They got another text.
:I only ever cut at 8:00. Aren't you going to save him, Sherlock Holmes?:
Useless.
Sally watched Sherlock sit at the conference table, staring at the latest photo of John's back, and knew what the man was thinking. Everyone did. They may have run out of time, without barely getting further in the chase at all; eight days – S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K written fully, and a text from Moriarty's man. They might be done. Their best hope lay in the three bleeding fingers on his right hand, his nails torn out of his flesh, a job left incomplete.
Sherlock had never left the station. Even Sally had left every night to sleep and shower before the new text came to haunt them through the following day. Sherlock had wandered around the police department, sitting, staring at walls, and occasionally punching through to the support studs, but as far as Sally knew he'd never left. His clothing was wrinkled and stained with blood from his knuckles, and he smelled. It didn't seem to fit with his character that Sherlock Holmes could smell. He'd always seemed like such an ethereal man, waltzing into crime scenes and waltzing out with barely a footprint to mark his presence. It was why he was so easy to blame, without evidence, because Sherlock Holmes had always looked like a man who could go anywhere in the world without leaving a trace. Now, he smelled, and the illusion was broken, and he looked like a rich madman who'd taken residence in the conference rooms of Scotland Yard.
Lestrade sat down beside the consulting detective, and put his hand on Sherlock's arm. Sally expected Sherlock to jump or twitch; there always seemed to be an impenetrable wall around Sherlock Holmes that no one could touch, but Sherlock did not respond at all.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Greg muttered, lifting his hand away and running it through his thinning hair. Sally winced, not liking her partner's timing. This was a chance to regroup, breathe, pray they had more time and know there was nothing more they could do. Not yet a time to mourn, when there was perhaps more fight left for them. Sherlock glanced up at the man, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion that proved there was still a man alive inside that frozen body.
"Why?" he asked. Lestrade seemed to crumple into his suit. He shook his head and ran a hand over his face.
"I can't find him with this," Greg admitted, waving a hand at the projection screen. Sherlock had the latest photograph up and the different layers of drying blood were only too obvious. Sally wanted to drag Lestrade away from Sherlock but he was her boss. They were all exhausted, none of them thinking clearly. But what use was this, telling the whole room of tired officers that there was no hope? Sally could see the few officers in the room watching the two, their little remaining energy visibly draining from them.
"Don't worry, I never expected you could," Sherlock replied and Sally wanted to kick him. He glanced up, finally, and saw the dispirited room. "Neither did Moriarty. Perhaps that'll be an advantage," he allowed and returned to staring at the photograph. A few officers straightened, trying to take the thin motivation.
The room settled into quiet despair again. Annoyed, Sally strode up to the exhausted, reeking genius.
"Come eat," she ordered.
"Busy," Sherlock responded, continuing to stare raptly at the picture of John hanging from the ceiling, dripping with blood.
"Then be busy eating," she ordered again. He didn't answer her. Lestrade gave her a sad smile and shrugged. "You said you would," Sally added finally and Sherlock looked up.
"What?" he demanded.
Did you hear any of this?
"You said you'd eat. Let's go," she ordered, stepping back. She felt her eyebrows shoot up when the man slowly pushed his seat back away from the conference table. She didn't think she'd seen him rise from it for half a day at least. Apparently he kept his word. Lestrade gaped at her and an officer rushed to get out of the way. Apparently Sherlock had gone without moving for longer than she'd realized.
Surprised as hell that the man actually obeyed, Sally led the way out of the conference room, relieved to get away from the horrible photographs. At least they hadn't gotten another audio clip. The entire team was going to need a paid vacation after this one; if not counseling.
She led the way to the slow diner across the street, having a feeling she wouldn't be able to convince the genius to go much further.
~~/~~
"We'll get him, Sherlock," Donovan said when they'd left the building, sounding confident. Sherlock glanced around the room, uselessly wanting John.
"Mmm. Likely not," He replied. He turned his head to face her so his eyes would stop scanning for John's face in the crowded place and caught Donovan staring at him, looking shocked.
"I don't understand you. Sometimes you seem so human," she said. He ignored the blow.
"I do not lie to myself. Is that a bad thing?" he asked idly, following the waitress to their seats. It was a booth by the window and Sherlock sat facing the entrance, too aware he was in John's seat. Irrelevant – the man was likely still hanging by a hook in an undisclosed location. A waitress handed him a menu and he took it automatically. It confused them when he didn't.
"It's bad if it means you don't have hope. Do you know what you want?" Donovan asked.
"False hope is worse than useless and yes," he replied. The waitress looked to him for his order.
Donovan gestured to him to start. He gestured back.
"Your usual, then, Sally?" the waitress asked. 'Sally' smiled at the woman and nodded.
"The same," Sherlock replied immediately. Sally glanced at him, looking confused, before snorting suddenly into her glass of water. Apparently she'd figured it out.
"Just don't care?" she asked. He shook his head.
"Not one of my interests, no," he said, glancing out of the window next to him. The day had passed quickly, and it was already dark. John would wake up to another torture tomorrow, if they were lucky.
"Food isn't an 'interest' to most people. It's taste buds. Tastes good or bad; it's not like a hobby," she said.
"You devote brain power to processing that. It therefore interests you," Sherlock replied, knowing this was one of those moments when he just didn't quite 'fit'.
"You really don't notice what doesn't interest you?" she asked and Sherlock looked back at her. She sounded like John.
"Why would I?" he asked. Surely that was clear? Why would he process something enough to determine it not worth considering and then think about it further anyway?
Okay, so like, what's Anderson's first name?" she asked. Sherlock blinked at her. He could figure it out, remember conversations long past, try to see who was there, what names were said, narrow it down. Hardly worth doing. Anderson was an idiot.
"You don't know," she said, laughing and sitting back. "You've worked with him for five years? You notice a tiny pinch of dust at the side of the room looking different and don't know Anderson's name?"
"I could figure it out," he defended, "I'm just not going to."
"It's Philip," she said, still staring at him, open mouthed.
Why was it so strange? What use was the name if he responded to Anderson?
"Why would I care? All I care about is the work," he said but Donovan smirked at him, looking like she knew some secret about him. Proud and stupidly mysterious. Tiresome.
"And John. You can't tell me you don't care about John," she said, confident now. Apparently punching a wall had helped something between them. He should do it more often, when her doubts became problematic.
"Why would I tell you that?" Sherlock deflected, hoping she'd go off on some rant about his attitude. He didn't want to talk about John.
"Because you hide behind calling yourself a sociopath," she answered, smiling slightly as she leaned back in the booth chair. There was mustard there; someone had ordered the hotdog. It was still wet; likely the customer before them, who'd left such a large butt mark.
"I am a sociopath," Sherlock answered immediately.
From so comfortable that I'm a psychopath to so comfortable that I'm one of the angels.
"No you're not," she said confidently and she sounded like John again. "But here's one thing I can't figure out; I realized that fact by watching you see John in pain. Otherwise, you seem utterly devoid of feeling, and yet John never believed that act, did he? Obviously John didn't see you see him in pain, so how did he figure it out?"
Sherlock wished their food would come so she could focus on something else. He glared at the woman but she didn't back down.
"I don't know," he answered finally and shifted his gaze out the window where there was nothing to deduce. It was dark out, but London hid the stars, thank god. He'd never discovered the secret to that himself and he'd been too prideful to ask. Likely too late, now.
"He's a good man, John Watson," Donovan mentioned quietly. Sherlock ignored her. That would hardly help find him.
Their food arrived and he forced himself to eat. Some sort of pasta dish.
"If it helps at all, which given I rather doubt, I am sorry about not trusting you," she said finally. Sherlock looked up from his food, confused again.
This is tiring.
"Why? You were right," he said. Her eyes widened slightly and she started to breathe heavier. Nervous or excited and she glanced over him, searching for something – Why would... - Ah. "And no, I am not confessing," he said, rolling his eyes. "But you had far more solid ground to stand on believing I did kidnap those children than that I didn't. The evidence was clear and you followed it, unlike the rest of the idiots at Scotland Yard," he stated.
Donovan stayed quiet a moment, presumably thinking. Bored, Sherlock went back to thinking about abandoned basements, though there wasn't enough left to consider.
~~/~~
Sally thought she was starting to understand John Watson more and more. Sherlock was a prick; there was no doubting that, but in some ways it seemed like he didn't mean to be. Sherlock Holmes actually hadn't noticed Philip's name, didn't find the value in something if it wasn't relevant to his puzzles, or in other words, was the self-serving asshole that she'd always known, but onlymost of the time. She saw him tip his head, looking out the window to check for stars. And god, she'd never forget seeing that utterly brilliant man darting about a room, pulling his hair, punching walls, gone half insane with fear for his friend.
Sherlock could be polite, could be disarming and friendly if he wanted. She'd seen him do it for cases before; it'd always disgusted her how he'd lied. No, who he really was was the arse that talked about his dying best friend in a totally clinical way, and then very carefully chose the section of wall to smash his fist through. An insane man of absolute extremes. And Sherlock didn't hide that, didn't lie about who he was; which meant in John Watson he'd been able to find someone who liked him for who he was, though Sally still couldn't figure out why John had wanted to spend so much time with the man.
"Why does John like spending time with you?" she asked finally when she finished her meal, knowing Sherlock would have thought about it and guessing he wouldn't even know that it was a rude question to ask; That or he wouldn't care.
"Mmm. Five possibilities. He craves danger, which I'm always in; wants his work to be important and values mine over his own; needs someone to take care of and I'm frequently a wreck by his judgment; finds me attractive and relates to my sense of humor. I know the last two are true, the rest are all equally likely and probably all true to a degree," Sherlock listed quickly before pushing his food away from himself, apparently done. He'd certainly thought about the question before, Sally noted.
And he definitely didn't understand the concept of a too-personal question, if he hadn't been offended by that one. That explained a lot.
"Why?" he asked her suddenly, looking up from sipping his drink.
"Just trying to figure something out," she replied, wondering if John knew Sherlock was going around revealing that the doctor found him attractive. Given, he'd certainly done so before in front of Watson.
"Added to the evidence that he sleeps on his back...
Oh. My. God. Sally knew she was staring at the man.
"What?" Sherlock asked, his blue eyes suddenly looking onto her like she was the most interesting thing in the world. Sally felt her heart leap at that gaze. There was something incredibly powerful about a brain like Sherlock Holmes' focusing on her, almost through her. Okay, she could understand why John was attracted to this man. Sherlock's eyes furrowed. "You're attracted to me now. You've never been attracted to me before. What changed?" he demanded, scanning her with his eyes. Sally felt her eyes widen, praying the whole diner had not heard him. They likely had. He was rarely quiet.
Okay, no, she still didn't understand how John could stand to live with the man, much less want to.
Oh my god. They were really together. They were openly together. She'd just been such an idiot. Did everyone else know? There were jokes about it in the Yard, of course, but were they not jokes? Had she just missed it entirely? She'd never imagined this man had any interest in such things at all, had always assumed it was a lie meant to serve some manipulative purpose.
"John was your partner," she stated. His eyes furrowed.
"How was that not obvious?" he demanded and she ran a hand down her face.
"Because I'm an idiot," she replied and he nodded quickly, apparently needing no further explanation.
Oh god, Sherlock, she thought, her gaze darting over the man. His partner was hanging by that hook, and he couldn't even walk away; Sherlock Holmes was the only man in the world who could solve this one.
Jesus, Sherlock.
And John Watson was partners with this man. The tantrums, the silences, the hunger strikes.
"You're wondering why John puts up with me," Sherlock commented. Sally felt her eyes flick back up to meet his gaze.
"Well, yes," she admitted, glad for a moment that Sherlock did not seem to understand any social norms, when she was currently breaking all of them. But why had John Watson chosen this arrogant genius, of all people?
"Do let me know when you figure it out," Sherlock replied, taking out his wallet and counting out bills. He'd apparently calculated out the bill on his own.
Oh shit, Dr. Watson, Donovan thought, remembering John's face after the fall, remembering how very broken the man had seemed. How he'd never truly recovered.
"And yet you treated him like that?" Sally asked and Sherlock's eyes flickered. He looked... hurt, for a moment and Sally thought over her words, cursing. His partner was hanging by a hook on a concrete ceiling, for shit's sake. She was an idiot. "I mean, say, don't leave eyeballs in the microwave, for example?" Sally rushed to say, to fix it. Sherlock drew himself up, arching his head proudly, back to being the smartest, least approachable person in the room. Sally was sorry to see it. Their first honest conversation, and he'd seemed to be almost approachable. And then he had looked so wounded.
"That was a useful experiment," Sherlock defended and he sounded like a child, whiny and utterly devoid of understanding. It was dizzying to watch his extremes. "which you ruined, by the way," he added.
How does Watson stand it?
"But I mean, how much did you ever try to know about him? You've known me five years and you don't know my name," Sally said, trying to twist her words into something approaching acceptable to say.
"Sally," Sherlock replied, smirking at her, before throwing the bills on the table and striding for the door.
Sally felt herself blink as she stood up to follow him. It was definitely a heady experience, having that utterly brilliant, focused mind notice you. For a moment she could almost envy the doctor – to have Sherlock Holmes turn that gaze to him, full of passion. It had to be a heady sight. She followed behind the man, shaking her head as she remembered Sherlock's rants and tantrums and eyeball behavior and decided to leave well enough quite alone. She'd never be able to put up with the man.
But she could see why one would want to.
~~/~~
A/N: Woooh, we're through the toughest of the torture depictions. So, did you read it? Do you find it added to the continued story here? I'll ask again, later, when we're into the comfort part of all this hell.