"Get me a pen."
Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway with a tray of food, taken aback by the barked order. Sherlock had his hand stretched out behind him, waiting for the pen for which he'd just requested.
He shook it once more, as if to display the need for this pen right now.
She set the tray down next to him, smoothing the lines on her shirt as she stood up. She peered down at the newspaper in front of him- dated one month ago- but she was far past bothering to wonder what he was up to.
"I've got you some supper, Sherlock…"
In response, another shake of his hand behind him.
With a soft scowl, she grabbed one of the pens from the table in front of him and put it hastily in his hand- he spun it two or three times in his fingers before bringing it to the paper, circling whole articles and underlining phrases with such a ferocity that she was sure the display was at least partly put-on.
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
His head snapped towards her in attention- he stared at her, startled.
"Mrs. Hudson."
As if he had been expecting someone else.
And he turned back to his work. She tilted her head to her last remaining tenant, eyes filling with a look that, though she was sure that Sherlock could feel (or deduce, as he'd say), was glad that he couldn't see.
"I brought you some supper. I'm sure you need a nice hearty meal, after…"
After a month of prison food.
After barely winning his innocence.
After…
She tossed her free hand up in front of her, abandoning the sentence.
"Well."
She would have hoped that he would have given more than a fleeting glance at the homemade soup and bread, but she knew too well than to expect anything different.
She squeezed the hand still on his shoulder, trying to comfort him before eventually giving up, wringing her own hands.
She watched over him for a long moment, receiving no response- There was no graceful way for her to start the conversation that she needed to have with him if he welcomed no conversation in the first place. This wasn't the first time Mrs. Hudson had realised that it was impossible to actually talk to Sherlock Holmes- definitely not the first, but the most desperate.
If something had been wrong, she'd usually became privy to it through John. John was an inviting conversation partner- he spent the first few months of his residence at 221 getting to know her, watching morning television in her kitchen. He knew when to smile and when to laugh and when it was his turn to gripe- apparently, she'd taken that for granted.
Sherlock was not poor company- he wasn't company at all.
The older woman sighed before turning to the door, letting him continue with his work.
"Just- let me know if you need anything."
It was a few long moments after the woman had left that Sherlock had properly gotten back to work- pulling the newspaper away and opening his laptop.
Three deaths in the past month.
He'd heard it on the news first- the television set had, at first, been a nuisance to him, deterring his attention from his work. Now, the talkative machine only served to help him think.
It was last night while he sat, laptop perched on his knees, back to the screen when a familiar voice intruded on his thoughts-
"…on the balcony of his hotel room the night of June sixth, at approximately midnight…"
He spun around to face the television and the woman framed in the picture, looking uncomfortable in her position and extremely defensive.
"There were no clear signs of a break in, a struggle, or any force at all. He was shot in the head with a short-range weapon, however."
Detective Inspector Sally Donovan, on his television screen, feeding half-truths to the public.
"He had been under surveillance for both- No. Neither James Moriarty nor Richard Brook have anything to do with these murders."
Quarter truths.
Well, he knew better.
The number was still on speed-dial.
It took three rings for him to answer- he sounded exhausted, and not in the self-fulfilled way he always had when he was DI himself.
"Sherlock, what do you want?"
"I need information on the serial murder cases. Donovan gave a lot more information to the public than you did while you were Detective Inspector but I really would like to see the-"
"Whatever you're going to ask for, the answer is no. Definitely, no."
"Give me three minutes on the next crime scene-"
"Sherlock-"
"… fine, just send me a copy of the files, that will have to do-"
"Sherlock."
"Does Molly have the body?"
"No."
"Well, no matter, I'm sure I could-"
"No, I'-"
He mustered a sigh.
"…Sherlock. You're not getting anywhere near the evidence. For this case, for any case afterwards. You're not even allowed inside Scotland Yard. Your face is everywhere; you're not going to be able to fake it. You're not going to be able to help."
"You know I could solve this case in minutes."
"No I don't. You don't know that."
"But wouldn't you rather make sure?"
A familiar sigh on the other line- a long inhale, short pause, and then a gust of wind through the receiver.
"I'm not in control of that anymore."
"That doesn't mean that you couldn't-"
"But I won't. Because if I do, I will most likely go to jail for a very long time."
"It's a crime to try and catch a killer?"
"When it involves you, yes. Yes it is."
His attention was split- there was someone talking to him on the other side. Sherlock couldn't hear the conversation, but when he returned to the telephone, his voice was hushed.
"Listen. I just- I just lied to my superior, told him I was speaking to a witness. I-"
He seemed unsure as to how to continue.
"I can't give you any information on the case. I won't. I'm not even supposed to be talking to you- That's not to say I don't want you to keep in touch. I just- I just won't."
"You would rather people die than break the law."
"Sherlock."
"Because that's what this is."
"You don't even care about the victims, you said it yourself- it's just the puzzle for you."
Another sigh- different this time, one single release of air, calming down. He continued.
"Well, I'm sure there's tons of clients on your blog just waiting for you. Maybe you should look at that."
Sherlock didn't correct him. He coolly bade the detective a good day, setting down his phone next to his laptop, taking good care to line up the corners.
Stretched his fingers.
Ignored the hot plate of food.
Checked his blog.
3 500 submissions.
Now he had to look through all of these emails.
Tedious.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I have herd of you on the telley and though my mum says that you did the crime you were-
Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
It is of the utmost importance that you contact my firm as soon as possible for a case of fraud-
Dear Mr. Holmes,
My husband has disappeared last night, I don't know where he went-
Dear Mr. Holmes-
Sherlock slammed the lid of the computer down on itself, leaning back and tugging on his hair. He didn't need a case, he needed information on Moriarty. He had spent one month thinking and now was the time for action.
Why was everyone making it so bloody difficult?
His computer had restarted underneath his hand- it whirred back to life cautiously after the abuse laid on it. Eventually he returned to it, paging through emails disinterestedly. Those that were not written by bumbling idiots and fools were written by journalists to wile him into an interview. Some seemed legitimate, but he could not trust them through the idea that it was simply Moriarty, continually playing with him.
He didn't know what the man would not do to ruin him anymore, and he had the feeling that the answer was absolutely nothing.
Sherlock was still alive.
Moriarty's work was not yet done.
He never did trust what Donovan said.
He pulled up a few news sources on the internet, interviews, articles on each individual murder- all male, all killed in London. Not all residents- Dupont was French- and so very little connection.
Each killed with the same weapon- a pistol- from an unknown intruder that neither entered nor left the building; or else was invisible and could melt through walls.
They really were helpless without him.
Sherlock printed a few of the less annoying articles out and set them aside from the rest of his research- he was in no hurry. He was sure there would be more to come in the next week.