Words; prompt, Deduction
BBC Sherlock isn't mine, no money made. Bows to creators.
Sherlock's powers of deduction were uncanny, no one doubted that. It was like a magic trick, but no, Sherlock insisted, just logic and seeing; seeing and observing, something most had no interest in doing.
Seeing what was right in front of your face.
So it might come as a surprise to some to know that there were a few times, sparklingly rare, when Sherlock Holmes didn't _want_ to see what was being thrown (for him) blatantly in his face.
The door was ajar, break in. Sherlock's mind went into overdrive.
Scratches on the walls, fibers from a jumper, faint smell of Mrs. Hudson's perfume.
The detective's eyes narrowed and his mouth set. His landlady being dragged up the stairs, frightened.
Her cry echoed in his ears, 'Sherlock!' and he hadn't been here. A black, cold rage began settling over him.
Every step, every speck of dust, every imprint that didn't belong in 221b process in his mind with lightning speed.
He entered the room, completely unsurprised to find Mrs. Hudson sitting there, tears streaming down her face.
The man, no thug, blood on his ring, scratch on Mrs. Hudson's face, held a gun close to her head. Sherlock's rage blossomed hot and dangerous.
His eyes pinpointed every fragile, potentially lethal spot on the agent's body. Sherlock Holmes wanted blood.
It was so simple, incredibly simple, to outsmart cretins like these. The head butt (thank you for the lesson John) was just an added bonus that Sherlock enjoyed entirely.
There Sherlock's deduction had pointed out the obvious. It always was to him, but the agents wanted him to see it, to intimidate him. Bad idea.
Other times it was a the opposite, something he wasn't supposed to see (impossibility that) that helped save a friend.
There was a dirty cop in Scotland Yard. Sherlock had known it for months but the suspect had been frustratingly difficult to pinpoint.
Sherlock quickly dismissed both Anderson and Donovan, neither had the imagination to try to fool him (or the motive to harm DI Lestrade, Sherlock grudgingly admitted).
But _someone_ did. Bullets didn't just disappear from a gun moments before a shootout (luckily for back-up).
Information was being leaked, evidence stolen, Lestrade was tracing it and he was getting too close. Good thing Sherlock was even closer, and watching.
It wasn't as if he actually _cared_ about the man, Sherlock reasoned to himself. Without Lestrade, he knew he wouldn't be allowed ten feet (legally) close to one of his beloved crime scenes.
His mind would shrivel up with boredom and he would turn to other vices.
It was the silence and...emptiness of 221b, despite charming Mrs. Hudson downstairs, that was making him worried.
Or maybe it was the talk that the DI had with him when he was hauled in, blood oozing from an elbow.
Sherlock retaliated sometimes by stealing IDs and basically being a pain in the ass on a regular basis to counter the fact that the DI's words actually, sunk in.
Hearing someone with at least two brain cells to rub together speak calmly and coolly about wasting his life and talents, despite Sherlock's sneers and insults wasn't something the younger detective could delete.
So, maybe, yeah, he actually liked Detective Inspector Lestrade, despite his appalling team and disgusting 'concerns' about Sherlock relapsing.
They would never truly be friends, Sherlock had long since given up on the saccharine idea that he would have a _friend_, but the older man was someone that Sherlock would like to keep around.
And Lestrade wasn't making it easy on him.
Whoever it was was circling closer. Sherlock broke into NSY's records to check for any out of place transfers and substitutions.
He scanned evidence check-ins for thefts, he watched Lestrade's shifts like a hawk.
Finally, he had (for obvious reasons) to break in unannounced.
Footsteps, unknown show size, in the DI's office. Mud shows intruder to be frequently on the beat, in bad weather recently, shoe size average.
Erratic movements, indentations in the carpet show nervousness, bad news. This one was getting desperate.
Desk rifled through then carelessly put together again, chair pulled up close to the desk when Sherlock knew that Lestrade usually jumped out of it and left it twirling, not bothering.
Smudge on a document, name smeared then re-written. No, see and observe, written over.
Sherlock was out of the door of NSY like a shot.
He barked instructions to the cab driver and slipped an extra ten pound note to blantantly speed. When the driver asked about the police Sherlock creatively insulted him first, then shouted that he bloody well _hoped_ they would run into them.
That was the point.
It was a young man, desperate, in over his head with debt and growing alcoholism. Pinching from the evidence room was feeding a lifestyle but Lestrade had gotten too close.
He held the gun up, Lestrade's back to him. Fingers trembling, he pulled the trigger just as a tall, lanky detective barreled into him.
The shot went wide, not very well aimed to begin with, but it still grazed Greg Lestrade's arm.
The entire team turned in shock as Sherlock viciously punched the young cop over and over. Papers and shifts changed just for this opportunity to get to the DI.
Lestrade knew then that Sherlock was a great man and was grateful to know him. But he also knew it wasn't enough. He thanked the detective again and again for saving him until Sherlock finally grew so abrasive Lestrade couldn't handle it anymore.
The younger man was too afraid to care and had already deduced that he could.
Sherlock wished he hadn't had his ability then, it was one of the first times that it frightened him.
And sometimes, the curse of his mind and his powers of logic came as a combination, a terrible fear that he knew exactly what was happening but had miscalculated and couldn't stop events slowly unfolding.
Because he cared...
He'd lost John in the dark alleys, their one suspect turning into two, then three, spooked from their planned meeting place by the detective and the doctor.
Sherlock knew they wouldn't be skittish for long, especially if they knew he and John didn't have back up and John didn't have his gun. It'd been such a mad cap ordeal to get this far.
Sherlock grit his teeth. He should have anticipated there would be more than one, but his analysis of the original suspect hadn't given any such information away, surprisingly.
He'd just seemed so, lackluster, a pawn or lackey really...
Sherlock froze as the information slammed into his brain and he processed it, lightning quick.
His mind never stopped as he scanned the walls, the ground. He didn't call out, didn't dare.
Every detail, every clue...something, there must be something and yet he didn't want to be proven right.
He found it.
Jumper fibers, light cream (John had been wearing his jacket, was pushed facing into the wall then) on rough brick.
Marks, light, then deeper in the dirt. A struggle, but no noise.
Other men, the other suspects? One, no three; John outnumbered and outmuscled, silenced somehow.
Dragged scuff marks, Sherlock followed them with obsessive intensity.
Mere feet away, knee marks. Why? John's, he knew, Sherlock Holmes never guessed. Yet for what purpose?
A whispered panic broke his thoughts, 'Where is he? Who's responsible?" Yet Sherlock knew, again, the answers, never guessing. He viciously pushed his traitorous thoughts away, emotions wouldn't help now, no matter what his racing heart said.
Focus, concentrate, deduce...
More signs, there had to be more. Which direction? Here, the soil was dustier, definitely three men to try to subdue one.
Sherlock smirked, don't underestimate 5'7" tea-loving John Watson.
Still, where? The scuffle marks were growing fainter, Sherlock looked elsewhere. Evidence, it was here, right before his eyes. Find it.
There, more jumper fibers against the wall. The first sign of blood against brick.
The jumble of footprints revealed something else behind it. Two indentations, expensive shoes, smaller size, standing behind the others. Giving orders.
Sherlock's blood ran cold.
*I owe you*
*Everyone has their pressure points...what's yours, sexy?*
The smell of expensive cologne, the shoes, the walk, every detail gave something away.
*Follow, follow me, Sherlock!* He could hear the venemous whisper. *It's really _too_ obvious*
The dirt changed to mud. John was still conscious, still fighting, evidence in the smeared path.
Then the cologne scent mixed with foul water, rusty metal and an open flow to the Thames. The smell of fish, rot, corruption; the man's true nature.
"Moriarty!" Sherlock bellowed, letting his deep, powerful voice echo in the metal pipe. "Show yourself!"
"Not yet." A giggly voice whispered, coming from behind, around, in front, all around him. "Come on and find me, Sherlock, I have something you wa-ant!"
Sherlock was shaking with rage but his features were icy still.
"I'm not playing your games now Jim."
"Oh yes you are, and so is _he_."
"Release the doctor, you wanted to draw me out, I'm here. None of this involves him."
More giggles, close this time. Behind him.
"You're wrong Sherlock, he's just _sooo_ much fun to play with, especially when you're too, too careless!"
"Show him to me!" Sherlock shouted, voice thick.
A hard shove landed between his shoulder blades and the detective almost went down.
"Miss me?" Moriarty sneered, appearing in front of him. The criminal snapped his fingers, letting his goons drag John out into the open.
Sherlock saw everything in a split-second and blood pounded in his temples, hot, dangerous, no, deadly.
John's face, scrape on cheek and temple, bruise on cheek, favoring shoulder, the rough grip on him causing bruises Sherlock knew he'd see and count later. Every one of them.
Then to John himself, bound and gagged, his eyes infuriated, flashing an apology to Sherlock with one glance.
Sherlock disregarded it. He had to get John, and secondly himself, to safety.
Three men, split second deduction.
Weak knee, asthma, trick ankle, slower reaction for one, beginnings of arthritis...the list went on.
Conclusion. Take them out with minimal effort to get his friend out of harm's way. He met John's gaze and nodded, miniscule. And he knew, never guessed, that John understood.
But there was still Moriarty.
The consulting criminal grinned toothily.
"Bring him to me, then."
John was dragged over. Sherlock clenched his fists.
"Oh Johnny boy, your patheticness really does make one sick." Arm around John's shoulders who tried to jerk away violently. "I should help you, and everyone else, out of their misery by putting the this little puppy down."
"Still, Sherlock over there isn't nearly as much fun to play with without you."
Sherlock let Moriarty taunt, thinking past the words and seeing the criminal put his guard down.
Then the crack and an opportunity.
One glance to John and another tiny nod. Message received.
And it all seemed to happen at once.
Sherlock moved in a blur, a kick, push and swift jab in every direction. John Watson threw his head back.
Two, then three thugs down. A crack of a broken nose. Button in the pocket pushed and Sherlock grabbed John, pulling him behind the pipe.
Arms freed first, as fast as possible then Sherlock gently helped him remove the gag.
Seconds later, the detective's hands were digging into John's arm, keeping the smaller man with him. The doctor didn't complain, however.
Sirens in the distance, Lestrade must have been expecting the call.
Moriarty's shouts of rage, tinged with pain Sherlock was glad to hear, echoed around both before the sirens drowned him out.
"I will kill your mangy pet for this Sherlock! I will torture him and make you watch!" Insanity in every word.
Sherlock looked to John who met his icy blue eyes, outwardly calm; the worry was mirrored in the older man's deep blue orbs, though.
"Nice, deducing that." John said, still catching his breath.
"You too." Sherlock's hands rested on John's shoulders for a moment. John's hands moved to his arms.
"You too."