House arrest

In which there is are explanations, some house-breaking and revealed secrets.

It wasn't as though Sherlock hadn't lied to John before; he had done so on numerous occasions, for various reasons, and under various circumstances (one of which had led to John getting stuck on top of a water tower for an hour and a half). But this was the first time that Sherlock's lies didn't influence their case at all. John, more to cover up the awkwardness of the situation than anything else, took a swig of tea. He avoided looking across the table, where Sherlock was sitting, beet red and staring at the rain outside. It didn't bother John as much as he thought it would to learn that his best friend and a strange girl had been lying to him for the past three weeks, since he was already pretty accustomed to Sherlock lying to him on a regular basis.

"But what I don't understand is why you two wouldn't tell me all this in the first place; it's not like I was going to say anything."

"John, come on. You know just as well as I do that if I told you the truth you would have made me throw her out. Besides, it didn't really start the way we thought it would."

They were sitting in their corner booth as usual, Northumberland street curving behind them (they couldn't both stare) but instead of discussing a new case and playing with their food as they had done for the past two years, this time they were playing with their food and discussing the one topic that hadn't arisen since their first time in the little café; girls. And this time, it wasn't even John who brought the topic up in the first place.

It had to be a record.

John took another sip of tea and surveyed his friend. Sherlock was staring out at the street, looking sullen and completely uncomfortable in the light from the cars outside. John could tell the whole situation was foreign to his friend, and Sherlock couldn't bear himself to admit that to him. But while it did give John some satisfaction to have more knowledge than Sherlock at least once, he wasn't insensitive to his friend's problem.

"The least I can do is accept it, Sherlock. Remember the first time I brought Sarah over? I owe you the same favor of keeping my mouth shut to what I thought."

"The first time you brought her over, we ended up in a tramway with a Chinese smuggling ring."
"And when you first brought Lana over, we had an assassin break in. are you seeing a pattern here?"

Sherlock's only response was to take a sip of drink and return to staring at the window; not quite looking out, more like he was watching the glass itself. John pressed on. "Look, it's all fine with me. I don't mind that you're together, I don't mind she's moved in, and I honestly wouldn't give a damn if anything happens between you two. What I'm curious is about is whether or not you're going to accept that letting her in means bringing her with us."

"It doesn't mean that at all," he replied.

"Yes, Sherlock, it does. She's involved now, whether you like it or not. You have to face facts."

"What do you think I'm DOING, John?" Sherlock shot back. "I told myself I was never going to let this happen again; I threw away the idea of emotion and I swore I wouldn't let myself get caught up in this pointless world. Being married to my work made everything easier to see; I didn't have to worry about emotions getting in the way of things. It's always been the new facts and next problem and that's been enough for me."

"So what changed?"
There was a very long pause.

"I wish I knew."

John leaned forward. "Then this is your greatest puzzle yet."

Sherlock looked up, glowering. "Don't test me, John."

"I mean it, Sherlock. You've got to face facts; I know you make fast decisions and that's fine but now that you've made this one you have to admit to yourself the truth."

"Which is?"

"That when it comes to a relationship with anyone, you're an idiot."

Again with the long pause. John didn't know how long it was going to take Sherlock to lose his usual maddening superiority and admit that he was absolutely ignorant to how to deal with the situation, but he was prepared to sit and wait for the bomb to drop. He knew this wasn't going to be easy for his friend, but it was something Sherlock was going to have to face, one way or another.

It was nearly ten minutes later, after a period of total silence that John Watson heard the words he had secretly been dying to hear.

"You're right, John. I don't know what I'm doing."

"So, was that so hard?" asked John, trying to hold back his glee.

"Piss off."

John laughed and stood to leave. "Well, the worst is over. Come on, she's probably wondering where we are, and we have some work to do."
Sherlock stood and threw some money onto the table, then shrugged his way into his coat. "Plenty of work, yes. We have a serial killer to catch, and a brilliant one at that. Love the brilliant ones, especially the brilliant serial killers; they're always so desperate to get caught…"

The two men walked out of the café and into the night.

….

Two nights later.

Sherlock stood in the center of the room, the gun rigid in his hand. He was completely alone in the dark, the silence pressing on his ears like someone had wrapped a compression around his head. Lana and John could be anywhere by this point; there had been no sign of either of them since they had all split up and searched the building for clues. There wasn't any evidence suggesting they were dead or alive, but knowing Irene Sherlock was expecting the worse. He had barely stepped into this room when the door bolted behind him. It had taken him barely a second for him to analyze everything, and these were the facts.

Fact- they know we're here.

Fact- they know we're separated.

Fact- they're probably going to kill us

Fact- Irene intends to torture me first. That's got to be the only reason I'm still alive

For someone who knew he was probably going to die, Sherlock handled the situation fairly well. Slowly, he rotated on the spot, staring up at the ceiling that was lost in the blackness above him. The feeling of being watched gave him a sweeping sense of déjà-vu, and for a moment, he was back at the pool, the water lapping near his feet the only thing to break the silence. He saw the lights dancing off the water, the shadows on the walls, John strapped to enough explosives to take down the building. Sherlock blinked the image away and took a deliberate step forward.

"Alright, Miss Adler. You've got me here. What do you want? The other assassins are gone; I don't think anyone wanted to stick around when you were arrested. So," he stepped forward again, listening to the sound bounce off the silent walls, "What's left for you to do to me?"

One moment to ringing silence, and then a voice called out from high above him.

"Anything I want, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock didn't react, determined to hold his poker face. He should have known; she had been watching them from the moment they broke into the House of Acupuncture. It had been too easy for them, and Irene always liked to provide a challenge.

Once again the voice flew across the room. It wasn't a voice he recognized, but he wouldn't put it past Irene to steal someone's voice just to throw him off.

"I thought you might have thought this through a little bit farther, Sherlock. You're supposed to be clever, aren't you?"

"People have stopped dying and I believe that's a result of my being clever. Besides, holing yourself up in this place, what's with that? It's like you're begging me to catch you."

"You think you're going to catch me? Well, it's a lovely thought, but I don't think that's going to be possible."

"And why is that?" asked Sherlock as casually as he could under the circumstances.

"Because you, Sherlock Holmes, are the only man I've ever faced who never had a weakness. But times change, don't they? Now, you have two."

A blinding flash above him forced Sherlock's gaze upward. It was a pair of spotlights, and they cut through the darkness like a knife, illuminating the tops of two pillars that rose at least fifteen feet into the air.

John was standing on one of them. On the other was Lana.

Both were blindfolded, and were held in place by a tall, masked figure. Sherlock could tell that they had been ordered to keep silent, because both the figures held knives against his friends' throats.

As Sherlock took an involuntary step forward, the voice rang out again. "Careful, Sherlock. One more step and I'll give the order. Those two men up there? They're the assassins known as the Magicians. Wonderful at making others disappear; however, not the best at bringing them back. But if you'd like to stop me, by all means, keep moving forward!"

He didn't move. There was a laugh that bounced off the high walls, and it gave the impression that Sherlock was surrounded by a crowd of invisible people.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have confirmed it; Sherlock Holmes has gone soft!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, tightening his grip still further on the pistol. How could he have been so stupid? They should never have split up, and now they had Lana. And John. I'm such an idiot. No, no, listen to yourself! I have to focus. Sherlock hated that he had let his thoughts escape him in the heat of the moment. He chose his words quickly. "Why not shoot me? I've just been standing here and you haven't done a thing."

"Why shoot you without saying hello first?"

At once, Sherlock found himself hit with a wave of white light. He squinted against the sudden brightness, and when his eyes adjusted, he saw her.

Was it Irene? Of course it was Irene. Have you even been paying attention?

She stood a few feet in front of him, looking exactly as she had that fateful night. Long dark brown hair, steely grey eyes, full lips and handsome features. Tall and poised, wearing a long black dress and stiletto heels that put her almost on level with Sherlock, Irene surveyed him like a hawk from high above. Sherlock almost shuddered; it was like looking at himself.

Irene smiled sweetly. "It's been a long time, not catch up over dinner?"

"Can we drop the act and get on with it? Why did you kill them? You've been playing a dangerous game. Hiring assassins from all over the world, leaving a trail of obvious clues, knowing I've been following your every move. Why bother?"

"Why not?" asked Irene, twirling a lock of hair between her long pale fingers. "I'm rich and I'm single. What on earth am I supposed to do with all this money? Besides, what better way to get attention then to collect on some old debts?" she smiled icily. "And what better way to ease some boredom than a bit of murder?"

"You've killed eleven innocent people."

"They cheated me. I can't stand stinginess. Your point?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He just lifted the gun level with her chest.

"Well, I can see you're doing well for yourself, Mr. Holmes. A flat mate, some money, and even a girlfriend now. And I never thought you had it in you. Can't say I approve of your taste, but-"

"Shut up." He growled.

"I don't think you're in a position to get me to do anything."

Sherlock cocked the pistol. "You forget who has the gun."

"You forget who has the hostages. One move on me and I kill them both."

"John, Lana? Are you alright?" Sherlock called.

"Let them speak," said Irene, almost lazily; it sounded as though she was more interested what they might say than what they might do. It was clear she was confident they wouldn't try anything. She was holding on all the cards.

"Fine," John called, breathing hard. "They didn't do much to me. What about you Lana? Alright?"

"I can't see a thing and I think I'm going to get stabbed. Nothing broken though. Where are we?" Sherlock could hear her trying to stay calm, but her voice shook.

"You're standing at the edge of a fifteen foot high pillar. If they push you off it's a direct fall to a stone floor. If you take another step forward you'll fall and probably die." Sherlock reported.

"Oh, you're a big help, thanks for the confidence" she shot back, doing everything she could to stop herself from breaking down completely.

"Oh, listen to them; they're flirting again. Remember when we used to do that, Sherlock? Over that phone of mine? Ah, I miss it. But it looks like I've been replaced." Irene jeered. "So, what about it Lana? Has he gotten you pregnant yet?"

"Shut up," Sherlock repeated, raising the pistol to point it between Irene's eyes.

"Well, that's a bit harsh," she replied, her voice a deadly calm. "And I really think that you should be a bit more polite to me, Sherlock. After all, I know you. I can do whatever I want to you and you'll be powerless to stop me."

"What do you think you can do? Kill me? Kill them? The police will be on you immediately. You've left yourself completely unprotected; all the assassins have fled from you. And anyone can track this place and the bodies that'll be left here."

"Oh, I don't mind the mess. Besides, more fun for me to get creative and hide your bodies. There are a hundred places I could hide you in this house. And if it's that easy…" Irene gestured to her two cronies. Both of them gave hard shoves, pushing Lana and John forward over the edge of the pillars.

"NO!"

Sherlock lunged forward. He knew that here was nothing he could do from this angle that would benefit them in any way, but the thought of Lana, covered blood, lying on the ground, slowly dying…

Irene's laugh broke him out of his thoughts, her demonic cackling echoing off the walls and plowing into his ears. Impulsively, he looked up.

Both his friends had been caught by the back of their clothing, the two assassins the only thing that stood between them crashing into the stone floor fifteen feet below them. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. Slowly he looked back at Irene.

"Didn't think I'd make it that easy, did you?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with a sickening glee. Sherlock stared her down and again focused the pistol at her forehead. "Well, I suppose you know what comes next. If you've been following me as closely as you say then you should know my style by now. This little game of ours can't be completed without a little sacrifice, now can it? I'm going to get away with this either way, but you can give it your best effort. The question is which piece is the most indispensible. Your knight?" she gestured to John, "or your castle?"

The sweat was starting to creep along his hairline now, but there was no way Irene could see it from here. At least, that's what he hoped. He had been trapped and he knew it.

"So, what's it going to be, Sherlock? Dr. Watson…or Miss Heart? Your friend… or your lover? Decide. Now."

With these words, Irene twitched her hand once again, and the Magicians released their captives. Lana and John were thrust out into space, falling toward the stone floor.

Up next-Magic Show

In which there is blood, sweat and tears.