A/N: Part two. And, yes, I noticed all my other characters are very clichéd; maybe the story isn't much about them as it is about our co-dependent protagonists, or maybe it just mirrors the microcosmos of appearances and deception at my completely made-up Gala. -csf
2/2.
'Think of it as a game of chess. Who's the ruling king, who are the defending knights, who are the harmless pawns.'
Sherlock is momentarily studying the room's reflection in a great wall mirror with a gilded frame, while adjusting his lapel. Cool mercurial eyes scrutinise every detail of his already pristine attire. John stands beside him in antithesis. He hasn't paid the least attention to a skewed shirt collar or that thin blond strand of hair sticking out atop his head, giving him a young, mischievous appearance. Sherlock fights the urge to correct his protégé, as stunningly the detective seems to favour these little tells of homely John, in this elegant but contained man standing beside him at parade's rest. Ignoring John's little tells would be a mistake of huge proportions, and the detective fancies he might currently be the only one seeing past John's military precision elegance, noticing the intense blue eyes and coiled up energy drumming up the tense body.
This is John at his most alive, fighter's body and doctor's soul aligned. He looks ten years younger just from a whisper of danger, and so very alive that his energy fills the room for Sherlock, eclipsing all the expensive designer gowns, the affected manners of the elite guests, the droning sound of a hundred conversations, that would normally summon an excruciating deductions overload for the detective.
John clears his throat, noticing suddenly Sherlock's study of him.
'Sherlock, any ideas? Do you think the murderer will target someone rich, or famous, or controversial? It will be someone who isn't easily accessible by regular means, I expect. Why make the escape after the fact harder when they could accost the victim elsewhere in relative privacy?'
'Because they know each other, and the victim would be prepared. Here is a sea of random faces, where the murderer can lurk until time to pounce', Sherlock mutters.
John glances the detective's way. Those cobalt blue eyes looking deeply concerned.
'It would hardly be me the victim, John. I've studied every single face, and scanned them for possible disguises by focusing on biometric details people never think to alter, such as the shape and size of the ears, John. Ears are incredibly distinctive, John, much like fingerprints and so much easier to access. No, regretfully this audience does not hate me enough to make this night the more memorable.'
'Sherlock, stop joking about it', the soldier asks, tersely.
'Besides, I brought you.'
'I'm not much help, though, am I? Someone got me a suit so tight I couldn't pocket a gun without passing out from oxygen deprivation', he mutters angrily, paying where his suit jacket would carry an inner pocket if the tailor hadn't been a realist. 'I can hardly breathe as it is. It's like a ruddy corset.'
'No, don't undo the button, it affects your lines, John.'
'Thank you, Mister Magazine Cover! I shall endeavour to pass out instead!' John grumbles away.
'John, focus, there's a murder about to happen.'
'Yeah, you keep promising yet not delivering!'
Sherlock smiles brightly at John's true personality slip.
They really are made from the same stuff.
.
'This is a nice turn-up, a merry crowd. Who would you murder, John?'
The army doctor tries to hide his giggles, Sherlock throws a long look to his friend, finding the amusement doubled by the genuine reaction.
'I don't know any of these people, mate! I recognise some faces from the media, but that's all. They're just strangers.'
'That's not an impediment to the game, John. Think, who would you have a go at? Would you stab the fat man, poison the young woman's drink, shoot the old man? No, of course not, those are all common, trite murders. You could do them anywhere! But here, John, here there's an audience, a very specific collective of people known for a perceived heightened status in society. This is a not a crime of passion, but a murder of persuasion, motivated by a cause, and it needs the best audience it can possibly garner in order to be cost-effective. Remember, the murderer gave themselves away even before committing the act. This is about drumming up an audience, playing to the gallery. A stabbing, a poisoning, a concealed pistol are all too little for this person's ambition. Think, John! How would you kill someone in the most exhibitionist way possible?'
The former soldier frowns. 'I wouldn't know, I was on the good guys side.'
'I know, I saw your medals. But if you hadn't been?'
'I never told you where I keep my medals!'
'Oh, please, under the bed, I just had to look inside the right box! The other boxes had equally fascinating insights into your psyche, John, but don't distract me now. Tell me, how do you make a murder all flash and bang?'
'You make it theatrical, exaggerated, uselessly complicated!' John growls back in due escalation of his temper. He's very demanding of his privacy for a man that freely agreed to move in with a detective. If that wasn't clue enough about certain behaviours that defied John's privacy, then Sherlock really would have to bring up the obvious one day soon.
'Correct. Keep your eyes open for the unusual, John. Tells me who else besides you stands out in this crowd tonight.'
John blinks. 'What do you mean "besides me"? I'm wearing the expensive suit, and acting like a posh git, what am I doing that is so bloody remarkable?'
'You're always remarkable, John. That's why I keep you around.'
.
Eventually the consulting detective would give up on feeding John every small advance in the path of deduction. He may not get his gory death at the Gala tonight, but he intends to dazzle John yet. After all, if he's to be a hero, should he not get a hero's reward?
With an inner eye roll, Sherlock grabs John's shoulders and physically steers him to face the corner where the Grand Piano stands. He keeps his hands touching the soft wool blend in John's new suit (a concession to John's beloved jumpers), and feels the warm solid muscles slowly relax again, after the initial constrain of surprise. It's a testament of trust that Sherlock has his six, that John fractionally melts to the touch, nearly ruining those poised straight lines.
'Sherlock, who am I looking at here?'
'Duchess Something-or-other, she holds a royal title of sorts. She's royal once or twice removed if you believe in the official bloodline. Sixty year old widow, married three times, the last time to her butler, apparently she did what she could to keep a well run household. Didn't work out, I assume they had divergences over how he got his silver polished, and she's now out and about looking for a new husband. She could use one, going by the low cut neckline, and rumours that the roof in her estate is on the verge of collapsing over part of the upper floor.'
'Who'd murder the Duchess?'
'Any of her exes, but not here, not publicly and pre-announced.'
'So why am I looking at her?'
'She's our bait. She's a deadbeat on the hunt, remember? Most men with any sense will stay well clear of her, but our murderer will use her as a convenient cover-up until the moment comes to act.'
'You're right. That awkward waiter from before, he's very interested in her.'
'Well, she's got a reputation for great career progression.'
'So he's not the killer?'
Sherlock glances at John. He seems disappointed.
'He could poison the whole room by means of champagne. Why pre-announce it? No, he doesn't fit our profile.'
'Wait, someone's cutting in, that man in a grey suit.'
The detective rolls his eyes. 'Light grey suit at a Gala, how pedestrian of him to try for exuberance!'
'You say he's our killer?'
'You're right, John, never judge a book by its cover. He might be interesting after all.'
'Well, are we staying here like a couple of gossip magazines?'
'Not at all, we split up. John you take on the killer, I protect the victim.'
Those possessive fingertips suddenly leave John's shoulders, and John instantly misses their warmth.
'Wait, if it's not her, do you know who's going to be offed tonight?' John nearly shouts as Sherlock immediately worms his way into the sea of guests. A few overhear, and instead of looking frightened they whisper delightfully. John could groan at that moment, possibly he does, or maybe it's the exertion from his too tight jacket and shirt while he rushes towards the grand piano, the Duchess and the murderer.
He almost gets spotted by the killer. He can see the grey suit man narrow his eyes then dismiss the idea that he's being faced with the second of the Baker Street duo.
Maybe the detective was right, and the comfortable clothes had become as iconic in John as the long coat in Sherlock. Maybe John just has one of those very common faces. Whatever it is, John does not raise the alarm as he makes his way over to the piano. He is perfectly camouflaged in this setting, he fits in with the crowd, his hidden talents never even guessed.
Okay, this needs a plan. But Sherlock's the one who has the plans. John just improvises, generally speaking.
'Good evening, Duchess. I was hoping to make your acquaintance tonight', Three Continents Watson supplies smoothly grabbing for a champagne flute on a passing tray to offer her, despite the fact that she's already got a drink of dry gin with her.
The lady's eyes narrow over the invisible price tag of his suit and she smiles. 'A woman of my age likes a man that doesn't beat around the bush. How do you do? I'm the Duchess of—'
Uh-oh. John realises he's seriously messed up when the grey suit man takes opportunity of John's showing up to draw a gun from his jacket pocket, gaze intent somewhere out in the crowd. See here, Sherlock, maybe the grey suit wins the battle of the posh suits after all?
'Excuse me a sec', John blurts out, as the Duchess strangles a scream at the sight of a real gun. What follows is a cost-efficient three steps manoeuvre that strips the gun from the murderer and subdues him against the piano's keys.
The loud reverberating piano groan is the reason that the entirety of guests and staff halt in shock.
Sherlock immediately materialises next to John, holding out a pair of handcuffs to him. He's also dragging a meek looking, pale and drawn young man; the victim to be, presumably.
John takes the cuffs with an inquisitive head gesture the young man's way.
'Nuclear scientist, very hush-hush, John.'
The Duchess is still recovering her breath after her cinematographic scream. 'A murderer?' she gasps. 'But I was going to marry him!'
John drags the murderer wannabe from the piano keys, as Sherlock clears the path among the crowd with a haughty brow raise and a stance that fills the room with action movie protagonist vibes.
'This way, John.'
'I think I popped my suit's stitches in the underarms.'
'Perfectly understandable. I'll get you a new one, John.'
'Just one question, mate... Where had you hidden the cuffs?'
'I spread several around the room when I visited earlier. Those came from the piano bench, of course.'
John chuckles, amused.
'So sure we were going to get lucky, then?'
Sherlock just holds his superior pose, as they drag the criminal and the victim away from the horrified guests.
.
Back at 221B, John grimaces as he toes off the polished shoes. If they were murder in his feet tonight, he can't understand the sterner stuff women in high heels are made of. Or maybe he needs to ask Sherlock for high end shoes. The detective seemed amused at dressing him up, after all, maybe he'd foot the bill on some comfier shoes for the next society case.
As he sees Sherlock equally dismissing his shoes – one landing on the sofa and the other on the violin stand – John immediately gives up any plan to overstretch the night's makeover.
A jacket gets tossed dangerously near the fireplace, missing the red armchair by a bit, but that silk pocket square is treasured as a case closed souvenir – and a handy gun oil rag.
Sherlock studies John as soon as the jacket misses the target by a ways. That is not like the marksman soldier Sherlock knows John to be.
'Had fun tonight?' he drawls, as if bringing up conversation was unimportant, but John can discern some trepidation in his voice.
'Yeah, I had. Thanks for bringing me along... Even if you refused me my gun.'
'You made do brilliantly, John.'
'I beat the hell out of a guest in a Royal Gala!'
Sherlock smiles wolfishly. 'Oh, that? I didn't expect any less of my faithful partner.'
'How about you? Deprived of a dead body and all?'
'Had a nice little chat with the nuclear physicist about enriched uranium and its uses, so I suppose the whole thing had its merits.'
Sherlock, the crazy scientist, learning more about enriched uranium; Mycroft is going to regret this mission.
They both drift naturally towards their armchairs, settling down at last, facing each other.
'It wasn't your first Gala, was it?' John asks, conversationally.
'The first in a very long time, John. Nowadays I wouldn't go to one with just anyone. How was it for you?'
'Not as difficult as I thought it would be. To be honest, I quite enjoyed it, though I assume it was mostly due to you being there, and the case as well.'
There's still something weighing in on the silence between them, something the quiet in the neighbourhood heightens for them.
'Mummy will be pleased', John blurts out.
Sherlock chuckles at that.
'You find Mummy a little bit frightening?'
'I find most Holmes a little bit frightening', John smirks appreciatively, a good hint of danger crossing his honest features.
'No, you do not, just drop it, John! You're the bravest man I know. Anyway, Mummy won't have it any other way. She says she misses the huge parties she used to throw, and wants us to come to the next one. I still remember the time she insisted she wanted to invite the supreme leader of a republic or another to her Swan Lake inspired candlelit supper. Mycroft narrowly avoided a war over the flower arrangements , or was it the flambé desert that set it off? I can hardly remember, John, it was so boring.' The without you there is left unsaid. 'A wasted night for a teenager with a decomposition decay experiment in his bedroom.'
'Meanwhile I was probably attending a rock concert', the doctor notices with a grin.
'You would have been the gregarious type, of course', Sherlock states with studied neutrality. He himself had been a loner, he'd readily admit.
'As it turns out, you can feel lonely in the middle of a crowd, not just when you are alone.'
Sherlock snaps honest deep grey eyes on John. 'Did you?'
John smiles sadly, before getting up from the comfortable armchair, followed in every move by Sherlock. 'I went willingly to a war. I think it's safe to say I was still looking for where I belonged, where it all came together and made sense. I thought that setting was among my comrades in arms. But I wouldn't feel at home until much later. Tea, Sherlock?'
'Yes. And did you?'
'Of course. I've been right at home no matter the crazy situation you drag me into...'
'...oh, please, you want to come...'
'...ever since I moved in with you. Sugar?'
'Same for me as for you.'
And somehow John knows he doesn't mean how he wants the tea, and returns with the perfect saccharin cuppa for the detective and regular for himself.
.
