Re: Multiples FILL 5/?
anonymous
May 21 2011, 01:43:04 UTC
lol posted this in the wrong place :P
---
Sherlock panics as the camera cuts out, refreshing the page, but the feed doesn’t return. He swears under his breath and refrains from mashing the keyboard. A message pops up on the IM chat.
M: Every hour. Don’t go anywhere, sweetie!
Sherlock is practically spitting in fury.
S: Why are you doing this?
The cursor blinks unhelpfully. There's no reply.
Sherlock flings the laptop off of his belly onto the cushions and leaps to his feet, feverishly pacing out his thoughts. Moriarty has John. And all Sherlock can do is wait for the torture to start up again. Every hour? How is John supposed to survive that? And the worst part is that Sherlock is incapable of helping him.
No, he can act. He must. But how? This isn’t a police matter. Moriarty almost certainly has a mole in Lestrade’s department, must have to evade capture for so long, and Lestrade is the only one Sherlock would trust with a matter as delicate as this. Besides, if Moriarty found out that Sherlock was trying to track him down, he’d blow something up. Probably kill John too.
Sherlock can’t risk that.
It rankles at his pride, his independence, but there’s really only one man Sherlock can turn to.
He picks up his discarded mobile and fires off a quick text.
Assistance required. SH
The reply comes quickly.
What have you done this time? I’m very busy. MH
He’s got John. SH
Mycroft, damn him, doesn’t respond. Sherlock’s fingers clench around the phone and he waits, patience slowly evaporating. He resends the text. Why won’t the bastard reply?
This really isn’t the time for Mycroft’s ridiculous power games.
When phone finally rings, Sherlock answers it straight away. “What is your problem? Too busy stuffing your face with cake?”
Mycroft is the epitome of calm. Sherlock can almost visualise him, hands neatly folded on his lap, relaxing back on his chair, savouring the sounds of Sherlock’s need on speakerphone. “I’m very busy, Sherlock.”
“Moriarty has John,” Sherlock says, enunciating each word carefully.
“John is your responsibility. You told me specifically not to interfere. Now, I need to-“
“Mycroft!” snarls Sherlock. “I’m asking for your help. John could die.”
There’s a thoughtful pause. The creaking of a chair. Then finally, “… Be here in 10 minutes. I’ll send a car.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock says.
“You owe me, little brother.”
They hang up at the same time. Sherlock stalks back over to his laptop. There’s a new email, from another one of those anonymous addresses.
Oh, Sherlock,
I told you not to contact anyone.
Perhaps this will be easier if you aren’t surrounded by creature comforts.
51.540187,-0.124503
Back alley, red door. Key is under the mat.
Alone.
Love from M x
Sherlock’s brow creases. He recognises the digits, obviously latitude and longitude points. Working quickly, he pulls up a map service and plots it in. The time is ticking down until the next feed, and Sherlock counts down each minute with increasing desperation. Address memorised, he leaps to his feet and rushes downstairs. It’s crisp and cold in the afternoon grey, and he’s shivering in the time it takes to hail a taxi.
“Where to?” asks the cabbie, pulling off.
“York Way, Camden,” Sherlock says, pulling on his gloves. “Quickly.”
As the cab peels off from the curb, Sherlock can see a familiar black sedan pull up alongside 221B. Mycroft should be able to figure out what has happened from the flat, Sherlock’s not worried about that. He wonders what Moriarty has waiting for him in Camden. It’s difficult to plan ahead in a game where you can’t even see the board, or your opponent’s moves.
---
Sherlock panics as the camera cuts out, refreshing the page, but the feed doesn’t return. He swears under his breath and refrains from mashing the keyboard. A message pops up on the IM chat.
M: Every hour. Don’t go anywhere, sweetie!
Sherlock is practically spitting in fury.
S: Why are you doing this?
The cursor blinks unhelpfully. There's no reply.
Sherlock flings the laptop off of his belly onto the cushions and leaps to his feet, feverishly pacing out his thoughts. Moriarty has John. And all Sherlock can do is wait for the torture to start up again. Every hour? How is John supposed to survive that? And the worst part is that Sherlock is incapable of helping him.
No, he can act. He must. But how? This isn’t a police matter. Moriarty almost certainly has a mole in Lestrade’s department, must have to evade capture for so long, and Lestrade is the only one Sherlock would trust with a matter as delicate as this. Besides, if Moriarty found out that Sherlock was trying to track him down, he’d blow something up. Probably kill John too.
Sherlock can’t risk that.
It rankles at his pride, his independence, but there’s really only one man Sherlock can turn to.
He picks up his discarded mobile and fires off a quick text.
Assistance required.
SH
The reply comes quickly.
What have you done this time?
I’m very busy.
MH
He’s got John.
SH
Mycroft, damn him, doesn’t respond. Sherlock’s fingers clench around the phone and he waits, patience slowly evaporating. He resends the text. Why won’t the bastard reply?
This really isn’t the time for Mycroft’s ridiculous power games.
When phone finally rings, Sherlock answers it straight away. “What is your problem? Too busy stuffing your face with cake?”
Mycroft is the epitome of calm. Sherlock can almost visualise him, hands neatly folded on his lap, relaxing back on his chair, savouring the sounds of Sherlock’s need on speakerphone. “I’m very busy, Sherlock.”
“Moriarty has John,” Sherlock says, enunciating each word carefully.
“John is your responsibility. You told me specifically not to interfere. Now, I need to-“
“Mycroft!” snarls Sherlock. “I’m asking for your help. John could die.”
There’s a thoughtful pause. The creaking of a chair. Then finally, “… Be here in 10 minutes. I’ll send a car.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock says.
“You owe me, little brother.”
They hang up at the same time. Sherlock stalks back over to his laptop. There’s a new email, from another one of those anonymous addresses.
Oh, Sherlock,
I told you not to contact anyone.
Perhaps this will be easier if you aren’t surrounded by creature comforts.
51.540187,-0.124503
Back alley, red door. Key is under the mat.
Alone.
Love from M x
Sherlock’s brow creases. He recognises the digits, obviously latitude and longitude points. Working quickly, he pulls up a map service and plots it in. The time is ticking down until the next feed, and Sherlock counts down each minute with increasing desperation. Address memorised, he leaps to his feet and rushes downstairs. It’s crisp and cold in the afternoon grey, and he’s shivering in the time it takes to hail a taxi.
“Where to?” asks the cabbie, pulling off.
“York Way, Camden,” Sherlock says, pulling on his gloves. “Quickly.”
As the cab peels off from the curb, Sherlock can see a familiar black sedan pull up alongside 221B. Mycroft should be able to figure out what has happened from the flat, Sherlock’s not worried about that. He wonders what Moriarty has waiting for him in Camden. It’s difficult to plan ahead in a game where you can’t even see the board, or your opponent’s moves.
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You glorious, wonderful anon! Oh, dear. I never imagined such talent and beauty and horror would emerge when I posted my prompt.
And perfect you...you have made my night. My night here I was all set to pout in my bed because of major oral surgery...and I find this.
Thank you.
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