Gabriel sighs, looking off the forgotten building he took over, rocking back and forth and silently cursing his rash choices. He almost got killed a few weeks ago, but just because Sherlock somewhat reminded him of his brother he's spilling his insecurities in trying to help him.
Castiel and his friends were doing just fine. He gave them the information they needed, the kid can take care of himself.
With another sigh, he looks up, tired. It won't take Sherlock long to find him, although the clues he left weren't at all easy. Turning around he goes back inside, heading towards the room he locked John in. Entering the double room he peeked through the one-sided window and spots John, who was now begrudgingly eating some pieces of fruit. At least he wasn't trying to starve himself.
Once this ends, he'll leave to a small town to hide this time. Backing up, Gabriel leaves the room, then the building, and onto the mostly empty street. A few homeless people here and there, they never bothered him, maybe they thought he's one of them. They weren't wrong, at the thought, he sent a small glare to the sky and turns into the closest coffee shop near him.
On the other side of the city, Sherlock stares at a torn piece of candy wrapper dead center of the sidewalk.
The moment he found John gone with a singular wrapper on his bed, he panicked. Some parts of his mind yelled that this was just another trick, it just added to the noise as he enters the full streets. With no question, Sherlock quickly followed the path John always took while overwhelmed.
Now here he stands, somewhere in the middle of the city with a random wrapper holding his full attention. For all he knew this was a coincidence, a wrapper ripped in such a way it only showed one singular letter while some gum kept it from moving. The detail was so small, so unnoticeable.
Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off of it.
The wrapper itself wasn't extraordinary, he didn't even recognize the brand, but that didn't stop him from picking it up and continuing. It might be useless, he has nothing to go off of. The man is unpredictable, he doesn't even know what he wants. Sherlock grinds his teeth together at the thought of him just grasping as straws. Anything that was connected to candy in any way was now automatically suspicious, even the occasional candy wrapper fluttering in the wind is a cause to investigate.
Instead of going right, when John would have turned, Sherlock went left, this time heading towards the store with the most candy in its storage.
He found nothing, but a quick glance into a foreign shop and he found another. Two little wrappers, both with different letters, Sherlock could only assume that it would be put together to make an address or a message.
It would take days to solve it, days to find John. He won't stop till he does, pushing the newly acquired wrapper he follows the stream of people down the street.
The path Sherlock went through, he doesn't remember, going all around the city, taking every single wrapper he found. Some were on the ground, some were even in the sewer, drenched in an unknown liquid.
After a day and a half of walking, pockets full of wrappers and fatigue pulling at his mind and body, he drops to the nearest park bench. It was early morning now, not much colder than the last couple of days.
Why do bodies have to be so frail? Sherlock sluggishly thinks before he takes the wrappers he collected out. Hands shaking, he slowly rearranges the collection. Was it because of the cold was it because he was tired, all he could tell that the letters make up an address.
He hates to think of it, but if things go sideways he might have to contact Mycroft. The Trickster might be able to evade him, but his brother won't be so easy to hide from with all of his contacts.
As the last few letters fell into place it clicks in Sherlock's mind. A few letters were missing with some that didn't fit, but it led straight to the old hotel that was falling apart. He's been there once but that was all.
Shoving the letters back into his pocket he jumps up, feeling the adrenaline flood through his system. Either the Trickster is very clever or stupid, Sherlock thinks, flagging down a taxi and getting in before it even stops. Ignoring the look he got from his rumpled clothing and bags under his eyes, he gave the address and watched as the world starts to move.
The building was dangerous, and cliche, with the pattern the Trickster made he should have caught the connection first. Sherlock looks up from his thoughts and before he knew it the old building appeared in the distance. Doing his job, the car stops right in front of it. Wasting no time Sherlock climbs out, the car taking off behind him.
Now standing he feels the pressure of the lack of sleep for days weighs down on him again. Adrenaline can do only so much for so long, he was stupid for letting it happen earlier.
Sherlock pulls at his ill-fitting clothes before walking forward, his fingers didn't even brush the wood of the door before it creeks open. Taking it as the Trickster was really in the building, Sherlock walks in.
Resting a side of his face on his hands Gabriel watches cars pass through the window, counting the seconds as they pass. He lifts his overly sugared coffee, freezing when a soul inside one snaps to his attention.
His back snaps straight and he twists around in the booth to try to get a better look at the retreating vehicle. Looks like Sherlock found out. Gabriel shifts back, reaching over the counter and grabs a fist full of sugar packets before disappearing from the shop in a soft flutter.
Appearing on the building he's been staying at, now old and rickety as it originally was. His little illusion he put on it gone. Below a car comes turning into the street, hopefully, this would shake Sherlock out of his self-righteousness.
Gabriel takes a quick sip from his cup, frowning mid-sip, it could be sweeter. Taking the sugar packets in his other hand he grabs the top with his teeth. It takes a few tries before the packets were all torn open and poured into his still steaming drink. Spinning it, Gabriel takes another sip, this time sighing. It might be a waste of energy to keep the drink hot, but he couldn't help himself.
As Gabriel takes another sip the door to the roof behind him slams open. There stands a sad version of Sherlock, hair out of place and clothes rumbled and out of place, the wrong size clothing enhancing the messy looks.
"So you found me." Gabriel let the familiar smirk fall into place easily, hands going up in a wide 'you caught me' gesture. Smoothly, he turns around, cup still in hand.
"You're American," Gabriel blinks, arms and smile dropping down an inch. He expected some resistance while he was monologuing, but this? Maybe he went a little too hard on him. "and you took John, where is he."
"And you think I'm going to give him over, all willy-nilly?" Gabriel shifts around on his feet, going back into character, following the script he thought of while sitting in the coffee shop. "You're not even going to ask me what I want, or why I'm killing people?"
Sherlock did nothing, he expected that, but the dead sleep in his eyes, he partly wandered if he was sleepwalking through all of this. A sleepwalking detective, interesting, he internally admits, but not what is needed. Holding back the need to snap and mojo him awake Gabriel walks closer, pushing for more from the detective.
As if he didn't hear him, Sherlock repeated the question, this time with a little more vulgarer "Where is he?"
Gabriel's arms fall to his side, coffee splashing, yea, he's not getting a lot from him now. "This isn't how this is supposed to go, you're supposed to rush in here," he throws up his hands, "demand where your friend is and how I managed to plug up a man with coins. Not walk here half asleep." Gabriel points to Sherlock with his coffee before looking to the drops that fell out of the cup, dropping his arm back to his side shortly after. This is why he doesn't like to mess with smart people, it gets him nowhere.
His plan B would be a lot less dramatic than he would want, but whatever, he just wanted this to be over now.
He matches the glare Sherlock gave, just skimming over his barely comprehensible thoughts, he's going to have to lay it on thick. "You're not even going to say please? Kindness gets you a long way ya know."
"I don't want to play your games, tell me where John is."
"John's fine, having a lot more fun here than with you." That caught Sherlock's attention, it was a slight movement in the eyes but the topic worked. "you know, not covering or apologizing for you. What a sad life to be in." Gabriel takes a step forward, it was small but a trickle of fear came from Sherlock. "Who even said that I took him? He might have finely felt tired after following you, and I." He spins a finger around his face, "Found a good place to cause some good old chaos and hopped on. Am I really the villain here?"
"You killed people."
"And they all deserved it, did anyone miss them. Will anyone miss you?" Sherlock still stood stone-faced, it would have worked if Gabriel couldn't feel the inner turmoil flowing out of him.
He stops a few inches away before jumping back, a fist flying an inch away from his nose.
"A please would have worked better than a punch." Sherlock tries again, stepping away from the door and out into the middle of the roof.
"Please," Sherlock growls out, stopping his attack.
"Please?"
Sherlock takes a deep breath and his glare turned up to an 11, "Please. Tell me where John is, before you'll regret it." Gabriel tilts his head, this is probably the best answer he'll get. Shrugging to himself he moves around Sherlock, keeping an arm's length away, and leans next to the door that leads to the inside.
"Floor 2, room 23." It takes five seconds for the information to really sink in, once it did Sherlock continued to glare as if he was an untrustworthy source. Gabriel tilts his head, raising his eyebrows at the man. Silently Sherlock slowly walks past him and down into the building.
Step by step Sherlock goes down as fast as his useless body could go. He won't stay awake long, and he wants to find John before he crashes.
The flooring, full of rotten holes, creaks as he lands on the second floor with the door torn down. Stepping over the fallen door he follows the Trickster's instruction, he didn't believe him for a second, but he doesn't have any other information to go off of.
In a blink he finds himself in front of room 23, hands numb Sherlock pushes the door open to only see a body. "John?" Still, Sherlock stands at the very edge, refusing to even step in. struggling to keep his mind straight he gives the room a long look, trying to see anything that might stand out. Finding nothing he takes a single step in, waiting for anything.
The body had the same clothes as John, the same height, the same hair. On some level he knows that it wasn't John, he could hear the yelling deep in his head as he gets closer. His tired mind didn't care, already flooding him with emotions, at any other time he could have been disgusted with himself. Finding the place clean he steps in.
A third of the way over he trips over something and lands on the cold, cold body. Drugs, drugs could have been the reason why he was acting like this. Nothing made a connection, no matter how much he wanted, no way he could have been drugged. He hasn't eaten, drank, or touched anything since this started.
Mind still not fully comprehending he didn't notice the wood above the room starts to break apart. Behind his back large pieces fall in waves as a body follows after, shaking the ground slightly along with a long groan.
Sherlock jerks around, watching as the second John slowly pushes himself up with his hands.
"John." The world blurs and the next thing he knows he's hugging him.
"Sherlock?" In his tight grip, John moves his head to look around in shock, stopping on the body that eerily resembles himself.
Body desperately refusing, Sherlock moves back, letting John have some room to ramble questions and demands as to what happened and who was the body.
As John continues to worry Sherlock internally sighs, the Trickster would probably be long gone now. No reason to stay, he got what he wanted, him to say sorry. Even half asleep he could tell the man just wanted to leave. He'll get his brother to help while he rested, as long as John isn't in danger he's okay with letting this one go.
A hand on his shoulder pulls him out of his thoughts, tiredly Sherlock looks up to a worried John. Closing his eyes he lets John pull on arm over his shoulder and pull him up and out of the building.
John sighs, turning around the bedroom to face an unconscious Sherlock. Unable to do anything he sits on the edge, too nervous to leave him.
While dragging Sherlock out he had muttered a quick summary of the encounter with the Trickster before fully passing out. The whole encounter sends shivers down John's back, hesitating he looks on Sherlock's bed and to his phone. Sherlock wouldn't like it, but this is situation is way over their heads. Taking a breath he takes it and sent a quick text to Mycroft.
Before he could even place the phone back down it buzzed with an answer. The screen flashed with a photo, this time better than the one from the alleyway. Along with it came a text of information, no known name, no birth certificate. The more and more he read the more the knot grew in his stomach, there is nothing on this man, absolutely nothing.
At the bottom of the text, Mycroft gave a promise to look further into this, leaving John dejected. Dropping the phone onto the bed he looks back to Sherlock, there is nothing else to do but to wait for him to wake up.
It took all night and most of the day for Sherlock to finally wake up, despite what John thought would happen it didn't. When he woke up and both ate and showered before sitting with a cup of tea. There was no refusal, no demands to go back out, it was like a normal day without any cases.
The day passed, then another, he couldn't help but notice that some of his annoying habits that drove him up the wall has stopped for the most part. It was weird. It didn't sink in until John walked in on Sherlock looking through looking for another case on the couch in the morning.
John froze, eyes taking in the sight. Looking from the paper then back to Sherlock. They still had a case didn't they, the murders are still a total mystery with the Trickster still out there doing who knows what. "What about the Trickster? Or his victims?"
"He's long now, he got what he wanted."
"And what makes you think that?" John walks further into the room, peering into the kitchen to see a new experiment going on.
"he hasn't shown up yet, has he, and trying to find him would be as impossible as it was earlier, even Mycroft hasn't found anything yet." Standing up, Sherlock puts away the large amounts of mail they get to the side and went to check on his experiment.
"Spending time on something this impossible would be a wasting time that I could be using to solve another case. Logic John, even you would stop if given the opportunity to do so."
John watches as Sherlock walks around the kitchen, looking at different things before stopping and looking into the microscope.
"Are you just going to forget about the dead bodies?"
"The police have already destroyed the crime scenes, the families have cremated the bodies, and looking around is only going to waste time."
He, would he really just end a case like that. "That's it?"
Sherlock twists something on the microscope before looking up, "Why would I look at pictures when we can figure out who has been setting up terrorist attacks around London. When Mycroft finds more information we'll deal with it then, we'll find the answers from the source himself." He straightens up, not giving John a glance before stopping by another station he had in the kitchen.
"So we're not done," John eyes follow Sherlock, he was worried for a second. Sherlock, giving up a complete mystery of a case, he would think he was having a stroke if that happened. "That's a relief." His shoulders relaxed before he moves around Sherlock and reaching for his kettle to make two cups of tea for the both of them.