AN: Just a quick note to say I've added a cover image to the story; it's a picture by Barrocco (you can find her art on tumblr by searching "Barrocco" if you want to see more art), and as always thank you for the reviews!
Chapter 11: Alone
"So have you read many of my blogs?" John asked Beverly, as he watched Sherlock making himself at home, dragging test tubes and a tray of lab equipment towards him.
"Oh yeah, they're brilliant. I mean, there's some interesting stuff going on here, but some of your cases are just ridiculous!" Beverly exclaimed, cheerily.
"Yeah…Sherlock likes choosing the more interesting ones; he gets bored easily. Otherwise we'd be solving mysteries about missing cats for the whole of London." John joked.
"You must be very in demand," Beverly commented. John smiled, modestly.
"So what's it like being in the FBI? I'd never actually been around any FBI agents before; it's something you used to see in films all the time. Is it like in films?" John asked quickly. Behind John's back, Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"It's pretty cool…" Beverly replied, tentatively. Sherlock had absorbed himself in thumbing through drawers of samples and files already, without even a glance back at Beverly. "Sherlock, do you want a hand with anything?" She asked.
"No," Sherlock replied slowly, not even looking as he carried a microscope over to a sterile, grey lab bench and began adjusting the lens. "Ten minutes and I'll be finished." Beverly looked to John, eyebrows raised, unsure of what to do.
"Do you want to…get a coffee or something while we wait for him?" John asked, slowly.
"We should really be helping…murders to solve and all that…" she replied, smiling at John.
"Nahh, we can take ten minutes out. He doesn't need us, do you Sherlock?"
"Hopefully I'll be able to cope for a few minutes." Sherlock sighed, smiling.
Sherlock looked up from the data sheets he'd printed off. Beverly and John still hadn't returned. Sherlock glanced at his watch. They'd definitely been gone for longer than ten minutes. Sherlock suddenly became aware of the feeling he was being watched, and turned around. Will Graham was standing in the doorway, a serious expression on his face, looking down at his shoes; he'd taken off his dark green jacket and was now wearing yet another plaid shirt. He looked up when Sherlock turned around.
"Hello, Will," Sherlock said, turning back to the sheets. "I was hoping the killer might have left traces of soil – or anything – from his boots or shoes. But there's nothing. He's completely immaculate. If it wasn't for what we saw earlier, I'd be questioning the killer's existence…" Sherlock mused, thoughtfully. Will nodded solemnly, not moving away from his space in the doorway.
"You think it's the copycat, don't you?" Sherlock asked, nonchalantly, reshuffling the mass spectra sheets he was using in front of him.
"It's too much of a coincidence," Will said, grimacing, "It's just too similar. It just feels the same."
"I get the impression a feeling might not be quite enough for Jack to believe you. And the copycat was in Minesotta, this was in Boston. Not to mention, the copycat's supposed to be Nicholas Boyle. You'd think he'd be keeping a low profile around now, ven in his state of being missing." Sherlock said, slowly. He was testing Will. Sherlock already knew that the copycat killer wasn't a profile which fit a silly little boy like Nicholas Boyle.
"Nicholas Boyle's not the copycat. And even murderers can travel. Nicholas Boyle was violent, but he didn't kill his sister."
"Do you know what I think, Will?" Sherlock asked, a smile spreading, "I think Nicholas Boyle knew something." Will shook his head violently. "Do you think Nicholas Boyle is alive, Will?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.
"I – I hadn't thought… I don't know." Will said.
"Well I don't. And I want to know who killed him."
"You think he's been murdered?" Will asked, stepping away from the wall, blinking quickly, astounded.
"Hmm…I think we have a lot of false leads. We've got Nicholas Boyle, who's definitely not the copycat, and we've got Abel Giddeon, who's not the Chesapeake Ripper." Sherlock said, slowly, still smiling. "Do you ever feel like you're being distracted, Will?" Sherlock asked, "Because I do." He spun around 360 degrees on his seat.
"What do you mean?" Will asked, brow furrowed.
"I mean that there are two killers out there, and the FBI are too busy focusing on the falsities they've been fed to find the real killer." Sherlock said, boldly. Will looked away, focusing on the empty far corner of the room.
"Jack's spent years," Will emphasised, "Trying to find the ripper. He's already lost Miriam, what more –"
"Exactly!" Sherlock shouted, "Don't you see?" He said excitedly, leaping up. "Miriam Laas found something! The ripper can be found! If she could find him, so can you. If anyone could find him, Will, you and I…we could find him. We would be a fine choice."
"But Jack doesn't want us to risk anything else. There are other cases – " Will stammered, agitatedly.
"Distractions, Will. Don't let them distract you; don't let them take your mind. I am of the impression that if you find the ripper, these distractions will disappear. We are so close." Sherlock hissed. Sherlock was close to Will, towering above him. Will leaned away until his back was nearly against the wall again. Will looked into Sherlock's eyes and saw something out of place: concern, trying to hide itself beneath the obvious frustration.
"What are you so worried about?" Will asked, so quietly it was nearly a hoarse whisper, as his eyes darted around Sherlock's face. Sherlock turned away immediately, walking quickly back to his seat, pulling out the stool violently before sitting back down.
"Worried? I'm not worried." Sherlock snapped, hurriedly. Will felt his body relax now that his personal space was his own again.
"No. You're worried. I'm not stupid, Sherlock, you know that. You're worried…about me." Will said, slowly, but certainly. Will's brow was furrowed as far as it would go without his eyes closing, as he moved away from the wall again, towards Sherlock. "Do you still think I'm unstable, what - ?" Will began, looking anywhere but at Sherlock, speaking through a jaw which felt like it was locked closed.
"I was wrong." Sherlock muttered, sadly. His features looked remarkably softer than they had been in their previous encounters. He looked so…human…almost friendly, but sad at the same time. "I need to leave." Sherlock snapped again, "I need to go to my mind palace, and I need to be alone. Where is John?" Sherlock grabbed his coat, throwing it on in a swift motion.
"Sherlock, what is it? Tell me. So you're not worried I'm unstable then? What are you so worried about?" Will demanded, loudly. "You said we're close and that we can find the murderer together! Then let's find him now. Clearly you know something that I don't -" But Sherlock refused to look at Will, standing back up and pushing the stool under the bench, leaving the papers, photographs and various samples and microscopes scattered across the table. Will gave up, shaking his head, disbelievingly. Sherlock drew his coat tighter around him and stormed quickly from the room.
Alone? Will found himself wondering angrily; the detective didn't even realise what he was saying. Alone wasn't when you went to find your best friend to drink tea and solve a crime together. Alone was what Will had when Sherlock walked out of that room without any explanation.