Devonshire Squires Chapter Twenty Six
Sherlock paused at the door into the main gym floor. He was standing in the corridor to the locker rooms, looking through the glass windows in the swing doors, watching what was going on out there. The place was a heaving mass of humanity; there must have been at least two hundred people in the room. The rectangular floor was unevenly divided by the fighting ring, which was almost directly in front of him. Elevated, down lit into brilliant clarity, it drew the eyes of the crowd like a magnet. The rest of the gym was in darkness, to keep people's eyes fixed on the entertainment, and to hide from prying eyes the identity of the punters. This was pure theatre, highly illegal and the audience wanted anonymity. To his left in the smaller part of the rectangle, the fighters and their support teams milled about, eyeing each other speculatively, briefly forming conspiratorial knots, and then a flurry of updates would ping into life on the tablet he was carrying.
Other fighters in their team livery were starting to move among the punters, using the tablets to gather in the bets. The audience filled the larger part of the rectangle to his right. The make-shift bar along the back wall was doing a roaring trade in miniature bottles of Veuve Clicquot champagne, served without a glass but with a metal straw- rather convenient for those who want to use it to hoover up a nose full of another, more illegal substance.
He opened the swing doors but stopped on the threshold, enjoying the full assault on his senses. The cocaine made him relish, rather than run from it. He could see better in the darkness because his pupils were dilated. He could actually taste the air. Among the smells of alcohol, sweat, expensive after-shave and cheap perfume, he could swear that the scent of cocaine was in there, too. Perhaps that was more wishful thinking, or merely his body responding to the forbidden experience in a new way. In either case, it cranked up his senses yet another notch.
A roar went up from the crowd. His attention drawn back to the ring, Sherlock saw the novice fighter bouncing away from the Finsbury Fridge. He must have landed a kick, for all the good it would do him. The Finsbury fighter was built like the eponymous household appliance, and would be able to take any of what the novice would be able to throw at him. Still, the effect on the odds was almost immediate, as his tablet pinged again.
There was a time when a crowd like this would have bothered him, but he'd learned how to filter out what was unimportant, and the cocaine made it even easier to focus. With so many bodies in the room, Sherlock could really feel the heat, so he pushed off the hood, and unzipped his sweatshirt. He moved confidently away from the door and dived into the warm sea of people, weaving his way around the atolls of gamblers. Like a barracuda on a coral reef, he started to hunt.
Sherlock needed to find two people. One he knew by name and face- Alec Cunningham, the Clasher. He was one half of tonight's equation. He would be wearing the Cunningham purple livery, so should be straight forward, if difficult to spot in the dark, tightly packed room. The other half was going to be even harder to find- the man who had been William Kirwan's accomplice. The one who escaped from Fenchurch Street when his partner was killed, the person who was carrying the rest of the torn note that had lured them to that place.
Sherlock had no name, no face, not even a description. He had simply deduced the existence of this person. Like the void left when blood spatter was interrupted, showing that someone had been standing in the way, this person's presence had been undetected by anyone other than him – and Alex Cunningham, who was also hunting for this man. Sometimes it was the absence of something that was the important thing to see. A corollary to his dictum- one needed to observe what was not seen, as well as what was visible. Sometimes, what was missing was actually more important.
There was another roar, and then applause. He vaguely realised that the first bout must have ended. He'd stopped listening to the pinging of the tablet, just carrying it as a way of disguising his reason to be moving through the crowd. A brief lull at ringside raised the volume of conversation in the crowd, and he extended his senses again, trying to hear a Portuguese accented voice, with possible southern African overtones.
As a tall, leggy woman tottered past him in ridiculously high stiletto heels, he briefly toyed with the idea that his prey might be a woman, before discarding the idea. The clue would be the person's links to Mozambique and the oil business, which the balance of probabilities said would be a male. Anything that reduced the possibilities was welcome, because he needed to find this missing puzzle piece before the younger Cunningham did. Sherlock became a sponge, absorbing sounds as he moved, little snatches of conversation were drawn in, filtered and then discarded. He would know when he heard what he needed to hear, or see it when it crossed his line of sight.
As the next fight got underway, he surfed through the noise of the crowd, the rolling waves of cheers and groans as the fighters' fortunes ebbed and flowed. Sherlock kept his eye out for the other predator moving in this sea of humanity. As the prime suspect in the murder of William Kirwan, Alec Cunningham needed to kill the missing link just as much as Sherlock needed to ensure the man lived. The father would be penned up with the fighters on the far side of the ring. But, because he fought last week, the son would be on his side of the ring, gathering in bets. Like Sherlock, Alec would be using that cover to mask his true intent.
In the half-lit gloom that cloaked the audience, Sherlock's hunt was suddenly interrupted by the sight of Sebastian Wilkes, who loomed up on his left.
"So, Holmes, you survived your bout last week. Good to know that you finally did manage to learn how to defend yourself." The fat banker smirked, but Sherlock just ignored him and pushed by.
"Don't you want my bet, then?" Seb called out as Sherlock shouldered his way back into the crowd. No, I don't have time for idiots like you. He didn't bother saying this out loud; Wilkes wasn't worth wasting his breath. Instead, his attention was drawn by the sight across the room of a tall man in a dark tracksuit. Was it Cunningham? Sherlock froze, willing the man to turn around so he could see the face.
From behind him, a hand grabbed Sherlock's left forearm, the one carrying his tablet, and he spun around to give Sebastian an answer that the idiot would actually understand. The forward motion of his right hand was stopped in mid-air by the sight of a face he did not expect to see.
Sherlock snarled, "What are you doing here?"
John didn't let go, but said quietly, "I could ask you the same thing, Sherlock."
He tried to shake his arm free and snapped, "I'm working. On a case."
"So am I. Funny thing, coincidence." John was wearing one of those smiles. The one that he put on when he was actually very angry and wound up tighter than a drum, but was determined to hold it all in. It was something that Sherlock recognised from past experience.
The doctor used his hold on Sherlock's forearm to turn him, so his face would be visible in the light from the boxing ring.
John's smile tightened. "Well, you're certainly enjoying yourself. High as the proverbial kite. Needed that for the case, did you?" He didn't hide his sarcasm.
Sherlock felt a flush of heat across his face; he was warm, and needed to move. "I don't have time for this. Let me go."
"No. Not this time. You and I are going to deal with this, right now." The last two words were said with enough emphasis and command that people standing nearby turned, taking their eyes off the fighting to stare.
Sherlock groaned in frustration. "Not here." He shook off John's grip and marched off, back toward the corridor of training rooms, John followed in his wake, as close as he could, determination made evident in every step he took.
As the doors on the main gym floor closed behind them, Sherlock turned back to John. Then a couple of fighters pushed by the pair and through the doors, so he moved further down the corridor, sighing in frustration. When they were alone again, Sherlock turned and faced John. "Right, this is far enough. Say what you have to say, but do it quickly. A man's life depends on this being over in a hurry."
John rolled his eyes. "That's always the way with you, isn't it? Whenever we need to talk, there is always something else that is more important. You've been ducking and diving away from this ever since you got back."
Sherlock drew another ragged breath. "I mean it, John. Literally. Kirwan had an accomplice, and Alec Cunningham is going to kill him tonight if he can. If I'm stuck back here wasting time when he gets killed, well…"
A little nod, as if to himself, then John stepped closer into Sherlock, invading his personal space. "Wasting time? Is that what you think? I don't buy it. This is you trying to piss me off as a way of getting out of talking. Won't work this time." John was still smiling that smile that didn't reach his eyes. "So, you invent a murder about to happen. Give me one good reason why I should believe you."
Bitterly, Sherlock snapped, "So, we're back to this again? If you don't trust me, if you think I am lying to you, then just…" Sherlock ran out of words for a moment. "Just leave me alone. I don't need this now." It came out as a whisper.
John's answer was an immediate "Yes, you do. Now more than ever. You're sleeping rough, using drugs, avoiding anyone who gives a damn about those two facts. And you're ill. You're running a fever and favouring your right side when you walk. Kidney giving you grief, is it? According to Stuart Bradshaw, it should be. And yet you don't think you need to deal with any of that, because the case is the only thing that matters now. Well, it isn't. I for one don't want to see "The Work was more important" being carved on your tombstone.
"Actually…" he gave a little laugh, "there's already a real one available with your name on it, so why the hell not? Just add that epitaph and a date to it, and be done with it."
Sherlock looked away. Closing his eyes, he tried to process the pain and anger he heard in John's tone. "I'm not suici…" He stopped, when he realised that he had to keep the rising panic out of his response. A voice from his past tried to help: Take a deep breath, count to five and release it. But even her gentle, patient mantra wouldn't help him know how to deal with what he was hearing in John's words.
He had to get away from this, before he lost it completely. He'd had too many conversations like this with his John avatar in his Mind Palace. Memories beat against him, memories of what he was confining in a dark cell in China, of what he'd left behind chained to the wall of the prison when he was being beaten in Serbia. All this talk was just opening up too many doors, letting out things that needed to be kept locked away. He tasted iron and felt something trickle down the outside of his lower lip; he'd bitten the inside of his cheek so hard it was bleeding.
Angry, he wiped it away and fought back. "You don't understand. This- solving the case- it's more important than some bruises. If you would just leave me alone, then I could get this done. It was easier when I was away, because no one was meddling like Mycroft, or lecturing like you and Lestrade. I could do what had to be done. Now leave me alone."
"No." John was unmoved. "Sherlock, what kept you alive all those months out there? Tell me that. What stopped you from taking stupid risks like the ones you're running right now?"
Sherlock was confused. "What does that have to do with anything?" He was reduced to looking at John with his peripheral vision; full frontal made him want to bolt. The urge to flee was becoming overwhelming.
John rocked on his heels and lifted his chin. "I'll tell you the answer, because you don't seem willing to admit it. You never risked losing it all in one throw of the dice because you knew you couldn't, not if you wanted to shut the whole network down. You had to be careful so we- me, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade- were protected.
"Well, it worked; you won and we're safe. To hell with what it might have cost you- you don't want to think about that, and you don't want anyone to know; it's not important. But you've come back to find things are different, makes you wonder whether any of it was really worth it. So now you think that constraint on you is gone- it no longer matters what happens. That's what's leading you to do daft things and take crazy risks."
Sherlock tried to make sense of this. He heard the words, but could only really see the emotion in John's face. John was so angry with him- well, when wasn't he these days? He was cross with him for not looking after himself better, for getting in the fight club. He had to look away completely, and try to get his breathing under control.
The cocaine rush that had helped him focus his hunting was now being consumed by this argument he was having with John. If he didn't find Cunningham soon, he was going to be unable to stop another murder, and it would be his fault because he wasn't strong enough to keep his panic under control. In desperation, he risked another look at John and just blurted out, "Why does any of that matter to you?"
John's face crumpled from anger to something more…distressed, making Sherlock even more confused and anxious.
The doctor just said quietly, "That's exactly what I mean. You think it doesn't matter to me now what happens to you. Well, you're wrong. It does. And I will not allow you to keep thinking that it doesn't. Just stop this, stop it now. You're going to end up really killing both of us this time."