Hurray, people are still interested. xD Since I got a couple of nice reviews, here's another, slightly longer chapter for you. Thanks!
Big Game
The Most Dangerous Game part 1
The only thing not lost to Sherlock was the irony. He finally gained some renown, and what he got in return was crazed murderers asking for help. He could scarcely keep from yawning as the pathetic gray wolf in front of him explained how he had accidentally killed his mate after a bad argument. Though he swore the killing had been unintentional, he showed no remorse, never claimed to have loved her, and most disgusting of all, he had the worst grammar of any creature Sherlock had ever encountered.
"You gotta 'elp me," the wolf pleaded as Sherlock got up to go. "The royals are gonna do away wiv me. They'll skin me an' stuff me an' 'ave me 'anged on a wall."
"Hung," Sherlock corrected as he exited the visiting area. "It's only 'hanged' if they're executing you by way of a rope 'round your neck."
He wasted no time in returning to Bushbuck Row, but once he was there, there was nothing to do. A sudden inspiration sent him to find John's crossbow, and he sat in the cave aiming at various rocky protrusions. A few times he actually loosed a bolt from the crossbow, leaving a pale scar on the rock wall and sending the bolt ricocheting to the cave floor. Taking a very slight interest, Sherlock wondered if he could make a pattern on the wall...
John returned just as he released the next shot, and the arrow splintered into a dozen pieces.
"What the HELL are you doing?" John demanded.
"Bored."
"What?"
"Bored!" Sherlock said louder, reloading the crossbow.
"No!" John said quickly, but it wasn't enough to stop the melodramatic cheetah.
Sherlock twirled in a circle and released another shot, pleased with the new mark on the wall. "Bored," he repeated.
John darted in and snatched the crossbow away. He unstrung it while Sherlock began muttering.
"Don't know what's gotten into rogue predators these days... good job I'm not one of them."
"So, you take it out on the cave?"
"Oh, the cave had it coming." Sherlock flopped over on his buffalo hide and pulled his human blanket over himself.
"What about that wolf case?" John asked, anxious to get his friend out of this dangerous mood.
"Open and shut domestic. Not worth my time."
"Oh, shame. Got any food? I'm starving." John headed to the little pool, which was the coolest spot in the cave. Sherlock sometimes left food scraps there if he hunted when John was away. He stopped short, staring at what appeared to be the decomposing head of some poor creature. "Oh!" He looked down, composed himself and looked at it again. "It's a head. A severed head!"
"No thanks," Sherlock murmured.
"No, there's a head sitting here where we eat."
"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock challenged. "It's what's left of that baboon I took for study; you remember? I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death."
John decided not to ask whether Sherlock meant the baboon's saliva, or the saliva of the creatures that killed it.
"Finished typing up the cobra case?"
"Uh... yes."
"'A Study in Pride.' Nice."
"Ah. Well, pride of lions, pride of the former king, pride of the Yard—you. There was a lot of pride. You like it?"
"Uh... no."
"What... I thought you'd be... flattered."
"Flattered? 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things,'" Sherlock recited quickly.
"Now, hang on a minute. I didn't mean that in a..."
"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way. Look, it doesn't matter to me who's... second-in-command of the Royal Pride, or... sleeping with who, or..."
"Or that the earth goes round the sun?"
"That again. It's not important."
"Not imp—cubs know this stuff. How can you not know that?"
"Well, if I ever did, I erased it."
"Erased it?"
Sherlock sat up and pointed a claw at his own head. "Listen: this is my reference book. It only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish; that makes it hard to look up the stuff that really matters. Do you see?"
After a short silence, John protested, "But it's the sun!"
"What does it matter?! So we go round the sun. If we went round the moon, or round and round the watering hole with a wombat, it wouldn't make any difference! All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots. Put that in your story. Or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." He turned away from John and closed his eyes.
John got up and headed for the cave entrance.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.
"Out. I need some air."
When he was gone, Mrs. Hudson crept out of her corner of the cave. "You two had a little domestic?"
Sherlock ignored her and stared out of the cave. a bird flew over the yellowing grass. A serval stalked a field mouse. "Look at that, Mrs. Hudson. Calm, quiet, peaceful... isn't it hateful?"
"Something will turn up," the older cheetah said cheerfully. "A nice murder. That'll cheer you up."
"Can't come too soon."
Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson noticed the marks on the wall and the arrow debris lying around the floor, or sticking into it. "Hey," she said, "what have you done to my bloody cave? If there's any damage, it's coming out of your rent, young tom." She tucked herself back into her little corner, curled up snug and safe.
Sherlock smiled at her protests. He wouldn't have smiled if he'd known just how much damage there would be.
John stretched and groaned at his stiffness. He sharpened his claws on the bark of the tree branch he'd been lying on. He had found Sarah the night before, and since Sherlock was being so disagreeable, she'd fed him and offered to let him stay the night with her.
"That's what you get for sleeping in a strange tree when you're used to the comforts of home," Sarah scolded him. "You could have stayed on my platform."
"Just on the platform?" John smiled at her.
"I've got to get ready for work," she said. She leaped nimbly up onto her platform through the flap in its canvas wall.
John knew he should get over to the clinic as well. He felt like he should see Sherlock first, but even if he could make it in time, he doubted his friend would appreciate the gesture.
Suddenly, the sound of the radio coming from the little home above him grabbed John's attention. Something about an explosion? A cave on Bushbuck Row? "Sarah, I've got to go," he called. He didn't wait for an answer before scrambling down the tree and taking off at a run.
When he finally arrived, there were a few Yard-employed jackals and vervet monkies hanging around the cave. They were chattering and pointing things out to one another in the layer of rubble around the entrance. John pushed his way through and rushed into the cave.
To his surprise, not only was Sherlock seemingly unharmed, but Mycroft was there as well, sitting on Sherlock's buffalo hide and looking maddeningly serene.
"Sherlock... are you all right?" John asked.
"Hm? Oh, yes," Sherlock answered. "Cave-in, apparently."
John looked around. Most of the damage was to the entryway and one wall; bits of rock had flown all the way to the back of the cave. It didn't look like a cave-in to him.
"I can't," Sherlock said to Mycroft.
"You mean won't," his brother returned.
John gathered that they were arguing about something-or-other, and he would do better to wait than to ask questions.
"I'm too busy; just deal with it yourself."
"I can't possibly. How was the tree house, John?"
"Branch," said Sherlock. "It was a tree branch, Mycroft."
"Oh, yes, of course."
John's eyes widened. How did the Holmes brothers know where he'd spent the night? "How—oh, never mind."
"Business has picked up since you moved in," Mycroft went on. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."
"I'm never bored," John answered diplomatically.
"Good." He got no encouragement, so Mycroft got up and began to pace. "Andrew West, 'Westie' to his friends, found dead on the railroad north of the Yard pride land, head smashed in."
"Struck by a train?" asked John.
"That would be the easy explanation. The ministry of defense—that's a pride split off from the Secret Intelligence Service pride—is working on a rocket-propelled defense system. The 'Bruce Partington system' it's called. The plans for it were encoded in a confidential book..."
"That wasn't very clever," said John. It sounded to him as if the information had been lost or compromised.
Sherlock smirked.
"It's not the only copy," Mycroft assured him. "But it is secret. And missing."
Both, then. "Top secret?"
"Very. We think West must have taken the book. We can't risk it falling into the wrong paws. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."
"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock took up one of his new toys, a violin which had mercifully been packed away at the time of the disaster. It was designed for a large cat to hold: a strap went around his neck to keep it from slipping, and the frets were far apart to accommodate large pads. He swiped at the strings with his bow.
"Think it over," said Mycroft. "Goodbye, John. See you very soon."
When he was gone, John went to sit beside Sherlock. "Why did you lie? You know you haven't a thing to do. Why tell him you're busy?"
"Why not?"
"Oh. Nice," John said sarcastically. "Sibling rivalry—now we're getting somewhere."
An insistent beeping came from the telegraph, and Sherlock scrambled to receive the message. He hurriedly sent one back. "Lestrade," he told John simply. "I've been summoned. Come along?"
"If you want me to," John said, still stinging a little from the previous day's tiff.
"Of course. I'd be lost without my biographer."
"A pile of rubble," Lestrade told them.
"Cave-in?" asked Sherlock.
"No, but made to look like one. When we cleared it out there was nothing but a locked metal box containing this." The lion offered a sealed envelope to Sherlock. "We've tested it—no chemicals or anything. But it's unopened."
Sherlock sniffed the envelope and looked it over. "Bohemian paper, she used a fountain pen, no paw marks..."
"She?" asked John.
"Obviously." Sherlock slashed the envelope open with his dewclaw. From it he withdrew a small radio.
"That... that's the radio," said John.
"The radio from 'A Study in Pride'?" asked Lestrade.
"Of course it's not the same one—you got that one back," Sherlock said. "But it's meant to look like—hold on. 'A Study in Pride'? You read his write-up?"
"Course. We all read it. Do you really not know that the earth goes round the sun?"
Walking by, Donovan snickered at him.
"It's not the same radio," Sherlock resumed. "This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like Yard issue, though. Which means," he said, turning to John, "your stories are getting passed around more than we knew."
John felt a little guilty, but he was still a bit annoyed, so he tried not to show it.
A message crackled over the radio: four short beeps and one long one. After some static, a Morse message came across in a series of clicks.
"Bushbuck... Row," John decoded. "So... long... ago. What's that mean?" He could see that Sherlock's mind was racing.
"Come on. Back home. Lestrade, you come, too."
"221 C used to be the main chamber," Mrs. Hudson told them, leading the way around an outcropping of jumbled rocks. "It was the nicest dwelling on the row... until the cave-in. Cut it off from the rest of the cave and made it quite small. Can't get anyone to stay there, now. It's the damp, I suppose. Not a nice little pool like in B, but slimy walls and all."
She continued to prattle as the other cats approached the cave mouth, which was covered with brush.
"Someone's gone inside here recently," Sherlock said, sniffing at the brush.
"No, they haven't," Mrs. Hudson contradicted. "I put up this brush myself, and I'll swear not a stick of it's been moved."
Sherlock unceremoniously began pulling the brush away. With Lestrade's help, there was soon room to step inside. The three males entered the cave, leaving Mrs. Hudson to wait.
John was first to put the sight into words. "Is that... a dog collar?"
The radio, which Sherlock had fastened around his neck, began to squawk. Instinctively, Sherlock pressed the speak button and said, "Hello."
A shaky female voice responded. "Hello... sexy." Then the voice sobbed.
"Who's this?"
"I sent you... a little... puzzle... just to... say hi."
"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"
"I'm not crying. I'm... typing. And this stupid bitch is reading it out." More frightened sobs.
"The curtain rises," Sherlock whispered. He had been expecting this, and it couldn't have come at a more welcome time.
"Twelve... hours to solve... my puzzle, Sherlock, or I'm... going to be... so naughty."
The radio crackled and then no more sounds came from it.
Sherlock ignored the over-excited questions from the others and quickly set about transporting the collar to a sterile lab at the leonid hospital. He was deep in some complicated tests when John began pestering with more, albeit calmer, questioning.
"Who do you suppose she was? The voice sounded a bit canine to me... think it's anything to do with the collar?"
"She doesn't matter; she's just a hostage. No leads," Sherlock answered, not looking up.
"I wasn't thinking of leads..."
"Then you won't be much use to her."
An egret wandered into the lab with a message in his beak. "Delivery for Sherlock Holmes."
"Get that, John," Sherlock said, still not looking up.
John received the envelope and hastily tore it open.
"Careful," Sherlock said sternly.
"Message from your brother," John reported.
"Throw it away."
"Throw it away?"
"The plans are bound to be long gone... there's nothing we can do about it now."
"He seems to think there is. He used lots of punctuation. Seems important."
"Then why is he having dental work done?"
"Eh?"
"He'd have radioed in if he could talk; doesn't like to bother with messages and all. Look: Andrew West stole the defense plans, tried to sell them, got his head bashed in for his pains; end of story. The only mystery is why my brother is determined to bore me when someone else is being so delightfully interesting."
Then of course John got miffed because Sherlock seemed unsympathetic.
There's a reason the word "pathetic" is in the word "sympathetic," Sherlock thought to himself. Then he found what he'd been looking for. "Ah!"
Molly Hooper entered the lab. "Any luck?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," Sherlock answered enthusiastically.
Someone else nosed the door open after Molly, and a well-groomed, spotted face peeked inside. "Oh, sorry," the large cat said, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. "I didn't..."
"Jim!" Molly exclaimed. "Hi. Come in, come in."
He did so, and Sherlock saw that the newcomer was a leopard. He looked young and strong, but his expression and carriage made him seem smaller and weaker than he truly was.
"Jim," Molly announced, "this is Sherlock Holmes."
"Ah," said Jim, in a high-pitched, nervous tone.
"And, uh... sorry," Molly said, giving John a most apologetic look.
"John Watson—hi," John said, accepting his name being forgotten with good grace.
"Hi," Jim answered. Then he turned back toward the cheetah. "So, you're Sherlock Holmes." He wheezed in excitement. "Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?" He slunk around the work table to peek at Sherlock's work.
"Jim works in IT upstairs," Molly said. "That's how we met—office romance." She added the last bit almost proudly, a sweet smile on her caracal face. Jim giggled and she joined in.
"Frolicker," Sherlock muttered.
Molly's face fell. "Sorry, what?"
"Nothing... um," Sherlock turned to smile falsely at Jim. "Quite a looker."
Jim smiled in a way that can only be described as bashful. "And you," he said, setting a paw on the table. Except, he missed and sent a sample dish tumbling to the floor. He scrambled to retrieve it, laughing quietly. "Oh, sorry! ...Sorry." He replaced the dish and nervously licked at an itch on his foreleg. "Well, I'd better be off," he said. He paused by Molly to say, "I'll see you at the Fox—about sixish?"
"Yes," Molly answered with forced enthusiasm.
"Bye," Jim said, looking Sherlock's way.
"Bye," Molly answered him.
"It was nice to meet you," he added.
Sherlock made no response, so when the silence began to make the others feel awkward, John responded on his behalf. "You, too." Silence reigned again until Jim was out of the room.
Then Molly demanded, "What you mean, 'frolicker?' We're together."
Some explanation is in order. In the animal kingdom, and particularly among large predators, there was a slowly but steadily growing trend in animals without regular mating opportunities. This trend was a tendency to take comfort in members of their own sex, offering emotional support, grooming and occasional sexual stimulation. Such behavior became known as "frolicking" because of its initial rejection. When confronted about their behavior, such creatures would explain, "We're just having a bit of a frolic; we mean no harm." The term remained in common usage, even now that the behavior was legal, if frowned upon. Even some animals who did have occasion to mate were beginning to have the odd "frolic" now and again.
"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly; you've put on a good pound since I last saw you."
"Ten ounces," she countered.
"Sixteen."
"Sherlock—" John started.
"He's not frolicsome," Molly insisted. "Why d'you have to spoil—he's not."
Sherlock scoffed. "With that level of personal grooming?" Even for a cat, the leopard had been proverbially "spotless."
"Because he uses a bit of product on his coat?" John asked skeptically. "Even I do that."
"The occasional use of fur shampoo is different. No, no—tinted eyelashes, clear signs of tongue-grooming in places he couldn't possibly reach, those tired, nocturnal-up-during-the-day eyes... then there's his tail."
"His tail?" Molly asked.
"Didn't stop twitching from the moment he came in. And he spent very little of his time looking at you, Molly—hell, he looked at John more than you. Licking himself in front of me in an attempt to inspire arousal—that plus the extremely suggestive fact that he moved around to my right so the air current from the window would carry his scent to me like a calling card—and oh, look: a calling card under the sample dish he so clumsily upset. Radio frequency. He wants me to call him. I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."
Molly darted out of the room, leaving Sherlock mystified.
"Charming," said John. "Well done."
"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"
"Kinder? No, Sherlock. That wasn't kind."
John was so useful in these situations. Without him, Sherlock would never be able to interpret the emotions and social conventions of others.
Hope you liked Sherlock and Jim's first encounter. ^_^ Leave a review and I'll probably write more soon...
