(A/N: I have received such praise I fear you may have permanently stained my cheeks red. Well here's the next chapter. I hope it meets your expectations. LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I HAVE NEVER BEEN, nor never wish to be, IN A FIGHT SO ALL MANEUVERS ARE COMPLETELY OF MY OWN IMAGINATION. So they could work or they might not. I don't really know. :/
I have become accustomed to the 1k+ views I've been blessed to receive these last three days, so I pushed myself to finish this when I just wanted to go on tumblr and stare at Benny's face.)
Sherlock glared down at the cowering man before him. "Richard Evans," he began, causing the man on the ground to flinch, "you have provided me with a great distraction, but you are probably the most idiotic and simplistic criminal I have ever had the misfortune to encounter." And it had been an exciting case. It took Sherlock somewhere around a week to work his way through all of the victims' coworkers and common acquaintances, far too long in his opinion. One night, when pondering the case with the aid of a cigarette or two, Sherlock was struck with clarity. The "go-fer".
The company had begun taking recommended interns maybe a month or two before the murders began and, as most internships go, the few taken into the office became the "go-fer", the coffee catcher, the message bringer, the one that has to do whatever he is told. So reviewing the interns taken in, Sherlock found that one Richard Evans was the only one that regularly got coffee from the shop a block away. After a quick background check that involved Sherlock interviewing far too many people for his tastes, Sherlock determined that Richard was a textbook case of magic-envy.
Everything fell into place after that. Sherlock quickly deduced that Richard had commandeered an illegal amulet that would allow him to "suck", for lack of a better word, the residual magic from the corpse. The amulet, unfortunately, used up the magic quickly and so Richard had to keep killing to keep it charged. Sherlock entered on Richard standing over his next victim. Which led to a chase. Which led to Richard's mistake in attacking Sherlock with his sluggish, stolen magic.
Sherlock sneered down at Richard, who sounded as if he was crying now, before turning and sauntering past Lestrade. Sherlock tossed the Detective Inspector the amulet he had been twirling on his finger just moments ago. "There you go, Lestrade. One murderer and his illegal amulet."
Lestrade watched on silently as Sherlock brushed past the rest of the police force and hailed a cab. The man was a bit of a mystery himself to the DI who, despite knowing Sherlock for coming on four years, still wasn't sure if he was a manipulator, a sorcerer, or, Lestrade dreads to think, a warlock. Shaking his head slightly, Lestrade turns to his men and yelled at them to pick up the pace and do their bloody jobs.
In the taxi, Sherlock slipped his hand into his shirt and pulled out a cracked amulet of his own. He tutted softly, running his thumb over the fissure in the amber stone, before quickly tugging and breaking the silver chain around his neck. Sniffing slightly, Sherlock hopped out the cab, paid the driver, and promptly tossed the broken artifact in the nearest bin.
Despite his deep loathing for his older brother and his meddling, Mycroft's steady supply of protective amulets was definitely a benefit when it came to Sherlock's work. More often than not, a case would end with a chase which would end with the suspect cornered which would cause the guilty party to fight. Mycroft, being the British Government, is able to get his hands on strong amulets that absorb attack magic, at the very least. Once he gave Sherlock an amulet that would absorb the attack and then store it for later to help stitch up small wounds. That one lasted about two weeks.
Sherlock went through protective amulets quicker than he did flatmates. Speaking of which, Sherlock paused to look up at the building before him. The brick front was simplistic yet seemed to contain a certain charm. An anti-inflammatory charm, if my readings are correct, Sherlock thought with an approving nod. Being benign didn't mean that you were completely oblivious. Technically, everybody has the potential to read magical residue. Sherlock just chose to hone that ability, partially in compensation of his lack of skills and partly to aid him with the Work.
Hopping up the two steps, Sherlock sharply knocked on the door twice. From within he heard a voice call for a minute. Not seconds later, the dark door opened to reveal a very motherly looking woman who, upon seeing Sherlock, smiled wide. She pulled him into a hug, but quickly released him, and welcomed the man inside.
"I was hoping you'd come round, Sherlock," the woman was tittering as she popped into her flat. "When I put out the ad, I wasn't sure what to expect," she continued as she came back with a key. "You can get all sorts nowadays, so when you called me up a couple of days ago I was more than happy to hear from you." The woman unlocked the door, first the bolt, then the handle, and finally muttering a few choice words that would disarm the alarm.
"Well, Mrs. Hudson, I just entered the market for new lodging, so I took the opportunity when I saw it," Sherlock responded with a small smile. This rambling woman seemed to bring out a softer side of Sherlock. Swinging the door open, Mrs. Hudson stepped to the side and allowed Sherlock to walk in. He took slow steps, taking in the wide kitchen counter, the high ceilings, the open sitting room, and the Victorian wallpaper. A smile spread across Sherlock's face. This would do nicely.
Mrs. Hudson watched Sherlock a moment before zipping about the room herself, opening the maroon curtains and swatting away the dust it stirred with a light cough. "I know it's a bit musty at the moment, but just give it a little light for a bit and it'll be much better." She gave a smile before turning and stopping with a frown. "Oh. I'll have to do something about that dreadful wallpaper," Mrs. Hudson muttered to herself before turning back to Sherlock. "So, dearie. What do you think?"
Sherlock faced Mrs. Hudson. "I'll take it," he said with a wide smile.
"Well, let's go downstairs and talk about the price," Mrs. Hudson said, returning the smile. "I can cut you a special deal because of the whole thing in Florida, but it may still be a bit pricy." She began descending to her flat below, Sherlock obediently following. "Maybe you can get yourself a flatmate. A nice woman would do you good, or a bloke if that's what you're into."
Sherlock frowned. A flatmate would be most beneficial, but he didn't want to risk having to move again. This was most definitely the best flat for him and if another flatmate ran out on him, Sherlock didn't want to move. Besides, who would want to be his flatmate?
Sherlock's fingers tapped out Beethoven's Kreutzer Sonata on the microscope as he tried to focus on the slide. However his efforts were futile for a few seconds later, Sherlock was pacing across the room and snatching up his violin. He'd been in Mrs. Hudson's flat for coming on a week now and still couldn't find a suitable flatmate. Sherlock had even resorted to mentioning it in an "offhand" comment to Mike Stamford. Ever since Mycroft had frozen his trust fund account, he has had to resort to tolerating another person's presence just to live in an acceptable flat.
It was ridiculous and the current bane of Sherlock's existence.
But that wasn't Sherlock's only problem at the moment. Lestrade hadn't contacted Sherlock since the Evan's case a week ago and now he was out of experiments. Every second spent without a case simply increased the ever-growing desire to resort to less legal ways of stimulation. But Mycroft had paid off all the dealers in a ten mile radius and had constant surveillance on Sherlock anyways, so it was just a scratch he couldn't itch. The nicotine patches didn't even begin to soothe him.
Desperate beyond comprehension, Sherlock dug in his robe pocket and punched out Lestrade's number into his mobile. He held the phone to his ear, hand squeezing the plastic as he heard the electronic ring.
A click then- "Hullo?"
"Lestrade. Tell me you have a case for me," Sherlock interjected before the man could get another word in.
Heavy sigh. "Listen, Sherlock. I don't have any homicides to give you and-"
"You've yawned twice in the last minute and you are drawing out your vowels longer than normal, so you are obviously experiencing exhaustion," Sherlock began to deduce. "Ergo you do have a case and it is a touch more difficult than you signed up for. And when you run into a case that you can't handle, you come to me." He paused, giving Lestrade a generous five seconds to process what he had just said. "So come consult me."
Lestrade almost went to protest, but was interrupted by his own yawn. "Fine," he grumbled. "I'll be at your flat in ten minutes."
"Oh, I'm not there anymore," Sherlock informed with a shrug, ignoring Lestrade's groan and 'Really, Sherlock? Already?!'. "I am now at 221B Baker Street. Just knock." Not waiting for a response, Sherlock promptly hung up and headed towards his bedroom to dress. His excited smile grew with each step.
John rolled his shoulders and popped his neck. Shaking out his arms, he moved from foot to foot, keeping on the balls of his feet. And he waited.
DING! went the bell and John charged. He effortlessly dodged the wild swing to his face and dashed around the side of his assailant. Two quick jabs to the ribs and a swift kick to the leg. The man spun about, wincing when he put too much strain on the muscle John had just bruised. Another wild swing, this time towards John's gut. Instead of dodging this one, John chose to use the large man's momentum against him.
A firm hand to the crook of the man's elbow and a small push on the man's hand resulted in the man striking himself. John glanced up at the clock on the wall as the larger man cradled his sprained arm and decided he'd played around enough. Two steps forward, one hand on the shoulder, and John slammed the man onto the padded floor with nothing more than a quick hook of his leg and a little pressure from his hand.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the spar and John's victory. The man still on the ground groaned and John offered a hand, his right one as his left shoulder was starting to ache. The man waved it away, but gave a small nod of thanks and John smiled. He quickly left the ring, snatching up the waiting towel as he headed towards the showers.
John eagerly shed his sweaty clothes and stepped into the stall. Closing his eyes, he let the cool water wash over his happily aching muscles. Thinking back on the last few months, John couldn't help but smile. He'd come so far.
After that first run-in with the failed mugging, John had gone out each night. Whether seeking danger or the chance to let off some steam and magic, John still wasn't sure, but either way he wasn't ever disappointed. Each night, without fail, something happened that resulted in John flaunting his powers, just a touch, and his limp vanishing for the rest of the day. At first, John had no idea why it affected him in such a positive manner, but after a few weeks John figured that he had grown accustomed to the almost constant rush of adrenaline that accompanied the ever present sand and upon returning to London, he began to experience withdrawal.
It was an odd way to look at John's insatiable desire for danger, but it was the best he had. So he stuck with it.
However, after a while someone must have caught wind of his 'heroics' and spread the word because all crime in a two mile radius came to a standstill. Not even purses were being snatched. That was a bad week for John as it left his limp worse than ever and he had to struggle more and more each day just to get out of bed.
Finally, one late night at a pub, a solution arose. John had been sipping a pint when he was approached by a familiar face with a proposition. On one of the rare magicless nights, John had singlehandedly disarmed and incapacitated three separate men. Their boss had watched on with a mix of horror and awe until John turned towards him, ready to finish. The man fell to his knees and begged for mercy. John, being a kind and forgiving man at heart, gave it and the man happily sprang to his feet, introduced himself as Mark, and promised that John would see him again before dashing off into the night.
So when Mark approached John in the pub, he had been wary, but willing to listen. The man came offering compliments and praises of John's superior fighting skills, all of which John brushed away without blinking. "What do you want, Mark?" John asked sharply. Mark swallowed thickly and handed John a bright red flyer with a shaking hand.
It was an invitation to a fighting ring.
Normally John would have instantly turned away the offer, but he was desperate and the fights would be in a controlled environment and he was less likely to die. But he also wasn't allowed to use magic. John sighed heavily, glancing over the basic rules on the back, but found himself honestly considering it. After a moment or two, John looked back up to Mark and inquired, "So where is this, then?"
From that moment on, John became a regular on the roster and an obvious fan favorite.
Now here he was, four weeks in with a winning streak that seemed to have no end in sight, and John was having the time of his life. He felt more alive after each spar and his leg bothered him less and less, although he still relied on the cane until about four in the afternoon. The reward cash didn't dampen his spirit either.
John gave a happy sigh, turning off the shower and wrapping the towel round his waist before stepping out onto the cold tile. He quickly dressed and headed to the office to collect his winnings. As much as the ring had helped him, John didn't trust it entirely. It was an underground ring that probably dabbled in more than a few less than legal activities. But John didn't ask, so they didn't tell. And John never lingered.
After the always uncomfortable handshake with the ring's leader that lasted a touch longer than John though acceptable, John began to make is way back to the surface. He turned a corner, his cane hooked around his arm, and promptly ran into someone which resulted in John on the floor with a sore bum and freshly aching leg.
John clambered to his feet, leaning heavily on the cane much to his chagrin, and, turning to apologize to whomever he'd ran into, froze.
Sherlock was befuddled. How Lestrade couldn't figure out the case was simply astounding. It was a straightforward infiltration and gathering of evidence. Easy steps, one two three. Even a child could do it. Well maybe not a child, Sherlock thought with a grimace as another wave of perspiration and testosterone slithered under his nose.
Lestrade had been following tips of an illegal gambling operation and had the man in charge in his sights. Unfortunately, just tips wasn't enough to convict the man, so Lestrade needed evidence. This is where Sherlock came in. Using his acting skills, Sherlock posed as a native Londoner looking for a job, no questions asked and no digging. They had an opening for an on-call janitor and immediately hired Sherlock, or Buzz as that was Sherlock's alias.
It took less than three seconds to see that Lestrade was actually right, not that Sherlock would admit it to his face. In less than three hours, Sherlock had learned the faces and names of all the money handlers. In less than three days, Sherlock had gathered enough hard evidence to condemn the ringleader.
On his last day as Buzz, Sherlock changed into his usual day clothes and, after removing any indication of his presence, rushed to leave. However, halfway to the stairs leading out, Sherlock was suddenly struck by a deduction he had made automatically in passing. He stopped, half turned to face back into the club. Sherlock really only toyed with the idea of actually leaving for maybe less than half a second, it really wasn't a choice at all, before making a full turn and dashing back into the stench.
He had to get to the manager's office, that much he knew, but Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what was going to happen. There was only so much a man could deduce from a glance. With each step, Sherlock drew nearer to the office, the soon-to-be crime scene, and that just added fuel to the flames. He practically leapt down the last set of stairs and barreled around a corner only to collide with another person, sending them to the ground. Great, Sherlock thought his a hiss, another delay. I'm not going to make it!
And then he cared to look at who he had crashed into just moments ago.
And then Sherlock had to look again.
(A/N: I just realized that my timing seems a bit off. I've said that Sherlock only took about a week for the Evans case, but John has already been in London for a month. I just wanted to clarify: while it may seem a bit chronological, it's not. John was really, until this chapter, a month or two behind Sherlock. Anyhow, now they're all at the same time, so it's aaaaaaaaaall good. BJ
Oh, and I don't know about in the UK, but here in the US gambling is illegal unless you have the proper papers.)