Author's Note: sometimes this website annoys me. It's unbelievable how long it took me to finally log in. Pffft. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy. Didn't think I would update again so soon, but yeah, this won't be a usual thing. lol. Tell me what you think. Reviews make me happy. :)
Sherlock Holmes is a master of disguise. There are no wigs, no fake noses or teeth involved. He is himself but then entirely someone else at the same time. It's like putting on a second layer of skin the way he transitions from persona to persona. It's the little things, really. He softens his facial features, his expression, tilts his head just a tiny bit, holds himself a little differently and adopts a new pattern of speech. He blends in, becomes ordinary.But it's his eyes that complete the disguise.
It is Sherlock's job to notice things, to observe, to know what other people don't know. There is an intensity that is glaringly obvious in his gaze when he deduces. There is no question of the great brilliance contained just behind those orbs and the subject of his scrutiny would no doubt be aware of just how much Sherlock can see, of how much he can know. It is a frightening thought to be studied by those eyes, as if through a microscope, and there is nowhere to hide. There is no place safe, not even inside a person's own head. There is just nothing those eyes cannot see, they can identify patterns, see through deceit, pinpoint the invisible (to others, at least) threads that connect one thing to another. Sherlock's eyes are remarkable, brilliant and fantastic. And anyone who sees them will know just how beyond human Sherlock Holmes really is. Anyone who sees them will know they belong to Sherlock Holmes for who else could be so extraordinary? Those remarkable eyes have always had the potential of revealing his identity, of ruining his projected ordinary exterior. And so what makes them even more remarkable, more brilliant and fantastic is how they are able to disguise themselves. The irises change colour. The pupils dilate. The eyes lose their piercing, cat-like quality, their sharpness, their intensity; everything hidden behind a thin veil. It's his eyes that complete the disguise.
It's been about a week since Sherlock had spoken to John. A week of looking over his shoulder, hiding his tracks, doubling back and zigzagging his way across countries. He makes multiple reservations under various aliases, every transaction paid in cash. He still has some left over from what Mycroft last sent, but he's burning through it like a rash of arson and he knows he has to risk going to the bank soon. Mycroft will know where he is in less than half an hour, if he doesn't already.
If only John wasn't so stubborn, he thinks to himself, gritting his teeth in frustration. Sherlock knows John, knows how relentless he can be and all these additional precautions he has to take is making him doubly exhausted. His nerves are on edge, his mind in overdrive, keeping track of two things at once. To John possibly catching his trail. And to the man he's following right now.
The man's name is Dominik Milos. He is a traveling sales man from Slovakia. He has a two-storey house with a backyard and a front lawn. A wife and a son. An idyllic, picture perfect ruse to conceal the fact that he is a trained assassin in Moriarty's employ. Sherlock thinks it's the only way he could have afforded all the luxuries he has showered his family with. Sherlock doesn't think it's about love. Couldn't possibly be. Too messy and complicated in his line of work. And yet...
For seven days, Sherlock watches him, notes his behavior, his weaknesses, anything he can use when he finally confronts him. He follows him in the morning, after he kisses his wife and his son, Kristof, goodbye, wearing a suit and carrying a black case. Sherlock knows what's inside. And he is right. What do assassins do when they're not on a job? They practice. They get better. Because there is only the next kill and the next shot of adrenaline, that heady rush of just squeezing a tiny, insignificant trigger and being able to take a man's life by putting a bullet between his eyes. Sherlock watches as Milos enters an abandoned building and for a second, he considers following him. But that is an entirely stupid, not to mention reckless idea. Just the kind of thing John said he'd do. He tilts head up briefly as if in a triumphant gesture, as if to say, see that John, I can be careful. He waits and watches from the street below, keeping out of sight and finally sees the sniper set on the topmost window. There is a lot behind the building with towering piles of rubbish and other junk. Sherlock doesn't see what Milos is aiming at, but he hears the consecutive clinks of metal. Old cans, maybe. The sounds are alternately loud and soft, the sniper experimenting and testing his distance. The target practice lasts until dusk. And when Milos walks out of the building, Sherlock could practically taste the gun powder in the air clinging to his skin. He continues tailing him until he enters a flat near his house, a key hidden in one of the lamps. He comes back out about half an hour later and Sherlock can tell he's showered and cleaned himself up. He arrives home, Kristof tackles him at the door, and his wife welcomes him with a kiss. The whole family eats dinner, all smiles and laughs. They watch a bit of telly until it's time for Kristof to sleep. And then the two of them retire to their room. The disguise is too perfect to be merely a mask. This is the real thing. This is mundane, ordinary, domestic bliss.
Sherlock keeps a close eye on the family day to day, completely mystified, until one night, Milos leaves the table and heads to the living room to answer a call. The expression on his face, the curt nods, like a soldier receiving his orders. This is what Sherlock has been waiting for. But an uncomfortable and heavy sensation starts growing in the pit of his stomach and he feels sick.
The next morning, he watches again as Milos kisses his wife and his son goodbye. Today he is carrying more than a black case. Beside him is a larger suitcase. He must have told his wife about a last minute business trip, happens often enough that the wife doesn't bother to ask anymore. Sherlock thinks about how this will be the last time she'll see her husband, and he his father. The thought is enough to break Sherlock's heart and it's nowhere near the size of John's. This is why John shouldn't follow him. This is why he doesn't want John to come looking for him. He is too good. Much too good. Heroes don't go around breaking happy families. And Sherlock Holmes is no hero.
Sherlock gives himself a little shake, as if forcing the vulnerability and empathy to detach themselves from him. He sheds his disguise, stands just a little bit taller, eyes largely brighter and more keen. He is Sherlock Holmes once more. No more blending in. No more time to be ordinary. He has a job to do.