Hi everybody...
It's been wayyyyyyy too long.
It's not the homework that's the problem for me, it's the social interaction. I don't seem to have enough emotion to share between real people and creativity.
I just feel so tired. Probably because I'm sick. Half the people I know are sick there's something going around.
Otherwise, it's great here at college, though :)
To the anonymous reviewer who 'deduced' I'm taking Gender Studies...sorry, but I'm not. 14,000 some words of chapter and that's all you picked up?
If you read my whole story and the one that comes before it, you can see that I've always been a bit of a 'feminist'.
But if you're guessing classes, the blatant liberalism I'm unable that integrates into everything I do (which is this story, mostly) you should've been able to guess Sociology.
I was liberal way before I took that class, of course, but it would be the most obvious guess.
Still thank you for reviewing, anything to get the number's up I always say.
And (as always) THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who reviewed last chapter!
Your opinions, interpretations and support are beyond appreciated (they're loved), unbelievably nice and brilliant (as British people stereo typically love to say).
Thank you again (and again (and again)).
This chapter was never meant to be like this.
It's only half of what I planned for but it got too long and I felt as if I was never going to finish it and it's been over two weeks so yeah I'm going to post what I have now.
I hope it's okay. It's definitely weird at first. And purposefully pretentious.
You'll see what I mean when you read it.
If anything is confusing ask me and I will explain.
There is nothing to do.
When there is nothing to do you get bored.
When you get bored, you have to do something.
What do you do?
Drugs.
Which ones?
Well, that depends on what you want to do.
So…what do you want to do?
Something.
Forget?
Escape?
Nothing.
No.
Need something.
Feel?
Live, really live?
Yes.
Something.
We had to break the rules and so we stole our parents' money and ran away, out of the 'nice' neighborhood into a 'bad' one.
(But 'bad' (just like 'good') isn't real and money is just paper, worthless and it belongs equally to everyone just like everything else and so we had the right to take it.)
We like to think.
We know everything.
All the problems of this earth could be solved if they just listened to us.
(But 'they' don't listen to us because we're just kids (teenagers) and they think they know everything (they think they're always right but they're wrong.))
So where was I again?
Oh yeah.
So my girlfriend Amy and I had decided to get married (except we didn't need a wedding, a church, documents, labels…those were all just confines meant to control us and make us conform to The Man) and live together in small apartment we could afford with the money we earned from our parents after seventeen years of suffering under their suffocating rule.
We were partying.
Most people party to celebrate, because they are happy…
…but we, we aren't like them.
We are different.
We party because we are sad.
We were sad.
Why were we sad?
Because Freddie Mercury was dead.
November 24, 1992.
That man was like our idol or something.
(I say 'idol or something' because he wasn't exactly our idol, he was Vic's idol and Vic was our idol.)
Vic was there too.
He was being a bit stoic, not really crying just watching the fuzzy-screened telly that was a 'wedding present' from Mike and it didn't (couldn't) get cable no matter how much we messed with the antenna (because we couldn't afford cable—it should be free! Entertainment is art and all art should be free! Information for all!)
It sat on the floor, just like all of us.
At least we were on a (dirty) rug.
There was only like three rooms in the apartment anyway, and one of them was a bathroom. Then there was the bedroom and the room that was everything else (living room, dining room, kitchen, hallway)
Mike was also there and he'd brought his girlfriend Jan.
She was crying because she really loved Freddie Mercury and all gay musicians and all gay people.
She was how we all met Vic, they were best friends and had even dated for a while until Vic decided to be gay.
I don't have a problem with gay people, it's their choice and people should be free to choose what they want to do (as long as no one gets hurt).
I just said 'more girls for me' but then Vic told me about the existence lesbians.
(And then Mike told (showed) me more about lesbians and I decided that I really didn't mind their existence at all.)
My parents don't like gay people.
I think they just mean gay men because I don't think they know about lesbians.
They say all gay men have gay cancer.
(They also say that about black people, too, even the straight ones and especially the ones in Africa so I don't know why they call it 'gay' cancer.)
I think that actually might've been what Freddie Mercury died of but that's just a coincidence because not all gay people have aides just like how Vic is sort of a drug dealer but not all gay people are drug dealers—at least I don't think so.
I don't know any other gay people.
But I was going to meet another one tonight.
Later.
Right now we were just hanging out, talking, crying (well only Jan), dancing around and listening to old Queen tapes on Mike's boombox (I don't know where he's getting all these expensive electronics because he quit school and doesn't have a job or rich parents).
We had been high earlier (and do you know why they call it 'high' it's because you're taken to a higher state of consciousness, you reach enlightenment when you're high, the brain is basically dead and then the drugs bring it to life and you can finally think).
It was cocaine.
It was always coke because Vic was pretty rich, actually, and he said it was what successful adults do (even his dad did until Vic was born and he's a judge so that practically makes it legal).
All the other kids just drank (which is legal anyway once you're eighteen so what's the point then after that?) or smoked pot.
They were just pretending to be grown-up.
We actually were.
—Except not old like adults.
We were still young and so life was still worth living (sort of).
This was our only time in life to be free.
Once we turned like thirty-life would be over anyway.
The only thing worse than dying was getting old, that's what Amy and I decided one night while we were lying awake and just talking.
(We were so brilliant, she and I, we wonder how everyone else is so stupid.)
We built a life for ourselves here, breaking all the rules and doing whatever we wanted to.
(The money Amy gets from her mum and dad every month doesn't count because they owe it to her anyway. She didn't choose to be born into this painful existence on this painful world. Nobody does. Parents are evil. That's why me and Amy will never have kids. Also because pulling out always )
Vic and Jan were still stuck in school, though, so they still had their leashes on.
Not actual leashes that you put onto dogs (and sometimes on to your children because children are just pets to control to their parents) but the metaphorical kind like school and work and chores and parents and stuff that keep you tied down by The Establishment.
I knew Vic only went to school to deal drugs so at least he was fighting The Power by using The System against itself.
He got his 'product' (the codename for it, nobody could ever figure out what he was talking about if they didn't already know) from his ex-boyfriend who went to some university in the city and got it from a different dealer there.
Vic was a smart guy, even if he was gay.
Jan said gay men are actually smarter than straight men, she said that's why so many of them are famous politicians, actors and writers because they had the brains of women and women are all naturally smarter than men.
(I don't know if I agree with that but that may just be because I'm stupider because I'm male and so don't understand.)
So yeah, anyway, it was kind of awkward with me and Amy then Mike and Jan, both of us couples and then just Vic alone.
He said his 'friend' ('almost boyfriend in a way but don't say that in front of him because he doesn't even do that sort of thing' kind of friend) would be coming soon.
His name was Sherlock…something. ( I don't remember his last name. The first name was just so strange that it was easy to remember.)
Now Vic is pretty smart like I already said, but this Sherlock kid was supposed to be even smarter.
He had been failing school for an entire semester and then made up all his missing credits during one week of summer school exams.
He didn't hate school because he was stupid and it was too hard, he hated school because it confined him and he was too smart.
It was holding him down and holding him back.
I think I'm probably the same way but even more so because I don't even bother with those stupid exams anyway.
Vic told us that Sherlock was like a scientist or something and that he invented this new way to get high.
You take a syringe like you'd use for heroin and then you mix up some amount of cocaine and water and inject it.
It's better this way because you don't have to snort it and mess up your lungs and nose, and the water it's mixed up with makes it healthy because the human body is like 70% percent water anyway.
See, Sherlock was a genius.
And we were gonna try his new method tonight.
(Like labrats in an experiment. How exciting!)
Sherlock was late because he was getting the equipment from one of the hospitals in the city, so he knows it's clean, and gets it for free.
That's what Vic explained to us, while we were waiting.
It was about nine or ten at night maybe, I think…
We didn't hear the knock on the door or the door creak open because the music and the static from the telly was too loud.
But maybe nobody had knocked and nobody had opened the door because nobody was there.
Mike noticed first.
He had really good hearing and always heard tiny noises like somebody was sneaking up on him. He'd been jumped a couple of times by some thugs in the next neighborhood so I think that's why.
He said he likes being hyper-aware and hates it when the world gets dull and quiet, which it is when he's low.
High should be the natural state, by the way, low should be the abnormal.
That's why we call it 'low'.
High is just living.
We are gods.
"That him?" Mike asked.
He looked up from the fascinating static of the telly and over at the front door where nobody stood.
Then he looked at Vic.
"No…it's not..." Vic answered, confusedly, looking at Mike and then at the opened door.
Nobody was there.
Nobody was like a ghost.
I couldn't see him there but I could feel him.
He was blurry and faceless, like a person your mind conjures up in a dream.
I know he wasn't real and yet he was there (and yet not really there).
He never existed.
I made him up.
Or maybe, he made me up.
Maybe I never existed.
"Oh, I know him!" Jan exclaimed, jumping up and running over to the empty doorway.
"You do?!" Mike exclaimed, taken aback and raising an eyebrow.
He stood up and hurried after to put a possessive arm around her.
"Don't worry, he's gay." Jan consoled Mike, who sighed in relief and then turned to greet nobody, "His name is Jim. He used to go to school with me. He was in the school play once, he was really good."
"Oh, okay." Mike accepted, "Hi, Jim. I'm Mike."
Amy and I looked at each other.
Did I see what she saw?
Did she see what I saw?
No.
Nobody saw what I saw.
Nobody.
"Maybe we should go over and say hello?" Amy suggested to me.
"Maybe." I returned.
I didn't want to move.
I always want to move but I didn't want to move.
Amy always told me what we should do, but never did anything unless I did it first.
But then she did stand up before I even moved and went over to the doorway where Mike, Jan and nobody stood.
She went without me.
I just kept sitting down on the rug, staring into the static on the screen and listening to the music in the background that had become white noise.
I don't know what I was really paying attention to, but I knew that I was not paying attention to nobody.
Deliberately not paying attention.
And when you deliberately try not to think about something, it's all you think about.
And when you deliberately try to think about nothing…
Can you even think about nothing?
Does 'nothing' even exist (or rather, not exist because if it actually exists then it's something)?
I glanced towards Vic but he was gone.
No, he was just at the door now, with nobody and the three somebodies.
"Jan, did you invite him?" He asked, gesturing at the empty doorway.
"No." Jan shrugged.
Vic turned and stared into space at nobody.
"How did you know we were all meeting up here then?" he questioned, suspiciously.
"Sherlock told me." Nobody said.
His voice…
It wasn't in the room, it was in my head.
Like when those crazy people talk about hearing voices in their heads, it was like that.
I guess that makes me crazy.
Yes it does, Fred, it does.
That was him.
And my name isn't even 'Fred'.
Yes it is.
That was him again.
No it wasn't.
No it wasn't.
So it was me?
Yes, it was me.
"How do you know Sherlock?" Vic asked, "He's never mentioned a 'Jim' and he doesn't know many people. Just me and his brother. He doesn't bother to know anybody else's names."
"I'm Sherlock." Nobody said.
"No, you're obviously not." Vic laughed, "And don't go telling me that's your name, too, because 'Sherlock' isn't a very common name and Jan just told us yours was Jim."
Vic, Jan, Mike and Amy stood around nobody like an asteroid belt around a planet.
And when nobody stepped into the room the sea of rocks in space parted to let him through.
Then they followed him into the center of the room, like he had some kind of gravity.
But everything has gravity, doesn't it?
Isn't that like one of the laws of physics or something?
And the things with the most gravity are the biggest…and the smallest.
Like a black hole that sucks everything up.
I could tell nobody was hungry.
I didn't want to be pulled into the darkness.
It was already too late for Jan, for Mike, for Amy (oh, poor Amy, I'm sorry, I'll miss you but you left me. you left me for him. you left me for me. did you leave me?) and maybe even for Vic, too, but not for me.
I was going to live.
But how did I know they were going to die?
Because we were all going to die.
I was going to die.
"Okay, okay, you got me." Nobody laughed, raising his hands in surrender and self-defense, "I'm Sherlock's boyfriend. He sent me to tell you all that he can't make it tonight."
"Couldn't he have just called?" Mike wondered.
"You don't have a phone here." Nobody explained, glancing around the room in demonstration.
Yes, Amy and I didn't have a landline.
Anybody who wanted to talk to us could contact us in person and in anybody who we wanted to contact us in person knew where we lived.
(Except my parents.)
Except nobody.
He knew where we lived.
How did he know?
Because I know.
I told him.
I told myself.
He is me.
I am nobody.
"Sherlock doesn't have a boyfriend." Vic countered, folding his arms, "He's not even gay."
"…I know…" Nobody sighed, sympathetically, "But a boy can dream, can't he?"
Vic couldn't help but laugh at that, finally smiling.
"I suppose he can." Vic admitted, "I'm a dreamer."
"But you're not the only one." Nobody added, matching the smile.
The tension was gone and calm resumed with laughter and smiles as the teenagers sang 'old' music because our generation's music sucks and only 'old' music is good and real.
Today's pop music was only made to control the masses and keep the young from rebelling against our overlords.
The generation before us's music was always better and so we were always ashamed about what our peers produced. (Those stupid fat Americans, mostly.)
Everyone else was talking and standing, but I kept sitting, just sitting and watching (because I'm a nonconformist (and because I was scared)).
No one even noticed me there.
But nobody noticed me.
"I brought a present for everyone." Nobody announced, "Sherlock Holmes sends his love."
He opened a plastic shopping-bag and pulled something out.
It was dark in the room (because Amy had covered the two windows with newspaper she'd found down the hall because she didn't want people on the street staring in and we couldn't afford blinds or curtain) but I could tell exactly what nobody was holding up.
Floating in midair, in the hands of nobody, were the syringes Vic had described filled with some kind of substance that glinted in dim lamplight like a star.
Glint and then gone.
A dying star.
"Oooh, shiny…" Jan cried, already reaching towards the stolen light.
"That's his stuff, isn't it?" Mike guessed, putting a hand on her shoulder to hold her back, "The stuff he gets from the hospital? He's got to show me how he gets past security. There're these people down the street that are always looking to buy medical supplies and medicine."
Nobody chuckled.
"He's a rich Anglo with a posh accent." He explained, "People trust him. That's why he gets past security. They'd never trust a black street kid like you in a hospital. They'd blame you for a crime even if you didn't do."
"Afro-Caribbean!" Jan corrected, gasping in offense and defense of her boyfriend (who's grandparents were actually Ghanaian immigrants).
"…hate to say it but he's right." Mike shrugged, "Not that I'm doing much to change the stereotype myself."
"It's not your fault." Jan consoled, eyes already teary due to the death of one of her gay idols and now watering again because of the many troubles other kinds of minorities faced that her ancestors had caused.
"But they wouldn't trust you, either, Fred, would they?" Nobody added.
Suddenly, Nobody had turned and looked right at me.
He saw me.
I saw him.
How had he known my name?
But that wasn't my name.
Yes it was.
Yes it is.
"But his name's not 'Fred'." Amy spoke up.
"Sorry." Nobody laughed, "He just looks so much like him, Freddie Mercury, and you've got that song playing so loud, I just thought, well, the both of them might like to be reborn…"
And so I was rechristened 'Fred'.
And so I was reborn.
And so I died.
"It's okay." I said (but it wasn't!), "I like the name Fred. You can call me 'Fred', if you want to."
"I do want to call you 'Fred', Fred." Nobody stated, "Now come over here, Fred, and join the party."
I nodded and I stood.
I followed his eyes over to the group, the circle expanded to include me.
It felt good to be part of the group.
I had been absorbed into the collective.
I had been eaten.
There was no negative emotion when you're part of a group and when that group has a leader and when you have someone else to blame.
But I have nobody to blame.
I looked at Amy, then at Vic, then at Mike, then at Jan and then at nobody.
"So who wants to try it first?" Nobody asked.
He held up one full syringe out to the group gazing wide-eyed.
"Where did Sherlock get the 'product' to put in there?" Vic questioned, his natural state of suspicion peeking through again.
"Oh, Sherly's a real pretty boy, he can get it anywhere he wants to." Nobody told him, laughing, "So maybe he just wants to get it from you because he likes you."
"A boy can dream." Vic accepted, with a shrug, suspicion faded.
He'd been told what he'd wanted to hear.
Empty promises like the ones from corrupt politicians.
(That's why voting wasn't important anyway. It was all a scam and a conspiracy. There was probably one big secret government that ruled the whole world.)
"I'll try first." I volunteered, even raising a hand like I was in class at school.
Nobody grinned and handed me the syringe.
When I injected the serum I realized instantly that this was not cocaine.
But I couldn't tell them, I couldn't speak, I couldn't say anything.
My voice was gone.
And nobody's voice was in my head.
I had injected him into my body! He was in my blood! In my mind!
He was me and I was him.
The others, Amy (oh god, oh Amy, I love you, Amy, I'm so sorry) and the rest, they all used different syringes because nobody had said it would be safer that way and they weren't stupid kids just experimenting.
There was something else inside there, I think it was actually coke but it wasn't what I took.
What took me.
They were all laughing, dancing, singing, talking and living. They were all happy.
And I was floating above them like a ghost watching them and my own body below.
I wasn't moving and nobody wasn't moving.
My body, however, was moving.
And I heard nobody whisper.
The voice in my ear, the voice in my head.
My voice.
He told me what to do and I did it.
I did what I wanted to do.
I did it.
And nobody sat on the dirty rug on the floor, watching me and everyone through the reflection on the static in the telly.
My body followed orders because that was what its job was.
My body was empty.
Nobody was in my body.
His soul had taken it over and I was on the outside.
I wasn't myself anymore.
I was him and he was me.
Soon, no one was laughing, dancing, singing, talking anymore. They were all still living—but barely.
Everyone was running, screaming, falling, crying and dying.
The music and the static masked all the noise.
When the tape ran out and nobody turned off the telly, then it was finally quiet.
I was back in my body but it wasn't mine.
I think I might have been dead.
I think I might still be dead.
I lay down on the empty rug.
It was clean.
The rest of the room, the floor and all the walls, were so dirty.
But there was no such thing as true silence, just as there is no such thing as true peace.
I could hear the sound of the city outside, people going on with their lives ignorant as always.
And in the next room, the bathroom, somebody was taking a shower.
If you've seen the pictures, then you know what happened.
It was horrible, so ugly…but so beautiful, too, like artwork.
Art can be sad, can't it?
Art can be violent.
Can't it?
Can't it?
Well, if it can, then I am an artist.
And if it can't then…
Then I am nothing.
I am nobody.
Hospitals were generally open at all hours because emergencies don't take the night off and chronic conditions needed constant management.
Still (away from the busyness, bright lights and people in the care section of the hospital) Molly was alone and in the dark during the nightshift in the back laboratory.
Turning on the light didn't make her feel any less alone in such a big room, mostly white and housing multiple tables full of different kinds of equipment. There was also a door to the smaller room where the samples were stored, some even refrigerated.
There was actually a large backlog of tests (mostly blood or urine) and so Molly had a lot to do that night (and the nights to come).
Working with her hands, Molly could allow her mind to wander.
This was easy and repetitive, stuff she'd done while still in medical school (and for free while volunteering), and so she was content with this busywork and paycheck even if she had to be isolated and up all night.
Molly considered putting on some music, but there was no radio and she hadn't brought a portable music player, and so she just hummed to herself as she worked, allowing time to flow away unnoticed to the large whir of the spinning machinery and the small sound of her own voice.
She couldn't help think of Jim, and of Sherlock and Irene Adler, wondering what they were up to.
Jim had told her only the most minimal amount of information about their plans and as much as this bothered Molly, it bothered her even more that John knew nothing.
It was one thing when Sherlock was pretending to be dead so that Jim wouldn't find him, but now that Sherlock and Jim were apparently allies (just allies because Molly doubted that they'd ever be friends) what was the point of hiding everything from John?
Sherlock being alive had nothing to do with Sebastian Moran and so Molly didn't see that as a valid reason not to tell John at least some of what was going on.
Still, Molly knew she couldn't tell John because that would only make him (and Lestrade) more suspicious of her and he'd never trust her again (did he even trust her now?).
Also, it just wasn't her place.
Who was she, little Molly Hooper, to meddle in Sherlock Holmes's grand design that she didn't know nor could ever hope to comprehend?
She was no one.
—At least compared to Sherlock, Jim (and even John, too, who was both a doctor and a soldier).
They were so big and she was so small…
What would she even be able to do with all the information they didn't tell her, if she had it?
Probably nothing.
So there was no need for her to know.
(But what would she be able to do with their minds, their genius, their power…?)
(Maybe something?)
Molly's shift ended at four in the morning, if she took a 'lunch' (midnight snack) break, and she knew she'd be followed home by Mycroft's employees.
Would Jim be there?
He'd said he would, but Molly knew him better than that.
And she wouldn't blame him for playing it safe, and staying away from her to avoid detection.
She wouldn't blame him…but she knew that if Jim stayed away from her, it wouldn't be because he was 'playing it safe'.
Now, the smart thing to do would be for Molly to go to Mycroft and request to be moved somewhere where Jim could never find her.
As long as he knew where she was, he'd always sporadically come back to her, but that meant he would also always leave.
This was there way of life.
Molly and Jim chasing each other in circles—or, rather, Jim running circles around Molly, spinning her around to keep her dizzy and disoriented.
She was powerless.
And there was nothing she could do about it (because that's what 'powerless' means).
…unless…
Unless she got Jim to do something about it for her.
When he was so busy manipulating her, he'd never notice that she was manipulating him.
As long as he thought he was in control, she could get what she wanted because he would either unknowingly let her take it or even just give it to her.
Sure, it would mean giving up a lot her job, family, the way she lived and maybe even her life) but if it worked, it would be worth it.
Andwhat did Molly want?
Oh, nothing much.
Just selfless things for selfish reasons.
She wanted Jim to stop killing, stop violent and destructive crime all together, and stop hurting people...
…so that she could be with him without feeling guilty about it.
And she wanted Jim.
Not just whenever he wanted to be with her and then waiting for him when he didn't, unable to move on because he wouldn't have left her alive if he wasn't coming back.
No.
She wanted him to be hers in the same way that she was his.
But that was never going to happen and Moly knew it because she knew Jim.
Still…
Still, there could be symbiosis instead of dysfunction in their relationship (if Jim could work with Sherlock, then he could work with Molly) and there could be equality instead of hierarchy (if Sherlock could work with John, then Jim could work with Molly)—even if it was going to be a constant power struggle.
Business and relationships (working, friendly, romantic, familial) were all just about giving people what they need or want in exchange for getting what one needed or wanted.
So what did Jim want?
Oh, nothing much.
Just attention and emotion.
Molly knew Jim, she knew that he didn't do anything if it wouldn't make him happy and since he did what he did to get a reaction out of people (usually Sherlock, but often also her, his brother, Mycroft and/or just the general public), she knew that those people's reactions were what made him happy.
So Molly would give Jim all her attention and all her emotion and he would eagerly take it, he always did.
And without even realizing it, he would be giving Molly what she wanted.
She'd have to go with him everywhere he went. In doing that, she'd be able to know what he was doing—and stop him before he went too far.
That was her plan.
The only problem was Mycroft's employees going with her where ever she went.
But Molly guessed that she could probably make Jim do something about that, too (nonlethally, of course).
As she was waiting for chemicals to process, trying to figure out just how she and Jim would go about escaping her shadows once the time came, Molly heard familiar footsteps approach above the buzzing machine beside her.
Highheels on tile.
Molly tensed but knew she had to remain calm.
Hopefully Anthea was here for a reason other than confronting her about how Jim, Sherlock and Irene Alder were all just in her flat yesterday.
Turning to the doorway just in time to see the door open, Molly saw Anthea enter the long room cautiously, glancing around until her eyes fell on Molly who was already staring at her suspiciously.
"May I help you?" Molly asked, politely, starting towards her.
"Yes, actually." Anthea answered, with a laugh that was almost embarrassed.
She had a sealed plastic bag in her hands, inside it were six vials of what had to be blood.
Molly recognized it as crime scene evidence and not because of Sherlock.
No, it was because once in university she'd had a professor who was a bit of a crime enthusiast and so had all of her students run samples from cold cases as a 'community service' to Scotland Yard.
This was old evidence.
Much older than the month-old-at-most backlog of samples in this hospital's storage.
"How may I help you?" Molly added, raising an eyebrow at the bag of evidence.
"I need you to test these blood samples." Anthea stated, "Find out which drugs—if any—were in these subjects' systems."
"Are you going to tell me whose samples these are?" Molly inquired, doubtfully, "And what happened to them?"
"I'm sorry but that's classified." Anthea refused.
"If it's classified, then why did you come to me?" Molly tested, "Why not just go to a government lab?...You and your boss don't want the government to know about this, do you?"
"Maybe these are blood samples of my various lovers all over the world." Anthea shrugged, "Maybe I just don't want my employer to know about this."
"If you didn't want him to know, then you wouldn't come to me." Molly dismissed, "You know I'm being watched by his employees all the time. They know you're here and so does he. So why don't you want the rest of the government to know?"
"My employer is 'the rest of the government'." Anthea laughed.
"Then why are you here?" Molly insisted, "I won't do run these samples for you unless you tell me what this is about."
"What about 'Queen and Country?" Anthea tried, "As an agent of the British government I am compelling you to run the tests."
"You can't do that!" Molly exclaimed, "Especially since this isn't even official business. So just tell me what is going on, you know I won't tell anyone."
"I can't tell you because I don't know." Anthea explained, more than just slightly annoyed, "The only one who knows who these samples belong to and why they are significant is Mycroft Holmes and the only thing he told me is to bring them to you to be tested for drugs. That's it. I'm sorry."
"I don't believe you." Molly disbelieved, evenly, folding her arms.
"Then don't believe me, Miss Hooper, but you will do these tests for me." Anthea replied, evenly, folding her arms.
They stared in a completely polite and not glaring at all manner at each other for a moment, silently, as the equipment in the room loudly did its job.
There were four tables of machinery and all machines were on and working, they and Molly were being as productive as possible tonight (as there was a whole lot of backlog).
"As you can see," Molly demonstrated, gesturing to these machines, "I am very busy tonight. I don't have time to do six anonymous tests without even knowing what I am looking for."
Anthea sighed.
"I may not be able to tell you any specifics…" she began, "…but you know as well as I do, that if my employer doesn't trust me with this there is only one person that this could be about."
"…Sherlock…" Molly realized, her eyes and her entire consciousness waking up.
(Despite multiple cups of coffee, she was still a little sleepy and the whir of the equipment had been like a white noise lullaby.)
Anthea nodded at the name.
"I'll do these tests…" Molly agreed, "—if I get to analyze the results."
"Well, I certainly don't know how to do that and neither does my boss, so of course you get to analyze the results." Anthea allowed, "No one else even knows about this—and no one else ever can. Do you understand?"
"I told you, I won't tell anyone." Molly understood, "…Besides," she laughed, light and sad, "Who do I have to tell?"
Two hours later, the tests were done.
Molly and Anthea stood by the only unmoving and quiet machine, in the corner of the laboratory.
"There were abnormally high levels of adrenaline in all the samples." Molly informed, "But natural, not injected. It was different in all of them, unique to their bodies…and all the samples had what would be near-lethal concentrations of cocaine, except that their bodies must have built up a tolerance to it because it didn't affect them very strongly—but five of the samples had more than the sixth, like the sixth person used less than the others that day and used something else, too."
"What was it?" Anthea asked.
"Nitrous oxide." Molly stated.
"Laughing gas?" Anthea interpreted.
"Yes." Molly confirmed, "It works as a painkiller but also makes a person very suggestible. Mixed with cocaine the effects of both would only be more severe."
"Hmm." Anthea considered, "Perhaps that will mean something to my employer."
"…This is murder victims' blood, isn't it?" Molly guessed, examining the chemical-sensitive papers turned a rainbow of colors.
Anthea only shrugged.
"I don't know." She admitted.
"This blood is all very old." Molly reminded, "Twenty years, maybe…so what would something that happened twenty years ago have to do with Sherlock?"
"I don't know." Anthea repeated, "But you've already 'deduced' the same thing I have, haven't you?"
Molly took a breath.
"You think Jim is involved in this—whatever it is—somehow, too." She assumed, "And you think I think that too."
Now Anthea took a breath.
"Has he told you anything about his past?" she asked, "About his childhood? What he did before you met him?"
"No." Molly answered, sighing.
Two years of knowing Jim and seven—almost eight months of being a 'couple' (or as close to one as possible) and Molly knew nothing.
But if she did know something, she wouldn't tell Anthea or anyone.
And Anthea knew that and so maybe she didn't think Molly was as ignorant and pitiful as she really was in the parasitic relationship she was in with Jim.
"We don't know either, the government, I mean." Anthea returned, offering a smile and a little laugh, "We actually found out he had a brother after you did and still there are no records whatsoever of his life. It's a bit unnerving, really…unless he is around Sherlock Holmes, it's as if Jim Moriarty just doesn't exist. It's like his only reason for living is Sherlock and without that he's nobody, nothing."
"It's sick." Molly condemned, "Jim is…not a good person. He's insane and obsessed and it's sad. I think I pity him as much as I'm afraid of him and maybe that's why I…"
She trailed off on her half-hearted criticisms, just the right balance of soft and harsh to be believable.
Anthea looked at Molly with the same pity Molly had just claimed to have for Jim.
If someone simply couldn't help doing something, then were they truly guilty for their actions?
Was Jim truly guilty for all the crimes had committed?
(Physical crime—bad action.)
Was Molly truly guilty for wanting to be with a criminal?
(Mental crime—bad idea.)
Or were they just animals following their instincts?
But Anthea had forgotten that humans were 'just animals'.
And the very fact that humans had invented the concept of choice meant that they had it.
"Thank you for your help, Miss Hooper." Anthea thanked, breaking the oncoming awkward silence after Molly's words before it arrived.
"You're welcome." Molly returned, instinctively (although she really didn't want Anthea to be welcome to give her tests to do on command that wasted her time and gave her little in return), playing the part of the animal she was.
It was such a self-conscious thing to do, 'being yourself'.
You have to figure out what's expected of you and how to live up to that while still doing what you want to.
You have to be all the different versions of 'you' to all the different people who know you.
They're watching you and you're watching you.
It's an ever-changing role that everyone has to play every day.
The human mind made human life just as more complicated as it made it more easy.
And that balance created chaos in the human world.
Anthea had started towards the door but just as Molly was offended and thankful for being underestimated again, she turned back towards her.
"Have you ever considered a job as a government employee?" she asked, all-but offered.
"No." Molly answered, all-but refused.
And with a smile, too.
After all, she did appreciate being appreciated.
The hours long flight on the small, secret plane was enough time for Sherlock to refresh his Arabic back to fluency, downloading the language from a computer program on his laptop into his brain, and take a short nap.
Sherlock knew this entire trip was a pointless distraction to keep him out of the city so that Mycroft could catch Jim without him knowing about it and if Jim was captured while he was gone, then it would be his own fault and Sherlock honestly just didn't care.
He had only asked Jim to help him because he didn't need Jim 'playing games' with him again, wasting his time when he was trying to find all the criminals Jim had aided and get them to deny both his and Jim's existence.
Sherlock was surprised Jim had actually agreed to this plan (and guessed that he probably had a plan of his own, too) but Jim's help was nothing necessary—just an ironic convenience.
But what really bothered Sherlock was that Jim had never once asked why.
Why was Sherlock going along with Jim's plan to make both of them fakes?
Why did Sherlock want his identity as a genius and a detective destroyed?
Jim must have been curious, he must have had suspicions…but he never said them outloud.
Why?
'Why?' wasn't a question Sherlock liked to focus on.
It was intangible and always subjected to different interpretations, none of them being absolute or provably correct.
He preferred to work in the 'real world'.
What happened? How did it happen? Where did it happen? Who was involved?
Once those questions were answers, the 'why' didn't (usually) matter—unless one was emotional, which Sherlock was (usually) not.
But now Sherlock was wondering why and the emotion was fear.
Why didn't Jim ask why?
What was he planning to make happen? How would it happen? Where would it happen? Who would it involve?
If Mycroft wasn't able to locate and apprehend Jim in the time Sherlock was gone, Sherlock knew he would eventually get the answers to those questions and he doubted that he would like them.
Still, Sherlock wasn't just going to let Jim win—or even tie.
Jim should have been asking questions himself.
What was Sherlock planning to do to Jim when they were done with the plan? How would that happen? Where would it happen? Who would it involve?
And, most importantly, the 'why'.
Why would Sherlock have any reason to allow Jim to live after all he's done, knowing what he's capable of doing, and when he has no use for him?
Why?
After the charter plane had landed on the makeshift 'airstrip' that was really just the Syrian Desert which stretched for miles into Iraq, Jordan, Saudi Arabia and Turkey and was often used as a 'trade route' for weapons smugglers.
Today it was empty, the sun was staring down wide-eyed and once the plane's motor had stopped there was no sound.
The gunshots, bombs, protesters' chants and refugees' screams, were far enough away that they seemed silent and even non-existent where Sherlock stood when he exited the plane.
He glanced around at the emptiness, and then back at the plane. He saw the Iraqi pilot in the window, eager to fly away but too loyal to just leave Sherlock all alone in the middle of the deserted desert.
(Loyal to Sherlock not to Mycroft (Sherlock refusing to get a ride here from his brother's employees who hadn't arrived yet). Sherlock had taken the Sufi (uninvolved in the struggle between Shi'ites and Sunnis Muslim) man's case, proven that he was neither a terrorist nor a terrorist-sympathizer and gotten him released from Guantanamo Bay.)
Sherlock's head turned when he heard the distant but approaching rumbled of tires.
When the roofless military vehicle (over ten years old, Russian in origin) finally reached the plane and stopped, Sherlock was greeted by the man in a suit in the back seat, who stood to be visible behind his driver and gunman.
"'Jihad Jane'?" he laughed, with a wave, "…I thought you'd be a woman."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You should know better to trust what people tell you on the internet, that was just a screenname." he returned, "But yours, 'The Prophet Mohamed', well, that made it obvious that you're not actually a Muslim."
"That was a test." The man explained, "No offense, but westerners are not to be trusted."
"No offense?" Sherlock repeated, "I thought you were trying to offend me with that 'false idol' to see if I could be 'trusted' as a 'westerner'—which you yourself are, as well, being a Turk."
"I'm secular." The man affirmed, with a smile, "To both religion and politics. The only thing I worship is money. And that makes me very western indeed."
"I don't care about politics or religion." Sherlock dismissed, "Everything I told you on the chatroom in order to get an invitation to this meeting was a lie. I'm not a converted Muslim and I don't work for any organization...But I do have money. Lots of money. And I want those plans. So name your price and sell them to me."
"I'm not the one selling them." The man stated.
"Then take me to who is." Sherlock demanded.
"As you wish, sir." The man allowed, sitting back down in the vehicle and gesturing to the empty seat beside him.
Sherlock gave a nod to the plane's pilot before eyeing the driver and gunman, and then stepping cautiously into the vehicle beside the suited man.
The pilot waited until it had driven away before taking off and flying away.
The truck ride was bumpy and uncomfortable, sand tearing into everyone's eyes the rare times the wind blew.
"You're British, right?" the man assumed, "You're an agent of their government come to reclaim their property."
"If that were true, would you really expect me to admit to it?" Sherlock asked.
He hated car conversations.
(Stupid attempts to make a situation less 'awkward' and keep from getting bored by calling more attention to the 'awkwardness'—normal people were so insecure and self-conscious, their constant need for communication so draining.)
The silence of a long drive allowed him to think and chatter was always annoying.
"No…but you are, aren't you?" the man insisted, "A real secret agent man. I think I'll call you 'James Bond'—no! 'Jihad James Bond'. Perfect!"
Sherlock groaned, sinking down into his seatbeltless seat and staring out at the desert.
There was nothing.
"You can call me Otto. Otto Man." The man said, managing to suppress his snickers for a few seconds before setting them free and further torturing Sherlock.
Sherlock continued to look away from him at nothing…but then there was something.
Short buildings surrounded by a protective wall. The same color, they almost blended in with the sandy ground.
"That's Tadmor Prison." The man informed.
There were military personnel patrolling the wall that stopped to gaze at the moving vehicle in the distance but did nothing to impede its passage.
"Built by the French as a military base, transferred to the control of the Syrians in the 1940's, suffered a massacre of thousands in the 80's, closed in 2001 and reopened last year." Sherlock recited automatically, before he could stop himself from contributing to the car conversation.
Useless trivia like this that he'd learned on the way over would be deleted as soon as he left Syria.
"Wow, very good!" The man exclaimed, "You're a real smart one, then! What else do you know?"
Sherlock couldn't tell if the man was mocking him or being sincere and both options were equally annoying.
Why couldn't he just shut up?!
(There was really only one person who could pull off unfettered praise and seem believable about it and that person was in a country far away praising Sherlock's empty grave.)
"How to be quiet." Sherlock grumbled in response.
And so the man was silent as the vehicle passed the city of Tamur (a literal oasis of green, blue and life kept (usually) safe because of its desert isolation—and it's natural resources including natural gas), also guarded by military personnel who watched the old roofless Russian truck pass.
The man even waved to them.
Sherlock then realized that everyone in the area must have known about this 'secret auction' for the British Bruce-Partington plans and were happy to let it take place.
He wondered if they'd be just as happy when Mycroft's team of employees landed their helicopters.
Finally, after a few more miles and a lot more minutes of desert, Sherlock could see the destination on the horizon.
The tourist destination.
Palmyra was an ancient city of ruins built in biblical times now open for public sight-seeing.
The vehicle came to a halt allowing the man, his driver, his gunman, and Sherlock to get out and glance around.
Sherlock could see various 'tour groups' (all of their 'tour guides' toting guns) milling around the hollowed buildings and towering pillars, waiting for their 'tour' to begin.
"There's no military here." Sherlock noted, "Wouldn't they be guarding this site?"
"They're taking the day off." The man informed, "With pay."
"How convenient." Sherlock commented, then quickly changing the subject, "Now, where is James Moriarty? I know he's the one selling the Bruce-Partington Plans and I want to buy them right now."
The man laughed.
"This is an auction." He explained, "You will have to make your bids just like everyone else…Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm the auctioneer and I'm going to go begin the auction."
Sherlock watched as the man (followed by his driver and gunman) pushed through the crowd of 'tourists' to stand in front of them all on a raised platform of old stone.
James didn't seem to be here but he had to be close and Mycroft's employees were probably searching the nearby town right now, bribing the locals to give up the location of any foreigner who spoke fluent English.
Sherlock decided that doing that was more interesting than standing in the hot sun, listening to an annoying 'auctioneer' talk.
The man was speaking very quickly in Arabic, which at least gave Sherlock a small challenge to focus on.
And then there was something else to focus on.
Sherlock predicted that this argument would start ten minutes before it actually did.
Two men from separate 'tour groups' had seemed to recognize each other out of the corners of their respective eyes.
One was an Egyptian dressed in traditional (yet brand new) robes, as if he'd just come into power.
The other was also an Egyptian, but dressed in an expensive (yet worn out) suit, as if he'd recently lost most of his money and left Egypt in a hurry with only a few suitcases.
The two Egyptians had eyed each other for a while, before attempting to outbid each other and then finally turning and confronting each other.
"You betrayed our country!" the second shouted.
"I saved our country!" the first countered.
"You are an insane zealot!" the second declared.
"You are traitor to our god and our people!" the first retorted.
And their 'tour groups' did not hold them back as they began to brawl, instead joining the fight themselves.
The gunman and driver tried to break them up and the man tried to continue the auction but was unable and watched as other groups decided it was time to settle their disputes as well.
Suddenly, the war was here.
Frantically, he ran through the shouts and punches towards Sherlock who couldn't help but chuckle at the mess.
"So I assume it was your brilliant idea to invite opposing sects to the same meeting." Sherlock scoffed.
"I thought I could unite them against a common enemy, The West." The man stated, "The extremists never liked the Europeans and the Americans, and now that those governments are no longer supporting the western-imposed dictatorships in North Africa and the Middle East, the ex-dictators and their supporters hate them too. I thought that this could be the time we put aside our differences and rise up against The West."
Sherlock snorted.
"You thought this could be the time you got rich." He dismissed, "How much did Moriarty pay you to put together this ridiculous thing? Probably not very muchsince you're stupid enough to do it. Now where is he, anyway? Trying to use this 'political unrest' as a diversion so he can escape?"
"I don't know." The man shrugged, "I've never even met him in person. He contacted me over the internet."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, groaned and vowed to get back at Mycroft for putting him through this as soon as he returned home.
And he was going home now.
Sherlock didn't care about this 'mission' (waste of time), that he had technically failed (not that there was much chance of success in the first place), and that Mycroft would get angry.
And when he got back to London, Sherlock would find and deal with Sebastian Moran himself.
"Take me back to that town." He demanded, "I'm leaving."
"But what about the auction?" the man asked.
Sherlock said nothing, just shook his head as he started to the roofless military vehicle.
That's when he heard the sputtering and dusty arrival of more military vehicles.
These were neither old, nor Russian—they were Syrian and full of Syrian soldiers.
The Palmyra ruins were surrounded by a small army of camouflage trucks and gunmen who apparently only had half a day off (with pay).
The arguments paused to stare as the soldiers disembarked from their vehicles and marched menacingly towards the crowd, brandishing their weapons.
Uniting against the common enemy, all at once the crowd scattered.
'Tourists' ran in all directions and into the ruins, hiding inside crumbling buildings made of sand and stone as the soldiers chased them.
However, it was not soldiers that approached Sherlock—well, actually it was.
Two Syrian soldiers holding guns accompanied James from the truck they'd exited towards where Sherlock and the man stood on the edge of the ancient city.
"Turning yourself in, 'Professor Moriarty'?" Sherlock greeted, sarcastically.
"Oh, so now you know my name." James responded, "You never bothered to learn it when I was trying to help you pass secondary school classes."
"You never let anybody say it." Sherlock recounted, "You kept it a secret so you could help your insane brother commit crimes without attracting attention. That's why you agreed to tutor me when I was a teenager, isn't it? To spy on me and my brother on behalf him? You're just his minion, despite being older."
They spoke in English so the man and the Syrian soldiers just stood there confused, trying to understand the small amounts they could.
"You're trying to insult me? Get me angry?" James dismissed, "You're not as good as my brother. He's the only one who can and he's alive, by the way. Did Mycroft tell you that?"
"Jim told me that." Sherlock corrected, "But why did you? I thought you wanted to protect him."
"I want to make peace." James stated.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
James gestured over at the game of hide-and-seek tag the Syrian soldiers were playing with the fleeing terrorists in the ruins.
"These people are enemies of the British government." He explained, "I lured them all here using outdated plans that would be useless to them if they ever did get their hands on them—which they won't. And then I leaked the date and location of this meeting so your brother's employees would find out about it. Now, you came to arrest me and you wouldn't have come alone. You must have enough people to capture all these criminals."
"You want me to arrest these terrorists instead of you?" Sherlock inferred, "But what's stopping me from bringing all of them and you to the latest unofficial prison my brother's set up underground somewhere?"
"Well, other than the fact that there is absolutely no reason to," James suggested, "you might want me not to tell your brother that you are working with mine."
"I'm not working with your brother." Sherlock denied, "If he told you that, he's lying."
"He didn't tell me anything." James said, "I'm not in contact with him."
"Then it was Moran who lied to you." Sherlock rephrased.
"I'm not in contact with him either." James repeated.
"Then your other sources or your psychic powers were wrong." Sherlock decided, with finality, "Because I'd never be foolish enough to work with Jim Moriarty. He's a…uh… what's the word, again?—oh, yes, a liability. Isn't that what you businesspeople say? A liability."
"I know you're working with Jim because you wouldn't be bothering with me if he were a threat." James replied, "And you wouldn't be bothering with me at all if Mycroft hadn't forced you. And since Mycroft wasn't the one to tell you that Jim was alive, then he doesn't know that you know. And since he doesn't know that you know, he still thinks Jim is a threat. And since he still thinks Jim is a threat, he's trying to take care of that threat without you knowing, which is why he forced you to be here."
"That rationalization uses the logic that my brother is able to force me to do anything." Sherlock countered, "And the logic that Jim is ever not a threat. Both are extremely flawed."
James sighed, almost defeated.
"So, then, do you want to do your brother a favor and arrest me…or spite him and let me go?" he tried.
"I'm not so petty as to let a dangerous criminal go free just to spite my older brother." Sherlock said.
"I'm not a 'dangerous criminal'." James reminded, "But my brother Jim is."
"Then why did you protect him all these years?" Sherlock asked, "You know what he is and you don't seem to like it. But if you couldn't bring yourself to have him killed, why not just cut off all contact, change your name and hide? Why help him?"
"Why does your brother always help you?" James returned, with a shrug.
But there was no concrete, logical, true reason for it.
Just emotion.
'Why' was a really stupid question.
"You'll always help Jim." Sherlock interpreted, "That makes you just as dangerous and just as guilty as he is."
"No—" James attempted.
But he was interrupted by the sound of multiple black helicopters in the sky, casting dark shadows onto the whitehot desert.
Sorry for no actual Jim in this chapter, that wasn't exactly planned but I'm very sleepy.
Again, if anything was confusing please ask me to explain.
I put interesting places into my fanfiction because I'm too poor (and too scared) to travel.
Wikipedia is addictive.
I hope no one is offended by anything I wrote.
'Fred' was a stupid teenager and is now an insane prisoner.
I wanted to play with 'unreliable narrator' and so a lot of what he said was deliberately incorrect and/or offensive.
Anyway...
'Fred' was supposed to be the reference to Freddie Mercury, who died 1991.
Amy to Amy Winehouse who died 2011.
Mike to Michael Jackson who died 2009.
and Jan to Janis Joplin who died in sometime in the 70's.
This was like the 'music' chapter at first.
Why?
I'm not exactly sure.
Btw, the song 'Pavlove' by Fallout Boy is one of the theme songs to this story, on a music related note (haha, get it, I said 'note').
There are more I've chosen but I can't remember them right now.
Maybe other people have ideas?
Or if not (and if so), reviews...