Blind Man's Bluff
Summary: "We are gods among mortals. But even gods must be tested." Sherlock loses his sight temporarily and must rely on his other senses and John in order to solve the case at hand. But as the killer draws closer, could the pair be in more danger than they first thought?
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. I wish I did but I'm just not that lucky. I am, however, lucky enough to be able to write about them.
Story notes/warnings: Timeline wise I'd say this could be set either just before episode 1.03 (The Great Game) or after it so basically – spoilers for season 1.
A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading and for the reviews. This chapter was supposed to be up tomorrow or Sunday but I decided to put it up today. Consequently, that'll mean the final chapter should be up by about Sunday. Thanks again for reading - hope you enjoy!
Chapter 9
"Dr. Watson is just fine – nothing worse than a minor headache from the chloroform. How long he stays fine is up to you." Keys jangled, metal clanked and then the door to the florist opened. The small bell overhead rang out, the noise echoing in the deadened silence of the flower shop – the type of silence that came with night. The man stepped inside. "This way, Mr. Holmes. Your doctor is waiting for us through the back."
Sherlock took a step forward, following the man's voice into the store. When the door was closed and locked once more, Jenkins led the way. His footsteps and voice guided Sherlock in the general direction and John's cane stopped the detective from crashing into anything. The feel of it in his grip gave him something to focus on, so he could keep his features expressionless… bored. He refused to show the man before him anything other than the icy cold exterior most people knew him for.
"After Elsie's accident, Julia struggled to keep the business open," Jenkins explained and Sherlock only listened for lack of anything better to do. "So I became a silent partner – helped her out here and there."
"And let me guess, that was when the affair started?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, the silent insult of 'dull' remaining unsaid, poised to drop from his tongue but stopped from doing so when another door was opened and he heard a low grumble from just beyond. He only just stopped himself from breathing his friend's name out, swallowing it thickly instead.
Had Sherlock been able to see when he moved into that small backroom of the flower shop, he would have seen a perfectly kept kitchenette area just off to the left and several half made bouquets off to the right, lined up relatively neatly on lopsided shelving. He would have also seen a table in the centre of the room, two guns placed upon it and two chairs either side. The chair closest to the door was vacant whilst the opposite chair held a particularly drowsy John Watson – his hands tied roughly behind his back and to the cheap wooden chair.
"Sherlock?" John questioned, looking up from his place at the table. His vision still swam, blurred around the edges, but the longer he was awake, the clearer it became. The same could not be said of the headache that pounded violently behind his eyes – it had no intention of shifting.
"Please," Jenkins said, moving forward and scraping the empty seat across the floor for Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes, take a seat."
Sherlock did as he was instructed, using his hands to guide himself into the seat. When settled, he leaned the cane against the table and placed his palms down on the plastic tabletop. "John," he finally allowed himself to say, keeping the quiver from his voice, or so he hoped.
A tight smile slipped onto the doctor's face and he let go of a slightly nervous laugh. "This is becoming a habit…"
"Truly," Sherlock remarked in return. "It would appear that living with me is quite detrimental to your health."
"Doesn't exactly help the social life either."
A flicker of a smile played at the corner of Sherlock's mouth but he said nothing further to his friend, choosing to address the kidnapper and murderer instead. "You can let him go now. You have me – John is of no more use to you."
Jenkins clucked his tongue and circled the table. Sherlock listened to his every step as John watched the man from the corner of his eyes – catching the flash of a third gun as the barrel reflected the low light in the room. "That's not how the game works, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson here is what makes this part so interesting. He's the key to making this fun for you and me."
"And just what is the game?" Sherlock asked. "Why go through all of this? You can't have come up with it all by yourself?"
"You would be correct in your assumption."
"Then tell me – who?" Deadly calm, Sherlock ignored the erratic beating of his heart and the burning questions of why John was needed to make the game fun. Why John at all? "No doubt Julia intended to come clean to her husband and that was why you killed her. But the other two, who put you onto them?"
Jenkins came to a stop. "A very nice young man offered to help me out, on one condition."
Moriarty.
Neither Sherlock nor John needed to hear the name to know that was who Jenkins was referring to.
"And what was the condition?" Bored, uninterested – at least that was the impression Sherlock gave when questioning the man.
"That I play a game with a friend of his – make him dance." The man leaned forward, resting his hands against the table, the metal from the gun clinking against the plastic surface. "Only, I don't think you'll like this game very much as, unfortunately, you lose either way."
Silence echoed out. Within it, three hearts thrummed, completely ignorant of each other – unsurprising as hearts do have a terrible habit of being awfully selfish at times. Only when Jenkins moved away from the table, circling the pair again, was the silence broken and Sherlock spoke.
"I have no intention of dancing for your entertainment."
"Well, you really don't have that much of a choice, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock let go of a long, controlled breath and leaned back in his seat, palms still firmly set on the table. He looked no different than a bored businessman in a boring business meeting, wishing to be anywhere else. "And why should I play your game when you keep changing the rules?" It was a step away from a demand, said with the most courteous tone that Sherlock could muster – which, in that moment, was all but non-existent.
"I haven't changed the rules. Nor do I intend to."
The detective scoffed. "Your last clue clearly pointed at a brother and if you were to stick to the myth, it should be Mycroft sitting across the table from me – not Dr. Watson." He paused for a fraction of a second, letting the words hang in the air. "Were you incapable of gaining access to my brother or just too intimidated to try?"
Though Sherlock couldn't see the twisted sneer that spread across Jenkins' face, John could. He could see it all too well, along with the deadly glint in the man's eyes that almost matched the one in Sherlock's.
Jenkins leaned in so close to Sherlock that his breath caressed the detective's cheek like a dead lover's hand. "On the contrary, Mr. Holmes. As, you see, I never did specify a blood bond. A brother does not always imply a family relation. It can, for example, refer to a brother in arms. Or, is someone as uncaring as yourself unfamiliar with such a phrase?" His eyes flashed to John, meeting blue with a cold malice. "I am sure our army doctor here is quite aware of the bonds created on the battlefield. Isn't that right, Dr. Watson?"
John remained quiet. His gaze focused on Sherlock, studying every inch of the detective but the man gave nothing away. He was good at that – hiding emotions, pushing them away because they were nothing more than an inconvenience. And, had it not been for the dampened sweat beneath his hands on the tabletop – because apparently even Sherlock Holmes could not control every aspect of himself – John would have thought the man completely unaffected.
As it was, John sat there cursing his own stupidity because this information didn't seem to surprise Sherlock all that much. And if the detective was honest with his friend, he would have mentioned that the thought – no, fear – had crossed his mind briefly earlier.
Sherlock swallowed, the motion barely visible. "How does this part of the game work?"
Jenkins beamed and moved back. He had been waiting for this. His very core vibrated with excitement. "There are two guns on the table before you," he explained.
He put his own gun away and picked up one from the table, pushing the other across the surface toward John before moving to untie the doctor's binds. John eyed the weapon warily but did not touch, watching the man move back over to Sherlock, toying with the clip of the other gun instead.
"One fun is filled with blanks," Jenkins continued, and he motioned to John to pick the other gun up. "Go ahead, Dr. Watson. Test it."
Jaw tensed, John reached out and took the gun up. He studied it, releasing the clip and looking over the bullets before sliding it back together.
"Test it," Jenkins repeated.
And John did. He aimed it at Jenkins and pulled the trigger. The man remained unharmed, lips twitching upward in a sick form of glee. He levelled the gun in his own hands at John, finger resting on the trigger.
"And the other –" The muzzle moved a fraction to the left and Jenkins fired the gun. The shot went wide, just as he had intended it to, but the point was made all the same. "– is filled with real bullets. Correct, Dr. Watson?"
"Yes," John answered through clenched teeth, refusing to look away from the man, the gun once more trained over the doctor's heart.
"The rules are simple." Jenkins placed the gun back on the table and John did the same, watching as the man moved both weapons to sit mere inches from Sherlock's fingertips. "Using your deductive skills, choose the one filled with blanks and test it by shooting at Dr. Watson here. Don't worry, I'll steady your hand to make sure you don't miss."
When neither of the other men spoke, he continued further. "If, at any point, Dr. Watson attempts to give you any hints – I will kill you both."
As if to prove his point, he drew out his gun again.
John watched him closely, waiting on Sherlock's reply, knowing very well that there was a catch. Sherlock knew too. Because otherwise, the game would just be too easy.
"You said I lose either way," Sherlock reminded him.
"Yes, I did, didn't I?"
"If I chose the right gun, how could I possibly lose?"
And here, a maniacal grin, that reminded John far too much of an overzealous crocodile, lit up the man's face. "Because, whichever gun you don't choose, is the one I'll use on you."
Silence. Brief. Contemplative.
"And what makes you think I won't just turn the gun on you?" Sherlock asked eventually.
Jenkins laughed. "You won't, because I have a very fast trigger finger." He moved behind Sherlock and pressed his gun up against the detective's temple – cold metal against pale skin. "And I can see."
"If I won't do it?"
"Then I just kill you both."
The room was cold, the air empty, feeling much more like the morgue the two men had first met Jenkins in than the back of a flower shop.
"So, I choose the right gun and John walks free?"
"Sherlock-" John protested, but he was cut short.
"Or you choose the wrong one and you walk free."
It took several moments for Sherlock to move. When he did, his actions were almost robotic – a machine going through the motions. Nothing at all like a man who was handling a gun that would be either the death of himself or the death of the man before him – his flatmate, his friend. There was nothing unsure in his movements, no uncertainty. It was clinical. No shaking of the hand, no trepidation.
And he moved from one gun to the other, making his deductions before finally drawing back, having decided which one held the blanks and which gun would kill its target.
"As expected for a man of your intelligence," Jenkins remarked.
John could only close his eyes briefly in an attempt to collect himself. When he opened them, Sherlock's hand was outstretched again, hovering over each gun in turn.
"Sherlock – no… don't," John breathed, eyes following the movements of that hand.
Don't be an idiot. Don't start to care now. Don't play the game. Just don't. Don't…
And when those long, slender fingers wrapped around the handle of the left gun, John felt his breath catch in his chest. The detective raised his hand, the gun firmly in his grip – and Jenkins guided the sights so they were aimed at John's forehead, centred, unwavering.
"I'm sorry, John," was all Sherlock said, emotionless, flat.
Then he pulled the trigger.
I'm sorry! I have to say, that is possibly one of the most evil cliffhangers I have ever written... and because I know just how evil it is, I promise to have the final chapter up by Sunday. I promise!
