Oh my goodness! I am sooo sorry, everyone! My laptop has some sort of virus or something, so I haven't been able to use the internet on it for weeks. Also, my mom has been working with some program on her computer, so this has literally been the only moment that I could use it.
Legion: WE ARE LEGION. FORGIVE US. FORGIVE US OR WE WILL BE ANGRY. *eyes gleam*
Uhh...Actually, I won't be mad at all, but I DO hope that this chapter appeases you! Don't hurt me! *hides* I still love you all!...No, Legion! Bad boy! Don't get mad at the readers! It's not their fault!
~ Angel
Long, graceful fingers danced over strings and drew the bow back and forth, producing graceful sounds from the instrument held under the figure's chin. The lean form swayed gently, hypnotically in place in time to the almost angelic melody. It was one of the rare moments in Sherlock Holmes' life that his brilliant mind was not racing at its full, impressive speed. Instead, he focused on the music he was playing, a few thoughts flitting through here and there: the look on Anderson's face when Sherlock discovered the murderer's base of operations from a few obscure chemical markers on the second victim's scarf; the residual ache from the bullet wound that John had been experiencing in his upper left shoulder - he'd have to find an acceptable course of action to bring his doctor back up to full capability; and-
And the three men currently observing his person from behind the door.
Ah.
Without fully opening his eyes or faltering in his current rendition of Tchaikovsky's First Movement, Sherlock observed the three shadow-obscured figures' reflections in the window. The two in the front, both clearly male and of a dominate personality if their stances and the set of their shoulders were any indication, were both of an above-average musculature. The second figure was taller, his height approximately 6'4", but the man in the front was clearly protective of both him and the third figure, who, though smaller and slimmer, was also clearly male.
As a result of his silent observance, the detective was able to determine the exact moment that the three strangers decided to make their move.
Tensing of the muscles.
Hands tightening around the vague shapes of weapons.
Then, the forward-most figure moved.
Sherlock whipped around as the door slammed open and the three men entered, the first two with their weapons - what appeared to be a Colt Patterson revolver and a sawed-off shotgun respectively - already up and aimed firmly at the curly-haired detective. Their aim was steady. Sure. Confident. The two were clearly well-equipped in handling firearms. The third man, however, did not carry a weapon. 'He is either an utterly terrible marksman or confident enough in his fellows to feel he does not need to carry one,' Sherlock observed. 'Most likely the latter, as he does not appear to be nervous in the slightest…Perhaps he is also in possession of something that would make carrying a gun redundant.'
His deductions took milliseconds.
By the time the first man opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock had already arranged his face into its usual superior expression. "Okay, you S.O.B., fun time's over. Now, you can cooperate, or we can skip the hugs and kisses and get straight to the target practice." The man smirked aggressively, almost cockily.
Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow. "Obviously, that would be terribly unwise of you."
The second, taller man lifted his chin slightly and asked, "And why would why that be?"
"Because I say so."