A/N: Hey all, sorry for the month-long hiatus. Good news, though. I succeeded in finishing my 50,000 word novel for NaNoWriMo (and it is, unfortunately, the WORST thing I have ever written) and can now devote all of my fun-writing hours to fanfics. As apology for the wait and a thank you for your patience, I should be posting twice this week. Once today, (though the date for the entries comes from last weekend) and then (hopefully) the next bit before Saturday. Thanks for reading!

~Essie


Sherlock: Slow

December 1st, 8:32 PM

Four weeks.

Four weeks he had been in this…this…he wasn't sure there was a polite way to express his contempt for Chicago. Normally, he enjoyed a bit of American flavor—they didn't tend to take things quite as seriously on this side of the pond, and were more willing to accept his eccentricities with aplomb. But he had disliked the dirty noise of Chicago the moment he stepped off the plane into O'Hare International Airport, and four weeks of absolutely nothing had cemented his distaste.

His vocabulary was permanently defiled, too. He had affected an American accent in his investigations here, and the twang of it was beginning to grate on his nerves. This whole American stunt—he shook himself mentally and corrected his grammar—this whole job was going to drive him insane.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Absolutely nothing to go on in this entire blight of a city." Blight. That was an excellent word.

He sat at the counter of his hotel suite, peering down the eyepiece of a microscope at the highly-magnified image of a pale amber droplet. Tapping his fingers on the countertop, he muttered chemical formulas to himself. The liquid came from the vial he took from Dyke, but he had yet to figure out the purpose of it. It seemed to be merely a distillation of honey and water, but when he applied a diluted dropperful to one of the suite's potted palms, the plant had withered and died within six hours. Obviously there was some kind of poison in the mix, but it wasn't one of the more common ones he was familiar with, and without anymore sophisticated equipment he couldn't make the tests he needed. He had considered gaining entrance to one of the area hospitals, but one visit was enough to convince him that, unless he found the American equivalent of Molly Hooper, that plan was a bust. And he had a sneaking suspicion that the American equivalents of Detective Inspector Lestrade would not be quite as…forgiving.

"Come on, come on," he murmured, "What are you?" Sitting back with a sigh, he steepled his hands in front of his chin and pursed his lips.

A beeping sound came from the pocket of his windbreaker, which hung draped over the back of the couch. Text message. Probably Mycroft. He debated getting up to answer it, but decided it wasn't worth the effort at the moment.

Nothing. In four weeks, nothing. He'd followed every lead—his best being the four rings from Dyke's bag. Each was set with different primary-colored jewels: a ruby, an emerald, a topaz and a sapphire. They were clever little settings—the biggest jewels popped out on concealed hinges, revealing tiny hollows behind. If the liquid was poison, it was a natural line of reasoning to assume that the rings were to be delivery systems of some kind. But for whom? He'd systematically checked every pawn shop in the city, found out what collectors lived in the area and paid them surreptitious visits, and even done a thorough Internet search to see if the rings had been listed online anywhere. No luck.

His second lead, the liquid, was just as much a dead end. Rings with sly chambers to secrete deadly poison…it sounded like one of those historical mysteries John used to pick up from the library. Palace intrigue, conspiracies in the royal family—

Sherlock sat upright. Family. Conspiracies in the family. He was in Chicago, of all places. Was it possible that Moriarty had ties in the American crime syndicates? It certainly wouldn't be much of a surprise, and—now that Sherlock thought about it—it was ridiculous that it hadn't occurred to him before.

He got up and retrieved the phone from his pocket, thumbing open the newest text.

call me when u get this dont tell mycroft -Ross

Sherlock frowned at the message—both at the content and the atrocious way it was written. No capitalization, no punctuation, and—honestly, how difficult is it to add two more letters to the word "you"? He'd managed to train John in correct texting, but the rest of the world still staggered along in ignorant idiocy, content with their abbreviated, butchered language.

He was tempted not to reply, after a message like that, and had moved his finger over the "delete" icon when the phone chirped again with a new message.

seriously i need ur help

That did it. He'd call Ross back, if only to inform the man that he was a world-class waste of oxygen.


John: Steady

December 2nd, 2:32 AM

Half past two in the morning.

John Watson slipped down the hall, carrying his boots in one hand, his coat pockets bulging with granola bars he'd pilfered from the kitchen. His sock feet made little noise as he padded along the wooden floors, but he crept carefully, every sense on high alert. In the dark, the expensive paneling and moldings on the walls were hidden in shadow, and the luxurious manor looked more like what it really was: a prison.

Mycroft Holmes meant well, John knew. The government man was trying to protect his brother in the only way he knew how—but he was underestimating John and the former soldier's ability to take care of himself. Of course, John didn't really mind being underestimated. He'd gotten used to it over the years: Dr. John Watson, the mild-mannered, dry-humored bloke who smiled at kids and old ladies and kept his thoughts to himself. He'd learned to use that perception to his advantage.

Like now. Convenient underestimation or no, John wasn't taking any more of guff from Mycroft or his minions. He understood the dangers of letting Sherlock know he was alive, but that didn't mean that he couldn't be a whole heck of a lot more helpful out there in the real world, keeping his best friend safe from the shadows rather than from behind a computer screen a few thousand miles away, unable to pass on information that Sherlock should know.

He was getting out of this place.

The front door was never guarded—John's exploration of the security systems of the manor had pleasantly surprised him: it was apparently not meant to keep people in, but only to keep them hidden. John turned the door's handle with a soft snick and pushed open the door. Frigid evening air washed over him, and he shivered. He'd need to get to the nearest town—about two miles through wooded, frozen wilderness—as quickly as possible. The thermometer in the garden showed temps at about negative-18 Celsius, and though his coat was warm, it would be a close shave. If he got lost, he could freeze to death before anyone even knew he was missing. Digging his hands deep into his pockets, John started jogging, down the short driveway and toward the gravel path that led down the mountain.

He'd nicked a mobile phone from one of the agents—an absentminded young woman who complained for the next three days that she must have lost it somewhere in the house—and so far it hadn't been disconnected. Once he'd gotten out of earshot of the manor, he ducked into the shelter of the evergreen trees and checked the mobile for a signal.

Three bars. Mycroft really did buy the best.

Tapping out a quick text to Sherlock's number with his chilled fingers, John slipped the phone back into his pocket and continued down the mountainside, keeping just off the "road." In his left pocket, he fingered the edge of a sheet of paper, scribbled with surreptitiously-taken notes. Those notes were his reason for leaving now, before anything else happened. Mycroft may have meant well, but keeping vital information from Sherlock was always a mistake.

January Phelps. John saw, in his mind's eye, the note in the manila folder in Mycroft's desk. He hadn't gone there looking for information about Sherlock's current lead—he had actually been looking for a map of the area.

January Phelps. Chicago.

John had, by the dim light of a digital clock, copied out the rest of the information, furious at what Mycroft hadn't told him. The government man knew why Sherlock was in Chicago—knew what Sherlock was looking for and where to find it, and he hadn't told his brother. That was the final straw.

John stopped for a bit of a breather, listening for any sounds of pursuit and hearing nothing. He pulled out the cell phone and checked for a reply to his text. Nothing. He grimaced, and tried again. He'd keep texting until he got a reply. Persistence always won the day.

Then, slipping the device back into his pocket, he took a deep breath and continued on. He needed to get as far away as possible before morning. One foot after the other, he fell into an automatic stride, eating away at the distance between him and freedom one step at a time.