Jim

I wonder how little Holmes got away with telling him. Underwood, I mean. Obviously he's trying to hold on to some scrap of the glory, so full disclosure was off the table from the beginning. It'll be interesting to hear what he has to say. Actually, it'll be a very good gauge for me, very useful. After all, I intend to let Mycroft live. Sadly, I don't think he's going to take that as a gift, and be sweet and grateful the way you might expect. No, more likely I'm going to make something of an enemy in him. He won't be able to do anything about it, so that doesn't bother me. But this, today, this will be a good indicator of just exactly how smart he is.

Underwood shows up relatively well-informed; Mycroft is thick.

Underwood shows up with patchy knowledge, but the salient points all covered; Mycroft tries to be cleverer than he really is.

Underwood shows up with a tidbit or two, nothing important; Mycroft's not doing too badly.

Underwood shows up misinformed and making a chronic fool of himself; maybe I start keeping Moran with me when I get my new place. For the first while, at least.

Grades D-through-A, if you will, detailed above.

And as I'm sat waiting for it all to kick off, I have two idly amusing questions for myself. Y'know, the kind of thing a gentleman can think about, over a long and luxurious late breakfast. I make no bones, and you make no mistake yourself, I picked the spot for Underwood's untimely demise because I like this particular establishment for breakfast. Anyway, nobody's here yet. There's time to let you know what's running through my head.

Firstly, what sort of grade of a villain am I expecting Mr Holmes to be? Based on previous form and all the experience I have of him. Which is limited, second-hand, and mostly the fearful recollections of Moran and Danielle, but there's some meat on the bone anyway. And secondly, what grade of a villain would I like him to be? The first question is easy. It's a matter of simple quantification and analysis. I take the man himself, his known actions, the effect he has on those around me, scale it all up to my level and make a percentage of it. We're looking at a C student, B on a good day when he knows his subject.

The second question's a bit more dangerous. Kind of thing you can only ask on a warm morning, a storey above the street, elegantly brunching on the terrace. It helps if this terrace is on one corner on a crossroads, and on the other is a multi-storey car park where a hit man is watching from four floors farther up still. In fairness, though, few things are hindered by a text which reads, I had sugar puffs u jammy bastard.

To keep his mind on the task, any sign of them yet?

When a skull cracks on pavement looks just like when you just split that egg.

I look down at what was the perfect globe of a poached egg, now collapsing with the beauty and grace of the Roman Empire as it spills delectable yolk over the muffin beneath. That's what it is, by the way. It's an egg, and yolk. And it's not a skull or what would be coming out of a skull and oh, dear, God, I've thought about it now… Can't push the plate away; he'll see that. He's won, if I do that.

There's work for him in that, y'know. I'll park him up on a roof with a pair of binoculars and, instead of his rifle, only his razor-sharp talent for ruining everything with a seal-like clap and an idiot grin.

To hell with it. Anyway, they'll be here soon, Dani leading Underwood to the slaughter. Don't know what's keeping them; all she had to do was show up, not get shot and say, "Do you want the Holy Grail?"

"Yes," he would say.

"Then get in the car."

And then they would have been here ten minutes since. It could all be done. I'd be enjoying the chaos on the street below, along with my eggs, because Moran wouldn't have been bored enough to wreck that for me. I should start giving her a script. She clearly takes far too much pleasure in playing these little scenes. If she had a script I could tell her to stick to it.

Where was I? Oh aye, second question, dangerous question. Because no sensible man wants enemies. And if you must have an enemy, naturally you want him to be thick. D is for Dunce. That way you know, whatever he pulls, you'll be able to manage it. No more irritating than a fly on a hot day; it's a mild annoyance and you expect it when the sun is out. Me, I know I'm a smart, capable person, so a B or C student, as I suspect Mr Holmes to be (c.f. the answer to Question One) would be no bother, and stands a chance at being periodically fun. C-plus, B-minus, that's what I ought to be shooting for here.

No pun intended. 'What I ought to be having Moran shoot for here'; that was intended.

I just wonder what it would be like to meet an A, y'know? I don't know any. Even my friends, if they turned on me, they're a B-plus on their very best day, and that's with all their knowledge taken into account. It would take vast quantities of cunning and luck for Danielle to ever truly get one over on me. Or Moran, I'm just having a much easier time picturing this with her. Not that I don't trust her, but if anybody were ever to turn… Not that it would happen. It wouldn't. I better eat this egg before mental perception gains too strong a stranglehold over my physical experience.

But an A… There has to be one out there. I just wonder what they're doing, that's all. Maybe they're some high-powered businessman, like me only legitimate, or they're running a country somewhere. Or maybe they're the kind of person who has had trouble all their life turning intelligence to any realistic use. The world won't let them be incredible and they can't see a way out of it like I did. They're wasting away somewhere, in an office cubicle or behind a till or taking your order please, sir, do you want the chamois dry for just another two pounds and screaming every second of it because they're being run by wankers. Deliver me from the tyranny of idiots. Not that I've experienced that, not that this was my prayer for about five years round about Millennium time… It's just a daydream. Like looking down, where the two roads trip over each other, where desk jockeys and bike messengers and weekday shoppers crowd, waiting for the traffic lights to change… It's just a daydream, but it could be any of them. He or she, whoever, could be down there, and see what happens to Underwood and…

And nothing. Not the way life works, is it? Whoever it is, they're probably on the other side of the world. Just for the sake of balance, keep the world turning.

As I said before, Moran is across the street from me. Diagonally, over the crossroads, there's a hotel. Not an especially nice one. Not a dive either. It looks, from outside, the way all the chain hotels do. Clean, sort of neat, very depressing. And yeah, it looks like a visiting shooter might be staying there.

Two cars stop outside it. The first is Underwood, with Danielle. The second, at no distance at all and no attempt at discretion, is his people. It's alright, though, there's enough of a gap.

Everything looks so civil as they get out of the car. His driver even gets the door for Dani. She's loving that, let me tell you. Bit of manners goes a long way, and is something we have yet to see from Holmes (which is partially why I downgraded him from a B-plus). Not for the first time, I get the fleeting idea I'm making a mistake with Mr Underwood The Third. Not for the first time, I hear Moran in my head, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I put Holmes any farther from his reach he'll kill me instead.

Danielle is a step ahead. She touches the door of the hotel. The rest, you should know by now. You've seen it before. A quieter shot than you might believe. Everyone in the street looks up, except for Underwood, whose head has been knocked forward, and he looks at his shoes a second before he buckles in the middle and flops to join them. The crowd scatters fast, then slowly gathers, holding off Underwood's attendants for just long enough to cover Danielle's escape.

Blah, blah, blah. So on, so forth.

All the usual.


Sherlock

Sally's still asleep. So far as I know, and from the way she drank last night once she got started, I don't believe she has anywhere to be this morning, so I'm trying to do things as quietly as possible. Quietly and quickly. The hangover's not too bad, but it's only delaying the real agony. I've bought myself maybe a couple of hours, if that, before the proper sickness strikes. Couple of hours to decide what way I'm going to deal with it. I'll be honest, I still can't face the prospect of another withdrawal. And nothing happened last night to show me any reason why I should. Not that I expected it to. That would be a bit much to ask, of anyone or anything or any short stretch of time. That's not what I was looking for. Anyway, it didn't happen.

So this morning, like a good houseguest, I get up, make myself presentable, and leave the bed made the way I found it.

Don't look at me like that. She told me to sleep here. No, that still didn't come out right. How to explain this… The simple facts; ever since Hedegaard, Sally's having some small psychological issue with beds, and has made an art of finding excuses to sleep on her sofa. Including drunkenly pretending to already be asleep. I wonder if she's got a point; would that have thrown him off? Sofa cushions, after all, don't hollow out so well, and she has the sort of sofa with small drawers beneath it.

And so she is shivering, stiff-necked, where any grateful guest ought to be, and I am relatively well-rested. It's not good for her, not when this week it was thought she might have a serious skull fracture. When she was stable enough to be properly x-rayed they didn't find anything. Woman must have a head like a breezeblock. I saw the size of that man; he couldn't have been concentrating, that's all I can say. But she still ought to be taking better care of her head and upper spine. Neither of us was in a fit state to discuss this last night, but I'll… Well, maybe I'll phone her tonight. She'll take advice or she won't, but maybe I can talk her into it. Especially now that Hedegaard's dead.

Of course, I'd have to talk her into that first.

I wonder how much she'll remember from last night. I only came back here because someone had to bring her home. Couldn't just have put her in a cab and walked away. It wouldn't have been right, wouldn't have been friendly. She was crying. You don't leave someone alone when they're crying, not unless they ask you to. She didn't, did the opposite. She asked me to stay. And you don't leave someone alone when they're…

When they're afraid. And she hates herself for fear, thinks it's a weakness. "Forget it," I told her, "One way or another, he can't get you now."

"That's my point. Why am I still scared, why don't I just forget it? It's fucking stupid." I had to tell her that was wrong too, but that just sounded like I was changing my story, humouring her. And whether it was true or false or kind, it wasn't working. She can't listen. There's nothing I can say that'll get through because she already believes. Believes she's weak and wrong to be afraid, believes it's her own fault, believes if she was a better person she could force it out of her mind. That's why I stayed, when she asked me. I don't know how much of it she'll remember. Or what'll happen if she asks me to stay again and I can't because it's score or crash and I don't want her to see me crash.

I should go, shouldn't I, before she wakes up… That would be better all around.

What I do instead is leave her bed neatly made and go down to the kitchen, and put the kettle on for coffee.

That's the noise that wakes her. Waking is too much, and she stumbles, half-running, upstairs to the bathroom, where she is viciously sick. The worst of this passes, and she realizes it was noise that woke her, that the noise is still there. The policewoman in her wakes up, and she comes creeping back down. Wary. It's a bit much, actually, the way she slows, practically stopping at the door, the way she won't even look inside. And the way she elbows the door open, sends it flying into the wall, the noise shattering the fragile balance of both our headaches, that's just too…

Then I look at her. "Oh, God, Sally. I'm sorry. I didn't think." She's shaking, drained. Her heart is beating so hard last night's t-shirt shakes above it. Because the last time she heard unfamiliar noises in somebody's kitchen, Lestrade was about to be murdered and she nearly was. "I'm sorry," I say again. She sighs it all out, but she's not moving. Stands there holding her head.

I take a mug with me and guide her by the shoulder to the table at the other side of the room, set her down with the coffee in front of her. "First things first," she mutters, hoarse, "You're still here because… Did I…?"

"You asked me to. Nothing… untoward."

Another sigh. She straightens her shoulders, forces her eyes open. "Right, then. Second thing, have I done anything to apologize for?"

"Absolutely nothing." That seems to be the end of the interview. I go and pour another coffee and join her. "Jesus," she says, now that I'm at eye level and she can see me, "You look how I feel."

"My deepest condolences. Clearly we're neither of us long for this world…" I… I just did it again, didn't I? The woman's terrified of being brutally murdered in her sleep and I keep talking about death. "Sorry again."

"I wouldn't worry about it." Awkwardly, wincing as though the memory is a struggle, "I did a lot of crying last night, yeah?"

Carefully, "No more than might reasonably be expec-"

"Stop being so bloody nice."

"A lot of crying, yes. But there were a few rousing choruses of 'Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead' in there as well, so it all balances out in the end."

"You never heard me sing. If you ever have any dealings with the police ever again, you never heard me sing."

"Oh, now, you have a lovely voice. Some church choir training in there, unless I'm much mistaken."

Nodding, a little baffled, "Not in a long time." I meant it to sound like a light-hearted observation. Sometimes I forget people don't like to be read. When they've done something, I don't much care, but I should maybe avoid it in the pursuit of a light-hearted observation. Rather than let her question it, I get up to make her breakfast. "You don't have to do that."

"It's okay. I'm a little better off than you, I think."

I'm not especially good at it. With occasional pointers, though, I cope. Sally is quiet, with her aching head down on folded arms. After a while though, she looks up, slowly rising, puzzled. "But… Wait, you were recovering."

For a moment I forget her old misconceptions and panic. Remembering is blissful; Sally thought it was alcoholism I've been battling. I don't know, somehow that's better, maybe just because it isn't true. "Oh, no… I was never… It's nothing to do with drinking."

She puts her head back down. "So we weren't wrecking anything but this morning. That's alright then. But that night I phoned you… you weren't with Lestrade then?"

"No. Went to see him, couldn't get through and… I was somewhere else."

It's not a particularly discreet evasion. She spots it at a mile off. You'd think she'd let it go, when I'm bringing her toast, but she doesn't. That's gratitude for you. "It's not fair," she mumbles. "If I'd said something like that, you'd just look at me and the answer would just come to you like magic."

It's nothing exciting and nothing I want to tell her and nothing she wants to know. But I can't tell her any of that. Instead I take advantage of her nausea, waving dry toast under her nose until she reels, telling her she has to try, that it'll make her feel better. She's too sick to believe me.

This is years ago, but my first and worst withdrawal? I spent four days genuinely believing I did not want food. Mycroft found me, had me hospitalised. Not that that'll happen with Sally's hangover but… It could be an explanation, in part at least, why I just really, really want her to eat before I have to leave.