I wasn't comfortable. My joints were stiff, my back felt like it lacked a spine, or felt as though it was nothing but spine? I couldn't quit decide. I could hardly breathe through my nose, the fresh air and haze that flooded into my apartment making the inside of my head feel fuzzy in the way that only summer could. Emotionally, I was crumbling. The museum memorial was going to be unveiled the next day, and though I had agreed to myself that I would go, the idea that I would be back on the property and confronting the ugly tragedy was nausea inducing. The night would have been spent sobbing if I weren't completely numbed per my usual trauma response, but also plagued with befuddlement from a little kiss.
I wasn't confident about much, but I knew that it wasn't romantic. It was Sherlock Holmes. It couldn't have been. In my restless hours I had come to that conclusion with very little doubt. Sherlock had been experiencing a rush of adrenaline that he felt the need to ride, and for some reason a kiss seemed an appropriate course of action. He could have crushed the apple, or clapped, or yelled, or ran around the corridor and triumphantly pounded on the walls, but he didn't. It just was. As much as I pathetically pined for him, I now somehow felt more unfulfilled and hopeless than I did before.
What gave him the right to be the only party between the two of us that had a say in what goes? If I were to do the same to him out of the blue, would I receive a stern talking to? A disdainful grimace? Would I be exiled from 221B? Would I have to, even worse, be explicitly told that he didn't want me? I knew the latter would be the case, so I'd rather remain blissfully ignorant, but also… I refused to be viewed as complacent.
"Hello?"
"Morning, Claire. It's Evelyn."
"Oh, you don't say. I'll have you know I've been trying to get ahold of you for ages. Letters, phone calls that only got a busy signal, emails, I even walked by your house the other week before realising that was taking it a bit far…"
"Creepier for whoever lives there now if you would have."
"You moved?" Claire was a sort of representative for victims' family members. At this point she felt like family, especially to me. We were similar in age and I rather liked to break down the facade of professionals. Once I cracked hers, we were instantly chummy.
"I'm still in London, don't worry. My father's in France, though, so that explains the loss of the landline."
"You had my number, clearly." Claire sighed.
"I didn't know an unveiling was happening until just now, I promise you."
"Are you going to come?"
"Tell me if I should or not."
"I know if I say 'yes' you will." She stated affably. Encouragement from anyone in any capacity always made me feel instantly resigned.
"You're so right." I groaned.
"The media would love an interview."
"I wouldn't."
"I figured. I told them so, assuming you'd come. How about a speech?" I frowned, the thought of publicly honouring my mother seemed like an obligation, but I knew I didn't owe it to anyone. I honoured her privately, and I gave myself enough grace to know that that was enough. "I'll take the pensive silence as a 'no.' It's preferred that you wear black, which I know shouldn't be a challenge for you. I'm calling a car service for everyone for privacy and convenience, which will- wait… Where are you living now?"
"221 Baker Street."
"Baker Street, Baker Street… All right. Be ready at eleven on the dot."
"Can I bring a couple of friends?"
"I didn't even expect you to bring yourself, darling, so whatever means you'll be there, go for it. I don't care."
"Cheers."
"Did you call for any specific reason?"
"Missed you I suppose." I smiled.
"Likely story."
"I'll see you tomorrow." I sighed.
"I have your cell now, so you can't ignore me. Tatty-bye." She finished cheerfully.
I willed time to slow down, the pit in my stomach ironically the only thing making me feel grounded as night approached. I didn't know where Sherlock and John were, but at this point it was obvious they weren't here. There's no way Sherlock was tucked away in the flat at such a critical point in the case. But then why so quiet on their end? I didn't want to get inside my own head about this situation, but the timing was concerning. Did he woefully regret it? I assumed he wouldn't even remember it. It wouldn't be noteworthy to him. It was likely an interaction deemed useless and tossed for space's sake in his brain. I had busied myself with reading and the telly and music (welcomed sensory overload, distraction from my own thoughts, check) when my phone buzzed. I expelled air through my nose in a silent laugh, shaking my head at the excitement with which I had leapt towards it. I needed to get out more.
Brace yourself for a forward question, but when can I see you again?
My face grew hot with confusion and dread that Henry Hudson didn't deserve when his name popped up. What could I say? I had been confident that I wouldn't explore this further, but the simple question brought with it a rush of the comfort and secure bliss I had felt during our night together. It was tempting, but I knew what I valued more. A knock drew me from the screen, my evening of isolation now interrupted in a quick succession.
"Hi."
"Hello." Sherlock said with a cheerful grin, "You look poorly."
"Oh, thank you."
"When is the thingie tomorrow?" Clearly he was up to his charmingly insensitive usual. In fact I could use the laissez-faire attitude as a means to draw me out of my slump.
"All that's required of you is to wear black and be down here at elev-"
"God, it's got to be fourteen degrees in here." He complained. "No wonder you look awful."
"My ego can only be inflated so much."
"Your under eyes are darker than-"
"What do you want, Sherlock?"
"A fire would be nice."
"Brilliant. I'm fresh out of wood."
"Coffee."
"I don't have any decaf."
"No, I don't want to drink it," He scrunched his face and proclaimed, "You can burn the grounds."
"Just clarifying, you'd rather me burn my coffee than one of us run upstairs and fetch a log?"
"I'll buy you some more," He rolled his eyes, "I already have to buy John peas and m-… -m-… something with an m." He squinted at the ceiling contemplatively.
"Groceries. How domestic. Follow through with the coffee buying this time, eh?" I jested, staring solemnly into the bag of dark beans. "I hate to break it to you, but I'm not burning these."
"Boring." He sang.
"Practical." I trilled in return.
I heard him sigh dramatically as my couch familiarly creaked. I turned to find him sprawled out, his height requiring his feet to be kicked up on one of the sofa arms, "Well this is warm." He patted his hand contentedly on the cushion.
"Ah, yes, that would be because I'd been seated there for approximately 14 hours."
"I would have brought you along but today was a lot of faff. The Hickman, Lestrade, missile defence business, oh but I could have sent you to Mycroft…" He muttered, "Regardless, wouldn't want you to get bored on me."
"I wasn't implying I felt excluded. I'm happy to lounge. You've no obligation to bring me along."
"Oh I'm well aware."
"All right." I chuckled exasperatedly, the pace of our back and forths humorous whenever I became overly conscious of it.
"What is this?" The detective inquired, his eyes trying their best to stay affixed to the telly as he rolled over in place, in the process of cocooning himself in the blanket.
"Good Will Hunting."
I never envisioned myself watching a film with Sherlock Holmes. It struck me as something he would deem a waste of time, but surprisingly, he stayed, and we watched. Granted, we chatted over most of it, but Sherlock seemed taken with its contents. The main character a man with a complex mind and aptitude greater than anyone he surrounded himself with - familiar concept. Though he cared far less about the characterisation than he did the math problems and references.
The kiss related unease had altogether faded as the evening wore on and I was reminded of who and what made up Sherlock Holmes. Our dynamic was familiar and cosy and challenging and I was reminded that nothing had changed. Above all, it remained fun. There was a satisfaction and intrigue and joy in spending time with him that I hadn't experienced with anyone else.
As the morning was dreaded, it arrived all the more quickly. My hands shook as I powdered my face and smoothed my hair. I straightened it once every handful of months, if that, but particularly felt the need to channel today's self destructive emotions into a hot iron being repeatedly raked over the dark tresses. I pushed on a black headband and settled on a structured black dress with a rounded white collar, sliding on my trusty black oxfords in case we needed to run and or escape death at any point, naturally. No heels.
10:55. I ventured upstairs, the door opening preemptively just as I lifted my arm to knock. I didn't expect Sherlock to be ready or interested as he'd interrupted the simple instructions I'd tried giving him yesterday. He was sporting a black suit jacket and trousers, as well as a black button up that was undone towards the top. His dark waves were perfectly imperfect and I couldn't hold back a compliment.
"You look very dashing."
He blinked, perhaps taken aback by the sincerity, but he succeeded in not allowing it to show.
"John isn't in." He stated.
"Then I rather envy him."
"He may surprise us later by showing up."
"If you're already anticipating him showing up could it really be classified as a surprise?" I smiled, pushing open our building's front door.
The sky was appropriately dark grey, and the breeze chilly as it swirled down the street. A black car pulled up at exactly 11, and the very formal driver let us in. My eyes were fixed to the pink phone in Sherlock's lap as he fidgeted with it. The drive was only ten minutes, but they were nearly more agonising than the arrival itself. The building, so woven into who I was, was beautiful and looming. Our car skirted around the media frenzy out front, driving us into a loading dock in the basement lined with other cars. Seeing the familiar faces of other families I had come to know through our circumstances was a surprising comfort.
"Shall we?" Sherlock prompted, opening his door before the driver had a chance to. I nodded silently. My eyes caught Claire's upon standing, who was looking wonderfully bossy with her clipboard.
"You made it." She grinned, giving me a one armed hug. "You're looking gorgeous, by the way. Maybe not the time, sorry. The ceremony starts in half an hour, but we'll get you all seated and settled in fifteen. Also, no need to go inside. No one's going to make you do that. Questions?" Sherlock had already wandered from me, a finger to his mouth as he slowly strolled around the small crowd. "Wait, actually I have one for you." She continued, "Is that-"
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Handsome." She mouthed emphatically.
"Unfortunately."
"Go, mingle. Or don't. I'm here if you need anything." She gave me a formal kiss on the cheek and then busied herself in whatever administrative business needed tending to.
I couldn't evade hugs or pleasantries on my path to Sherlock, trying to delicately cut any tearful exchanges short for want of avoiding tears myself. The most overwhelming emotion I felt was guilt over not speaking with my father about this. He relished in his privacy, but maybe he would have hopped on a train to come. How hurt would he be if he caught a glimpse of me here on video, or received a news paper clipping in the mail from my nan?
"Are you done out here? Good. We're going inside." I asserted before Sherlock answered, grasping his hand and tugging him along the wall.
"We're not sitting through this?"
"Absolutely not," I scoffed, peering around the corner of the loading dock, "Unless you want to."
"No, no, we're on the same page." He assured me.
"John can sit in our place if he miraculously shows. Where is he, by the way?"
"He said he needed to get milk this morning."
"Wasn't that your job?" I laughed, remembering the mystery "m" grocery item he had pondered about.
"Well I did get peas before breakfast, only to find out he'd asked for beans…"
"You're hopeless, you are."
I speed walked to my old go to side entrance, unsure what my hurry was but feeling the mysterious need to leg it.
"I'll be damned!" A boisterous voiced called as a familiar face opened the door. "Evelyn Bennett."
"Mind if we come inside, David?" I asked the old security guard.
"I'm afraid we're closed today." He winked, holding the door open.
"Pity." I smiled widely, though my eyes suddenly became involuntarily moist.
"Glad to have you back." He patted my back, looking both ways outside before closing the door behind us.
"Okay," I huffed a ways down the corridor, finally taking a break from marching along, "We'll make a point to go to the security guards' office, I doubt we'll find anything of note at this point but obviously I'm not you, so you very well might find something tell tale, and I'm certain they've gone and bricked in where the parthenon room used to-" I followed his eyes because they'd shifted, realising I still had a death grip on his hand, "Sorry." I flushed, dropping it and wiping my clammy palm on my dress.
"It's fine." He said flatly, "Let's just walk." He rolled his shoulders as he strolled away, his darkly clad form a reassuring vision. "Let us walk?" He reiterated, stopping in his tracks and staring expectantly at me.
"Right." I muttered, catching up to him.
The Great Court looked the same, which was mostly soothing but partly horrid. Unscathed stairs, panes of glass, banners, plaques, all stupidly still around whilst somehow my mum had died.
"Please don't throw up." Sherlock's face was twisted into what looked like annoyance, "You look peaky."
"Oh, do I? Why do you think? I'm not going to throw up." I maintained, "And even if I-" my statement was cut short when the pink phone sounded off from Sherlock's pocket.
"Text tone." He remarked unblinkingly, taking a few moments pause before deftly fishing it out. I moved to his side so we could uncover the message together. A picture of a white plate filled the screen. An indigo flower pattern bloomed in the centre that I instantly recognised.
"He's here." I stated quietly, my stomach dropping, though I couldn't say I was surprised, "I know where that is."
"Excellent." Sherlock growled, "Lead the way."
I jogged resolutely up the stairs, not trusting any elevators on this occasion. My cheeks burned as I now had the awareness that whoever had been quietly plaguing the city was behind this life altering and ending mess. "He's on the top floor. He picked the room furthest away from the stairs."
"Shocker."
We scaled the steps loudly and ungracefully, covertness out the window. I doubted we were walking into an absolute death trap as this villain was clearly having too much fun with us. Well, with Sherlock. I supposed it could have been a death trap for me. I was nothing to him.
"Tell me where." Sherlock asserted, stepping in front of me now that we were on the third floor.
"Straight ahead, then we'll take that right, then it's straight to room 46."
We skidded to a halt at the room's main entrance, amazingly nothing was out of the ordinary until one of the exits in the room behind us slammed shut, the click of a lock succeeding it.
"That's not playing very fair." Sherlock grinned and said loudly, still panting from running up the stairs.
Our only way out now was through the door at the far end of the plate's room, a door that was now beginning to open. "When has fairness had anything to do with this?" An ever familiar voice responded.
"John?" I called, my knees wobbling as I stepped over the threshold into the long yellow room. The door at the other end fully opened, our friend's short figure standing square in the middle. Sherlock was shocked into silence, his expression of pure disbelief matching my own. My body felt wholly numb aside from my racing heart.
"Are you surprised?" John asked, his voice echoing throughout the cavernously ceilinged space.
"What is this?" Sherlock took a singular, stunned step forwards.
"I think you'd call this a turn-up for the books. I half expected you wouldn't show." He slowly raised a hand to point at me. "I thought you were more cowardly than this. I quite enjoy being wrong, sometimes." My brows furrowed and my eyes welled with tears of disbelief that didn't fall.
John peeled open his jacket to reveal a bomb strapped around his torso. This proved to be a sick invitation to Sherlock, who now took it upon himself to move about the room, his eyes searching and fingers twitching. I know I'd promised I wouldn't throw up, but now it felt like a possibility.
"Gottle o' geer." John began to repeat, his expression wavering as he said the phrase used to mock ventriloquists.
"Stop it." Sherlock yelled, his tone more helpless than I felt comfortable with.
"Foolish of you to think this wouldn't happen today," John continued, the red dot of a sniper now swirling around his chest, "and foolish of you to show if you had an inkling it would."
I scanned the ceiling, my pulse in my ears as I searched the opaque skylights above us. The sniper had to be on the roof, but how could they do that discreetly? There had to be helicopters. Were there vents?
"Look at me!" John shouted, a break in his voice causing a precarious tear of mine to fall.
"Okay, okay." I stepped closer.
"At least tell us who you are." Sherlock demanded, before a discreet recess in the wall towards the tall ceiling flew open.
"Bet you never knew this was here." A leg dangled out, its smart and shined shoe kicking a toe in my direction for emphasis. He was Irish.
"You're right. I didn't." I replied skeptically, trying to make out the rest of the mystery figure in shadow.
"You two. I'm disappointed. You know why? Because I gave you my number… This way, this way-" He muttered impatiently, the light of the sniper clumsily finding its way to Sherlock, "And you never called. Thought you might, but I'm a big boy, I've moved on. And you-" I tried not to show my fear when the light moved from Sherlock. It wasn't on John, so it was a safe bet as to where it had settled. "God it's stuffy in here. You! You know me!" He yelled excitedly before jumping on top of a nearby display case. Once enveloped in light I recognised him immediately as Molly's bumbling and overly friendly boyfriend.
"Tell me how you know me!" He demanded with a pointed finger, his handsome face stretched into an expectant grin. "Don't move it." He switched up his tone as he spat this command towards the ceiling.
"Molly, you're Molly's-"
"Before that." He thundered, jumping up and down once on the case, "And I have a name." I was flabbergasted that alarms weren't going off, curious as to why he was being so bold with this many cameras around.
"I can't remember your name. You…" I squinted my eyes closed. What did he do at Bart's? Security? No, no… IT! He was in the IT department. There was a notable blip in security camera footage from the bombing... I'll be damned. "You worked here." I stated quietly, "You worked IT here before Bart's. You manipulated the cameras, and obviously you're doing it again."
"God, finally! So obvious." He laughed, "You know what, I'm happy I got that off my chest." He sat and dangled his feet off the edge of the case. "And to clarify, I never actually formally worked at either."
My vision flashed with red as I took in his face. It was him, it was the person responsible for the loss of life, the turmoil, the trauma, but I couldn't emotionally make that connection as I took in his features. It felt like the impossible.
"Okay, back to the accessory." The sniper's dot moved back to John.
Sherlock's hand twitched towards his pocket, which wasn't lost on anyone in the room. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just happy to see me?"
"Both." Sherlock replied, unearthing the weapon and pointing it.
"Oh, all right, I'll formally introduce myself," He chuckled, dropping from the top of the case to the floor. "Jim Moriarty. Keep your eyes on me," He complained to Sherlock and I, both of our pupils repeatedly flitting towards the ceiling "you're not going to see him up there. You know I cover all of my bases."
"A real maestro." Sherlock sneered.
"I am! Thank you." He accepted the 'compliment' cheerfully, "I'm a specialist. You know all about that, don't you?"
"You're a consulting criminal. Brilliant, I have to admit."
"I know, right? I'm virtually untouchable."
"Not to me."
Jim whistled, pointing at Sherlock so the sniper dot would follow his command. I saw John mouth a few choice swear words, his eyes drooping shut in emotional exhaustion.
"Who did you work with on the bombing here?" I asked softly, my rage unable to manifest itself in anything but lightheadedness.
"Of course you'd like to know. How negligent of me to not acknowledge that. Truthfully? It was just practice. For fun. Wanted to see if I could, really."
If the sniper were pointed at me and it wasn't Sherlock in harm's way, I think I would have lunged and gone down in a hail of bullets. I wouldn't have cared.
"You've seen my skills now and then some anyways. I've spent so much on you, Sherlock," He said emphatically, lifting his head to the ceiling, "Buy me a drink, would you? And take this as a warning. You've interfered as much as I've wanted you too. This? This is it."
"You've killed people." Sherlock spat.
Moriarty repeated the statement in a mocking tone, spinning around in a little circle before walking in my direction. Sherlock cocked the pistol threateningly, though it didn't stop Jim from walking.
"I don't really like men, you know. I was just playing. These tears are kind of triggering something in me," He observed amusedly, wrapping a hand across the bottom half of my face, his thumb wiping one away as I winced in revulsion, the salty sweat of his hand tingling my lips as he leaned to mutter in my ear, "Pity, I think."
"I have the missile plans." Sherlock shouted from behind Jim, who cocked a brow.
"I don't really give a shit," He sang, "I could get those anywhe-" He cut short with a yelp as I sank my teeth into the skin between his thumb and forefinger. "Well, that was ouch. Very good. Stay right there. Why don't you try one time like we talked about!" Jim called towards the ceiling, moving his finger in a circular motion in my direction.
"Stop, stop!" Sherlock bellowed before part of the glass case next to me shattered. I supposed a gun had gone off, but the shot itself had hardly made any noise.
"Damn. Anyways, we've always talked about how it'd be fun for him to try once with his eyes closed. You're not as good as I thought you were!" Jim playfully chastised the gunman above, "You won't have to explain any of this mess by the way. I can edit the camera footage here remotely. I'll just show you lot leaving right after you entered, find footage of some nondescript previous guests and splice those in as a red herring, it really is that easy. You could try telling the police but we all know that will do nothing." He shook his head and laughed before sighing wistfully, "Go out the entrance with the same security guard and I will have to kill him, by the way." He then walked back towards Sherlock whose neck was beet red. Sherlock extended the hand not holding the pistol.
"Lighten up, darling." Jim encouraged, nudging Sherlock with an elbow. The dark haired detective remained completely rigid and scarily disdainful, his gun fixed on Jim.
"Take it." He spat.
"Take who huh?"
Sherlock stretched his fingers and the memory stick clattered to the floor.
"I'm not bending over. You've been awfully quiet, John." Jim egged him on, finally paying the poor doctor some attention. John shut his eyes. "Come on now. Open those baby blues. Are they blue? I can't remember." He leaned in with a mollycoddling tone before John's eyes snapped open and he wrapped two arms around Jim, who now faced the red dot.
"Oh, clever! You move more quickly than one would think!"
"If your sniper shoots again, we're both done." John threatened.
"That's precious. That's sweet. I can see why you like having them around. One for hand holding, the other for brainless loyalty." John's grip tightened, "Okay now you both have to buy me a drink."
Sherlock shot me a concerned glance before wrapping his free hand around the pistol as well, "John, drop him. Drop him now!"
John looked around dazedly before making eye contact with me, his gaze flashing with helplessness before slackening his hold and dropping Jim. I now safely assumed there was a second sniper.
"Couldn't stand to lose both of your pets - I can sympathise. Do you want to know what I'll do to you if you don't bugger off, Sherlock Holmes?"
"Oh, I wonder."
"Humour me! Have some fun with it!"
"You'll kill me." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"No, no. I mean, yes. Eventually. But I don't want to get rid of you just yet. We have such chemistry, you and I. I felt a little jealous watching that security footage of you two walking in, I must admit. You deserve something special. I have to work my way up to it. But, hear this, if you don't stop prying? I will burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"I think we both know that's not the truth. Anyways," Jim clapped once, "targets on all three of them so I can leave, yeah? Lovely catching up with you. Four is a party, isn't it." He shoved a key into the lock and pushed open the door while singing Depeche Mode, "Just Can't Get Enough"echoing and fading down the hallway the only proof that he was truly leaving. The second I could no longer hear it our menacing little dots disappeared. We both hurried towards John who slowly sank to the floor, spreading both palms against the cold hardwood.
"Are you all right, John?" I asked, wiping my wet cheek, relief coursing through my trembling limbs as I put a hand over his.
Sherlock's own hands seemed shaky as he grappled with the heavy vest, "John." He said softly.
The doctor inhaled deeply, his fingers curling into weak fists.
"John." Sherlock repeated with more conviction.
"I- I'm fine." Sherlock's hands were rough as he hauled John up by his armpits. "Sherlock I said I'm bloody fine!"
His cry fell on deaf ears as Sherlock unlatched the vest, his pace quickening and growing more fiendish the closer he got to removing it. He finally ripped off the device and slid it aggressively across the floor, leaving John staggering in shock, a hand resting near his ear before shakily ripping the ear piece out. I wrapped two strong arms around him now that he was free, an ache in my throat and eyes stinging.
"I'm so sorry, John." I could only manage in a whisper.
"I'm fine. I'm fine." He repeated, "I'm sorry too."
We both jolted when we heard a door creak, turning to see it was only Sherlock surveying the premises. He looked quietly deranged, his eyes wide and direction aimless as he walked around the room, the gun tip moving through his wild waves as he scratched his head.
"He- he's going to come back for that." He waved a hand towards the blasted vest. "Or they'll come down when we leave." Sherlock's pistol roamed in the direction of the ceiling.
"Mate." John said concernedly, taking a step forward.
"Are you all right?" I asked simply.
"Me? I'm- of course. Y- er, I-" His lips tightened into a straight line as he searched for the words, "when you… You didn't have to- but it- it was good, that you did that thing, I-"
"Don't mention it." John put up two hands in surrender before weakly sitting back on the floor. "And you've lost all bomb vest removal privileges, for the record."
"Fine, fine." Sherlock said absentmindedly, bending his wrist back and forth and pacing before stopping dead in his tracks and dropping a choice curse word. A red laser briefly flooded my right eye, and I assumed it was back on my forehead. I closed my eyes and sighed, at this point bracing for the inevitable.
"I know I said I was leaving," An Irish accent bellowed from across the room, "but if you should know anything about me it's that I really hate goodbyes."
I opened my eyes again when John unexpectedly laughed to see that we were each covered in multiple dots. "These can't even be real at this point!" John stated, only for one to stray from his torso, a bullet burying itself in the wall.
"Oh, natural comedic timing with that one. Gotta love it." Jim winked upwards. He checked his phone before cross checking with his watch, "I think it's just about time for any last words, maybe some prayers, definitely some hymns."
Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other, readjusting his grip on the pistol. He looked down at the sniper dots on his own body before looking at ours, making unsure eye contact with both of us. I was certain this was the end for all of us, so I didn't really care how it went down. The side of my lip ticked upwards. It was the only approval Sherlock needed to point the weapon at the bomb vest.
"You!" Jim groaned. "Dramatic."
"I'll tone it down next time."
"Ope," Jim's phone began to ring, the Stayin' Alive ringtone making my skin crawl. "Rude of me. Not on silent. Do you mind if I er, take this? You're a doll. Thank you. Yes, hello? What do you want? Say that again! Say that again, and if you lie to me so help me god I will skin you so slowly- Wait. Right-o. Looks like you're all off the hook today," Jim said, lowering the phone to his chest, "You will be hearing from me, though, Sherlock Holmes." His phone conversation continued as he left again, the snipers aim leaving us a second time.
"Why would he change his mind?" I shook my head.
"Someone changed it for him. We just have to find out who." Sherlock said ominously.
"Let's get the hell out of here before we even try." John laughed incredulously.