Overflow Post
This post is for responding to prompts from prompt posts that are full, or continuing WIPs that have already been started but the prompt post is now full or near to full.
PLEASE POST ALL NEW FILLS TO THE NEW OVERFLOW POST!( Read more... )
PLEASE POST ALL NEW FILLS TO THE NEW OVERFLOW POST!( Read more... )
For the next twenty-eight hours, minus brief interludes of stolen slumber, John was caught up in the whirlwind of Sherlock's genius as the man connected each individual dot illustrating the story of a nine-year-old murder - and the theft of lyricist Oscar Hammerstein's handwritten notes that had precipitated it. In the process, John learned more than he had ever expected or wanted to know about Oklahoma!
To be fair, his crash course had its unexpected bonuses. Sherlock grew increasingly drunk on adrenaline and satisfaction while cross-referencing old evidence and new research, and he began to litter his deadpan comments with lyrics, often leaving an amused John giggling like a schoolgirl.
"He was clever, smuggling the papers out of the country. Was he? Why was that clever? He only did the kinda things he outta. Sorta."
"Considering the sordid past of the victim, I doubt that folks did weep and wail for miles around."
"I've never seen university libraries employ such security precautions, and I expect many a new day will dawn before I do."
The case, spread out as it was over three countries and nearly a decade, brought little need for mad dashes around London. Sherlock made up for this lack of physical action by pacing across the floor (and on top of the furniture), pronouncing his deductions in shouts and whispers and once even song, and turning a manic energy toward exploring Oklahoma! with his violin.
His interpretation of "Out of My Dreams" was enough to bring a knot of emotion to John's throat. And more than once John found himself almost lulled to sleep by a haunting rendition of "Lonely Room."
John had almost forgotten what a thrill it could be to see Sherlock in his element - revelling in the use of his remarkable faculties, playing the game with every fibre of his being - on a case completely untainted by Moriarty's looming shadow. Sitting amid loose stacks of sheet music, open books, scattered albums and disks, and both of their computers and phones, John realized that he had missed that biting flavour of challenge, of excitement, unspoiled by the cloying taste of dread.
When he wasn't questioning and prompting Sherlock, acting as the consulting detective's sounding board, or offering his own opinions, John took copious notes to be used for his future blog report.
Despite the fact there was little danger this time, only discovery, he still felt brilliantly, vibrantly alive.
Thus it was late Thursday afternoon, as John stretched beneath the spray of a hot shower and wondered at how the hours had flown, before a niggling worry caught up with him, a conviction that something troubling remained unresolved.
He replayed the last two days in his mind.
He recalled watching Sherlock at the crime scene.
And watching Lestrade watching Sherlock at the crime scene.
John chewed his lip and wondered.
TBC
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Sherlock snorted where he lay draped across the sofa, sated by the answers he'd found. "If by food you mean whisky, and by poisoning you mean drinking."
John halted mid-step, foot hovering in the air for a moment before settling on the next step.
"Don't look so scandalized, John. He does this rarely. Only when he's very distressed."
That was no better, just a different kind of wrong. "But why… What was he distressed about? Not the case, surely? No, that's not right. The murder hadn't even happened yet. Something… something to do with his home life?"
John made it to the bottom of the stairs and sat down there, clutching his towel, feeling suddenly adrift.
"He has no home life." Straightforward. Matter-of-fact.
Shaking his head, John said, "He wears a ring."
"He's a widower, John. His wife is dead. He lives alone."
John grimaced. When he had dashed - or been dragged? no, dashed - headlong into Sherlock's world, he’d accepted Lestrade from the very first as a key fixture there. Respect, trust, and fondness came readily, but on the run, in the midst of the clamour.
Over the course of their chaotic life he’d become allied with Lestrade, but not exactly acquainted. Yet this, surely, he should’ve known.
"Lestrade's life is his work," Sherlock continued. "It's one of the things we understand about each other."
"So what’s upset him then?"
The shrug appeared to travel the length of Sherlock’s entire body, rippling down his frame like a wave. "I expect it has something to do with the fight, or-"
"Wait, what fight?" Feeling more lost by the second, John rose, draped the towel over his shoulder, and began to pace.
"John. John." Sherlock sighed. "His right hand had been carefully tended, to be sure, but the knuckles nevertheless were swollen and bruised. Surely it caught your attention as a doctor."
"No. No it didn't." The exultant high from the past hours deserted him completely, leaving hollowness behind. Hours they had spent, days, on a cold case, while right in front of them... "So tell me, Sherlock, what happened to him?"
"No idea. My method requires concentration. I filtered out distractions and focused on the scene."
John blinked. "So you didn't ask."
"Of course not." Sherlock gave an impatient huff. "I made him happy in the best way I know how: I solved two cases for him in less than two days."
"You would've solved those cases anyway."
Sherlock waved off the remark. "In the past, Lestrade's proven he can get over whatever's troubling him on his own." After a beat, somewhat less convincingly, "He's not a complete imbecile, you know; he'd ask for help if he needed it."
"Would he?" John asked. "Would he know he could do that?"
I didn't know he was a widower, John thought. I didn't know he turned to whisky when he suffered. I didn't even know his first name until I read it off one of those stolen warrant cards.
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"Either it is or isn't 'a bit not good' to bring up personal subjects at a crime scene. I was under the impression, from your previous reactions, that this was frowned upon. Considered humiliating."
The worst part was that, in his own strange way, Sherlock was trying.
Running a hand through his hair and down his face, John said, "God, Sherlock, there's a difference between blurting out your deductions about colleagues' sex lives in public and taking friends aside to ask if they're all right."
He sat heavily in the chair. "You know, friends. We're not blessed with an overabundance of them, in case you haven't noticed. We should take care of those few we do have."
Especially now, he thought. Especially with Moriarty out there. Suddenly he felt very tired indeed.
"Oh, for-" Sherlock began.
Heading off the tirade before it could begin, John asked, "When you texted him about the case, did he reply?"
"Yes. Just as he always does."
"Right. He's probably at the Yard now up to his elbows in paperwork, yeah?"
"I would assume so." In one fluid movement Sherlock pulled himself up to a sitting position. "What do you propose to do?"
"Drop by. See how he is." Pulling the towel from his shoulder, he kneaded the damp fabric between his hands. "Do you have anything I could take with me? Files or something? You know, as an excuse for the visit?"
"I've sent him everything he needs. Anyway, you're a terrible liar, John," Sherlock scoffed. "Lestrade's no genius, but he'd see through you."
"Fine. You, on the other hand, are a brilliant liar. You could go…" Sherlock looked horrified. John tried to picture his flatmate attempting a heart-to-heart conversation and shuddered. "Right. I'll think of something."
Pulling himself to his feet, he said, "Who knows, maybe I'll do something truly mad like telling him the truth." He heard bitterness in his own voice. Fair enough. He should've known something really was wrong with Lestrade. As Sherlock would say, he had seen, but he hadn't observed.
By the time John finished dressing, Sherlock had turned his back to the room, transforming his post-case sprawl into a full-scale sulk.
"Last chance to join me." John only offered because he already knew the answer.
"Go," Sherlock grumbled. "And get milk while you're out." Then, more quietly, "And John? Be careful."
Ever since Moriarty, it had been this way. John considered it a victory that he was 'allowed' to leave on his own at all. But he would've been lying if he said he didn't understand.
"I will."
TBC...
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"God!" John exclaimed, startled.
"Ah, Dr Watson, no need to exaggerate," Mycroft said in a smooth tone, apparently unruffled by their near collision. "Mr Holmes will do. Even Mycroft, in fact."
He glanced over John's head and took in the wild disarray left by their recent investigative efforts. "I see you've redecorated."
Determined not to be drawn into the drama of the Holmes brothers' next standoff, John summoned his blandest smile and stepped aside. "Come in. Sherlock's all yours. I was just on my way out."
"As a matter of fact," Mycroft said as he entered, umbrella in one hand a leather attaché case in the other, "I came here to speak with you for a moment, if I may." Then, a fraction more loudly, "It is immaterial to me whether my brother is present or not."
The sullen mass of Sherlock on the sofa reacted at once to this, visibly coming alert.
Really, John thought as he closed the door, sometimes Sherlock's buttons were astoundingly easy to push.
"What is it, Mycroft? Is there a purpose to your intrusion or did you simply feel like slumming it for a while?" Sherlock spat the words into the back of the furniture.
"Believe me, I take no pleasure in my visit today. However, I have information I believe the doctor will want to know. And should know."
I'm right here, John thought, resisting the urge to wave.
"And what about me?" Sherlock asked.
"What about you?" Mycroft planted himself in the middle of the room like some kind of monument. "Tell me, Sherlock, have you seen your detective inspector recently?"
The hairs on the back of John's neck stood on end.
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"Ah, so his welfare does matter to you. I am gratified to hear it."
"Mycroft-" Sherlock said the name like a warning.
"Please," he gestured with his case, "allow me to use your sofa, and I will explain what I can to you both."
If anything spoke to John about the seriousness of the issue at hand, it was Sherlock's quick compliance and lack of complaint as he shuffled aside to make room for his brother.
Mycroft sat, arranged his umbrella to rest against his knee, and opened his case on his lap. As he withdrew his computer, he nodded at the space beside him.
"I would be grateful if you would join me," he said to John.
In fact, the three of them sitting shoulder to shoulder proved too cosy by half, a problem Sherlock solved by perching atop the back of the sofa and planting his long, bony feet on the cushions. He curled forward so he could view the screen over Mycroft's shoulder.
After the elder Holmes adjusted the laptop to his liking, he rested his fingers against the keys and stared at them. "The decision to share this with you is not one I made lightly. You are not authorized to view this footage, and I am certain the subject himself would not thank me for making it available to you. By this act I am violating a man who clearly wants to retain whatever privacy he can.
"However" - the long fingers spread and twitched, a jarring sign of unease - "his ordeal was meant as a message, and if he does not see it delivered, I will. Furthermore, because his actions since then, which I have monitored carefully, prove he does not plan to seek care on his own, I feel an obligation to gain Dr Watson's medical opinion on his behalf."
Deeply worried now, John ground his teeth together until his jaw ached.
"I hope you will understand-"
"Mycroft." Sherlock interrupted, his voice low and threatening. "Play it. Now."
For a moment nothing happened, and then Mycroft, to John's surprise, obeyed. His fingers played over the keys with brisk efficiency.
"This is a low-resolution copy from the CCTV cameras, but it will serve our purposes. There is no volume, but I have had an expert lip reader translate all that she can. I have taken the liberty of adding her transcript to the bottom of the screen, when available."
Turning his head slightly in Sherlock's direction, he added, "Don't waste your time trying to identify the men. All have records. They are minor players, not well connected. Each can, however, if traced back through many layers of their so-called organizations, ultimately be linked-"
"To Moriarty," Sherlock interrupted.
"Indeed."
John forced himself to breathe. The tightness in his chest made the act a struggle.
Mycroft pressed a key, and the grainy, black-and-white image of an alleyway glowed on the monitor. Readings indicated that the footage came from 10:43am on Monday night of that week. A separate tag identified the location: right under the nose of Scotland Yard.
Lestrade had worked late, John thought. Again.
As Mycroft set the film in motion, a steely, frozen calm descended over John. He shuddered once and went perfectly, terribly still, eyes riveted to the screen.
TBC...
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I'll have the rest up very shortly - I'm just making the final tweaks. Thanks so much for reading and for being interested. :)
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It's written, I'm just tweaking it now. More very soon. And thanks so much for reading/commenting/caring!
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