Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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Part III —
when heartbreak leaks
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"You know it's true; nobody ever really quits. A smoker's a smoker when the chips are down... And your chips are down."
— Jackie Boy, Sin City
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A phone call, the transmitter in situated in a suite in London, and receiver somewhere mountainous and icy, static cracking like an old vinyl player:
"How fares your work?"
"Fine."
"And how about yourself? Not knee deep in dead bodies, I presume?"
"How is he?"
"Well, he's not taking it well. He's shutting himself in, and refusing help."
"I see. Did you invite him to my funeral?"
"No, I didn't, as per your instructions."
"Good. He'd suspect something."
"There are other ways, you know. This criminal cleansing of yours is not only insane, but slow. Moriarty's dirty fingers have touched every criminal association there is. Removing those stains will take years, if not decades."
"I'm not eight years old anymore. I know—"
"Everything but the human mind. You're lying to yourself if you think you're the only one who's hurting."
"I'm hanging up now. Goodbye, Mycroft."
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(November is an old woman whose only lover, the Sun, left her. She pulled a grey dress over her bony shoulders, and tore out the wilting flowers in her hair with wrists like tiny branches. November is cold and bitter, and will not let you exhale without warning.)
Their breaths come out in white, puffy clouds. The snow creaks underneath their boots, like the wooden floorboards at his childhood home. But home is far away, and he is not a child anymore. Instead, he prefers to think of himself as a machine. A machine has a set of instructions installed, using only logic and calculation.
Seven men.
A seller, a handler, an observer, three bodyguards, and himself. He stands 5 meters away, as permitted. They are here to make a deal. He is the buyer. All carry weapons, although it is not allowed.
"This is far enough out in the wilderness," the observer says in English, comfortable and carefree in his own environment. "Let us begin."
The seller steps forth while the handler presents a leather suitcase, kneeling in front of Sherlock.
"You wished for information. We have it. Documented conversations, recorded phone calls, photos of the involved... All this can be yours, so that you can continue your hunt. For a prize, of course."
"Of course."
"We are glad you understand." The seller smirks. "Now present your part of the deal."
Had he remained perfectly silent, this might've gone easier.
But Sherlock is a proud one.
"Moriarty."
The reaction is instantaneous. The suitcase falls and promptly unlocks, and out flies a hundred paper sheets—blank paper sheets—like milk white butterflies. There never was any information. Of course. Inside his pockets, Sherlock's hands curl. The men whip forth their guns.
"How do you know that name?" one demands.
Wait for it.
"Answer!"
Wait.
One of them raises his gun.
But Sherlock is faster.
There is a small, insignificant clicking noise.
Like a button being pressed, triggering a bomb Sherlock set up there two days ago.
There is an explosion of fire. Bodyguard 1 and the seller both burn to death, becoming coal black, like from a WWII air raid. The seller's upper body is cooked medium well with his arm propped up at a crooked angle, fingers curled and stiff.
It wasn't snow which had wetted their jackets. It was scent free gasoline, sprayed on their clothes pre departure.
Bodyguard 2's arm burns, giving him approximately 3.5 seconds to shoot the man in the head. "Fuck," is his last word, and ironically, the only English word he knows. What follow is an explosion of blood and skull fragment. A few other bullets are given to the observer, taking out both his legs, and another few to Bodyguard 3. Too bad Sherlock dislodged his gun sling. The handler looks pleadingly up at Sherlock.
Sherlock hesitates.
0.5 seconds.
He hears Mycroft's words in his head, "You stupid, stupid boy."
Out of a sudden, the handler stabs wildly with a bayonet, so Sherlock shoots him. Thrice.
"You cannot trust anyone these days." Sherlock studies his trembling, traitorous hand with eyes full of burst blood vessels. "Not even yourself."
The bloodbath is finally over. Corpses surround him. Sherlock walks towards the body of the observer. His true identity is that of the organizer of this meeting. The other seller was just an actor. Both his legs are useless. He'll never walk again. The government officials will find him, and torture the truth out of him.
A gurgling interrupts him. Behind him lies a survivor of the slaughter with a hole in his belly, scooping his guts back inside, making the snow sorbet. The third bodyguard. He has rat brown hair, a low height and piercing eyes. It reminds Sherlock of someone.
Sherlock watches him for a moment. Then he reaches into his pocket, face unreadable, watching raw terror dawn on the man and—
Click!
Lights his lighter.
He smokes frequently now, seldom seen without a cigarette between his lips. He's tried everything from Malboro to Mayfair, and ended up rolling them himself (because he must do something), teeth and fingers yellowing as if dipped daily in iodine. Worst thing he got was from a dockworker in Rotterdam, which probably consisted of more excrement than tobacco. He is not a pretty thing; pale, hollow cheeked and scrawny. A tower of bones, a museum of regret.
But he is not cruel.
"Don't worry," he says while texting the health service, exhaling smoke. "It'll take hours for you to die. Just make sure not to let go of your entrails and you'll be fine."
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General Frost rules here, ensuring permafrost and temperatures bellow -30°C. The climate has destroyed many armies—a thin, sickly foreigner is no match.
One can walk the tundra for miles without finding a human habitat. Luckily, Sherlock knows exactly where he's going.
The ramshackle building is lonesome, save from a small town ten miles from there where 70 houses cling together. And because it is Russia, the building is a bar.
The door is kicked open.
The conversations stop for a moment, before resuming. They ask no questions. 'Bloody smart, these Russians,' Sherlock thinks.
"Holmes," a voice greets. It sounds like it was soaked in bourbon, smoked, and driven over by a truck. "Saved you a seat."
"Solovjov."
The man elbowed on the counter is Solovjov, better known by the initial S. World famous smuggler and wanted in 32 countries. He's the one who got Sherlock into Russia, and also his ticket out.
Sherlock goes to join him. On the other side of the counter, the barkeeper waits expectantly. Sherlock orders tea.
"You got blood all over ya," Solovjov notes, nostrils widening, smelling violence. "And it sure ain't yours."
"It was a stomach wound. He'll live."
"Oh oh oh, you really hated the shithead. Shooting someone in the stomach gives the most painful death possible. The intestines untangle, stomach acid rise, the organs corrode." Sherlock knows this. "And he dies like that, slowly, painfully, begging for death. Beautiful, really."
"I contacted the health services. He'll live."
"Hope is a dangerous thing, friend. A great evil, actually. It can make you go crazy."
The barkeeper pours tea into a small, cracked cup. Then he gradually adds rye whiskey. The winter wind howls past the building, licking into the crevices in the windows the landlord ought to do something about. It whines and whimpers to be let in. The barkeeper adds whiskey to the cup until the cup is nothing but whiskey.
Sherlock drinks his cup of whiskey.
"I know what makes us different from the animals."
"Intelligence."
Chuckles, dark and sharp.
"Awareness."
"How do we know the worm isn't contemplating existence?"
Sherlock can think up about a 46 decent arguments against that statement, backed up by essays and dead philosophers. But then he realizes something. There is no definitive answer—nothing that will be accepted like a password—to the question, because feelings clouds the judgement. Solovjov has decided, and will not be satisfied until Sherlock guesses right. Pathetic.
"...Love."
"No."
"Hairlessness."
"No, not that either."
"Then what?" Sherlock focuses on his cup and its murky contents. He sees himself in it, and so is confronted with ugliness. He believes it's only fair. His work is ugly, after all.
"Vengeance." He smiles. "The basic instinct to crush and slaughter our enemies. It can rest for years, waiting, growing in the dark." Solovjov isn't a disloyal man—he's simply not loyal to anyone but himself. Sherlock is aware of this, and respects it.
It is a message.
Sherlock promptly turns and leaves.
"Don't forget to meet at the planned place," Solovjov shouts after him.
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"Sherlock—"
"If you are going to ask about my work, don't bother. I'm leaving the continent in two hours, through a reliable connection."
"Sherlock."
"Don't worry yourself with petty details, big brother."
"Sherlock."
He finally notices the strain in Mycroft's voice. It makes him halt.
"It's... John."
"Go on."
"He's gone."