CHAPTER 5: THE TRIAL (Part 1)
The detective tried to work smoothly after the conversation he had with his biggest nemesis, but those attempts were deemed futile after the third broken glass beaker. He had to stamp down those feelings of anxiousness before he managed to get himself in even more trouble than he already was. Thankfully the Logan lad, who was supposed to be keeping a watchful eye over him, seemed to be too preoccupied with fretting himself to even realize the boffin was in greater distress. Not that he minded, of course. Every chance at being left alone to gather his control back was welcome. Thankfully, he was swift at chemistry, and despite of what the criminal might say to complain about its pace in motion, he was fairly satisfied with the tempo in which the science was making its progress. Soon he would be able to just put all of this "crucible versus drugs-and-disappointment" business aside.
As his hands worked in a far too easy task, he let his mind wander somewhere else. He began thinking about the fortnight he had already spent in that particular circle of hell, tailor-made just for him; and about how Mycroft hadn't found him yet. To other people it may not sound normal, or even logical, for Sherlock to rely on his brother to show up and save him, not after all the animosity they seemed to have. But what they all failed to see was that it was all it was: a mirage. No matter how much sibling rivalry they appeared to have, each one cared deeply for they other, in their own Holmesian way. They would never be able to have a normal sibling relationship because neither of them was even close to normal. And neither of them knew how to show affection to someone else, let alone each other. So, instead they did this, Mycroft pretended to watch Sherlock for responsibility, and Sherlock pretended to be annoyed by it. Sherlock would solve Mycroft's cases, and Mycroft would get him out of whatever mess into which he managed to get himself while solving them.
Sherlock was aware of this fact, but he preferred not to acknowledge it, as if saying it out loud would change the dynamics of their long-acquired equilibrium and teeter their world off balance. It was not perfect, it was not ideal. It was dysfunctional at the least. But, not the detective nor the British Government particularly minded, since when it actually mattered, they were there, ready to put themselves on the line.
Reason why he felt distraught by his ongoing lack of appearance. It wasn't at all like Mycroft to take this long to locate him. Sometimes the detective found himself wondering if he had somehow installed a tracking chip in his body while asleep; and knowing his brother he wouldn't put it past him to do exactly that, if only for the sake of being his nosy self. There had to be a reason why his brother hadn't found him yet, the pastry-lover was always on the right track, always right -the git- and the detective hoped this wouldn't be the case which prove that hypothesis wrong, which would defeat the great Mycroft Holmes. He stopped that train of thought rather quickly, he had stop himself from going over the worst case scenarios, or he would have to start worrying about distressing himself crazy. He trusted Mycroft, that's why he entrusted him with the ever-important task of watching John while he was away.
John. Now he was thinking about John. And he definitely did not need that right now. If Mycroft was indeed destined to fail at finding him, there was only one other man who would ever be able to. The blogger may not be as smart as them, and he might not have the same level of deduction skills, but he can stand his ground and apply methods that were constantly being fed to him by his seemingly ludicrous flatmate.
In truth, Sherlock would never wish for his friend to become like him, to appear as a watered-down, second-best version of Sherlock Holmes. His humanity and strong sense of integrity were always a foil to the detective's hurricane-like cold nature; always keeping things in contrast, heightening both their importances. He wanted him to stay brave, and loyal, and hideous-jumpers-wearing. He wanted him to stay everything that Sherlock was not. To stay so utterly John.
But in the lifestyle they lead there wasn't room for risk, at least not one on which the boffin could afford gambling. So he taught his cabbie-shooter flatmate everything he knew. Hoping that in an emergency which didn't acquire physical or gun confrontation -both at which John Watson was unquestionably excellent- he could, should the situation present itself, use whatever he had learnt from his whirlwind of a friend, however little that was, to keep both of them alive.
If his instincts were right, the doctor was already working his way through the case, and was one step closer to coming to his aid. Oh! how brilliant it would be for John to be the one to figure out where he was. The detective regretted that he was held captive and would miss it -but then again, if he wasn't, there would be no need for him to do it-. He could imagine his loyal blogger picking up clues no one else could see, and tying the facts together as his brother and all the Yarders gaped at him amazed. Maybe he would even go as far as sharing his unique position and name his little apprentice the second consulting detective ever, but he would have to consider it after it happened.
Because Sherlock knew it was going to happen. No matter if the situation proved too difficult for Mycroft to figure it out; John was coming for him, John was getting him out from the pit of snakes in which he would certainly drown if left there. John would save him, as he always managed to do. That time in The Great Game case -he was going to have to have a talk with John about those infernal titles that seemed to etch themselves upon the detective's mind- he said it; he would be lost without his blogger, and a truer statement was never spoken.
Sherlock was also aware of this fact, but he refused to acknowledge it as well. The soldier had no idea how much impact he had had after the day he came limping into his life, and the boffin wasn't sure he could ever repay everything he has done for him. For Sherlock was an extraordinary man, everyone knew that, -going as far as calling him freak- unsurprisingly doing everything in kind; he was almost predictable in his exceptionality. But John Watson was a much more complex matter. He was not really deemed of bizarreness himself; he was never an unusual individual. That was the catch though, an ordinary man known for doing extraordinary things. The detective -ever since the first time he laid eyes on him. The moment he really looked- had generated a respect towards his addicted-to-danger flatmate, that only developed and grew as time went by. A man capable of surprising Sherlock Holmes, the only one in the world.
The thought about them lasted a bit more than he had originally intended -not that he really planned it at all- and soon started becoming on a full-on pondering. He ran through scenarios of what both of them could be doing to find him. He needed to escape that place as if it was on fire. Because now he was in probation, a time designed to let him get use to the fact of working around his enemies; of coexisting with his very destruction. But if he knew a man like Moriarty, he was certain that would only last so far.
-"It's him. I know it. We don't need evidence, it's just a detail."- A shattering cacophony bounced on the four walls like viciously desperate cries as the object in the detective's hands slipped from his grasp and crashed unto the dirty floor in a clattering mess which would have put Baker Street to shame. Sherlock, eyes wide and searching for the memory to somehow materialize out of thin air in front of him, turned around to find Logan already making his way to the debris of the curly-haired man's sudden panic.
Kneeling down to try and clear the glass pieces up from the floor, the lad looked up through his lashes at the boffin. "Well, that makes four." He spoke, and said detective could only stop and stare, confused at the innocent amusement with which those words were muttered so effortlessly to him by someone who had been quiet as a tomb for the four days they had been caged together. He was nowhere near a state of mind to make deductions, the surprise of the new found reminiscence still weighing him down with a foggy cloud of dread which just would not go away not matter how much he shook it. But perhaps a good unraveling of someone else's life would help him clear away the smoke which the fire of his own mouth voicing something he didn't -despite his best efforts- remember, left in its devastating wake. If he could just get rid of the blur on his eyes.
After the chaos had been cleared away, Logan turned to the table and grabbed another beaker. With his hand extended in unexpected invitation to the musician, he offered the container and said, "Try not the break this one or we'll run out." And the silver, calculating eyes thought they saw something else there. Exasperation? No, too amused to be annoyed. Ah, he discarded that hypothesis, but got it right at the second attempt nonetheless: remorse. A little hint of guilt, which made the boffin take what was being offered, and swallow down his opinions. The sense of identification with the lad in front of him resulted in making peace with the idea of this bloke. They were both trapped, and both of them were being played like little puppets by the same wicked master, with no way or hope of escaping. The only difference in their situations being that Logan was on the right -wrong, depending on your point of view- side of the fence. Teaming up with, instead of going up against, the criminal mastermind. Less likely to end up gutted somewhere. Whereas Sherlock was just on the wait for his contender to attack him; not even wondering about if's. Because he was coming for him, Sherlock was sure of that, he just had to figure out the when and how.
Still, Sherlock could not stir his attention away from the recollection that was hammering away the nail in his subconscious; piercing through his skull until it hit home and resided at his brain, never to be removed. The detective should have felt blessed with luck, wasn't it exactly what he had asked? To discover more about the things he forgot? But it somehow did not feel like a benediction, the fact of hearing your own tongue say such out-of-character words, and dismissing some things you used to think about yourself. It was not much of a gift, it didn't bring any sense of validation, it left him numb. Immune to any sort of emotion aside from curiosity. It was disapprovingly lacking in answers.
His mind going into overdrive, the worst way the detective knew: silent. It was rendered so tightly and split into so many trains of thought that nothing concrete could manage to get out. Leaving him embed to the floor with a blank mind, as if he was suspended in mid-air, trapped in a sleep-walking state. Recognizing what took place around him, but not participating. Foreign to the world; not dreaming, but not quite awake either. He hated when this happened, primarily because whenever it did, the only thing that could calm his head was a resource he no longer could afford. His tired body too numb as a result of feeling too much. He needed something to make him concentrate, to focus the whirling of ideas.
He had been granted the opportunity, but he couldn't indulge in it. Not anymore. No matter how hard he kept staring at the temptation, he was doomed to suffer at the mercy of his own state of mind. Because, much to his luck, the only anesthetic that ever had the miracle of making him feel something, killed him inside.
Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay, next chapter may take a while to upload. we're finally getting to the real up of the story, still a little bit more to go till we get to full-on intensity. We're almost halfway to the story! Thanks for all the reading and reviewing.