Disclaimer: News flash! I don't own Sherlock, the BBC does! Haha, if only I did. If only...
Do me a favour and leave a like or review. (no hate please, only critique) My only motivation is reading about my own fantasy world, which is getting to be somewhat of a bore. So TELL ME if you like this story. Say SOMETHING! Thanks.
Oh and if you have a favorite character so far, you'll probably hate me by the end of this chapter!
Chapter Three
The Boys of Baker's Street
"Sherlock, they're here."
"I know."
"Of course you do."
"John, you took me here. You know how much I hate… my rival." Andromeda stormed up to her partner in crime, who had his hand on the golden knocker. To put it into simple words, she was tall. John had issues with height, but this is her having almost seven inches on him. And she was female! John turned away from the door to risk contemplation of Andromeda's icy cold eyes as she stared him down. She knew, oh she knew how much that unnerved him.
A cold feeling emptied him of all hope as he saw the hard, emotionless leer behind the crystal blue irises. The shadow of her coat collar cascaded over her sharp-featured face, making her cheekbones evermore pronounced and covered her nose and mouth in shadow. But the faint light from the street lamp hit her forehead and eyes, which made them shine brightly and they bored into John like lasers. He glanced away from her face at the ground beside her for a fraction of a second, and Andromeda swooped down from the steps, knowing she won.
'Dammit." One day John would work up the nerve to stare into her eyes until SHE looked away, instead of him.
Her feet crunched on fresh snow as she paced along the pavement before the door and began to rant about how her "rival" stole all her fame and covered up all dramatic stunts she'd done.
However, John had learned to shut her out of his thoughts. He mumbled to himself, "Honestly, you would think people would know that there's more than one sociopath in London!" He then lifted the knocker in his hands and let it fall onto the door. Twice. He listened as the noise penetrated the door and echoed through the house. (He did, however, hear Andromeda as she now ranted at him for knocking on the door. More words to shut out.)
"Don't answer the door."
"But it's my nephew."
"DON'T"
"Sherlock!"
"What are you going to do about it, John?"
The shorter man stood, putting his cup of tea and laptop down on the table beside him, "I'm going to answer it." He started over to the door.
Like an assassin in the shadows, ebony haired Sherlock Holmes was in front of his blogger, blocking the entrance to the stairwell. How he got across the room so fast from sitting comfortably in his chair, John would never know.
"I told you NOT to answer the door." The words were forced through gritted teeth, and cold eyes stared down into the blogger John. The blond man knew to step down.
"Fine." He nodded and backed away. "Fine." A shaky breath was taken. When Sherlock told you not to do something, you didn't do it. John thought to stand up to him sometimes, stare intently into his cold eyes, murderer's eyes, as much as the detective did into his. But he never could.
"Uncle! Answer the door, would you? It's cold out here?" the John outside called to the darkened window. "What if they aren't in?"
"Oh they are," Andromeda murmured before blowing into her hands to try and keep them warm. 'That's another stupid pair of nice gloves that blew up,' she thought. If the chill were a wolf, it'd be gnawing on her toes and fingertips hungrily.
John hadn't been wearing a cosy warm jacket as Andromeda was. He sat on the steps, hugging his arms to his body and shivered. Andromeda stopped pacing long enough to plop her jacket on his shoulders. She didn't need a frozen body to take care of today, thank you very much Mother Nature.
John looked up at the detective gratefully, but she wasn't looking at him as she slumped the oversized overcoat around him. She, instead, concentrated at what she was doing.
John was tempted to grab her hand to stop her from walking away into the frosty air and maybe join him under the coat, but he didn't, due to the sound of a door swinging open behind him.
"John!"
The man being addressed turned and stood, holding the jacket out to the woman behind him. "Uncle!"
The two, both named John, embraced, tentatively though; they had only met once before.
They broke apart and the older John looked over his nephew's shoulder at Andromeda and then back to John and raised his eyebrows. These two had not met, but knew of each other's existence. The younger John shook his head and widened his eyes at the man in the doorway's suggestive facial message.
The female detective nodded, "Doctor Watson."
"You must be Andromeda," the doctor replied, and Young John stepped aside so his uncle could shake the woman's hand.
The stairs inside the flat creaked, and a dark shaped appeared behind Older John. In the faded light seeping into the hallway of 221B, a pair of cold, unfeeling eyes narrowed at the woman outside. The same hostility was returned, and both Johns shared a questioning look.
A throat was cleared; John the blogger's, and, releasing Andromeda's hand, he said loudly, "Some friendly greetings, I see." Sarcasm coated his every word. "Come in, it's freezing." He stepped to the side to let the two younger people in. Sherlock snuck back up the stairs before they could enter.
"Hold on!" Mrs. Hudson was coming down the path; she had paper shopping bags in her arms. John held the door. "Thank you, dear."
Upstairs, a fire was roaring in its hearth. The young John had settled himself before it, warming his hands. Beside him, the Consulting Detective sat in his silver armchair, his hands steepled under his chin and his legs stretched out before him. As blogger John entered the room after Mrs. Hudson, who went into the kitchen to fix dinner, ("I'll make it tonight, John, since you have… guests," she had offered.) he noticed Sherlock had seated himself furthest from the long sofa under the smiley wall, but shifted the chair so he could face it. Andromeda was sat there, her arms crossed and her feet on the coffee table. Both sociopaths had their eyes fixed on the other.
"Deducing each other out, are you?" he said, getting a laugh from his nephew by the fire.
The intent, icy gazes didn't stop, and only Sherlock replied with a slight turn of his head, "If you like, John. That's not the way I would have put it."
"Believe me, I know it isn't!" the blond man laughed lightly. A long pause before, "Tea, Nephew?"
"Yes please," the two John had not asked answered simultaneously.
He sighed. "Alright." He glanced at the other John, who nodded, not hiding a smile at the detectives' reaction to each other.
Tea was distributed, and Lestrade entered the room. He refused the offer of tea from a huffy John. He then began to speak to John about a case.
"Not my home, Inspector." Andromeda spoke for the first time in her visit inside 221B. She observed out of the corner of her eye that he was now muffling laughs at her and Sherlock. Rolling her eyes, she set her teacup down on its saucer and walked out of the room and down the stairs.
At her movement, Sherlock took a sharp breath through his teeth and opened his mouth slightly while he moved from his stiffened position.
"Well then," he said, raising his eyebrows at the four people in the kitchen and standing. He strutted away, toward the window, grabbing his violin off of the table as he passed. Snow was now laid fairly thick on, well, everything outside, but the woman in black didn't care. She stood by the door, and Sherlock watched her wrap her coat tightly around her sleek frame and cross her arms to secure it. She stared out across the street at, seemingly, nothing.
Sherlock put the bow to the strings and began to play. A song he memorised well. It had a sad, sort of whining melody. He noticed the chattering stopped behind him, and when he finished the song there was applause. He did not turn. He did not smile with pride. He just stared out of the window.
That meant he saw Andromeda shake her legs out and walk away from his flat.
That meant he saw her crumple to the ground as the bullet found its mark in her body.