He wakes up.
There is a loose string hanging low from the ceiling- it tickles his nose, it makes him sneeze. That must have been what woke him up.
What made him fall asleep?
He sits up.
He has to untangle himself from the strings first- with one came another, the weight of one setting a reaction to the next, the weight of the both pulling four more from their tacks, the weight of the four pulling sixteen.
Sixteen. Two hundred fifty-six. Sixty-five thousand five hundred thirty six.
Four billion, two hundred ninety-four million, nine hundred sixty-seven thousand, two hundred ninety-six.
Oh, how the time flies.
He stands up, fighting his way through the dizziness in the flat and the dizziness in his head. When did he last eat? Does he care? He might have another day before he can think of that. He'll drink a glass of water and take some paracetamol to cure himself from this insufferable headache.
If he can get to the kitchen- there are papers and pictures and stolen evidence and what must be four billion strings in the way.
There is no room in 221B for Sherlock Holmes.
He has to pull his bathrobe closer to himself as he steps on, over and around the obstacles that barricade him from getting his glass of water- when did it get this cold? Is the heating on?
It's snowing out the window. Judging by the daylight it's around mid day.
Interesting.
There was nothing in the fridge but a few condiments and a clear plastic bag of what could have been skin samples, maybe, but was now mostly mould. There were no glasses in the cupboards- none in the sink, on the tables. Mrs. Hudson must have come in while he was sleeping and rescued her dinnerware before anything else could happen to it.
Or maybe it was some time before.
He could have gone downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson for a glass- he could have asked her where she had hid all of his drinking cups. Instead, he ends up filling a plastic bowl up with lukewarm water and drinking it like he remembered drinking milk when he'd finished a bowl of cereal. The water was not cold enough to mask the irony tap-taste- it made him feel slightly sick to his stomach, so he poured the rest of it down the drain.
Maybe he'd make tea instead.
A sensory ghost inhabited the kitchen at the thought- the warmth of a year old ray of sun pressing onto the right side of his face, himself peering into the microscope constantly set up at the kitchen table. His attention had been broken only by the whine of the kettle- soft at first, but insistent. John was standing right next to it, preparing lunch- or dinner. He had the infuriating habit of refusing to take the kettle off until it began to scream, as if the water needed to suffer itself before it was ready for tea.
Maybe he wouldn't.
For half a second, maybe less, Sherlock had gone back in time- infuriating things they were, memories. There was no reason to remember them- Sherlock would not have lost any important data on his own life and development if he had simply deleted this one time out of the many times that John had made himself tea and, off-handedly, instinctually, poured enough water in the kettle for two. Placed a steaming mug in front of Sherlock that would sit until it was cold- not even forgotten, not even ignored. Not remarked upon. How easy it would be to delete it, how inconsequential.
Of course, the brain doesn't actually work that way. He knew that. As much as he wished otherwise.
Black spots swarmed Sherlock's vision- he felt nauseous. He'd been standing for too long, he'd gone too long without eating- he would have to find something here, enough to tide him over so he could drag himself to the Chinese place down the road. The one he'd found on accident the day he'd first looked at the flat alone, the one he'd gone with John the day he-
Delete.
He takes a quick shower, slowly pulls himself together piece by piece to preserve energy. He wears a new jacket- it's a dark blue, and its sleeves are too short and the zipper sometimes gets stuck but it is easier to be mistaken for someone else when he's not wearing his iconic Belstaff.
He slips out of the residence quickly, quietly- Mrs. Hudson is watching television in her quarters and will not notice he has left if he returns by nine at night, when she peeks in to check on him every night before she goes to bed.
He's just going to grab a bite to eat. Maybe while he's out, he'll pick up the day's newspapers. Not that they ever hold anything of intentional value- even now, the public enjoys scant mentions of Sherlock Holmes, the great fraud. But no mention of a James Moriarty or even Richard Brook.
No, not a trace of him anywhere.
It made Sherlock- enticed. All mention of Richard Brook had been purged from the internet- as easily as Moriarty had forged himself a new life, he had erased it from history.
And now James Moriarty himself has slid off the map. All trails run cold- he can't be in London. He probably isn't in England at all.
It's colder than he expected it to be- it's winter, isn't it? The coat he's wearing has no significant collar, and even through his longer hair the back of his neck is cold, the skin raising its surface area and reddening against the wind and chill.
It's dead in the restaurant- he orders anything but dim sum and a cola and it's gone before the waitress can come back to ask how he's doing. He pays and he leaves.
The food warms him- he feels less like a dead leaf, less like collapse. He turns right instead of left outside the restaurant, and he buys the stack of newspapers this newsstand has been saving for him. One every day, until he deigns to pick it up. The stack is thick, heavy- he must have forgotten for at least twenty two days.
He took the shortest route to a cramped café and sat himself in the corner with the newspapers and a cooling cup of coffee- he asked the waitress for a pen and, with a deep glare, peace.
He opened the oldest newspaper- he'll work his way up to the present.
Wednesday, 21 November 2012.
Twenty one days, then.
It took him just under five hours to read the news to his liking, ripping out the articles that he was sure dealt with Moriarty and his men- there had been three murders in between then and now, the oldest being on the 22nd, the most recent merely two days ago on the 10th of December.
Only three?
That's thirteen murders total, Sherlock.
Well, thank you, nice to know that you can count.
At least the Yard has started treating the murders as connected- at least the past few, as the victims all have similarities. Middle-aged white men with doctorates- usually living alone, always single.
There were a few other crimes in the paper, but nothing higher than a four, maybe a low five- crimes of passion, robberies and accidents. Normal, people-crimes. Not the crimes of a higher power- not thin webs tugging on each other, bringing father spider to the scene.
Or maybe it was the other way around.
Someone was killing these men- a good enough killer to act time and time again without being caught, but stupid enough to use the same weapon for each murder? Of course not, they wanted the murders to be connected. This was another one of Moriarty's tricks, Sherlock was certain of it.
Well, if he couldn't have the man for himself, he could play his game with him.
He just didn't have the resources. Moriarty had covered himself well- that was no one's fault, that was just an extra parameter of the game.
He had nothing from the actual crimes- well, much less than he'd actual like. He could blame that on Greg, or Molly, or the justice system in general- more accurate, but overall much less satisfying.
He had very little data about the day this new game started- that was his own fault.
Four point nine two... Four point nine one four...No, Four point nine one six seconds.
He'd held his eyes closed.
He could have watched.
He should have watched.
You owed it to him.
No, he needed that data for research.
To prove to himself that-
No.
Delete delete delete delete delete delete delete-
He'd been spending some time breaking into flats and hotel rooms- now that every corner he turned didn't bring a camera flash, he could sport a new disguise and find his way into a locked space rather easily. Not to say that it was as easy as it used to be- before, there was very little chance that he'd be recognised. Now, he had to do without the manipulation of willing individuals- the risk was too high.
The first few scenes were useless- flats had been painted over and re-moved into in the past four months, hotel rooms sprayed down, families erasing the footprint of their reluctant fathers or distant uncles.
But as time went on, he'd noticed a pattern.
Windows.
His hypothesis had so far been proven correct- of course. Either the windows in every room that the victim was killed had been broken in the event, or they had been opened. The shooter had been outside.
And now, these three new murders for him to plug in to the muddle of infuriatingly slim details on this case.
How exciting.
He left the papers on the café table along with a few loose pounds from his coat pocket- the newspapers cold only be helpful in that they gave Sherlock the names of the victims. For anything substantial, he'd have to figure things out on his own- it was a lot easier when he was allowed to do his job.
Or at least not watched, his movements documented by tabloids and the Met and worse, his brother- all for different reasons. The popularity of these events had died down heavily as the months wore on, as Sherlock did little else other than sit in his flat in his bathrobe- until it was only when he braved the main roads that a camera flashed, or someone stopped him for a question or an autograph.
The graffiti hadn't stopped- murals of SHERLOCK IS A LIE accompanied the I BELIEVE IN RICHARD BROOK that had taken over the walls of London since May.
He didn't know who was doing them- that wasn't his concern.
His concern were these murders- thirteen of them, using the same gun, all from the outside.
Another acrobat? Possible.
Sniper?
The Met didn't seem to think so. Their only contribution to this case seemed to be a warning to all middle-aged white males with Doctorates to lock their doors and let no one in. The news suggested the killer was a female.
Why?
There was absolutely no evidence to prove that.
The Tigress, they've started calling this mystery woman. A solitary predator who sneaks into the houses of innocent old men and shoots them in the skull, taking nothing, leaving no prints. She chooses her victims semi-randomly; lonely men with good careers and terrible personal lives. She thinks she's liberating them- or something.
How Hollywood.
Sherlock didn't bother with the rumours- they were wrong, or at the very least, unfounded- but it didn't mean he tried to delete it in the same way he might have tried to astrology or a warm sunbeam on his face.
Tried, and obviously- failed.
He made a sour face at the word, but attributed it to the way the cold felt in his nose when he breathed. He needed a thicker coat- it was cold. He missed the way his Belstaff had even kept his legs warm- the way it tended to swish around his knees when he pivoted the other way.
You being all mysterious with your- cheekbones. And turning your coat collar up so you-
Delete.
Maybe he'd just wear a scarf next time. Besides, this coat had an inside pocket that was the perfect size for his lockpicking tools- something that he'd need in twenty minutes when he arrived at the doorstep of the residence of Dr. Elijah A. Campbell, 39, medical professor at St. Bart's, in South Tottenham.
He folded himself into a taxi, asking to be dropped off in a commercial area two blocks from the house- the silence that the back seat offered him brought him back to a time when it used to be preferable.