Chapter Title: The Game Begins
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Beta: N/A (If interested, PM me…Must also be able to Brit-pick!)
Words: 2,249
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D
John steeled his nerves and stood from his chair, pocketing his phone. "Milk?"
Sherlock's head snapped up so fast that John was afraid he was going to have whiplash, "What?"
"Do we need milk?" John asked, clarifying his question.
"Uh, yes…Indeed we do…" Sherlock eyed John with such intensity, that John glared at him.
"Stop that," John demanded, shrugging his coat on. "I'll be home in twenty, put the kettle on, will you?"
"Nope," Sherlock replied, setting his head down again.
"Thought so," John sighed, knowing he had asked too much. "Just…don't blow anything up while I'm gone, yeah?"
"One time, John. That was one time," Sherlock huffed, "besides, the experiment I am conducting currently has nothing to do with explosives."
"Knowing you, you'd still find a way to create an explosion."
"Ha," Sherlock laughed dryly, "So funny."
John smirked, taking his leave.
He hopped down the stairs and exited their flat, the door slamming shut behind him.
Sure enough, a black car was parked at the curb, windows tinted so black that you couldn't see the people within.
The driver exited the car and ran to the other side of the black vehicle, opening the side door for John to slide in next to 'Anthea'.
"John," Anthea greeted as John slid in next to her, the car pulling away from the curb.
John noticed the absence of Mycroft's secretary's blackberry –the same blackberry that had been her excuse for not looking at him. Now, her figure was tense and fidgety, her texting fingers tapping the hem of her skirt restlessly. Her attention was directed through the windshield of the car, her eyes scanning the road in front of her.
"Lost?" John chuckled.
"Sorry, what?" Anthea met his gaze, her surprisingly bright brown eyes leaving him breathless.
John swallowed to moisten his throat, "Um," he coughed, his throat still dry, "I was just saying… you look lost without your phone…"
Anthea looked down at her empty hands, "Oh, yes…Apparently, I can't text on the job…anymore."
John laughed, "You call riding around in a car picking up contacts for mysterious meetings work?"
"Yes, actually, Dr. Watson," Anthea defended herself, clenching her twitching fingers into a fist.
"Anthea, I didn't mean-"
"We're here," Anthea cut him off, snapping her head away to look out her window.
John nodded sadly, knowing he had burned that bridge, for good. He stepped out of the car and thanked the driver for holding the door open for him. The driver seemed scared as John spoke, his body tensing and his features growing anxious. He looked away and slammed the door after John had exited the vehicle, scurrying to the driver's side and putting pedal to the metal, racing away from John's confused figure.
John breathed out heavily, straightening his back and striding, with confidence, into the now-familiar abandoned power complex. His shoes thudded across the cement, echoing off the walls and retreating back to him in sound waves, making it seem like multiple people were walking through the building. He emerged further into the room and made a complete circle, his feet carrying him into the middle of the large work-room.
"Mycroft?" John called, his voice echoing and bouncing off the walls.
John heard an unmistakable clicking of an umbrella on the floor, coming toward him. He circled and saw what he was looking for.
Mycroft was slowly approaching, using his signature umbrella as a cane. "Dr. Watson," he addressed, "sit down, won't you?"
John quirked an eyebrow and jumped when he felt two pairs of hands shoving him into a cold, metal chair that had seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He complied with their actions, letting them sit him in the chair. Once he was seated, the hands remained firm on his shoulders.
Mycroft came to rest, his form resting his weight on the umbrella, and crossing one foot in front of the other. He scanned John head-to-toe and frowned. "It seems we have a problem."
John tried his hardest to hide his anxiety, now threatening to arise. "We do?"
"Yes," Mycroft squinted, "but first, how is my dear brother?"
"Oh, come off it, Mycroft. You don't care; just tell me what I'm here for," John growled, his tone implying the losing of patience.
"Very well, then," Mycroft sighed, "I invited you here-"
"Kidnapped, not invited, kidnapped." John corrected him, shooting him a glare.
"If you wish to call it that, so be it, but back to what I was saying… I invited, or 'kidnapped', you here because I have a problem that needs to be explained and/or fixed. Last night, I happened to be glancing at the live security footage of your flat," John scoffed at this, but Mycroft ignored him, "and I noticed a glitch."
"So what? All cameras have glitches; it's probably just a technology issue. If that's what you require help with, well you'll be needing someone more equipped for the job." John glanced up at the two men holding him in the chair, "Can I go now?"
Mycroft shook his head, "That's not the problem, John. The problem is that it not only glitched, but paused. The frame was frozen as though someone had hacked my systems and paused it intentionally. They obviously knew that the cameras were there and wanted to keep their identity a secret."
John understood now, and relief flooded him. Moriarty had hired someone to hack Mycroft's servers so that he could make an unseen appearance. Say what you want about Moriarty, but he was an absolute genius when it came to going unseen. "So, where do I come in?"
Mycroft stared at him, never blinking, "That I don't know, John."
Realization hit John like a ton bricks, "And you think I have something to do with the glitch?" John paused, watching Mycroft's sullen features, "You do, don't you? You think I had a hand in messing with your bloody technology!" John shrugged the hands off and stood, "That's why I'm here, isn't it? To question me? To interrogate me?"
"Now, there's no need to get upset, John," Mycroft spoke, "I merely wanted to ask you if you had any idea who could be behind it…"
"Bullocks," John glowered, "You don't trust me, do you, Mycroft? You think I'm a bloody criminal!"
"I never said-"
"No, no –you know what? I don't need this!" John threw up his hands in fury, "How about you kidnap someone else for a change, huh? Someone who would actually be worth talking to." John took a hostile step toward the two guards that had held him down before he turned to Mycroft. "Stay out of my life. I'm sick of being picked off the streets by you and I'm sick of this godforsaken power complex!" John clenched his fists angrily and held them at his sides to keep himself from lashing out at the elder Holmes brother.
"There is no need to be cross, Jonathan," Mycroft frowned. "You wish to leave, so be it. You wish for me to stay out of your life, I will make myself scarce, but not leave entirely." Mycroft produced his phone and pressed a button, "Bring the car. Dr. Watson wishes to leave."
John undid his fists and nodded once, "Thank you." He exited the building, leaving the stunned Holmes behind him.
Mycroft stood, watching the ex-army doctor leave the building in a rush of anger. He unlocked his phone, and shot out a text to his second secretary back at the Diogenes Club.
Upgrade Doctor Watson's security status to a level 5. He is definitely hiding something. -MH
…
John climbed the stairs, his cover story in the plastic bag he was holding. He entered the flat and sighed, "You haven't moved, I see." He stared at the detective, still resting, face-down, on the couch.
"You were out longer than you said you would be," Sherlock mumbled, still moping about the time lost on the case –the same case that he had now abandoned without so much as a call to Lestrade.
"Yes, well, I ran into Sarah," he lied, "and we got to talking…"
"You're going on a date, then." Sherlock shot up from his spot on the couch and paced the floor. "This is wonderful, John!"
"What is?" John sat the plastic bag on the table and took the milk out of the bag. He opened the fridge and almost threw up from the stench of rotting flesh, "And what have I told you about storing your 'experiments' in the fridge?!". He set the milk on the high shelf that had been reserved for food and drink, and shut the door to escape the stench.
Sherlock ignored John's outburst and began to excitedly pace the room, "I'll be able to test if broken relationships can be repaired!"
"What kind of experiment is that?" John eyed him suspiciously.
"An interesting one, John! A very interesting test on the limits of your sentiment!" Sherlock smiled, almost bouncing from the excitement. "Seeing as I am not one privy to the emotions that come with sentiment, this will be an interesting experiment that will yield very conclusive data on just how far your sentiment levels will go!"
"Sentiment levels?" John knitted his brows together and stared at the detective. "What in the bloody Hell are 'sentiment levels'?"
"Sentiment levels, limit of attachments or emotions. As I recall, you and Sarah did not leave off on too friendly of a note. So, if she wanted to give it another try, this 'date' will produce a certain level, if you will, on how low you are willing to go for a date that will undoubtedly lead to sex."
John gaped, "You're ridiculous."
"No, I'm bored." Sherlock sighed, massaging his temples.
"You're desperate for a case, aren't you?" John deduced, knowing the experiment would usually be dubbed dull unless he were truly bored.
"Great deduction, John, really." His voice dripped with sarcasm, making John sigh.
"How about instead of whining that you don't have a case and desperately trying to find random experiments to conduct, why don't you solve the once Lestrade needs you to?" John asked, preparing the kettle for tea.
Sherlock sighed, defeated, "Fine." He dramatically plopped down in the chair and began to study the files, again. After a moment, he shoved it away, "It was the sister."
"How –oh, never mind." John sat and watched as Sherlock began to pace. "You might want to call Lestrade, Sherlock."
"Ah, he can figure it out." Sherlock smirked, "It was child's play."
"Yes, to you maybe, but you're the smartest person in London –maybe even the world. In fact, I recall you saying that the Yard cannot solve anything to save their sorry arses." John stood to get the kettle, and mixed the tea. He set a cup down on the table for Sherlock and held one in his grip for himself.
Sherlock chuckled, "You really believe that, do you? That I'm the smartest individual alive?"
"I do," John assured him, taking a cautious sip of his hot tea.
Sherlock's lips cracked into a smile, "John, I-"
Ding!
Sherlock sighed, "Oh that must be Sarah." He faced away from John and rolled his eyes.
John blinked, "What –oh, yes…that must be her." He mentally kicked himself for almost blowing his cover. He set down his tea and brought out the device.
John looked at his phone and frowned.
No new texts…
John's heart stopped.
The other phone…
He stood and pretended to reply to a text from Sarah. "Well, Sherlock, I'll be off. I'll be home around midnight, so don't wait up for me."
Sherlock's eyebrows rose, "You think I'll be sleeping?"
"Just try and sleep…for me?" John smiled.
"If you think adding 'for me' would make me agree to sleeping, you're wrong, John."
"I know…" John sighed, "I'll see you later, then."
Sherlock nodded, setting his lean figure comfortably on the couch, and closed his eyes, retreating to his mind palace and trying not to think of John going on another date with Sarah. Damn Sarah.
John closed the door to the flat as he stepped out and produced his phone from his jacket pocket.
The text was as sinisterly playful as the one who had sent it.
And the game begins… -JM
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