(no subject)
OK people, the time you've all been waiting for...
ginbitch here with... THE RESULTS!!
In First Place,
Winning 3 canes
for Team Watson
jesse_kips
22.
“Find him,” Sherlock growls from his hospital bed, leg encased in a bright-white cast and a bandage wrapped around his head; indications of how risky his work is, and how close Moriarty keeps coming to breaking him permanently.
“Of course,” Mycroft replies, and he means it. Even as they speak he has four different teams out trying to locate Sherlock’s wayward doctor.
Sherlock’s scowl only deepens. “I mean it, Mycroft,” he says lowly. “I want you to find him in person. John is too important to lose due to a mistake by one of your men.”
Mycroft stills because he knows how much it cost Sherlock to ask him this, to have to leave John’s safety fully in his hands. Sherlock is trusting in Mycroft again, as he did when he was a wild-haired child dragging at Mycroft’s coattails.
He looks at Sherlock; the tight lines around his eyes and his clenched hands, and taps his umbrella on the floor, twists it slightly against the tile and nods. His brother won’t beg, and Mycroft won’t ask him to.
They’ve always understood each other when it was truly important, after all.
*~*
Usually, Mycroft abhors legwork. He is much more at home sitting behind a desk watching the many branches of an operation, the many forms of information, come together into a cohesive conclusion.
In this case, however, a much more hands on method is necessary.
Mycroft starts by searching the place his brother and John were found. It is unsettling to witness the blood which stains the ground where Sherlock lay, the numerous marks which show how John was caught unawares, dragged away from his brother who was unable to follow.
He had almost forgotten what it was like to see clues and information in something other than people and their reactions - it is somewhat refreshing. Perhaps he should attempt to work this way more often.
“Moriarty is watching, Sir,” Anthea says, as informative and neutral as ever despite the unusual circumstance, and Mycroft nods as he shifts a newspaper with his umbrella, exposes half a shoe-print.
“Then we shall have to make sure we move quickly,” he says as he straightens. “One of his men was wearing bespoke footwear. We simply must congratulate his shoemaker in person; they look to be remarkable quality.”
*~*
The shoemaker is very helpful, once he is made aware of the full scope of Mycroft’s ability to bring his world, both financial and personal, come crashing down around his ears.
His information leads to a gentlemen’s club, which in turn leads to a hidden gambling ring, which in turn leads to Mycroft uncovering a huge section of Moriarty’s lower agents.
Mycroft stands above one such man, lying in the dirt at his feet as the tip of Mycroft’s umbrella digs into his sternum.
“Where is he?” Mycroft asks, sharply. He has had less than four hours of sleep over the past three days; he is tired and rumpled, running on adrenaline and hideously expensive coffee, and he promised his brother that he would be the person who located John. He blinks away his tiredness and places more weight onto his umbrella. “Where?”
The man stutters out an address and Mycroft thanks him with a smile before signalling his men to take him away.
*~*
“Mycroft?” John slurs up at him, one eye swollen shut. “You doin’ here?”
Mycroft smiles his blandest smile, and gestures over his shoulder. Instantly one of his men moves to John’s side, cutting him free and catching him as he slumps towards the floor. “I am here to collect you, of course,” he replies, and John looks up at him, confused.
“B’you hate legwork,” he mumbles through bloodied lips.
Mycroft’s smile turns slightly more real at that. “Sometimes the personal touch is needed,” he informs John, who looks at him blankly for a moment before his eyes roll back in his head and he faints.
*~*
Thank you - SH
How polite, Sherlock.
Are they sure your head
is undamaged despite
your injuries? -MH
SHUT UP. John made
me text you. Don’t expect
any further gratitude -SH
You owe me work on
at least four cases -MH
BUGGER OFF
I shall let you know
when I need you - MH
FINE. But I’m only
doing 3 - SH
Mycroft smiles at his brother’s final text and puts his phone down. Moriarty apprehended, a return to leg-work and an agreement from Sherlock; despite his still-aching feet, this has been a very good week indeed.
In Second Place
winnning 2 canes for
Team Sherlock
myfieldnotes2.
They force-marched John down the Afghan prison hallway. Doggedly he continued to demand in broken Pashto to speak to an embassy representative, just as he had from the moment he'd been seized in the Kabul airport after what was supposed to be a quick, seventy-two hour trip to help out an old mate.
That had been eight days ago.
The trouble had begun when John was pulled from line for his plane home. No explanation given. Just an authoritative hand on his arm.
Now his guards were acting…different.
None would meet his eyes.
Licking dry lips, John's heart accelerated, suspecting trouble was about to go from not good to dire. He grimly evaluated which guard he'd try to take first.
An officer, speaking rapid-fire, strode towards John's escort. John blinked realizing the heavily accented words were for him. "You did not tell us. Not you are a doctor. Not you are helping Doctor Sans Borders." As if John hadn't all but shouted this information through the small bars until he'd gone hoarse. Urgently he continued, "We did not know. You tell him. You are well treated. No torture. No trouble."
"Him?" John stumbled, uncertain.
John's escort thrust him into a small office. "The Lieutenant is stating his realization that you are a man with government contacts." Like a cold drink in the Sahara, Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, dressed in a crisp shirt and dark suit, coolly surveying the kalashnikov-armed men and John.
"Of course, my…uh…government contact. Who is…?" Relief made John's knees weak.
"Someone with whom this man's superiors do not wish to interfere." Sherlock gave the officer a disdainful glance and said in flawless Pashto, "Now it's time to speak to Dr. Watson."
"Of course." The lieutenant removed his men, and in one fluid move Sherlock shut the door in their faces.
Sherlock rounded, the disdainful expression transforming as he took in John's condition in a glance. No doubt seeing everything. Some of which John wanted him to see and some he did not. "John?"
"Fine," John affirmed quietly. For an instant there was a flicker of profound relief before Sherlock turned away to pat his pockets searchingly. "But nobody will tell me anything. I don't know why I'm bloody here."
Sherlock produced his mobile, tapped an app with bunny ears and a cancel symbol and set it down, "Oh, I do. They found ten pounds of opium in your pack."
John sputtered, "That's absurd."
"Of course it is. You have only to look at the packaging to know it was assembled by a right-handed smoker. Perhaps your friend Hakim is into something shady. More likely the local drug cartel thought if they could get rid of you, the new medical station you just helped arrange for their village would fail."
"Or… I... You can't know for certain I'm innocent."
Sherlock's face softened. "I have access to certain evidence they do not." He cleared his throat, continuing, "Your detention wasn't reported to the embassy. It took me a bit of backtracking to find you, otherwise I would have been here sooner."
Sherlock reached across the table, hesitating a moment before taking John's abraded wrists in his hands, studying the damage there briefly before examining the handcuffs. "Older model. Russian."
Sherlock's lips twisted. "My brother said he'd send an asset to ascertain your whereabouts. As if I would trust that lot."
"But don't we need him to get out of here?"
"I said I didn't trust his assets to find you. I did not say I didn't trust his credentials to free you." One handed, Sherlock produced an official looking ID, a much more important one than that of detective inspector.
"Oh. My. God. We're going to go to jail. In our own country!" John hissed, pulling free.
"Please." Sherlock recaptured John's wrist, turning it about. "Mycroft can have anything made; it was scarcely a bother to have his credentials re-issued with my picture. No doubt he's getting some narcissistic pleasure in being a field agent without having to leave the comfort of his office." With a click, Sherlock held John's open handcuffs aloft. "There. Now, shall we?"
"Sherlock…"
Sherlock's triumphant gaze faltered, and his voice lowered to a whisper. "No need. I knew a former soldier would be more than fine. But Mycroft worries."
"Right. Mycroft." John nodded.
"Oh, yes. Constantly." Then Sherlock held up the ID badge, looked around the Afghan prison he was about to con them out of. "I can't imagine why."
In Joint 3rd Place
Winning 1 cane for their teams:
mrwubbles for Team Mycroft
thisprettywren for Team Wason
sc010f for Team Lestrade
distracted_kat for Team Sherlock
6.mrwubbles
It bothered him that he even noticed. Picking up tiny details was Sherlock's expertise.
But that wasn't his scarf.
John stared at the tartan intruder hanging off Sherlock's neck. The monstrosity begged for euthanasia. It wasn't even wrapped properly around Sherlock's throat to ward off the chill hovering indecisively above London.
"Popping out?" John asked. He still could only manage a whisper.
Sherlock grunted. He opened a book, closed it, glared at his skull then yanked the scarf off. He put it back on after he checked his mobile.
"Lestrade texted?" John tried again because he was sick of the silence. He glowered at Sherlock, but as usual, Sherlock didn't notice as he wound the scarf around his neck with a scowl.
The door didn't slam but the hurried footsteps down the stairs told John it was indeed case related. He wanted to follow, but saw the wisdom against it.
John grimaced. He tried to settle back on the couch that had been his home this past week. Numerous pillows were uncomfortably stuffed behind his back thanks to Mrs. Hudson. But he hadn't the heart to ask her to stop jamming more pillows behind him. She kept coming upstairs to make him tea. She placed the remote, his laptop and his mobile in a wicker basket within reach. She brought him magazines from Tesco's. She watched EastEnders with him every day.
She found him dying on the floor first.
If John concentrated, he could see Sherlock still frozen under their doorway, staring at the spectacle Mrs. Hudson must have made when she screamed for Sherlock. John saw himself on the ground, trying to tell Sherlock Bancroft didn't leave London after all and had waited for one of them in their flat with the knife he used to kill five other men.
Sherlock just knelt by John and-Christ, whatever Sherlock did made his belly reignite with the agony he'd pushed aside. The last thing he remembered was staring up at Sherlock's tight-lipped grimace and the spots of his own blood on Sherlock's face.
"Comfy, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked when she sailed in, tsking when she observed the papers that carpeted the floor.
John winced. Perhaps throwing the London Times at a presently mute Sherlock was puerile. But at the time, it was something to do. He started to apologize but she was already cleaning up, muttering "Oh that Sherlock" in that half amused, half exasperated tone she use whenever she discovered a head in the fridge, bullet holes on her walls or eyeballs in mason jars.
"You stay right where you are," Mrs. Hudson instructed. She dropped a warm bundle on his lap. "Did your laundry. Fold those, please. I'll put them away."
Given a task mollified John, who wasn't permitted to do anything more than bond with the couch and was ignored by Sherlock like one. He plucked absently at the shirts and-Good God-boxers wadded up in a lump, smelling like soap and flowers. He paused as he sorted through them. He held up what he found.
"Isn't this…" He gathered the blue scarf into his grip. A whiff of something metallic released-unfamiliar yet damningly familiar.
Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen. She balanced a beaker of yellowish…something in one hand and furry bread in the other. She spared him a look. "Hm? Oh. I hope I got all the blood out this time." She shuddered. "Found it on the floor. It was ruined by the time I returned from the hospital. Sherlock said to burn it." She smiled indulgently while she binned the bread and beaker. "I was sure I could save it though."
John absently squeezed the scarf. He could feel the rug underneath him again, heat seeping through his skin, fear crystallizing like sand on his tongue as he lay there. Sherlock had crouched over him as if in prayer, which was ridiculous because Sherlock regarded religio-
Oh.
Gripping the scarf tightly, John caught himself smiling stupidly at it. His mobile chose this moment to beep. A glance at it and his smile widened.
Found Bancroft. SH
John carefully smoothed out and folded the scarf. He settled it on his lap and kept a hand over it, his thumb stroking the fibers that had softened to something entirely new. With his other hand, John typed:
You forgot your scarf.
John settled back into the cushions and wait for Sherlock to come home.
11.thisprettywren
If someone had told her that morning that she would find anything about that day significant except that George--her George--was sentenced to execution, she would have laughed.
That afternoon she met Sherlock Holmes.
In retrospect, Mrs Hudson couldn’t honestly say which had changed her life more.
**
He’d been collected and imperious, nearly snide, while he testified to the evidence that George’s murder of Henry Short had been premeditated. Afterward she found herself thinking about the way his pale eyes had locked on her face while he talked, wondering what it was he hoped to read there.
She didn’t know what had made her look him up upon her return to London, but with a name like that he wasn’t exactly hard to find. They met for coffee, on neutral ground. He seemed different, somehow, than she remembered him. At loose ends.
In the end, she’d invited him back to hers for a cup of tea. Poor thing, he was so thin; he needed someone to look after him.
**
She knew when it was time: long periods of silence from the first floor punctuated by the tortured sounds of the violin, the nice doctor’s footsteps sounding heavier on the stairs.
At first she’d just brought him the papers, pointed out potential cases that she hoped would catch his interest. A robbery, a forgery. An acquaintance’s husband being blackmailed.
“Dull. Obvious. Boring.”
It stung, more than it had when he first moved in and she’d find the dinners she prepared for him still sitting on the table the next morning, untouched. That was before she understood him, of course.
Poor Sherlock, her Sherlock. He might be eating better now, but he was still bored, so dreadfully bored that all of London couldn’t entertain him.
All of London didn’t know him like she did.
The next time she’d just have to try harder.
**
Sometimes she’d bring him her own problems, or a friend’s, leaving out random pieces of information to make it more interesting. Before long she became quite adept at recognising which pieces of information were crucial, which omissions would make a case more difficult to solve, which would make it impossible.
What would need to be covered up to ensure that no one would ever solve the case at all.
From there it was easy, a natural progression from finding challenges to creating them. It was incredibly simple, for someone like her; so ordinary, apparently above suspicion. Trustworthy.
When she saw the doctor’s account of the that dreadful business with the pills, she couldn’t help but smile. Sherlock Holmes sees through everyone and everything, but what’s amazing is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.
“Not everyone, dear,” she said to herself.
It made her feel special, to be the one puzzle he couldn’t solve.
(She wondered, sometimes, what Sherlock would do if he ever found out.)
She supposed it did her as much good as it did Sherlock, coming up with new and inventive ways to challenge him. She wasn’t getting any younger, after all. She was a pragmatist: she’d lowered her hemlines years ago, took her vitamins every day, and now she’d found a way to keep her mind sharp.
An unconventional way to care for someone, true, but then, she’d never been overly concerned with convention. She only wanted the best for Sherlock, and her best is what she gave him.
Custom-made puzzles, just for him.
**
There it was again, heavy steps on the stairs. The poor doctor, such a nice man, but he didn’t know Sherlock like she did. Not yet, anyway. She’s seen it in his face, after they came home that first night; in time, he might be able to do for Sherlock what she did for him.
In the meantime, she didn’t mind. She knew how to take care of her boys, and it kept the repair bills down.
She dried her hands on a towel, grabbed the evening paper and started up the stairs, already suppressing a smile in anticipation of seeing Sherlock’s face light up.
It had been easier than she thought it would be, taking a life. She wondered, idly, if that should trouble her conscience more.
“Look, Sherlock. A nice murder; that ought to cheer you up.”
The upward quirk of his mouth told her she’d done well.
32.sc010f
The Dormouse
It's not the sheep in the sitting room, or the cow later that week that woke John with her plaintive lowing at four in the morning.
It's not the fact that Sherlock still has no concept of personal space with him. Crowding, backing away, pulling, pushing, tugging.
It's not the hairnet he wore one night.
Or the hot rollers (borrowed from Mrs Hudson) the next.
John did laugh and laugh at the frizzy ringlets that had burst out around his head in a black scrub of hair.
And because it's Sherlock, none of it seems - at least after the initial shock of the skull and the eyeballs in the microwave and Wayne-of-the-fridge (Lestrade swears it's Rooney's long lost twin) and even Lestrade's blasé acceptance of it all - none of it seems weird.
Which should probably trouble John, but it doesn't.
What does trouble him, however, is when he comes home one afternoon to find the flat completely tidy and smelling of bleach.
The ratty furniture has been cleaned, the mantle dusted and polished. The wallpaper, even, has been refurbished. The smiley face, the bullet holes, the stains from the sheep shit: gone.
Even the funny smell underneath the television is gone.
And the kitchen…
John boggles. It's so… clean.
And it's also unnaturally silent.
Come to think of it, he hasn't seen Mrs Hudson all day.
It's only then he realizes that there's no Sherlock here, either.
The violin is there, though, neatly in its case. His laptop is there, shut down and silent. Next to it, his microscope.
What the hell is going on?
John races to Sherlock's bedroom.
Bed: made. Floor: clean. Books: gone. Clothes: neatly hung up.
And in the middle of the bed, a bottle with a bright yellow liquid inside - Limoncello.
A note, tied with a ribbon around the neck of the bottle, and two words:
Drink Me
It's Sherlock again, John's sure. Being… normal.
John watches crap telly, gets takeaway, tidies up (seems a shame to mess the place up after all the effort that's been put into it), and goes to bed.
And wakes the next morning, staring at a chocolate croissant wrapped in a ribbon, and with a note attached:
Eat Me
John gets up, takes his shower. Ignores the patisserie.
Downstairs, the flat is still clean as it had been the night before. John notices that there's even milk in the fridge.
He makes tea - like he always does. And opens his computer.
One new email.
Sent with high importance.
The subject line:
Read Me
John's used to feeling like he's got a target on his back. The prickle of the hairs on his neck, the tightness between his shoulder blades. But he'd not felt that since Afghanistan.
Until now.
He looks up, over the screen of the computer, and on the otherwise empty and spotless table are the bottle from last night and the croissant from this morning.
A new email pops up with a bleep that makes him jump.
Sent with high importance.
The subject line:
Well, John? Care for a trip down the rabbit hole?
And another one:
What's the matter? Won't chase after your white rabbit?
The sender's email address is simply "M".
John bolts from his chair and races upstairs to grab his gun.
The phone rings.
His mobile chirps.
The computer bleeps, another email.
Don't be late, late for your important date!
Bart's rooftop.
20 minutes.
Oh, and, John, we're all mad here.
33.distracted_kat
Chesire Cat Grinning
It doesn’t have to be this way, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, hands in his pockets and an understanding smile beneath empty eyes.
Sherlock adjusted his grip on John’s handgun, still leveled on Moriarty’s chest, sparing a glance at his flatmate where he crouched against the changing stalls. “I won’t join you; it’s pointless to ask. And quite predictable.”
“That is a shame.” Moriarty lifted both shoulders in a shrug. “But then, you’d hardly be a chaos being if you went along with plans. We’ll get the chance to talk again later, after we’ve taken care of your little...” His gaze slid over to John, so quiet, so ordinary. “Pet.”
Confusion flickered in Sherlock’s eyes when Moriarty mentioned the chaos being. John sighed to himself as tiny pieces of a grand puzzle fit entirely too neatly together.
How boring.
“I know what you’re after,” John said, calm and just a touch taunting.
Moriarty glared at him. “I sincerely doubt that, Dr. Watson.”
But John only smiled up at him. “You’re looking for a Cheshire Cat.”
A jolt of surprise shook the consulting criminal’s entire body. “How did you--?”
“That’s why you set up the firm, isn’t it?” John’s head tilted coyly even as his smile split into a grin. “You’re trying to create enough chaos to attract a Cheshire Cat. You think it’s Sherlock, don’t you, but look at him. He doesn’t even know. So tell me, Mr. Moriarty.” John stood, sliding up the pole at his back until he could lean against it with terrible ease. “What would you do with a Cat, if you caught one?”
Recognition lit Moriarty’s eyes, followed quickly by a ravenous hunger. He took a step toward John, lifting a hand out of his pocket to touch the air between them. “I would gorge him on chaos. He would sit by the throne of an empire and want for nothing. I would burn the world for him.”
“What in hell,” Sherlock snapped, “are you babbling about?”
They both looked at him. “Cheshire Cats, Sherlock,” John said. “They’re chaos beings, the oldest kind. They live on chaos, and if you can create enough of it in any one place, you can draw one to your side. The Cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was a caricature of one, with all the salient features.”
“They look so normal,” Moriarty murmured, studying John tenderly. “They could be anyone, you can never tell until they start to play to their nature, until they’re steeped in chaos, making it dance for them. It’s an appealing thought, isn’t it?”
John smiled.
“Come with me,” the criminal insisted.
“Kneel in the still and silent ashes of what once was a world,” John mused, “or run beside a man who reorders the universe every time he looks at it.” His grin stretched, wide and dangerous with too many teeth. Violet bubbled in his eyes, pockets of it in the deep blue. Moriarty’s hunger spiked. “I’ll run, thanks.”
The greed in Moriarty’s expression collapsed into a murderous rage. He looked again at Sherlock, not as toy this time but rival. “You can’t have him!”
Moriarty lunged forward with no thought other than to end the one who had stolen his Cheshire Cat. Sherlock jerked back, badly confused and displeased by it. He tried to level the gun on Moriarty again, but couldn’t raise the weapon fast enough.
John’s grin widened an impossible inch. His eyes washed violet, nothing left of the white, with a thick catslit pupil bisecting the unusual color. He took a step forward. The attention of both geniuses snapped to him in time to watch him fade from reality.
A blink later, and one of the snipers cursed vividly. His gun fired, again and again, followed by the shocked retaliatory rounds of his comrades. They killed each other accidentally, started at the first by a creature of pure chaos.
Above it all, John laughed.
When the sniper sights were gone, John reappeared beside Sherlock, grin first. “You did want to shoot that vest, didn’t you, Sherlock?” he cajoled. “Go on; do it. Let’s see what happens.”
Sherlock stared at him.
Moriarty snarled, his face twisted in anger. "I am the one who called you here!" he howled. “You are mine!”
“I belong to no one,” John replied, preternatural eyes huge in the dim lighting. “Do it, Sherlock,” he murmured again.
...Well, it wouldn’t be the stupidest thing Sherlock had ever done.
Moriarty lunged for them. Sherlock’s finger squeezed the trigger.
John snickered, and then laughed again, and the world dissolved in flame.
Voting was very close this time, and honourable mention should also go to kate_lear, who was one vote outside the money.
Results Totals:
1. Team Watson - 14 canes, 2 patches
2. Team Lestrade - 12 canes, 3 patches
3. Team Sherlock - 7 canes, 4 patches
4. Team Mycroft - 5 canes, 2 patches
ginbitch here with... THE RESULTS!!
In First Place,
Winning 3 canes
for Team Watson
jesse_kips
22.
“Find him,” Sherlock growls from his hospital bed, leg encased in a bright-white cast and a bandage wrapped around his head; indications of how risky his work is, and how close Moriarty keeps coming to breaking him permanently.
“Of course,” Mycroft replies, and he means it. Even as they speak he has four different teams out trying to locate Sherlock’s wayward doctor.
Sherlock’s scowl only deepens. “I mean it, Mycroft,” he says lowly. “I want you to find him in person. John is too important to lose due to a mistake by one of your men.”
Mycroft stills because he knows how much it cost Sherlock to ask him this, to have to leave John’s safety fully in his hands. Sherlock is trusting in Mycroft again, as he did when he was a wild-haired child dragging at Mycroft’s coattails.
He looks at Sherlock; the tight lines around his eyes and his clenched hands, and taps his umbrella on the floor, twists it slightly against the tile and nods. His brother won’t beg, and Mycroft won’t ask him to.
They’ve always understood each other when it was truly important, after all.
*~*
Usually, Mycroft abhors legwork. He is much more at home sitting behind a desk watching the many branches of an operation, the many forms of information, come together into a cohesive conclusion.
In this case, however, a much more hands on method is necessary.
Mycroft starts by searching the place his brother and John were found. It is unsettling to witness the blood which stains the ground where Sherlock lay, the numerous marks which show how John was caught unawares, dragged away from his brother who was unable to follow.
He had almost forgotten what it was like to see clues and information in something other than people and their reactions - it is somewhat refreshing. Perhaps he should attempt to work this way more often.
“Moriarty is watching, Sir,” Anthea says, as informative and neutral as ever despite the unusual circumstance, and Mycroft nods as he shifts a newspaper with his umbrella, exposes half a shoe-print.
“Then we shall have to make sure we move quickly,” he says as he straightens. “One of his men was wearing bespoke footwear. We simply must congratulate his shoemaker in person; they look to be remarkable quality.”
*~*
The shoemaker is very helpful, once he is made aware of the full scope of Mycroft’s ability to bring his world, both financial and personal, come crashing down around his ears.
His information leads to a gentlemen’s club, which in turn leads to a hidden gambling ring, which in turn leads to Mycroft uncovering a huge section of Moriarty’s lower agents.
Mycroft stands above one such man, lying in the dirt at his feet as the tip of Mycroft’s umbrella digs into his sternum.
“Where is he?” Mycroft asks, sharply. He has had less than four hours of sleep over the past three days; he is tired and rumpled, running on adrenaline and hideously expensive coffee, and he promised his brother that he would be the person who located John. He blinks away his tiredness and places more weight onto his umbrella. “Where?”
The man stutters out an address and Mycroft thanks him with a smile before signalling his men to take him away.
*~*
“Mycroft?” John slurs up at him, one eye swollen shut. “You doin’ here?”
Mycroft smiles his blandest smile, and gestures over his shoulder. Instantly one of his men moves to John’s side, cutting him free and catching him as he slumps towards the floor. “I am here to collect you, of course,” he replies, and John looks up at him, confused.
“B’you hate legwork,” he mumbles through bloodied lips.
Mycroft’s smile turns slightly more real at that. “Sometimes the personal touch is needed,” he informs John, who looks at him blankly for a moment before his eyes roll back in his head and he faints.
*~*
Thank you - SH
How polite, Sherlock.
Are they sure your head
is undamaged despite
your injuries? -MH
SHUT UP. John made
me text you. Don’t expect
any further gratitude -SH
You owe me work on
at least four cases -MH
BUGGER OFF
I shall let you know
when I need you - MH
FINE. But I’m only
doing 3 - SH
Mycroft smiles at his brother’s final text and puts his phone down. Moriarty apprehended, a return to leg-work and an agreement from Sherlock; despite his still-aching feet, this has been a very good week indeed.
In Second Place
winnning 2 canes for
Team Sherlock
myfieldnotes2.
They force-marched John down the Afghan prison hallway. Doggedly he continued to demand in broken Pashto to speak to an embassy representative, just as he had from the moment he'd been seized in the Kabul airport after what was supposed to be a quick, seventy-two hour trip to help out an old mate.
That had been eight days ago.
The trouble had begun when John was pulled from line for his plane home. No explanation given. Just an authoritative hand on his arm.
Now his guards were acting…different.
None would meet his eyes.
Licking dry lips, John's heart accelerated, suspecting trouble was about to go from not good to dire. He grimly evaluated which guard he'd try to take first.
An officer, speaking rapid-fire, strode towards John's escort. John blinked realizing the heavily accented words were for him. "You did not tell us. Not you are a doctor. Not you are helping Doctor Sans Borders." As if John hadn't all but shouted this information through the small bars until he'd gone hoarse. Urgently he continued, "We did not know. You tell him. You are well treated. No torture. No trouble."
"Him?" John stumbled, uncertain.
John's escort thrust him into a small office. "The Lieutenant is stating his realization that you are a man with government contacts." Like a cold drink in the Sahara, Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, dressed in a crisp shirt and dark suit, coolly surveying the kalashnikov-armed men and John.
"Of course, my…uh…government contact. Who is…?" Relief made John's knees weak.
"Someone with whom this man's superiors do not wish to interfere." Sherlock gave the officer a disdainful glance and said in flawless Pashto, "Now it's time to speak to Dr. Watson."
"Of course." The lieutenant removed his men, and in one fluid move Sherlock shut the door in their faces.
Sherlock rounded, the disdainful expression transforming as he took in John's condition in a glance. No doubt seeing everything. Some of which John wanted him to see and some he did not. "John?"
"Fine," John affirmed quietly. For an instant there was a flicker of profound relief before Sherlock turned away to pat his pockets searchingly. "But nobody will tell me anything. I don't know why I'm bloody here."
Sherlock produced his mobile, tapped an app with bunny ears and a cancel symbol and set it down, "Oh, I do. They found ten pounds of opium in your pack."
John sputtered, "That's absurd."
"Of course it is. You have only to look at the packaging to know it was assembled by a right-handed smoker. Perhaps your friend Hakim is into something shady. More likely the local drug cartel thought if they could get rid of you, the new medical station you just helped arrange for their village would fail."
"Or… I... You can't know for certain I'm innocent."
Sherlock's face softened. "I have access to certain evidence they do not." He cleared his throat, continuing, "Your detention wasn't reported to the embassy. It took me a bit of backtracking to find you, otherwise I would have been here sooner."
Sherlock reached across the table, hesitating a moment before taking John's abraded wrists in his hands, studying the damage there briefly before examining the handcuffs. "Older model. Russian."
Sherlock's lips twisted. "My brother said he'd send an asset to ascertain your whereabouts. As if I would trust that lot."
"But don't we need him to get out of here?"
"I said I didn't trust his assets to find you. I did not say I didn't trust his credentials to free you." One handed, Sherlock produced an official looking ID, a much more important one than that of detective inspector.
"Oh. My. God. We're going to go to jail. In our own country!" John hissed, pulling free.
"Please." Sherlock recaptured John's wrist, turning it about. "Mycroft can have anything made; it was scarcely a bother to have his credentials re-issued with my picture. No doubt he's getting some narcissistic pleasure in being a field agent without having to leave the comfort of his office." With a click, Sherlock held John's open handcuffs aloft. "There. Now, shall we?"
"Sherlock…"
Sherlock's triumphant gaze faltered, and his voice lowered to a whisper. "No need. I knew a former soldier would be more than fine. But Mycroft worries."
"Right. Mycroft." John nodded.
"Oh, yes. Constantly." Then Sherlock held up the ID badge, looked around the Afghan prison he was about to con them out of. "I can't imagine why."
In Joint 3rd Place
Winning 1 cane for their teams:
mrwubbles for Team Mycroft
thisprettywren for Team Wason
sc010f for Team Lestrade
distracted_kat for Team Sherlock
6.mrwubbles
It bothered him that he even noticed. Picking up tiny details was Sherlock's expertise.
But that wasn't his scarf.
John stared at the tartan intruder hanging off Sherlock's neck. The monstrosity begged for euthanasia. It wasn't even wrapped properly around Sherlock's throat to ward off the chill hovering indecisively above London.
"Popping out?" John asked. He still could only manage a whisper.
Sherlock grunted. He opened a book, closed it, glared at his skull then yanked the scarf off. He put it back on after he checked his mobile.
"Lestrade texted?" John tried again because he was sick of the silence. He glowered at Sherlock, but as usual, Sherlock didn't notice as he wound the scarf around his neck with a scowl.
The door didn't slam but the hurried footsteps down the stairs told John it was indeed case related. He wanted to follow, but saw the wisdom against it.
John grimaced. He tried to settle back on the couch that had been his home this past week. Numerous pillows were uncomfortably stuffed behind his back thanks to Mrs. Hudson. But he hadn't the heart to ask her to stop jamming more pillows behind him. She kept coming upstairs to make him tea. She placed the remote, his laptop and his mobile in a wicker basket within reach. She brought him magazines from Tesco's. She watched EastEnders with him every day.
She found him dying on the floor first.
If John concentrated, he could see Sherlock still frozen under their doorway, staring at the spectacle Mrs. Hudson must have made when she screamed for Sherlock. John saw himself on the ground, trying to tell Sherlock Bancroft didn't leave London after all and had waited for one of them in their flat with the knife he used to kill five other men.
Sherlock just knelt by John and-Christ, whatever Sherlock did made his belly reignite with the agony he'd pushed aside. The last thing he remembered was staring up at Sherlock's tight-lipped grimace and the spots of his own blood on Sherlock's face.
"Comfy, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked when she sailed in, tsking when she observed the papers that carpeted the floor.
John winced. Perhaps throwing the London Times at a presently mute Sherlock was puerile. But at the time, it was something to do. He started to apologize but she was already cleaning up, muttering "Oh that Sherlock" in that half amused, half exasperated tone she use whenever she discovered a head in the fridge, bullet holes on her walls or eyeballs in mason jars.
"You stay right where you are," Mrs. Hudson instructed. She dropped a warm bundle on his lap. "Did your laundry. Fold those, please. I'll put them away."
Given a task mollified John, who wasn't permitted to do anything more than bond with the couch and was ignored by Sherlock like one. He plucked absently at the shirts and-Good God-boxers wadded up in a lump, smelling like soap and flowers. He paused as he sorted through them. He held up what he found.
"Isn't this…" He gathered the blue scarf into his grip. A whiff of something metallic released-unfamiliar yet damningly familiar.
Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen. She balanced a beaker of yellowish…something in one hand and furry bread in the other. She spared him a look. "Hm? Oh. I hope I got all the blood out this time." She shuddered. "Found it on the floor. It was ruined by the time I returned from the hospital. Sherlock said to burn it." She smiled indulgently while she binned the bread and beaker. "I was sure I could save it though."
John absently squeezed the scarf. He could feel the rug underneath him again, heat seeping through his skin, fear crystallizing like sand on his tongue as he lay there. Sherlock had crouched over him as if in prayer, which was ridiculous because Sherlock regarded religio-
Oh.
Gripping the scarf tightly, John caught himself smiling stupidly at it. His mobile chose this moment to beep. A glance at it and his smile widened.
Found Bancroft. SH
John carefully smoothed out and folded the scarf. He settled it on his lap and kept a hand over it, his thumb stroking the fibers that had softened to something entirely new. With his other hand, John typed:
You forgot your scarf.
John settled back into the cushions and wait for Sherlock to come home.
11.thisprettywren
If someone had told her that morning that she would find anything about that day significant except that George--her George--was sentenced to execution, she would have laughed.
That afternoon she met Sherlock Holmes.
In retrospect, Mrs Hudson couldn’t honestly say which had changed her life more.
**
He’d been collected and imperious, nearly snide, while he testified to the evidence that George’s murder of Henry Short had been premeditated. Afterward she found herself thinking about the way his pale eyes had locked on her face while he talked, wondering what it was he hoped to read there.
She didn’t know what had made her look him up upon her return to London, but with a name like that he wasn’t exactly hard to find. They met for coffee, on neutral ground. He seemed different, somehow, than she remembered him. At loose ends.
In the end, she’d invited him back to hers for a cup of tea. Poor thing, he was so thin; he needed someone to look after him.
**
She knew when it was time: long periods of silence from the first floor punctuated by the tortured sounds of the violin, the nice doctor’s footsteps sounding heavier on the stairs.
At first she’d just brought him the papers, pointed out potential cases that she hoped would catch his interest. A robbery, a forgery. An acquaintance’s husband being blackmailed.
“Dull. Obvious. Boring.”
It stung, more than it had when he first moved in and she’d find the dinners she prepared for him still sitting on the table the next morning, untouched. That was before she understood him, of course.
Poor Sherlock, her Sherlock. He might be eating better now, but he was still bored, so dreadfully bored that all of London couldn’t entertain him.
All of London didn’t know him like she did.
The next time she’d just have to try harder.
**
Sometimes she’d bring him her own problems, or a friend’s, leaving out random pieces of information to make it more interesting. Before long she became quite adept at recognising which pieces of information were crucial, which omissions would make a case more difficult to solve, which would make it impossible.
What would need to be covered up to ensure that no one would ever solve the case at all.
From there it was easy, a natural progression from finding challenges to creating them. It was incredibly simple, for someone like her; so ordinary, apparently above suspicion. Trustworthy.
When she saw the doctor’s account of the that dreadful business with the pills, she couldn’t help but smile. Sherlock Holmes sees through everyone and everything, but what’s amazing is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.
“Not everyone, dear,” she said to herself.
It made her feel special, to be the one puzzle he couldn’t solve.
(She wondered, sometimes, what Sherlock would do if he ever found out.)
She supposed it did her as much good as it did Sherlock, coming up with new and inventive ways to challenge him. She wasn’t getting any younger, after all. She was a pragmatist: she’d lowered her hemlines years ago, took her vitamins every day, and now she’d found a way to keep her mind sharp.
An unconventional way to care for someone, true, but then, she’d never been overly concerned with convention. She only wanted the best for Sherlock, and her best is what she gave him.
Custom-made puzzles, just for him.
**
There it was again, heavy steps on the stairs. The poor doctor, such a nice man, but he didn’t know Sherlock like she did. Not yet, anyway. She’s seen it in his face, after they came home that first night; in time, he might be able to do for Sherlock what she did for him.
In the meantime, she didn’t mind. She knew how to take care of her boys, and it kept the repair bills down.
She dried her hands on a towel, grabbed the evening paper and started up the stairs, already suppressing a smile in anticipation of seeing Sherlock’s face light up.
It had been easier than she thought it would be, taking a life. She wondered, idly, if that should trouble her conscience more.
“Look, Sherlock. A nice murder; that ought to cheer you up.”
The upward quirk of his mouth told her she’d done well.
32.sc010f
The Dormouse
It's not the sheep in the sitting room, or the cow later that week that woke John with her plaintive lowing at four in the morning.
It's not the fact that Sherlock still has no concept of personal space with him. Crowding, backing away, pulling, pushing, tugging.
It's not the hairnet he wore one night.
Or the hot rollers (borrowed from Mrs Hudson) the next.
John did laugh and laugh at the frizzy ringlets that had burst out around his head in a black scrub of hair.
And because it's Sherlock, none of it seems - at least after the initial shock of the skull and the eyeballs in the microwave and Wayne-of-the-fridge (Lestrade swears it's Rooney's long lost twin) and even Lestrade's blasé acceptance of it all - none of it seems weird.
Which should probably trouble John, but it doesn't.
What does trouble him, however, is when he comes home one afternoon to find the flat completely tidy and smelling of bleach.
The ratty furniture has been cleaned, the mantle dusted and polished. The wallpaper, even, has been refurbished. The smiley face, the bullet holes, the stains from the sheep shit: gone.
Even the funny smell underneath the television is gone.
And the kitchen…
John boggles. It's so… clean.
And it's also unnaturally silent.
Come to think of it, he hasn't seen Mrs Hudson all day.
It's only then he realizes that there's no Sherlock here, either.
The violin is there, though, neatly in its case. His laptop is there, shut down and silent. Next to it, his microscope.
What the hell is going on?
John races to Sherlock's bedroom.
Bed: made. Floor: clean. Books: gone. Clothes: neatly hung up.
And in the middle of the bed, a bottle with a bright yellow liquid inside - Limoncello.
A note, tied with a ribbon around the neck of the bottle, and two words:
Drink Me
It's Sherlock again, John's sure. Being… normal.
John watches crap telly, gets takeaway, tidies up (seems a shame to mess the place up after all the effort that's been put into it), and goes to bed.
And wakes the next morning, staring at a chocolate croissant wrapped in a ribbon, and with a note attached:
Eat Me
John gets up, takes his shower. Ignores the patisserie.
Downstairs, the flat is still clean as it had been the night before. John notices that there's even milk in the fridge.
He makes tea - like he always does. And opens his computer.
One new email.
Sent with high importance.
The subject line:
Read Me
John's used to feeling like he's got a target on his back. The prickle of the hairs on his neck, the tightness between his shoulder blades. But he'd not felt that since Afghanistan.
Until now.
He looks up, over the screen of the computer, and on the otherwise empty and spotless table are the bottle from last night and the croissant from this morning.
A new email pops up with a bleep that makes him jump.
Sent with high importance.
The subject line:
Well, John? Care for a trip down the rabbit hole?
And another one:
What's the matter? Won't chase after your white rabbit?
The sender's email address is simply "M".
John bolts from his chair and races upstairs to grab his gun.
The phone rings.
His mobile chirps.
The computer bleeps, another email.
Don't be late, late for your important date!
Bart's rooftop.
20 minutes.
Oh, and, John, we're all mad here.
33.distracted_kat
Chesire Cat Grinning
It doesn’t have to be this way, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, hands in his pockets and an understanding smile beneath empty eyes.
Sherlock adjusted his grip on John’s handgun, still leveled on Moriarty’s chest, sparing a glance at his flatmate where he crouched against the changing stalls. “I won’t join you; it’s pointless to ask. And quite predictable.”
“That is a shame.” Moriarty lifted both shoulders in a shrug. “But then, you’d hardly be a chaos being if you went along with plans. We’ll get the chance to talk again later, after we’ve taken care of your little...” His gaze slid over to John, so quiet, so ordinary. “Pet.”
Confusion flickered in Sherlock’s eyes when Moriarty mentioned the chaos being. John sighed to himself as tiny pieces of a grand puzzle fit entirely too neatly together.
How boring.
“I know what you’re after,” John said, calm and just a touch taunting.
Moriarty glared at him. “I sincerely doubt that, Dr. Watson.”
But John only smiled up at him. “You’re looking for a Cheshire Cat.”
A jolt of surprise shook the consulting criminal’s entire body. “How did you--?”
“That’s why you set up the firm, isn’t it?” John’s head tilted coyly even as his smile split into a grin. “You’re trying to create enough chaos to attract a Cheshire Cat. You think it’s Sherlock, don’t you, but look at him. He doesn’t even know. So tell me, Mr. Moriarty.” John stood, sliding up the pole at his back until he could lean against it with terrible ease. “What would you do with a Cat, if you caught one?”
Recognition lit Moriarty’s eyes, followed quickly by a ravenous hunger. He took a step toward John, lifting a hand out of his pocket to touch the air between them. “I would gorge him on chaos. He would sit by the throne of an empire and want for nothing. I would burn the world for him.”
“What in hell,” Sherlock snapped, “are you babbling about?”
They both looked at him. “Cheshire Cats, Sherlock,” John said. “They’re chaos beings, the oldest kind. They live on chaos, and if you can create enough of it in any one place, you can draw one to your side. The Cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was a caricature of one, with all the salient features.”
“They look so normal,” Moriarty murmured, studying John tenderly. “They could be anyone, you can never tell until they start to play to their nature, until they’re steeped in chaos, making it dance for them. It’s an appealing thought, isn’t it?”
John smiled.
“Come with me,” the criminal insisted.
“Kneel in the still and silent ashes of what once was a world,” John mused, “or run beside a man who reorders the universe every time he looks at it.” His grin stretched, wide and dangerous with too many teeth. Violet bubbled in his eyes, pockets of it in the deep blue. Moriarty’s hunger spiked. “I’ll run, thanks.”
The greed in Moriarty’s expression collapsed into a murderous rage. He looked again at Sherlock, not as toy this time but rival. “You can’t have him!”
Moriarty lunged forward with no thought other than to end the one who had stolen his Cheshire Cat. Sherlock jerked back, badly confused and displeased by it. He tried to level the gun on Moriarty again, but couldn’t raise the weapon fast enough.
John’s grin widened an impossible inch. His eyes washed violet, nothing left of the white, with a thick catslit pupil bisecting the unusual color. He took a step forward. The attention of both geniuses snapped to him in time to watch him fade from reality.
A blink later, and one of the snipers cursed vividly. His gun fired, again and again, followed by the shocked retaliatory rounds of his comrades. They killed each other accidentally, started at the first by a creature of pure chaos.
Above it all, John laughed.
When the sniper sights were gone, John reappeared beside Sherlock, grin first. “You did want to shoot that vest, didn’t you, Sherlock?” he cajoled. “Go on; do it. Let’s see what happens.”
Sherlock stared at him.
Moriarty snarled, his face twisted in anger. "I am the one who called you here!" he howled. “You are mine!”
“I belong to no one,” John replied, preternatural eyes huge in the dim lighting. “Do it, Sherlock,” he murmured again.
...Well, it wouldn’t be the stupidest thing Sherlock had ever done.
Moriarty lunged for them. Sherlock’s finger squeezed the trigger.
John snickered, and then laughed again, and the world dissolved in flame.
Voting was very close this time, and honourable mention should also go to kate_lear, who was one vote outside the money.
Results Totals:
1. Team Watson - 14 canes, 2 patches
2. Team Lestrade - 12 canes, 3 patches
3. Team Sherlock - 7 canes, 4 patches
4. Team Mycroft - 5 canes, 2 patches