Fallen - Chapter 8: Transport
Title: Fallen - Chapter 8: Transport
Length: 3708 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and rather confused
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OC characters are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to daluci for being a top-notch beta, to non_canonical for her excellent advice and Brit picking, and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, and being inspirational!
Note: Thanks for your patience and sorry this has taken me so long. Still got it done within a week, but I hate to keep you waiting! *^_^*
Fallen - Chapter 8: Transport
Their efforts were both a success and a failure. The tiny piece of pink fabric was better than a GPS. Sherlock held it in his hand and followed the sensations that it gave off, turning this way and that as they followed the trail. They were successful in that they did manage to recover the suitcase. But they failed to find the killer, who had indeed noticed his mistake and had dumped the case in a skip under the cover of darkness.
Now that same bright pink case sits open on a chair in the living room of their new flat, its contents in disarray from the detective having pawed through them, muttering under his breath over and over again, “Where is it? Where is it? Where is it??”
“Where’s what?”
Lifting his head, a lock of dark hair falling over his eyes, Sherlock exclaims, “Her technology. Any technology. On a business trip with no cell phone? No laptop? I hardly think so.”
John leans forward to stare into her case thoughtfully. “Maybe the killer took the laptop? Maybe there was some evidence on it that he needed to hide?” he ventures uncertainly. Just like watching an Adept does not teach one how to wield magic, studying a consulting detective doesn’t really make one a genius at deduction. Add to that the fact that Guardian Angels are there simply to protect their charges and serve their mutual Creator. Sadly, there’s not always a prodigious amount of independent thought being done.
Silver grey eyes flick up, a quick quirk of Sherlock’s lips indicating that John is onto something. “Laptop, no. Her case was perfectly packed, undisturbed. If the killer had been through it, it would have been in disarray, a mess. He didn’t have the time to be delicate and discreet enough to carefully repack her case just the way it was. Not if he was just going to dump it in a skip a mile away. No, no laptop. Which means she had a mobile on her, but not just any phone, a smart phone. She would have used it for business, used it instead of a computer.”
“She could have lost it? Or-rrr…”
“Or?”
“Or the killer has it. Took it? Or maybe it was accidentally left behind, like the suitcase!”
“Excellent John, see? You’re getting the hang of it.”
A small warm glow starts in the middle of John’s chest and expands in rushing tingles outward, the sensation wondrously strange. “Don’t you think we should call the Detective Inspector?”
Sherlock’s gaze is focused blankly on the suitcase in front of him, his mind elsewhere, running through various permutations and possibilities. His tone of voice is distracted, unconcerned as he replies, “Hmm? Why?”
“Oh, I dunno, because this is a piece of evidence in a suspected murder case?”
Sherlock waves a dismissive hand, his attention still on the case, eyes narrowing on the handle of it before he leans forward. “Details, details. Besides they’re not going to get anything useful off it. The killer isn’t going to be stupid enough to leave any traces of DNA for them to pick up on. I’m sure he wore gloves and wiped it clean before he ditched it.” Flipping the tag on the luggage over with one of his own, gloved, hands, Sherlock stares at it for a moment before ordering, “Pull out your mobile.”
John obeys even as he asks curiously, “What for?”
“I want you to send a text, and my phone’s in my coat pocket across the room. Ready?”
With a huff of breath, John turns on the device and after a moment of searching for the right application replies, “Right, alright, what do you want the message to say?”
Tilting his head to one side, Sherlock considers his answer for a moment before replying, “Checkmate. Want to try again? 22 Northumberland Terrace. Come soon.” He pulls out the slip of paper held within the plastic grasp of the tag and puts it on the table next to John. “Send it to the number there when you’re done.”
John pokes at the tiny device in his hands laboriously, the process of texting ridiculously unfamiliar to him. Sherlock’s waits and watches, leaning forward, fingers twitching with the urge to pull the phone out of John’s just to speed up matters. When John finally finishes and hits send he looks up, ocean blue eyes bright and curious. “There. Done.”
“Finally. Remind me never to ask you to send a text again…”
“Gladly.” And then the niggling thought in the back of John’s mind surfaces to the front unpleasantly. “Hang on a minute…” His eyes dart to the card in question as he registers for the first time the name written on it and where Sherlock pulled it from. “Did you just have me text her murderer?”
Sherlock smirks, eyes gleaming. It’s answer enough.
“Are you completely mad?”
“Others have certainly said so, but I prefer the term ‘sociopath’, though granted I’m a high functioning one. Far more accurate, really. Madness encompasses such a wide range of diagnoses. Best to be specific whenever possible. As you’re a doctor, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
John’s silence is expected. So is a reaction of shock or disgust or some other negative response. But John isn’t going to play this particular game with Sherlock. Time for the Guardian Angel to do a little deduction of his own, even if he does have the unfair advantage of having known Sherlock all of his life.
John’s voice is mild, his gaze steady and direct as he meets Sherlock’s sardonic and provocative regard. “Actually, the term ‘sociopath’ is a bit outdated. Was replaced with ‘Antisocial Personality Disorder’ back in 1994, I believe? But I can see how you might have been diagnosed with that term in your youth, likely by some psychiatrist that your parents took you to rather than taking the time to actually talk to you. And, of course, you realized it was easier not to care what anyone said about you if you beat them to punch. Use the very thing people judge you for as a shield, identify with it, even though we both know it’s not as simple as all that.” John cocks his head to one side, still holding Sherlock’s eyes. “After all, it’s hard to pick on someone when they fully accept who they are. Makes those slings and arrows hurt just a little bit less, perhaps? Or are you just hurting yourself instead?”
For the first time in as long as John can remember, Sherlock seems speechless. He’s too proud to let his gaze drop or shift away uncomfortably from John’s, but depths of his silver eyes flicker with hints of heavily banked emotions, his features shifting fractionally, almost twitching. Unsurprisingly, the wall goes up a few seconds later, a small smirk touching his lips as he gives John a look as if to say ‘touché’. Sadly, Sherlock’s nature protects him from kindness as much as cruelty. “Yes, well, sociopath sounds so much better. Antisocial Personality Disorder. Bit of a mouthful that.”
The phone in John’s hand rings, silencing them both, and redirects their attention back to the case.
“What should I do?”
Leaning back, eyes heavy-lidded in contemplation, Sherlock stares at the mobile, his mouth curling into a subtly smug smile. “Let it ring, don’t answer it. We don’t want to give the game away too soon.”
“The game, is it?”
“Of course. It’s a game of chess and I’ve just made the first move. Think, John. If she’d lost the phone, anyone who found it would likely ignore a text like that. Doesn’t mean anything. But the murderer? It would place a hint of doubt. Did he make a mistake? Did she somehow survive? Anyone else would think nothing of it. The murderer… would panic.” He flips the suitcase closed just as the phone stops ringing.
Leaping up to his feet, Sherlock strides across the room, once again grabbing his coat and scarf, pulling them on. John watches him in bemusement as he swirls about the flat once more, picking up objects here and there and stuffing them into his voluminous pockets.
“What, we’re off again?”
“Of course John, shake a leg! It’s only a short walk, but no telling when our killer might show up. He is, of course, driving after all. We don’t want to miss his first move of the game, now do we??”
*****
Sitting across from Sherlock, with his back to the window, John patiently chews a forkful of Penne Arrabiata with pleasure. He’s not exactly sure why food is suddenly a delight, rather than a bother. Perhaps it’s the company. Or perhaps it’s because he’s eating something actually cooked and well made. Being an angel didn’t exactly prepare John for bachelorhood, and Tup certainly didn’t know how to cook anything. Most of what he’s eaten, well, let’s just say that perhaps more of it was devoured cold than should have been, the rest simple and plain fare. But this? This is delicious.
He can’t help himself. Between the food on his plate and the fact that Sherlock is sitting across from him, looking so brilliant and perfect, if impatient, John could not be more content. For the third time he lifts up a forkful to the consulting detective, insisting, “Really, you have to try this. It’s incredible.”
For the third time, Sherlock’s silver eyes flicker from their intent study of the flat across the street to John’s face, a faint frown of uncertainty marring his brow. “One would think you’d never eaten food before, the way you’re carrying on. And no, thank you, I’m fine.” Nothing more than a glass of water is before him, and even that only got a sip.
“Sherlock,” John rumbles with a tilt of his head and a considering expression. “You need to eat, y’know.” The fork bobbles in the air between them in an effort to tempt.
Sherlock eyes the fork, and then John, before noting impatiently, "I do eat. When it's necessary. Right now, it's not necessary. Food just... slows me down." John's expression shifts to one of disbelief and concern, but Sherlock cuts him off before he even gets started. "It's just transport, John. Not important."
He’s still so untutored, still so new in the ways of being human. Honestly, with the way his eyes never stop watching Sherlock and the way that he looks at him, it’s no wonder Angelo put a candle on the table between them. More romantic, he said. Between concern for Sherlock's well being, and a genuine urge to please the man seated across from him, John's fervent regard could be easily misconstrued as smitten. Pursing his lips, Sherlock picks up his glass of water with a frown and takes a sip before putting it down again. He seems to gather himself together slightly, as if he were making a concerted effort to be tactful for a change, rather than just speaking his mind.
“John, I’m flattered, but I think I should remind you that I’m married to my work, and as much as I appreciate your assistance and think you’d make a good flatmate, I’m really not interested.”
“Not interested?” John’s expression is one of pure innocence and curiosity, mixed with a hint of worry. What is Sherlock saying? He wants to be flatmates, but not friends? The very idea causes a twinge in John’s leg and shoulder. Not iInterested in what?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow in disbelief. “In any kind of… romantic liaison. Don’t be offended. It’s not you, per se. I’m just not interested… in anyone. Distracts from the work.”
“Oh? Oh!” Sitting back in surprise, John’s eyes widen, a blush rising up, unbidden, to his cheeks. “No, no, I didn’t mean… that is to say, I wasn’t suggesting… dash it all. No, no, of course not. I wasn’t, ahh, hitting on you?” At Sherlock’s dubious expression, John assures, “Really. It’s fine. Not to worry.”
Those pale eyes squint slightly in faint suspicion before Sherlock nods, folding his hands one over the other as his gaze shifts back to the street beyond. “Good. That’s… good.”
John turns his attention to his food in a feeble attempt to cover for the awkward moment, his mind turning the implications of Sherlock’s words over and over again thoughtfully. He was just happy to be here, right? Sherlock was his charge, his human. He’d been growing fond of him for some time. And yet, this was decidedly different. He always felt connected to Sherlock, bonded to him, but he would never have described this bond as ‘pleasurable’. Yet, suddenly, here are all these other emotions and sensations mixing in. He recognizes a few of them readily enough. Contentment. Happiness. Affection. A sense of being and belonging that he’s never experienced before. The others are a bit more… nebulous.
His head lifts, eyes able to drink in as much as they like now that Sherlock’s attention is fully focused on the street again, hands steepled beneath his chin. John always thought Sherlock was beautiful, but there’s something different about his appreciation of the man now. Something, for the lack of a better term, ‘earthier’ about it. Frowning slightly, he considers the difference. Is this a part of him? Or is this coming from John Watson? Watson certainly had a physical appreciation for both men and women, and his assessment of Sherlock, based on the memories available, would certainly be one of admiration and attraction. The Adept’s appearance is so very striking and unusual. Even if one found him strange or off putting at first, over time they would come to appreciate the subtle slant of his eyes, the chiseled bone structure of his face, the pronounced cupid’s bow of his lips.
Frowning harder John drops his gaze to his plate and shakes his head. This is… confusing. And complicated. There are too many thoughts, too many memories, and too many strange and unfamiliar feelings stirring about in his mind and churning in his stomach. With a soft clink, he places his fork down onto the plate and reaches for his glass of water, his appetite suddenly gone. Time for a change of topic.
“So tell me, what makes you so sure that he’ll come? And even if the killer does, how will you know it’s him?”
Sherlock’s pale gaze flicks to John briefly before returning to watch the street. “It’s simple, really. I’m surprised it took me this long to figure out.” He ticks off the victims on his fingers. “A man returning home from a business trip. A teenager caught in a rainstorm. A drunk woman at a party. A business woman arriving in London for one night’s stay. What do all of these people have in common?”
Thinking for a moment, John finally shrugs and confesses, “I dunno…”
“Transport. They all needed transportation, John.”
Frowning, he mulls that over and offers, “So you think the killer is a friend who gave all these people a ride?”
“Logical, except for the fact that none of the victims had any friends or colleagues in common. All complete strangers.”
“And what if someone just came up and offered them a lift? Like a Good Samaritan? Or the opposite, abducted them?”
Flicking his gaze back to John, Sherlock shakes his head, “Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers? Who would be daft enough to get in a car with someone they don’t know? No. Aside from the fact that someone bent on murder can hardly be called a Good Samaritan, that was definitely not the murderer’s modus operandi. As for being abducted, none of the victims had any signs of violence or being forced against their will. No marks, cuts, abrasions or bruises. No, there’s a much more obvious choice.” He hesitates for a moment, looking on the street for something before announcing, “There,” pointing out the window.
Twisting in his seat, John catches sight of the rear of a cab as it passes by, going completely still as apprehension spills over him.
“It’s the perfect cover,” Sherlock offers, watching as John’s features shift from surprise to grim comprehension. “Everyone trusts a cab driver. They are your safe ride out of a dodgy part of town. Your designated driver when you’ve had a few drinks too many. The reliable friend who never says no when you need a lift to the airport. No one thinks of them, no one sees them. They are virtually invisible. What better mode of transportation could a killer ask for?”
“But… there are cabs everywhere. It’s London. How on earth are you going to know if the one with the killer in it comes by?”
“I’ll know….” he drawls softly, before his eyes narrow as a taxi pulls up to the curb at the correct address. Sherlock waits and watches until he’s satisfied, pushing his chair back slightly and tossing his napkin to the table. “Finish your meal, my ride has arrived.”
“What? You’re going?” Turning in his seat to look outside, John immediately turns back when Sherlock hisses softly, “Don’t look. We don’t want to scare him off, now do we?”
Staring up at Sherlock, John frowns and asks, “But how do you know it’s the right cab?”
“I don’t. But the odds are good. It’s waiting at the corner. No one has got out, no one has got in, and he’s already brushed off one customer.” Dropping his gaze to John, Sherlock’s lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Our quarry has taken the bait…”
Reaching over to the table next to them, Sherlock offers the couple there an insincere smile and offers, “Terribly sorry,” before picking up the man’s glass of white wine and splashing it over himself.
“Now see here!” the man begins to protest…
Frowning introspectively at the glass in his hand, Sherlock waves it dismissively at the outraged pair. “Mmmm, actually I take that apology back. You should be thanking me. An American Chardonnay? Coupled with Angelo’s Brasato di Manzo?? Terrible choice. Send it back and order a Brunello instead. Brunello di Montalcino, to be specific. A far superior vintage, which will beautifully complement your meal rather than utterly ruin it.”
The couple gape as Sherlock, placing the glass back down, pivots on his heels and bumbles past their table as if he were drunk, pushing open and then practically falling out of the front door of the restaurant, leaving John to apologize and make amends.
*****
Stumbling off the kerb, Sherlock very nearly gets hit by a car, one hand coming to rest on its hood as he slurs out a mock-angry protest. Wobbling his way across the street, he leans against a lamppost for a moment before tripping his way over to the cab in question.
He thumps on the roof and shakes the door handle before protesting, “Awww, come on mate!”
“Can’t yeh see the light? Off duty!” returns the cab driver, his eyes focused on the door of 22 Northumberland Terrace like a hawk.
Sherlock hides the smile that touches his mouth by tilting his head back, as if rolling out an ache, and then ducks down to peer through the window at the small, unassuming, older man sitting inside. “Come on, I got cash… don’t be a git.”
“I said…” and turning his head the cabbie glances out the window to look up at the apparently drunk man. His words die off, only to be chased by a wicked, knowing smile. “Well, well, well, this is an honor,” he announces, eyeing the man at his cab up and down before asking, “Taxi for the great Sherlock ‘olmes?”
Sherlock is, quite frankly, dumbfounded. He’s been taken by surprise, twice in one night! And despite his expertise at pretending to be what he is not, something of that shock must show in his gaze.
“Awww, don’t feel bad Mr. ‘olmes. I’m one of yer biggest fans.” His shoulders shrug as the cabbie adds, “I ‘ave to admit, tho’, I didn’t think I would be meetin’ the likes of you ‘ere tonight. But then I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Coppers weren’t ever gonna figure it out on their own. It’s only natural they’d end up ‘avin’ to call you in t’elp.” Opening up his door, the cabbie gets out, causing Sherlock to back away uncertainly. But he only smiles and opens up the back door. “Let’s go fer a drive.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Cause it’s all part of the game, innit? You want to know ‘ow all those people died, and I want to tell yeh. Isn’t that the way with geniuses? We all want to be seen, to be recognized. But then you know all about that, seein’ as yer a genius yerself. Seems only fair I get my chance to shine too. So ‘op on in, make yourself comfortable.”
Sherlock stares at the open door as if it were a trap. “Is this how you killed them? Gave them a ride and then forced them to take the poison?”
“Awwww, Mr. ‘olmes, I’m disappointed. You know as well as I do that they took the poison themselves, each and every one of ‘em. Willingly.” Shaking his head tragically, the cabbie protests his innocence, but the smug smile on his lips belies his words. “I didn’t kill those people. All I did was talk to them for awhile… and they killed themselves.”
Sherlock hesitates for a moment before ducking into the back of the cab and sliding onto the seat, closing the door behind him.
Returning to his own seat, the cabbie shifts the rearview mirror a bit to better see his passenger, offering him a disturbingly cheerful grin. “That’s the way of it! Tell you what, I won’t even run the meter. Free ride for you, Mr. ‘olmes. So just sit back, make yourself comfortable, and we’ll ‘ave ourselves a nice little chat.” The taxi is shifted into gear and pulls away from the kerb.
Half a block away John watches the interaction unfold, watches Sherlock drop the drunken act and then step into the cab. His brow creases with concern as the cab pulls away, the pain in his shoulder suddenly growing sharper.
Length: 3708 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and rather confused
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OC characters are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to daluci for being a top-notch beta, to non_canonical for her excellent advice and Brit picking, and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, and being inspirational!
Note: Thanks for your patience and sorry this has taken me so long. Still got it done within a week, but I hate to keep you waiting! *^_^*
Fallen - Chapter 8: Transport
Their efforts were both a success and a failure. The tiny piece of pink fabric was better than a GPS. Sherlock held it in his hand and followed the sensations that it gave off, turning this way and that as they followed the trail. They were successful in that they did manage to recover the suitcase. But they failed to find the killer, who had indeed noticed his mistake and had dumped the case in a skip under the cover of darkness.
Now that same bright pink case sits open on a chair in the living room of their new flat, its contents in disarray from the detective having pawed through them, muttering under his breath over and over again, “Where is it? Where is it? Where is it??”
“Where’s what?”
Lifting his head, a lock of dark hair falling over his eyes, Sherlock exclaims, “Her technology. Any technology. On a business trip with no cell phone? No laptop? I hardly think so.”
John leans forward to stare into her case thoughtfully. “Maybe the killer took the laptop? Maybe there was some evidence on it that he needed to hide?” he ventures uncertainly. Just like watching an Adept does not teach one how to wield magic, studying a consulting detective doesn’t really make one a genius at deduction. Add to that the fact that Guardian Angels are there simply to protect their charges and serve their mutual Creator. Sadly, there’s not always a prodigious amount of independent thought being done.
Silver grey eyes flick up, a quick quirk of Sherlock’s lips indicating that John is onto something. “Laptop, no. Her case was perfectly packed, undisturbed. If the killer had been through it, it would have been in disarray, a mess. He didn’t have the time to be delicate and discreet enough to carefully repack her case just the way it was. Not if he was just going to dump it in a skip a mile away. No, no laptop. Which means she had a mobile on her, but not just any phone, a smart phone. She would have used it for business, used it instead of a computer.”
“She could have lost it? Or-rrr…”
“Or?”
“Or the killer has it. Took it? Or maybe it was accidentally left behind, like the suitcase!”
“Excellent John, see? You’re getting the hang of it.”
A small warm glow starts in the middle of John’s chest and expands in rushing tingles outward, the sensation wondrously strange. “Don’t you think we should call the Detective Inspector?”
Sherlock’s gaze is focused blankly on the suitcase in front of him, his mind elsewhere, running through various permutations and possibilities. His tone of voice is distracted, unconcerned as he replies, “Hmm? Why?”
“Oh, I dunno, because this is a piece of evidence in a suspected murder case?”
Sherlock waves a dismissive hand, his attention still on the case, eyes narrowing on the handle of it before he leans forward. “Details, details. Besides they’re not going to get anything useful off it. The killer isn’t going to be stupid enough to leave any traces of DNA for them to pick up on. I’m sure he wore gloves and wiped it clean before he ditched it.” Flipping the tag on the luggage over with one of his own, gloved, hands, Sherlock stares at it for a moment before ordering, “Pull out your mobile.”
John obeys even as he asks curiously, “What for?”
“I want you to send a text, and my phone’s in my coat pocket across the room. Ready?”
With a huff of breath, John turns on the device and after a moment of searching for the right application replies, “Right, alright, what do you want the message to say?”
Tilting his head to one side, Sherlock considers his answer for a moment before replying, “Checkmate. Want to try again? 22 Northumberland Terrace. Come soon.” He pulls out the slip of paper held within the plastic grasp of the tag and puts it on the table next to John. “Send it to the number there when you’re done.”
John pokes at the tiny device in his hands laboriously, the process of texting ridiculously unfamiliar to him. Sherlock’s waits and watches, leaning forward, fingers twitching with the urge to pull the phone out of John’s just to speed up matters. When John finally finishes and hits send he looks up, ocean blue eyes bright and curious. “There. Done.”
“Finally. Remind me never to ask you to send a text again…”
“Gladly.” And then the niggling thought in the back of John’s mind surfaces to the front unpleasantly. “Hang on a minute…” His eyes dart to the card in question as he registers for the first time the name written on it and where Sherlock pulled it from. “Did you just have me text her murderer?”
Sherlock smirks, eyes gleaming. It’s answer enough.
“Are you completely mad?”
“Others have certainly said so, but I prefer the term ‘sociopath’, though granted I’m a high functioning one. Far more accurate, really. Madness encompasses such a wide range of diagnoses. Best to be specific whenever possible. As you’re a doctor, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
John’s silence is expected. So is a reaction of shock or disgust or some other negative response. But John isn’t going to play this particular game with Sherlock. Time for the Guardian Angel to do a little deduction of his own, even if he does have the unfair advantage of having known Sherlock all of his life.
John’s voice is mild, his gaze steady and direct as he meets Sherlock’s sardonic and provocative regard. “Actually, the term ‘sociopath’ is a bit outdated. Was replaced with ‘Antisocial Personality Disorder’ back in 1994, I believe? But I can see how you might have been diagnosed with that term in your youth, likely by some psychiatrist that your parents took you to rather than taking the time to actually talk to you. And, of course, you realized it was easier not to care what anyone said about you if you beat them to punch. Use the very thing people judge you for as a shield, identify with it, even though we both know it’s not as simple as all that.” John cocks his head to one side, still holding Sherlock’s eyes. “After all, it’s hard to pick on someone when they fully accept who they are. Makes those slings and arrows hurt just a little bit less, perhaps? Or are you just hurting yourself instead?”
For the first time in as long as John can remember, Sherlock seems speechless. He’s too proud to let his gaze drop or shift away uncomfortably from John’s, but depths of his silver eyes flicker with hints of heavily banked emotions, his features shifting fractionally, almost twitching. Unsurprisingly, the wall goes up a few seconds later, a small smirk touching his lips as he gives John a look as if to say ‘touché’. Sadly, Sherlock’s nature protects him from kindness as much as cruelty. “Yes, well, sociopath sounds so much better. Antisocial Personality Disorder. Bit of a mouthful that.”
The phone in John’s hand rings, silencing them both, and redirects their attention back to the case.
“What should I do?”
Leaning back, eyes heavy-lidded in contemplation, Sherlock stares at the mobile, his mouth curling into a subtly smug smile. “Let it ring, don’t answer it. We don’t want to give the game away too soon.”
“The game, is it?”
“Of course. It’s a game of chess and I’ve just made the first move. Think, John. If she’d lost the phone, anyone who found it would likely ignore a text like that. Doesn’t mean anything. But the murderer? It would place a hint of doubt. Did he make a mistake? Did she somehow survive? Anyone else would think nothing of it. The murderer… would panic.” He flips the suitcase closed just as the phone stops ringing.
Leaping up to his feet, Sherlock strides across the room, once again grabbing his coat and scarf, pulling them on. John watches him in bemusement as he swirls about the flat once more, picking up objects here and there and stuffing them into his voluminous pockets.
“What, we’re off again?”
“Of course John, shake a leg! It’s only a short walk, but no telling when our killer might show up. He is, of course, driving after all. We don’t want to miss his first move of the game, now do we??”
*****
Sitting across from Sherlock, with his back to the window, John patiently chews a forkful of Penne Arrabiata with pleasure. He’s not exactly sure why food is suddenly a delight, rather than a bother. Perhaps it’s the company. Or perhaps it’s because he’s eating something actually cooked and well made. Being an angel didn’t exactly prepare John for bachelorhood, and Tup certainly didn’t know how to cook anything. Most of what he’s eaten, well, let’s just say that perhaps more of it was devoured cold than should have been, the rest simple and plain fare. But this? This is delicious.
He can’t help himself. Between the food on his plate and the fact that Sherlock is sitting across from him, looking so brilliant and perfect, if impatient, John could not be more content. For the third time he lifts up a forkful to the consulting detective, insisting, “Really, you have to try this. It’s incredible.”
For the third time, Sherlock’s silver eyes flicker from their intent study of the flat across the street to John’s face, a faint frown of uncertainty marring his brow. “One would think you’d never eaten food before, the way you’re carrying on. And no, thank you, I’m fine.” Nothing more than a glass of water is before him, and even that only got a sip.
“Sherlock,” John rumbles with a tilt of his head and a considering expression. “You need to eat, y’know.” The fork bobbles in the air between them in an effort to tempt.
Sherlock eyes the fork, and then John, before noting impatiently, "I do eat. When it's necessary. Right now, it's not necessary. Food just... slows me down." John's expression shifts to one of disbelief and concern, but Sherlock cuts him off before he even gets started. "It's just transport, John. Not important."
He’s still so untutored, still so new in the ways of being human. Honestly, with the way his eyes never stop watching Sherlock and the way that he looks at him, it’s no wonder Angelo put a candle on the table between them. More romantic, he said. Between concern for Sherlock's well being, and a genuine urge to please the man seated across from him, John's fervent regard could be easily misconstrued as smitten. Pursing his lips, Sherlock picks up his glass of water with a frown and takes a sip before putting it down again. He seems to gather himself together slightly, as if he were making a concerted effort to be tactful for a change, rather than just speaking his mind.
“John, I’m flattered, but I think I should remind you that I’m married to my work, and as much as I appreciate your assistance and think you’d make a good flatmate, I’m really not interested.”
“Not interested?” John’s expression is one of pure innocence and curiosity, mixed with a hint of worry. What is Sherlock saying? He wants to be flatmates, but not friends? The very idea causes a twinge in John’s leg and shoulder. Not iInterested in what?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow in disbelief. “In any kind of… romantic liaison. Don’t be offended. It’s not you, per se. I’m just not interested… in anyone. Distracts from the work.”
“Oh? Oh!” Sitting back in surprise, John’s eyes widen, a blush rising up, unbidden, to his cheeks. “No, no, I didn’t mean… that is to say, I wasn’t suggesting… dash it all. No, no, of course not. I wasn’t, ahh, hitting on you?” At Sherlock’s dubious expression, John assures, “Really. It’s fine. Not to worry.”
Those pale eyes squint slightly in faint suspicion before Sherlock nods, folding his hands one over the other as his gaze shifts back to the street beyond. “Good. That’s… good.”
John turns his attention to his food in a feeble attempt to cover for the awkward moment, his mind turning the implications of Sherlock’s words over and over again thoughtfully. He was just happy to be here, right? Sherlock was his charge, his human. He’d been growing fond of him for some time. And yet, this was decidedly different. He always felt connected to Sherlock, bonded to him, but he would never have described this bond as ‘pleasurable’. Yet, suddenly, here are all these other emotions and sensations mixing in. He recognizes a few of them readily enough. Contentment. Happiness. Affection. A sense of being and belonging that he’s never experienced before. The others are a bit more… nebulous.
His head lifts, eyes able to drink in as much as they like now that Sherlock’s attention is fully focused on the street again, hands steepled beneath his chin. John always thought Sherlock was beautiful, but there’s something different about his appreciation of the man now. Something, for the lack of a better term, ‘earthier’ about it. Frowning slightly, he considers the difference. Is this a part of him? Or is this coming from John Watson? Watson certainly had a physical appreciation for both men and women, and his assessment of Sherlock, based on the memories available, would certainly be one of admiration and attraction. The Adept’s appearance is so very striking and unusual. Even if one found him strange or off putting at first, over time they would come to appreciate the subtle slant of his eyes, the chiseled bone structure of his face, the pronounced cupid’s bow of his lips.
Frowning harder John drops his gaze to his plate and shakes his head. This is… confusing. And complicated. There are too many thoughts, too many memories, and too many strange and unfamiliar feelings stirring about in his mind and churning in his stomach. With a soft clink, he places his fork down onto the plate and reaches for his glass of water, his appetite suddenly gone. Time for a change of topic.
“So tell me, what makes you so sure that he’ll come? And even if the killer does, how will you know it’s him?”
Sherlock’s pale gaze flicks to John briefly before returning to watch the street. “It’s simple, really. I’m surprised it took me this long to figure out.” He ticks off the victims on his fingers. “A man returning home from a business trip. A teenager caught in a rainstorm. A drunk woman at a party. A business woman arriving in London for one night’s stay. What do all of these people have in common?”
Thinking for a moment, John finally shrugs and confesses, “I dunno…”
“Transport. They all needed transportation, John.”
Frowning, he mulls that over and offers, “So you think the killer is a friend who gave all these people a ride?”
“Logical, except for the fact that none of the victims had any friends or colleagues in common. All complete strangers.”
“And what if someone just came up and offered them a lift? Like a Good Samaritan? Or the opposite, abducted them?”
Flicking his gaze back to John, Sherlock shakes his head, “Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers? Who would be daft enough to get in a car with someone they don’t know? No. Aside from the fact that someone bent on murder can hardly be called a Good Samaritan, that was definitely not the murderer’s modus operandi. As for being abducted, none of the victims had any signs of violence or being forced against their will. No marks, cuts, abrasions or bruises. No, there’s a much more obvious choice.” He hesitates for a moment, looking on the street for something before announcing, “There,” pointing out the window.
Twisting in his seat, John catches sight of the rear of a cab as it passes by, going completely still as apprehension spills over him.
“It’s the perfect cover,” Sherlock offers, watching as John’s features shift from surprise to grim comprehension. “Everyone trusts a cab driver. They are your safe ride out of a dodgy part of town. Your designated driver when you’ve had a few drinks too many. The reliable friend who never says no when you need a lift to the airport. No one thinks of them, no one sees them. They are virtually invisible. What better mode of transportation could a killer ask for?”
“But… there are cabs everywhere. It’s London. How on earth are you going to know if the one with the killer in it comes by?”
“I’ll know….” he drawls softly, before his eyes narrow as a taxi pulls up to the curb at the correct address. Sherlock waits and watches until he’s satisfied, pushing his chair back slightly and tossing his napkin to the table. “Finish your meal, my ride has arrived.”
“What? You’re going?” Turning in his seat to look outside, John immediately turns back when Sherlock hisses softly, “Don’t look. We don’t want to scare him off, now do we?”
Staring up at Sherlock, John frowns and asks, “But how do you know it’s the right cab?”
“I don’t. But the odds are good. It’s waiting at the corner. No one has got out, no one has got in, and he’s already brushed off one customer.” Dropping his gaze to John, Sherlock’s lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Our quarry has taken the bait…”
Reaching over to the table next to them, Sherlock offers the couple there an insincere smile and offers, “Terribly sorry,” before picking up the man’s glass of white wine and splashing it over himself.
“Now see here!” the man begins to protest…
Frowning introspectively at the glass in his hand, Sherlock waves it dismissively at the outraged pair. “Mmmm, actually I take that apology back. You should be thanking me. An American Chardonnay? Coupled with Angelo’s Brasato di Manzo?? Terrible choice. Send it back and order a Brunello instead. Brunello di Montalcino, to be specific. A far superior vintage, which will beautifully complement your meal rather than utterly ruin it.”
The couple gape as Sherlock, placing the glass back down, pivots on his heels and bumbles past their table as if he were drunk, pushing open and then practically falling out of the front door of the restaurant, leaving John to apologize and make amends.
*****
Stumbling off the kerb, Sherlock very nearly gets hit by a car, one hand coming to rest on its hood as he slurs out a mock-angry protest. Wobbling his way across the street, he leans against a lamppost for a moment before tripping his way over to the cab in question.
He thumps on the roof and shakes the door handle before protesting, “Awww, come on mate!”
“Can’t yeh see the light? Off duty!” returns the cab driver, his eyes focused on the door of 22 Northumberland Terrace like a hawk.
Sherlock hides the smile that touches his mouth by tilting his head back, as if rolling out an ache, and then ducks down to peer through the window at the small, unassuming, older man sitting inside. “Come on, I got cash… don’t be a git.”
“I said…” and turning his head the cabbie glances out the window to look up at the apparently drunk man. His words die off, only to be chased by a wicked, knowing smile. “Well, well, well, this is an honor,” he announces, eyeing the man at his cab up and down before asking, “Taxi for the great Sherlock ‘olmes?”
Sherlock is, quite frankly, dumbfounded. He’s been taken by surprise, twice in one night! And despite his expertise at pretending to be what he is not, something of that shock must show in his gaze.
“Awww, don’t feel bad Mr. ‘olmes. I’m one of yer biggest fans.” His shoulders shrug as the cabbie adds, “I ‘ave to admit, tho’, I didn’t think I would be meetin’ the likes of you ‘ere tonight. But then I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Coppers weren’t ever gonna figure it out on their own. It’s only natural they’d end up ‘avin’ to call you in t’elp.” Opening up his door, the cabbie gets out, causing Sherlock to back away uncertainly. But he only smiles and opens up the back door. “Let’s go fer a drive.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Cause it’s all part of the game, innit? You want to know ‘ow all those people died, and I want to tell yeh. Isn’t that the way with geniuses? We all want to be seen, to be recognized. But then you know all about that, seein’ as yer a genius yerself. Seems only fair I get my chance to shine too. So ‘op on in, make yourself comfortable.”
Sherlock stares at the open door as if it were a trap. “Is this how you killed them? Gave them a ride and then forced them to take the poison?”
“Awwww, Mr. ‘olmes, I’m disappointed. You know as well as I do that they took the poison themselves, each and every one of ‘em. Willingly.” Shaking his head tragically, the cabbie protests his innocence, but the smug smile on his lips belies his words. “I didn’t kill those people. All I did was talk to them for awhile… and they killed themselves.”
Sherlock hesitates for a moment before ducking into the back of the cab and sliding onto the seat, closing the door behind him.
Returning to his own seat, the cabbie shifts the rearview mirror a bit to better see his passenger, offering him a disturbingly cheerful grin. “That’s the way of it! Tell you what, I won’t even run the meter. Free ride for you, Mr. ‘olmes. So just sit back, make yourself comfortable, and we’ll ‘ave ourselves a nice little chat.” The taxi is shifted into gear and pulls away from the kerb.
Half a block away John watches the interaction unfold, watches Sherlock drop the drunken act and then step into the cab. His brow creases with concern as the cab pulls away, the pain in his shoulder suddenly growing sharper.