TheScienceODeduction Sorry, the review seemed to be unsigned, so I couldn't think of any other way to reply to you than through the story itself! I hope you did well in your exam, I've probably done awfully XD I'd love to read your stories, if only I could find them! Send me a link sometime. Yeah, I'm in Year 10 too. It sucks, doesn't it? So much work to do. I really wanted to go to Speedy's! I went and found North Gower Street last weekend but it was closed! I was gutted. Thank you for the lovely review.
Hey there reader! How's it hangling? (I re-watched Peep Show- so sue me ;D) Again, this has taken me a stupid amount of time to get out, and that sucks *smacks self* So, what's happened whilst we've been away? I saw Frankenstein. I feel indecently happy about perving on Benedict Cumberbatch, but it can't be helped XD I also failed my Maths exam, had a minor mental breakdown when I had to redo my History coursework for the third time, and somehow began an anti-Conservative campaign amongst my friends, God knows how.
I'd also like to thank you lovely folk for giving me over 200 reviews! WOW!
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Dedicated to OryonUK, as she was the 200th reviewer! She also happened to be the 100th reviewer… She clearly has powers. BURN THE WITCH. Actually, don't, I rely on the reviews to keep me happy XD Enjoy!
Part the First:
Listen now! We're going to begin our story. When we come to the end of it we shall know more than we do now.
There was once a wicked imp, a demon, one of the very worst- he was the devil himself. One day, there he was, laughing his head off. Why? Because he had made a magic mirror with a special power: everything good and beautiful that was reflected in it shrivelled up almost to nothing, but everything evil and ugly seemed even larger, and more hideous than it was. In this glass, the loveliest landscapes looked just like boiled spinach, and even the nicest people appeared quite horrible, or seemed to be standing on their heads, or to have no trunks to their bodies. As for their faces, they were so twisted and changed that no one could have recognised them; and, if anything holy and serious passed through someone's mind, a hideous sneering grin was shown in the glass.
Sherlock snapped the book shut. Rain spattered the window in a gentle but irregular rhythm, the sky still dark before the late winter dawn. John was asleep, his head resting against the car window. He was illuminated by the passing motorway lamps, the light flickering over his features and highlighting the lines of his face. Sherlock had not previously noticed the slight imperfections in John's face, but he had never been able to analyse and catalogue him for this long before.
He had lost. Moriarty had been allowed to kill an eight year old child, for the love of the game. The worst part of it was the reason why he had failed. Sherlock could not help but think that perhaps, if John had not been around, he would not have been distracted. He wouldn't have let his mind wander; he would have focused on the case and won.
He glanced back over at the man sat beside him. He never should have let him in the first place. Now, he couldn't go back.
December 11th
11:30am
"Ok," said Lestrade, clapping his hands together and addressing the team as a whole. "I realise that the death of Frasier Feversham has been a blow to the investigation, but we have to move forward." His tone was- well, not upbeat, but as close to upbeat as it was possible to be after you've just seen the mutilated child. It was Lestrade's eyes that betrayed him, their blankness revealing his lack of sleep and despondency. "Keep looking for links. Off you go."
The crowd dispersed, leaving Sherlock and John standing awkwardly by the door to the office. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but Sherlock could have sworn that he'd heard whispers about him. He'd caught people staring at him with something hard to unravel in their eyes. Something like mistrust.
"Guys," said Lestrade. "Come in."
They sat down in his office, Lestrade shutting the door quietly behind him. He sat behind his desk, sighing. "It wasn't a success."
"I know," said Sherlock. "We were so close."
"The thing with the presents," said John. "Why? Why did he do it?"
Sherlock took the book out of his pocket. "More theatrics? I think it's just another way of getting at us. He's trying to make us feel weak."
"And succeeding," said John, barely audibly. "He's making us look like fools."
"We need to think about his next victim," said Lestrade firmly. "How are we supposed to figure it out? I mean, how many connections can a primary school child have anyway?"
"They'll be one. Somewhere." Sherlock got out of his chair. "So what do we have to go on? The next line of the song is 'Six Geese A-Laying'. Six Geese." He began to pace the room. "A goose."
"A goose farmer, perhaps?" suggested Lestrade.
"Don't be obvious. He's hardly going to make it that easy." Lestrade frowned.
"Perhaps the goose is symbolic of something?" said John.
"Perhaps. We can't be certain until we think of a possible link to Frasier Feversham."
Lestrade picked up a cup of coffee and took a deep drink from it. "Well, I don't see how he knew many people in the first place. You two knew him better than I did, what was he like?"
John paused. "He was nice. Friendly. He didn't have too many friends, from the sound of it. His mother barely let him out of the house, he couldn't have had the time."
"Well, what were his interests?"
"He liked stories," Sherlock said without emotion. "His mother used to tell him them." Sherlock pressed his hands together in a praying position under his nose. "Perhaps the reference is in a story that she read to him?"
"Brilliant Sherlock!" John smiled, but the warmth was marred by his grief. Sherlock knew that he had cared for Frasier, but the extent of John's emotions was unknown to him. As he was constantly reminded, he wasn't good with feelings.
"I'll need the books from his room. In fact, send me as much as you can from there."
Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, don't you think we should wait for a while?"
Sherlock blinked. "What? Why?"
"His parents will be grieving. We shouldn't intrude."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There's no time for that! Don't you understand? We need to find the links as quickly as we can- did you learn nothing from the last case?"
Lestrade bit his lip. "Fine. I'll give them to the team when they arrive."
Sherlock shook his head. "No, give them to John and I. Your lot will probably miss something."
"Maybe you and John have done a bit too much, Sherlock." The words were neither shouted nor muttered, but his tone was biting. "For the first time, Sherlock detected an edge to Lestrade that was directed at him. They exchanged a long and deliberate look.
John coughed. "We'll see what we can do Greg. Thanks."
Sherlock broke his gaze, and walked out of the room without another word to the detective inspector.
2:30pm
"Sherlock? Sherlock? Hello, are you in there?"
Sherlock snapped out of his stupor. He had been lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and trying to think. "What?"
"I said, help me with these Christmas cards." John passed him a list of people.
Sherlock moaned. "Christmas cards? I hardly think that this is worthy of my time right now."
John smirked. "Well, there's nothing you can do until you get the books, and that will take time. So come and help."
Sherlock glared at him, then swung his legs off the sofa so John could sit down. He scanned the list. "John?"
"Yes?"
"Are we sending joint Christmas cards?"
"Well, I figured you don't have too many people to send them to, so I thought you might want to be included in mine."
Sherlock laughed. "And you wonder why people think we're a couple?"
John shot him a playful scowl, and shoved a Christmas card at him. "Start."
It was steady work, and surprisingly fun. Sherlock wrote the same carbon copied message in all of them- 'To [INSERT NAME HERE], Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! From John and Sherlock'.
He groaned once he got to a certain part of the list. "Mycroft?"
"Yes," John grinned. "He's your brother."
"But I don't like him!" He protested. "He's irritating!"
"Nevertheless."
Sherlock moaned. "Fine. But I'm not buying him a present."
"Yes you are. Otherwise it'll look odd that I've bought him one."
Sherlock blinked. "You've bought him a present?"
"Yes!" said John defensively. "I like to buy gifts. It's a nice thing to do."
"What did you get him?"
"A cashmere jumper. Do you think he'll like it?" he asked nervously.
Sherlock laughed. "I'm sure he will. He knows that you love jumpers, believe me. Besides, he'll probably have gotten too fat for it after Christmas in any case. He eats like a pig at Christmas."
John giggled guiltily. "Don't be a bitch, Sherlock. I really need to go shopping actually, I haven't got half the stuff I need yet."
"God, and now I actually have a friend, I suppose I'll have to buy him a present." Sherlock shot a sideways glance at John, faking an exasperated expression which made John laugh.
"And your brother, remember? Think about Lestrade as well. Plus Mrs Hudson- I can't believe you forgot about her! You'll have to come with me."
"Fine. But Mycroft's getting something crappy that he'll never use. A diet cookbook, perhaps?"
John sniggered. They turned back to the cards.
4:30pm
The books had been taken to 221B by an unnamed police officer who hadn't stopped to give it to them. The box was brought up by Mrs Hudson.
"This all looks very odd Sherlock," she said. "All these fairy tales. Interesting case dear?"
"You could say that." He thanked her and she bustled off downstairs. John had raised an interesting point- what was he going to get her? What was he going to get John? He'd never bought a Christmas present in his life before. What would he like?
"You've got the books?" asked John.
"Yeah. And some other stuff- toys and crayons." He put the box down. "We'd better get to work."
Hours passed. Each read the books, trying to find some sort of connection. What could help them?
Sherlock picked up one of the final books in the pile. Another Hans Christian Andersen book. He flicked it open, discarded a bookmark that had been left there, and began to read.
Everything in Its Right Place.
It is more than a hundred years ago! At the border of the wood, near a large lake, stood the old mansion: deep ditches surrounded it on every side, in which reeds and bulrushes grew. Close by the drawbridge, near the gate, there was an old willow tree, which bent over the reeds. From the narrow pass came the sound of bugles and the trampling of horses' feet; therefore a little girl who was watching the geese hastened to-
Sherlock stopped, staring at the blank little word on the page. Geese. "John."
"What?"
"I think I've found it."
They read the rest of the tale together.
"So a goose-girl is pushed into a ditch by a snobby Baron, and she hangs onto a willow tree. The branch breaks, but she's rescued by a peddler, who sticks the branch into the ground and tells her that she should make a flute," said John. "The branch grows into a tree, and eventually the Baron becomes so poor that the peddler buys the mansion from him. He married the goose-girl. In a hundred years, their descendants looked down on their great grandparents lowly beginnings. The son of the village pastor and the eldest daughter of the family fall in love, and he makes a flute from a branch of the tree to give to the son of the Baron. But only the son of the pastor can play it, and when he does, all the people are moved around to where they deserve to be. The son of the pastor and the daughter deserve to be of high status, so they are. The baron becomes a shepherd. Everything in its right place." John scratched his head. "But why? I mean, the geese is hardly mentioned in the story."
Sherlock frowned. "I have no idea. A red herring perhaps? To distract us?"
John glanced at the cover of the book again. "Everything in its right place… Isn't that a Radiohead song?"
Sherlock frowned. "How the hell would I know?"
John grimaced. "Of course, you wouldn't know. I'm pretty sure it is you know." He walked quickly upstairs, returning with a CD in his hand. "It is!" he said, pleased.
"You're not putting it on are you?" Sherlock sighed. "Dull."
John ignored him, pressing play on the CD player he had brought down with him.
The electronic sound drifted out of the speakers, oddly haunting and abstract.
Kid A, Kid A, Kid A, Kid A, Everything, everything, everything, everything, in its right place, in its right place, in its right place, right place, yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon, yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon, yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon, yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon, everything, everything, everything, in its right place, in its right place, right place, there are two colours in my head, there are two colours in my head, what is that you tried to say? What was that you tried to say? Tried to say, tried to say, tried to say, tried to say, everything in its right place.
The song ended.
"Did you like it?" asked John.
"It was… ok," Sherlock said reluctantly. "Not great but not terrible."
"That's high praise coming from you," John said pointedly.
Sherlock smirked. "Perhaps. Well, we've still got nowhere. This could take a while."
John glanced at his watch. "Shit, is it six already?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Well, I'm going out with Sarah later." Sherlock groaned inwardly. He'd forgotten about their little date. "We're going to see a film at 7:30, and then we're getting something to eat afterwards."
"Oh. Sounds… nice."
"I said I'd meet her at 7:15, and it'll take me 45 minutes to get over there with the traffic. Shit." He gave Sherlock a pained look. "I can cancel if you want."
It took all the effort Sherlock had to stop himself from taking the offer. "No. I'll be fine. Go out with Sarah." These words came out sharper than he had intended them to, but John didn't seem to notice.
"Thanks mate. I'd better get ready, she won't be happy if I'm late!" He rushed upstairs.
6:30pm
Sherlock had sat in silence in the flat, waiting for John to leave before allowing himself to rant about Sarah at the top of his voice. He knew he ought to be concentrating on the case, but… John could be awfully distracting. He walked downstairs, looking incredible considering he was only wearing a blue shirt and jeans.
"Do I look alright?" he asked nervously.
"Yes. You look great." Sherlock choked out. He had been very close to telling John he looked terrible and forcing him to change, just to delay him.
"I'll see you later, yeah? Wish me luck!" He bounded out of the flat, a small spring in his step.
Sherlock sighed, and put his head in his hands. He tried not to think about what John and Sarah were doing at that moment in time, and picked up his copy of 'The Snow Queen'.
The mirror shook so violently with its weird reflections that it sprang out of their hands and went crashing down to earth, where it burst into hundreds of millions, billions, trillions of tiny pieces. And that made matters even worse than before, for some of these pieces were hardly as big as a grain of sand. These flew here and there, all through the wide world; whoever got a speck in his eye saw everything good as bad or twisted- for every little splinter had the same power as the whole glass had. Some people even caught a splinter in their hearts, and that was horrible, for then their hearts became just like lumps of ice.
Is that what he did to people?
Sherlock's phone vibrated suddenly, making him jump. He answered. "Hello?"
"Having fun, darling?" Moriarty's musical tone chimed from the phone.
"I'm not in the mood Moriarty, so make it quick."
"I'm just seeing how you're doing. One must monitor these things. So where are you now?"
"Now why would I tell you that?"
"Because you know that I won't change my plan. I want you to solve this."
Sherlock realized that he had a point. "I've looked through Frasier's books. Found 'Everything in its right place'."
Morairty laughed. "Ah. So has your little soldier linked it to his favorite band yet?"
Sherlock frowned. "How did you-"
"You'd be amazed what you can learn from Facebook, Sherlock. Isn't he precious?" His voice had a vicious edge to it that Sherlock didn't like at all. "You finally gave in and made a connection with another human being. I can't say I'm surprised- I just thought you'd have better taste. A soldier and a doctor? Really Sherlock, how predictable. Your life is rather like some trashy Mills and Boon romance novel- the detective and his lover."
"John is not my lover."
"Well, you've got a funny way of showing it then. John, John, John. Everything links back to John. Have you heard the song?"
"He played it for me."
Moriarty giggled. "Ah, good. I left that in just for him, but it does fit with you and the case rather well."
Sherlock glared at the man he couldn't see. "How, exactly?"
"Well, that song's all about contrasts. People wake up everyday in a world so horribly complicated and dark, but they long for an easy answer. Something concrete, something black and white. Something bigger than themselves. That's why they created religions, so people could believe." Moriarty chuckled. "You see them, don't you? Little men with little lives. Clinging to their gods, like there's some semblance of order in the Universe. You'll learn. They're nothing. Their beliefs are nothing. We are so much bigger than them. Never to be overcome, never to be destroyed. Eternal."
"You talk like we're gods."
"Maybe we are? The normal people, they yearn for simplicity. We don't want that. We revel in the complicated. But then we differ. I am never satisfied with what I have. I am ambitious. You, however, long for contentment. So what does that make you? A god, or a human? You are the point where heaven and hell collide, where black meets white, where ice meet fire. You are light and dark in their purest forms."
"Why are you doing this? Why are you analyzing me?"
"Because you hate anything you don't understand. And you don't understand yourself."
P.S- You probably all already know, but did you hear about Olivia and Benedict? :O