Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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W
Part V —
Dusted, Lovingly
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Well.
Sherlock's intent was to open the door.
It proves difficult. The door looks older. Paint scraped off, numbers rusting, and someone has tagged a big blue cock on the door. Charming. The doorknob is loose. Attempted burglary? He sets the key—a spare key he always carried in his left pocket—and struggles. The whole door seems reluctant, whining and rattling.
Adrenaline and confusion still swells inside him. He does not know what to make of his meeting with John. Wrong, everything was wrong!
Sherlock grits his teeth.
'Could use a cigarette now.'
The door finally bulges, nearly going off its hinges, crooked.
And Sherlock is greeted by another world of dust. Most of the furniture is covered by sheets, abandoned. It is so dark, just like in the mansion.
("What had you expected?" Mycroft asks tiredly in his head, "For the world to stand still? You have been dead for two years, Sherlock. For many, you'll remain that way. Even you know that it's not possible to resurrect a decaying corpse.")
The realization hurts his head.
He staggers up the stairs like a drunk. The floorboards creak. 'Home,' he thinks, with grief like an old soldier, 'John.' And subconsciously, he begs for wants things to be like they were before.
He enters the second floor.
"John?"
More dust. There was fire here, once, personified and dancing over the furniture with a case on his hands and a solution in his head. That fire is dead, leaving only ash.
"Sherlock."
His voice is a growl, hardened. He stands in the middle of their living room, facing the window. He wears all black. His idiosyncrasies scream military; the attire, the stiff position, the arms folded behind his back. The room is very dark. Curtains, ghosts. John too.
Multiple things fly through Sherlock's head.
[John, declared missing. Doesn't live here. Evaded Mycroft. Meddled with security cameras? What has he been doing, all these months?]
And like that, the computer transmission jars and ends. Emotion was the virus that triggered it. Logic is hard in the company of John.
"Do the neighbours know you're here?" Sherlock finally asks.
"Most of them are dead." John's eyes become half lidded. "What, didn't you know? Did you rush here as soon as you managed to evade the bodyguard? Didn't you even analyze the victims' names?"
"I wanted to see you."
John stills. He abruptly turns. Sherlock had forgotten the face, covered in bandages. The eyes are wide, angry. It was always so hard to determine the colour of them.
[Central heterochromia. An eye condition; pupillary zone has a different colour than the cilliary zone; prevalent in irises low on melanin. The bandages are fresh. Recently changed. Most plausible reason is a burn wound. Clothes, black. Secondhand.]
John reaches into his pocket, scrambling about. Then he pulls forth a photo.
"Do you recognize this man?"
Sherlock bends forth.
[The man in the photo is in his twenties, hair slicked back, unsmiling. It's an old picture. Grainy. The eyes are piercing. He wears a grey shirt, arms folded. Nothing unusual.]
"I don't," he says.
"Really, nothing? You haven't seen him before? Never?"
Sherlock shakes his head. This whole situation is alien to him. He'd prepared himself for John's anger, even tears, but not this cold thing, reeking of disappointment and hatred.
"This is... This is preposterous. Look at his face Sherlock. Look at it. Are you certain you haven't seen it before?"
"I'm certain."
"You were gone for two years, cleaning Moriarty's trail. I'd thought you'd hear some mention of him, since he is Moriarty's own right hand man. Moran. Sebastian Moran." The name prompts a storm inside Sherlock. "Even I could figure it out."
Many names have been offered when justice—Sherlock—has descended on them. Sherlock digs deep into his brain and scratches his neurons, quickening chemical responses and finding an empty space. It fills up though, quickly. The dying mercenary's expression as he said it. The photo. John's words.
Hate.
That is what John is brimming with.
"You want to kill him," Sherlock states, and there is nothing else to talk about. "How can I help?"
John regards him. But he's not really looking at Sherlock, merely watching him. There is a wall of iron behind his eyes, and it's so old it's rusting. "...You look like shit. When did you arrive?"
"Three hours ago."
"When did you last sleep?"
"Three nights ago."
John clicks his tongue. "That won't do. That won't do at all. I need you awake for this. You can't help me if you're asleep. I need you to focus. I... I don't think I can do this anymore without you."
It is the first time John has admitted weakness since their reunion.
"I'll find a way," Sherlock says, and he feels exhaustion crash down on him like bricks. Months without proper rest, or proper food. It is with John his humanity shines the most. Ironic, because John seems stripped of his.
"John, I'm—"
"There is more nothing to talk about," John says. "If you're up for it, meet me tonight. I will not wait for you."
Sherlock remembers the last year. A hymn of do this, do that. Action after action. He'd turned himself off and let his mind rule, programmed to do the necessary. He'd surfaced sometimes, smoking. First now did he awake from a sea of information, drawing his first shuddering breath in aeons, looking towards the sky. A reflection.
John.
"Where?"
Where are you now?
(That particular memory is unwelcome, just like Sherlock.)
Inside, inside, inside.
John tells him the address, which is stored and downloaded into the machinery of Sherlock. The actual man, however, is elsewhere.
Sherlock thinks: I need to get inside.
John tilts his head to the side. "Get out," he says softly.
It takes Sherlock a second to understand that it's the apartment he's talking about, and he hurries out, John's words echoing in his mind.
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Inhale.
Exhale.
Nervous, oh so very, very nervous, Sherlock rubs his hands together. Clicks open his phone. Double checks the address. Puts it down, checks it again. Hadn't the number been untraceable, he'd called John. He scratches the nicotine patches near his elbow. His coat is too thick, his scarf too tight. Choking.
Sherlock stands on the corner of a building in the suburban area. The roof shields him from the weather.
It doesn't shield him from the people who live here, however.
A man walks over to him, sideways.
[Tiny steps. Too tall to be John. Lanky. An air of quiet confidence.]
"Alright, alright," he mutters, "what did you want again?"
Sherlock tenses up. He has been in situations like these before. "What are you talking about?" he asks without turning his head.
(Why must he be confronted with his past like this?)
The drug dealer pauses.
"Ah, yeah, now I remember you. Struggling to stay awake, huh? This'll help."
[Amphetamine. Central nervous system stimulant. Heavily regulated drug. Used in treatments for ADHD and narcolepsy. Effects: adrenaline rush, burst of energy.]
"I don't..."
"I'll collect the payment in the agreed place."
But the small white plastic bag is already handed to him.
The man is gone.
He looks into the bag. Inside is a small jewel box. He opens it, and discovers that the quality isn't debatable. Little paper wraps. He recognizes them.
[Warning! Side effects include: increased heart rate, irregular blood pressure, a vasovagal response, Raynaud's phenomenon, multiple sexual side effects, pain, acne, blurred vision, excessive grinding of the teeth, profuse sweating, dry mouth, loss of appetite, nausea, reduced seizure threshold, tics, weight loss, alertness, apprehension, concentration, decreased sense of fatigue, mood swings, increased initiative, insomnia or wakefulness, self-confidence, and sociability.]
His phone beeps. The message comes from the secret number.
60 m east. Hurry. Need you.
The latter part echoes in his head—John is waiting, John needs him.
He mustn't... can't... but he's so tired...
The decision is a hasty one.
He'll need to snort it.
1. A flat surface. The box. He crouches down and dries over it with his coat arm.
2. A credit card. Gather it into a pile. Fine crush it the edges. Thicker lines make the amphetamine go past the brain and into the lungs, not sticking into the nose like it should. Narrow lines hit and stick where it should, less wasted and less damage to the lungs.
3. A pencil. He reaches into his pocket and takes it apart until all that's left is the hollow shaft.
4. Place the flat surface so that the pencil shaft is horizontal on the book, with a slight downward angle to avoid too much air. One needs to practise to get it right. Good thing Sherlock has practise.
5. Snort.
[...warning, warning, warning, warning...]
He grits his teeth, awkwardly.
Inhale, exhale.
"John," he mutters, and likes how it rolls on his lips. "John, John, John."
He scurries to the meeting place
John stands on top of some stairs. Smiling.
[...WARNING, WARNING, WARNING—]
"Come," John says, holding out a hand.
The machine cracks and dies.
Sherlock doesn't even notice.
"The game is on."
(Or rather, a hollow replication. But Sherlock doesn't care.)