Thirty Six
Incapable

04:17:52

"You want some tea or something?"

John was about to tell the balding man how much that would be appreciated, only Sherlock got there first.

"No thanks, we won't be long."

They stepped from the light yet narrow hallway through the empty doorframe and into a surprisingly large space – or perhaps it was just an illusion of space created by open plan living and sparse white walls. John struggled to remember the last time he had seen anywhere so tidy, He certainly wasn't going to in Baker Street, where Sherlock cluttered up every available surface, including those found in John's own bedroom. Sherlock had been right again; someone was most definitely house-proud.

The short and chubby head of security indicated that they should sit on the large beige sofa while he awkwardly sat in the matching armchair. He sighed. "So, what's she done this time?"

"This time?"

The end of John's question was cut off by Sherlock's false laugh. "Oh, no, it's nothing like that. The school's simply making some home visits in order to establish a greater relationship between the teachers and parents – new policy, that's all."

Mr White visibly relaxed. "Well I suppose that's something."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

The man dismissed the question with a wave. "Sorry, bad day, you know."

"How so?" Sherlock asked as if it was no more of a question than to inquire the time or weather. John started peering around the room, inspecting for any clues, as he listened to the background conversation.

"Just work stuff."

"What do you do?"

They had an expensive television, that was for sure, and it didn't look like Mrs White had scrimped when it came to furnishings either. Maybe they were in debt and he stole the parrot to make up for it?

"Security manager."

"Really? I have a cousin in that field. Whereabouts do you work?"

"Zoo, but after today I'm not so sure anymore."

There were lots of photos placed neatly upon the fireplace, all of which appeared to be of a pretty blonde woman and her smiling children, some featuring a tall light-haired man. Mr White didn't appear in any of them.

"Oh, it can't have been that bad."

"It was, trust me. Look, I better shut up now – we're not meant to say anything."

"Then say no more. I understand."

John frowned. "Do you have a dog, Mr White?"

Mr White turned to him, as if only just remembering he was still there. Sherlock didn't move an inch. John realised it must seem like an odd question, but he had just noticed the fluffy dog bed and assortment of toys in the corner of the room.

"'Fraid so." Mr White answered with an expression on his face that had John thinking he might not be a fan of the animal. "You're not allergic, are you? Only the blasted hairs get everywhere."

He brushed down the material of his trousers, John noticed the fine hairs come loose and fall softly to the floor. The short, white strands blended almost perfectly with the cream carpet.

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant. "Let's go."

John blinked, watching in astonishment as the detective far too calmly strolled out of the room presumably towards the front door. This was confirmed with the sound of a door opening and closing that soon rang throughout the house. John tried to make sense out of it, but in the end gave up and blindly followed.

"Sorry," he said quickly to a confused Mr White before he left, "he's just really scared of dogs."

02:49:37

John sighed for the umpteenth time and slammed his head against the back of the armchair. He felt like shouting. This was not how it was supposed to go. Sherlock was meant to be running around, chasing the bad guys, leaping off of balconies and fighting swords with his bare hands – winning.

Now, however, he didn't appear to be doing anything at all. He was just lying there, outstretched, eyes firmly shut, his feet sticking off the end of the sofa in their little home. He had been for over an hour.

"Sherlock?" John asked again in hope, but just like all the other times he had tried to get something out of the crazy fiend he called a flatmate, Sherlock said nothing. Even in his deepest moments of contemplation Sherlock had always spoken to him, or spoken at him; John had the deepest feeling that he was just showing off. He had never been so silent in a case before. It was unnerving. "Sherlock?"

Still no response. John was getting rather fed up with this.

He stood, wanting to actually do something useful, and started towards the door. He didn't know what he was going to do, but it was better than sitting there.

"Where are you going?"

John snapped at the unexpected words and swept around. So, now, finally, after all his badgering, Sherlock had decided to grant him the pleasure of his voice.

"Anywhere." He answered forcefully.

Sherlock didn't even open an eyelid. "Shut up. I'm trying to think."

John balked. "I was answering your question!"

"Then do so in silence."

John brought a hand to his forehead in annoyance. "Sherlock, can you please let me know what you're thinking? It was dog hair you found in the parrot cage, wasn't it?"

Ever so slowly, Sherlock lifted his hands until they formed a prayer position under his chin. He let out what might have been a long sigh. "Yes."

"Mr White's dog?" John continued. "What are we still doing here then? He obviously took the bird."

"Oh, please John. I knew Mr White's dog was the owner of those hairs before we left this apartment to visit him."

That stopped John. The first thing that came to his mind was the question of how in the entire world Sherlock had worked out something like that. The second question was why they had then visited the man if Sherlock already knew the answers. The third question, however, was the one he chose to voice. "But he didn't take the parrot?"

Sherlock lazily tapped his hands against his chin a couple of times. "No."

John sat again, his curiosity getting the best of him as he inspected his friend. "Why not?"

Sherlock at long last decided to open his eyes and look at him. He had that expression he always got when he thought others were being even more idiotic than usual. "Mr White not only works at London Zoo, but also moonlights in a popular fast food chain, as shown by the grease stains on his clothes, burn scars on his hands, and oily skin. He works exceptionally hard in order to maintain his appearance-conscious wife, which he is constantly afraid of losing. He's also honest. He would never risk his family by committing such a crime. He didn't even realise the macaw was so valuable until today."

"But the hair-"

"Yes. It is interesting that it was found inside the cage," Sherlock stated quickly, "Especially seeing as he has not been inside any enclosure since his appointment."

John shrugged. "Maybe someone just sat on it in the staffroom or something."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Unlikely."

John didn't think it was that unlikely. He had seen hundreds of more unlikely things since he had met the detective. But Sherlock was usually right in these circumstances, so if he thought the hair had a more sinister connection, then that connection no doubt existed. John tried to look for any other explanation. "What about Mr White's daughter? He acted like she was always in trouble for one thing or another. From what you said and the photos in their house it looks like he doesn't see her often – maybe she's crying for his attention?"

"Honestly." Sherlock said while he rolled his eyes in annoyance. In one fluid movement, he swung around and sat on the edge of the couch, leaning forwards intensely. "This was not only carried out in the middle of the day, with plenty of possible witnesses, but the tapes were altered, John. I doubt video doctoring is something a fifteen year old girl with currently five separate boyfriends specialises in. No, John, this was professional."

John frowned. "Then who?"

01:38:24

Another hour had passed, and still Sherlock had yet to do anything. John wished that he would at least question someone about where they had been at the time of burglary, but so far his wish had not been granted. Sherlock, it appeared, was trapped.

Moriarty was winning.

"Alan Phelps?" John suggested tiredly, reading off the next name on the long list of Zoo employees.

"No." Sherlock shot back, the response being identical to every other he had received. The genius was just sitting there, staring blankly off at the wall, his expression portraying none of the frustration John knew he must be feeling.

"Georgina Rathborne?"

"No."

"Edward Richardson?"

"No."

"Hu-"

"For God's sake, no!"

John was taken aback by the sudden outburst. Sherlock's cold, statuesque exterior had been shattered. In its place was a wild energy that seemed to threaten the very air around them. He had not merely shouted at John, letting his emotions slip, but had acted on said emotions – in a dramatic and violent way.

The tall floor lamp collapsed under the impact as it connected with the wall, creating a loud smash as the glass of the bulb exploded, sparks flying dangerously across the room as the stand and adjoining wires snapped. John was lucky his instincts for survival had taken over as soon as Sherlock had moved; otherwise he was certain the light would have hit him directly in the face. He had dived and now knelt on the floor beside his chair, staring astonished at the wreckage.

"Sherlock, you could have killed me!"

"I just," Sherlock started roaring, head clutched in his hands, "can't think!"

John collected himself and sighed. Careful not to make Sherlock any angrier, he edged around and swiftly unplugged the lamp so that perhaps they wouldn't all be electrocuted today. He stood and gazed concerned at his flatmate who, just as dramatically as when he had stood, slumped and collapsed back onto the sofa. It appeared as if all the strength had been sucked out of him.

His next words carried an almost pitiful tone to them. "Why can't I think, John?"

John knew the answer to that. Sherlock Holmes was probably the only person in the world who wouldn't immediately see it. He spoke softly, wanting to comfort the man. "You're worried."

Sherlock only frowned. "About what?"

John would have laughed had it not been such a desperate situation. "What do you think? A madman's kidnapped and strapped a bomb to your girlfriend and if you don't figure out his clues he's going to blow her up. Being worried is actually an underreaction."

Sherlock scoffed. "Worrying is pointless."

"Still happens, though."

Sherlock was silent. He clearly didn't know what to do or say to make things better for himself. John watched his turmoil, some small part of him glad to see his friend demonstrating some form of attachment to Melanie other than as a boredom preventer. The larger, more logical, part of his brain, though, saw that this was not good. Sherlock needed full use of his mind. He finally saw what Sherlock had been trying to tell him all this time – caring only got in the way.

"Do you want some tea?" It was the only thing John could think of. It was useless and conforming to a stupid British stereotype, but there was nothing he could say to make things any easier for the man in front of him.

All muscles in Sherlock's lean form simultaneously tensed.

His expression had vanished, leaving only something akin to resolution on his face. John didn't move, shocked at Sherlock's sudden change in appearance, not wanting to make any disturbances. This was important.

The cogs were turning.

"Could it…" Sherlock muttered, letting the question hang unfinished. Apparently whatever it could or couldn't be was worth investigating. Sherlock leapt off of the sofa, retrieved his coat and scarf and practically ran out of the apartment.

John couldn't stop the slight smile spread across his face as he hurried after.

Something was happening.

00:45:11

John sat on the bench next to Sherlock, attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible with the polystyrene cup of hot tea in his hands and a blank look on his face.

They were waiting. It seemed like they had done little but wait since they had left the apartment. This was their third attempt. John was thinking that if this one didn't pay off then they may not have enough time to wait any more.

Sherlock was busy tapping away on his phone, looking completely unremarkable in the small park backing onto the sixth form college. Any observers would happily think he was just another businessman working late and needing a break. Apparently, however, the phone wasn't just for show. Sherlock was researching, his fingers darting about at lightning speed as he searched through files and online data, looking for any clues that might aid him.

The sun was already low in the sky and John expected that it would be dark in less than half an hour. It was therefore odd that this was the place Sherlock had deduced they would find their next suspect. Surely they would have left hours ago?

As usual, though, Sherlock was proved right.

John barely noticed the subtle change in Sherlock's behaviour, but the movements were undeniably there to anyone who knew him. His eyes were no longer fixed on the mobile before him, instead peering discretely over the top at the gate of the college. John tried to be as shrewd as he followed the gaze.

Two figures were chatting away. One was female and so obviously not their target. The other had no bizarre features about him. He just looked like an ordinary teenager – tall, tanned, shaved head. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a plain white t-shirt, a large gym bag swung over his shoulder – normal, in other words. The boy ended his conversation with the girl and began walking away from the gates, down one of the paths that led through the park. It was only until after he had successfully passed their little bench that Sherlock moved.

John sighed.

By the fact that Sherlock was currently strolling away in the opposite direction to the lad he could tell that this was not what they were looking for. They had waited for nothing.

"Not him?" John asked forlornly, trotting to keep up with the dark haired detective.

Sherlock continued walking to the nearest road, where he tried to hail down a taxi. "He's an adrenaline-fuelled teenager barely passing his PE A-level and with the IQ of a Labrador. Of course it's not him."

John shrugged as a black cab growled to a halt beside them. "She really knows how to pick them, doesn't she?"

Sherlock told the driver something before slipping into the car. "Quite."

John shut the door and strapped himself into the seat. Luck was clearly not on their side today. Why was it always the last option you look at? "So who's next – student or mechanic?"

"Seeing as the student is currently at university in Leeds, I think we can safely say that we don't have the necessary time available to visit him." Sherlock stated simply.

"Well, that's good, isn't it? He couldn't have stolen the bird from Leeds."

Sherlock just narrowed his eyes a fragment. "Probably not."

"So the mechanic?"

00:08:19

"Less than ten minutes!" Lestrade said for what must have been the fifth time already as he stomped his way back towards the kitchen and then over to the desk again. While John agreed with the sentiment, the frantic pacing was really starting to get on his nerves.

The constant reminders of the time were certainly not helping Sherlock think.

"Lestrade," the sociopath said darkly, "shut up or get out."

"But we've got less than ten minutes before the bastard kills Melanie!" Lestrade shot back angrily, not stopping in his march.

"And unless you want that to happen then I suggest you be quiet so that I can use the thing in my head that you always choose to ignore."

Lestrade huffed, but didn't slow down. He kept on checking his watch every couple of seconds. John was grateful that he kept the information he learnt to himself; it would only cause him to panic more if he actually knew how little time they had left.

Sherlock was busy typing away on the laptop, engrossed in the data he was finding there. John was sitting in the armchair, trying to use his nerves of steel to stop the terror showing on his face.

What if Sherlock didn't figure it out in time? What if Moriarty won? What if Melanie died? John struggled to keep the questions from forming in his mind, knowing they wouldn't do anyone any good, but as the seconds ticked away he found them starting to leak through. Sherlock needed to bloody hurry up.

The mechanic had been a dead end. John couldn't help feeling as if their entire investigation had been pointless at the news. After their wasted efforts they only had fifteen minutes to work out an entire new strategy. And yet Sherlock was still fixated on those damn dog hairs! He seemed blinded to all other clues.

The ringing cut through the flat.

Lestrade finally halted his gait and stared at where the piercing sound was coming from.

Sherlock lifted the pink phone and answered.

"Five… minutes… hon-"

Sherlock hung up before Melanie could finish the words through her rasping sobs. John felt his heartbeat crank up a notch. Christ, she must be terrified. And here she was, being forced to deliver the countdown to her own death.

Sherlock's head violently snapped up and away from the screen. He swiftly yanked the pink phone into his hands and dialled, placing the mobile to his ear in preparation.

John hadn't even realised the ringing had stopped before Sherlock was speaking into the receiver.

"Elliot Bran. Pal's Corner, Malden Road."

There was a moment's silence from the other end of the line.

"Sherlock, help me."

Predictable I know, so sue me. The next chapter will switch back to Melanie's POV and will explain some things.

Finally got this one out, sorry yet again for the wait. I know you won't believe me but you're lucky you got this at all. I kind of forgot about Melanie and Sherlock over the past few months, and it was only when my beta finally finished her story after four years – most of which was on hiatus – that I realised I should be writing too. You should read her Bleach fics btw, they're really good. There's a link on my profile.

Just to let you know, there's only going to be another two chapters of this story, and one of them is going to be super short.

So get your reviews in now! Hint, hint.