Author's note: Good morning :)
Well, I've decided to post two chapters today, because the first one is somewhat shorter.
Enjoy your reading! :)
Chapter 4: Tight-lipped storytellers in the eleventh hour
There are only two never-ending numbers – 0 and 8. What I mean is, they are infinite shapes – you could run along both of them and never reach the edge, endlessly going from beginning to beginning (or whatever spot you started on, really). It's what makes them special. 0, by itself, is a mystery and a phenomenon, always standing slightly apart from the rest of the numbers, so it's no wonder it's special.
But 8 – 8 is just a natural number, just like 7 and 9. There is really nothing special about it, apart from its endless shape. So, it is only right that the eighth victim is somehow special, too, despite being pretty much equal to all the other ones.
Actually, let me rephrase that. It is not the eighth victim who is special – it is what is found on him. Or, more precisely, what is not found. They don't find a chemical element at the feet of the man, his body on his right side, arms showing twelve in from of iron shavings.
Instead, they find a card. It's simple – white cardstock, sturdy, firm. It's simple, and yet, it's the most complicated thing, because it's an anomaly. On the card, there is an arrow, which is also an anomaly, seeing as it is not a regular arrow used in writing chemical equations – that wouldn't have been an anomaly, not really. That would have made sense. This doesn't.
The arrow is drawn all in doubles. Double body, double head: =. After the forensics team processes the crime scene, Sherlock pockets the card, ignoring Lestrade's resigned sigh and feeble protests that he 'cannot steal evidence', and within the time it takes to make a dramatic exit (because Sherlock only ever exits dramatically), he is in a cab, riding back to Baker Street with John right beside him.
The last few weeks have taken their toll on the state of the flat. What was once a whimsical mess has since grown into a full-blown chaos of papers and photos, case files and test tubes. There are things scattered on the sofa, on the coffee table, on the desks, on the floor, and among them all, Sherlock sits like a monarch on a throne of strangely systematic disarray.
"It was pointing upwards, clockwise – he might be giving me a clue to the clock pattern. Perhaps he thinks I haven't worked that out yet – well, that seem like a highly unlikely option, then."
John rolls his eyes, half-amused and half-whatever it is Sherlock elicits in him in moments of blatant (but warranted) immodesty.
"Are you sure there was nothing at the crime scene?"
"Yes, I've inspected it twice."
"What if...what if it's not what's drawn on the card? What if it's something else?
Sherlock burrows his brow. "What do you mean?"
"Maybe he left a clue we can't see. Fingerprints, maybe. Or DNA..."
John's list is cut short by Sherlock's impatient wave of hand.
"I have already checked – there is nothing." His head bobs back down, as he stares at the evidence splayed out in front of him. When Sherlock speaks again, John can tell it's more to himself than to anyone in particular.
"Maybe he is introducing a new pattern...That would be interesting."
If Sherlock were paying attention, he would notice the microburst of agitation on John's face. He would catch the tightening of the soldier's fist, and the short bite to his lip. But Sherlock is engrossed with this new-found anomaly, so he doesn't notice any of this, until John's voice breaks into his muttering.
"No, no it wouldn't."
"What? Of course it would. A new pattern is always interesting. Why wouldn't it be?"
"Because a new pattern would mean more deaths, perhaps?"
"I never said it would be fortunate, John. I simply stated that it would be interesting. If only happy events were deemed interesting, a whole industry based on exploiting people's love for tragedy would collapse."
John can't deny the truthfulness of that, so he decides not to venture into this discussion, not tonight. Not yet.
"Fine. Just...keep in mind people are dead, alright? Besides, didn't you say it's the anomalies that always give them away?"
"Yes, but I meant the inadvertent ones. The ones that could be seen as mistakes usually give the killers away. But this, no. This is brilliant. He is changing the game before I had the time to work out what the previous game was. Or at least, he might be. I won't know until the next one whether or not this is a start of something new, or just a one-time difference."
Sensing that Sherlock has gone back to speaking mostly to himself, John turns away and busies himself with writing up the report for Lestrade. God know Sherlock only writes his under coercion, so John might as well get his part done and out of the way before twisting Sherlock's arm into doing the same.
Sherlock peruses the evidence from all eight crime scenes, trying to incorporate the newest piece of evidence. It's thrilling – a mind puzzle that changes just when he thought the pieces were starting to form a picture. A bit frustrating, but thrilling. There is nothing as boring as a rut, and murderers do get so attached to their MOs, that they, too, tend to get boring after a while, which is why this one is so sensational. To Sherlock, this – this whole string of crime and clues and, now, proverbial turns in the road – feels like a perpetual high, his brain being constantly fed new conundrums, being forced to stretch and contort in new ways. To Sherlock, this feels like running really fast, like muscles stretching beyond what was originally thought to be their limit. It's about the links, the clues, the deductions, about the brilliance of intricate plans. Why should he be blamed that such plans are employed for such dire purposes?
He knows John is bothered by it, which takes some of the pleasure out of it. Sherlock wants to know what will happen next, where this anomaly will fit within the bigger picture, but with each new victim, he can sense the bothersome chasm between himself and John grow wider. It is as if they are running in a constant loop, or better yet, making repetitive eight-shapes while chasing each other around a subject they both know could be their undoing, and each time they skid just a bit closer to it. It's only a matter of time until they crash into each other at the intersection of their routes.
Sherlock doesn't get his new pattern. He cannot decide whether he is annoyed and disappointed, or intrigued and challenged when the killer goes back to placing traces of elements at his victim's feet. The ninth victim comes with a strip of magnesium. The tenth comes with another tank of oxygen (repetition – interesting. Significant? Maybe.). The eleventh is adorned with rubidium. And then it's 5 to 12, and they wait for the clock to strike midnight.
I'm a storyteller. Stories are what I am supposed to be good at. I've studied them, travelled them, observed them and deconstructed them. If I were the type, I would have categorised them – in alphabetical order, according to genre, by literary style and by era, and so on, and so on. But, when I think of it, that's not my job. I'm not a librarian. I'm a storyteller. I'm the non-person who stands on the margins, and is entrusted in delivering the story they are given. I've delivered several. Many. Delivered, raised, and sent off. Like children – I'm a nanny, in a way. But, I digress. What I meant to say is, I'm a storyteller, and as such, I know a thing or two about stories. I feel obliged to tell you these things, in hope that they will make up for the things I do not know (or cannot tell you). So, here it goes.
There are stories which draw you in with their plot, and ones that beguile you with their language. There are ones who offer you characters to fall in love with, and those that net a web of detail and intricacy around you. Stories are conniving creatures, spawns of science and magic, of the primal and the highly evolved that co-resides within us – children of urges and language. There is no such thing as an innocent story – each of them was taught dark arts at its birth; the sorcery of syntax, the alchemy of anticipation, the necromancy of narrative, which resurrects things deep within you, raises the dead.
There are stories which leave you feeling alive and light and buzzing. There are stories which leave you feeling hollow and aching, which, when you think about it, is a paradox, because how can a hollow space be filled with ache? And yet, there are stories which turn you into a paradox.
Even the bad stories – the poorly constructed ones and the ones that miss their mark, make you cringe or roll your eyes – you've read them. You've given them attention. For a moment, you lent them space in your mind, and that's all they need. Sneaky things, stories.
There are so many kinds of stories – I counted them up to the number of all living things, and then some.
You are probably wondering by now, what in heaven's name does all this have to do with clocks and chemistry and dead people. Well, it's got a little bit to do with each of those, but more importantly, it's got to do with living people. Two of them, and their story. Because, you see, for all that I know about stories, none of my knowledge is proving helpful with telling you their story.
Is it a life-affirming one? Or a heart-breaking one? Is it good or bad? Will it leave you buzzing or will it turn you into a paradox? Maybe it will leave you completely indifferent, in the end.
The problem is – I don't know...yet. Or I do, and I just don't want to tell you. It could be either – I'm mean that way. There's no way for you to know. Either way, I cannot tell you much about it.
But let me tell you this – this is the eleventh hour. The last run along the infinite eight-shape before the crash comes. So, if you don't want to hear the clock strike midnight, don't want to witness the trip-and-fall instance that disrupts the momentum, then turn around and away, now. Turn around, and run, really, really fast.
