"What do you MEAN, you've LOST him?!"
Lestrade slammed the door of the police car shut, stomping towards the other men.
"We were trailing him, and he turned into the alley, and-and we got stuck behind the dustcart, and by the time we could turn in, the car was gone! Of course, cameras tracked a similar black car leaving the opposite end of the alleyway, and we managed to get that pulled over, but it was just a random person."
"Did you at least send them in for questioning?" Lestrade was spitting mad, nearly yanking out tufts of his hair as he seethed with infuriation.
"Y-yes, of course, Inspector!"
"Did you get the waste truck's information?" Sherlock growled from behind Lestrade. Both men started and turned to him.
"Uhh- no." The policeman's voice came out as a squeak.
"Well, then, unless you've scoured these two buildings already for any traces of Moriarty, then you've just let our literally biggest clue yet simply drive away. Lestrade, send in a search team to every surrounding building, definitely these two. Find any side entrances, doors, windows, even ventilationairways, drainage pipes, manholes. Search everything. Send out an alert for any garbage trucks within five miles. I suppose he's already switched cars again, but we may find something in them."
Lestrade nodded, already shouting orders at the other officers. A team of agents swarmed the alleyway, and it was soon full of police dogs as well, scouring the sides of the edifices. The two detectives- one consulting, the other, an inspector- stood side-by-side in the chaos.
"What a... what a stupid man," Lestrade sneered.
Oh, don't worry, Inspector. They're all stupid. It's not like the police will find anything that wasn't left on purpose, anyways. Sherlock bit back his response, instead turning his attention to the scene. Just look at this alleyway- cleaned, and recently, too, judging by the lack of residue on the lower bricks and concrete. Power-washed as well, by the looks of it, which is suspicious. Why would a decrepit alleyway be remarkably clean? Sherlock took a few steps forward, assessing the scene. Air conditioning vent is recently unhinged- a screw missing, how messy, that's obviously a decoy. Windows all shut with no irregular dust patterns, a few hidden cobwebs intact- either Moriarty has become spectacularly impeccable beyond human capabilities, or the windows are untouched. No, they won't find anything in these buildings. Sherlock jumped as a drop of rain hit his nose. Oh, perfect. Let's destroy any forensic evidence; which is exactly how he planned it, of course. Of course. What else? A few empty cardboard boxes by the back step- they've been there a while- a few shiny unclosed rubbish bins...
"We got stuck behind the dustcart, and..."
Now, why would a dustcart be unloading shiny, clean bins full of garbage into an alleyway and leaving them open? Unless...
"Lestrade, get everyone out of there. Now."
"But-"
Sherlock didn't hear him protest; he merely grabbed an uncovered garbage bin, shut it, and dragged it out of the alleyway. Lestrade mumbled something under his breath before shouting at everyone to clear out. Grudgingly, the team did so, and not a second too late- as soon as the droplets turned into a true London drizzle, each opened can exploded, letting out enormous blasts of fire and burning metal.
Donovan turned to Sherlock, a look of genuine shock on her face. "H-how?" She screeched. "How did you know?!"
"I'll explain at the lab; I'll need to look at the contents of this bin. Are we going to use a police car, or shall I call a cab?"
Thirty-eight hours, thirty minutes. The consulting detective had piled into the police car with Lestrade, Donovan, and his garbage can, and the three had driven to the lab fairly quickly. Sherlock wasted no time in going through the contents; after he had dumped them out on a table, it took the detective all of three seconds to find what he was looking for.
"What is that?" Sally had growled, regarding the lump of salt now in Sherlock's hand. It was roughly the size of a cricket ball, but much lighter, with two protruding wires. Sherlock slid it under his microscope and was now examining the ball intently.
"Well, if I had to guess, I'd say it was some sort of bomb," Lestrade mumbled around a donut. He had obviously taken to the lab's break room fairly quickly upon arrival.
"You would be correct, Inspector," Sherlock murmured, fiddling with the lens. "It's a salt bomb, if I had to name it."
"That- that doesn't exist." Sally crossed her arms and shot a glance in the direction of either detective.
"Go on, Sherlock. Explain it to us," Lestrade prompted. Sherlock barely suppressed a shudder- this was not an audience he appreciated, and not one that would appreciate him. Not like...
"Think of it, Miss Donovan," Sherlock drawled with a hint of annoyance, "as an upgraded version of a bath bomb. You place it in water, it begins to fizz and degrade until it eventually dissolves into the water. This was very similar and barely detectable. In that mound of rubbish you'll most definitely find some salt packets and empty boxes for simple office copper wires, too. Now, this bomb is set off by water- if it had rained into the uncovered bins, the salt would have dissolved." Sherlock, while speaking, had carefully chipped away at the salt ball until a yellowish, oily liquid had seeped onto the pallette. The two wires were also connected to what looked like a miniature stick of dynamite.
"If this salt had eroded away, it would have released this liquid onto this." He held up the small explosive, eyes still trained on his work. "Now, that wouldn't have done anything-yet." He slid the explosive away from him on the desk before standing.
"If it had continued to rain into the bins- which it did-" he rummaged through one of the cabinets, taking out a small dropper and filling it with water from the tap before resuming his work. "This... would have happened."
He slid the oiled pallette out from under the microscope and carefully let a drop of water hit the substance. Immediately, it shot out sparks, making the two police workers jump back, startled. Sherlock tossed the dropper into the sink before standing and placing the pallette into a fridge for safekeeping.
Sally looked down, murmuring something under her breath- Sherlock didn't doubt for a second it wasn't the word "freak." Lestrade looked mildly impressed; but then again, he always did.
"That was quick, Sherlock. You're still on your game, then," Sally pointed out.
A heavy silence seeped into the air. Sherlock felt suffocated by her unspoken words- You're still fine, then, even after your best friend was shot and stopped breathing not two days ago. He glanced at the clock without realizing. Thirty-eight hours, forty minutes. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"Lestrade, are your people still investigating the garbage trucks and specific cars?" The consulting detective's voice was eerily calm.
Lestrade cleared his throat. "Uhm, yes, they are."
"Get them all to the station. Let the dogs smell this salt and-" Sherlock pushed some of the salt into a bag and tossed it to the detective before grabbing a cloth, soaking it in the oil, and putting it in another bag- "and this oil. Anyone with traces of either is an immediate suspect."
Lestrade nodded solemnly before he strode out. Donovan, however, stayed, wringing her hands.
"Look, Holmes- I wasn't- er-"
"Then, what, exactly, was your point?" Sherlock's face was a mixture of taunting, wide eyes and glaring, narrowed eyebrows. It unnerved the policewoman, and she turned her unease into a spitting retort.
"Nothing, Holmes," she snapped loftily, backing away. "It's just that it was a rather quick deduction."
"I do deduce quickly."
"Much faster," she went on, giving him a pointed glare, "than usual. Much faster than when John's around. Have you noticed how easily Lestrade follows your orders? Then again, he's seemed a bit preoccupied. He keeps glancing out his window, towards the hospital. But yeah; just something I've noticed today, his willingness to comply. I mean, you're suddenly snapping them out so quickly, too. I'm just... thinking, Holmes." And with that, she spun on her heel, slamming the door behind her. The room was silent.
Sherlock sighed, curling and uncurling his hands into fists. He shook his head after a moment as if rattling his brain into a different mindset before he walked over to the rubbish pile, sifting through the paper and cardboard. He saw a crumpled yellow paper and pulled it out, unfolding it as he did. It smelled of salt, oddly enough; much more so than anything else from inside the bin.
"Hello, my dear Sherlock, and congratulations in advance of your deduction of the salt bombs. Clever, yes? London has yet to realise the people to suspect are the ones you never notice: garbage workers... people in heavy clothing on the streets... 'Rebels' who graffiti... Cab drivers. Ah, yes, that was a weak moment for you. Itching to beat this old man in a game of intellect and chance at the same time. You almost took the pill, didn't you? Something inside you, screaming to undergo this battle of wits. You're lucky Doctor Watson is such a crack shot.
Of course, I didn't miss, either. Obviously. If I had wanted him dead, Sherlock, he wouldn't have had the chance to scream your name. Funny, isn't it? I thought it was funny. He didn't scream "help," he screamed, "Sherlock." What can you do that no one else can?
Oh, but I hope he's doing well, actually. I would hate for either of you to be... eliminated from this game before it was over. I've decided it's a game of chess. The reasoning is simple- chess has pawns. A king can move his pawns however he likes. As slowly or as quickly or as clearly or as messily as you want, people can be guided to a certain conclusion, to a certain square on the board, without ever knowing you made that decision for them. From a crystal-clear, impeccable, flawless precision of deception to a smudged, erased, muddied, littered mess of confusion... Oh, yes, it is marvelously easy to move, to sway, to...sacrifice a pawn.
What are you willing to sacrifice, in order to kill a King?
Yours,
Jim Moriarty"
What are you willing to sacrifice, in order to kill a King?
Sherlock wasn't sure exactly how it happened, or when it happened, but suddenly, he was in their flat on Baker Street, slumped in his chair The salty paper trembled slightly in his shaking hands. Shaking with, what, fear, desperation, rage? He didn't know.
What are you willing to sacrifice, in order to kill a King?
Oh, yes, it is marvelously easy... to sacrifice a pawn.
He glanced at the clock, then checked his phone. Forty hours, twenty minutes. No new messages.
The consulting detective sighed, leaning forward and placing the letter smelling of salt by his shoes. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples.
What are you willing to sacrifice?
This was new. Sherlock had never felt lost, really.
Author's Note:
You guys' reviews literally make my life oh my god. They're the greatest.
I've decided I'm suffering, not from writer's block, but from writer's agitation. The words and the plot are rushing out, but every single scene I write turns into this massive, climatic moment or argument and I have to keep telling myself, "Whoa, hold on, it's only chapter three," and I go back and change it. But don't worry; I keep the drafts for use later on, and it'll pay off. I promise no filler chapters, either; they might vary in length but never too much in importance. This is the fourth version of this chapter I've written, though; I honestly feel like a dog chained to a fence because I keep having to reign it in and build up angst and suspense haha. I hope it's working.
So, yes, a little sneak peak at Moriarty and a bit more on Sherlock. Thanks again for reading, and comments/reviews/criticisms are greatly appreciated :)