Sorry for the wait, guys I simply couldn´t concentrate on the plot for several days. Well, here´s the next chapter...
Thank you to everybody who reviewed, favd and read my story so far! I appreciate talking to you! Please, do talk to me ;)
Special greetings and thanks four your ongoing support to SusanneHolmes (off for a tea at the Manor ;), Impractical Beekeeping (hope the bees are well), Puky2012 (I´ll remember the motorbike), Shiverandshamy (your reviews and PMs elicit a neigh every time I read them), Howlynn (I´ll probably see the ravens soon) and Sevenpercent (keep up the good work :)).
Keep well,
eohippus
Ready to Soar
Back at the office on Monday, one day and only a few hours of sleep after his first night with Victor, Sherlock is exhausted and nervous, unable to concentrate on his tasks. Whenever he tries to immerse himself in his work, memories of their lovemaking appear, overriding reason. As much as he always distanced himself from getting emotionally involved with someone, he now longs for Victor´s presence, his laughter, his touch. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear his mind, chiding himself for his sentiment. His anxiety, resulting from two days of heavy indulging, doesn´t help in his attempt to regain his balance.
He fidgets on his seat, running a hand through his curls and smiling wryly. Probably he wouldn´t have lost his equilibrium so easily had the two of them taken things slower, less intense. But in contrast to Mycroft, Sherlock hasn´t made a habit of resorting to reason because of his obligations. In Victor´s case, he has even pushed himself willingly past the point where reason shouted at him to stop. He wanted the exception, the extraordinary, an existence beyond the beaten track of tedium. Every single minute of the past weekend has been a revelation on what his life could be. He has successfully extended his boundaries, explored previously unchartered territory. The weekend with Victor has contributed to cementing his belief that the routine of composing reports on experiments he hasn´t conducted himself can never be a vital part of his life. Being buried alive in this bland room, surrounded by computer equipment, chemistry textbooks and numerous Styrofoam cups tainted by the remains of stale coffee is only part of his punishment. His first attempt at flying had been prevented by his arrest. He was rudely yanked back into the golden cage of convention. With Victor, he can finally soar, and no one will ever again succeed in clipping his wings.
If he is careful not to arouse suspicion, that is. As long as his father thinks he is fulfilling his duties, he will be able to stray from his obligations and hopefully get one foot into police work. It´s annoying that he still hasn´t figured out how to notify Lestrade of the murdered youth´s possible involvement with Small´s business without directing the DI´s suspicion towards Sherlock´s non-existent status of sobriety. He sinks back in his chair, frowning. Investigating on his own would certainly be far safer than talking to the DI and risking what little freedom he enjoys after his forced stint in rehab.
The text alert notification is pulling him out of his thoughts. He frantically fumbles for his mobile, his lips curving into an expectant smile which falters when he watches Lestrade´s name light up on the display. The DI notifies him that he was right in assuming their latest victim had been killed by a left-hander and with a similar weapon as the first. And he asks him to take a look at the formula of an unknown substance found on the blanket the young man was wrapped in.
Frowning, Sherlock pulls his latest report nearer to reread the crucial bits about the tampered formula of the stimulant. He catches his breath as he finds his suspicion confirmed. An eerie similarity exists between both formulas. Either someone outside the walls of this secret governmental institution has created a similar drug or he knows about the stimulant and is using it for his own purposes. Sherlock´s heart is hammering in his chest as he realises the implications of his findings. It seems improbable enough that a secret substance has found its way into London´s drug scene, but then again he simply needs to eliminate the impossible to find the truth.
He is deeply immersed in exploiting his mind palace for further references when Connor interrupts him.
"Hey. How are you?" the Irishman asks, casually leaning in the doorway.
Sherlock snaps out of his thoughts and stares uncomprehendingly at his colleague. He is certain that the similarity between the two formulas cannot be coincidental. But he needs proof, he needs access to lab equipment and the substance itself to test his theory.
Connor grins at Sherlock´s vacant expression. "She´s really something, hum?" Noticing Sherlock´s eyes narrowing, he shrugs. "Oh, come on. You´ve been mooning over her all morning. You never talk very much, but today you´re completely spaced out. Sure sign of love-sickness, if you ask me."
The man´s condescending grin is infuriating. He´s not completely wrong in his observations, though. Sherlock, fearing that his agitation and pallid complexion might raise questions, has hardly exchanged a word with his colleagues all morning, resorting to short, dull remarks about the weather. But Connor doesn´t share Sherlock´s talent to read the signals which can tell someone´s life story. Sherlock, who has had enough of Connor´s banter and his allusions to his love live, suddenly vibrates with the desire to teach him a lesson.
"Are you jealous because your fiancée moved out a week ago? Because you´d prefer me to join in your wailing about lost opportunities and the malice of women, the unfairness of losing your car and several pieces of expensive furniture?" he asks. "Do you really think it reasonable to mourn the loss of a woman who craved your money more than your attention and who dumped you when she became aware that you are far from the next step in your professional career?"
Connor blanches, his gaze hardening. "So it is true," he replies. "You really do get off on spying on your fellow humans and humiliating them."
"I´m not spying." Sherlock nearly spits out the last word, his voice shaking with contempt. "I´m deducing. The white strip on your left ring finger, your untidy hair and your stained shirt should be evidence enough for any idiot."
"What´s the difference anyway?" Connor asks. "Whatever it is you are doing, I certainly didn´t ask for it. And it surely doesn´t contribute to your popularity to blurt out private information."
Sherlock feels the heat rise in his cheeks. He doesn´t need Connor to remind him that his sharp, ever-deducing mind has been cutting him off from most of his attempts at normal relationships, from an average life. The frustration he feels welling up is an old acquaintance, fuelled by the tedium of the past weeks. It ignites into bright, red fury which has less to do with his unfortunate counterpart, but all with his unsatisfying work life. He gratefully takes the opportunity to lash out against an opponent made of flesh and blood, a foe he can hurt.
"This is hardly your concern," he hisses venomously. He raises a hand, ready to strike, but stops dead when his rolled-up sleeve slips up a notch, and his gaze falls on a particular black bruise on his forearm. He swears under his breath when he notices Connors gaze following his, and the other man´s open stare at the spot.
"Right," the redhead says, smirking. "No use getting upset about your sexual preferences. I bet this deducing thing is quite useful for figuring out your lover´s kinks."
Sherlock stares back, his arms sunken down to his sides again, one hand tugging at his sleeve. His mind is suddenly in overdrive, all his impulses telling him to flee, while the term "freak" rewinds in his head. He doesn´t dare to move, though, not as long as Connor is still in the doorway, watching him with a mixture of pity and glee. When the Irishman turns, the spell is broken, and Sherlock heaves a heavy breath and grabs his jacket.
Connor, who has started to walk away, turns. "Oh, I forgot," he says. "The Old Man wants to see you. Seems to be important; he told me to tell you immediately."
Sherlock listens to Connor´s retreating steps, inwardly cursing his lack of caution. Weeks of successfully misleading his coworkers might have been blown apart by his carelessness. He pushes a hand through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. He dimly remembers having asked Wainwright for a meeting a week ago. His request feels eons away after all what has transpired in the past three days, but the reason for it has become even more valid with his findings about the mysterious substance.
The printer releases the last pages of his report, and Sherlock grabs them and rushes from his office, suddenly feeling energetic despite his lingering headache.
When he enters Wainwright´s office, his superior looks up from a dossier, gesturing for him to sit.
"You wanted to see me, Sir," Sherlock states. "In fact, I requested to see you a week ago."
The older man, who has resorted to his reading, waves a dismissive hand towards his charge, not looking up. "Patience, boy," he says. "Let me finish this paragraph and we´ll discuss the issues at hand."
Sherlock for once does know better than to object and stays silent, watching Wainwright closely. The older man´s ruffled hair and the fact that his glasses have slid down to the top of his nose suggest that he has been on the dossier for a while. His shoes are covered by a thin layer of mud from road works, and a small brown bag has been tossed into his dustbin. He hasn´t been in the office for long, then, and he´s had an important, but tedious, call, Sherlock deduces from a piece of paper with a name and several sketches of birds scribbled on it. Wainwright, the bird watcher. An intelligent man, but also one of obvious, boring habits. Sherlock smiles as he remembers his father´s scathing remark that he hadn´t invited Andrew to Holmes Manor to listen to his tales about birds all evening. It had been one of the few incidents when his father´s otherwise immaculate demeanour towards a gust had cracked. Both he and Mycroft had been gleefully watching Wainwright´s shocked expression and his confusion at his host´s anger.
Andrew, who reads Sherlock´s smile as a greeting straightens, smiles back and drops the dossier on the table. He leans nearer, his elbows on the table, his fingers clasped under his chin.
"Well," he says. "There are actually several issues we need to discuss."
"About allowing me access to the laboratory…" Sherlock interrupts, but Andrew tuts and stops him with a raised hand.
"This is not debatable. I promised your father that you will not be allowed to conduct experiments."
Sherlock snorts. "He seems to assume that all chemicals are addictive substances," he starts. "He seems to forget that I´ve trained to…"
"He told me he is convinced that your studies made you more confident to experiment with drugs," Wainwright answers. Noticing Sherlock´s scowl, he continues, appeasing. "He wants to keep you safe, Sherlock. He wouldn´t agree to anything which might endanger your progress."
"But I could be far more useful in research. The paper work I am condemned to can be handled by anyone," Sherlock protests, clasping the pages of the report so tightly they crease.
Wainwright leans back, shaking his head in regret. "As I told you, it´s not debatable, Sherlock." He clasps his hands again. "Your attitude is, though."
Sherlock feels his head pounding. He hardly listens to Andrew´s monologue about his recent behaviour towards his coworkers and his attitude towards working conditions. He had imagined he would argue with Wainwright, get a chance to convince him why he needed access to the research facilities, but his superior´s mentioning of his father has stopped him in his tracks. Edward Holmes is an opponent nearly impossible to beat. His energy is better spent on conceiving an alternative means of access to the labs.
Absent-mindedly, he massages his right temple. He wishes he knew more about Small´s plans. He wishes he could already leave, to start investigating on his own.
