A/N: 5ft instalment of the not-very-Christmassy plotline
Well then. Bracing myself now. Looking back, this piece had to have been written in this boggy week between Christmas and the New Year. -csf
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'Sherl?'
My voice drags in the cold and absolute darkness of the tight contained place I've been shut.
I thought I heard Sherlock. Must have been my imagination. It's my curse. An active imagination can keep me together, or tear me apart.
I lower my head to the damp floor and will sleep to take me down again. It fails me once more. I blink unseeing eyes to the void darkness.
Giving up on Sherlock rescuing me is like breaking a most challenging addiction to which I've long surrendered fully.
I close my eyes to stem the sudden wetness welling there. Even alone I don't want them to watch me crumble.
Sherlock is coming, I know deep down he really cares.
He just needs to figure that out – and what's more on his own.
Might take a while.
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'Sherlock, are you... alright?' DI Lestrade asks, fatherly, and keeping his gestures small and non threatening. 'You look a bit' ...maniacal?... 'wiry.'
The stubbly, lanky detective wrapped in a creased dressing gown pacing 221B's living room, abruptly turns his heels to watch Lestrade squirm under his piercing, haunted gaze.
'I'm fine, Lestrade!' he snaps like a hellish tirade.
'Have you been sleeping at all?' The inspector seriously doubts it. Sherlock is obviously combing through every single piece of evidence lifted from Baker Street's quarter the evening John was abducted, and still coming up with nothing significant.
The younger man simulates detachment. 'You don't need to tell me that as well.'
'What d'ya mean "as well"? Mrs Hudson's told me you haven't allowed her in your presence for the last week!'
Sherlock jerks his head as a nervous tick. 'I was obviously alluding to John, inspector.'
'Oh dear, you haven't forgot John's not here...'
'Naturally not the real John. I keep a mind copy of him.'
Greg studies the lean profile of the man wearing a whole in the rug, not without feeling for the tortured soul.
'Sherlock, are you high?'
'Regrettably not. John vetted that option. He even used swear words.' The mad consultant glares across the room to the vicinity of the kitchen window. Or the volumetric flasks that have been in the drying rack for a fortnight now. Or the kettle. Definitely the kettle, Greg assumes, scanning the kitchen with close attention. The dry rounded bottom volumetric flasks also ease his mind a bit. Best to keep Sherlock from crazy experimenting without a trained A&E doctor on standby.
'You're seeing John.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes, huffs, and walks over the coffee table with his long legs wide in an effortless move to the black-and-white wallpapered wall. 'Not the real John, Lestrade, don't call off your men just yet', he snarls.
'I'll call an ambulance next for you, if you don't start giving me straight answers, mate.'
'I'm not high, I speak to whoever I want to, and I know John has been kidnapped, could be dead by now for all we know. The whole Yard and the secret services are out looking for him but he's vanished, apart from the mental copy I conjured of my flatmate in a moment of idleness and that keeps brewing tea after tea – and never one cuppa for me!' Sherlock glances angrily at the kitchen.
Lestrade tries for a pale smile, the best he can muster. He's not entirely sure Sherlock is sane, but then again he's got no baseline of sanity for Sherlock to compare him with. He ends up burying his hands in the trench coat pockets, the trench coat he never really shrugged off, because he's too uncomfortable staying, even if Sherlock clearly could use a living soul he'll actually talk to before he gets impossibly more unsociable.
Greg vaguely notices it's a bit cold in the flat. He reckons the fireplace being lit is another painful connection to missing John, and says nothing of it to Sherlock.
'It's only been 3 days, Sherlock.'
'Takes far fewer to deprive a man of his existence.'
'Yeah', Greg keeps it together despite the cold shiver, 'but this killer has been trying to get your attention, you say. Why would he take John and just kill him? Kidnap is more likely, and he's bound to contact you with a lead to John's whereabouts. You know that, you told me that yourself. He's sweating you, trying to get you off your game.'
'He's succeeding', Sherlock comments succinctly.
'John isn't a pack of five folks either. The murderer killed before, but with numerical obsession. He's keeping John as a bait to get you, and you have to sit tight, wait for the call, and don't go rushing into danger headlong. You know this, Sherlock.'
The consulting detective finally looks up to his support, his confident, the eager man who regularly pops in to check up on him.
'John couldn't be more wrong, he was so needed', he says, simply.
Lestrade's heart squeezes viciously for a tight beat.
'Yeah, well, let's get some food into you, mate. John will get cross with you if you don't take care of yourself.'
Obediently, Sherlock allows himself to be guided to the kitchen, but adamantly refuses to stand in the kettle's vicinity, Lestrade notices, worrying.
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On the fifth day I'm dragged out of my black hole, stumbling, disoriented, haggard, nauseated. I've been fed and watered and had basic facilities, sure, the hotel bill just wouldn't include electric lights, distractions, interaction or stimulus in the small, confined space. I feel groggy as I'm hit with a regained sense of space, air flow and too much buzzing of human activity. I try my hardest not to flinch and recoil, as I'm being manhandled – too much, it sends jolts of electricity up my nerve endings – into a nearby room. The door bangs behind me, making me almost crawl out of my skin.
Yeah, it's going to take a little while to go back to normal. Sensory deprivation heightened every little sensation, every ticking second, every scary thought in the past...
Yeah, five days. I double check the date figure in my wristwatch. I've been wearing out the battery, using the small pin for light as a saving grace for lucidity.
I've also caught up on sleep, and possibly slept further into the future allowance as well. Got to make the best of every situation.
Like this room, for instance. There's actually a shower and a change of clothes. They're a size too tight for me, and slick black leatherette trousers are really not my style at all, but in a battle you often find yourself wearing the darn uniform for it.
I know I'm being led, but it's really hard to object to the small mercies. I step into the hot shower with gratitude.
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'John, I'm glad you accepted my invitation.'
The sleazy criminal archetype is back. I'm a showered, shaved, dressed like a Ken doll, forced guest sat at a small – intimate – round table. There's a fine dine meal in front of the both of us, and lit candles for an authentic romantic date feel.
'Wasn't so much of an invitation as a kidnap. I was getting cosy in my new space. A bit dark and small at first, turns out it's great for a quip.'
'Always the soldier, John.' He smiles lavishly at me, from his seat in the opposite chair. I notice that his chair is comfortable and luxurious, whilst mine is hard and plain, keeping up with the inequality between host and hostage.
'How about a nice dinner? John, we should talk. We could get to know each other better. I want to hear your war stories, John.'
Blimey, on a first date too?
I glance at the two burly armed security guards by the door, and start talking.
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'Sherlock, what are we looking at?'
'Six geese a-laying, detective inspector.'
Lestrade faces Sherlock straight on. 'How can you even say that with a straight face?'
The younger detective blinks. 'I practiced on the cab ride here.'
Lestrade faces back the here in question. It's a community theatre pantomime play of a silly tweed ensemble and curved pipe investigator, that according to some Victorian writer's short story is to find a valuable blue gem inside the gut of a goose, being prepped for the Christmas meal. This being a pantomime, the goose has been replaced by six feathery geese ladies in short skirted outfits and the tweed clad investigator is a clueless moron.
This, Lestrade thinks, is part of why the Scotland Yard is at times not taken as seriously as it deserves.
'You say all of the geese actresses were to be murdered by our serial killer.'
'Yes, inspector.'
'Well they look alive to me.' He grimaces as the six ladies attempt a chorus jingle. One is off key and two are seemingly singing some different tune altogether. Perhaps that's part of the act too.
'Indeed. That just means we get to find clues the killer did not get the chance to clean up after the murders. Come, inspector, the backstage is this way.'
'We don't have a warrant for that. Sherlock!'
'John is much more compliant, you know? He just blushes and splutters, but always follows eagerly.'
Lestrade follows. Mostly out of sudden pity, he suspects.
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Dinner tastes nice. Sherlock would tell me off; the food could be laced with narcotics or worse. But Sherlock doesn't regularly get courted by his creepy enemies quite like I'm getting.
Now he's ordering red wine from his minions.
'Have anything stronger?' I dare, flashing him a Watson smile.
He takes the bait, thinking I'm just trying to get him drunk.
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'It's really an upgrade, Lestrade. Seven swans a-swimming, and here we are in the National Theatre production of Swan Lake. It was really quite obvious. A major let down. Serial killers can be so promising, and then... disappointing', he shrugs.
DI Lestrade groans. 'Backstage again?'
'Naturally. Only if this time we're caught, you're not an actor on the play, I'm a ballet extra.'
'Well ain't that just as likely to be pulled off by us!'
'I don't know, I think I can pull my end of the bargain, much better than you can handle "oh, no, he's behind you!"'
'A tenner says you can't.'
'Later, inspector. This is the only way we can find John, remember?'
'Alright, alright, lead the way... Wait, that's the stage manager! He's going to see us!'
'We'll have to part. You stay here, stall him. I need to find how the seven ballerinas were going to die!'
The inspector grunts. 'Fine, hurry up and go, Sherlock... Hello, there, stage manager. DI Lestrade from the Scotland Yard. I wonder if we could have a word in your office, we got a tip about a break in?'
Sherlock slips away, pondering he should resume the forlorn habit of pickpocketing the inspector's official ID.
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'I was a soldier for three years in Afghanistan.'
'How exhilarating! Killed many people, John?'
'Yeah.'
'Me too. Here in London. We've got another thing in common. Go on, don't stop.'
'Now I'm a locum doctor, I do some hours at the hospital too.'
'How pedestrian, John.'
'And I help Sherlock Holmes solve crimes.'
'Oh, him. Let's not spoil this evening by talking about him.'
'We catch serial killers like you.'
'Doctor, I haven't killed in five days. Been keeping myself busy thinking about you.'
'Ugh... Thanks, I suppose.'
'Tell me more. Tell me things Sherlock Holmes doesn't know about you, John.'
I blink. 'Well, I...' Taking up the stiff drink by my side, I sip a bit of the fiery liquid and let it burn my tongue. 'I can speak passably a few foreign languages that Sherlock doesn't know about, and one – Dhari – that Sherlock can't speak at all. Although it'd take him like two hours to learn fluently, the clever git.'
'We don't need foreign languages, we understand each other so well in this one.'
'Yeah... Ugh, I can tourniquet a man with my eyes closed. Comes in handy during sandstorms.'
'So you like tying up people?'
I blink. Oh, hell.
'I can shoot a target at end of firearm range with 97% accuracy.'
'Exciting!'
'Hardly ever comes in handy. Ugh... oh, yes, I can breathe fire.'
'You must have had a most varied youth, John. The circus?'
'Nah, just a neat little trick my sister Harry taught me', I disclose, seeping a couple of mouthfuls of the ripe old whiskey. I inch forward, only a couple of romantic tall stem candles separating us now. He leans forward eagerly. The gun lies forgotten over his napkin. The two men hang at the door like awkward chaperones. He slides his right hand over my left, making my sensory deprived skin crawl...
It all happens in a mad instant, packed full of fluid adrenaline release, and its blissful and right. Cheeks full of head spinning, highly alcoholic whiskey I spit the glorious liquid as a spray over the candle, turning it presto into a mini flame blower. He recoils in shock, my gun hand slides home and my left grabs that icky wrist and twists in a vicious grip. The gun zooms in as if magnetized towards its twins about to fire, and outdoes itself, shooting first, two fluid self defence shots that hit their targets bull's-eye without my gaze straying from the crying out creep across the table. I yank him to the ground and bring the smoking gun to his temple. All time freezes up.
'Too forward for a first date?' I hiss.
The criminal's eyes are wide in panic.
'Not by my standards, John' – a cool voice comments from the entrance to the evil lair. I blink, bewildered.
'Sherlock, is that you?'
Or am I imagining you again? I add silently.
'Yes, just little old me', he comments, walking past the overturned table and broken crockery in absolute composure. 'Need my help, John?'
I finally glance up at my rescuing best friend. There is vulnerability in his features, morphing them into an expression of care and worry.
My automatic "I'm fine" crumbles with exhaustion into—
'Yeah, I could do with a hand. I didn't quite plan what I was going to do after this point.'
Sherlock fishes something out of his coat pocket.
'Handcuff him?'
'Great idea.'
Together we restrain the nearly incoherent, sobbing and issuing threats, kidnapper.
'John, I needed you, a lot. You weren't there. I believe that it would consist in what is commonly referred to as a lesson learned. Will you consider... coming back?'
I'm utterly shocked as I face my friend's honest expression. He couldn't fake the raw humanity I find there.
'Give me a sec.'
I grab the criminal by the collar and crash his shouty head back on the floor. Dazed, he finally pipes down.
'Right, Sherlock, I'm with you now... Ugh, I need you too, mate. Case in point. Look at me, I got freaking kidnapped again without you!'
He smirks. 'You do get kidnapped a lot, John. In fairness, you were rescuing yourself quite independently.'
'Don't like you to think I'm needy.' I grunt apologetically.
'I never think that.'
'Good. Ugh... Which of us is calling Lestrade?'
'Already texted him. On his way.'
'Great, ugh... I'm sorry, but what on earth is up with your scarf, it's tied all wrong!' I blurt out.
Sherlock's smile deepens into a genuine admiration, but he deflects instead:
'Why the skinny clothes, John?'
'This creep thought we were on a date. They were clean. I went along.'
'They suit you well.'
'Oh, please, I can't feel my left leg, I think they've cut off my circulation entirely. Like a ruddy femoral artery tourniquet.'
'How intriguing.'
'How you breathe in your tight shirts is beyond me, Sherlock.'
'Mrs Hudson sews the popped buttons back on, she gets spares from my tailors.' Sherlock looks away, looking more loose from the shared banter. 'The Yard will have kept some spares too.' He looks at me full on. 'Probably in the evidence boxes from the crime scenes. Anderson took a while to catch on.'
I giggle, this is insane. On the floor, the wrestling serial killer grunts indignant.
'Oh shush it, I'm busy here', I snap, 'talking to my best mate.'
Sherlock's smile is all encompassing.
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'That is how you figured out where I was, Sherlock?'
The wiry detective is busying himself smarting the flames in the hearth with an ash covered poker. The fireplace is lit, 221B is nice and warm, and Sherlock is probably pondering arson for his next scientific experiments. All is well at home.
'Yes, John.'
'By deducing the six geese a-laying and seven swans a-swimming, and retracing the uncommitted murders to the murderer. Is that even possible? To find out a murderer by retracing a crime prepared but not yet committed?'
'Apparently yes. I had to think outside the box, John. I was taking so long to find you.'
I shake my head softly.
'It's not your job to rescue me.'
'It will always be my job to find you and bring you home, John. Until such day as you do not wish to return.'
'Don't you think that will ever truly happen. Yes, you get on my nerves, sometimes. Going by the battered state of our kettle, I'd say I get on your nerves too. Did you throw it out of the window? Never mind, don't tell me. We can get a new one. I mean, I can get a new one. Wouldn't dream of seeing you going to the shops.'
Sherlock smirks, gratefully.
'Oh, but I must. We simply do not have enough baubles for the three meters high Christmas tree I ordered.'
'How—' will it fit?
'High Victorian ceilings, John.'
'Have you seen the front door frame? This house is Georgian, Sherlock.'
'As far as I care, it just got built when I set up office here with you, John. You're missing the important points. Again.'
I take a deeper breath, and pause.
'Go on, what is so bloody important that we shouldn't discuss how the tree will get up to the first floor?'
'Easy, I've hired a crane. John, I want you to have your Christmas.'
I shake my head, slowly.
'No, Sherlock, let's make it our Christmas.'
'Fair enough... John, did the wanton criminal really have a full blown infatuation with you?'
'Sure seemed that way.'
Sherlock's expression is indecipherable for a moment. 'Should have given him more credit, I suppose.'
I chuckle, my turn. 'You thought he had a crush on you. Another Moriarty type.'
'He was really all wrong for you, John', my friend diverges, getting up and assuming a dignified statesman pose.
'I don't know', I string Sherlock along, amusing myself with the indelible signs of jealousy the genius is trying to keep off his expression. 'He had a dangerous vibe, and a really nice .45 calibre handgun. He actually listened to me.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes, knowing full well my open manipulation. He watches his own reflection in the fireplace mirror when he declares: 'Listening? I'll suffer through your inane mundane thoughts if I must.' He seeks me with a smirk and meeting my cold stare, immediately climbs down. 'I'll listen, so long as we're not in the middle of a case.'
'Deal. And decorating for Christmas?' I stretch it.
'Consider it done, John.'
'No, I don't mean Anthea, I mean you and I, doing it together.'
Sherlock's long suffering face is absolutely genuine. Only I know he'll enjoy it once we get started. There's a bauble cypher coding to making up a tree, according to my mad friend.
'Thanks, Sherlock, for not giving up' – on me. On us.
Sherlock stares out into the empty space just above my head as if he was reading some secret writings hovering there. He parts with a shy but warm smile, a mystery he's not yet ready to unravel.
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