Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
He solves it with three hours to spare. Which is not bad, if you ask him. And it's very satisfying to finally know what happened to young Carl. Clostridium botulinum. A clever solution. And it explains why the trainers had to disappear – they might have clued even these idiots cops to the fact that poison had been used. As he'd always declared, details were important. And shoes didn't just up and leave on their own. They mattered.
Of course, if anyone had given him the time of the day when he was young, this case might have been solved twenty years ago – and the murderer behind bars, they would have no bomber now. Which would be good, he supposed. Not for him, though – he'd still be bored then. Which would be considerably less good. Still, if he says as much he has a feeling that John will give him 'a look'. The one he always has when Sherlock disappoints him while being a bit not good when he really should have known better. So he better keep these kind of considerations to himself.
Instead, he explains to his flatmate the murder method (of course he's saying Carl Powers was murdered, he's been saying it for twenty years, do keep up, John, please) and explaining why the idiots years ago wouldn't have picked up on it. Now it's time to win this game. He debates asking John to send a message through his blog, since the bomber is clearly a reader of the ridiculous thing, but he decides against it. Moriarty (if it's really the criminal in question) is his fan. The challenge was clearly meant for him. The bomber can bother to check up Sherlock's blog, too.
So it's there that he writes a short message to the bomber. He mentions Carl Powers' name and the way he was murdered. See? He's solved this case. Immediately he receives his prize: a new call, with permission to 'get' the crying woman. He texts the information to Lestrade. John would certainly think they're not adequately prepared to deal with bombs (and he'd be half-right) but above all, he doesn't want to deal with the snivelling lady. He certainly doesn't want her gratitude, which she's certain to try to heap on her 'saviours'. He didn't solve this for her, after all. He's doing this because he's high on the challenge – it's such an interesting case! – and partially because he hopes to earn some more of John's awed praise, if he's entirely honest.
The morning after sees them at Scotland Yard, discussing the bomber's modus operandi. Lestrade's sharing the data he has (of course he's sharing – he has no hope to solve this on his own, obviously, and anyway the bomber wants him to be involved in this investigation – very much so). The hostage would have been blown up if she had deviated from script.
"Or if you hadn't solved the case," John points out sharply. (Ridiculous! How could he not solve the case? This case in particular? He had half-solved it at eight, for crying out loud.)
He takes a moment to admire the organization of it all, from the grab-your-attention explosion in Baker Street to setting up such an elaborate way to communicate, to the challenge itself. It takes effort; cleverness; a bit of obsession that Sherlock is unused to and flattered by, even if he shouldn't. In a word, it's… "Elegant," he breathes.
John is very displeased, echoing his word with a tinge of outrage. But this is elegant. A new way to woo for someone's attention. Why doesn't he see? What makes him so angry? Oh, it doesn't matter. He'll placate John later, somehow. (It shouldn't even matter that he's angry, but it does. Oh, it does. Teen Sherlock is unreasonably dejected – and so very worried John will start hating him now, too.)
Lestrade, instead, is concentrate on working – and querying about motives. Of course, understanding them goes a long way towards reading one's actions and capturing them.
"I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored," the sleuth replies, unconcerned. This isn't done for the usual reasons – rage, envy, money, sex. Well, maybe there's a sexual undercurrent in that – but it's nothing simple like a jilted lover acting up. This is all an extremely elaborate game – and playing is something one does to relieve boredom, yes?
About the game, first round has been passed, and it's now time for the next. The detective is so glad to hear the warning of incoming message. One less pip, so they're looking forward to four other rounds. So good. And again, a photo –of an abandoned car.
And then Donovan, being her usual charming self (would it kill her to be professional once?) offers him the phone. He expected a call, of course. But on the pink phone the bomber had provided, not at Scotland Yard. Is he trying to make the point that he knows everything about Sherlock – where the sleuth is at any given moment? That doesn't surprises him – it's clear that the criminal is interested in him, being spied was to be expected. He just hopes that no one else will get involved. Like Mrs. Hudson (how easy would it have been for her to be threatened when the madman had gone to 221C). Or John (one of the reason he's given Mycroft's case to him – to make him not involved in all this as much as possible).
Sherlock obtains permission from his criminal to collaborate with the police. As if he wouldn't – he might enjoy this game a bit, if he's completely honest with himself, but he's not entirely insensate: the aim will always be to put his admirer behind solid bars (unless John gets too excited and shoots him down once again – in which case he might have to explain that they're consulting detectives, not vigilantes).
A compliment, a threat – it's all the same for his adversary, clearly. He ignores Sherlock's questions, mostly, and goes on with his pre-planned little speech. And challenges the detective to beat his own records, like this is really a game for him. Solved last case in nine hours, now he has eight. And a young man as his prize. That's incentive enough – he's going to solve this. Not disappoint everyone and cause who knows how many victims to be killed (the bomber is generous with the explosives' amount, if he keeps to pattern).
Lestrade can be counted on to find the car, at least, and accompany Sherlock to the crime scene. (Of course this is a crime scene – last one was a murder, and apparently the bomber likes to admire him in his crime solving.)
If only Lestrade could act alone, but no, there are forensics that will obviously miss all the important points…and Donovan. What is Donovan doing here, exactly? Does Lestrade have no other underlings? (Everyone hates Sherlock, to be fair. It wouldn't make much of a difference).
But Donovan isn't just disagreeable, no. She thinks she knows better (as if she has some sort of moral high ground, considering her own life choices). That she can look out for people. Look out for John, that is. By making him leave Sherlock's side. Which might be indeed best for John in the long run, as much as it pains Sherlock to admit it if only to himself (though he doesn't want that to happen, oh please no – "He can't," Teen Sherlock whines from his prison).
Thank God that the sergeant is a terrible judge of character (that can't help in her chosen career). She nudges John to pick a safer pastime. But John doesn't want safe – he's never wanted safe. He got kidnapped, was bound, and still managed to save his date and Sherlock. If he hasn't run away after that, it's because he loved it (not being kidnapped per se – just…the adventure). (And Sherlock is on a case and playing a game, he should be examining the twice bloody car, not eavesdropping what inanities Donovan comes up with. He needs to stop being so focused on John.)
True to form, instead of giving Sally's well-meaning suggestions a moment of thought, John is by his side when Sherlock faces the disappeared man's wife. Now, time to play his part. John hasn't still been private to Sherlock's acting talent – not that the sleuth needs to act for John, who likes him as he is (and isn't that incredible). Before his blogger can give away the game – he's taken over without asking, as dealing with teary people isn't usually something Sherlock would know how to deal with without hurting them worse, in all likelihood – the detective cuts him off.
At least John doesn't object his claims or snickers when a puzzled woman remarks how his husband never mentioned Sherlock's name. He's probably too shocked by his friend's performance to do so. Hopefully not shocked in a bad way, though, or starting to wonder if everything Sherlock does is a careful act. Then again, he probably realizes that if Sherlock really acted all the time, he would probably spare people's feelings a lot more than he does. Will John call him brilliant again? Maybe clap, like he was watching a play?...Why is a tiny part of Sherlock's brain busy wondering – hoping (and hope never ends well for him) for – this even while most of it is analysing the woman's answers and bodily cues to figure out what she knows? He might miss things that way. The sleuth is ruined. Entirely ruined by his friend's existence. (And yet he won't give that up).
It turns out that John is not really shocked – but he certainly looks puzzled by Sherlock's behaviour. Once he explains, though, he accepts it without commenting how his ability and willingness to manipulate people is a sure sign of psychopathy, or evilness, or both (you should have seen Donovan when she saw him do that to a witness for the first time). Which it isn't. Maybe it's a sign of sociopathy, to which the sleuth has always admitted.
By the way, the sergeant is still on a roll and keeps suggesting 'safe' pastimes. Dull ones. Ones that would make both John and Sherlock want to claw their eyes out in sheer boredom after half an hour.
They don't care about her, though. Sherlock explains what they've gleaned from his unusual form of interrogation, and John is…well, the odd thing is that he's still being his usual slow self that would normally make Sherlock despise people and react impatiently against their idiocy, but this is John.
So when he says, "I see. No, I don't. What am I seeing?" the sleuth doesn't have to quell the urge to yell at him to use his brain, for once, or to make an effort to keep up. Instead, he quashes the instinct to chuckle fondly at John being cute again. (Idiocy has never been cute – what's happening to him? Is he getting ill?) Because if he had to explain why he's laughing he'll argue with John – again (of course the doctor would take offense, even if none is meant) – and he really, really doesn't want to.
Next they're going after the car hire company. John is still, always, faithfully by his side. It will never stop to surprise Sherlock a bit – and give Teen Sherlock the sort of fuzzy feelings that he should really keep to himself. The detective has no need of them, when he's solving a case. Though they're indeed nice…
It's entirely ridiculous, how the car renter thinks he can fool Sherlock. This one is not a follower of John's blog, or he wouldn't even try to fib so pitifully. Sunbeds, really? Ones that require shots to be used? Of course, the itching could be related to a different medical condition, but since he can't ask John to examine the man to check for the cause, he'll have to find other ways of confirming the man's time abroad.
Another one of his little tricks, and the hypothesis is confirmed. Now, what does this tell us? Apart that Mr. Ewert needs to get better at fibbing under pressure if he wants to be able to sustain a lover outside the random encounters he undoubtedly indulges in when outside the country. What was he doing in Columbia, and is this related to the disappearance they're investigating?
If it wasn't, why would he deny the holiday? Anyhow, there's something fishy around the man, that begs further enquiries. Hopefully it will be related to the case, because beyond the literally bloody car they have no clues. Yes, the wife knows something, but she won't confess without stronger methods of persuasion than Lestrade can allow, so no opening there.
He supposes he should be grateful, but getting hints by their bomber irks him. Does the criminal not think that he can solve this without some sort of handicap? He is already on his way to understand it all, there's no need to give him clues. He hated when Mycroft did that, the first times they played deductions together, too. But the bomber's bored, he says. Eager to get to bigger and better challenges, no doubt. New games. That, Sherlock can relate to (and it should worry him, perhaps). Easily bored, impatient? That's him, too.
Then the killer adds something that actually stops the detective in his experimenting. "We are the very definition of soulmates, Sherlock." Could that be true? "Are not!" Teen Sherlock protests vehemently, but as all his assertions, this too is entirely baseless. He trusts hunches; feelings. Has this man done any research? Has he evidence for his statement?...Could this bored madman really be his soulmate? His much yearned for John? The detective represses a shiver.
"What makes you say that?" he queries, very softly and not a little afraid. What will his flatmate think if his soulmate is a homicidal maniac?
"Everything will be revealed in time. Enjoy the ride." With that, the call ends.
"Not John," Teen Sherlock insists sulkily from the attic. The sleuth so hopes he could trust him. Now, back to work. It would be just like his stalker to say such unsettling things only to shake the detective, make him lose time pondering over that and, instead of offering a hint, ensuring he loses the game this time. Maybe it's just that. Yeah, that. Just because they're both bored, it doesn't make him anyone's soulmate. That'd be just silly.
Well, if that is the ploy, it fails. He does solve it – with three hours to spare. He hopes that the bomber won't keep asking him to better his record, though. He has solved cases in considerably less time, of course. But the challenges this one proposes are never so easy to be solved at first glance (at least, he hopes better from his unknown admirer) and his experiments need some time for the reactions to occur, so he's a bit worried that he won't be able to better his record five times. At least this young man, though, is saved, and their supposed victim is well too.
Relocated to Colombia, in fact, to escape from the troubles he'd have undoubtedly faced. Not a good person, dear old Ian. People who feel the need to escape from their life by unlawful means usually aren't. Embezzlement, perhaps? Fled before he could be discovered? Or something even worse? Who knows – who cares. The man is safe in South America now, and if Lestrade wants to pursue him it's not his concern. Sherlock has better things to think about. Three pips still pending. A courtship perfectly tailored for him that fascinates him as much as it makes his blood run cold. (It can't be…can it? "Don't be ridiculous now! Of course he's not!" Teen Sherlock interjects from his exile.)
This case is worrying John. One thing is facing murderers, smugglers, assorted reasonable criminals. People who have simple motives, and who will act straightforwardly. Those he knows how to act against. Look out for Sherlock, ensure he doesn't get poisoned – strangled – stabbed – whatever, and he can rest easy. But this criminal is playing with them. Playing with Sherlock. And the detective seems all too eager to let himself be swept up by such a dangerous ploy. Now, John loves danger as much as the next bloke (and probably a lot more, to be honest) but when people start treating innocent lives like pawns in a deranged contest most of the pleasure is lost to him.
Sherlock, instead, seems all too receptive. Thank God that the detective's soulmate is already dead, and that he himself told John as much, or he would worry that the man's boisterous claim might be true. (That's entirely tasteless, too. You don't just say "We're soulmates," lightly. Or without checking if at least the other person has at least your bloody name on his wrist, too.) The following morning, while forcing Sherlock to eat something (this is going to be a long case, and even the sleuth can't subsist on tea and adrenaline forever), John tries to warn him about taking things too lightly. Reminding him that he's toyed with. Sherlock smiles back, assures him that he's well aware of that, and chases the doctor's worries away with a wave of his violinist hands.
And then he's given a new puzzle – oh, he must love this. New day, new game. Does it even matter to him that an old, sweet, blind woman is being threatened with explosives right now, John wonders bitterly. Of course he cares…right? He's not a psychopath himself, no matter what some people think. John knows better. (Does he?)
How passionately the doctor hates the insane bastard that's doing this…to Sherlock? For Sherlock? Against Sherlock? Whatever is the right word? He wishes he could meet him. It would take him a second to shoot the bloody mongrel down like a rabid dog, and he'd lose no sleep after it.
He can't yet, but at least he can be useful. It's no surprise that the photo is entirely meaningless to Sherlock. If John didn't spend entirely too much time together with Mrs. Hudson, the days he has no work and the detective scampers off to do some experiment that requires Molly's equipment, for a change, he wouldn't know either. Probably their criminal expects them to have no idea, too, since he gave them a whole twelve hours. Instead, thanks to their landlady interest in makeup advice (one would think that she doesn't need any), John recognizes the woman immediately. They've gained time. He's confident that Sherlock will be able to solve this one, too. He has a long time to work it out, after all. The old, blind woman should be reasonably safe.
Then they're off to Bart's – together with Lestrade, who's as eager to catch this damn bomber as them – and once again, John can be useful. He examines the body, answers Sherlock's questions and arrives to the conclusion the sleuth expects, given the bomber's involvement. This is no mere accidental death. She's been killed. Sherlock asks for his help and John is so grateful for it. There's a nasty voice inside him, wondering if the detective does even need his collaboration. He needs data, of course, but couldn't he find them as well – maybe even better – without involving John? He shuts that whispering voice out firmly. Now is not the time to doubt himself. Now he needs to give Sherlock whatever he asks for.
Of course, if Sherlock could stop joking about the situation John would be considerably less irked about it. 'Bad Samaritan?' This mad game is not something to jest about. If only the detective took it as seriously as Lestrade, John's teeth wouldn't grind in an effort to control his aimless (well, not aimless – very aimed, but with no hope to reach his target yet) rage. But no, the sleuth is loving this, clearly. John wonders why their bomber makes him so very – indecently – happy, (hopefully it's just the challenge Sherlock relishes, but it scares him that he can't be sure). If their criminal knows that, and that's the reason he believes himself to be Sherlock's soulmate. (Which is really dead, isn't he – or she? The sleuth would have no reason to lie to him, would he?)
John is on the way to Connie Prince's house when he gets a text from Sherlock. He's still calling. I think he's courting me. He told me I love joining the dots. Well, who wouldn't? SH The detective doesn't need any emoticon to convey how bloody annoyed he is.
Before John can answer. Another message arrives. John, how do I make him stop calling? And texting? I can't work if he interrupts me just when I think I'm getting somewhere. SH
I don't know. Maybe that's exactly what he wants – stopping you from figuring it out. Don't let him! The doctor replies, growing worried.
Do not worry, I won't. And he's not trying to get me to lose – I don't think. He's just showing off –that's the whole point of this game, I think. All the things he can do – to keep me entertained, I guess. Which is delightful in a way, but I don't want him. He's not my soulmate. SH John receives then, and the last line squeezes his heart painfully. Sherlock doesn't want anyone who isn't his soulmate, and he's lost him/her. Has he even gotten to know the person before he lost it? Would that be better or worse?
I know. Your soulmate is dead. You told me already. I'm sorry by the way. That's what he replies.
Why? It's not your fault. SH Typical Sherlock, this.
If you had them by your side, maybe Moriarty would leave you alone. Also, there's a thing called empathy he writes.
More probably he would kill them. Getting back to work now. SH.
Good. The doctor replies. He is, too. They should be almost there.
He can't help being ill at ease when faced with the victim's brother. He's not used to shamming his way through things like Sherlock apparently is, and not really sure how to behave with people who might be murderers but might be honestly grieving, too. At least before Sherlock he knew which were the enemies and which not. Now things have gotten so confusing. Not to mention that Kenny Prince (and whoever calls his scions Kenny and Connie? They almost rhyme!) is filthy rich, and John feels always a bit ill at ease in these situations. It won't stop him from doing his best to help the detective, though. Sherlock counts on him, and John is not about to disappoint him.
Judging by the amount of platitudes he receives, he doubts that their victim will be very much missed. True grief doesn't hide behind clichés. And if having to sit through this painfully awkward and idiotic conversation isn't enough, one of the ugliest and creepiest cats in the universe (what possessed the owner to buy it?) is determined to be affectionate with John. Or it has simply decided that the sofa is its and the human is to be considered only as an oddly shaped additional cushion. Kicking the family pet would probably be more than a bit not good, so the doctor has to resign himself ultimately to the thing's attentions. At least it's purring.
There is worse yet to come – the victim's brother comes sit beside him, a bit too close for John's tastes. No one in this bloody home has any sense of personal space, have they? Now he only needs the house boy on his other side, and the game "Let's try to make John Watson uncomfortable" will be won. The cat, irritated by that, gets up and leaves. While he's trying to comfort a probable murderer, or at least to make this less painfully awkward without blowing his cover, one detail sticks out to John, almost like the time he realized Sherlock had followed a serial killer. He could very well have discovered, if not the murderer, at least the weapon. Sherlock will be proud of him, won't he?
He's supposed to be asking questions – his cover as journalist allowing him to gather data for the detective without looking suspicious. He queries a couple of things – generic things, which no one probably cares about – then hurriedly excuses himself for a second. Closed in the bathroom, he calls the detective, his voice barely above a whisper. Instead of praising him for his deduction, the sleuth promises to arrive soon, as he wants to see things for himself. Which is probably better. He might figure it out who used the cat as a murder weapon (clever, that). He goes back to announce the arrival of a colleague. Kenny Prince looks very pleased with that. He really likes being the one in the spotlight for once, uh?
Sherlock arrives quickly, with all the equipment to pretend he is a photographer. He never gets around to make use of that and give John another demonstration of his acting talent – which is, honestly, astounding. For a moment, John regrets that the sleuth didn't pick that as a career. His stalker wouldn't feel the need to strap people to bombs if Sherlock wasn't a detective. Then again, if he weren't a detective Sherlock would probably be helpless against a stalker that can make Scotland Yard run in circles.
But luckily, Sherlock needs only a few moments to deduce everything there is to deduce and solve the case. (Why did he even send John in the first place?) Which leaves John to make their excuses while they leave the place. And apparently it wasn't the cat. He'd been so sure. It was clever – something Sherlock would have liked, which would have made it appropriate for their bomber's courting. It was, it seems, a bit too much clever though for their murderer. Who isn't even the brother – another thing John would have bet good money on. But apparently he still misses something to be able to solve this.
As far as colleagues go, John is really abysmal, isn't he? How long before Sherlock excludes him from cases? Well, the bomber's case they're still doing together – John's protective instincts are on overdrive right now and he won't let the sleuth face this alone. Afterwards…who knows what Sherlock will decide. But if this is to become their last shared case (and with how much of an idiot as John's proving himself, that's entirely possible) John is going to love every minute of it till it lasts.
John won't ever understand his flatmate. Because apparently Sherlock solved the thing ages ago – before he visited Connie's place with him…who knows, maybe in the first five minutes (because the bomber repeated himself, which makes the sleuth sneer at him for lack of creativity – as if this is really simply a game, and one in danger of becoming boring). But he left a poor, terrified, sweet, blind old lady under threat all this time because he'd been allotted twelve hours, so why reveal he solved it already. Would he have done the same if Mrs. Hudson had been the one under threat? The sad thing is that the answer is probably yes.
But he's doing this for the investigation. To be able to catch his mad stalker, put him behind bars and make sure he straps no one else to a bomb. Which is why John can't even blame him much. It was a smart move. But it was a cruel move, in a way. John hoped better out of his friend.
What makes him so sure that Sherlock is better than he pretends to be? That the detective could be not only brilliant, but caring, if only he let himself be? Reason – evidence – says that the sleuth is a ruthless bastard…a ruthless, well-meaning (at least) bastard. John still refuses to accept that this is Sherlock's true nature.
One hour to spare, and the detective announces the solution to the world (to the bomber, who's certainly following his supposed-soulmate's blog). Almost immediately, the pink phone rings…It's time to get their prize and save the poor woman. But then, things suddenly go wrong.
"No,no, no…" Sherlock utters, trying to stop her from saying anything against the rules of the game. A second later, he lowers the phone, a haunted look in his eyes. John has to stop himself from hugging him in an attempt to comfort (there's Lestrade here) – his hand wanders to the detective's chair rather than his shoulder or back.
"What happened?" he asks, even if he suspects the truth.
"She's dead," the sleuth replies tonelessly. "She said…she just said his voice was soft. That's not a clue, is it? But the bomber didn't like it. She wasn't supposed to say it. I knew she wasn't supposed to say it, but she wouldn't shut up –"
"Hey, no. It's not your fault. Never. It's the bloody bomber's fault. We will catch him. He'll pay for that," John growls back.
"Yeah," Lestrade agrees with vicious intensity. Then, he too receives a call, and blanches. "A dozen people," he announces. "With how much explosive he'd packed her, she destroyed several floors. That's it – give me something, Sherlock. Anything. We need to apprehend him now."
"I'm not holding back information, Lestrade," the detective replies, cross.
"Of course you aren't," the inspector sighs.
"Sherlock will figure it out. He always does," John interjects, placating. "And you can lock him up in a cell and throw away the key."