Pity - a word of many definitions.
Porlock. Porlock. Porlock. How could he be so easily seduced? So easily entangled in this 'Game' only mad men play? And then there was Moriarty. Or Jim so he liked to call himself. He was an actor. His facade was his bravado, vice versa. There was nothing real about him. He was a living lie. A ghost with a million expressions. An idiot so to say the least. He was beyond redemption in Sherlock's eyes. An equal yes, but not an acquaintance, a comrade. Simply a product of a parlay.
Still rooted in his chair, Sherlock wondered once again. His mind wandering, the hard drive part of it willing to burst off its seams. No. He spotted a coffee card on the table - picked it up- wrote a name - and put it in his pocket.
It was the least he could do. What was the word for it? Pity? Guilt? He was never good with feelings but this felt right. Although, he knew she would never make anything of it, it was a part of him. A key to his afterlife. One John should never know about, until the time is right.
As he packed his violin and prepared to leave, a small thought nagged at the corner of his mind.
He is a liar.
So are you.
Inner conflict was new for Sherlock. As he paid the barista, he heard the voice again,
Walk away.
It's too late.
His eyes flicked across the street, a man in a beige jacket, earphones plugged in, a typical Samaritan. Jim. Of course he'd be there. He was a spider, he knew every shiver of London, a web of his own making.
Luckily, Sherlock thought as he shrugged on his own coat, going the opposite direction. So am I.