Fill: Witness Protection Part 2d
anonymous
December 21 2011, 14:05:34 UTC
It was the smile; Sherlock decided that suited his face the most. In the next moment, he berated himself for the illogical thought. The man was an interesting distraction, nothing more, nothing less…What a fascinating specimen, though with such an ordinary appearance. His present case was solved. All he had to look forward to, was the tedium and the struggle to deny himself the next high. This would break the monotony nicely….
“And my name is Victor… that’s the only thing, you didn’t get right.”
He really was a hopeless liar…
The man was now studying Sherlock’s avid expression with a frown on his face. “Uh…I think it will be better if I get off at the nearest intersection. You’re fine now, and I should be on my way…”
“Nonsense!” Sherlock interjected. “It’s too late to take the tube back to Sussex. You don’t have any money for a motel. You can kip over at my place for the night. I have a spare bedroom. It’s the least I can do for getting you into trouble…well more trouble…” He had tried to make his voice as ingratiating as possible, but Victor still looked undecided.
“Come now, Doctor, you wouldn’t leave a partially concussed man unsupervised overnight, would you?”
Fill: Witness Protection Part 2e
anonymous
December 21 2011, 14:06:42 UTC
John could see the Venus-Flytrap, for what it was.
“It’s very generous of you, Sherlock, but as you so correctly guessed, my company is a bit risky right now. I wouldn’t want to bring the danger to your door-step.”
“Please !” He scoffed. I would like to see whoever it is, try and break into my flat. It is probably the safest place in all of London”, he added darkly, but did not explain further.
John still dithered. Sherlock was admirably tenacious, mind-bogglingly intelligent, yet at the same time, childishly transparent. The problem was that John no longer had faith in his own assessment. Whatever organ it was that enabled men to trust each other, had been cruelly cut out of him…the only positive flip-side was that he no longer had anything to lose…
Also, a very large part of the reason why he wanted to accept was purely selfish. Since he had bumped into Sherlock, he had the strangest feeling of having returned back to his own head, after a long time…like there was finally some sun lighting the wasteland of his psyche and the view was less bleak, from where he stood…
He shook his head distractedly at the image, and then said in his most no-nonsense tone, “I’ll come to your place, on one condition. You’ll not ask me anything about my…ex, or try to figure out stuff about him…at all. I’m serious, Sherlock. I neither need nor want your help in the matter. Is that clear?”
Sherlock, scowled momentarily, the effect enhanced by the disguise, then brightened as he agreed. “Fine!”
John knew he would probably regret his decision as he echoed, “Fine then…”
authoranon here re:comment
anonymous
December 22 2011, 10:23:37 UTC
Thanks for that review! Canon Moriarty was a cerebral nemesis, who physically hurt Holmes only towards the end, when his empire was about to crash down, plus he never threatened Watson to get at Holmes. B.B.C. Moriarty is deliciously mental… id personified… which is great for visual material, but oddly one-dimensional to write about. So, I want my Jim to be a hybrid…which is bloody difficult, which is why I have never written this character before… even when I knew what I want, I still dunno how he’s gonna turn out. I respect John Watson too much (thanks to both Martin and Jude Law, the latter being the only reason why I would watch the second movie!)… The John in my head can take care of himself and would never say yes to a guy who didn’t truly make him happy… so as far as he was concerned, he was in a loving relationship… as to what Jim wanted from the ‘relationship’, the story will tell…I’m glad you liked this interpretation…
Re: Fill: Witness Protection Part 2erusty_armourDecember 23 2011, 04:59:32 UTC
This is wonderful! I've really enjoyed reading what you've written so far! Excellent job answering the prompt! :-)
Although this is an AU, you do a great job of working in elements from canon. I especially like the way you combined two important moments from "A Study in Pink" in one bit of dialogue:
Holmes led the way, running through the maze of alleyways, over another fire-escape and two rooftops, when they finally stopped to catch their breaths.
“That…” John panted, “…had to be…the most ridiculous thing… I’ve ever done!”
“And you invaded Afghanistan!” Sherlock countered with a giggle of his own. At John’s sudden frozen expression, his tone became querulous. “Or, was it Iraq?”
OH! And I loved the way John turned the tables on Sherlock by explaining how he made all those deductions about him. It's brilliant:
John smiled wryly. “I told you myself that I was a Doctor. The dog tags, I fiddled with while playing, told you about the army. My posture and fighting skills showed you that the limp is in my head. The cut and polish of the ring, genuine Cartier, newly released…told you about the time of the engagement. Newly engaged men don’t spend their Saturday nights playing illegal poker alone…plus you saw me crying…so traumatic break-up. The rest was an educated guess…”
Sherlock’s eyes had widened, and his mouth had fallen open in a comical ‘o’. John stifled a giggle at the expression.
“Don’t worry…doesn’t make it any less amazing that you did it…I know, how you saw all the things you did. That doesn’t mean, I can do it.”
Fill: Witness Protection Part 3a
anonymous
December 27 2011, 14:44:38 UTC
The cab stopped in front of a nice one storey building in Central London with a chip shop out front, which was closed at this late hour. John offered to help Sherlock out of the cab, but was waved off. John didn’t say a thing…only waited patiently till Sherlock got out after paying, and tottered one step unsteadily, before John wordlessly grasped his hand and hauled him over one shoulder as before. “I’m fine”, Sherlock snarled. John replied in a deadpan voice. “Sprained ankle from your first-storey dive, which you ignored and used for running. For a genius, you suck at common sense.” Sherlock looked like he wanted to retort back, but all his breath was being used up to keep from visibly wincing at each step. John managed to get the main door open using Sherlock’s key and get Sherlock halfway up the narrow flight of stairs, when unexpectedly there was the sound of a door opening from above and the sound of someone rushing out to the landing… Unfortunately, it had to be the second-last man in London, John had wanted to run into, tonight. The stairs were partly in shadow, so John doubted if his face was visible. As soon as he saw them, he hurried down, hauling Sherlock’s opposite arm onto his own shoulder and lightening John’s burden considerably. “What happened?” His voice was fondly exasperated. “I solved your case for you, as usual.” His voice was laced with pain, yet managed to sound imperious. “And it didn’t occur to you that you might need help.” “THIS…”, he winced painfully, “…had nothing to do with the case. I was perfectly safe.” By this time they had reached the landing and the light spilling from the room beyond was clearly illuminating John’s face. But Lestrade didn’t notice till Sherlock was safely deposited on the sofa, and he turned to John, hand outstretched, in all likelihood to thank him.
Fill: Witness Protection Part 3b
anonymous
December 27 2011, 14:47:09 UTC
When his eyes fell on John, all geniality drained from his face and his lips were drawn into a thin line. Admirably, he didn’t utter a single word, other than to casually turn to Sherlock and ask, “Who’s this?”
Sherlock had missed the previous gesture, as Lestrade’s back had been turned to him. “This is my friend…” both John and Lestrade did a double take at these words. “…Victor Trevor. Victor, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade from the Yard.”
“Friend!” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.
“Acquaintance…”John corrected hurriedly. “We just met.”
“I see”, Lestrade’s face was still pensive.
Sherlock’s voice was cutting. “All you need to see, Lestrade, is the evidence.” He dug into his wallet and pulled out a fifty pound note. “Got it off Jeremiah Wilson in a friendly game of poker. The paper is the same that was stolen last month, but the note is definitely counterfeit. You will find the press in the cellar below Checkers. The cellar dates back to World War I and is not on any plans. I don’t think you should delay the arrests. They have an inkling that I’m close…but are not smart enough to bin the operation on a hunch. They didn’t actually catch me today either. This definitely has nothing to do with HIM, as I previously thought…overall a very shoddy affair…”
“We can discuss the details later”, Lestrade interrupted, eyes still on John. Sherlock noticed.
“John…” Sherlock’s voice was sharp. “If you would like to have some tea, I’m afraid; you would have to help yourself. There’s no milk, so you’ll have to take it black. Kitchen’s that way. You’ll find everything you need in the overhead cupboard with the black door.”
John was too relieved to have an opportunity to escape Lestrade’s accusing stare, to feel offended at being practically ordered to make tea. He fled to the kitchen... where all he could do was stand and stare for the first two minutes. The dining table could have been a reproduction of a mad scientist’s lab. There was a top-notch microscope, beakers, Erlenmeyer flasks filled with various coloured liquids and a retort filled with what suspiciously looked like blood, at the centre of the mess.
Even a five minute conversation with Sherlock had given John a clue that he wasn’t completely normal. The appearance of the kitchen was just another piece falling into place. That John found the man’s obvious insanity and lack of pretence at hiding it soothing, spoke more about John’s mental state than Sherlock’s. He found a visually unblemished kettle and tea leaves, and busied himself with the familiar task.
By the time John made his way out again, Lestrade was gone and Sherlock was attempting to hop his way towards what must be the bathroom.
“Uh, tea”, John offered.
Sherlock frowned. “That was just to get you out of the room. Lestrade seemed to be unduly interested in you.”
“You thought so?” John said, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. Then shot out a hand to push him back down on the sofa. “What do you think you’re doing? Stay put and have your tea. Let me take a look at that ankle. Then I’ll help you to the bathroom. Uh..huh..don’t give me that look. You’re not wasting a perfectly good cup of tea. Army doctor, remember? I’ve seen more stubborn sods than you.”
Sherlock had a very odd expression on his face as he sat back on the sofa, and accepted his cup of tea, without protest.
John knelt in front of the sofa, and gently took the swollen left foot in his hands, passively flexing and extending it, judging the extent of damage. When he was done, he looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him with eyes that seemed too large for his face. That had John self-consciously clearing his throat before saying confidently, “It’s just sprained. If you have a tape, I can bind it up for you later. You should keep your weight off it, for a couple of days and you’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, doctor”, the voice was uncharacteristically gentle.
Fill: Witness Protection Part 3c
anonymous
December 27 2011, 14:49:21 UTC
True to his word, John assisted him to the bath and left him there to clean up. Back alone in the living room, he finally dared to check his phone and found eleven missed calls, all from Lestrade.
Hearing the sound of the shower start, John decided to get it over with. He had had no desire to antagonise Lestrade who had been his only ally at the Yard, who hadn’t immediately slotted him into an ex-accomplice turned now-running-for-his-life category, who had ensured for him the best protection, the Yard could offer, without there being a formal Witness protection program in place.
He remembered how incredulous, Sergeant Donovan’s voice had sounded in the interrogation room. “You expect us to believe that you had no idea that the man you were sleeping with since the last six months was a psychopathic bomber?”
Even John had known how far-fetched his story had sounded, but Lestrade had believed him.
And he had thrown his goodwill and gratitude back in his face…
He limped out into the corridor to be safe-sided, and dialled Lestrade.
“What the fuck are you doing, John? No…most importantly, what are you doing in London with Sherlock bloody Holmes?”
“Detective Inspector…I …”
“You are the Yard’s responsibility, John…my responsibility. I cannot guarantee your safety, if you do this. Maybe, you don’t realise the kind of danger you are in as you have only seen the man’s cute cuddly side. He’s fucking crazy, John. I have already lost four officers to the whims of that madman, not counting civilians. You are the first chance, the only chance we have of getting to him and you bloody don’t care.”
John simply decided to wait it out. Not only did he not have a reasonable explanation for his actions, but also he owed Lestrade atleast that much.
“Please tell me you have left Baker Street. That is the worst place for you to be at, right now. Of all the people…Jesus!...you find Sherlock Holmes to come home with. If this was with the intention of a one-night stand, I can’t even tell you how fucked up that is without revealing something classified. Stay away from him. If you are still there, make any excuse and leave. If you don’t, you might as well be distributing fliers with your name on it. It may already be too late, but leave anyway. Get to the Yard, if you have nowhere else to go…”
John snapped. He was tired…tired of this wraith-like existence, tired of trying to simulate a fear he did not feel. Oh he was damaged alright; full of self-loathing, disgust and betrayal. But fear simply wasn’t a part of the picture. He had taken whatever paltry information he had found to the Yard, not because he feared for his life, but because he recognised that he wasn’t the only victim, or the most wronged by half. The other faceless victims deserved justice too…the proper kind!
He knew he should be bothered about the insinuation, Lestrade was making, but all he had grasped from Lestrade’s tirade was that being around Sherlock was insanely dangerous in more ways than one, and God help him, he craved it…like oxygen for now.
“I’m very sorry, Inspector, but I had to do this”, he offered in the most contrite voice he could muster. He cut the call and shut off the phone. He knew that coming morning, there would be hell to pay. For some unknown reason, he felt it was worth it…
Fill: Witness Protection Part 3d
anonymous
December 27 2011, 14:51:12 UTC
Sherlock stood below the shower, keeping his weight off the injured foot, and let his forehead touch the cool tile, as hot water ran down his back. Transport…It’s just transport, he reminded himself as his heart thudded painfully against his ribs, as if it could somehow escape.
This was not happening. He was a sociopath…he didn’t do feelings emotions, people…period! It was a bitter lesson that he had learned early on during his Uni years. People had never been able to just ignore him. But his complete lack of empathy had only inspired emotions like fear, distrust and hatred; at the very best, a grudging respect from someone like Lestrade. He had built up firewalls so that his intellect was free for access, while everything else was deemed unnecessary, and buried deep within his hard drive. He felt the safest within his virtual bubble, where people like Lestrade’s team didn’t matter; their words becoming white noise before they could reach him. If this meant that he could never be truly happy, it had also meant that he could not be hurt.
That had been enough…until now…
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, willing his heart to slow down. It ignored him…in favour of the first person ever who had genuinely cared with no ulterior motives; displaying the kind of altruism Sherlock had always scoffed at. Or maybe it had been the hands, the hands that had brought down an armed man, a soldier’s hands with a doctor’s touch. He hadn’t expected them to be so infinitely gentle. He had called Sherlock brilliant, with no sarcasm, with no expectation of favour, but as a simple statement of fact. The man looked broken, yet undefeated, and at the same time constantly tense, on edge like a grenade with the pin removed…dangerous…
Sherlock shuddered against the now-cold water. He hated Victor Trevor, hated him for reminding Sherlock, how painfully human he was!
Fill: Witness Protection Part 3e
anonymous
December 27 2011, 14:53:26 UTC
Sebastian Moran was not pleased. He was fucking good at his job. This wasn’t optional as the last man who had been in his place, and made a mistake had been roasted alive in an electric crematorium (drowning someone in the Thames was too pedestrian for the Boss).
He wasn’t complaining…he loved the job. But on days like this, he wished he was bloody clairvoyant, just so that he could prepare for Jim’s reaction.
He paused before the Control Room. There had been strict instructions left that HE was not to be disturbed for the next two hours…some big overseas client with a request to hack into NORAD. It was Christmas as far as Jim was concerned. But Moran knew he was making the right call, as he opened the door and stepped in. If not, well… burning to a crisp within seconds was better than drowning, at any rate.
Three oversized screens dominated the room, which was freezing cold, for the sake of the Cray that stood off to one side. Moran shivered, as Jim’s reptilian gaze settled on him, unblinking. He offered no explanations, just walked upto the desk, and flung down the photographs face up. The pictures had time-stamps. He didn’t have to say a word.
Jim examined each of the five prints, gentle fingers running over the face of the other man. Moran didn’t even know his name, except that he was some freakish pet project that had lasted six long months.
Others in the organisation hadn’t even know that much. He had known better than to comment on Jim’s frequent disappearances, their reduced workload, or the sudden appearance of what looked like a RING on his Boss’s finger. Jim’s obsession with Sherlock Holmes and their cat and mouse games, he understood very well…but the unknown stranger was…unsettling to say the least.
Just as he was about to heave a sigh of relief, Jim began to laugh. Moran winced. The last time he had laughed like this was while playing that insane game with Holmes, and in the end, had almost gotten himself blown up in a pool.
Jim stopped, blinking tears out of his eyes… “Much better outcome than I anticipated… do nothing…only regular updates.” He smiled again, and this time the shiver that ran down Moran’s spine had nothing to do with the cold. “The pieces are in place. The game will be much more fun, this time around…”
“And my name is Victor… that’s the only thing, you didn’t get right.”
He really was a hopeless liar…
The man was now studying Sherlock’s avid expression with a frown on his face. “Uh…I think it will be better if I get off at the nearest intersection. You’re fine now, and I should be on my way…”
“Nonsense!” Sherlock interjected. “It’s too late to take the tube back to Sussex. You don’t have any money for a motel. You can kip over at my place for the night. I have a spare bedroom. It’s the least I can do for getting you into trouble…well more trouble…”
He had tried to make his voice as ingratiating as possible, but Victor still looked undecided.
“Come now, Doctor, you wouldn’t leave a partially concussed man unsupervised overnight, would you?”
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“It’s very generous of you, Sherlock, but as you so correctly guessed, my company is a bit risky right now. I wouldn’t want to bring the danger to your door-step.”
“Please !” He scoffed. I would like to see whoever it is, try and break into my flat. It is probably the safest place in all of London”, he added darkly, but did not explain further.
John still dithered. Sherlock was admirably tenacious, mind-bogglingly intelligent, yet at the same time, childishly transparent. The problem was that John no longer had faith in his own assessment. Whatever organ it was that enabled men to trust each other, had been cruelly cut out of him…the only positive flip-side was that he no longer had anything to lose…
Also, a very large part of the reason why he wanted to accept was purely selfish. Since he had bumped into Sherlock, he had the strangest feeling of having returned back to his own head, after a long time…like there was finally some sun lighting the wasteland of his psyche and the view was less bleak, from where he stood…
He shook his head distractedly at the image, and then said in his most no-nonsense tone, “I’ll come to your place, on one condition. You’ll not ask me anything about my…ex, or try to figure out stuff about him…at all. I’m serious, Sherlock. I neither need nor want your help in the matter. Is that clear?”
Sherlock, scowled momentarily, the effect enhanced by the disguise, then brightened as he agreed. “Fine!”
John knew he would probably regret his decision as he echoed, “Fine then…”
The cab sped towards Baker Street…
(part 2 complete…)
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(The comment has been removed)
I respect John Watson too much (thanks to both Martin and Jude Law, the latter being the only reason why I would watch the second movie!)… The John in my head can take care of himself and would never say yes to a guy who didn’t truly make him happy… so as far as he was concerned, he was in a loving relationship… as to what Jim wanted from the ‘relationship’, the story will tell…I’m glad you liked this interpretation…
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Although this is an AU, you do a great job of working in elements from canon. I especially like the way you combined two important moments from "A Study in Pink" in one bit of dialogue:
Holmes led the way, running through the maze of alleyways, over another fire-escape and two rooftops, when they finally stopped to catch their breaths.
“That…” John panted, “…had to be…the most ridiculous thing… I’ve ever done!”
“And you invaded Afghanistan!” Sherlock countered with a giggle of his own. At John’s sudden frozen expression, his tone became querulous. “Or, was it Iraq?”
OH! And I loved the way John turned the tables on Sherlock by explaining how he made all those deductions about him. It's brilliant:
John smiled wryly. “I told you myself that I was a Doctor. The dog tags, I fiddled with while playing, told you about the army. My posture and fighting skills showed you that the limp is in my head. The cut and polish of the ring, genuine Cartier, newly released…told you about the time of the engagement. Newly engaged men don’t spend their Saturday nights playing illegal poker alone…plus you saw me crying…so traumatic break-up. The rest was an educated guess…”
Sherlock’s eyes had widened, and his mouth had fallen open in a comical ‘o’. John stifled a giggle at the expression.
“Don’t worry…doesn’t make it any less amazing that you did it…I know, how you saw all the things you did. That doesn’t mean, I can do it.”
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http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12826.html?thread=75761946#t75761946
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“I’m fine”, Sherlock snarled.
John replied in a deadpan voice. “Sprained ankle from your first-storey dive, which you ignored and used for running. For a genius, you suck at common sense.” Sherlock looked like he wanted to retort back, but all his breath was being used up to keep from visibly wincing at each step.
John managed to get the main door open using Sherlock’s key and get Sherlock halfway up the narrow flight of stairs, when unexpectedly there was the sound of a door opening from above and the sound of someone rushing out to the landing…
Unfortunately, it had to be the second-last man in London, John had wanted to run into, tonight. The stairs were partly in shadow, so John doubted if his face was visible. As soon as he saw them, he hurried down, hauling Sherlock’s opposite arm onto his own shoulder and lightening John’s burden considerably.
“What happened?” His voice was fondly exasperated.
“I solved your case for you, as usual.” His voice was laced with pain, yet managed to sound imperious.
“And it didn’t occur to you that you might need help.”
“THIS…”, he winced painfully, “…had nothing to do with the case. I was perfectly safe.” By this time they had reached the landing and the light spilling from the room beyond was clearly illuminating John’s face. But Lestrade didn’t notice till Sherlock was safely deposited on the sofa, and he turned to John, hand outstretched, in all likelihood to thank him.
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Sherlock had missed the previous gesture, as Lestrade’s back had been turned to him. “This is my friend…” both John and Lestrade did a double take at these words. “…Victor Trevor. Victor, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade from the Yard.”
“Friend!” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.
“Acquaintance…”John corrected hurriedly. “We just met.”
“I see”, Lestrade’s face was still pensive.
Sherlock’s voice was cutting. “All you need to see, Lestrade, is the evidence.” He dug into his wallet and pulled out a fifty pound note. “Got it off Jeremiah Wilson in a friendly game of poker. The paper is the same that was stolen last month, but the note is definitely counterfeit. You will find the press in the cellar below Checkers. The cellar dates back to World War I and is not on any plans. I don’t think you should delay the arrests. They have an inkling that I’m close…but are not smart enough to bin the operation on a hunch. They didn’t actually catch me today either. This definitely has nothing to do with HIM, as I previously thought…overall a very shoddy affair…”
“We can discuss the details later”, Lestrade interrupted, eyes still on John. Sherlock noticed.
“John…” Sherlock’s voice was sharp. “If you would like to have some tea, I’m afraid; you would have to help yourself. There’s no milk, so you’ll have to take it black. Kitchen’s that way. You’ll find everything you need in the overhead cupboard with the black door.”
John was too relieved to have an opportunity to escape Lestrade’s accusing stare, to feel offended at being practically ordered to make tea. He fled to the kitchen... where all he could do was stand and stare for the first two minutes. The dining table could have been a reproduction of a mad scientist’s lab. There was a top-notch microscope, beakers, Erlenmeyer flasks filled with various coloured liquids and a retort filled with what suspiciously looked like blood, at the centre of the mess.
Even a five minute conversation with Sherlock had given John a clue that he wasn’t completely normal. The appearance of the kitchen was just another piece falling into place. That John found the man’s obvious insanity and lack of pretence at hiding it soothing, spoke more about John’s mental state than Sherlock’s. He found a visually unblemished kettle and tea leaves, and busied himself with the familiar task.
By the time John made his way out again, Lestrade was gone and Sherlock was attempting to hop his way towards what must be the bathroom.
“Uh, tea”, John offered.
Sherlock frowned. “That was just to get you out of the room. Lestrade seemed to be unduly interested in you.”
“You thought so?” John said, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. Then shot out a hand to push him back down on the sofa. “What do you think you’re doing? Stay put and have your tea. Let me take a look at that ankle. Then I’ll help you to the bathroom. Uh..huh..don’t give me that look. You’re not wasting a perfectly good cup of tea. Army doctor, remember? I’ve seen more stubborn sods than you.”
Sherlock had a very odd expression on his face as he sat back on the sofa, and accepted his cup of tea, without protest.
John knelt in front of the sofa, and gently took the swollen left foot in his hands, passively flexing and extending it, judging the extent of damage. When he was done, he looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him with eyes that seemed too large for his face. That had John self-consciously clearing his throat before saying confidently, “It’s just sprained. If you have a tape, I can bind it up for you later. You should keep your weight off it, for a couple of days and you’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, doctor”, the voice was uncharacteristically gentle.
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Hearing the sound of the shower start, John decided to get it over with. He had had no desire to antagonise Lestrade who had been his only ally at the Yard, who hadn’t immediately slotted him into an ex-accomplice turned now-running-for-his-life category, who had ensured for him the best protection, the Yard could offer, without there being a formal Witness protection program in place.
He remembered how incredulous, Sergeant Donovan’s voice had sounded in the interrogation room. “You expect us to believe that you had no idea that the man you were sleeping with since the last six months was a psychopathic bomber?”
Even John had known how far-fetched his story had sounded, but Lestrade had believed him.
And he had thrown his goodwill and gratitude back in his face…
He limped out into the corridor to be safe-sided, and dialled Lestrade.
“What the fuck are you doing, John? No…most importantly, what are you doing in London with Sherlock bloody Holmes?”
“Detective Inspector…I …”
“You are the Yard’s responsibility, John…my responsibility. I cannot guarantee your safety, if you do this. Maybe, you don’t realise the kind of danger you are in as you have only seen the man’s cute cuddly side. He’s fucking crazy, John. I have already lost four officers to the whims of that madman, not counting civilians. You are the first chance, the only chance we have of getting to him and you bloody don’t care.”
John simply decided to wait it out. Not only did he not have a reasonable explanation for his actions, but also he owed Lestrade atleast that much.
“Please tell me you have left Baker Street. That is the worst place for you to be at, right now. Of all the people…Jesus!...you find Sherlock Holmes to come home with. If this was with the intention of a one-night stand, I can’t even tell you how fucked up that is without revealing something classified. Stay away from him. If you are still there, make any excuse and leave. If you don’t, you might as well be distributing fliers with your name on it. It may already be too late, but leave anyway. Get to the Yard, if you have nowhere else to go…”
John snapped. He was tired…tired of this wraith-like existence, tired of trying to simulate a fear he did not feel. Oh he was damaged alright; full of self-loathing, disgust and betrayal. But fear simply wasn’t a part of the picture. He had taken whatever paltry information he had found to the Yard, not because he feared for his life, but because he recognised that he wasn’t the only victim, or the most wronged by half. The other faceless victims deserved justice too…the proper kind!
He knew he should be bothered about the insinuation, Lestrade was making, but all he had grasped from Lestrade’s tirade was that being around Sherlock was insanely dangerous in more ways than one, and God help him, he craved it…like oxygen for now.
“I’m very sorry, Inspector, but I had to do this”, he offered in the most contrite voice he could muster. He cut the call and shut off the phone. He knew that coming morning, there would be hell to pay. For some unknown reason, he felt it was worth it…
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This was not happening. He was a sociopath…he didn’t do feelings emotions, people…period! It was a bitter lesson that he had learned early on during his Uni years. People had never been able to just ignore him. But his complete lack of empathy had only inspired emotions like fear, distrust and hatred; at the very best, a grudging respect from someone like Lestrade. He had built up firewalls so that his intellect was free for access, while everything else was deemed unnecessary, and buried deep within his hard drive. He felt the safest within his virtual bubble, where people like Lestrade’s team didn’t matter; their words becoming white noise before they could reach him. If this meant that he could never be truly happy, it had also meant that he could not be hurt.
That had been enough…until now…
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, willing his heart to slow down. It ignored him…in favour of the first person ever who had genuinely cared with no ulterior motives; displaying the kind of altruism Sherlock had always scoffed at. Or maybe it had been the hands, the hands that had brought down an armed man, a soldier’s hands with a doctor’s touch. He hadn’t expected them to be so infinitely gentle. He had called Sherlock brilliant, with no sarcasm, with no expectation of favour, but as a simple statement of fact. The man looked broken, yet undefeated, and at the same time constantly tense, on edge like a grenade with the pin removed…dangerous…
Sherlock shuddered against the now-cold water. He hated Victor Trevor, hated him for reminding Sherlock, how painfully human he was!
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He wasn’t complaining…he loved the job. But on days like this, he wished he was bloody clairvoyant, just so that he could prepare for Jim’s reaction.
He paused before the Control Room. There had been strict instructions left that HE was not to be disturbed for the next two hours…some big overseas client with a request to hack into NORAD. It was Christmas as far as Jim was concerned. But Moran knew he was making the right call, as he opened the door and stepped in. If not, well… burning to a crisp within seconds was better than drowning, at any rate.
Three oversized screens dominated the room, which was freezing cold, for the sake of the Cray that stood off to one side. Moran shivered, as Jim’s reptilian gaze settled on him, unblinking. He offered no explanations, just walked upto the desk, and flung down the photographs face up. The pictures had time-stamps. He didn’t have to say a word.
Jim examined each of the five prints, gentle fingers running over the face of the other man. Moran didn’t even know his name, except that he was some freakish pet project that had lasted six long months.
Others in the organisation hadn’t even know that much. He had known better than to comment on Jim’s frequent disappearances, their reduced workload, or the sudden appearance of what looked like a RING on his Boss’s finger. Jim’s obsession with Sherlock Holmes and their cat and mouse games, he understood very well…but the unknown stranger was…unsettling to say the least.
Just as he was about to heave a sigh of relief, Jim began to laugh. Moran winced. The last time he had laughed like this was while playing that insane game with Holmes, and in the end, had almost gotten himself blown up in a pool.
Jim stopped, blinking tears out of his eyes… “Much better outcome than I anticipated… do nothing…only regular updates.” He smiled again, and this time the shiver that ran down Moran’s spine had nothing to do with the cold. “The pieces are in place. The game will be much more fun, this time around…”
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