Sherlock didn't tell John what happened that night while he was at home pacing up and down worrying sick about his best friend. He never will, for that matter.
The last word he said was "Chinese" and then he quickly turned and strode off without looking back; he didn't see John still standing in the middle of the pavement, staring blankly before him, and the doctor didn't see Sherlock doing the same thing just around the corner.
The detective wandered aimlessly for hours, bumping into people, walls, corners, doors, everything that was on his way: John's words and broken voice kept ringing in his ears, his flustered face was all he could see and he didn't even notice that he passed by Baker Street at least four times without stopping. It was late in the evening when he finally did and remembered about dinner: he paused in the middle of a street and shivered, suddenly aware of the harsh cold wind that was blowing mercilessly, when a text alert snapped him out of his thoughts: "Answer me".
He checked his messages and found at least twenty texts, all from the same number; one of them caught his attention and he immediately hailed a cab.
- West Ealing Station.
The words just tumbled out of his mouth before his brain could register the thought of John waiting for him at home, and within five minutes – or at least that it felt like to Sherlock – the car stopped. He threw money at the cabbie – probably not enough, given the yelling and cursing he heard behind him – and the cold air nipped his cheeks as he started to run to an old warehouse.
He stopped right outside the entrance and smirked at the cliché of the situation: the villain who wants to meet in an abandoned place, the anti-hero that gladly accepts because he craves danger and strangely appreciates the company of a good old-fashioned psychopath, but something in his stomach twisted and he found himself quelling the urge to panic and scream.
Sherlock doesn't do panic: rage, indifference, sometimes fear, but panic is something he's not familiar with. The last time he panicked he was at a poll, he was waiting for a serial killer with a memory stick in his hand and a Semtex-clothed John Watson in front of him; in a nutshell, he had every reason to.
At that moment, with an unhinged and rusty door dividing him from what he secretly wanted, he had none.
He swallowed, took a deep breath and walked in.
- So you're going by the book now. The Great Book of Criminal Stereotypes. Rule number 34: meet your arch-enemy in an abandoned warehouse. You and my brother have the same book, apparently.
The central part of the warehouse was lit by the street lamps outside; Sherlock's words echoed and were followed by the faint sound of footsteps behind him.
- Don't be that way, you know you love this.
- And by "this" you mean killing my best friend's fiancé, reducing him to an empty shell of a man, forcing me to feel guilty for something mind-numbingly dull happened 20 years ago? Yes, I love this.
Sherlock didn't turn and Aida kept getting closer to him: she grabbed his wrists and tied them up.
- A girl needs to take precautions.
- A girl? Glad to see you're still delusional.
The woman growled and planted the heel of her shoe right behind Sherlock's knee: he collapsed under the staggering pain that spread throughout his body and somehow reduced him to laughter.
- Is this funny?
Sherlock snorted and tried to control his body: all his nerve endings were on fire and as he stirred the rope dig deeper into his wrists. He balanced his weight on his knees, this time facing Aida.
- Yes, quite. All this because of a kiss? Am I that good?
- Don't flatter yourself.
- You're my favourite kind of psychopath.
- Said the man with a favourite kind of psychopath. Are you sure I'm the damaged one here?
- You're the one who plans to kill women to get to me.
She giggled and walked to a dark corner, out of the detective's sight.
- How rude of me, dear. Here, take a seat.
Sherlock felt her hand running through his hair and then tugging, forcing him to stand up before being shoved down on a chair.
- Better?
- Peachy. So why am I here, exactly? Why not kill me now and spare dozens of people's life?
- Kill you? No, don't be obvious, I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though; I'm saving it up for something special.
While talking, Aida bent over and brushed his lips over Sherlock's ear, her arms around his shoulders so she could feel his muscles growing tense at the sound of those words.
- Wh-
- I really, really enjoyed pointing that rifle at you.
She whispered in his ear while her hands slowly lifted the skirt before moving to sit on his lap.
- James was an extraordinary man. It was a shame he died.
Like panic, Sherlock doesn't do shock. Surprise, yes, from time to time you can see his eyes and mouth widen at once when something catches him off guard, but after a second is gone. That night at the warehouse Sherlock fully understood the meaning of "flabbergasted".
Aida leaned back to enjoy the view: his mouth slightly parted, his eyes wide open in one of his rare look of sheer horror at the thought of what those words implied.
- Did not expect that, did you?
She leaned closer again and licked his upper lip, startling Sherlock who glared at her, disgusted and outraged.
- What? Are you really that surprised?
- I don't know, you tell me.
Aida sighed in an overly dramatic way.
- I moved here ten years ago. I was a very promising girl, you know? I started working as an assistant to a Criminology professor at Oxford. He asked for me, can you believe it? One day, during an open lesson, the class was so crowded we could barely walk to our desk but I still managed to catch a glimpse of his eyes among the crowd. They were…digging into my brain, I couldn't look away. It wasn't sexual attraction, it was more like…
She paused and shifted on Sherlock's lap, getting closer to his chest and inches away from his face.
- …you know the feeling when something is disgustingly horrifying but you can't help but staring? Like a plane crash right outside your window… fascinating and petrifying at the same time.
- I don't care, get to the point.
- Well, he asked for my help with something. I said no, of course, and then he offered me money, the kind of money that could turn your life around. And just for a consult!
Sherlock winced at the word and tried to free himself with a wiggle that eventually made things worse: Aida slid closer and pulled a gun out of the waistband of her skirt, pointing it to his neck.
- And he liked me. He wanted me to join him but asked me to continue with my work as a criminologist. You never know, right?
- Join him in what, exactly?
- I didn't know at first, but when he was sure about my intentions he brought me here. And showed it to me.
- His plan?
- Precisely. He was very fond of you, Sherlock. In his own way, I guess. He was the other side of the same coin. An evil twin, if you will. He was like you, only…not a coward.
The last three words were punctuated by open mouth kisses planted on Sherlock's neck.
- You know he had men at Scotland Yard, right? He still does. And when a young gangly boy pestered them with his doubts on Carl Powers' death, well…he took an interest in you. Can you blame him?
Sherlock didn't answer at first, he just stared at her, wincing at her warm breath that was wafting lightly on his neck.
- That day on the roof...
- You were targeting me.
Aida smiled and brushed her knuckles on his cheek.
- So, so clever. I told him you were three steps ahead of him but he didn't listen. You knew all along, what he saw and what I saw…was just a well performed act.
- You think?
- Don't play dumb. There's no way in hell you didn't know about the Partita Number One, Sherlock. You knew that the code and the "blowing up NATO in alphabetical order" was a farce. You knew he will be upset after seeing you clueless and not worthy of his time. You knew what he wanted to do, the loophole in his plan and the gun in his mouth, all of it. And you knew that someone was pointing a rifle at you, because that was one hell of a good show honey.
- I'm glad I entertained you. Now. I'm surprisingly hungry and John is probably calling all the hospital, so would you mind get to the bloody point of me being here?
Aida stood up and tucked her gun away before freeing Sherlock's wrists.
- Ah, yes. John. What an adorable man. I wanted to shrink him and put him in my pocket.
- Yes, he told me of your little encounter. What drug did you use to fake the symptoms?
- That's not really important, is it?
- Then tell me what is.
- We're just two old friends catching up!
Sherlock grinned and moved to stand before her.
- I see that time took its toll on your memory. Let me refresh it for you: I was bored and you were clay in my hands. You were annoyingly ordinary, even in your pathetic attempts to get my attention. You were useful for that brief, incriminating moment and for that only purpose. End of story. We are not, and never been, friends. But you know that, right?
She clenched her jaw and swallowed, then a wicked smirk appeared on her face.
- Are you glad she's out of the picture?
- What are you talking about?
- Mary. She was in the way, wasn't she?
- In the way of what?
- Of you two. You and John.
The detective smiled at her like you'd do with a three-year old that just said something dumb and unintentionally funny; Aida sensed the pity in his eyes and grew angrier.
- I bet you thought about it. How to get rid of the woman who was ruining your only friendship. She clearly knew how to handle you, that must have driven you insane. Mary was a confident, smart and lively woman. Getting you two apart was like tilting at windmills, especially after your prodigal return, and she knew that. Oh, John loved her Sherlock, you can't imagine how much. She told me about their relationship since the first time we met and when she felt safe around me she saw me as a confidante.
- You're stalling and I'm starting to get really bored. The last time it happened I started shooting at a wall.
He pushed her back, grabbing the gun with a swift move and pointing it at her ribs.
- I guess I could try with a moving target this time.
- I touched a raw nerve, didn't I? You're afraid of what she might have said to me.
- I don't care what she thought of me.
- It's not what she thought. It's what John felt. Or rather feels.
- I don't care about that either.
- You're digging the muzzle of the gun into my skin, Sherlock, and you're not a violent man, despite what others might think. You're nervous.
Sherlock let her go and stepped back before unloading the gun and throwing the pieces away.
- I'm disappointed. I thought I was in for an interesting evening. I guess I was wrong. If you don't mind now, I wanted Chinese tonight.
The detective turned but Aida was quicker: she wrapped a firm hand around his wrist, pulled him back and lifted her knee to make him fall on his back. Sherlock collapsed with a loud thump that took his breath away for a couple of seconds.
- For Christ's sake, will you just stop with this charade? This is utterly useless; you're a waste of time, space, energy and oxygen. What the bloody hell do you want from me?
- I want you to understand how important you're to John – she crouched down beside him – and I want you to realize how essential he is to you. And once you're aware of that, I want you to live in fear. Fear that something might happen to him, fear that you could die tomorrow, leaving him with nothing, again. You're way too confident, Sherlock, and I have to give it to you, you don't have that many weak points. But John is. John is your weakness and I want to exploit it. I want you to be terrified of losing him, I want you to understand what life would be without him and that you clearly underestimate his value. I want you to know that Mary feared you and your relationship with him. She feared you might ask him to choose and she knew John would have chosen you. John loved her, he really did, but he loved her knowing you were dead and that he had no choice but to embrace normalcy. And after having tasted what life with you would have been like, normalcy was prison. Mary listened to John having nightmares, yelling your name and crying in his sleep. He didn't usually wake up so she never told him about her sleepless nights spent trying to lull him to sleep again. John loves you and you know that, but you can't even begin to imagine the impact and the consequences that this kind of love has on him. And I want that consequences bearing down on you too. I want you to be on the same boat and I want you to fear every minute of it, from the tiny sways to the storms and the icebergs. I want panic to be the first thing you feel in the morning and the thing that grips your heart before sleeping, spreading through your bones. James was wrong. The need to be right and a step ahead of everyone isn't your weakness. Well, not anymore at least. And neither is targeting John. Your Achilles' heel is your confidence about him. And I want to shake it, I want you to doubt yourself, to understand that I could slip something into his coffee tomorrow and you could lose him forever. Just like that. You have to panic about the fact that you spent a whole hour with his fiancé's killer without calling the cops or even thinking about it. He will never forgive you Sherlock.
Aida was leaning on the floor, shifting her weight on her hands placed above the detective's shoulders, glaring into his eyes.
- So there you have it. This is what I want from you.
She stood up brushing her knees, calm and unruffled like nothing ever happened; she walked to the door but paused right before leaving.
- You wanna know something else? Molly is a very nice girl.
I humbly beg your pardon for any mistakes or spelling horrors. Bear with me.