TITLE: The Other One
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Three/ Deductions and Disguises
RATING: T (violence/language)
A/N: I know Sherlock's acting odd and a bit OOC, but just hang in there. *waves hands mysteriously* All will be revealed...
Review please?
Chapter Three: Deductions and Disguises
Sherlock Holmes passed by hundreds of people, day after day, studying them and sniffing out their life story with hardly more than a casual glance - and that was if he even bothered with them at all. The majority of the faces and lives he came across barely scratched the surface of his mind before promptly being deleted forever. Many of them didn't even make it that far inside his head before he cataloged them as "unimportant" or "boring" and moved on.
He knew every face in his homeless network, even if he dumped their life file into his trash bin. He needed to know their faces, even their names. After all, they often times helped him with cases and anything pertaining to his work was deemed worthy enough to be permanently stored.
Yet as he examined this new face, something felt different.
It took him less than two seconds to know that the boy was barely cresting adulthood. He had youthful features and an odd boyish glow about his countenance. And those eyes. Those eyes that spoke of innocence and maturity, of tragedies witnessed and a long life tucked into few years. A spark that had never once been trampled out. So, Sherlock surmised, young in years and heart, but old in life. He had seen such a thing on numerous occasions in his line of work.
He was homeless and spent his days outdoors, and yet the pallor of his skin suggested that this one stuck to the shadows.
His tattered clothes and weathered shoes told tales of his street life. He moved quite often, never staying in one place for any longer than he needed to. He wasn't dressed for a life of crime and nothing about his wardrobe came even close to singing songs of "street thug". His pants were baggy and loose from his rail of a frame, not for style.
The only items in his possession were a couple decks of cards and a few coins that were kept loosely in his pockets. He could faintly hear them jingling as his whole body moved with his laugh. There was one deck, though, that remained concealed, stashed securely in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. The only possession that he valued then.
The young man probably didn't even realize that when he crossed his arms, they came up just a bit higher than his middle, as if to protect the hidden possession.
In the few words and laughter that he could hear, Sherlock had grown frustrated. His relaxed English accent held traces of that of a Northern Irishman. The English accent was dominant, but the way the Irish pronunciations clung in the background of his words suggested he spent most of his early childhood and life in Northern Ireland. It had been quite a few years now that he had been traveling about England.
The deductions happened without conscious effort from Sherlock. He didn't need them.
Without a word to any of his homeless network, Sherlock almost mechanically spun and then hurried away. He was gone and around a corner before the stranger looked up from the middle of the grand and hilarious story he had been telling.
John barely had time to nod his thanks toward Levi before rushing off after his mad friend. When the blogger found his detective, the man was leaning with his back against a wall, three streets down.
"Sherlock?" John asked carefully for the second time in minutes.
"You saw him," Sherlock suddenly seized John's shoulders. "You saw him!"
"Yeah! 'Course I bloody saw him! Why?" John was struggling now but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.
"Tell me, John." Sherlock commanded in a cracking voice. "Tell me what he looked like. Everything you remember about him."
John studied his friend for a moment. He was reminded quite vividly of a Sherlock in a very similar state sitting in front of a fireplace with shaking hands after seeing the Hound.
"Alright, alright. Just, calm down, Sherlock." John sighed. "A kid. Well, young man, I guess. Uh, brown hair, dark brown. Like yours, but a bit closer to black I think. English accent, but, there was something different. Irish, a bit, maybe. Skinny -"
Sherlock released John just as quickly as he had grabbed him.
"Impossible," he mumbled to the ground.
"What's impossible, Sherlock?"
"-however improbable," Sherlock muttered to himself, "must be – the truth!"
At those final two words, Sherlock shot off back in the direction they had come from. It was only upon reaching the mouth of the alley that the detective abruptly stopped and swore.
"John, give me your jumper." Sherlock whirled on the man who had just caught up to him.
"What?" John eyed his friend suspiciously.
"Just do it!" Sherlock implored impatiently. "I promise I will explain later. This is important, John, I promise. Life and death."
"Yeah," John grumbled, shrugging out of his jacket and then the knit fabric. "To you, life and death can be picking up dry cleaning."
Sherlock didn't answer as he tossed his Belstaff at his blogger and yanked the jumper over his head. Without asking this time, Sherlock grabbed John's jacket and swung it over his arms. Digging in his coat pockets, the coat John was still holding, Sherlock pulled out a hat that had been crocheted for the detective years ago by Mrs. Hudson as a Christmas present. He loathed the striped monstrosity and the irritation was obvious even now as he stretched it over his skull, tucking loose locks up into the material. And yet he always carried it with him. Hats were always the easiest disguises. Especially the hideous ones.
"Your shoes, John," Sherlock began nudging out of his own.
"We're not even the same size," John argued as he toed his off. "You better have a bloody brilliant excuse for all this nonsense later."
Sherlock didn't answer as he pulled a pair of glasses out of his trouser pockets and slipped them on. He fetched a nearby clump of dirt and painted on a rather impressive five 'o clock shadow. Even as John shook his head in disbelief and annoyance, he couldn't help but give Sherlock credit. The man really did look hardly like himself anymore.
"Go, find Levi. Tell him that I want to see this new card player he spoke of," Sherlock instructed. "But, you know, don't tell him to tell him it was me."
"Right," John shook his head and rolled his eyes in perfect, practiced, unison.
"And John," Sherlock hissed a whisper. "Do try to be discreet."
John didn't reply as he stalked off back down the alley and found the man in question. It was less than a minute later that he returned, the dark haired stranger on his heels. John nearly snorted as he saw Sherlock. The detective had slumped his shoulders forward and was leaning casually against the wall. It was a stark contrast from the man's usual poised presence.
"You must be the bloke who says no one can beat him at cards," the black haired boy spoke without introduction, though friendly.
"And you must be new," Sherlock lifted his gaze, his voice easily coming out with an almost exaggerated Cockney bounce to it.
"Not new to the streets, if that's what you mean," the boy nodded, although something in his voice told Sherlock that this stranger knew exactly what he meant. "New to London, though."
"Yet you seem to have already made some, friends," Sherlock noted, glancing toward the alley and the small crowd. "Where are you from?"
"Depends on when you ask," the stranger smiled. "Dunno really. Been on the streets for as long as I know. First place I ever remember, fact it's the first memory I have, is waking up in Armagh in an orphanage. I know I'd been having some sort of dream, or nightmare, because I was screaming. I've never been able to remember what it was about. Ran away a few years later."
"Fascinating," Sherlock's eyes rolled over the stranger as the word hung apathetically on his tongue.
"You gonna play, or what?" The redhead interrupted, exiting the alley and nodding knowingly at the detective.
"I fail to understand why you all are so insistent on me joining in on your little games, Finch" Sherlock sighed, still holding his feigned accent and body language. "You never win."
"Never say never, mate," Finch hunched his shoulders in a shrug while his hands slid into his pockets. "Think we finally found someone who can beat you."
"Doubtful," Sherlock sniffed.
Before anyone could argue, the black haired boy reached into his pocket, pulling out one of the decks of cards Sherlock had noticed earlier. They were in his hand in a movement so quick even Sherlock had to admit he was impressed. What came next though, prompted the detective to quirk an interested eyebrow. The boy seemed to almost carelessly shuffle the cards in only one hand. It wasn't, in and of itself, an amazing feat. Yet the speed of his fingers was something even Sherlock Holmes was forced to marvel at, even if he didn't do so openly. His face remained blank as he watched the young man flip the deck onto the back of his hand and and then seamlessly back into his palm. He was cutting the deck and then fanning it out with an almost bored expression coloring his features, though there was a glimmer of a smile on his lips and in his eyes. He brought his other hand forward and the deck jumped back and forth between the two. Sometimes individual cards seemed to be climbing up on top of each other, while other times they leapt from their place in their owner's hands, only to land in the opposite awaiting palm. Next, the stranger performed what Sherlock vaguely remembered to be something called the card spring. They floated back and forth, one by one, in rapid succession. With one last flourish of the wrist, the cards abandoned their owner and sprung towards Sherlock. The detective put out his hand just in time for the deck to land in his own palm.
"You're good," Sherlock nodded.
"Thank you," the boy replied earnestly, a smile that was sort of halfway between smug and honored dancing across his face.
He showed his teeth when he grinned, his eyebrows lifting and that youthful glow tinting his irises once more.
"But not that good," Sherlock quickly clipped and was mildly surprised and amused when the boy's smile failed to fall. "You asked me to play cards, Finch, not watch magic tricks."
The young man's lips faltered curiously.
"How did you know -"
"No one who carries three decks of cards and shuffles like that merely plays poker," the detective deduced without missing a beat. "You've got nothing on you to bet. No cigarettes. No food. No extra clothing. No money, save for the few coins in your pocket. You're no gambler. You're a street performer."
"Can play a decent game of cards too," the boy smirked, "but, yeah, you're right."
"Of course I am," Sherlock turned his nose up as he spoke.
And it was in that one sentence, that Sherlock broke his disguise.
That Sherlock changed everything.