Hey there!
Sorry it took so long!
But for that, you get a long chapter!
I was visiting my (hopefully) future college again and I can proudly say that I ate lunch sitting next to Jim Moriarty (well a picture of him anyway...) lol!
(And its a shame that that was the hilight of my visit, not the actual real famous author visiting who I also sat next to at dinner...lololol priorities, priorities...)
So...
This chapter starts and ends a little wierd.
(But of course everything I write is a little wierd, and to me at least, weird is good.)
I'm just warning you that Jim is going to channel some Gollum in this one and Molly is going to speak to the dead.
Don't be afraid!
Jim Moriarty stared at Jim Moriarty.
They both grinned intensely until they finally got it right and could smile in satisfaction at each other.
Then they practiced 'angry' and 'menacing' and 'disgusted' and 'annoyed' and even 'surprised', too, just for the fun of it.
And Then their faces returned to normal.
No, not 'normal'.
Worse than 'normal'.
Neutral.
Ugly neutral.
(Nothing.)
Jim Moriarty looked away from Jim Moriarty.
He wanted to see Sherlock. Where was Sherlock?
Unavailable.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were somewhere (not in London) doing something (probably a case…(or maybe something else?)) that John was not updating his blog about ('something else' now seeming more likely).
And Jim was still in London, doing nothing.
(Well not exactly 'nothing'. He was doing his job. But that was now getting tedious…'consulting criminal' had been a cute idea at first, what with Sherlock being a 'consulting detective' and all…but now it was a bit boring…(especially without Sherlock around).)
But the one plus about Sherlock and John being out of the city… (country, maybe even—Jim could check but then again what was the point? Sherlock would come back to London anyway. He always came back.) … was that Jim got to house-sit.
(Technically that was Mrs. Hudson's job but Jim was just the kind of Good Samaritan that would help a poor old lady out.)
The bathroom in 221b Baker Street was cramped. And yes, it was adorable that two grown men shared this small a bathroom (and apparently a tube of toothpaste).
Jim could easily tell which toiletry items belonged to Sherlock (the high quality expensive ones, gifts from ever-doting big brother Mycroft, no doubt), which ones were John's (store-brand to save money, out of habit, even though he could now afford better) and which ones John had bought implying that they were for his use only (but secretly hoping Sherlock would use as well—which he did).
The shower curtain was pulled closed neatly (probably by Mrs. Hudson who had taken the chance to tidy up (despite herself) just as soon as she was sure her tenants were gone).
Jim considered opening it and reaching down into the drain to pull out any stray hairs of Sherlock's dark wavy brown to collect…but then decided that John probably cleaned (collected) those himself.
Jim screeched open the curtain and glanced down at the drain.
He was right.
So (if not Sherlock's hair) what was Jim going to take from Sherlock's flat?
At first he thought the skull, maybe or one of the experiments or body parts from the fridge…but all of those were too obvious.
If Jim really wanted to take something…
(…not just 'take something' like holding a child's toy high over the child's head so that the child has to jump up, arms stretched skywards, to take it back...but really take something from Sherlock, something to have all to himself, something to keep…)
…it would have to be something that Sherlock wouldn't notice was even gone.
Something Sherlock wouldn't have noticed was even there in the first place.
…Something like…
Molly Hooper.
Jim turned back to the mirror, looking himself deep in the eyes… (maybe because he wanted to see something in them …or maybe because he wanted someone to see something in him)… and putting on his perfect, practiced sneer.
"Sherlock Holmes." He said.
And made a face that he thought Sherlock would make; raised eyebrow, rolled eyes (haughty, know-it-all indifference).
"Jim Moriarty." The reflection said.
"We meet again…"
(Sinister grin.)
"Cliché. Boring!"
(Rolled eyes. Again.)
"Oh no, Sherlock. With you…with you and me… it's never boring."
"Perhaps you're just easily amused."
"Only by you."
"I'm flattered."
"You should be."
"What do you want?"
"You, of course."
"You almost had me, you know…and then you left. You walked out of the indoor pool room, chatting with someone else on your smartphone and never contacted me again."
"Yes, yes I did…I know, I know. I'm sorry. Complications-"
"Excuses."
"…if only you knew…"
"I do."
"You know everything, don't you? You're the only one in this world who knows what it's like to be me…we've got so much in common, Sherlock, so much…"
"I know…kiss me?"
"Okay."
Jim leaned forward, eyes closed and lips puckered.
He tasted the smooth, tasteless glass of the mirror.
He tasted nothing.
Jim opened his eyes and saw his own face.
It was one of the rare times he was disappointed to see it. It was one of the rare times he found it ugly.
Expressionless, neutral.
Jim opened his eyes and saw nothing.
(One can't kiss oneself, no matter how one tries…and what's the point of a kiss, anyway, if you can't bite the other person's tongue and taste their blood?)
Jim resumed normal pose in front of the mirror.
He made his 'Sherlock' face again but then decided he was very good at Sherlock impressions… and even if he was, there was nothing as good as the real Sherlock and so nothing was good enough.
Jim wondered what it would be like to be Sherlock.
He always thought he kind of knew…
…but there was no way for him to know that he knew for sure unless he actually was able to become Sherlock Holmes.
And even if Jim was to skin Sherlock's face from his skull and sew it onto his own and stare into the mirror and make Sherlock faces, Jim still wouldn't be able to become Sherlock Holmes.
For that, one would need his brain.
And Jim couldn't take that.
So what would he take from Sherlock…?
…Molly Hooper?
(Something Sherlock wouldn't notice was gone, never even notice was there.)
"Sherlock? You still here?" Jim asked.
"…Regrettably. I really do have much better things that I could be doing right now…" Jim's reflection answered, voice deliberately deeper and accent deliberately more pretentious.
Maybe this wasn't Sherlock, after all.
…more like a caricature…
"What could be better than us just talking, Sherly?"
('Sherly' was the name of caricature.)
"I can think of seventeen different—"
"I can think of one. But it's not possible…at the moment. So…we'll have to find something else to do. Come, now, dear Sherly, I know what'll cheer you up. Let's play a game."
"A game? Interesting…and just what is this 'game' you propose we play?"
"It's more of a bet, actually. A wager."
"What? Like a game of 'chance'. I despise 'games of chance', games that require no thinking, no skill…besides, you tell me what we're 'betting' on and I can tell you the exact odds and that would be no fun at all, would it?"
(Oooh. 'Sherlock' (impression) was back…now if only the real one would return…)
"You don't believe in luck, do you?"
"No."
"Didn't think so…but 'lucky' for you, it isn't that kind of game."
"What kind is it?"
"I told you. It's a wager."
"And what do you 'wager'?"
"I 'wager'… that I can steal something from you, Sherlock Holmes. That I can take it, right out from under your long nose and you won't even notice that it's gone."
"No."
"Yes. I can. And I will… And you'll never even figure out what I've taken."
"No…"
Sherlock (impression) was furrowing his brow now.
Confusion…? Fear…?
No. Sherlock would never show those so openly, so expressively…
… and so 'Sherly' the caricature must have come back again.
"Yes." Jim grinned triumphantly, exaggeratedly at his own reflection.
Jim the caricature was always there.
Where was Sherlock?
Unavailable.
And so, just how was Scotland Yard fairing?
"You think I can't do my job, then? You think we all can't do our jobs!"
"No, I'm just saying it would be easier if Sherlock was here—"
"That freak—"
"That 'freak' is the reason we've got the best closure rate in the Yard… so I suggest you treat him with a bit more respect… and me as well, Sergeant Donovan."
"…Yes, sir…"
Anderson and Dimmock watched Sally and Lestrade argue.
The four police officers stood on the graying pavement. White line were painted in rows for parking spaces and chalked in the outlines of two bodies (already removed).
There were oil stains from cars and blood stains from humans, glistening in the light shinning through the clouds above.
"Is it always like this?" Dimmock asked, surprised, "That Donovan's sure got a temper…and guts too, talking to her boss like that."
"She's only gets like that when it comes to Sherlock Holmes…" Anderson explained, rolling his eyes.
"I understand why." Dimmock sympathized, "But still…"
"Well if Lestrade'll put up with Sherlock's out-right rudeness, then he better put up with Sally's legitimate complaints!" Anderson declared.
"I suppose that's fair…" Dimmock nodded.
They could see their breath in the cold and turned away from each other to look back at Lestrade and Sally.
"It was supposed to be a fist fight…"Lestrade commented, staring down at the chalk outlines, "…but somehow it turned into a knife fight and both of them ended up dead."
"Wonder what they were fighting about…" Sally shrugged.
"I bet Sherlock would probably know just from looking…" Lestrade muttered.
"That's it!" Sally exclaimed, throwing her hands up, "I'm putting in for a transfer!"
"Transferring, that's serious." Dimmock commented to Anderson, "She must really hate that Holmes bloke."
"Ah, she's not really going to transfer." Anderson dismissed, "She threatens it all the time but she never does."
"Why not?"
"Doesn't want to leave me, of course."
"Aren't you married…?" Dimmock inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"I was joking!" Anderson declared, panickedly, "It was a joke!"
"Yeah, I thought so until you started saying it was like that…"
Dimmock chuckled and Anderson growled, both under their breaths, as not to disturb (to better hear) Sally and Lestrade's investigation (argument).
"You're not transferring…" Lestrade told Sally, "We work too well together."
"We used to." Sally qualified, "We had the best case closure rate even before that freak came along and now he's just getting in the way."
"Even if you don't like him you can't honestly think that." Lestrade countered, "You know he's helping."
"He is…" Sally admitted, "But we can do it without him, even though you seem to have forgotten that, we can do our jobs without Sherlock Holmes…"
Dimmock turned to Anderson, nudging him with an elbow.
"They 'work well together', huh?" he quoted Lestrade, "Seems 'Sally' is pretty close with the boss. You jealous?"
"No!" Anderson declared, a little too loudly, causing Sally and Lestrade to look over in his and Dimmock's direction.
"What are you two doing over there?" Lestrade called, "We've gotta case! Come on, let's get to work!"
"Oh that's right!" Sally agreed, sarcastically, "it takes Sherlock ten minutes to solve a case like this and it takes four of us to do the same thing in, what, ten days? weeks? Months? Years…?"
Anderson and Dimmock started towards the two other officers and the two white outlines.
"I'm not jealous of Lestrade…" Anderson told Dimmock, as they walked, "Sally's jealous of Sherlock."
So…Scotland Yard was fairing…fairly enough, Jim decided as he watched the street from a window above, without Sherlock.
Lestrade did have Sally and Anderson and (sometimes) Dimmock as well as many other interchangeable low-ranking policemen and that had to count for something…
…half a Sherlock, maybe…?
…or a John…?
Yes. A John.
One whole John.
Jim's phone was in his pants pocket, bouncing slightly as he strolled down the stairs.
It vibrated.
Molly?
(She was going to call. it was just a matter of when.)
No.
It was just at text from one of Jim's boring, regular contacts (a radical anarchist who was probably schizophrenic and would never have accomplished anything had it not been for Jim's help).
They're following me. They're going to take me soon.
Help.
-Lewis
(Not '-Molly'. But she was going to call. It was just a matter of when.)
Jim snorted and rolled his eyes.
Lewis was probably just imagining things again, the man was completely paranoid…
(although rightfully so as he had gone on seven shooting sprees at government buildings, killing a total of seventeen people and getting away clean (thanks to Jim))
…but Jim had been the only one to ever 'believe' the strange, insane things Lewis said, and once in awhile he was right, which had proved both entertaining and beneficial to Jim in the past.
Still, Jim replied:
It's all in your head :)
Just because ticking Lewis off was fun even through text message.
No I'm not! I'm not crazy!
They're really following me! The government is after me and they're closing in!
Please help!
-Lewis
Jim laughed and typed into his phone.
You sure?
-Jim
####
Yes I am sure!
Night chasers right behind me.
…'night chasers'…
Jim perked up at that mention.
A 'night chaser' was Lewis's word for an expensive, sleek black vehicle-just like the ones Mycroft Holmes (the British government) used.
What is your location?
-Jim
The skies above were gray, as were the rows and rows of concrete rectangular structures on the concrete ground.
Jim navigated the maze of storage units, the only colors were their metal doors alternating between red, blue, green and yellow. Each door had a number.
Jim wondered what was inside number 221 as he passed by the green door, but before he could further ponder (or just break in and see for himself) he saw a flash of black shoot across the narrow street (not meant for cars) in front of him in a blur.
…a 'night chaser'?
As soon as Jim had seen it, it was gone and so Jim started running right after it.
He knew it would lead him to Lewis and that Lewis had been right.
Using the concrete structures as cover, Jim watched from around the corner as several black towncars surrounding a storage unit with a yellow door.
Men in matching black suits jumped from the limousines and aimed handguns towards the yellow door number ninety-five.
Then, a woman appeared from inside the middle vehicle.
She was also in a matching black skirtsuit but instead of holding a gun, she was texting on a smartphone.
Finally looking up from it, she addressed the men.
"This is the target's storage unit."
Jim pulled out his own phone and texted Lewis.
They know you're in there…
-Jim
####
They don't know anything but I was RIGHT.
I'm not crazy.
-Lewis
####
I can get you out of there, if you'd like.
-Jim
####
Goodbye.
-Lewis
Jim read the final text and then replaced his phone. He swerved his head around the side of the building for the best possible view.
This was going to be good…
"Open the door!" commanded Anthea (of course that wasn't really her name, but Jim preferred it to her boring normal name).
One of the suited men rushed over to the yellow door, produced bolt cutters and proceeded to try to cut open the padlock and chain.
That went on for a few minutes until two other men joined him and they all attempted to use their combined strength.
Anthea groan and rolled her eyes, then retuning to texting.
As all seven men were trying to use the bolt cutters and get the yellow door open, Anthea's face suddenly jerked up from staring down at her phone.
"Get down!" she screamed.
She and the men (who had no idea why they were doing so other than following orders) dove behind the black cars.
"Ma'am?" one of them asked her, looking at her from behind the vehicle next to hers.
"It's padlocked from the outside…" she explained in a whisper, "There's no way he's in there…so it could be a bomb in there, but I don't think so because he's never been known to use explosive before…or he could be somewhere else…"
She glanced away from the man she was speaking to over to the storage unit across from number ninety-five.
A red door.
Jim grinned. Yes this was going to be good…
Jim watched as Anthea and the men watched the red door slowly rise open.
A figure decorated in weapons emerged, still shadowed.
Lewis looked like an action hero from the movies; automatic assault rifles in both hands, guns and knives on his belt, and rows of bullets as suspenders.
Jim had to bite his tongue to keep from cracking up and getting spotted as Lewis stomped out from the storage unit.
"The million eyes of the Cyclops will watch me no more!" Lewis shouted, shaking his weapons to the sky, "I will finally be free from the government!"
He pointed both rifles at Anthea and the seven men.
"You need to take your medicine!" Anthea told him, slowly reaching into her jacket pocket, "I've got it here-"
"No!" Lewis yelled, "No more poison! Don't move!"
Anthea's arm froze, hand still in her pocket.
"What do you want then…?" she asked cautiously.
"I want to be alone!" Lewis cried, now almost sobbing, "I wanted to be left alone! But the eyes! The eyes were always, always watching me! I could never sleep…You all want me! You all came here after me! Leave me alone, leave me alone!"
"We can't do that, Lewis, you know we can't." Anthea said, "You've killed people-"
"I've poked out the Cyclops' eyes!" Lewis corrected.
(It was all too funny, really, Jim was still trying to keep from laughing. Wasn't the whole point of a Cyclops that it only had one eye?)
"Put the guns down…" Anthea told Lewis, and then added, "Please."
She started to stand.
"Don't move!" Lewis repeated, louder this time, and he now directed all of his weapons solely on Anthea, "Nobody move…!"
Nobody moved.
"Line up!" Lewis continued, and when nobody moved, he said, "Line up! Now! Do it now!"
Reluctantly, Anthea and the men rose and followed the gestures of Lewis's rifles to stand up against and facing the yellow door.
They and Jim knew what was coming next.
"You don't have to do this!" Anthea wailed.
"Shut up!" Lewis roared, "…I want you all to know that you all deserve this! If you hadn't come chasing after me…if you had just left me alone…none of this would have to happen…!"
Even with their backs turned, Anthea and the suited men heard the safety click off.
Jim gazed at the scene.
What did Lewis even need his help for? He seemed to have this all under control…
(He may have been crazy, but he was still pretty smart. Genius, maybe even (although not on the level of Sherlock)…same thing, after all…)
"No!" Anthea begged, turning around to face Lewis and falling to her knees, "Please don't do this! I'll do whatever you want-"
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Lewis barked, "Quiet! I need quiet! Be quiet!"
Anthea quieted her sobs and all was still and silent…
…until the drum beat of a helicopter could be heard overhead.
"What?" Lewis exclaimed, looking up at the black flying machine, "No! More eyes! Always watching, always watching!"
He turned his guns away from Anthea and aimed them at the helicopter hovering above, black against the light gray clouds.
The helicopter circled around and Lewis traced the circle with his weapons, waiting for the right time to shoot.
Finally a shot rang out, echoing against the labyrinth-like halls of concrete.
And Lewis fell forwards.
Standing behind him (and now over him) was Anthea.
While his back was turned, Anthea had shot Lewis in the back of the head.
(A bit of a cowardly move, sure…but Lewis would have done the same to her and the men if she hadn't realized he wasn't in the yellow-doored storage unit.)
Anthea looked away from Lewis's body and up at the helicopter, completely unarmed, in the sky.
She nodded to it and Jim could see a man inside nod back.
Although it was too far away to really tell, Jim knew that the man could only be Mycroft Holmes, gazing down at his employee like an approving god.
(Anthea= John(2)…and yet, for some reason, John was still 'greater than' Anthea.)
Where was Sherlock?
Unavailable.
But why?
He and John had come all this way to the United States of America, to solve a case in New York City about a banker (probably dead) who had ended up missing (probably dead)…along with all his money.
There had been a lawsuit and criminal investigation pending against this investment banker, who had lost all his client's money in the stock market and yet made hundreds of millions for himself.
And then he was gone.
(Dead or unavailable.)
John stood in the spacious, clean and nicely furnished office of the missing man, in his wealthy (once but no longer) reputable Wallstreet firm.
Where was Sherlock?
This was his case, after all, it was his decision to take it and come all the way across the pond and now he was gone (dead or unavailable) to where, John did not know.
"This is his computer." A very sexy assistant stated, gesturing to the desktop on the dark, red, wooden desk, "…or was, at least, if he really is dead…"
She talked in one of those stereotypical New York accents that John had only heard on television before today.
John and the American detective followed the assistant over to the desk looking more at her curves in her tight dress than the computer she was pointing too.
(They were disappointed when she sat down at the desk in front of the desk top, obscuring the view of her behind…
…but then very happy to realize that as she sat and they stood, they had the perfect view of her cleavage.)
"We don't know who got access to his money…or how…" she told them, clicking away the keyboard, "…but someone took all of it from his online account and transferred it to somewhere else. We don't know where."
Was there anything that she did know?
…did it even matter?
(She obviously wasn't hired because of her intelligence…)
"When did you last see your boss?" the American police detective asked the assistant.
He didn't have as prevalent an accent as she did, but it was still there, harsher and grittier, like a movie cop.
"About a week ago…" the assistant answered, shrugging, "I dunno exactly…I told the police everything I know so many times, why are we doing this again!"
This was going nowhere, John could tell.
If Sherlock were here the case would have been solved by now…
…but Sherlock was unavailable.
John tried to think of the kind of questions Sherlock would ask.
"…um…Did anyone strange come into the office right before your boss disappeared?" he decided on asking, "…or did he receive any strange phone calls or emails…?"
"Oh!" The assistant exclaimed and John for an instant actually thought he was going to get a helpful answer and solve the case (take that, Sherlock, he could do his job without him!), "…You've got an accent! It's adorable! Where are you from?"
"…London…" John sighed and then added, "England." In case she didn't know where the city was, Americans being poorly educated and all that.
"Oh my gosh!" the assistant squealed, "I love British people! They're so funny!"
"Yeah…" John said, staring at the ceiling.
"I say!" the assistant did a poor imitation of a British accent, "Cheerio! Fish and chips!"
"John groaned, then reciting the polite "Thank you for your time, ma'am…I have to go now."
"Olive wa!" the assistant waved and John hurried out of the office, "…oh wait! That's France!"
The American police officer followed John. Once they were in the elevator, he finally spoke again.
"…aren't you supposed to be, like, some kind of genius detective, or something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, "…and solve the case in, like, ten minutes…?"
"That's my partner, Sherlock Holmes…" John explained, sighing, "I don't where he is…sorry about that…"
"…oh." the officer replied, awkwardly, "That's not very professional."
"I'm going to go look for him." John declared, once the elevator reached the ground floor, "I'll come back to your precinct once I find him and we'll solve this thing, alright?"
The officer nodded and he and John parted ways as they walked out of the skyscraper on to the crowded, dirty streets of New York City.
As he walked, trying to avoid bumping into people, John called and texted Sherlock multiple times, never receiving a response.
Great, Sherlock Holmes had disappeared in NYC, USA leaving John alone to solve the case…
Where was Sherlock?
"Hey, babe." Jim greeted, strolling into the office once John and the American police officer had left and raising a hand half way in a half wave.
The assistant stood up from the desk and crossed the carpet over to him.
"You're back!" She was surprised, but pleasantly so.
She had no strong accent.
Smiling, the assistant leaned in for a kiss and got more than a mouthful. Jim, himself, got more than a handful of what John and the officer had been staring longingly at.
"Nice accent." He grinned, pulling away from the kiss but not the embrace.
"Thanks." The assistant thanked, her voice returning to the earlier manner (which was really more Jersey than New York), "I thought it was too over the top but no one else seemed to notice…or figure out it was me who sent all that money overseas, they all thought I was too stupid to even suspect me of anything… funny what people'll believe…"
"You've got a future on Broadway, kid." Jim told her, trying out California even though California had Hollywood not Broadway.
(The assistant wondered if British people knew that. She wondered if it even mattered…)
"I wasn't lying, you know…" the assistant said, looking down at her foot, drawing circles in the carpet with the toe of her high-heeled shoe, "…not about loving British people…"
Oh, this was too easy…
Jim kissed her again.
Women all were just too easy…
…except for one (two, really, but only one of them counted).
(And Molly would call. It was just a matter of when.)
"I'm not British, love…" Jim told the assistant, breaking the kiss, and then shouting, "I'M IRISH!" and throwing her to the floor.
"What are you gonna do to me?" she yelped, from the floor, inching away from him as he advanced menacing in both pose and expression.
Jim walked towards the assistant and bent down next to her, reaching forward.
But instead of grabbing her, he grabbed the handle of the tiny cabinet she crouched next to, inches from her brown hair, and opened it.
Taking the most expensive bottle of her boss's collection of expensive liquor, Jim stood back up and walked to the door.
Leaning against it, he took a swig.
Where was Sherlock?
If Sherlock was here, this case would have probably been solved already…
(Solved meaning the guy Jim had set up to take the fall for killing the investment banker that lost all his money would be apprehended.)
But Sherlock had not come to this office, Sherlock was unavailable.
That meant Jim's plan wasn't complete…
(The 'fall guy' still had to take the fall.)
Time to make Sherlock do his job.
Jim almost finished the bottle, which was more than half empty to begin with, leaving just a few drops inside.
"Ahhh…" he sighed, smacking his lips, "That's the good stuff."
(It tasted terrible. One was not supposed to chug that kind of beverage.)
The assistant was still on the floor, but slowly began to stand.
"Catch!" Jim shouted.
He jettisoned the bottle towards her with all his force.
It hit her in the face, the heavy glass not even shattering but giving the same affect as if Jim had hit her over the head with a brick.
The assistant crumpled too the floor in a puddle of bourbon and blood and drool dripping from her mouth.
Maybe she was dead…or maybe she just had a concussion.
Either way, an attack on the missing banker's secretary was sure to draw Sherlock back onto the case.
Besides, Jim never liked this girl anyway.
He walked away, shoving his hands into his pockets (and feeling his phone in one), out of the office and started towards the elevator.
(And Molly would call, she really would. It was just a matter of when.)
When John finally found Sherlock… he was in New Jersey, sitting alone at a booth in some trashy but quaint (stereotypical 1950's) American diner.
He crumpled and napkin and pushed it into his coat pocket as soon as he saw John walk in.
"What happened?" John demanded, "You just up and left me there with the police and the case! Where were you? And what are you doing all the way here?"
"Sightseeing." Sherlock answered in a mutter, rolling his eyes.
John sat down across from Sherlock on the red (fake) leather cushion, raising an eyebrow.
"Sightseeing?" he repeated, "…in New Jersey? Really, Sherlock, I'm not you but I'm not stupid. What were you really doing?"
(Buying drugs? John panicked for a few seconds.)
"Leave me alone." Sherlock grumbled, glaring down at the sticky menu in his hands.
"…fine then." John agreed, "About the case-"
"Too easy." Sherlock stated, not looking up at John, "Didn't even need to be there. That's why I didn't go with you on that unnecessary trip to the office or the precinct. The banker isn't dead. He faked his own death to escape criminal prosecution and paying restitution."
"But—what—how do you know?" John asked, for what felt like the millionth time.
"Like I said, too easy." Sherlock replied, "If a disgruntled client was going to get revenge on him by killing him…he would have left the body for all to see, to show the world that the banker was guilty and deserved death. The banker wouldn't have just disappeared… His body would have been found, probably badly beaten and mutilated, with some kind of message or warning-perhaps, even evidence of his crimes. If he had been killed by an investor, this would have been justice. No need to hide the body. But the 'body' is hiding because the 'body' is still alive…it's just currently unavailable."
"And so where is the body—um—banker, then?" John inquired, looking at Sherlock and hoping he would look up.
"Gone." Sherlock said.
"…I see…and to where has he 'gone'?"
Sherlock shook his head, still staring at the menu.
He didn't want to say that he didn't know and John knew that if Sherlock couldn't find the banker than nobody would.
But that wasn't the only reason Sherlock was in a bad (sad?) mood.
"Alright then…" John decided, "We can go and tell that to the NYPD tomorrow…"
"Why tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, "Why not just go tell them today? Or better yet, just text them…"
"Because it's getting late and I'm getting hungry." John explained, "I've just spent the past six hours running around New York City looking for you until the concierge at the hotel finally told me that you asked for directions to New Jersey and a tourist from home told me that he recognized you and saw you go into this restaurant."
"You're quite the detective, John." Sherlock deadpanned, still staring at the menu.
"Obviously you must be hungry too, since you can't take your eyes off that menu." John snapped, "So let's have dinner—"
"I'm not hungry." Sherlock stated, smacking down his menu and shooting up from his seat, "We're leaving."
"No we're not!" John exclaimed, "I haven't even ordered yet!"
"Stay here in this disgusting excuse for an eating establishment and gorge on grease and transfats if you really want to," Sherlock spat, turning to go, "but I'm leaving."
"No you're not." John declared. Now he was also standing and he reached across the table, placing both hands on Sherlock's shoulders and sitting him back down. "We're going to eat."
"…fine." Sherlock agreed, seated once again and picking up the menu, "…What looks tolerable here?"
As always, Jim watched from a safe distance (as a tourist who was sightseeing in New Jersey).
Why was John the only person able to force Sherlock to eat (or do anything) without actual force?
It wasn't fair…
…and it wasn't even.
Did that mean Sherlock was 'less than' John?
And what did that mean for Jim?
Jim didn't know, he never was all that great with math…
The last time Molly had done this was when she first started work down in the morgue.
Absentminded chatter, more to herself, really, than to the bodies…
"What should I have for lunch today? Oh, a bag of crisps? Good idea!…have any money to loan me for the machine?"
…and only 'to' the bodies as a joke when she finally realized she was doing it.
Who else did she have to talk to down there (or anywhere else) anyway?
But, of course, because Molly was strange, and quiet, and shy, and clumsy, and nervous and Molly her boss thought she was crazy.
Self-conscious and afraid of being fired, Molly quickly stopped talking to the bodies (to herself) while she worked.
Self-conscious and afraid of being crazy, Molly quickly stopped talking to herself at home, too.
Now Molly decided that she probably was crazy.
But who else could she talk to, except the bodies?
Sherlock was gone (where? Lestrade had mentioned he had left but didn't say to where) and even if Sherlock was here he wouldn't really want to talk to her anyway.
(Always unavailable.)
Molly hadn't spoken to her 'friends' (all two of them, both married, one pregnant one already with children) in months. And her 'family' (older brother, younger sister, stepmother) she didn't even want to talk to them (and hadn't in over a year).
So who else could she talk to, but her 'patients'?
And she was crazy, Molly decided again, she was definitely crazy.
"I must be crazy." She stated, sewing up her patient's stomach.
(She could sew skin, but never fabric despite her stepmother's vain attempts to teach her (and bond with her)…or maybe that was why Molly never could sew fabric.)
Molly finished and then pulled the white sheet back over the corpse (a man who had been killed in a fist-fight turned knife-fight) as if she was tucking in a child.
"I must be crazy…" she repeated, "…because why else would I be considering calling him…?"
(She would not utter the name 'Jim Moriarty' with in the walls of the St. Bart's again, just as a precaution, so nobody would know.)
"Yes you are crazy." The patient agreed, "Why else would you possibly want to contact a criminal? He'll kill you. Having a suicidal tendency is a mental illness."
"…you're probably right…" Molly muttered and went over to the refrigerated wall.
She opened two body drawers, one empty and one occupied by another 'patient' (the man who had turned the fist fight-fight into a knife-fight).
"Don't listen to him." the second patient said, "You know ol' Jimmy boy won't kill you—"
"Don't say his name!" Molly squeaked.
"Why not?" the second patient laughed, "It's not like anyone can hear me but you, Molly…"
"Oh…right…" Molly remembered.
These voices were in her head.
The first one sounded suspiciously like Sherlock Holmes and the second…
"Jim Moriarty." The second patient said, all sing-songy, "There, I've said it again. Jim Moriarty, Jim Moriarty, Jim—"
"Oh, shut up!" the first patient groaned, "No one wants to hear that murderous psychopath's name."
"Than what name do you want to hear?" the second asked, "… 'Sherlock Holmes'?"
"Neither of them, no names, nothing at all." The first answered, "How about you just stay quiet."
"Aww, but that's no fun—"
"Quiet!"
Molly watched the two corpses argue.
They were sitting up on their respective silver slabs, all shouts and gestures and facial expressions…
…except they weren't.
They were lying silently, motionless, and dead.
"I must be crazy." Molly said for the third time that afternoon.
"No." the second body countered, "Just lonely…is it a crime to want somebody to pay attention to you…?"
"It is when you want that person to be Jim Moriarty." The first body declared.
"I don't—" Molly started.
"Yes you do." The second interrupted, like an echo of words and insight previously thrown in Molly's face.
"Not at first…" Molly reasoned, "I wanted Sherlock first. I still want Sherlock…but Ji—'he' came to me."
"And isn't that what you've always wanted?" the second reminded, "To be chased, rather than run after somebody you can never catch…?"
"I guess…"
"There'll be other men, Molly—" the first began, but was cut off.
"No. There won't." the second stated, "Not like Sherlock Holmes, not like Jim Moriarty."
"Forget about them both, Molly." The first instructed, looking and Molly, and then turned to the man who had killed him and who he had killed, "And you shut up."
"I'm telling her the truth!" the second snapped, "You're just telling her to lie to herself!"
"Everyone lies, to others and to themselves…" the first said, "It's normal. If we didn't we'd all be crazy…"
"Maybe it's better, then…" the second mused, "being crazy…"
"I must be crazy, I must be crazy…" Molly told herself, shaking her head in the silence as she pulled her phone from her white labcoat pocket.
...so!
lol
Hope it's not too weird or confusing...
(Just ask if you need an explanation for anything, I'll always explain...including spoilers.)
And I really wish they let me use the 'greater than' and 'less than' symbols... (can't even make angry eyes face to complain about it).
Review?