"Belief can be manipulated. Only knowledge is dangerous."
― Frank Herbert
"What is it that you don't understand? I need a car, it doesn't need to be flashy, it doesn't need to have a radio. All it needs is four functioning wheels and a full tank of petrol."
The man behind the counter stared back stoned faced at Sherlock,
"I understand what you want sir, but I can't give you a car."
"Why not? I have money, look." Sherlock said as he thrust a handful of notes under the man's nose.
"I can't give you a car because you don't have a valid driver's licence."
"I don't need a valid driver's licence."
"The law says different_"
"The law is flawed and rife with gross inaccuracies, I should know, I work for the police department."
The man's eyebrows shot up to his hair line, "You're a policeman?"
Sherlock snorted, "Egotistical I might be, underachieving I am not. I didn't say that I was a policeman, I said that I worked for the police department – Scotland Yard to be precise, not that it matters because you're obviously not listening to what I have to say_"
"Sir," the man said as he popped another piece of nicotine gum into his mouth, "I cannot rent you a car if you don't show me your valid driver's licence and a secondary form of ID."
Sherlock stifled a sigh of annoyance. He had had a number of driver's licences over the years – some of them even legitimate – but after accumulating a few thousand pounds worth of speeding tickets, traffic violations and practically pissing off every policeman in London, he had been put on some sort of black list and had been indefinitely prohibited from driving any vehicle that moved faster than 5mph.
But then Sherlock did have his ways of getting around any sort legal impediment that prevented him from doing what he wanted. However he didn't have the time right now to contact his forger so instead he settled on using his most reliable – and accessible – tool...
"Your soon to be ex-wife recently started having sex with a younger man." Sherlock said after about four seconds of examining the man in front of him.
"Excuse me?" The man practically hissed – which was all the added confirmation that Sherlock needed.
"In the time that I have been standing here you've removed and replaced your wedding band four times suggesting that you and your wife have been going through a separation – her choice not yours – and that recently she's filed for a divorce and is waiting for you to sign the papers and end your marriage."
"How_"
"You take the ring off, hold it in your palm and then look down at your finger. It's obvious that you're trying to come to terms with the idea that soon your marriage will be completely dissolved. The fact that you keep putting it back on suggests that you don't want it to be – it's hardly a difficult deduction."
The man looked down at his hand briefly and Sherlock could tell that he was caught between wanting to hear more and wanting to punch Sherlock in the face.
"How did you know about the... um... younger man?"
Sherlock stopped himself from smiling – not wanting to appear too pleased with himself – "You recently got your ear pierced, the inflammation around the ring suggests that the your body is still trying to reject the foreign object. You've been working out, lifting weights to be specific, to try and increase muscle density to take on the physique of a younger man – most likely to replicate the body of the young man who your wife is currently having athletic sex with_
"Athletic_"
"Never mind," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand – they didn't have time for that – "Your movement is sluggish and you wince every time you move your arms which tells me that there is a build up of lactic acid in your muscles – caused by your recent weight lifting session – which suggests that you've been pushing yourself rather excessively of late, no doubt to meet some personally imposed deadline. It's obvious that you're trying to appear younger before your divorce is finalised so that you can prove to your wife that you can change and thus win her back. Well done, you were right, you can, however you're not going to do it by investing in a pair of stone washed jeans."
The man's eyes flickered with what looked like a mixture of hope and hesitation, "Are you some sort of psychic?"
"Psychics – just like ghosts, fairies and magic – don't exist."
"Then how can you know all this?"
Sherlock felt one of his headaches – brought about by the utter ineptitude of the rest of the human race – beginning to burn behind his eyes, "I observe, you should try it sometime. Anyway, that is not the point; ask me how you can get your wife back."
The man hesitated slightly before he asked, "How can I get my wife back?"
Sherlock – who was briefly encouraged by the fact that this man was so easily manipulated – said, "Your wife's lover is also sleeping with your daughter."
"What!" The man roared and Sherlock could see blood start to rise in his cheeks.
Sherlock sighed, not for the first time wishing that people could simply open their eyes and see what was obviously laid before them,
"Estimating your age against the age at which you got married means that your daughter is probably around twenty to twenty-three – roughly the same age as your wife's lover."
The man's mouth fell open so wide that his piece of gum fell out and onto the counter,
"She's just turned twenty-two, how the hell did you_"
"It doesn't matter." Sherlock snapped, his impatience starting to get the better of him, "All that matters is that today is Tuesday, your wife will be at work and your daughter will be at home_"
"How_?"
"You have dog hairs all over your overalls and a faint urine stain on the hem of your trousers so obviously you and your wife brought an errant dog a few years back. I'm assuming that because you and your wife are pathetically sentimental you share the dog between two houses. You have a schedule taped to the wall behind you detailing when and where the dog will be during the week. Today is Tuesday and the schedule states that Pongo – who I assume is your dog –is staying with Julia – who I assume is your wife – but is being looked after by Trish – who I assume is your daughter – because Julia is working until five tonight!"
Sherlock took in a deep breath. This really was getting incredibly tiring. Next time he would just Google how to hot wire a car and be done with it.
"I don't have time to explain to you how I know that your wife's lover is also sleeping with your daughter because I have my suspicions that he is currently doing your daughter as we speak and, if you have a hope in hell of catching them in the act I suggest that you run. Now."
The man just stood staring at Sherlock, his mouth still hanging open slightly, "But I don't see how that..." the man tried but then was rendered ineffable by his own stupidity and had to start again, "I don't see how that will help me get my wife back?"
"Oh for the love of God," Sherlock said as he slammed his palms down against the countertop in exasperation, "if you tell your wife that her lover is also doing your daughter then one could only assume that she would dump him and – taking in the sight of that stunning earring of yours – she'll be compelled to fall back in love with you, rip up the divorce papers and move herself – and Pongo – back in your house."
"That's great!" The man beamed like the proverbial village idiot.
Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, "But none of this will matter unless you run to your wife's house right now and catch them in the act."
When the man did nothing but continue to stare vacantly at him, Sherlock made of show of looking at his wrist watch,
"You never know, he could be a premature ejaculator, he might be finished in sixty seconds. Tick, tock, tick, tock..."
The man's eyes darted wildly between Sherlock. When he had still made no move to leave Sherlock opened his mouth to start counting down the seconds,
"Forty-three, forty-two, forty_"
Suddenly the man bolted from behind the counter and ran from the shop and down the street.
Sherlock rested his head against the counter for a second, briefly basking in his trivial success. He was always right and the affirmation of this made Sherlock relax for the first time since he and John had had their... altercation in the flat. He flinched slightly as he unintentionally replayed the scene in his mind: John's anger – so potent it had seemingly took possession of all his limbs and features – the feeling of his violin being snatched from his hand, the ear splitting sound of splintering wood, John's quiet apology as he had slipped away, out of the flat and into the clutches of a sadistic...
This was counterproductive, Sherlock thought as his head snapped up from the counter and his mind abruptly shut off the memory of their fight. He had no time to dwell, to feel – dare he say – upset. Sherlock Holmes didn't get upset, he wasn't a child, it wasn't as if someone had taken his favourite toy_
Before he could dwell too much on that particular thought, Sherlock reached out and plucked up a car key from the cork board that hung above the cash register. He turned the key over in his hand and saw the licence plate number embossed on the plastic in Tipp-ex.
It didn't take him long to locate the small blue Honda to which the key belonged. The early morning sun was dazzling and he had to shield his eyes as he slid into the front seat. The leather upholstery was ice cold against his back and bottom and as he adjusted the rear view mirror he caught sight of residual crisp crumbs clinging to the creases in-between the backseat cushions. There had been a family in this car, Sherlock could still smell the sickly sent of apple juice and baby formula.
He rolled down the windows, despite the cold morning air, and glanced at his watch again:
It was ten to eight. He smiled, he was ahead of schedule.
As the sun set the temperature inside the windmill fell just below freezing. The bare windows and the stone walls seemed to suck in all the cold night air until both John and Irene were left shivering. The moon was full that night so the room was illuminated by beams of pale white light.
John's teeth were chattering and as he exhaled he could see his breath fog out before him like smoke. "That's it," John said as he pulled the lapels of his jacket tighter around him in a vain attempt to keep himself warm, "both my arse cheeks have now gone completely numb."
"Lucky you, I can still feel mine." Irene mumbled as she shifted uncomfortably.
"How have you been able to put up with this for two weeks?"
"I spent seven years living in Alaska when I was a child," Irene said as she closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall, "that was cold, this is more of an inconvenient chill."
John turned his head to look at her. She was only wearing a thin floral blouse and a pair of jeans. In the pale light he could see the thousands of goose bumps that covered the expanse of her exposed chest and arms. Her body was trembling and John could hear the quiet sound of her teeth chattering. The cold had also caused her nipples to harden and John could see them pushing against the thin fabric of her shirt.
"Is that why it's so hard for you?" Irene asked, her eyes still closed, a small smirk playing on her lips.
"What?" John asked as he tore his attention away from her breasts.
"You're attracted to women. You like the shape of a woman's body, you like the curves and the softness. And yet, now you find yourself getting hard for a man who practically has the dimensions of a long plank of wood."
"I... How did you_?"
"I'm somewhat clairvoyant when it comes to my breasts, I can always sense when someone is looking at them. I remember you took a rather intense interest in them the first time we met – I don't think Sherlock was entirely sure what he was looking at."
Irene opened her eyes, the pale moonlight made them look almost as clear as polished sea glass, "Tell me what you find attractive about him."
"Who?" John asked in a pathetic attempt to deflect her question.
Irene's eyebrow arched in incredulity, "You find more than one man attractive? My, my John, you're turning out to be rather a dark horse."
John began bouncing his legs to try and increase the circulation to his numb feet,
"I'm not attracted to men."
"No, you're simply attracted to Sherlock and I want to know why."
"I don't want to talk about this."
"Why not? It seems like the perfect thing for us to discuss. I'm gay, you're straight, we both enjoy fucking women and yet we would both like to fuck Sherlock. I think that's quite a conversation starter. We should take this opportunity to compare notes. I'm personally rather fond of his hair – there's always something incredibly sexy about a man who refuses to conform to the basic standards of personal grooming."
"He shaves." John said in Sherlock's defence.
"Don't deflect John." Irene admonished as a wicked grin spread across her face, "Are you seriously going to tell me that you've never fantasised about grabbing hold of handful of those crazed locks? It must be almost torturous to see him in the morning, wearing nothing but sleep creased pyjamas and seeing that hair of his looking insanely tangled."
John tried not to but now that she had brought it up it was impossible not to think about Sherlock in the morning, wandering out of the dark pit that was his bedroom, his eyes slightly vacant, cheeks flushed, hair tangled and...
"Is it the hair? Or is it that purple shirt that he wears_ or the coat! God forgive me, how could I forget about the coat."Irene asked, the amused tone in her voice betrayed just how much she was enjoying this, "Oh come on John, tell me what it is about Sherlock that makes you tingle in places that you shouldn't."
John was about to tell Irene – in no eloquent terms – to piss off, when a thin beam of light shone through the slit beneath the opposing door. Everything fell incredibly still and for a few brief seconds all John could hear was the sound of Irene's breathing.
Something creaked, perhaps a floor board behind the door, and then John heard the metallic sound of a key being slid into a lock and the snap of two deadbolts being pulled aside. Although he couldn't be sure, John thought that he saw Irene shift closer towards him. He swallowed against the fast forming thickness in his throat and watched as the door opened and synthetic light flooded the room.
A silhouetted figure stood in the doorway and it reminded John of all those Hammer Horror films he had watched as a child where shadows would elongate and contort the grotesque features of a monster to make it appear more than what it was. This was a different sort of monster though and as John's eyes adapted to the light he could make out the face of Jim Moriarty.