WHAA GUYS why are you all so awesome? I would reply to all your great responses but...it feels weird to be like "author!anon here, what's the haps?" But thank you all for reading, you're all brilliant. And yes, nothing is holy to Mycroft, just imagine: all your French Vanillas, your Double-Doubles, your Hot Chocolates and plain Coffee's two creams, one sugar - all of them belong to Mycroft Holmes. And he will mess you up. And you, well you won't get a chance to Play Again. I also just realised this story has no name. Thoughts? Double-Double-tap? Of Sociopaths and Social Networks? Who knows?!
John limped to his laptop and reached a hand out to shut the lid, the screen dark. “I wouldn’t do that just yet, Dr. Watson.” John dropped his arm, and fought the urge to step back. He peered into the screen, seeing only his own weather beaten face reflected back. “You could have just sent me an email. On my computer. That you’ve stolen.” A tsking sound emanated from the speakers and the black screen lit up. The image of a man stood in silhouette, far enough away that John knew it was staged. “You have no sense of mystery, do you Dr. Watson -well I know the answer to that already, no need to speak. Let us cut to the chase. What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”
John thought back to the ever present ringing in his pocket, the emails and the back and forth blogging. He had no illusions that whoever had set up the elaborate abduction had already looked through the emails. Whoever this man was, he knew more than he was letting on. John felt impressed, against his better judgment.
“I barely know the guy. Am I in trouble, can I leave? I’m leaving, sorry.” The screen flashed and the man emerged from the shadows, the sharp lines of his pressed suit contrasting with his round face. “I have a proposition for you, Dr. Watson. One that I think will be mutually beneficial.” The man leaned in to the video, his face taking up the frame. “I would like you to keep my abreast of your correspondence with Sherlock Holmes. Emails,texts, what you talk about, his cases,who he's meeting, that sort of information. In return I am more than willing to offer financial compensation.” John brought his shoulders up, snapping to attention. Scar tissue from in his shoulder protested the stretching and his arm went numb. Hiding his grimace, he shook his head. “That’s generous, but no thank you.” “I’m sure we can negotiate.” “I’m sure we can’t.”
The man’s voice lost the oily quality, and became something harder. “ Browning once said: Our Interest’s on the dangerous edge of things, the Honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.” John frowned, “What’s that supposed to mean?” The man tsked again. “That’s right, military doctor. Not very well read. Still, I don’t wonder why he likes you. You’re loyal. It’ll be your undoing.” John approached the laptop, thinking Right, I’ve had enough of this bullshit.
“Sherlock is a dangerous man, Doctor Watson, and you would err if you forgot.” “I appreciate your concern. I’m late for work now, so…” John brought the lid of the laptop down, the conversation ending in one decisive click.
In the car, John turned to the woman. “Would you tell your boss not to mess with my coffee again? It’s unsettling.” The woman smiled, and John had the sinking feeling that the answer was ‘no’. John reached for his phone, his companion’s silence unsettling.
3 New Texts
From: Sherlock Take the Money
From: Sherlock Airfare is expensive
From: Sherlock What’s the rate of decomposition of a human hand? Never mind, you’ll take too long.
Sherlock was not worried. So he would lose an email contact. He would stop having to take pictures of crime scenes - and the praise he was growing used to, well that would stop too. He had done without kind words before. And perhaps John would see that life was so dull without Sherlock that he would start to text him again and all would be as it had been. Or he would take the money, as Sherlock had advised and he would have double the reasons to keep in contact. No, Sherlock was not worried in the slightest. Which did not explain why his palms were sweating, or that he could not still his pacing feet. It could not explain the fact that the last two experiments in which he analysed the type of soil found in Leeds he managed to contaminate, or the fact that as he waited the hydrochloric acid began to eat through his living room table. Sherlock was not worried.
John limped in to work, his shoulder aching and his nerves stretched taught. Sarah took one look and sent John home. “We can’t have you getting the patients sick,” she teased, as she tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow. “I’ll call a cab.”
There was a slight chance that Sherlock was worried. Perhaps angry was the better description. Surely Mycroft had not frightened John too much - John was military. He was also an idiot - the kind of idiocy that led a rabbit to curl up next to a fox. No, John would be rattled, but not terrified. Which meant that he was being ignored, and that did not sit well with Sherlock.
1 New Text From: Harry game’s on 2nite. leafs vs canadiens. come over for drinks.
delete
1 New Text From: Harry dont ignore me. I expect u 2 come.
John hesitated. Bless Harry, she meant well but he knew that if he went there would be another fight and then go months without talking. He could not change her, but he wanted to and when the conversation circled back to her drinking, to Clara, to the fact that a 'functioning alcoholic' was still an 'alcoholic', well that would be the end of that. No, John was not ready just yet. Distance was one of the only means of preserving their relationship.
To: Harry Sorry, busy. Got plans with a friend tonight. Maybe during play-offs?
1 New Text From: Harry w/ that shirlok guy? dont cyber 2 much what would mom say?
delete
Fine, if Sherlock had to admit, he was worried. Perhaps Mycroft had seen John as a distraction or an enemy. A bad influence - which honestly, John a bad influence, ha. No, Mycroft was too intelligent. He encouraged Sherlock’s social persona, the one that existed only when cameras were rolling. Sherlock’s foray into internet friendship would have been considered a positive step. Perhaps John was being debriefed, which was better for John. Honesty was important in relationships - especially long distance ones. The acid had finished it’s meal of the table and was starting on the floor. Perhaps John really had wizened up and lost his number. Sherlock moaned. He had no data. There were a million pathways that could be traversed, thousands of instances that did not quite exists and he had no idea which John had taken. There was no way to predict the outcome because he had no idea of the present circumstances. Simply put he was going-
3 New Text From: John Who the hell was that guy?
From: John Either way, I’ll look up the information. I know some people in Calgary, I’ll give them a call.
Uh...so...sorry there's going to some plot all up in this. _____________________________________________________________________________
A sixth victim of the Canadian Killer has been found strangled outside The Globe Theater this morning. An anonymous tip was sent to Scotland Yard at three o’ clock leading police to the body. The victim is 42 year old Mark McMahon. He was visiting family in Manchester and was staying in London for the night. His family reported him missing two days ago. Police ask that those with any information regarding this investigation come forward. “Our thoughts go out to Mark McMahon’s family here, and in Canada as well as to family of the other victims. We have our finest working on this, and we ask for the public’s co-operation at this time.”
From: John Called around - nothing promising. They didn’t know each other. Not close in age, social situation. London is the only link
From: Sherlock NO From: Sherlock There’s something that all the victims share, what is it?
From: John They all came as tourists to London
From: Sherlock Exactly
From: John What about the bullets? They say they were shot six times but the bullets are missing
From: Sherlock Oh, that. He digs them out. Quite a labour intensive process. He’s either doing it for trophies.
From: John He digs them out? How’s that possible? He’d need to have complete privacy in order for that to work.
He finishes his shift early. People look at him and then through him, his uniform straight. His smile comes easy. His hair is sorted, every inch of him unremarkable. He takes the marble steps three at a time, and looks. His eyes linger on a trio of young girls laughing, speaking in carrying tones of how hungry they are, how tired. Too many at one time, maybe not quite right. A group of school boys pose, fake Burberry and incomprehensible English, no good. He walks past the fountain, pushing past harried office workers rushing to catch the next bus. He walks across to a different building, and sits on the steps. He pulls out his phone and pretends to take pictures of the pillars, the flags. A girl sits five steps down and to the right. Her hair is coloured a strange shade of red and she is talking loudly on her phone. “It’s Home away from home. Here I’ll take a picture and then call you back after I’ve sent it.” There’s a click and some the chatter of buttons before the girl redials. “There, did you get it? I know! It’s great here - yeah, tell Dan I miss him too. I love you. Yeah, ok. Bye.” Perfect.
A!anon here - Uhm yes. I did say it'd be awkward if I commented but - thank you! Also preps for the Sherlock reference in a Sherlock fanfic. You get meta points!
Oh Blast it all - posting fail! Here enjoy a proper title. _____________________________________________________________________________ John’s flat is clean. When he came back, nothing sat right. Living in Alberta felt like giving in to his past. He knew too many people in British Columbia. He couldn’t be bothered to learn French properly and he did not think cereal-box ingredients counted towards bilingual status. Saskatchewan and Manitoba reminded him too much of where he trained as a teenager, which left Ontario. Not the boroughs. He’d be too alone. No one to hold him accountable, or notice if he just side-stepped out of people’s lives. He needed the bustle of the city, which left inner-city Toronto. Military training dictated the fold of the bed, the crease of his trousers. Habit necessitated the morning workout regime, and the five minute shower. Most people have bookshelves, trinkets. Most people, John knows, are reflected by their walls, what they surround themselves with. John does not want to see himself reflected, afraid of what he might glimpse. To be more precise, John’s flat is empty.
As a result, any time spent in the flat is used thus: eating, sleeping, blogging. He reads the paper at Tim Hortons, spends his Sundays sitting in Queen’s Park, or if the weather turns too cold, at Sarah’s. Amongst her fake flowers and dated medical text books they sit on the chesterfield and watch Corner Gas, Kids in the Hall, or some brainless American programming. Their romantic relationship stalled forever in the just-friends phase, to which John protests to Sherlock over text. Not that Sherlock could be bothered to care. John has a sneaking suspicion that during those texts, Sherlock has an automatic reply typed out. When the silence becomes demanding, John calls Sherlock. Most of the time, Sherlock answers. Although John's rang through to his voice mail a number of times only be called back. He doesn't know why he keeps leaving messages, but he does. A small part of him likes knowing that he's managed to become a part of another person's life. Or rather, Sherlock became a part of his life, and John had to adapt. If someone had told him that he's be fielding calls at 3:00 AM on a constant basis, and love each call, he would have laughed them off. Or shot them. For all his complaints, the anger, the strange that Sherlock has brought in to his life, John is somewhat happy. His happiness can't prepare him giddy feeling he gets, followed by horror when he receives two new messages.
From: Sherlock John, I need you
From: Sherlock He’s taken another
“What is this Sherlock?” Lestrade brandishes a slip of paper. “Why has a one way flight been submitted as an investigation expense? £2500? That’s first class,” his voice is rising. Sherlock lifts his head from the morgue table where the late Mark McMahon resides. “Your investigative skills continue to amaze me, Detective Inspector,” he drawls, his gaze sliding back to the corpse. “I need my Doctor here in order to help me find this killer.” “This Doct- your Canadian boyfriend? You’re charging Scotland Yard to fly your boyfriend to London?” “Do you always ask questions you know the answer to?”
You took a cracky Avenue Q inspired prompt and turned it into case!fic! I love you anon. Marry me and live in Canada? Or you could come here, and marry me for a green card. New York is lovely, and we have far less cold.
From: Sherlock Open your email - you’ve got five hours
From: John You bought me a plane ticket? Sherlock I can’t afford that
From: Sherlock The girl was abducted last night - she’s got a total of two days left before he kills her like the others. Do you want to help or not?
From: John Christ, Sherlock. You better be at the airport.
Turns out handguns are against TSA regulations.
Lestrade settles behind his desk, the blinds closed and the door shut. A cup of hot coffee is cupped in his hand and for the first time in a week he contemplates resting. The door rattles and his hopes are dashed. “The Freak is bringing someone else in on the case,” Donovan starts without preamble. Andersen is close behind, and half of his department. Lestrade sighs and takes a sip of his coffee, buying time. “It’s that John fellow.” “What, the Canadian?” Andersen asks. Cooper calls out, “do we have to feed his snow dogs?” To which Moore replies, “do we have to feed him? I don’t think we have enough maple syrup.” Donovan turns around and shoots them all a glare. “I think you lot are all missing the most important aspect of this conversation.” Lestrade is almost grateful until Donovan finishes, “Where are we going to build the igloo?”
___________________________________________________________________________
John limped to his laptop and reached a hand out to shut the lid, the screen dark.
“I wouldn’t do that just yet, Dr. Watson.” John dropped his arm, and fought the urge to step back.
He peered into the screen, seeing only his own weather beaten face reflected back.
“You could have just sent me an email. On my computer. That you’ve stolen.”
A tsking sound emanated from the speakers and the black screen lit up. The image of a man stood in silhouette, far enough away that John knew it was staged.
“You have no sense of mystery, do you Dr. Watson -well I know the answer to that already, no need to speak. Let us cut to the chase. What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”
John thought back to the ever present ringing in his pocket, the emails and the back and forth blogging. He had no illusions that whoever had set up the elaborate abduction had already looked through the emails. Whoever this man was, he knew more than he was letting on. John felt impressed, against his better judgment.
“I barely know the guy. Am I in trouble, can I leave? I’m leaving, sorry.”
The screen flashed and the man emerged from the shadows, the sharp lines of his pressed suit contrasting with his round face.
“I have a proposition for you, Dr. Watson. One that I think will be mutually beneficial.” The man leaned in to the video, his face taking up the frame.
“I would like you to keep my abreast of your correspondence with Sherlock Holmes. Emails,texts, what you talk about, his cases,who he's meeting, that sort of information. In return I am more than willing to offer financial compensation.”
John brought his shoulders up, snapping to attention. Scar tissue from in his shoulder protested the stretching and his arm went numb. Hiding his grimace, he shook his head.
“That’s generous, but no thank you.”
“I’m sure we can negotiate.”
“I’m sure we can’t.”
The man’s voice lost the oily quality, and became something harder.
“ Browning once said: Our Interest’s on the dangerous edge of things, the Honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.”
John frowned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The man tsked again. “That’s right, military doctor. Not very well read. Still, I don’t wonder why he likes you. You’re loyal. It’ll be your undoing.”
John approached the laptop, thinking Right, I’ve had enough of this bullshit.
“Sherlock is a dangerous man, Doctor Watson, and you would err if you forgot.”
“I appreciate your concern. I’m late for work now, so…” John brought the lid of the laptop down, the conversation ending in one decisive click.
In the car, John turned to the woman. “Would you tell your boss not to mess with my coffee again? It’s unsettling.”
The woman smiled, and John had the sinking feeling that the answer was ‘no’.
John reached for his phone, his companion’s silence unsettling.
3 New Texts
From: Sherlock
Take the Money
From: Sherlock
Airfare is expensive
From: Sherlock
What’s the rate of decomposition of a human hand? Never mind, you’ll take too long.
Reply
Take the Money
From: Sherlock
Airfare is expensive
More flirting! There you have it - marriage proposal, Sherlock-style :DDD
Reply
Reply
Reply
Sherlock was not worried.
John limped in to work, his shoulder aching and his nerves stretched taught. Sarah took one look and sent John home.
“We can’t have you getting the patients sick,” she teased, as she tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow. “I’ll call a cab.”
There was a slight chance that Sherlock was worried. Perhaps angry was the better description. Surely Mycroft had not frightened John too much - John was military. He was also an idiot - the kind of idiocy that led a rabbit to curl up next to a fox. No, John would be rattled, but not terrified. Which meant that he was being ignored, and that did not sit well with Sherlock.
1 New Text
From: Harry
game’s on 2nite. leafs vs canadiens. come over for drinks.
delete
1 New Text
From: Harry
dont ignore me. I expect u 2 come.
John hesitated. Bless Harry, she meant well but he knew that if he went there would be another fight and then go months without talking. He could not change her, but he wanted to and when the conversation circled back to her drinking, to Clara, to the fact that a 'functioning alcoholic' was still an 'alcoholic', well that would be the end of that. No, John was not ready just yet. Distance was one of the only means of preserving their relationship.
To: Harry
Sorry, busy. Got plans with a friend tonight. Maybe during play-offs?
1 New Text
From: Harry
w/ that shirlok guy? dont cyber 2 much what would mom say?
delete
Fine, if Sherlock had to admit, he was worried. Perhaps Mycroft had seen John as a distraction or an enemy. A bad influence - which honestly, John a bad influence, ha.
No, Mycroft was too intelligent. He encouraged Sherlock’s social persona, the one that existed only when cameras were rolling. Sherlock’s foray into internet friendship would have been considered a positive step. Perhaps John was being debriefed, which was better for John. Honesty was important in relationships - especially long distance ones.
The acid had finished it’s meal of the table and was starting on the floor. Perhaps John really had wizened up and lost his number.
Sherlock moaned.
He had no data. There were a million pathways that could be traversed, thousands of instances that did not quite exists and he had no idea which John had taken. There was no way to predict the outcome because he had no idea of the present circumstances. Simply put he was going-
3 New Text
From: John
Who the hell was that guy?
From: John
Either way, I’ll look up the information. I know some people in Calgary, I’ll give them a call.
From: John
Seriously though, what the hell?!
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I'm laughing and awwwwing at the same time almost histerically... ^^'
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_____________________________________________________________________________
A sixth victim of the Canadian Killer has been found strangled outside The Globe Theater this morning. An anonymous tip was sent to Scotland Yard at three o’ clock leading police to the body. The victim is 42 year old Mark McMahon. He was visiting family in Manchester and was staying in London for the night. His family reported him missing two days ago. Police ask that those with any information regarding this investigation come forward.
“Our thoughts go out to Mark McMahon’s family here, and in Canada as well as to family of the other victims. We have our finest working on this, and we ask for the public’s co-operation at this time.”
From: John
Called around - nothing promising. They didn’t know each other. Not close in age, social situation. London is the only link
From: Sherlock
NO
From: Sherlock
There’s something that all the victims share, what is it?
From: John
They all came as tourists to London
From: Sherlock
Exactly
From: John
What about the bullets? They say they were shot six times but the bullets are missing
From: Sherlock
Oh, that. He digs them out. Quite a labour intensive process. He’s either doing it for trophies.
From: John
He digs them out? How’s that possible? He’d need to have complete privacy in order for that to work.
He finishes his shift early. People look at him and then through him, his uniform straight. His smile comes easy. His hair is sorted, every inch of him unremarkable. He takes the marble steps three at a time, and looks. His eyes linger on a trio of young girls laughing, speaking in carrying tones of how hungry they are, how tired. Too many at one time, maybe not quite right. A group of school boys pose, fake Burberry and incomprehensible English, no good. He walks past the fountain, pushing past harried office workers rushing to catch the next bus. He walks across to a different building, and sits on the steps. He pulls out his phone and pretends to take pictures of the pillars, the flags. A girl sits five steps down and to the right. Her hair is coloured a strange shade of red and she is talking loudly on her phone.
“It’s Home away from home. Here I’ll take a picture and then call you back after I’ve sent it.” There’s a click and some the chatter of buttons before the girl redials.
“There, did you get it? I know! It’s great here - yeah, tell Dan I miss him too. I love you. Yeah, ok. Bye.”
Perfect.
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(The comment has been removed)
Also preps for the Sherlock reference in a Sherlock fanfic. You get meta points!
Reply
_____________________________________________________________________________
John’s flat is clean.
When he came back, nothing sat right. Living in Alberta felt like giving in to his past. He knew too many people in British Columbia. He couldn’t be bothered to learn French properly and he did not think cereal-box ingredients counted towards bilingual status. Saskatchewan and Manitoba reminded him too much of where he trained as a teenager, which left Ontario. Not the boroughs. He’d be too alone. No one to hold him accountable, or notice if he just side-stepped out of people’s lives. He needed the bustle of the city, which left inner-city Toronto. Military training dictated the fold of the bed, the crease of his trousers. Habit necessitated the morning workout regime, and the five minute shower.
Most people have bookshelves, trinkets.
Most people, John knows, are reflected by their walls, what they surround themselves with. John does not want to see himself reflected, afraid of what he might glimpse.
To be more precise, John’s flat is empty.
As a result, any time spent in the flat is used thus: eating, sleeping, blogging. He reads the paper at Tim Hortons, spends his Sundays sitting in Queen’s Park, or if the weather turns too cold, at Sarah’s. Amongst her fake flowers and dated medical text books they sit on the chesterfield and watch Corner Gas, Kids in the Hall, or some brainless American programming. Their romantic relationship stalled forever in the just-friends phase, to which John protests to Sherlock over text. Not that Sherlock could be bothered to care. John has a sneaking suspicion that during those texts, Sherlock has an automatic reply typed out. When the silence becomes demanding, John calls Sherlock. Most of the time, Sherlock answers. Although John's rang through to his voice mail a number of times only be called back. He doesn't know why he keeps leaving messages, but he does. A small part of him likes knowing that he's managed to become a part of another person's life. Or rather, Sherlock became a part of his life, and John had to adapt.
If someone had told him that he's be fielding calls at 3:00 AM on a constant basis, and love each call, he would have laughed them off. Or shot them.
For all his complaints, the anger, the strange that Sherlock has brought in to his life, John is somewhat happy.
His happiness can't prepare him giddy feeling he gets, followed by horror when he receives two new messages.
From: Sherlock
John, I need you
From: Sherlock
He’s taken another
“What is this Sherlock?” Lestrade brandishes a slip of paper. “Why has a one way flight been submitted as an investigation expense? £2500? That’s first class,” his voice is rising.
Sherlock lifts his head from the morgue table where the late Mark McMahon resides.
“Your investigative skills continue to amaze me, Detective Inspector,” he drawls, his gaze sliding back to the corpse.
“I need my Doctor here in order to help me find this killer.”
“This Doct- your Canadian boyfriend? You’re charging Scotland Yard to fly your boyfriend to London?”
“Do you always ask questions you know the answer to?”
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Ahah I am already Canadian, but I wouldn't mind New York - You've lovely museums!
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Open your email - you’ve got five hours
From: John
You bought me a plane ticket? Sherlock I can’t afford that
From: Sherlock
The girl was abducted last night - she’s got a total of two days left before he kills her like the others. Do you want to help or not?
From: John
Christ, Sherlock. You better be at the airport.
Turns out handguns are against TSA regulations.
Lestrade settles behind his desk, the blinds closed and the door shut. A cup of hot coffee is cupped in his hand and for the first time in a week he contemplates resting. The door rattles and his hopes are dashed.
“The Freak is bringing someone else in on the case,” Donovan starts without preamble. Andersen is close behind, and half of his department.
Lestrade sighs and takes a sip of his coffee, buying time.
“It’s that John fellow.”
“What, the Canadian?” Andersen asks.
Cooper calls out, “do we have to feed his snow dogs?”
To which Moore replies, “do we have to feed him? I don’t think we have enough maple syrup.”
Donovan turns around and shoots them all a glare.
“I think you lot are all missing the most important aspect of this conversation.”
Lestrade is almost grateful until Donovan finishes, “Where are we going to build the igloo?”
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