(no subject)
Entries 41-48
41
She shifted her left hand slowly in the flickering candlelight, and watched the refracted colors dance over the table and the wall.
“So... do you like it?” he murmured.
“Y-yes. Yes, I do. Yes... it’s… it’s absolutely beautiful.” Her voice was tight. Her hand stilled, but she continued to stare down at it. After a few moments, she cleared her throat, and looked up. “Do you--”
“It’s a 1 carat diamond in a 14 kt platinum band. The jeweler claims that it is flawless though it has a slight…”
“John!” She grinned at him. “Didn’t any of your friends ever tell you that you don’t give a girl the specs of her engagement ring. I might have it appraised myself, but I won’t ever tell you. That’s how normal people do it.”
He folded his long arms and scowled, but when she smiled more widely, he smiled back. “So, the chocolate hazelnut torte? And I’ll order a coffee for you as well.”
“You always know what I want, don’t you?”
He smirked and signaled the waiter.
“I didn’t think you’d want to eat dessert.”
“I’ll have coffee while you eat. I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”
“Thank you.”
He ordered dessert and coffee, and they sat in silence for several minutes.
“So, what are you thinking?”
She startled and blushed. “I… I was just thinking that-thank you!” She pulled the torte the waiter had placed in front of her a bit closer, while he put cream in her coffee and opened two packets of sugar for his own.
As she swallowed her first bite, he looked pleased. “It’s delicious.”
“I’m supposed to say that, you-” she stopped herself and took another bite when she realized that he was staring vacantly towards the neighboring table.
“So, John.”
He snapped back into focus and looked at her. “Yes, Mary?”
“Do you think we should talk about… about a date?”
“We’re on a date, aren’t we?”
“No, I mean… for the wed-”
“NOW!” He leaped from his seat.
There was a loud thud and a groan, and several people screamed. She jumped up after him, whipped out a gun, and pointed it at the man he had just thrown to the ground.
“You are under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of Alicia Martone, Kathryn Grant, and Rosalie Cook. You do not have to say anything, but it may-how did you get my handcuffs, Freak?”
“You put them in an obvious place, and, as anyone with eyes should be able to see, it was the most logical course of action, and is the only reason that--”
“Just cuff him, then!” She held the gun steady until one of the officers who had just run into restaurant dragged the suspect to his feet. Then she turned back to her dinner companion.
“Your work’s done here. You can go back to wherever it is you’re calling home this time.”
“A delight, as ever, Sally.”
“Yeah.”
She turned to follow the officer out of the room.
“Sally!”
“What?”
“Ring?”
“Oh!” She pulled it off, and dropped it into his open palm like it was a dead insect.
42
Kidnapping; graphic violence.
The three of them are crowded at the tiny breakfast table. Dan and Henry are rubbing elbows. Sherlock's here on their case, and all they can do is make eyes at one another.
It ought to be sickening. It is, in a way: even after a year, fear churns cold in Sherlock's stomach at the sight of him. Henry may be a bad blond in a cheap suit, now, bronzed half to death, but that can't erase his essence: he's a quivering point of red light, the mesmerising, silent precursor to cataclysm.
"So. Henry." Sherlock sips at his coffee, tasting nothing. "Just back from - Ghana, was it?" Nothing about him speaks of travel. He's not even trying. He's doing this on purpose.
"Yeah." Henry's posture is adoring, but his eyes are empty. "I wish I'd been here. When Dan emailed me telling me some creep was waltzing up and staring in the windows at night, I couldn't help thinking - what if it's my fault -"
"Why would it be your fault?" Sherlock glares at the cruel constriction of Henry's mouth. Everything's your fault.
"Well, I've got some bloody crazy exes. And I thought, what if one of them's found out I've moved in here? But - that's stupid, isn't it." He grins, baring his teeth. "People don't just come back like that."
Sherlock swallows, the anger hot, bitter and ever-present on the back of his tongue. "No, they don't." He should've known.
* * *
When he first arrived, Dan took him through the front yard, retracing the steps of the mysterious stranger who'd recently begun making midnight appearances. Walking like some kind of jerky robot, he said, and Sherlock saw the tracks in the patchy grass, imagined the man's debilitating limp. He let himself wonder, but only a little. He should've known better.
"Henry should be home any minute." Dan looked mournfully at his ruined gardenias. "He's been so worried - it started about when he moved in, but he's overseas so much. I know he feels awful. He's the one who told me to call you, actually."* * *
He should've known when that shot had rung out that it was time to fire. But he'd expected the darkness of death, a hellish explosion of tile, steel and a swimming pool's worth of steam. Instead, John had screamed, pitching sideways and grabbing at his leg. Sherlock had hesitated a moment too long, wanting to go to him. Stupid, stupid. His skull had erupted in pain, and when he'd woken up … they'd all been gone.
Even John.
He'd known, then.* * *
They talked in the kitchen next, among the clutter of appliances and moving boxes. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to go back to the footprints in the garden, to feel the cold mud on his fingers.
"Sorry about the mess," Dan said, putting on a pot of coffee. "Henry hasn't even moved in properly yet - he's so busy …"
There was no reason to pursue this theory, fuelled only by the desperate desire for some sign that John wasn't lost to him forever. There was no reason at all Moriarty should dangle John in front of a complete stranger, night after night. No reason -
Except to bring him here. He's the one who told me to call you, actually.
Oh.
He should've -
He heard the front door open as though from underwater.* * *
Sherlock should strike Moriarty dead here and now, but the hateful thread of hope binds him back. John is walking. John is alive.
"He's not coming back." Moriarty pats Dan's arm. "If he does, I'll take care of him."
Sherlock shoots out of his chair. He's not coming back. "I want a word, Mr. -?"
"Watson," Moriarty offers, smiling.
"Outside." Sherlock's voice is dead in his throat.
"I'm knackered, actually - tomorrow? I'll email you -"
"Don't bother."
Moriarty will be gone long before tomorrow. This has been one play in a long, horrible game, and it'll end when Sherlock walks out the door. He should've ended all this in fire a year ago, but there's something about John - John, who's walking, who's alive - that made him play by a different set of rules. And now John is suffering for it; now Moriarty has the only card that matters.
Sherlock snaps off a mangled gardenia branch on his way out, shoving it in his pocket. He's walking. He's alive. He walks for hours before resigning himself to his empty flat, clinging to the first foolish fog of a plan.
43
More than meets the eye
Warnings: sexist behavior, unwanted touching
“I don’t think this is legal,” Molly protested for what felt like the umpteenth time in just a few hours. “I don’t work for the Met! Can’t one of the ladies there do this?”
“Molly,” Sally Donovan said patiently (though, to be fair, that patience was very thin, thin enough to read the paper through if one were to hold it up to the light), “it has to be you. The perp’s already contacted you, singled you out… He thinks you’re Molly Leland-Smythe.”
“Of the Newcastle Leland Smythes,” Molly finished. “I look nothing like her!”
“I’d hope not,” Sherlock intoned from his perch on one of the lab stools. “She’s been dead six weeks.”
Molly cringed inwardly as she felt herself blush-that had been the nicest thing Sherlock had ever said to her, and she hated herself a bit for feeling flattered. “I can’t act posh,” she protested, one last ditch effort to escape the terror of the coming evening. “I’ll use the wrong fork or won’t know what the Hell he’s talking about or-“
“Just act like it’s a date with a really boring bloke,” Sally advised, clipping the tiny microphone to Molly’s bra strap before tugging the shoulder of her dress back into place. “This is a very sensitive pick up so don’t be silly and try to angle your shoulder towards him or anything. If he sees it, it’ll look like a loose thread, alright?” When Molly nodded, she added, “And don’t try to be heroic. If he twigs and does a runner, let him run. We’re right outside waiting. If he grabs you, we’ll hear it. Don’t fight, just wait. If you fight, he may panic and harm you.”
Sherlock looked as if he wanted to add something, but John elbowed him in the ribs and glared. “It’ll be okay, Molly,” the doctor said kindly. “You can do this.” She nodded, but inside, she thought she might just be ill all over her fancy, borrowed gown and shoes. With one final pat on the arm from Sally and a nod from DI Lestrade, Molly straightened her spine, lifted her chin and strode out of the hotel suite and into the corridor, letting the sounds of the crowded ball in full swing draw her onward.
“Miss Leland-Smythe!” James Shaw, or Jamie Ingrams as he was fashioning himself of late, approached Molly with a wide smile and outstretched arms. “It’s smashing to finally meet you in person!”
“Likewise,” she murmured, clutching the edge of her silly little pocketbook nervously. “I received your message and was quite intrigued.”
Shaw blinked, momentarily startled, and Molly was sure she had blown it. She could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes from within the suite where he was secreted away with Sally, John, Lestrade and several DCs. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you?” Shaw chucked her chin as if she were a child or, Molly mused, a cat. “Come on, then, Miss Leland-Smythe, and allow me to get you a drink.”
“Please,” she insisted, forcing her lips into a smile, “call me Molly.” She allowed him to lead her to the bar and was about to ask for just a plain soda water with lime when he ordered for her. “I’m sorry,” she demurred, “I’m not drinking this evening.”
“Of course you are,” he laughed. “Here you go, Molly,” he slid his arm around her waist, fingers brushing the curve of her hip, and began to lead her towards the seating area, a grouping of low banquets and a few overstuffed chairs set aside for the foot-weary and women who were wearing ridiculously uncomfortable shoes.
Molly frowned down at her drink--Did he seriously just order me a Pimms cup? At a ball? --and took a deep breath. “I’d like to discuss this offer of yours, Mister Ingrams. And how you knew I would be interested.”
When it was all over but the crying, Molly leaned against the panda holding James Shaw and took off her borrowed shoes, sighing in relief as she wiggled her toes. “That,” she announced as Sally approached, “was terrifying! I’m leaving this to you lot.”
Sally grinned. “Make you a deal… you never stick me with a corpse, I’ll never drag you undercover again.”
Molly returned the smile. “Deal.”
44
Mycroft reached for a biscuit to eat with his cup of tea.
The day had gone well, so far, and he felt he should be allowed some small rewards. The biscuit was one. His finger slid over the touch screen in front of him, bringing a new picture up on glorious high definition. This was another.
It didn't matter that he couldn't - yet - see Lestrade's face. He would recognise the curve of those buttocks anywhere. That sliver of skin where his top didn't quite meet his waistband a tantalising glimpse of the flesh Mycroft knew so well.
Then Lestrade straightened up, ducking out from under the bonnet of the car, wiping a greasy hand down his thigh. His overalls were tied around his waist, hanging low on his hips. His dirty grey t-shirt had a tear near the neckline and as he bent over the nearby toolbox Mycroft could see that his hair was spiked with gel.
It was entirely wrong. He liked it when Lestrade wore a finely cut suit. A shirt with cufflinks. Even, in his fantasies, a waistcoat which hugged his torso perfectly and accentuated his figure perfectly.
So why was the line of his own trousers being utterly ruined by the sight of Lestrade, unshaven, grubby and completely scruffy? He felt ashamed of himself.
A movement near the top of the picture caught his attention.
He flicked his fingers over the screen, zooming in to look at the man peering out from behind the blinds of the office whilst speaking on the telephone.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. The man - Dale Richards, garage owner - was looking at Lestrade. And Mycroft didn't like it.
Another slide of his fingers, tap on a button, and the man's words played out over the speakers.
Mycroft knew that the Met had Lestrade under surveillance. But their technological inferiority - and the irritating way that they had to keep running to the courts for various warrants and orders - meant that he had taken the liberty of putting a few of his own gadgets to good use. Any guilt he felt for doing so evaporated as he listened.
He had to get in touch with Lestrade, and fast.
He couldn't claim to know engines the way Lestrade did, but he knew enough to undo a simple wire connection to fake a breakdown, and then, when the surveillance camera connected to his PDA showed Lestrade was alone, approach the front of the garage.
"Excuse me," he called out, leaning on his umbrella.
"Yeah?"
There wasn't even a flicker of recognition.
"My vehicle seems to have suffered some form of mechanical failure. I was wondering if you could assist me? It's just around the corner."
Lestrade wiped the back of his forearm over his forehead. "Sure. Give me a sec."
He walked into the dark workshop, and returned shortly afterward with a small toolkit. He immediately began asking questions about the breakdown, aware of the man watching him from the office.
Mycroft fumbled his way through answers as if he knew nothing about cars.
As soon as they rounded the corner Lestrade glanced back.
"What're you doing here? Sal will be doing her nut if she thinks you're blowing my cover."
"Your cover is already well and truly blown," Mycroft said back, voice low and urgent. "A phonecall to Richards earlier - he knows your name, your rank, and he knows he needs to get rid of you, rapidly."
"Shit." Lestrade leant over the car, as if looking into the engine. "How? No, never mind. Have you told the Met?"
Mycroft shook his head. "I didn't trust them to move promptly."
"Bollocks." Lestrade had found the loose wire and already fixed it, seemingly without even thinking. "I can't just walk away. There are lives at stake."
Mycroft tried to find an argument to persuade Lestrade to do just that. But there was no way he could persuade Lestrade that he was worth more than any potential victim.
Lestrade straightened up, reached a hand out to shake Mycroft's'.
"Okay, Sir. Sure the problem's easily sorted."
Their hands squeezed tightly together, and the contact was a shade too long.
As Lestrade walked away Mycroft watched him as far as the corner. Then looked down to the black grease now on his palm - a fractured print of his lover's hand.
Mycroft didn't believe in God. He believed a man made his own luck. He also knew he had the power to make Lestrade a little luckier.
45
John was terribly uncomfortable. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, of course, but going on stage in front of all these people in the bar - not quite his idea of a fun night out.
Then again, it wasn’t supposed to be fun.
Somehow, he’d been roped into one of Sherlock’s crazy schemes yet again. He was undercover. Undercover as a musician, which honestly was the craziest thing that Sherlock’s brain had ever cocked up.
While John knew how to play the guitar, and while he was certainly passable at it, he wouldn’t ever be good enough to consider doing so in front of an audience. And he definitely wasn’t even close to Sherlock’s level of musical brilliance, but then again who was.
So, after hours and hours of discussion, John had let himself be taught the rather simplistic melody that Sherlock had composed seemingly on the fly and now he was here, in the small corner pub in the middle of London, just about to be called on stage.
He tugged on shirt sleeve and tightened the grip of his right hand around his guitar. Don’t worry, Sherlock had said in a surprisingly insightful manner. It doesn’t matter how good or bad you are - what matters is that you’ll be the focus of the people. Not that the thought of being the distraction was a particular good one. Now, he didn’t have a problem distracting people, but he’d rather be given the choice to do it with something he was comfortable with. Like making tea, or knitting or shooting people. Not this.
But of course that wasn’t possible. Again. And so he shrugged off his foreboding sense of dread and squared his shoulders. He could do this. It was just one song. He didn’t even have to finish the song if it was too terrible.
On the hosts cue, John stepped out into the single bright spotlight and just concentrated on getting it over with.
-
When he was drowning his sorrow in a pint after his humiliation on stage and he heard someone seat themselves in the chair next to him, he knew it could only be Sherlock, without even looking up.
“Did you at least find what you were looking for?” He asked, exasperated and downed the last of his beer.
Sherlock didn’t look at him when he turned around. His gaze was fixed on a group of people just walking by the window at the far end of the room. “I did,” he said, and tapped one of his fingers against the table top in the tell-tale staccato that told John everything he needed to know.
Sherlock knew who the murderer was. He was just planning how to expose him without letting the police take over his big reveal.
Sighing, John grabbed his wallet and his guitar case and nudged Sherlock with his foot to get up. He steered him through the dispersing crowd and then outside with a hand on his shoulder. “Next time,” he said, “you can be the distraction.”
But he knew that even then, Sherlock would be marvelous. Except if there were kids involved. Because Sherlock and kids? Not a good match.
46
"Where's our boy wonder?" Harry asked, leaning on the door-frame as John peered out at her. He had the same look of displeasure on his face that their mum used to get when one (or both) of them had done something particularly outrageous.
In this case, all Harry had done was show up.
"At Bart's," said John. "Something to do with a corpse and acid burns."
Harry sighed, shouldering her way inside. "You bagged yourself a real charmer."
"Piss off," John said, starting up the stairs with a slight limp.
Wonder what that's about, thought Harry, frowning, and followed him.
"What'll it be?" asked John, once they'd reached the kitchen. "Tea? Hair of the dog?"
"Sober," Harry reminded him, her fingers fidgeting on the keys of the PDA concealed in her pocket. "For seven weeks now." She prided herself on always keeping up to speed on technology, but the device that Mycroft had given her cost at least twice as much as her own current model and had functions she'd never even heard of.
Photographs of all appliances, Mycroft had said. If you can manage that.
Why me? Harry had asked. Why not just send in your team of spooks?
Because Sherlock would know, he'd said, smiling thinly.
Won't he know anyway? Harry had asked. I'm a one-woman herd of elephants.
On the contrary: all he'll know is that you paid John a visit. Is that so unusual?
You're one clever fuck, Harry had told him, grinning in spite of herself.
It's my business to be discreet, Mycroft had said, dripping with false modesty.
Harry glanced in the bin while John was busy rummaging for mugs in the cupboard. There was an empty Twinings box and a handful of tea-bag wrappers. She took out the PDA and pretended to be checking her messages.
"Bully for you," John said, popping on the kettle. "Coffee?"
"I'm in more of a tea mood," she said, clicking keys till the camera blinked on.
"Tough luck," John said, wrestling a coffee filter into place. "We're out."
"Would you mind popping down to grab some?" Harry asked, making a big show of taking a seat. "Clara's been on my back about caffeine. I drink too much coffee."
"You and Sherlock both," John said. "Fine, I'll be back in a tick."
Harry stayed put at the table until she heard the door slam downstairs.
She tackled the microwave first, taking snapshots of the exterior from three different angles, plus the interior, which she instantly regretted. The walls and glass tray were splattered with substances that couldn't possibly be of edible origin, and she didn't bother taking a closer look at the beaker left mouldering near the back.
I'll need precise model specifications, as well as indication of how hazardous the conditions within, Mycroft had told her. Sadly, she was to apply these standards to more than just the microwave. She'd known her brother's flatmate-turned-lover was eccentric, but a public health nuisance? She wasn't sure how she felt about that.
The oven was in surprisingly good nick: bit grotty, but, as far as she could determine, that was because they'd been using it to bake frozen pizzas. She photographed it from hob to grill, frowning when one of the dials came off in her hand.
You're going to replace everything? she'd asked Mycroft, incredulous.
As much of it as I deem necessary, he'd confirmed gravely.
External views of the toaster were easy, but she didn't dare move any of the wooden sticks protruding from the slots or shove down one of the levers to test functionality. Neither electrocution, nor burning down the flat was on her list of priorities for this mission (although Sherlock was well on the way to accomplishing the latter).
Any advice? she'd asked Mycroft on her way out of his office.
Approach the refrigerator with caution, he'd said.
Harry took a deep breath and yanked it open; a blast of cold, stale air hit her face.
She opened her eyes in response to the sharp scent of garlic, perplexed. There was some left-over pasta in a plastic take-away container, plus what looked like a half-eaten square of lasagna in another. She scanned the shelves, almost disappointed in what she saw. Two jars of homemade jam, blackberry and gooseberry, in Molly Hooper's sickeningly perfect handwriting. Half a bottle of semi-skimmed milk. A small egg carton, which actually contained eggs. She caught one of the fruit drawers with her index finger and coaxed it open. Apples. Pears. A loaf of whole-grain bread.
"Hungry?" said John, standing in the doorway, and Harry leapt out of her skin.
"Yeah," she said, shoving the drawer shut. "Peckish. Do you fancy lunch?"
John set his shopping bag on the table. "Tea and sandwiches?"
"Great," Harry said, resuming her seat at the table, heart pounding in sheer relief.
Mycroft was going to be ever so disappointed.
47
*Team Drag*
Sally's first response was a very loud "No!" and a step back, because the thought of helping Sherlock change gender managed to be scary and outrageous at the same time.
He wouldn't take no for an answer, though, "Why not? You need an inside woman and Lestrade won't let me use one of you!"
"I don't care! I'm not gonna help you become a woman!"
"Why not?"
"Because it's awkward!"
Sherlock dismissed her with a wave of his hand, "I used to do it all the time when I was a kid!"
"Oh, well, that makes it less bizarre," said Sally, still keeping a safe distance from the man with mad ideas.
"You mean like playing dress up?" Mrs. Hudson giggled. "That is so adorable!"
Sherlock looked at her as if she had offended him deeply.
"I was Lady Macbeth twice in school productions," Sherlock said, a bit to proudly. "But then my voice thickened and they pushed me to male roles."
From the corner of the room, John laughed. "I have to ask Mycroft for pictures."
"By the way, I'll need to reach a higher pitch. Any suggestions?"
"You could try honey, I think I got some-"
"Sherlock!" Sarah called out, making Mrs. Hudson shut. "Is not just that none of us feels comfortable doing it-"
John cut in, "Amusing as it is the thought of you trying to find balance in red stilettos-"
"Or ballerina flats," Molly suggested.
"Ooh! Those would look good!" said Mrs. Hudson.
Sarah spoke a little louder, "Even so, to make you a woman would be nearly impossible."
"I know," Sherlock said, giving her a mischievous look. "Don't you love a challenge?"
"No when it involves you in pantyhose, I don't," Sally said, making John giggle some more.
"Think of it this way, it's a bigger challenge to do it all by yourself," Sarah said.
"I did think of that," Sherlock replied. "However, time is of the essence and I fear doing it alone will only end in more dead bodies before the weekend. While that would surely help the case, I know you," he pointed at Sally, and then at John, "and you are not very fond of it, so this is the fastest way. But to get ready by tomorrow night, I need the five of you, or else we'll have to wait another week and your suspect will walk freely for seven days more. Anybody wanting to take that chance?"
Mrs. Hudson said, "Well, I'm in here for whatever you need me this. This sounds exciting."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
Molly gnawed on her lips, but decided, with a depressing sigh, "Yeah, fine, not like you'd be the first man who ever asked to wear my pantyhose."
"Sarah?" Sherlock asked quickly, before Sally could ask further questions on Molly's little revelation.
Sarah looked at John. John shrugged, "If you're in, I'm in."
"Then you can count us both on your Team Drag. For the sake of public safety."
"Excellent," and turned to Sally.
Stared at her for a moment.
She finally sighed and rolled her eyes, "I'm in if you don't look too happy about it."
Sherlock gave a little jump and held his fists up in victory, but refrained a gleeful squeal. When he felt it was safe to open his mouth again without getting Sally to walk out, he said, "Thank you!"
"Go Team Drag!" Mrs. Hudson cheered.
"Quick question," John raised his hand, "First, is that name written on stone? And second, why do you need five people?"
"I need Sally to do my hair, Molly to fix my make-up, Mrs. Hudson to teach me how to behave more girly and Sarah to pick my clothes."
"And what am I here for?"
"You're the muscle of this operation."
"Meaning?"
"You'll help me close the corset, to make me more 'hourglassy'. It has to be tight."
John smirked, "And by the way, have you decided where you going to keep your balls during the whole ordeal?"
48
Seven days, four hours and twelve minutes. Yes, he was counting. And approximately sixty-eight hours to go.
John’s family visit was annoying. The first day had been tolerable, curled up on the sofa, but then his laptop had run out of battery and his phone had died and the cords were in his bedroom. And it was cold. No one was making him tea. There was nothing to do.
Sixty-seven hours left.
---
Harry was being tedious, but she was sober and John considered that a success. They’d gone to dinner, keeping the conversation away from Sherlock and Clara and Oh, Johnny, are you really still wearing that sweater? for the sanity of everyone present. Not a total drain on his patience, but he was starting to sorely miss the comforts of Baker Street.
“Good evening. Here are your menus.” The waiter, a tall bearded man with transition lenses and his hair slicked back, hovered oddly over the siblings. “The special this evening is a pan-seared pork chop with garlic potatoes. I’ll give you both a few minutes to look over the menu.” He bowed uncomfortably and stalked away.
“So much for the service here,” Harry said, sipping her water with purpose.
“Maybe he’s new.” John picked up his menu and was half way through the pasta dishes when they were approached by an aproned girl with a bright smile.
“Hi! I’m Cheryl and I’ll be taking care of you this evening. I see you have your menus….”
“What happened to our first waiter? The, um, he had glasses?”
Cheryl, smile still firmly in place, said she had no idea what he was talking about and let them know about the special.
---
The walk home was easy. Harry was silent, thinking that perhaps next time she’d specify a much shorter visit. It’s not that they didn’t get along. They simply had nothing in common. There’s only so much daytime telly and children’s board games two grown people can handle.
John was thinking about Sarah, and how he’d really liked the way she smelled, silently berating himself for mucking it up so completely, when a cyclist stopped next to them to check a map. It was a remarkably tall woman, with blond hair coming from under helmet in a tangle.
John got the distinct impression that she was staring at the back of his head.
When he told Harry, she turned back to check, but the there wasn’t a cyclist in sight.
---
4AM and John drags himself from under the blankets in Harry’s flowery guest bedroom (Clara) to the hall bathroom. He left the lights in the hall off, but could swear he saw the curtains in the front room shiver in the soft moonlight spilling in.
---
John spent the next forty-odd hours becoming increasingly twitchy. There had been a custodian at Morrisons that seemed to sweep every aisle John needed to walk down; a woman with a pram jogging in the park as he walked back to Harry’s with his shopping in tow that kept a consistent few yards back despite his change in speed; he shared his train car home with only one other person, who slept with sunglasses on and was covered in the overcoat of a giant despite the mild weather.
It was tense muscles and wild eyes that he walked into the flat to find Sherlock sprawled on the couch, in what John still swears was the exact position he left him in.
“Have you managed to do a single thing while I was gone or have you just been lying there this whole time?”
“Hello to you as well,” Sherlock said, twisting around and glancing backwards at John. “Isn’t that the sort of social nicety you would, ah, admonish me for ignoring?”
John shook his head, trying not to chuckle, when he noticed a set of transition lenses and a crumpled map hidden under the coffee table.
VOTING CLOSES AT MIDNIGHT ON THE 30TH SEPTEMBER
Poll Round 1Open to: all, results viewable to: none
What are your three favourite stories?
41
She shifted her left hand slowly in the flickering candlelight, and watched the refracted colors dance over the table and the wall.
“So... do you like it?” he murmured.
“Y-yes. Yes, I do. Yes... it’s… it’s absolutely beautiful.” Her voice was tight. Her hand stilled, but she continued to stare down at it. After a few moments, she cleared her throat, and looked up. “Do you--”
“It’s a 1 carat diamond in a 14 kt platinum band. The jeweler claims that it is flawless though it has a slight…”
“John!” She grinned at him. “Didn’t any of your friends ever tell you that you don’t give a girl the specs of her engagement ring. I might have it appraised myself, but I won’t ever tell you. That’s how normal people do it.”
He folded his long arms and scowled, but when she smiled more widely, he smiled back. “So, the chocolate hazelnut torte? And I’ll order a coffee for you as well.”
“You always know what I want, don’t you?”
He smirked and signaled the waiter.
“I didn’t think you’d want to eat dessert.”
“I’ll have coffee while you eat. I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”
“Thank you.”
He ordered dessert and coffee, and they sat in silence for several minutes.
“So, what are you thinking?”
She startled and blushed. “I… I was just thinking that-thank you!” She pulled the torte the waiter had placed in front of her a bit closer, while he put cream in her coffee and opened two packets of sugar for his own.
As she swallowed her first bite, he looked pleased. “It’s delicious.”
“I’m supposed to say that, you-” she stopped herself and took another bite when she realized that he was staring vacantly towards the neighboring table.
“So, John.”
He snapped back into focus and looked at her. “Yes, Mary?”
“Do you think we should talk about… about a date?”
“We’re on a date, aren’t we?”
“No, I mean… for the wed-”
“NOW!” He leaped from his seat.
There was a loud thud and a groan, and several people screamed. She jumped up after him, whipped out a gun, and pointed it at the man he had just thrown to the ground.
“You are under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of Alicia Martone, Kathryn Grant, and Rosalie Cook. You do not have to say anything, but it may-how did you get my handcuffs, Freak?”
“You put them in an obvious place, and, as anyone with eyes should be able to see, it was the most logical course of action, and is the only reason that--”
“Just cuff him, then!” She held the gun steady until one of the officers who had just run into restaurant dragged the suspect to his feet. Then she turned back to her dinner companion.
“Your work’s done here. You can go back to wherever it is you’re calling home this time.”
“A delight, as ever, Sally.”
“Yeah.”
She turned to follow the officer out of the room.
“Sally!”
“What?”
“Ring?”
“Oh!” She pulled it off, and dropped it into his open palm like it was a dead insect.
42
Kidnapping; graphic violence.
The three of them are crowded at the tiny breakfast table. Dan and Henry are rubbing elbows. Sherlock's here on their case, and all they can do is make eyes at one another.
It ought to be sickening. It is, in a way: even after a year, fear churns cold in Sherlock's stomach at the sight of him. Henry may be a bad blond in a cheap suit, now, bronzed half to death, but that can't erase his essence: he's a quivering point of red light, the mesmerising, silent precursor to cataclysm.
"So. Henry." Sherlock sips at his coffee, tasting nothing. "Just back from - Ghana, was it?" Nothing about him speaks of travel. He's not even trying. He's doing this on purpose.
"Yeah." Henry's posture is adoring, but his eyes are empty. "I wish I'd been here. When Dan emailed me telling me some creep was waltzing up and staring in the windows at night, I couldn't help thinking - what if it's my fault -"
"Why would it be your fault?" Sherlock glares at the cruel constriction of Henry's mouth. Everything's your fault.
"Well, I've got some bloody crazy exes. And I thought, what if one of them's found out I've moved in here? But - that's stupid, isn't it." He grins, baring his teeth. "People don't just come back like that."
Sherlock swallows, the anger hot, bitter and ever-present on the back of his tongue. "No, they don't." He should've known.
* * *
When he first arrived, Dan took him through the front yard, retracing the steps of the mysterious stranger who'd recently begun making midnight appearances. Walking like some kind of jerky robot, he said, and Sherlock saw the tracks in the patchy grass, imagined the man's debilitating limp. He let himself wonder, but only a little. He should've known better.
"Henry should be home any minute." Dan looked mournfully at his ruined gardenias. "He's been so worried - it started about when he moved in, but he's overseas so much. I know he feels awful. He's the one who told me to call you, actually."* * *
He should've known when that shot had rung out that it was time to fire. But he'd expected the darkness of death, a hellish explosion of tile, steel and a swimming pool's worth of steam. Instead, John had screamed, pitching sideways and grabbing at his leg. Sherlock had hesitated a moment too long, wanting to go to him. Stupid, stupid. His skull had erupted in pain, and when he'd woken up … they'd all been gone.
Even John.
He'd known, then.* * *
They talked in the kitchen next, among the clutter of appliances and moving boxes. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to go back to the footprints in the garden, to feel the cold mud on his fingers.
"Sorry about the mess," Dan said, putting on a pot of coffee. "Henry hasn't even moved in properly yet - he's so busy …"
There was no reason to pursue this theory, fuelled only by the desperate desire for some sign that John wasn't lost to him forever. There was no reason at all Moriarty should dangle John in front of a complete stranger, night after night. No reason -
Except to bring him here. He's the one who told me to call you, actually.
Oh.
He should've -
He heard the front door open as though from underwater.* * *
Sherlock should strike Moriarty dead here and now, but the hateful thread of hope binds him back. John is walking. John is alive.
"He's not coming back." Moriarty pats Dan's arm. "If he does, I'll take care of him."
Sherlock shoots out of his chair. He's not coming back. "I want a word, Mr. -?"
"Watson," Moriarty offers, smiling.
"Outside." Sherlock's voice is dead in his throat.
"I'm knackered, actually - tomorrow? I'll email you -"
"Don't bother."
Moriarty will be gone long before tomorrow. This has been one play in a long, horrible game, and it'll end when Sherlock walks out the door. He should've ended all this in fire a year ago, but there's something about John - John, who's walking, who's alive - that made him play by a different set of rules. And now John is suffering for it; now Moriarty has the only card that matters.
Sherlock snaps off a mangled gardenia branch on his way out, shoving it in his pocket. He's walking. He's alive. He walks for hours before resigning himself to his empty flat, clinging to the first foolish fog of a plan.
43
More than meets the eye
Warnings: sexist behavior, unwanted touching
“I don’t think this is legal,” Molly protested for what felt like the umpteenth time in just a few hours. “I don’t work for the Met! Can’t one of the ladies there do this?”
“Molly,” Sally Donovan said patiently (though, to be fair, that patience was very thin, thin enough to read the paper through if one were to hold it up to the light), “it has to be you. The perp’s already contacted you, singled you out… He thinks you’re Molly Leland-Smythe.”
“Of the Newcastle Leland Smythes,” Molly finished. “I look nothing like her!”
“I’d hope not,” Sherlock intoned from his perch on one of the lab stools. “She’s been dead six weeks.”
Molly cringed inwardly as she felt herself blush-that had been the nicest thing Sherlock had ever said to her, and she hated herself a bit for feeling flattered. “I can’t act posh,” she protested, one last ditch effort to escape the terror of the coming evening. “I’ll use the wrong fork or won’t know what the Hell he’s talking about or-“
“Just act like it’s a date with a really boring bloke,” Sally advised, clipping the tiny microphone to Molly’s bra strap before tugging the shoulder of her dress back into place. “This is a very sensitive pick up so don’t be silly and try to angle your shoulder towards him or anything. If he sees it, it’ll look like a loose thread, alright?” When Molly nodded, she added, “And don’t try to be heroic. If he twigs and does a runner, let him run. We’re right outside waiting. If he grabs you, we’ll hear it. Don’t fight, just wait. If you fight, he may panic and harm you.”
Sherlock looked as if he wanted to add something, but John elbowed him in the ribs and glared. “It’ll be okay, Molly,” the doctor said kindly. “You can do this.” She nodded, but inside, she thought she might just be ill all over her fancy, borrowed gown and shoes. With one final pat on the arm from Sally and a nod from DI Lestrade, Molly straightened her spine, lifted her chin and strode out of the hotel suite and into the corridor, letting the sounds of the crowded ball in full swing draw her onward.
“Miss Leland-Smythe!” James Shaw, or Jamie Ingrams as he was fashioning himself of late, approached Molly with a wide smile and outstretched arms. “It’s smashing to finally meet you in person!”
“Likewise,” she murmured, clutching the edge of her silly little pocketbook nervously. “I received your message and was quite intrigued.”
Shaw blinked, momentarily startled, and Molly was sure she had blown it. She could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes from within the suite where he was secreted away with Sally, John, Lestrade and several DCs. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you?” Shaw chucked her chin as if she were a child or, Molly mused, a cat. “Come on, then, Miss Leland-Smythe, and allow me to get you a drink.”
“Please,” she insisted, forcing her lips into a smile, “call me Molly.” She allowed him to lead her to the bar and was about to ask for just a plain soda water with lime when he ordered for her. “I’m sorry,” she demurred, “I’m not drinking this evening.”
“Of course you are,” he laughed. “Here you go, Molly,” he slid his arm around her waist, fingers brushing the curve of her hip, and began to lead her towards the seating area, a grouping of low banquets and a few overstuffed chairs set aside for the foot-weary and women who were wearing ridiculously uncomfortable shoes.
Molly frowned down at her drink--Did he seriously just order me a Pimms cup? At a ball? --and took a deep breath. “I’d like to discuss this offer of yours, Mister Ingrams. And how you knew I would be interested.”
When it was all over but the crying, Molly leaned against the panda holding James Shaw and took off her borrowed shoes, sighing in relief as she wiggled her toes. “That,” she announced as Sally approached, “was terrifying! I’m leaving this to you lot.”
Sally grinned. “Make you a deal… you never stick me with a corpse, I’ll never drag you undercover again.”
Molly returned the smile. “Deal.”
44
Mycroft reached for a biscuit to eat with his cup of tea.
The day had gone well, so far, and he felt he should be allowed some small rewards. The biscuit was one. His finger slid over the touch screen in front of him, bringing a new picture up on glorious high definition. This was another.
It didn't matter that he couldn't - yet - see Lestrade's face. He would recognise the curve of those buttocks anywhere. That sliver of skin where his top didn't quite meet his waistband a tantalising glimpse of the flesh Mycroft knew so well.
Then Lestrade straightened up, ducking out from under the bonnet of the car, wiping a greasy hand down his thigh. His overalls were tied around his waist, hanging low on his hips. His dirty grey t-shirt had a tear near the neckline and as he bent over the nearby toolbox Mycroft could see that his hair was spiked with gel.
It was entirely wrong. He liked it when Lestrade wore a finely cut suit. A shirt with cufflinks. Even, in his fantasies, a waistcoat which hugged his torso perfectly and accentuated his figure perfectly.
So why was the line of his own trousers being utterly ruined by the sight of Lestrade, unshaven, grubby and completely scruffy? He felt ashamed of himself.
A movement near the top of the picture caught his attention.
He flicked his fingers over the screen, zooming in to look at the man peering out from behind the blinds of the office whilst speaking on the telephone.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. The man - Dale Richards, garage owner - was looking at Lestrade. And Mycroft didn't like it.
Another slide of his fingers, tap on a button, and the man's words played out over the speakers.
Mycroft knew that the Met had Lestrade under surveillance. But their technological inferiority - and the irritating way that they had to keep running to the courts for various warrants and orders - meant that he had taken the liberty of putting a few of his own gadgets to good use. Any guilt he felt for doing so evaporated as he listened.
He had to get in touch with Lestrade, and fast.
He couldn't claim to know engines the way Lestrade did, but he knew enough to undo a simple wire connection to fake a breakdown, and then, when the surveillance camera connected to his PDA showed Lestrade was alone, approach the front of the garage.
"Excuse me," he called out, leaning on his umbrella.
"Yeah?"
There wasn't even a flicker of recognition.
"My vehicle seems to have suffered some form of mechanical failure. I was wondering if you could assist me? It's just around the corner."
Lestrade wiped the back of his forearm over his forehead. "Sure. Give me a sec."
He walked into the dark workshop, and returned shortly afterward with a small toolkit. He immediately began asking questions about the breakdown, aware of the man watching him from the office.
Mycroft fumbled his way through answers as if he knew nothing about cars.
As soon as they rounded the corner Lestrade glanced back.
"What're you doing here? Sal will be doing her nut if she thinks you're blowing my cover."
"Your cover is already well and truly blown," Mycroft said back, voice low and urgent. "A phonecall to Richards earlier - he knows your name, your rank, and he knows he needs to get rid of you, rapidly."
"Shit." Lestrade leant over the car, as if looking into the engine. "How? No, never mind. Have you told the Met?"
Mycroft shook his head. "I didn't trust them to move promptly."
"Bollocks." Lestrade had found the loose wire and already fixed it, seemingly without even thinking. "I can't just walk away. There are lives at stake."
Mycroft tried to find an argument to persuade Lestrade to do just that. But there was no way he could persuade Lestrade that he was worth more than any potential victim.
Lestrade straightened up, reached a hand out to shake Mycroft's'.
"Okay, Sir. Sure the problem's easily sorted."
Their hands squeezed tightly together, and the contact was a shade too long.
As Lestrade walked away Mycroft watched him as far as the corner. Then looked down to the black grease now on his palm - a fractured print of his lover's hand.
Mycroft didn't believe in God. He believed a man made his own luck. He also knew he had the power to make Lestrade a little luckier.
45
John was terribly uncomfortable. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, of course, but going on stage in front of all these people in the bar - not quite his idea of a fun night out.
Then again, it wasn’t supposed to be fun.
Somehow, he’d been roped into one of Sherlock’s crazy schemes yet again. He was undercover. Undercover as a musician, which honestly was the craziest thing that Sherlock’s brain had ever cocked up.
While John knew how to play the guitar, and while he was certainly passable at it, he wouldn’t ever be good enough to consider doing so in front of an audience. And he definitely wasn’t even close to Sherlock’s level of musical brilliance, but then again who was.
So, after hours and hours of discussion, John had let himself be taught the rather simplistic melody that Sherlock had composed seemingly on the fly and now he was here, in the small corner pub in the middle of London, just about to be called on stage.
He tugged on shirt sleeve and tightened the grip of his right hand around his guitar. Don’t worry, Sherlock had said in a surprisingly insightful manner. It doesn’t matter how good or bad you are - what matters is that you’ll be the focus of the people. Not that the thought of being the distraction was a particular good one. Now, he didn’t have a problem distracting people, but he’d rather be given the choice to do it with something he was comfortable with. Like making tea, or knitting or shooting people. Not this.
But of course that wasn’t possible. Again. And so he shrugged off his foreboding sense of dread and squared his shoulders. He could do this. It was just one song. He didn’t even have to finish the song if it was too terrible.
On the hosts cue, John stepped out into the single bright spotlight and just concentrated on getting it over with.
-
When he was drowning his sorrow in a pint after his humiliation on stage and he heard someone seat themselves in the chair next to him, he knew it could only be Sherlock, without even looking up.
“Did you at least find what you were looking for?” He asked, exasperated and downed the last of his beer.
Sherlock didn’t look at him when he turned around. His gaze was fixed on a group of people just walking by the window at the far end of the room. “I did,” he said, and tapped one of his fingers against the table top in the tell-tale staccato that told John everything he needed to know.
Sherlock knew who the murderer was. He was just planning how to expose him without letting the police take over his big reveal.
Sighing, John grabbed his wallet and his guitar case and nudged Sherlock with his foot to get up. He steered him through the dispersing crowd and then outside with a hand on his shoulder. “Next time,” he said, “you can be the distraction.”
But he knew that even then, Sherlock would be marvelous. Except if there were kids involved. Because Sherlock and kids? Not a good match.
46
"Where's our boy wonder?" Harry asked, leaning on the door-frame as John peered out at her. He had the same look of displeasure on his face that their mum used to get when one (or both) of them had done something particularly outrageous.
In this case, all Harry had done was show up.
"At Bart's," said John. "Something to do with a corpse and acid burns."
Harry sighed, shouldering her way inside. "You bagged yourself a real charmer."
"Piss off," John said, starting up the stairs with a slight limp.
Wonder what that's about, thought Harry, frowning, and followed him.
"What'll it be?" asked John, once they'd reached the kitchen. "Tea? Hair of the dog?"
"Sober," Harry reminded him, her fingers fidgeting on the keys of the PDA concealed in her pocket. "For seven weeks now." She prided herself on always keeping up to speed on technology, but the device that Mycroft had given her cost at least twice as much as her own current model and had functions she'd never even heard of.
Photographs of all appliances, Mycroft had said. If you can manage that.
Why me? Harry had asked. Why not just send in your team of spooks?
Because Sherlock would know, he'd said, smiling thinly.
Won't he know anyway? Harry had asked. I'm a one-woman herd of elephants.
On the contrary: all he'll know is that you paid John a visit. Is that so unusual?
You're one clever fuck, Harry had told him, grinning in spite of herself.
It's my business to be discreet, Mycroft had said, dripping with false modesty.
Harry glanced in the bin while John was busy rummaging for mugs in the cupboard. There was an empty Twinings box and a handful of tea-bag wrappers. She took out the PDA and pretended to be checking her messages.
"Bully for you," John said, popping on the kettle. "Coffee?"
"I'm in more of a tea mood," she said, clicking keys till the camera blinked on.
"Tough luck," John said, wrestling a coffee filter into place. "We're out."
"Would you mind popping down to grab some?" Harry asked, making a big show of taking a seat. "Clara's been on my back about caffeine. I drink too much coffee."
"You and Sherlock both," John said. "Fine, I'll be back in a tick."
Harry stayed put at the table until she heard the door slam downstairs.
She tackled the microwave first, taking snapshots of the exterior from three different angles, plus the interior, which she instantly regretted. The walls and glass tray were splattered with substances that couldn't possibly be of edible origin, and she didn't bother taking a closer look at the beaker left mouldering near the back.
I'll need precise model specifications, as well as indication of how hazardous the conditions within, Mycroft had told her. Sadly, she was to apply these standards to more than just the microwave. She'd known her brother's flatmate-turned-lover was eccentric, but a public health nuisance? She wasn't sure how she felt about that.
The oven was in surprisingly good nick: bit grotty, but, as far as she could determine, that was because they'd been using it to bake frozen pizzas. She photographed it from hob to grill, frowning when one of the dials came off in her hand.
You're going to replace everything? she'd asked Mycroft, incredulous.
As much of it as I deem necessary, he'd confirmed gravely.
External views of the toaster were easy, but she didn't dare move any of the wooden sticks protruding from the slots or shove down one of the levers to test functionality. Neither electrocution, nor burning down the flat was on her list of priorities for this mission (although Sherlock was well on the way to accomplishing the latter).
Any advice? she'd asked Mycroft on her way out of his office.
Approach the refrigerator with caution, he'd said.
Harry took a deep breath and yanked it open; a blast of cold, stale air hit her face.
She opened her eyes in response to the sharp scent of garlic, perplexed. There was some left-over pasta in a plastic take-away container, plus what looked like a half-eaten square of lasagna in another. She scanned the shelves, almost disappointed in what she saw. Two jars of homemade jam, blackberry and gooseberry, in Molly Hooper's sickeningly perfect handwriting. Half a bottle of semi-skimmed milk. A small egg carton, which actually contained eggs. She caught one of the fruit drawers with her index finger and coaxed it open. Apples. Pears. A loaf of whole-grain bread.
"Hungry?" said John, standing in the doorway, and Harry leapt out of her skin.
"Yeah," she said, shoving the drawer shut. "Peckish. Do you fancy lunch?"
John set his shopping bag on the table. "Tea and sandwiches?"
"Great," Harry said, resuming her seat at the table, heart pounding in sheer relief.
Mycroft was going to be ever so disappointed.
47
*Team Drag*
Sally's first response was a very loud "No!" and a step back, because the thought of helping Sherlock change gender managed to be scary and outrageous at the same time.
He wouldn't take no for an answer, though, "Why not? You need an inside woman and Lestrade won't let me use one of you!"
"I don't care! I'm not gonna help you become a woman!"
"Why not?"
"Because it's awkward!"
Sherlock dismissed her with a wave of his hand, "I used to do it all the time when I was a kid!"
"Oh, well, that makes it less bizarre," said Sally, still keeping a safe distance from the man with mad ideas.
"You mean like playing dress up?" Mrs. Hudson giggled. "That is so adorable!"
Sherlock looked at her as if she had offended him deeply.
"I was Lady Macbeth twice in school productions," Sherlock said, a bit to proudly. "But then my voice thickened and they pushed me to male roles."
From the corner of the room, John laughed. "I have to ask Mycroft for pictures."
"By the way, I'll need to reach a higher pitch. Any suggestions?"
"You could try honey, I think I got some-"
"Sherlock!" Sarah called out, making Mrs. Hudson shut. "Is not just that none of us feels comfortable doing it-"
John cut in, "Amusing as it is the thought of you trying to find balance in red stilettos-"
"Or ballerina flats," Molly suggested.
"Ooh! Those would look good!" said Mrs. Hudson.
Sarah spoke a little louder, "Even so, to make you a woman would be nearly impossible."
"I know," Sherlock said, giving her a mischievous look. "Don't you love a challenge?"
"No when it involves you in pantyhose, I don't," Sally said, making John giggle some more.
"Think of it this way, it's a bigger challenge to do it all by yourself," Sarah said.
"I did think of that," Sherlock replied. "However, time is of the essence and I fear doing it alone will only end in more dead bodies before the weekend. While that would surely help the case, I know you," he pointed at Sally, and then at John, "and you are not very fond of it, so this is the fastest way. But to get ready by tomorrow night, I need the five of you, or else we'll have to wait another week and your suspect will walk freely for seven days more. Anybody wanting to take that chance?"
Mrs. Hudson said, "Well, I'm in here for whatever you need me this. This sounds exciting."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
Molly gnawed on her lips, but decided, with a depressing sigh, "Yeah, fine, not like you'd be the first man who ever asked to wear my pantyhose."
"Sarah?" Sherlock asked quickly, before Sally could ask further questions on Molly's little revelation.
Sarah looked at John. John shrugged, "If you're in, I'm in."
"Then you can count us both on your Team Drag. For the sake of public safety."
"Excellent," and turned to Sally.
Stared at her for a moment.
She finally sighed and rolled her eyes, "I'm in if you don't look too happy about it."
Sherlock gave a little jump and held his fists up in victory, but refrained a gleeful squeal. When he felt it was safe to open his mouth again without getting Sally to walk out, he said, "Thank you!"
"Go Team Drag!" Mrs. Hudson cheered.
"Quick question," John raised his hand, "First, is that name written on stone? And second, why do you need five people?"
"I need Sally to do my hair, Molly to fix my make-up, Mrs. Hudson to teach me how to behave more girly and Sarah to pick my clothes."
"And what am I here for?"
"You're the muscle of this operation."
"Meaning?"
"You'll help me close the corset, to make me more 'hourglassy'. It has to be tight."
John smirked, "And by the way, have you decided where you going to keep your balls during the whole ordeal?"
48
Seven days, four hours and twelve minutes. Yes, he was counting. And approximately sixty-eight hours to go.
John’s family visit was annoying. The first day had been tolerable, curled up on the sofa, but then his laptop had run out of battery and his phone had died and the cords were in his bedroom. And it was cold. No one was making him tea. There was nothing to do.
Sixty-seven hours left.
---
Harry was being tedious, but she was sober and John considered that a success. They’d gone to dinner, keeping the conversation away from Sherlock and Clara and Oh, Johnny, are you really still wearing that sweater? for the sanity of everyone present. Not a total drain on his patience, but he was starting to sorely miss the comforts of Baker Street.
“Good evening. Here are your menus.” The waiter, a tall bearded man with transition lenses and his hair slicked back, hovered oddly over the siblings. “The special this evening is a pan-seared pork chop with garlic potatoes. I’ll give you both a few minutes to look over the menu.” He bowed uncomfortably and stalked away.
“So much for the service here,” Harry said, sipping her water with purpose.
“Maybe he’s new.” John picked up his menu and was half way through the pasta dishes when they were approached by an aproned girl with a bright smile.
“Hi! I’m Cheryl and I’ll be taking care of you this evening. I see you have your menus….”
“What happened to our first waiter? The, um, he had glasses?”
Cheryl, smile still firmly in place, said she had no idea what he was talking about and let them know about the special.
---
The walk home was easy. Harry was silent, thinking that perhaps next time she’d specify a much shorter visit. It’s not that they didn’t get along. They simply had nothing in common. There’s only so much daytime telly and children’s board games two grown people can handle.
John was thinking about Sarah, and how he’d really liked the way she smelled, silently berating himself for mucking it up so completely, when a cyclist stopped next to them to check a map. It was a remarkably tall woman, with blond hair coming from under helmet in a tangle.
John got the distinct impression that she was staring at the back of his head.
When he told Harry, she turned back to check, but the there wasn’t a cyclist in sight.
---
4AM and John drags himself from under the blankets in Harry’s flowery guest bedroom (Clara) to the hall bathroom. He left the lights in the hall off, but could swear he saw the curtains in the front room shiver in the soft moonlight spilling in.
---
John spent the next forty-odd hours becoming increasingly twitchy. There had been a custodian at Morrisons that seemed to sweep every aisle John needed to walk down; a woman with a pram jogging in the park as he walked back to Harry’s with his shopping in tow that kept a consistent few yards back despite his change in speed; he shared his train car home with only one other person, who slept with sunglasses on and was covered in the overcoat of a giant despite the mild weather.
It was tense muscles and wild eyes that he walked into the flat to find Sherlock sprawled on the couch, in what John still swears was the exact position he left him in.
“Have you managed to do a single thing while I was gone or have you just been lying there this whole time?”
“Hello to you as well,” Sherlock said, twisting around and glancing backwards at John. “Isn’t that the sort of social nicety you would, ah, admonish me for ignoring?”
John shook his head, trying not to chuckle, when he noticed a set of transition lenses and a crumpled map hidden under the coffee table.
VOTING CLOSES AT MIDNIGHT ON THE 30TH SEPTEMBER
Poll Round 1Open to: all, results viewable to: none
What are your three favourite stories?