A/N: Like I've been saying, multi-chapter pieces aren't doing so well. So here's an interlude until I pick that last one up again, at some point. -csf
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I'm surrounded by three surly trolls and Sherlock is showing off his pretty jujitsu skills to a couple of heavy weight champs across the other side of the warehouse rigged to explode by several charges of expertly placed C4 putty. It's just another night out in town for Sherlock and John.
The dumbest of the trolls is confused by my grinning. I'm having some fun here, alright? We're certainly not all cut out from the same mould.
Behind me I hear a muffled gasped grunt as Sherlock took a direct hit. That gets my blood boiling. Time to speed up the process, but this mug's got my faithful gun.
'Vatican Cameos in ten?' I toss the question over my shoulder, loud enough that it carries over the sounds of fighting in the warehouse.
I can almost hear Sherlock's suspended breath as he takes the hint.
'Yes, John', he consents without a hint of effort or breathlessness as another thud of pounded flesh punctuates the running time. He's kicking some butt.
Sherlock's a brilliant musician, trust him to give me a beat for the countdown.
Seven seconds...
I shake my head in genuine amazement, as I face the three trolls with renewed attention. Crossing my arms, I remark calmly, too calmly:
'That's Sherlock Holmes right there. You really should have thought twice before messing with Sherlock bloody Holmes.'
Four seconds, three...
I strike quick and effective, an uppercut to the abdomen under the sternum and the first skips a heartbeat, a blow to the second's neck and he crumbles like a ragdoll whose blood flow has been interrupted and is temporarily paralysed, the third is jumping me but I hit both his ears simultaneously and he collapses fully disoriented to the ground, moaning. I reach for my gun from the floor.
One, zero...
I try to turn but there's no time to spare. All I can do is close my eyes and I never even flinch as I'm hit by a solid moving target of a 6-foot-something, very determined consulting detective. His arms wrap around my waist as he tackles me over the edge of the warehouse door, three storeys up, out into the open night and the Thames below. He's impressed enough momentum that we're twirling in the air, contact with the solid ground all lost, I open my eyes and lock gaze with the detonating charges nestled neatly together in a corner of the warehouse we just vacated spectacularly. My finger squeezes the trigger with full confidence. The gun kickbacks, Sherlock is already rolling us over to cover me from the ensuing explosion, but he's too young, too eager, he can't know the explosion only hits critical state as we collide against the cold hard barrier of the Thames waters. We dive deep, air rushing out of my lungs in a whoompff and a pained groan.
I almost lose my gun into the cold dark water sarcophagus engulfing me, as my consciousness wavers perilously. Luckily I am the self-confessed sidekick of the most possessive sociopath in London, and he takes charge of rescuing the two of us as my consciousness wavers, rendering me fairly useless.
'John? Talk to me!'
I blink, in no small measure surprised and confused. How did we get to the margin so fast, so safe?
My back against the muddy bank. Cold making my body shiver uncontrollably.
'Sherlock, you saved me', I cough out.
He looks down on me with derision, his wet locks dripping Thames water on my face as he leans close over me. I can see the multi-coloured flecks of diffracted lamplight in his irises.
'Of course I saved you, John. I don't care to train another assistant', he responds fluidly, but a warm mocking grin spreads across his pale face in a split second. One moment there, the next one gone, leaving me wondering if I'm imagining things, if I hit the Thames too hard.
And the warehouse? I follow Sherlock's intent gaze. A few flicker of glowing flames illuminates the dark night from above. Not as much as to harm the enemy we left behind, but definitely enough to incapacitate them until the police officers arrive.
I sigh and let my head drop against the squishy mud beneath me.
'Should we prearrange other codes, mate? Word is going to spread about Vatican Cameos.'
'Oh.' Sherlock's comment is but an exhalation of breath. I will not be deceived to think he didn't pay attention.
The funny thing is that we never prearranged Vatican Cameos, it just... sort of came together, I think. Will the genius overthink it now – pen and paper in hand, sounding out different word combinations for various scenarios – or will he expect me to catch up with his brilliant, warp-speed mind on my own?
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'John.'
'Hmm?'
'Victorian Caskets.'
I blink and grimace. What the hell should I make of that one? I lower my book to my lap, and look at my friend sprawling on the long sofa in his lounge wear.
He fiddles with the hem of his well-worn t-shirt and mutters: 'You'd figure it out in the right context. Adrenaline rush never fails to also make you cleverer, John.' He finishes that remarking by searching for complicity in the armchair flatmate.
'What was it you had in mind?' I ask quietly, turning a page.
He flips his body athletically I order to rise above on elbow, fully facing me, giving me all his attention. He hates the notion of not grasping all my attention, all of the time.
'Exploding caskets syndrome, John. Isn't it obvious? A build-up of noxious vapours from embalming, fabric dyes, poisoning make up and hair dyes in Victorian era caused quite a few caskets to burst open during wakes.'
I turn the page back.
'Charming. You really are being wasted in the 21st century, Sherlock.'
'It's a code for an imminent explosion, John.'
'It's not like we couldn't use one.'
He huffs and theatrically falls back into a languid ennui posture along the sofa. He wiggles his toes, the only external sign of some feline-like satisfaction.
'Vitriol Crate.'
I glance over the book towards my mate, and sigh. He's taking this too seriously now. Trust him to be addicted to a mind game, as he is to all mind puzzles.
Putting down the boring novel, I get up to go smarten the flames in the fireplace.
'Chemical attack?' I hazard a guess. 'Wasn't vitriol an old name for sulphuric acid?'
'Precisely, John. I'm glad to notice all those lab years in medical school weren't wasted after all.'
Right. But why the recurrent VC acronym? Is that my heads-up?
'Victoria Cross?' I offer back, getting up and stretching. Feigning disinterest, I pace towards the foggy window.
Sherlock smiles broadly. A pure, genuine happiness smile that comes from acceptance and homeliness. I don't suppose many other flatmates would easily debate emergency evacuation code words in cold late nights. I can see his reaction blurred in the glass panels reflection.
'An army reference, my dear soldier, I should have expected no less. An imminent fight, perhaps?'
'Could be', I say, shrugging. Still baiting him. In fact, Sherlock rolls back to face me full on once again, his feline eyes trailed on me.
'Voluptuous Crumpets.'
I burst into giggles at the seriousness in him. Baker Street – the recipe book.
Sherlock translates: 'That's Mycroft in the vicinity, by the way.'
'Hmm... Volatile—'
'Hot air balloon about to crash', he dismisses with a hand wave. I shake my head. He's pushing my creativity boundaries.
'Viscous—'
'Quicksand pit, owned by a boring dystopian villain.'
'Venereal—'
'Yes, we know you're a doctor, John. Keep the patients diagnosis to yourself.'
I blink; wait, no, it's the game!
'Venerable Chinese woman', I say, finally.
He blinks. 'Three words, really?' he protests with a grimace. 'What's with the third word? Doesn't that make it... silly?'
I grin. That boat has long sailed.
'No, I mean outside, on the street. I think she's a client. We should ask her inside, she'll freeze out there', I worry.
He sighs. 'If you must. I wish you wouldn't get distracted so easily, John. It makes for a terrible habit in an assistant', he comments, as I toss him his dressing gown, on my way to get the door.
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This would be sooo much easier if only I wasn't tied up pretzel-fashion to a chair, under the Royal Opera House's main stage production of some ballet extravaganza. Trust the stage engineer and main fabrication expert to have added a dungeon under here on his lunch breaks, complete with heavy chains and dodgy dim light. It comforts me to remember that locked room mysteries are Sherlock's favourites by far, although he'll be let down by the conspicuous absence of a corpse.
Anytime now, Sherlock?
A heavy clank sound strikes ominous over the muffled stage music, played live by a small orchestra. I look around me, a bit concerned that my living conditions are about to change dramatically.
Oh, alright. The villain gets creative points for the moving wall, dragging the hanging chains, revolving on a side axis, sweeping my chair too. Normally I wouldn't object over a tiny voyage, but why isn't the other wall in front of me moving too? Squashing your enemy is really outdated, mate!
'John?'
The muffled yell comes from across that very solid wall I'm about to get acquainted with on a personal basis.
'Sherlock?'
'I can't go through! Quick, John, I suspect you are in grave danger, tell me what's back there! Be very succinct!'
Oh, the lovely irony of his detailed instructions when the clock ticks away. I fight against the restraints, to no avail.
'John?'
There's little concealed panic now in my mate's voice.
'There's this dungeon and I'm tied up and—'
'I can't understand you! Enunciate properly! The music's too loud!'
I take a deep breath, shout
'Vaudeville Cul-de-sac!'
and brace myself for a terrible fate.
It never comes.
Everything grinds to a halt, as my knees already brush up snuggly against the wall.
Next thing I know, a thin vertical strip of light near blinds me, than thickens to a full human height rectangle, and I realise it's a door – there was a door hidden on that wall, he found it, and that stopped the death trap – and Sherlock's silhouette is framed by the light reflecting off the brass section in the orchestra pit.
'Must I always rescue you, John?' he drawls, coolly.
'Oh, shut up. You were panicking just a moment ago.'
He doesn't respond for once, a small admittance of truth in my words. Instead he unties me, under the collective scrutiny of the confused artists and public. This wasn't quite the show they were expecting.
'Ready to go get that engineer?' Sherlock baits me, whilst really enquiring about my state.
'Ready when you are.'
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Long coat flapping in the wind as the moonlight shines bright over the figure looming against the dark sky, striking by the oversized chimney of an Edwardian building, heavy masonry flower cornucopias at the edge of the sloped slate rooftop. Seriously, Sherlock? You had to start without me? How do I even get up there? I huff against the cold night air from the street below, trying not to think back on other roof edges, other times I couldn't reach Sherlock, I couldn't protect him.
I finger my gun, trailing at the end of my relaxed arm, sensing something off, just as Sherlock's baritone voice proclaims across the silent night:
'It's over, John. Go home.'
'What?'
His answer comes after a slight delay.
'Go back home. I've got this. I don't need you. You're too late.'
No, this isn't like Sherlock at all. Since when does Sherlock miss his chance to gloat to an audience? And telling me to go home? We can share a cab, mate we live together!
'Sherlock? What's going on?'
He glances over his shoulder, a curtailed, simple movement. My eyes narrow. There's someone behind the chimney, feeding him lines, isn't there?
'Sherlock?'
This time he's silent, presumably looking down on me. Then it happens:
'Ventriloquist cloak!'
Sherlock squats, and I bring my gun up just as a madman wielding a huge pirate sabre becomes visible, raising his sword and gaining momentum over Sherlock's head. A bullet cuts the sword's track, deflecting it on impact. The second bullet shatters a kneecap and the enemy falls to the base of the chimney. Sherlock placidly leans over for an appraising glance. 'John?' he calls down to me. 'Are you going to be home late? Isn't there another doctor in the house?'
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And then there was a time when it became apparent that the game never ends.
It had started days ago, when a politician's third wife got their real wedding invitations lost in the post (there was a mock wedding or she is a bigamist, not sure). Mycroft Holmes wasn't impressed, and by the time the blackmailer post office manager had contacted the high profile politician, Sherlock's older brother already knew where the opportunistic thief lived, where she had gone to school, what were her shopping habits, the online gambling addiction, and even where the woman's dog walker lived.
So Mycroft delegated the legwork to his baby brother, telling him the stability of the nations morals was at risk.
Sherlock scoffed. Mycroft promised him five minutes inside the MI5 servers. Sherlock respectfully acquiesced to take the important mission upon further consideration of the pressing matters at hand.
I was called upon at the surgery and dragged out at the end of my shift.
'The post office manager reads private letters? Isn't that antithetical to their job? And what bigamist writes love letters?'
'John, we've no time for your running commentary really.'
Oh. I shut up and accept my gun from his discreet oversized coat pockets. His fingers brush up against mine, cold, clammy, fluttery. This isn't like Sherlock at all. There's more he isn't telling me, there must be. Some strange premonition of disaster.
Very quickly we arrive to an old abandoned amusement park on the outskirts of town. I'm baffled to see the old, unstable and unsafe constructions, derelict by age and nature, erected against London's iconic landscape line in the rose sunset light. The high wood poles suspending a verily haunted roller coaster track bend, both the start and the end connected to nowhere. A carousel with a tilted roof, half collapsed over wood carved horses once painted in bright colours to amaze children and now worthy of B flicks and antique stores. A promenade of elegant benches for the strollers to rest, overtaken by dried up, waist-high brambles. There's a whisper of quiet beauty in the stillness of decay and loss that encompasses this place.
I'd appreciate it better if it weren't a tactical defence nightmare. Too many hiding places and too much open ground. Our footsteps crushing dry plants, echoing in the stillness of the place.
'Keep close, Sherlock.'
'I intend to', he whispers back, to my relief. The next moment he bellows, making me jump: 'Victoria Chandler, we know—'
We collapse painfully against the dirt, as I have just tackled Sherlock to the ground and protectively cover him with my body whilst I search for the enemy's location with wild glances.
'John?' comes the very confused query, muffled by my jacket.
'Not now, Sherlock!'
His innocent blue-green eyes widen and he starts to chuckle. I can feel the reverberation of his sternum against my stomach. I frown, and just for an instant I break concentration and glance down.
'What!'
'That's her name – Victoria Chandler. It's not code. Well, not this time!'
Feeling mortified by my automatic response, I quickly get off Sherlock and try to help him up. His long coat needs a good brushing, but he doesn't seem perturbed.
'Can we not chase criminals with those initials?' I grump.
'I blame Mycroft. He might even have done it on purpose.' Sherlock actually shrugs.
'What do you mean, on purpose?'
'At a Victorian Carnival fayre? ...Humpff! John, will you cut it out?'
'Sorry, mate, I got triggered again.'
'No need for apologies.'
'Why are you rubbing your shoulder? Did you get your shoulder hurt?'
'Not at all, though it was quite the violent crash— Oh, for goodness sake! Will you let go off me? Fine! I learned my lesson, I'll moderate my speech, now will you let go of me?'
A clear cut female voice interrupts dramatically:
'Did I come at a bad time, boys?'
I'm dramatically tossed across the dirt, and Sherlock springs up with the flexibility and audacity of a teenager.
'We'll take those blackmail letter now, miss Chandler.'
She uncovers a dainty gun in her hand, and no letters.
Sherlock sighs, as one would to a misbehaving toddler, then clearly says: 'Vintage Carnivore!'
It doesn't make any sense to me. After one second's worth of ransacking my brains I give up and tackle the lady to the ground, wrenching her gun away from us by force. Sherlock squats to pick up a bunch of letters fallen and dispersed on the dirt. Nearly succeeding to get the gun, suddenly I'm knifed in the gut with a hidden, dirty combat weapon. I crumple over, letting go of the firearm. Sherlock's head turns, his eyes widen. The gun is trailed on the target. I moan in pain, grabbing at the protruding knife, too dizzy to medically assess the damage. Sherlock's eyes narrow dangerously, carrying such venom as I have never yet witnessed. He spats coolly: 'Voltage chord.'
I blink through a veil of pain and absence; what's that code for? I don't have the strength left, Sherlock. I can't follow your lead. Night is falling too fast, everything is getting dark.
I find out the meaning just the next second, as she steadies the gun towards my partner, seeking to finish our adventures. Sherlock steps back, just one step, and she betrays herself by taking a step forward to again lock on target. She trails on something hidden in the crumpled vegetation and dirt. Her body flinches and shakes under the power of an electric current discharge, then she too crumbles onto the ground. She doesn't move, other than occasional twitches, lying over cringed pieces of paper from the stolen letters. I'm fairly sure she's alive, but that won't have been pretty. The electricity flowing straight to the gun she was holding.
I can't get up.
There's a strong hand splayed on my sternum pinning me to the ground, whilst pressing on my wound. It's Sherlock, already claiming my phone for an ambulance.
'Make that two', I mutter, as my consciousness wavers.
He snarls her way, and speaks once more to the call. My eyes close of their own accord, too heavy to keep open.
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I blink my eyes open, they feel gritty and heavy, but I know I must do this. Look around. Seek Sherlock, he must be found.
And sure enough, I find my best mate. His hair is matted and wild, his eyes are puffy, he's chewing his lip as a repentant child. Facing away, towards the stats machine, studying every number with religious fervour. So much the need for scientific reassurance that I'm not even sure he's noticed I'm awake. I take a moment to look about. He's the only visitor in the hospital room, taking up little space in an uncomfortable plastic chair, the quiet on the corridors suggesting it's the middle if the night.
'Sherl—?' My voice is croaky, weak, and utterly unrecognisable due to the painkillers. I always hate my voice like this.
To the musician it sounds like a benediction, it seems, as he lights up and his shoulders lose that haunch, his hands unclasp from his elbow tight clasping.
'John! You're awake.'
'Yeah.' I smile back.
'I was distracted by your ventricular coordination.'
I almost giggle. Almost. Don't want to pop a stich.
'Stop it, it's hardly a game', I whisper, my pitch still off and unnatural. Might take a few days.
He looks down in uncalled for adoration. I guess his emotions are all bundled up too.
'I agree to suspend the generalisation of our code and return to Vatican cameos only until you feel well. You are in no condition to keep up at the moment.'
'Ta.' I sigh, feeling the familiar lull of medication pulling me under. Isn't he going home? That chair looks bloody uncomfortable.
He responds to my thoughts as my eyelids drop of their own accord. 'No rush. I think I'll stretch my legs, though. There's a florist on the ground floor. I'm pretty sure I saw violet carnations for sale.'
I grump with a smile. The game is always on.
'That's... very clever.'
I feel the soft brush of fingertips through my hair. He makes no effort to leave me, thinking I won't notice.
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