true," I nodded in accordance. "But I bet you can tell me a lot of other things about me." I leaned forwards, still smiling though my eyes lacked the amused gleam.

The man mimicked my motion, leaning forwards and grinning devilishly. "That you're stressed? Yes, I can see that. You've also picked up the habit of smoking, something I noticed our last meeting but didn't quite get to after you bolted out the door like a bitch with its tail between its legs. You've begun storing a carton in your coat pocket, and I can only assume you're keeping a lighter handy also. It's a nasty habit, really. Smoking. I'd recommend dabbling with drugs. Much more effective and sanitary if you clean the needles properly. I can also tell you that you're suffering from insomnia. You didn't sleep at all these past few days, have you? You're also losing weight, probably suffering from depression, and look at that… you've got your cane back. Guess I our last meeting shocked you so much you suffered trauma and psychological damage," he grinned like a fiend at me. Showing all his perfect teeth and never turning away even as he deducting everything. And everything he said was true. Painfully true. The lack of emotion in his voice and the way he read me like an open book stung. It truly did. "How pathetic is that."

I looked down from his eyes, unable to maintain eye contact when my vision started to blur from oncoming tears. But unlike last time, I merely willed them away and felt a burning desire to return the favor overcome me instead. I let out a laugh. It wasn't substantial and it wasn't meant to convey any real emotion except to release the pressure in my chest. It was a sad laugh, a quiet sound.

I looked back up to the man, his face gleaming with victory as he read my actions carefully and exactly. "If there's one thing I knew about Sherlock Holmes, it's that he was the biggest show off I had ever known."

His smile twitches in the faintest degree and I knew I had struck a chord. I continued, urged on by the small dent in his defenses. "I guess some things don't change. Even in death."