A/N: Aww, apparently today would be doctor John Watson's 171st birthday. That helps me feel a bit less old.

Just one more after this one. -csf

VII.

Tuesday, 8:00am

'I want to interrogate the husband, Lestrade. He knows how to get in touch with the Chandler Twins.'

DI Lestrade looks wearily back at Sherlock. I don't need auditory cues to know that the inspector is conflicted. He needs Sherlock's help, but he can't help worrying about our friend.

'What do you want to do, Sherlock?' Suspicion. A bit of Hitchcock thrown into the inspector's honest melody gives it away easily.

'Prepare a trap. Set up a parallel murder delivery system and then wait indefinitely for the competition to try to attack us. Oh no, wait, that's John's plan! Mine is much less convoluted. I want to set up a trap by procuring their services to get rid of my meddling flatmate.'

'Not your brother?' Lestrade suggests.

'Too tempting.'

Sherlock's amusement is carried both in his grey-green eyes and in his melody's chuckles. Greg's own song turns a bit sombre, cautious.

I cut in: 'I'm in on the plan, Greg, it's fine.'

'In fact, John came up with the plan. In a manner of speaking.'

The inspector looks me over, that concern crease deepening and the pressure on the cello strings becoming more evident. 'John is still hearing music in his mind, it's not the right time.'

This is not the right time for a lying denial either.

'Inspector, that might never return to normal, John must carry on with his life. I'm here to help him with this.'

Sherlock and I share a strong glance at each other.

Lestrade absently picks up a glass paper weight in his hand, slowly sensing his weight. Making his decision. I wait, knowing from his soundtrack that he has not reached a decision yet. Sherlock is less than patient, though.

'Come on, Lestrade. People are dying. Soon the Twins will strike again. All over the city, there are frustrated co-workers, boring husbands, gossiping neighbours, all itching to have a pre-packaged murder delivered at their door.'

'So are you,' Lestrade quips.

'Occupational hazard,' the detective shrugs.

'And won't they be suspicious of the great Sherlock Holmes getting rid of his long suffering flatmate?'

'Long suffering? Clearly they do not know John's obsession with tidiness.' There's mirth in his tune.

'Sherlock…' A clear warning.

'John is a terrible liar. It's a risk I must take. If my name is recognised, we can bring in other players next. Come on, Lestrade!'

'Well… If John is up for it, I guess I can arrange an off-the-record meeting with the victim's husband at some point.'

'Finally!' And to me, he adds, with a triumphant swirl of strings: 'I wouldn't go through all this trouble to murder anybody else but you, John!'

And I know exactly what he means, because I eavesdrop on his truest emotions.

.

Tuesday, 9:09am

As we come inside the claustrophobic interrogation room, the air is heavy and the thundering music is dark and obsessive. This is what it is like inside the mind of a man who ordered the killing of his life partner, I notice. It satisfies some honest and moral part of me that I can tell this man is not at peace, and I hope he never is.

With one sharp glance at me, Sherlock takes over, long coat collar up and striking a dark avenging angel silhouette.

'I am Sherlock Holmes, and I solved the murder you acquired off the internet. You are a pathetic, coward and downright bad husband. I came here today to find out how you got hold of the scheme. Look at you, your shirt sleeves show you are barely clever to get away with the murder and all you had to do was to keep quiet and get out of your wife's way. Clearly, someone told you how to order the service. Word of mouth is so tedious to prove in a court of law, but very effective in real life. Did you go to school with the bank teller? Did you share a pint with the adulterous father of seven? How did you find out?'

The criminal gulps drily, but still tries to fight back Sherlock's impressive interrogation. Their broadcasts clearly antagonistic and yet oddly complementary. Good and evil, at it were.

'Why do you care?'

'I want to murder John,' and he actually points at me. Faking incredible innocence, he adds: 'Can you help me?'

It takes a mighty effort not to giggle at my friend's habitual mad antics.

.

Tuesday, 3:06pm

The product is cheap, brightly coloured plastic, and is absolutely pointless – in that regard, not unlike a lot of modern available choices on one of the biggest online retailers website. Apparently, ordering a three feet long model of a rubber duck with a top hat and a monocle is modern code for wishing for a complete and fool-proof murder plot delivered at our door. The internet never ceases to wonder, I guess.

Sherlock types in bank details and 221B Baker Street as the address, and marks the delivery as a gift to "doctor John Watson", as a code on the victim for the hit, at no extra charge.

He clicks the button to submit his purchase, and we both stare at the empty screen in reverent silence.

.

Wednesday, 10:52pm

'You wrote "doctor", after all. It's well thought through, actually.'

Sherlock doesn't stop himself from a whine turn wail. 'A poison? How much more trite and commonplace could it be? John, know this; I would not murder you in such a boring way. You deserve a better death!'

'Ta?' I say, experimentally, still turning the rat poison bottle in my fingers.

'What do you think of it?' he accosts me, his chords clearly plucked from the tensest strings.

'A bit Victorian, no? Pull up a syringe, stab up an orange with it, and offer it to me nicely at the Christmas table?'

Sherlock freezes, and there's an actual chill running his bones. His symphony goes all staticky, or I'm untuned to his frequency all of a sudden.

'You're no help,' he mysteriously settles for.

I never did get how he does that statics trick. He gives me little time to ponder the aces up his sleeve.

'Well, this delivery was part of the plan. Come on, what next? How do we get our hands on the Chandler brothers?'

'Oh, that! Easy. Mycroft's spooks are following the CCTV trace to the delivery warehouse. If we fail, we will try again, over and over again. Bound to find them in the end. They consider themselves artisans, artists; they will not stand for my messing up and ruining their work. They'll volunteer new solutions every time. I'll draw them out into the open through their pride.'

'You're enjoying this,' I fear.

'Would it be so bad if I was?' There's a reckless edge to Sherlock's tune, as a classic background soundtrack to a car chase of rocky hills with gravel roads and barely enough room for one car let alone two in opposite directions and one of them with the floodlights broken.

Okay, so maybe I watched a film or two from the website naming the best noir film soundtracks. Sherlock was asleep for a long time, and I had already won 221B and 221A at cards from Mrs Hudson (I traded the properties for lemon scones, when she's got the chance).

'I hope it doesn't come to multiple orders, mate. You and I are restless, we could do with an old-fashioned chase.'

To this, Sherlock's music bristles, even before the man before me does. Eventually, dark foreboding tones fill his melody.

'You're feeling guilty, Sherlock,' I translate. 'You think I might get hurt again if we go on another chase.'

'Aren't you the extraordinary therapist tonight, John?' he mocks, acidic; his melody turns just as bitter and dissonant. It's rare that Sherlock's melodies are unpleasant as this.

'It's my call, Sherlock,' I remind him.

'And I'm just supposed to watch you get hurt? Again?'

'No. You're supposed to be ready to help me. As I am to help and support you, through anything. You should know that, mate.'

He glances at me from his position near the tall window, and dismisses: 'Get your noise cancelling headphones on, John. I will take some privacy, if you please!'

He is hurt, lost; I can tell from looking at him. From knowing him. But all I hear is statics. He is purposefully keeping me out?

To prove a point, I actually grab the headphones and dutifully accept a muted version of what was a richer world. He watches me put them on, and still looks like I could knock him down with a feather. I take no prisoners and step on further. How odd it is to talk without hearing my own voice. I don't think I'm shouting, but he flinches, as I tell him:

'What is going on? What are you trying to keep from me, Sherlock? Because I will find out, no matter how long it takes, I will find out. You can't drive me away – you can just make us both miserable. Here, the headphones are on, now I can't hear you; so tell me now, what are you so afraid of? What mustn't I find out?'

He fixes deep troubled green eyes on me and murmurs something honest, something coming from deep within.

I smile a sad little smile, the brave smile of a soldier, and remove my headphones.

'There. Let's hope that you telling me that for a second time, when I can actually hear you, will be easier now.'

He looks absolutely shocked at his own words, at our exercise, at my insight into his mind's depths – but, alas, no evidence remains. I have no idea what he told me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't try to think back, reconstruct the memory, read his lips. But overthinking wiped the meaning clean out of it.

Slowly, Sherlock's symphony grows stronger, deeper, full of melodious harmonies and tantalising chords. Then he pushes me briskly away, to go to the music stand, and scribbles new portions on his unfinished composition for a good few minutes. Seems like the exercise unblocked something in him; let's only hope it helps us communicate more efficiently.

221B's atmosphere is shattered by a text pinging – loud, strident, demanding. Sherlock takes one glance at his phone and his whole demeanour changes to that of a gloating predator. The Chandler Twins have been located at last.

I grab his hand, the one he still uses to hold his phone, and ask him: 'Well, am I in?'

His music goes staticky again, but this time he is ready. 'Of course you're in, don't be obtuse, John! It doesn't suit you!'

Sherlock grabs his coat and flies down the stairs, I'm not more than a second behind him, like a faithful shadow in his wake.

.

Wednesday, 11:29pm

'Keep sharp, John,' Sherlock whispers harshly in yet another creepy empty warehouse. I should sell creepy soundtrack tapes at these locations, could make a fortune out of those.

I focus on my friend's melodies, and they are affected by that now overused static.

'Stop messing with your broadcast,' I hiss. 'I like hearing you all the time, and tonight it can give me vital clues.'

Sherlock actually turns to look at me. 'I'm not doing anything. Why can't you hear me properly?'

I slow down. Damn. It's an emotion, clouding the broadcast, not a conscious hiding decision from my friend.

What could it mean? When Lestrade was tired, his music went lethargic. When in pain, the cabbie's music went off tempo. When gaining confidence, Sherlock's cadences grow stronger, bolder. What emotion can I be missing?

'John, focus. Murderous pair, remember?'

'How dangerous can they be? They murder by proxy by home delivery.'

'They are highly inventive, though, and can make a murder weapon from rubber gloves, screwdrivers or curling irons. Did you bring your gun?'

'Of course I did.'

'Is it loaded?'

'Stop mother hen-ing me!'

The statics lightens as the good humour tendrils finger the beautiful chords in Sherlock's melodies.

Then it hits me. Sherlock's statics – his incredible symphonies are veiled by fear. He's afraid for me. That I might get hurt, that I might misunderstand him, that we may yet lose this.

Oh, Sherlock…

I stop him short, a hand sprawled over his abs.

I can hear another tune. No, make that: two new tunes. All other humans within earshot, and their tunes are intertwined. Harsh, negative, thumping like the drums of ancient wars.

The Chandler twins. What a phenomenal introduction to the villains of this tale.

But where is it coming from? My head, that much is obvious. No, this might all be a delusion lifted from my sensorial perceptions in real life; in which case, I need to figure out where the sound is coming from. I shut my eyes tight and try hard to focus on the heavy melody.

'That side', I say, turning towards the left.

I see Sherlock focusing hard in his turn. His eyes quickly skimming the warehouse for any minute hints on the dusty surfaces…

'There!' the brilliant but emotionally stunted man shouts out loud in the empty warehouse his booming voice echoes above any melodies I could perceive. Yeah, like I said before, but more modestly.

"We knew you'd come, you know?" a voice defies loudly, fearless. Mechanic. Creepy. Nothing but a recording.

"So we set up a little trap for you, Mr Holmes," the other completes. Also artificial, empty. From the other side of the warehouse.

But I hear their presence, I know they are real.

Why do they always leave the sidekick out? I roll my eyes in derision.

'John?' He knows I can tell, I can finetune my weird gift to find out where these two creeps really hide. I nod at my friend; I am sure we are on the right track. Some old recording cannot trick me.

Sherlock rushes forth without a plan – what else is new? – and I hear that same booming theatre play voice of my best friend declare: 'Give up, you're surrounded! We know all about the home delivery murders!'

Oh, so our plan is to bluff. Common Holmesian plan, that one.

I'm following my mad friend like a shadow. 'Scotland Yard is on their way,' I backup Sherlock without reserves. 'If you give yourselves up the sentence will be more lenient.'

Derisive laugh mingles with the heavy soundtrack of the Chandler Twins' presence as a bad taste in the mouth.

.

TBC