Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.
Sorry this one's so long :D
Sleep sifted away from Honor as she began to feel the shaking more and more vividly. Was she really having a seizure? There was pressure on her shoulders invoking the shifting, someone was doing it. Glass had found her? With a surge of adrenaline her eyes fought open and she beheld a looming Sherlock over her.
The grey light of morning behind him couldn't be more mature than 6am and she groaned and tried to roll away.
"What is it?" her sluggish voice broke. She was feeling a little better than last night but withdrawal seemed to be hanging on stubbornly this morning.
Satisfied that she was waking up he let her go.
"The football case. We've got a connection!" His reply was ecstatic.
Pushing herself up to sitting, Honor brushed her unruly hair away from her face.
"The sniper murders?" She tried to clarify.
He nodded pulling out his phone and looking over it with one of the widest smiles she had ever seen on his face.
"Indeed. All of the victims have been to consecutive games at Daresay FC. Now we know we have a serial killer. I haven't had one in months you know. The thing about serial killers is that they're either slightly smarter or luckier than your average one time murderer which takes away a bit the drudgery."
Honor closed her eyes and opened them again, thinking maybe she still was dreaming. There seemed to be no sympathy to be found in him for the victims or their families. She had always thought investigators were driven by the desire to get a criminal off the streets and to save further misery and heartache. This didn't seem to be the case with Holmes. He was acting like a child who had just found a lost piece of a puzzle and was eagerly trying to fit it in. When this puzzle was solved he would most likely wish for another one to come along.
He looked back down at her frowning face. "What? Well? Come on! Next match is tonight you know."
"Where's Dr. Watson? Why aren't you bothering him? He's your sidekick isn't he?" She said turning back to her bed and adjusting the pillow, intent upon utilizing it again shortly.
"Potted I'm afraid. Didn't quite make it to his bed and is curled up on the rug in the living room like a terrier. I did try to wake him up but all he did was smile oddly at me. He'll be useless until he's weathered his hangover. You know he has crippling hangovers." He glanced back down at her impatiently. "Well? Come on!"
Honor didn't move. "Come on what? How is this any of my business Mr. Holmes?"
"Sherlock."
"Sherlock. If you want to discuss my case then by all means but I hardly see how I can add to your dizzying crime solving dynamic."
The magic was gone from his eyes and he frowned. "Have you remembered anything else or thought of anything that will lead to what your little chemical concoction is or who is commissioning it?"
"Not directly. Just flashbacks here and there, I don't even know if they're real memories." She admitted.
Disappointment lined his face.
"You should. Given your gifts this is getting rather silly. I would have thought you'd solve your own case by now you know." He said shortly.
Angrily Honor stood to confront him properly. "You forget that I haven't been honing my mystery solving skills for as long as you have." She pointed out.
"On the contrary. Your scientific background is based on problem to solution logic. You readily solved that puzzle of a formula that would have taken me some time. Given your irrational shorthand and odd ways you draw benzine rings I'm hardly to blame..." He justified himself.
Honor didn't see the point in arguing with someone who would argue with a post and she just looked away.
Perceiving her lack of retort he changed his tone. "Look, if you just assist me with this case, I will give you my undivided attention in solving yours." He bargained.
Sighing, Honor knew she would not get any peace until he had what he wanted so she nodded.
"Where exactly are we going?" She consented with the question.
"Upstairs? I'd rather fancy some eggs. Can you do them without breaking the yoke?" He asked innocently.
Temper lost, Honor grabbed the pillow and flung it at him, directly hitting his shoulder forcefully.
He looked completely oblivious but only returned her glare for a second then left.
The image on the screen froze and Glass sat back, unwilling to blink. He had been staring at the security footage all morning in his office again. This time, out of desperation, he was searching the feed recorded from days before Honor's disappearance. He had finally found the break in the window and then combed the grounds but newly fallen snow had covered up any sort of footprints he had hoped to find. Of course, in an uncontrolled state of mind, Honor would be able to think clearly enough to leave nothing to point a direction in which she would have gone.
He knew Honor's sister had left for the states on Sunday, the day before she disappeared, but he still went and searched the house they had stayed in. No signs that anyone had been there since, which was what he had expected. Honor would not be so predictable or careless. He would not be surprised if she had vanished altogether as she had the ability.
Gareth's pessimism had begun to overwhelm him to the point that he couldn't even enter her room. But now, the stilled video in front of him possibly held the answer to his dilemma.
The camera outside the hospital pharmacy had caught a man talking to their chemist. Odd enough in and of itself, but it was the man's face that stopped Gareth cold. John Watson. From the club in town. The encounter had stuck out to him as more than a brush with your average London weirdo. Something about him whispered of a hidden motive from the exchange. Now it seemed more than coincidence and Gareth was certain it had everything to do with Honor's escape. There was another person, a man from the glimpses he got of him. But the man always seemed to be just out of the frame or his face turned away. Almost like he had known where the cameras were.
Deep infuriation burned in his stomach as he let Watson's face play in his memory. They had taken something of his. Something he had worked for, risked everything for, and had come to need. He needed her and she needed him. No one would change that.
'Watson', he thought to himself and he reached for the inter-facility phone. Dialing an extension he waited calmly.
"Yes Dr. Monroe. Would you please come to my office immediately?" There was a pause. "I'm afraid it is. Thank you."
Breathing deeply he put his head back shackling his emotions for control. Jim said to not do anything until he got back in contact, but Gareth felt time and opportunity slipping away and with it, Honor.
Minutes later a sharp knock came to the door and he called her in. Dr. Monroe came in warily.
Motioning to a chair Gareth said, "Sit please."
She complied, her eyes never leaving him.
"Saturday." He narrated. "Two men gain access to the secured section of the administration wing. I believe this is you here." He pointed at a frozen picture of Monroe facing Watson who's back was to the camera. The dark shoulder of his companion was visible in the corner.
Lifting her chest stoutly, Monroe nodded. "Yes. It was in the daily reports."
"I see. Yes here it said, 'LCPD law enforcement inquiry'." Gareth glanced at his computer. "Did you not think it was something to bring to my attention?"
Monroe shifted in her chair. "Well you have been rather preoccupied this week, I haven't really had a chance..." She stopped as he chuckled, shaking his head.
"Doctor, you let two unscheduled and therefore unauthorized personnel into a secure area without escort. This is serious indeed."
"We were very understaffed that day Dr. Glass! These men had been here before with clearance! Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson..."
He sat up straight. Holmes? Where had he heard that name? Jim? Yes, his own cousin spoke often of a Holmes with a bizarre affection. The name also had come up at NeoTech between him and that woman, Adler? When they had left, after Jim had hurt Honor.
Gareth's malevolent focus suddenly shifted from the woman in front of him.
"Yes thank you very much Monroe you may go." He interrupted her as she was still justifying her actions and he turned to his computer.
Stunned, Dr. Monroe stared at him, puzzled by his sudden disengagement. Finally she stood up, leery of his strange behavior but she left the room.
Glass had already forgotten her. His search didn't take long to find multiple results for Holmes and Watson. Many stories in the news about the duo and their noteworthy ability to solve the unsolvable. A site called 'The science of deduction.' which had very outlandish but incredible reasoning in perception and conclusion drawing. Another blog written by that shameless John Watson, documenting apparent criminal cases that had stumped the police.
They weren't even official detectives!
Dr. Glass did not come out of his office for lunch. He was seen leaving the facility without a word early that afternoon.
"Why would anyone single out soccer...football fans?" Honor sat across the table in the main room from Sherlock who stared at the papers scattered in front of them.
Barely glancing at her, he replied with surprising patience. "Attendees, they may not even fancy football. And people don't look for reasons anymore, that much contemplation is out of fashion nowadays."
Sighing, Honor leaned forward to gaze at the notes scattered on the table in front of her. "I don't know how you can find this intriguing. I couldn't do this as a career little alone a hobby."
He didn't answer and immediately she knew why. "But isn't a hobby is it? It's an obsession. Whether you like it or not."
A shadow of thoughtfulness passed over his face and quickly was replaced by his indifferent expression. "It is what it is. The horror of stagnant thought is more terrifying than any crime scene I have come across. Besides, I am putting my efforts towards some contribution to humanity so why should anyone care?"
"I just wonder about you. If it's really fulfilling. And why this? You could do so much in science..."
Sherlock picked up a sheet of notes.
"That would be like eating the same thing everyday. I need more than that. No danger or opposition? No high stakes? It's how I feel, alive." He told her. "Besides, in some small way, you are able to do what you do, help better the world, because I do what I do."
This had not occurred to her. His efforts in the unsavory line of criminal control did indeed provide a better environment for others to advance civilization, keeping their hands proverbially clean.
She could feel an odd headache coming on, but she got up and stretched. It was almost noon now, most of their time had been spent collecting information from the London PD and now they had it all in front of them. The answer was there. It all seemed simple enough but the only connections from one case to another that they could see was the football club and all were killed indirectly by some sort of sniper shot. Nothing else seemed to hint the identity of the offender.
An empty water glass lay on the floor where John had been. He had woken up and wobbled up to his room, the smile still clinging stubbornly to his face. Before he had gone, Sherlock had groaned at him for his lack of interest in the case and John's response had thrown both him and Honor off.
"Looks to me the perpetrator was British military trained." He commented as he drank from his glass that Honor had handed to him. Sherlock eyes narrowed as he turned back to his evidence. Of course. It was obvious in the guns selected, sites used and method of aim.
Sherlock cursed under his breath for missing such a vital detail. He never missed such obvious facts.
Mildly irritated he said, "Thank you for the information John. It would have, however been most appreciated if provided earlier."
The doctor had reached the door and shrugged. "I assumed you already had figured that out. Two super brains in one room after all." He grinned.
Sherlock watched him go. "Nothing is more frustrating than distraction. You cannot focus on the task at hand."
"What, because he is having fun spending time with Molly?" Honor's voice came from behind the screen of the computer as she searched the list of facility employees from the football club.
There was a pause and Sherlock looked up at her with a flash of revelation on his face. He hadn't even been thinking of Molly and John. He had blurted his opinion concerning himself, now realizing it was her. Honor was his distraction. Otherwise how had he missed something so obvious?
Blinking Honor realized his disconnect and added, "Really? You didn't notice?"
His pride answered quickly and cooly, "Molly and John are good friends and have a lot in common. Don't jump to disgusting conclusions."
She shrugged this off and pulled the computer closer to her as she scanned the website.
Sherlock found himself stealing glances at her as she stared intently at the laptop screen. Distraction. He could not allow himself to be distracted. It was a disease he had been almost completely immune to which set him apart from 'the rest'.
"Sherlock," Honor broke into his thoughts, "I don't see any employees or associations with the FC that were in the military who could have been present for all of these games."
"That wouldn't be a requirement anyway. Let me see." He reached for the computer. A few minutes of only the click of the keyboard sounding and Sherlock let out a sigh of frustration, "You're right. Nothing obvious anyway. It's right in front of us though, I can...something wrong?" He looked up to see her with her head in her hands, her breathing ragged.
His voice brought her head up quickly, "What? No. I just got a little dizzy. I'd die for a corn dog right now..."
Eyebrows knitted together in tight disapprovement, Sherlock said, "Corn Dog?! I don't know what it is you people in Idaho get up to…"
She wasn't listening. He studied her for a moment longer then looked back to his screen. "Well, the connection has to be here."
Standing up suddenly, Honor grabbed a black marker and some paper from the printer. She began to tear the sheets and cast them into a pile on the table in front of her. The etchy squeak of her quick strokes with the marker brought Sherlock's head up.
"What are you doing now?"
"Going back to the connection. The facts. I can't see anything until I write it out." Honor admitted as she finished her last stroke.
Glancing over her paper tiles, he noted she had rewritten the victim's names and ticket information. Suppressing a scoff he looked back to the computer.
'At least she was trying.' he thought.
Mumbling she moved the papers into a line.
"Dates, names, there has to be something else they all have in common." She hunched over the table. "What about the guy who claimed he did it?"
"No connection other than a fan. His involvement is something different all together I think." Sherlock dismissed.
He leaned back from the table frustrated and pushed his office chair over to the side of the table where Honor stood. They looked together.
"Your handwriting is atrocious even off medication." He commented as he pushed the papers about.
Honor looked at him with a frown. "Have you ever wanted to say something nice to anyone?"
The question was strange and redundant. Sherlock began to disregard it with a snappy quip but she stopped him. "Really. I'm asking purely out of scientific curiosity. Jon maybe or Mrs. Hudson?"
She continued to look at him with a shy, deep brown eye, her long fringe obscuring the other. Sherlock found himself unable to look away for escape.
"For what purpose?" His question was without bite for once but he still posed it with challenge.
"To appreciate them maybe? If for nothing else than to state the fact that you have some amazing people in your life. You have no problem pointing out everything else, but somehow the positive gets neglected with you."
Positive? She meant sentiment. To be stern or sometimes mildly antagonistic was safe, you knew if people really wanted to associate with you. Even with Irene he could criticize without her making a fuss. John would fight back sometimes. Molly had confronted him only once, at the Christmas party. And he couldn't control the alien feelings of embarrassment and even regret for his harsh words to her. The deductions came so quickly, devoid of any tact or sensitivity.
Now he suddenly thought of many things he admired about this awkward, quiet, beautiful, foreign girl. Some part of him wanted to reject the thoughts immediately but he abided them.
"Very well. John, is a very loyal and generous friend, gets himself into silly situations rather often however." Sherlock began, putting a hand in his own ruffled hair and scratching, "Mrs. Hudson is rather a dear woman when she's not being a bother."
"That's what I mean Sherlock." Honor said gently. "You always have to add something in, something belittling. I'm not a social expert or anything either. I hide behind my work to detour having to admit I do not understand the emotions I feel sometimes. They are nonsensical, irregular, they frighten me. But with them I feel connected, even just to my sister, and it helps curve the madness in my head. Whether or not we like it Sherlock, sentiment is a part of us."
Sherlock paused, still locked in on her eyes. "Honor, I think you are more than a case."
This comment brought a questioning tilt of Honor's head and she waited for him to go on. But the explanation never came.
Both of their faces fell and realization suddenly widened their eyes.
In unison they both blurted, "Stu F..."
They both looked back to the table at the line of papers with the seating ticket information of the Daresay matches.
The intimate conversation was now forgotten.
Sherlock stood up and pulled the computer over to them. S-1, T-9, U-7, F-2.
"Stu F 1972. It's a long shot..." Honor said as Sherlock began to type on the computer again.
In his usual drawl he nodded, "But it's the only one we have at the moment."
A moment later he lifted his fingers off the keyboard, his eyes sparkling. There it was. Stu Fox. Birthday 1972. Almost too obvious to be a coincidence. And that's what Sherlock Holmes did, gambled on a well fact-supported hunch.
Fox had been the team's previous coach over two years ago.
Sherlock grinned and began to chuckle. Honor, looked at him with a sickly yet quizzical look.
The usually bland detective clarified, "'A long shot.'"
The girl simply shook her head at the unintended, distasteful pun.
"It says here he was sacked and replaced by an assistant coach." Sherlock stopped then smiled. "Fox had been a sniper in the military during the gulf war. Cook said something about a fox at the asylum..."
"So you have motive and ability? Maybe he was bitter about being replaced and now going on a rampage?" Honor sat down faintly on the couch.
Groaning Sherlock fisted the table. "Ability yes...but not opportunity. The bugger died shortly after being terminated. How thoughtless."
Now it was Honor's turn to groan. She was feeling poorly already and now she was sure to catch the ricochet of Sherlock's frustration, again. Still, his comment about her 'being more than a case', echoed in her pressurized head. Now as she listened to his reading aloud the obituary she decided he meant a mental case perhaps.
'Well like dissolves like...or it takes one to know one. Whatever.' She insulted him silently.
"Survived by his ex-wife Becky...and a close friend…Cameron Taggart. Hmmm." His voice suddenly interested again. "Here we are, the man who replaced him C. Taggart."
"You think he is behind all this?" Honor asked.
Sherlock leaned back again in the chair, tipping slightly. "Perhaps, it is a connection none the less. Only one way to find out. We'll go and talk to him."
Standing up, Sherlock was texting on his phone already and within two minutes his phone dinged a message alert. "Apparently Mr. Taggart accompanied Fox in the Gulf War as well but was sent home, charged in a disciplinary council, for unintended manslaughter. This is developing nicely for once."
Honor didn't think she would ever get used to his shocking statements which were devoid of any empathy.
"Us? Why not tell the police? They have detectives of their own who are paid to do this right?"
"Do what?" John said entering the room in his favorite striped shirt.
'Must be his day off.' Honor assessed him.
A fresh wave of pain in her head kept her quietly rubbing her temples.
The question was ignored and Sherlock kept his thumbs flying on his phone. "And have them muddle the whole thing? Besides, what fun would that be?"
The doctor looked from his friend to Honor. "Well I haven't heard that one before." He said with sarcasm of his own. "Honor, are you feeling alright?"
He crossed to her and took her wrist, feeling for the pulse.
"It's actually passing I think John." She assured him.
"I think we need to go do some tests, take you to the hospital, just to be sure."
"I think we have enough mother hens in this building as it is John. I'm watching her rest assured." Sherlock walked from the room back to his room.
"Well what about your burn?" He took a look at it. "No infection, I think it might fade almost completely in time. Oh, excuse me."
John turned and called to Sherlock. "I have the day off Sherlock and I'm ready to be completely serious about this case!"
"No need John!" The timely reply floated from Sherlock's quarters. Both John and Honor's heads swung in it's direction. "Honor and I can manage. So you can go to that matinee film after all. Don't go with the war one though, Molly fancies those silly superhero stories."
"What?" John was exasperated.
Honor sat on the couch again with her head still in her hands. "I told Mrs. Hudson I'd fix her piano!"
Reappearing with determination in his step, Sherlock shook his head.
"Forget the piano. I need a college age, female journalist with an attractive, I mean distracting face and a decent memory. John's out on all accounts."
"Excuse me?" The blatant insults still caught even John off guard sometimes.
"I will however need you to be able to answer your phone though so take her to some nice restaurant for Italian first, she hates french. When I call I need you to use your most professional Latin-American accent and assure whomever I put on the line that we are supposed to be there."
Now it was pure bewilderment. John shook his head to try to focus. "Wait, accent? Who am I supposed to be?"
"Hector Delgado, Idaho Falls University Journalism Professor. Just go with it John." Sherlock was at the computer then the printer hummed mechanically.
"Speak with a Spanish accent...in an Italian restaurant. How do you even know he has an accent?" John folded his arms aggravatedly.
Sherlock flung his arms out. "I don't! Just sell it!"
Lips pressed, Watson stood there only a moment longer then almost stomped from the room.
"Come on then. Let's go have a chat with Mr. Taggart." Sherlock swung his coat on and walked over to the microscope that sat on an open shelf in the kitchen. He tipped it and loosened the base. Feeling around inside his eyebrows bunched then he pulled out a colorful toy pipe.
"The bubbles are there above the sink." Came Honor's voice from the front room.
"Really. A bit cheeky for an american isn't it?" He retorted drably and tossed the pipe onto the table.
Fingering futilely through the tangles in her hair she peeked into the kitchen. "I had John get it last night while he was out. He'd asked me where your smokes were and so I felt like I owed you something for copping out."
It took every ounce of willpower for Holmes to keep the smile safely hidden behind his signature scowl. He pulled a sheet from the printer and folded it, slipping it into his coat.
"Are you going like that?" He tisked at her worn t-shirt and boxers. "Any self respecting journalist would at least put on a blazer."
"I'm sorry what? That doesn't make any sense. 'Self-respecting journalist'? Now who's being ridiculous?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Cheek." He muttered moving to the door. "Well? Come on?"
Raising an eyebrow Honor looked out the window. The sun was out but it would still be near freezing. "Mrs. Hudson's gone so I can't...won't borrow any of her clothes so don't bother breaking into her apartment."
"More entering than breaking really…" He started but then sighed. "Fine, let's go get something. It's about time you quit knicking other people's clothes anyway."
Honor didn't know what that meant but Sherlock grabbed one of John's jumpers from a hook by the door and tossed it to her. It was the one Sherlock had put the fire out with in the kitchen. Honor only hesitated for a moment taking in the burn marks in it. Then she slipped into her boots and followed him down the stairs.