Again: thank you for your reviews. I actually blushed!
Gone Rogue
John scrunched up his face in confusion. Drenched to the skin, he was standing outside the heavy door to 221B, panting, with his bruised ribs aching, when he caught sight of the blasted IOU sign, still bright and fresh as if brandnew.
Wait a moment: it was new – someone had repainted it.
He remembered it all smudged and blurred from a failed attempt to scrub it off – and that was almost three years ago, when he had removed his few belongings from Baker Street. Someone had sprayed it on the wall again, and fairly recently.
But there was more: the wall sported a new message, in bright yellow letters, right next to the IOU. And John knew exactly who had put it there.
Sherlock.
CC
Want to blow up paradise?
Meet me in the sky, before nightfall.
No devil there.
SH
What the hell did that mean?
John stood and stared and puzzled and shook his head in exasperation. Well, CC was certainly the Consulting Criminal, so it was addressed to Moriarty. But where the hell was paradise? Was it the name of a place, a restaurant, a church? Or was it an acronym? Did it have anything to do with the bomb in the underground system?
Moaning, John rubbed his face – he couldn't figure it out. The only thing clearly stated was the time. Sherlock intended to meet Moriarty before nightfall – okay, but where? In the sky? Did he mean he was going to kill him, sending him to nirvana? No, then he would have written meet me in hell.
There was no devil? Huh?
Then it hit him.
Of course … John's jaw dropped in realization. There was no devil in the sky: it meant Mycroft did not know about this. It was an invitation to come and make a deal with Sherlock, bypassing Mycroft.
It was a promise that the devil's brother had gone rogue.
But he still didn't know where Sherlock was. John frowned, worrying his lip in confusion, when he suddenly became aware of three men in dark suits bearing down on him.
Damn it. Mycroft's men.
He didn't run – that was what they expected him to do, and if he did, he stood no chance. Instead, he yanked out the key, shoved it into the lock, giving a triumphant yelp when it turned immediately; he threw open the door to 221B, rushed in, slammed it shut and ran straight up the stairs. Without giving the place a glance, he dashed into Sherlock's bedroom and scrambled out of the window.
He knew there were holds set in the wall allowing him to climb onto the roof of the next building and then down a fire escape. Sherlock had used this exit whenever he had wanted to avoid Mycroft's cameras on Baker Street.
'Fabulous foresight, Sherlock,' John thought wryly as he made his way down into a narrow alley full of bins. 'But where are you?' He stopped and looked around, racking his brain for ideas where to continue. He had come to Baker Street hoping to find clues to what Sherlock planned, certain that Sherlock had at least stopped by. And he had. But John didn't understand the clues.
He cursed and dialled Mrs Hudson's number. She must have heard the commotion and perhaps she had seen Sherlock – he would have talked to her, right?
The phone rang.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a movement. Thinking Mycroft's men had caught up with him, he swivelled around – but no: someone else had appeared at the end of the alley, digging through the bins. He recognized her: she was one of Sherlock's homeless network. And she recognized him, too: she halted, but didn't run. She certainly wasn't interested in the bins – she was here to keep an eye out. Which meant, Sherlock had talked to her.
John forced himself to put on his friendliest doctor face and slowly walked towards the girl. If he wanted to get any information out of her, he'd have to convince her that he was only trying to protect Sherlock.
Which was the bloody truth anyway.
"Don't worry Mr Holmes, I'll show ye how to hold 'im," Will smiled eagerly, revealing a tooth gap. "Alfred's my best and brightest, and I just love 'im, but he's a bit shy. Don't worry, he'll trust you. He likes good people."
Sherlock seriously doubted he belonged to the good people, but he wisely kept his mouth shut; and on whatever criteria the pea-sized brain behind those beady eyes decided who qualified as being good, Sherlock apparently passed the test: the surprisingly warm body settled into his cupped hands willingly. He could feel the tiny heart fluttering with excitement, vibrant with life, despite its fragility. The wiry feet folded underneath the belly, and the smooth roundness of the chest was pressing into his palms, caressing his skin with its unbelievable softness. The gleaming eyes never left his own, speaking of trust, of instinctive faith that he would not clench his hands to break bone and squash …
He stopped the thoughts immediately.
"He's a brave one, my Alfred," the rotund man chuckled proudly. "Always finds his way home. Defied a buzzard once! Almost got ripped to bits."
"Alfred," Sherlock murmured, gently stroking the silky throat, thinking of golden kings and Saxon warriors fighting the Lords of the North over a thousand years ago.
"Called him after my nephew, a prize boxer!" Will smiled. "Won prizes, Alfred. Both, I mean – boy and bird."
"Of course," Sherlock blinked, a bit stunned. "And he'll accept me when I handle him?"
"He's doin' it now, ain't he?" Will smiled, obviously proud of the bird, and of the fact that the great Sherlock Holmes, who had once proven that Will Stampton may have fixed one or two boxing matches but was certainly no murderer, had come to him seeking help. And he was able to provide it, he of all people, not the mighty brother or the tough DI from the Yard.
Sherlock regarded the racing pigeon from all sides, noting the big eyes, wide nostrils, strong wings and the angular body, so different from that of city doves. He was eyed back with equal curiosity, he noted. He couldn't help but smile. "Fine. You know what to do."
"Sure, Mr Holmes, sure. I'll send Billy to take 'im there, the lad's simple but good. And don't worry, Alfred will come home straight as a die."
"Good." Sherlock carefully handed the bird back. Alfred seemed reluctant to leave his warm nest, hesitating before getting up and gingerly stepping back into his cage.
Sherlock watched the bird ruffle its feathers, meticulously rearranging them, and wondered how this creature had managed to captured his attention so thoroughly that he had blanked out the acrid smell of bird droppings and disinfectant.
It hit him now. He was suddenly racked by a coughing fit, his lungs burning painfully, assaulted by the stifling air full of dust; the noise made by hundreds of claws and wings and beaks seemed to tear straight into his brain. With tears stinging in his eyes, he hastened away from the cages, striding towards the Thames. A drizzle was rippling the water, but the cold clean air was infinite relief.
"Ye' not allergic, are ye?" Will asked hurrying after him, concern written all over his face. "Sounds like ye gonna cough up a lung or two!"
"No," Sherlock gasped between coughing and wheezing. "It's just a cold." He took a deep breath and willed the spasms away.
"Fucking London weather! Fog and rain." Will nodded wisely. "Ah, there's Billy. Come'n over, lad!"
Sherlock watched as a gangly fourteen year-old approached, loose limbs dangling, obviously uncomfortable with strangers, the world in general, and himself in particular. His ginger hair stuck up in all directions, he had more spots than freckles and his miserable expression spoke of a severe case of teenage heartache.
Sherlock tilted his head to the side and took him in with one look: unstylish clothes, obviously chosen by his mother, who was also responsible for his haircut – a guarantee for bullying; a friendship bracelet, the colours and uneven knotting crying little sister made it; residue of birdfeed on the turn-ups of his trousers, not the regular stuff, but a treat, probably fed to his favourite birds secretly when his uncle didn't look because it made the pigeons fat; dog's hair, cat's hair and he had a freshly peeled carrot in his pocket, probably nicked from his mother … for a hamster? Possibly a rabbit. More pets than friends, so an outsider but not a coward – it took courage to face your peers clad like this and looking after pigeons instead of hanging out with your mates. He didn't have much self esteem by the way he cringed under Sherlock's look, but he was honest – shy, but not evasive. However, he was not simple, Sherlock thought; Will was wrong in that. And that was good.
Billy listened intently as Will explained to him what he had to do. Sherlock kept watching the boy; he was eager to please, but even more eager to break out of his misery and be part of an adventure. Excellent. Smiling wryly, Sherlock withdrew a few steps, seeking the clean air of the river.
Under a leaden sky, the dark surface of the Thames was whipped by a sudden downpour, drenching him to the skin; it didn't matter. He took out his phone and typed a message to Mycroft. Even his brother would not know what to make of it yet, but he would understand soon enough. After sending it, he reset his phone's password to a much simpler one, a single word, easy to crack for anyone who knew him well. Mycroft would figure it out instantly. Then, he typed one last message to his brother – without sending it. He was not to read it yet. Timing was crucial. Finally, he scribbled an address into his notebook, tore out the page, folded it into a neat square and went over to Billy.
The boys eyes' were glowing with excitement and he stood a good inch taller. Sherlock held up his phone and the folded paper. "Take the phone to this address. Give it to Mycroft Holmes, no one else. He's expecting you."
The boy nodded eagerly, all worries forgotten for a moment.
"Billy," Sherlock deliberately dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Do not lose it. Under no circumstances. And stick to the time frame I have given you. I rely on you, Billy." He gazed into the boy's blue eyes, knowing about the power his own icy stare exerted, and he saw the kid quiver with awe and fear and gratitude. His own voice broke a little as he said, "My life depends on it."
It was not a lie.