Fic: A Study in Character Creation (4/4)
Title: A Study in Character Creation, or: The first session is always awkward
Series: Better Than Reality
Rating: T
Genres: AU, Meta, Romance
Pairing: Preslash OMC/OMC (John/Sherlock sortakinda)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC, with a sprinkling of Cabin Pressure, The Office, and Office Space
Betas: gretchen4321 and percygranger
Britpicker: hms_wellington
Wordcount: 5,136 (this section); 12,297 total
"The human mind has a greater need of the ideal even than of the real. It is by the real that we exist; it is by the ideal that we live."
Victor Hugo, "William Shakespeare" (1864)
Tom, Arthur, David, and Laurie meet on Fridays for their weekly table-top role playing game. Their current campaign? John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Greg Lestrade must work together to solve the case of a mysterious string of suicides.
How many times have I told you - never split the party!
Prologue
Chapter 1: Awkward Introductions
Chapter 2: Random Kidnappings and Taxi Chases
Chapter Three: Keep Your Damn Clothes On
Tom's phone buzzed while he was still at the office on Friday afternoon. It had been an excruciatingly slow day and Tom was just waiting for the chance to go home and get ready for role playing. Tom glanced across at his co-worker's desk - Milton was still busy sorting paperclips - and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.
Arthur Bradstreet: Kenneth stole my oyster card. :( Going to be late to tonight's session. -A
Damn. He really didn't want to be stuck with David and Laurie as they whispered conspiratorially to each other over the kitchen counter. Last Christmas had been bad enough. He'd been the second person to arrive at their party - just after Laurie's sister, who had proceeded to flirt with Tom awkwardly before making a beeline for the tequila.
Tom quickly shot off a text while Milton noisily rooted through his desk drawers.Thomas Jones: need a lift? -tom
The response came less than a minute later.
Arthur Bradstreet: That would be lovely, thanks, if you don't mind. It's not too much bother, is it?
Thomas Jones: nope, txt me your address and i'll be by at 5:45
Arthur Bradstreet: 221B Baker St. Thanks so much!
Huh.
Thomas Jones: you used your own address in the game?
Arthur Bradstreet: Oh, yes, suppose I did. I'm not very imaginative.
When Tom looked up, Milton was staring at him blankly. "Have you seen my stapler?"
"No, can't say that I have. Sorry, Milton." He flushed and slid his phone back in his pocket. Another twenty three minutes, and he would be on his way home to change, and then off to Baker Street to pick up Arthur.
* * *
When Tom got to Baker Street (dead on quarter to six, as promised), there was no sign of Arthur. He cracked open the door and padded into the hallway. "Hello?"
Nothing.
He made his way up the staircase. The upstairs door was unlocked when Tom tried it, to his surprise. He stepped inside and glanced around curiously at Arthur's flat.
The first thing Tom noticed was the large number of model aeroplanes.
The flat was littered with them - strung up from the ceiling on bits of thread; propped up on the mantelpiece; a plane-in-progress on the kitchen table; and some half-painted ones on the table in the sitting room.
There were over two dozen planes in varying states of progress. Apparently Arthur wasn't kidding when he said he liked aeroplanes. Tom had thought it was a joke, at first - a pilot who was obsessed with aeroplanes? Tom couldn't fathom enjoying his job that much.
The second thing Tom noticed was Arthur's muffled voice, coming from behind a closed door just off the kitchen.
"No, Mum. Stop right there."
Overcome with curiosity, Tom crept closer to the door.
"You're not setting me up on another blind date! I'm not going to like her, no matter how lovely she is, and it's not fair-"
Tom tried to picture his own mum setting him up on a date. Maybe one of her co-workers from the telephone company. Tom stifled a snort. They would probably kill for a date with anyone who was gainfully employed and under the age of forty-five.
"I just know, Mum. Please. Don't-"
Arthur's voice was tinged with quiet desperation at this point. It sounded like he'd had this argument before.
"That's not the issue!" Arthur shouted, and a loud thump sounded through the thin wall. Arthur must have punched some unsuspecting piece of furniture. "Look, I'm sorry, Mum, it's just that I've got to go. We're role playing tonight, remember?"
Maybe Tom should wait downstairs. Still, Arthur had left the door unlocked. Surely he'd meant for Tom to come inside?
"Laurie's going out with David, mum."
The exasperated tone made Tom bite off a giggle. He could picture Arthur standing inside his room, mobile phone tucked between shoulder and cheek as he buttoned his shirt, rolling his eyes at his mother's attempts at matchmaking.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Arthur added, "Tom's single, I think."
Even with Arthur's light tone, Tom suddenly felt exceedingly uncomfortable about his current location, lurking outside what was most likely Arthur's bedroom. As quietly as he could, he padded back out to the first hallway, attempting to ignore Arthur's continuing murmurs.
He waited until a few minutes of silence had gone by before knocking loudly on the door leading into Arthur's flat. "Hello?"
There came the sound of a door unlatching hurriedly and Arthur's hasty shout of "One moment!"
The door flew inward, revealing Arthur, dressed in the same smart suit as last week, ears tinged pink and panting slightly, currently grinning broadly at Tom."You're just on time! Hang on, let me grab my dice and I'll be ready to go."
* * *
Arthur turned awkwardly to Tom as he buckled his seat belt. "Erm. Thanks for the lift."
"Yeah, no prob. It's on the way, anyway." Actually, it wasn't. It was sort of out of the way. But it seemed like a nice thing to say.
Arthur's sunny smile made it worth the lie.
"So, what... do you do, when, ah, you're not role playing?"
"I'm a journalist."
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
"That sounds exciting."
Tom snorted. "Yeah, well, that's what I'd thought too. Back when I was getting my degree, at any rate."
Tom spared a momentary sideways glance before settling his gaze back on the road ahead. Arthur was biting his lip, the corner of his mouth twitched up into a shy smile. Tom could have sworn Arthur had been looking at him, but he quickly shifted his gaze to his lap, his right leg bouncing up and down, and his hands fidgeting restlessly.
Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had fallen. "So... not all that you had hoped for, then?"
Tom had wanted to be a writer for as long as he can remember. When he entered university, he decided to study journalism in addition to creative writing. He'd imagined running off to the Middle East to interview refugees and political dissidents, or reporting on murders and trials of serial killers. Perhaps being a travel writer and flying off to exotic destinations, then writing up reviews of posh hotels and five star bistros.
Instead, he was being paid next to nothing to report on the latest contraflow on the M25, the opening of a new Chinese restaurant off the Camden Road, and the dwindling popularity of the articulated bus.
Last week he had spent an hour wading through the sewer because he was reporting on pollution, and Stacey had wanted a photo of "something authentic" to go with the article. Tom's boss, of course, was still trying to get in Stacey's pants, and so whenever she tried to get Tom to do something humiliating for a photo shoot he agreed.
He'd spent forty minutes in the shower trying to scrub the stench away, and he wasn't entirely sure he'd succeeded. Milton had given him dirty looks all day. Then again, Milton usually gave him dirty looks.
"It's just... work. I suppose. I always pictured doing something more exciting. When I was an undergraduate, I wanted to be a science fiction author."
"Wow, really? That's brilliant!"
"Uh. Thanks?" Tom could feel heat creeping up his neck. He wasn't really used to this sort of enthusiasm.
"Have you written anything lately? I'd love to read some of it."
Tom's eyes widened a bit. "I don't tend to show my stuff to other people." He hadn't completed any short stories since uni, and those had all been terrible. Didn't stop him from keeping them in a box under his bed, but...
"Right! Of course. Erm, sorry. I didn't..." To Tom's relief, Arthur fell silent as they pulled up at a red light.
There was an awkward silence, which Arthur seemed compelled to break three minutes later. "Looking forward to tonight's game, then?"
"Yeah."
One. Two. Three.
Tom only got up to seventeen before Arthur spoke again.
"You like playing John, then?"
"Yeah, he's fun. So far. Not doing as much as your character, though. Sherlock seems like a talker, right?"
Tom didn't hear anything but thought he saw Arthur nodding out of his peripheral vision.
He cleared his throat before continuing. "I guess John's more of a fighter. He specialises in firearms."
"With any luck, you'll be able to use your gun tonight!" Arthur said. "Oh. That wasn't a... euphemism or anything."
"What are you talking about?"
"Just, erm. Thought I should clarify. Right. I'll be quiet now."
Tom glanced over at the man beside him, who was currently staring pointedly out the passenger window. "Okay then."
* * *
When Tom and Arthur strolled in together, Laurie gave them an amused look.
"David!" she bellowed, and Tom wondered how so much volume could come out of such a petite form. "Boys are here!"
David thundered down the stairs and grabbed Laurie from behind, head peeking out over her shoulder. "Why didn't you say so?"
Laurie just giggled and wrestled David into his chair at the table, which he somehow managed to make look graceful instead of a result of being shoved.
Tom popped into the kitchen to grab a lager, and when he came back to the doorway, he saw Arthur smiling enthusiastically as he settled into his seat.
"So. Do you remember where we ended last time?" Laurie asked, as she scooted her chair in.
Claiming his regular spot, Tom reached for a handful of crisps from the bag in the centre of the table. "We just finished chasing a cab, with nothing to show for it. Except that my limp is psychosomatic." He flashed a grin at Arthur, who bit his lip and smiled shyly back.
Laurie beamed and took a sip of ginger beer. "All right then. The three of you are all together now, back at Sherlock and John's flat... What do you do?"
* * *
Greg Lestrade grinned and took another swig of his lager. "So, let me get this straight. You," he said, waving his beer in Sherlock's general direction, "found the dead woman's suitcase in some random skip. How'd you end up calling the murderer?"
Sherlock smiled as he paced about the living room carpet.
"I found her mobile number on the case, but no mobile, and it wasn't on the body, either. So, unless she lost it, her mobile must have been with the murderer."
John stole a few more crisps before turning back to the telly.
"John," Sherlock prompted, "what do you think we should do now?"
John startled and nearly spilt his beer on the floor. "Huh, what? Uh. I wasn't... Sorry. I wasn't paying attention. Can you repeat the question?"
Sherlock just grinned at John, but Greg glared and snapped, "Get with the game, you idiot! The rest of us are actually trying to play, here!"
John looked surprised, and truth be told, offended, but Sherlock stepped in before either could get a word off. "Look, just... Why don't we see if we can track the phone via GPS? You can do that, right, Greg? I imagine that New Scotland Yard can track anyone with a mobile."
Greg grinned. "Be careful, someone might try to steal your tinfoil hat."
"I'm serious! Come on, Greg, surely you can track the location?"
"All right, all right. I'll go to NSY and find the GPS location of the phone. Are you two coming with me?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No... There's something that doesn't add up. I want to take another look at the woman's suitcase."
"You could bring it with you to the yard."
"Yes, but all my experimental equipment is in the flat."
John rolled his eyes. "Look, it's okay, you stay here looking for clues, and I'll go with Greg, yeah?"
Sherlock practically beamed. "An excellent compromise! Fine, then, I'll get started looking for... clues."
When Greg and John got down the stairs of Baker Street, they found a cab waiting. "Well, that's pretty bloody convenient," Greg groused.
"Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes."
Greg grinned. "Nice. Cockney. Told you that you could do Cockney."
The cabbie, a homely man in a shabby grey jumper, glared pointedly at Greg.
John frowned. "Sherlock doesn't need a taxi; he decided to stay here. Can you take us to New Scotland Yard?"
The cabbie pursed his lips for a moment, considering. "All right, 'op in."
John, in an extraordinary turn of luck ("Rolled a nineteen on my spot check, yessss") got a bad feeling when they were ten minutes into the drive.
"Greg, this isn't the way to the station, is it?"
Greg glanced up from his mobile and out the windows of the taxi cab. "No. It's not."
"Where are we?"
Greg narrowed his eyes. He wasn't as familiar with London as Sherlock was, but he still knew the streets outside of NSY, and he could recognise some of the seedier parts of town.
John thought maybe he should give the cabbie the benefit of the doubt. "Let us off here, would you?"
"Sorry, guv. 'Fraid you're not goin' to the yard. Now just sit tight. I'm sure Mr. 'olmes will see you soon." The cabbie flashed a menacing sneer in the rear view mirror.
Back in the flat at Baker Street, Sherlock's phone vibrated with a text message alert from a blocked number.
Evil1: I have two things you might want back. Want to trade?
SH: Where have you taken them?
Evil1: It wouldn't be a game if I told you.
* * *
Sherlock paced agitatedly about the flat. He had to find John and Greg, but how? He'd been depending on them to find the phone. Maybe there was something in the suitcase, but he'd already looked three times and hadn't found anything more useful.
Mrs. Hudson suddenly poked her head in the flat. "How's it going, dearie?"
"Terribly! John's been kidnapped!"
Mrs. Hudson looked slightly surprised at Sherlock's outburst. "And you have no way of finding him?"
"No! It's maddening!"
"Are you sure?"
Sherlock stopped in his pacing and eyed Mrs. Hudson suspiciously. "No, you're right. There's something I'm missing. Something obvious. We know the phone is with the killer, and that it's traceable via GPS. But Greg was going to the Yard to trace it!" He threw up his hands in frustration as Mrs. Hudson started filling the kettle.
"Was't there something about a note, dearie?" she asked blandly as she flicked the kettle on.
"Of course - the note! Maybe RACHE means something. But what?"
John: Maybe RACHE is a password?
SH: Do you know where you are?
Gregxoxo: No. I can't narrow it down to anything further than somewhere southeast of the yard.
SH: Fine, that's better than nothing. Tell me as soon as you know more.
SH: And don't let the cabbie see you texting.
Sherlock tossed his phone irritably on the sofa and resumed his pacing. RACHE, a password… but why? Rache meant revenge in German, he knew, but why the hell would anyone pick that as a password? And what would it be a password for?
Sherlock suddenly lunged for his laptop with a shout. "The mobile! It's a password for her mobile!"
He found the mobile phone website and typed in the woman's email address as the user name (both of which were conveniently listed on the luggage tag, now that he'd noticed). He tried rache as the password, then Rache, and even RACHE, but nothing was working.
John: Maybe rache is only part of it. What about Rachel?
Sherlock tried RACHEL with bated breath, and cheered loudly when he was allowed onto the site. Lo and behold, there was the GPS locate function.
SH: Brilliant, John!
As soon as the GPS coordinates flashed on the screen, Sherlock tumbled down the stairs and into the nearest cab.
SH: On my way.
It took ten minutes to arrive at the Roland Kerr Further Education College, and after throwing a handful of cash at the cabbie and dashing out toward the building entrance, Sherlock was startled to find a dumpy man in a hideous jumper waiting for him.
"Mr. 'olmes. Pleasure. Would you like to play a game?"
"Where are they?" Sherlock cried, furious.
The grubby man just sneered malevolently. "There's only one way I'll tell ya. And that's if you can win my little… game."
Sherlock scowled, but he could tell the man wasn't bluffing.
"And if I agree?"
"I've locked your friends in a room somewhere in this building. If you win my game - if you choose correctly - the door key is in my pocket. Afterwards, you can retrieve it. I won't stop ya." His grin widened eerily. "If you win, I won't be able to."
"Fine. Lead the way."
* * *
When John sent his last text message to Sherlock, the cabbie unfortunately caught a glimpse of John's mobile in the rear view mirror. "We'll be 'avin' none of this, then," he said gruffly. He stopped at a light and slammed back the dividing screen. Pointing his gun at John, he commanded, "Give it 'ere, then. You too," he added, waving the gun vaguely in Greg's direction. "And your gun," the cabbie added, almost as an afterthought.
John contemplated pulling his own gun on the cabbie, but if the man didn't know about it, John wasn't going to risk him finding out. He passed the man his mobile, and Greg handed him both his phone and his firearm.
The cabbie cackled malevolently as he inspected Greg's gun. "Yes, this'll do nicely."
John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Are we getting out here or what?"
The cabbie eyed the building in front of him. "This works. Get out. An' don't try any funny business."
He led them at gunpoint up to the second floor of the building. He found an empty classroom and shoved them both inside. "Now you just wait here, like good pets, while I go 'ave a chat with Mr. 'olmes." He slammed the door shut and locked it behind him.
John waited until the sounds of his footsteps down the hall had faded. "Great. We're locked in a classroom. How's your lock picking?"
Greg shook his head. "Sorry, mate, don't have that sort of skill. Too bad Sherlock's not here."
John grinned. "He's probably busy dealing with a deranged serial killer cabbie by now. Can't say I envy him."
Greg shrugged as John peered about the room. There was a blackboard, a front desk, and a number of individual chairs with swivel desks. There was a window on the far wall from the door, overlooking a pleasant-looking courtyard. The drop to the ground from the window looked too far to make unassisted. A locked AV cabinet near the front probably housed an overhead projector and some video cables, but John didn't imagine he or Greg could lock pick that any better than the door.
John strode over to the window and attempted to tug it open. "Locked."
"We can always break it with one of these chairs, if we need to."
"Okay, yeah, but how do we get down to the ground? I don't fancy jumping. I like walking, thanks. Bit hard with broken legs."
Greg contemplated. "Well, there are all these desks. We can use that as an anchor. And I'm wearing a belt. You?"
"Two belts isn't going to be enough to get down a whole storey! That's, what, four metres?"
"Yeah, but there's also shirts. And... trousers."
John groaned. "Oh, yeah, this is going to be really dignified. Fine. I'll start tying knots. You go down first. I want to make sure at least one of us can still walk if this goes bad."
Twenty minutes later, John and Greg were standing in the first floor courtyard, shivering in their pants and shoes. Greg managed to untie his trousers free of the long makeshift rope leading out of the window above them.
"This is complete bollocks. Why do you get your trousers back?"
"Because I was smart enough to put them on the bottom of the clothing chain."
"Fine, fine. I'm keeping my gun though."
"Isn't that an illegal firearm?"
"Shut up, Greg."
"All right, split up and search for Sherlock then?" He glanced enviously at John's gun. "I feel like you have a distinct advantage here."
"At least you get trousers," John smirked. "I'll take the first floor, yeah? Hope Sherlock was smart enough to phone the Yard before he got here."
Greg grinned in response and sprinted for the stairs.
* * *
Meanwhile, the cabbie led Sherlock to the back of the building into a small classroom looking out onto the courtyard. Their steps rang eerily against the polished floor and the fluorescent lights cast strange shadows.
"We're here. So what's this game?"
"Hahaha-" The cabbie chuckled in what might have been a menacing tone if his voice hadn't cracked in the middle. He coughed. "This is a battle of wits, Mr. 'olmes. There are two bottles. One with the good pill, one with the bad. The bad one, that's the one what kills ya. You take one, and I take the other." He set down two glass vials in front of him, carefully unscrewed the caps, and retrieved a single pill from each bottle. He placed one pill in front of himself, and one in front of Sherlock. "Now, the question is, would I put the good pill in front of me? Or in front of you?"
Sherlock groaned. "Seriously? You just stole this entire scene from the Princess Bride. Why not throw a sword-fighting Spaniard at me while you're at it?"
The cabbie frowned petulantly. "I thought you woulda known by now. Never go up against a cabbie when death is on the line!"
Sherlock giggled despite himself. "Well, that explains why you're so confident about getting out of this alive; the game's rigged. Both pills are poisoned."
"Nuh-uh!" the cabbie protested, pouting furiously. "Not rigged. There really is a good pill." He pulled a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Sherlock. "An' if you don't choose, I choose for ya. I don't think you'd like that much."
Sherlock frowned. The police were on their way; he'd texted them as soon as he'd locked onto the GPS location. All he needed to do was stall.
"I see that you have appalling taste in clothing. That jumper is frankly hideous."
"Oi! I happen to like this jumper! And anyway, what's this got to do with finding the poisoned pill?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I'm just trying to get to know you better. It's only fair, isn't it? If I'm to pick one of these pills, I should understand my opponent." He cleared his throat. "As I was saying about your terrible fashion sense... Clearly you're still living with your mother, playing video games all day, eating quavers, and generally wasting your life away. After all, you can't afford a flat in London on a cabbie's wages. I s'pose you got into serial killing as a way to pass the time?"
The cabbie looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. "I'll have you know, my mother makes excellent chicken casserole! That's the only reason I put up with 'er. Besides, it's economical." He nodded severely. "Also, I didn't go into serial killing on a whim. I've got a sponsor. He gives me loads of money for each person I off. Besides, it's fun."
"A sponsor?"
"Yeah, he's a big fan o' yours. Thinks you're sexy."
Sherlock flushed pink and giggled. "Yes, I suppose I am. Don't suppose you could give me his number?"
The cabbie snorted. "Sorry, guv. You'll 'ave to work that one out on your own." His eyebrows furrowed and he glared at Sherlock. "Enough stalling! You'd best pick a pill, or you'll be getting a bullet in your 'ead."
Sherlock gazed at the two pills suspiciously. It had to be a trap. He'd just have to put his faith in luck...
* * *
Arthur stared at the die blankly. Unfortunately, no matter how much he stared, the number one displaying did not morph into a higher number.
Laurie grimaced. "Critical miss, huh? You grab the pill in front of the cabbie, and you know with absolute certainty that you've made the right choice."
Arthur just groaned and slumped back in his chair.
Laurie smiled eerily, converting back into the ridiculously camp villain. "Made your choice, 'ave you? Well then, down the 'atch."
"Bloody fantastic. How close are we?" Tom asked, worried.
"Greg, you're still searching, and haven't found anything useful. John, you open the door to the nearest classroom... To find it empty. You can, however, see Sherlock through the window, in a room across the courtyard, talking to the cabbie. Sherlock's holding a bottle up to the light, inspecting it closely."
"Damn it! I knew I should have put points in navigate! Whatever. I'm just going to try to shoot the cabbie through the window. I'll roll to hit."
Everyone waited with bated breath as the die rolled to a stop on the table.
"Yes!" Tom yelled, jumping out of his chair in excitement and pumping his fists. "Twenty! In your face, cabbie!"
"You shot him in the face?" asked Arthur, disgruntled.
"No, I - it's an expression. Never mind."
Laurie giggled at Arthur's confused expression. "All right, Tom, roll again to see if the damage is critical."
"I got a twelve total," he responded, vaguely disappointed.
"Well, it was a pretty difficult shot, so no, you don't get the crit damage. Good thing you rolled a twenty, eh?"
Arthur gulped nervously. "I'll say!"
Laurie's eyes crinkled merrily. "Roll for damage," she directed.
"Okay, 1d12 + 2 damage. I rolled a nine, plus two is eleven."
Arthur looked vaguely confused. "I still don't understand how combat works in this game," he complained.
"It's a good thing you're not the one with the gun, then," Tom quipped.
"The bullet rips through the cabbie's shoulder; he cries out in pain and collapses on the floor."
Arthur let out a small gasp. "I dodge back when I see the cabbie fall over, and then I go over to him and ask who sent him. 'Who's your employer? Tell me!'"
Laurie sneered malevolently and coughed dramatically. She seemed to be somewhat overenthusiastic about this whole villain thing. "Never!"
Arthur frowned. "Fine. I'll play dirty. I lean forward and… poke the cabbie's wound."
Laurie cut through Tom's sniggers. "Ow! All right! I'll tell you! It was…" She took a theatrical pause. "Moriarty!"
Arthur laughed. "You're so melodramatic, Laurie."
"Oi! I happen to enjoy being villainous, what's wrong with that?" Laurie mock-pouted and Arthur started laughing even harder.
Tom looked over at Arthur, giggling. There was something fascinating about seeing Arthur relaxed and happy. He was so often reserved, nervous, and uptight… A strange tension was building in his gut. Tom's breath suddenly caught in his throat, and he forced himself to tear his gaze away.
Laurie was staring at him, a strange smile on her face. "What?" he snapped, unthinking.
Laurie shrank back a bit. "Nothing." She took a breath and unclenched her shoulders before turning and looking deliberately at Arthur. "You hear sirens approaching. It sounds like your reinforcements have arrived."
"Excellent. I'll go outside and tell them what happened."
"Tom? David?"
David continued absently playing with Laurie's ponytail as he spoke. "I'll go out and let them know I'm all right. And corroborate Sherlock's story as far as I can."
Tom, feeling a bit off-balance, shifted in his seat as he tried to parse the question. "John's still just dressed in his pants, yeah? I think I'm going to see if I can find some trousers before I go find Sherlock."
Arthur glanced over at Tom tentatively. "Do I… can I tell? That it was Tom?"
Tom looked over at Arthur, confused. "What?"
Arthur redirected his gaze to Laurie. "Does Sherlock know that John saved his life?"
Laurie smiled lopsidedly. "You tell me."
Arthur bit his lip thoughtfully. "Fine. It was a crack shot - the angle was nearly impossible, but the shooter got the cabbie squarely in the shoulder and didn't even come close to me. He waited until the last minute - so either he didn't want to fire until he knew I was in immediate danger, or, more likely, he didn't have the opportunity to fire earlier. And I know that John was trapped with Greg until a few minutes before the shooting. Furthermore, he was known to be in the area, he has the right background, and he…" Arthur broke off suddenly, the tips of his ears turning pink.
"I what?" Tom demanded.
"Nothing. It's a bloody role playing game, of course it was you." He was fidgeting nervously, looking down at his hands in his lap.
Tom blinked back his confusion. "Yeah, okay. John will walk up to Sherlock once he's properly dressed."
Arthur looked up at Tom suddenly, smiling nervously. "Good shot."
Tom smiled crookedly. "Don't say that so loud. There are coppers here, you know."
Arthur's lips twisted up and his eyes softened. "Right. Wouldn't want to blow your cover."
David coughed. "Greg is glad to see John's all right. He'll say hi."
Tom suddenly felt quite self-conscious and turned back to Laurie. "Right. So, is that it? That's the conclusion?"
Laurie smiled. "Yep, that's it for now. David was going to take over the next story arc so I got a chance to play."
"I'm not going to be ready next week," David said, "so was thinking maybe we could watch a film or something. Order a Chinese."
"That sounds like fun," Laurie agreed enthusiastically. "We can pick the film next week."
Tom was relieved to finally be going home. It had been a long night. It didn't dawn on him until he'd stepped out onto the front porch that he still needed to drive Arthur home. Bloody hell.
Arthur, for his part, strolled out to the car and waited patiently at the side door. He smiled stiffly at Tom. "That was fun."
"Yeah. I..." don't know what I want to say. "I had fun, too."
"Thanks, again, for the lift."
Tom licked his lips absently. "Yeah. It was... nice. Maybe we could... carpool next week, too?"
Arthur smiled and ducked his head as he climbed into the passenger seat. "I'd love to."
The ride to Arthur's flat was spent in mostly comfortable silence. Tom returned to his own house, mind spinning, and he barely noticed his mum's polite inquiry about his evening.
It took him longer than usual to fall asleep that night, and when he finally did, he dreamt of flying bullets, murderous cabbies, and running over rooftops.
Thanks so much for reading this far! I'd love to hear your comments.
Series: Better Than Reality
Rating: T
Genres: AU, Meta, Romance
Pairing: Preslash OMC/OMC (John/Sherlock sortakinda)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC, with a sprinkling of Cabin Pressure, The Office, and Office Space
Betas: gretchen4321 and percygranger
Britpicker: hms_wellington
Wordcount: 5,136 (this section); 12,297 total
"The human mind has a greater need of the ideal even than of the real. It is by the real that we exist; it is by the ideal that we live."
Victor Hugo, "William Shakespeare" (1864)
Tom, Arthur, David, and Laurie meet on Fridays for their weekly table-top role playing game. Their current campaign? John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Greg Lestrade must work together to solve the case of a mysterious string of suicides.
How many times have I told you - never split the party!
Prologue
Chapter 1: Awkward Introductions
Chapter 2: Random Kidnappings and Taxi Chases
Chapter Three: Keep Your Damn Clothes On
Tom's phone buzzed while he was still at the office on Friday afternoon. It had been an excruciatingly slow day and Tom was just waiting for the chance to go home and get ready for role playing. Tom glanced across at his co-worker's desk - Milton was still busy sorting paperclips - and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.
Arthur Bradstreet: Kenneth stole my oyster card. :( Going to be late to tonight's session. -A
Damn. He really didn't want to be stuck with David and Laurie as they whispered conspiratorially to each other over the kitchen counter. Last Christmas had been bad enough. He'd been the second person to arrive at their party - just after Laurie's sister, who had proceeded to flirt with Tom awkwardly before making a beeline for the tequila.
Tom quickly shot off a text while Milton noisily rooted through his desk drawers.Thomas Jones: need a lift? -tom
The response came less than a minute later.
Arthur Bradstreet: That would be lovely, thanks, if you don't mind. It's not too much bother, is it?
Thomas Jones: nope, txt me your address and i'll be by at 5:45
Arthur Bradstreet: 221B Baker St. Thanks so much!
Huh.
Thomas Jones: you used your own address in the game?
Arthur Bradstreet: Oh, yes, suppose I did. I'm not very imaginative.
When Tom looked up, Milton was staring at him blankly. "Have you seen my stapler?"
"No, can't say that I have. Sorry, Milton." He flushed and slid his phone back in his pocket. Another twenty three minutes, and he would be on his way home to change, and then off to Baker Street to pick up Arthur.
* * *
When Tom got to Baker Street (dead on quarter to six, as promised), there was no sign of Arthur. He cracked open the door and padded into the hallway. "Hello?"
Nothing.
He made his way up the staircase. The upstairs door was unlocked when Tom tried it, to his surprise. He stepped inside and glanced around curiously at Arthur's flat.
The first thing Tom noticed was the large number of model aeroplanes.
The flat was littered with them - strung up from the ceiling on bits of thread; propped up on the mantelpiece; a plane-in-progress on the kitchen table; and some half-painted ones on the table in the sitting room.
There were over two dozen planes in varying states of progress. Apparently Arthur wasn't kidding when he said he liked aeroplanes. Tom had thought it was a joke, at first - a pilot who was obsessed with aeroplanes? Tom couldn't fathom enjoying his job that much.
The second thing Tom noticed was Arthur's muffled voice, coming from behind a closed door just off the kitchen.
"No, Mum. Stop right there."
Overcome with curiosity, Tom crept closer to the door.
"You're not setting me up on another blind date! I'm not going to like her, no matter how lovely she is, and it's not fair-"
Tom tried to picture his own mum setting him up on a date. Maybe one of her co-workers from the telephone company. Tom stifled a snort. They would probably kill for a date with anyone who was gainfully employed and under the age of forty-five.
"I just know, Mum. Please. Don't-"
Arthur's voice was tinged with quiet desperation at this point. It sounded like he'd had this argument before.
"That's not the issue!" Arthur shouted, and a loud thump sounded through the thin wall. Arthur must have punched some unsuspecting piece of furniture. "Look, I'm sorry, Mum, it's just that I've got to go. We're role playing tonight, remember?"
Maybe Tom should wait downstairs. Still, Arthur had left the door unlocked. Surely he'd meant for Tom to come inside?
"Laurie's going out with David, mum."
The exasperated tone made Tom bite off a giggle. He could picture Arthur standing inside his room, mobile phone tucked between shoulder and cheek as he buttoned his shirt, rolling his eyes at his mother's attempts at matchmaking.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Arthur added, "Tom's single, I think."
Even with Arthur's light tone, Tom suddenly felt exceedingly uncomfortable about his current location, lurking outside what was most likely Arthur's bedroom. As quietly as he could, he padded back out to the first hallway, attempting to ignore Arthur's continuing murmurs.
He waited until a few minutes of silence had gone by before knocking loudly on the door leading into Arthur's flat. "Hello?"
There came the sound of a door unlatching hurriedly and Arthur's hasty shout of "One moment!"
The door flew inward, revealing Arthur, dressed in the same smart suit as last week, ears tinged pink and panting slightly, currently grinning broadly at Tom."You're just on time! Hang on, let me grab my dice and I'll be ready to go."
* * *
Arthur turned awkwardly to Tom as he buckled his seat belt. "Erm. Thanks for the lift."
"Yeah, no prob. It's on the way, anyway." Actually, it wasn't. It was sort of out of the way. But it seemed like a nice thing to say.
Arthur's sunny smile made it worth the lie.
"So, what... do you do, when, ah, you're not role playing?"
"I'm a journalist."
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
"That sounds exciting."
Tom snorted. "Yeah, well, that's what I'd thought too. Back when I was getting my degree, at any rate."
Tom spared a momentary sideways glance before settling his gaze back on the road ahead. Arthur was biting his lip, the corner of his mouth twitched up into a shy smile. Tom could have sworn Arthur had been looking at him, but he quickly shifted his gaze to his lap, his right leg bouncing up and down, and his hands fidgeting restlessly.
Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had fallen. "So... not all that you had hoped for, then?"
Tom had wanted to be a writer for as long as he can remember. When he entered university, he decided to study journalism in addition to creative writing. He'd imagined running off to the Middle East to interview refugees and political dissidents, or reporting on murders and trials of serial killers. Perhaps being a travel writer and flying off to exotic destinations, then writing up reviews of posh hotels and five star bistros.
Instead, he was being paid next to nothing to report on the latest contraflow on the M25, the opening of a new Chinese restaurant off the Camden Road, and the dwindling popularity of the articulated bus.
Last week he had spent an hour wading through the sewer because he was reporting on pollution, and Stacey had wanted a photo of "something authentic" to go with the article. Tom's boss, of course, was still trying to get in Stacey's pants, and so whenever she tried to get Tom to do something humiliating for a photo shoot he agreed.
He'd spent forty minutes in the shower trying to scrub the stench away, and he wasn't entirely sure he'd succeeded. Milton had given him dirty looks all day. Then again, Milton usually gave him dirty looks.
"It's just... work. I suppose. I always pictured doing something more exciting. When I was an undergraduate, I wanted to be a science fiction author."
"Wow, really? That's brilliant!"
"Uh. Thanks?" Tom could feel heat creeping up his neck. He wasn't really used to this sort of enthusiasm.
"Have you written anything lately? I'd love to read some of it."
Tom's eyes widened a bit. "I don't tend to show my stuff to other people." He hadn't completed any short stories since uni, and those had all been terrible. Didn't stop him from keeping them in a box under his bed, but...
"Right! Of course. Erm, sorry. I didn't..." To Tom's relief, Arthur fell silent as they pulled up at a red light.
There was an awkward silence, which Arthur seemed compelled to break three minutes later. "Looking forward to tonight's game, then?"
"Yeah."
One. Two. Three.
Tom only got up to seventeen before Arthur spoke again.
"You like playing John, then?"
"Yeah, he's fun. So far. Not doing as much as your character, though. Sherlock seems like a talker, right?"
Tom didn't hear anything but thought he saw Arthur nodding out of his peripheral vision.
He cleared his throat before continuing. "I guess John's more of a fighter. He specialises in firearms."
"With any luck, you'll be able to use your gun tonight!" Arthur said. "Oh. That wasn't a... euphemism or anything."
"What are you talking about?"
"Just, erm. Thought I should clarify. Right. I'll be quiet now."
Tom glanced over at the man beside him, who was currently staring pointedly out the passenger window. "Okay then."
* * *
When Tom and Arthur strolled in together, Laurie gave them an amused look.
"David!" she bellowed, and Tom wondered how so much volume could come out of such a petite form. "Boys are here!"
David thundered down the stairs and grabbed Laurie from behind, head peeking out over her shoulder. "Why didn't you say so?"
Laurie just giggled and wrestled David into his chair at the table, which he somehow managed to make look graceful instead of a result of being shoved.
Tom popped into the kitchen to grab a lager, and when he came back to the doorway, he saw Arthur smiling enthusiastically as he settled into his seat.
"So. Do you remember where we ended last time?" Laurie asked, as she scooted her chair in.
Claiming his regular spot, Tom reached for a handful of crisps from the bag in the centre of the table. "We just finished chasing a cab, with nothing to show for it. Except that my limp is psychosomatic." He flashed a grin at Arthur, who bit his lip and smiled shyly back.
Laurie beamed and took a sip of ginger beer. "All right then. The three of you are all together now, back at Sherlock and John's flat... What do you do?"
* * *
Greg Lestrade grinned and took another swig of his lager. "So, let me get this straight. You," he said, waving his beer in Sherlock's general direction, "found the dead woman's suitcase in some random skip. How'd you end up calling the murderer?"
Sherlock smiled as he paced about the living room carpet.
"I found her mobile number on the case, but no mobile, and it wasn't on the body, either. So, unless she lost it, her mobile must have been with the murderer."
John stole a few more crisps before turning back to the telly.
"John," Sherlock prompted, "what do you think we should do now?"
John startled and nearly spilt his beer on the floor. "Huh, what? Uh. I wasn't... Sorry. I wasn't paying attention. Can you repeat the question?"
Sherlock just grinned at John, but Greg glared and snapped, "Get with the game, you idiot! The rest of us are actually trying to play, here!"
John looked surprised, and truth be told, offended, but Sherlock stepped in before either could get a word off. "Look, just... Why don't we see if we can track the phone via GPS? You can do that, right, Greg? I imagine that New Scotland Yard can track anyone with a mobile."
Greg grinned. "Be careful, someone might try to steal your tinfoil hat."
"I'm serious! Come on, Greg, surely you can track the location?"
"All right, all right. I'll go to NSY and find the GPS location of the phone. Are you two coming with me?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No... There's something that doesn't add up. I want to take another look at the woman's suitcase."
"You could bring it with you to the yard."
"Yes, but all my experimental equipment is in the flat."
John rolled his eyes. "Look, it's okay, you stay here looking for clues, and I'll go with Greg, yeah?"
Sherlock practically beamed. "An excellent compromise! Fine, then, I'll get started looking for... clues."
When Greg and John got down the stairs of Baker Street, they found a cab waiting. "Well, that's pretty bloody convenient," Greg groused.
"Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes."
Greg grinned. "Nice. Cockney. Told you that you could do Cockney."
The cabbie, a homely man in a shabby grey jumper, glared pointedly at Greg.
John frowned. "Sherlock doesn't need a taxi; he decided to stay here. Can you take us to New Scotland Yard?"
The cabbie pursed his lips for a moment, considering. "All right, 'op in."
John, in an extraordinary turn of luck ("Rolled a nineteen on my spot check, yessss") got a bad feeling when they were ten minutes into the drive.
"Greg, this isn't the way to the station, is it?"
Greg glanced up from his mobile and out the windows of the taxi cab. "No. It's not."
"Where are we?"
Greg narrowed his eyes. He wasn't as familiar with London as Sherlock was, but he still knew the streets outside of NSY, and he could recognise some of the seedier parts of town.
John thought maybe he should give the cabbie the benefit of the doubt. "Let us off here, would you?"
"Sorry, guv. 'Fraid you're not goin' to the yard. Now just sit tight. I'm sure Mr. 'olmes will see you soon." The cabbie flashed a menacing sneer in the rear view mirror.
Back in the flat at Baker Street, Sherlock's phone vibrated with a text message alert from a blocked number.
Evil1: I have two things you might want back. Want to trade?
SH: Where have you taken them?
Evil1: It wouldn't be a game if I told you.
* * *
Sherlock paced agitatedly about the flat. He had to find John and Greg, but how? He'd been depending on them to find the phone. Maybe there was something in the suitcase, but he'd already looked three times and hadn't found anything more useful.
Mrs. Hudson suddenly poked her head in the flat. "How's it going, dearie?"
"Terribly! John's been kidnapped!"
Mrs. Hudson looked slightly surprised at Sherlock's outburst. "And you have no way of finding him?"
"No! It's maddening!"
"Are you sure?"
Sherlock stopped in his pacing and eyed Mrs. Hudson suspiciously. "No, you're right. There's something I'm missing. Something obvious. We know the phone is with the killer, and that it's traceable via GPS. But Greg was going to the Yard to trace it!" He threw up his hands in frustration as Mrs. Hudson started filling the kettle.
"Was't there something about a note, dearie?" she asked blandly as she flicked the kettle on.
"Of course - the note! Maybe RACHE means something. But what?"
John: Maybe RACHE is a password?
SH: Do you know where you are?
Gregxoxo: No. I can't narrow it down to anything further than somewhere southeast of the yard.
SH: Fine, that's better than nothing. Tell me as soon as you know more.
SH: And don't let the cabbie see you texting.
Sherlock tossed his phone irritably on the sofa and resumed his pacing. RACHE, a password… but why? Rache meant revenge in German, he knew, but why the hell would anyone pick that as a password? And what would it be a password for?
Sherlock suddenly lunged for his laptop with a shout. "The mobile! It's a password for her mobile!"
He found the mobile phone website and typed in the woman's email address as the user name (both of which were conveniently listed on the luggage tag, now that he'd noticed). He tried rache as the password, then Rache, and even RACHE, but nothing was working.
John: Maybe rache is only part of it. What about Rachel?
Sherlock tried RACHEL with bated breath, and cheered loudly when he was allowed onto the site. Lo and behold, there was the GPS locate function.
SH: Brilliant, John!
As soon as the GPS coordinates flashed on the screen, Sherlock tumbled down the stairs and into the nearest cab.
SH: On my way.
It took ten minutes to arrive at the Roland Kerr Further Education College, and after throwing a handful of cash at the cabbie and dashing out toward the building entrance, Sherlock was startled to find a dumpy man in a hideous jumper waiting for him.
"Mr. 'olmes. Pleasure. Would you like to play a game?"
"Where are they?" Sherlock cried, furious.
The grubby man just sneered malevolently. "There's only one way I'll tell ya. And that's if you can win my little… game."
Sherlock scowled, but he could tell the man wasn't bluffing.
"And if I agree?"
"I've locked your friends in a room somewhere in this building. If you win my game - if you choose correctly - the door key is in my pocket. Afterwards, you can retrieve it. I won't stop ya." His grin widened eerily. "If you win, I won't be able to."
"Fine. Lead the way."
* * *
When John sent his last text message to Sherlock, the cabbie unfortunately caught a glimpse of John's mobile in the rear view mirror. "We'll be 'avin' none of this, then," he said gruffly. He stopped at a light and slammed back the dividing screen. Pointing his gun at John, he commanded, "Give it 'ere, then. You too," he added, waving the gun vaguely in Greg's direction. "And your gun," the cabbie added, almost as an afterthought.
John contemplated pulling his own gun on the cabbie, but if the man didn't know about it, John wasn't going to risk him finding out. He passed the man his mobile, and Greg handed him both his phone and his firearm.
The cabbie cackled malevolently as he inspected Greg's gun. "Yes, this'll do nicely."
John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Are we getting out here or what?"
The cabbie eyed the building in front of him. "This works. Get out. An' don't try any funny business."
He led them at gunpoint up to the second floor of the building. He found an empty classroom and shoved them both inside. "Now you just wait here, like good pets, while I go 'ave a chat with Mr. 'olmes." He slammed the door shut and locked it behind him.
John waited until the sounds of his footsteps down the hall had faded. "Great. We're locked in a classroom. How's your lock picking?"
Greg shook his head. "Sorry, mate, don't have that sort of skill. Too bad Sherlock's not here."
John grinned. "He's probably busy dealing with a deranged serial killer cabbie by now. Can't say I envy him."
Greg shrugged as John peered about the room. There was a blackboard, a front desk, and a number of individual chairs with swivel desks. There was a window on the far wall from the door, overlooking a pleasant-looking courtyard. The drop to the ground from the window looked too far to make unassisted. A locked AV cabinet near the front probably housed an overhead projector and some video cables, but John didn't imagine he or Greg could lock pick that any better than the door.
John strode over to the window and attempted to tug it open. "Locked."
"We can always break it with one of these chairs, if we need to."
"Okay, yeah, but how do we get down to the ground? I don't fancy jumping. I like walking, thanks. Bit hard with broken legs."
Greg contemplated. "Well, there are all these desks. We can use that as an anchor. And I'm wearing a belt. You?"
"Two belts isn't going to be enough to get down a whole storey! That's, what, four metres?"
"Yeah, but there's also shirts. And... trousers."
John groaned. "Oh, yeah, this is going to be really dignified. Fine. I'll start tying knots. You go down first. I want to make sure at least one of us can still walk if this goes bad."
Twenty minutes later, John and Greg were standing in the first floor courtyard, shivering in their pants and shoes. Greg managed to untie his trousers free of the long makeshift rope leading out of the window above them.
"This is complete bollocks. Why do you get your trousers back?"
"Because I was smart enough to put them on the bottom of the clothing chain."
"Fine, fine. I'm keeping my gun though."
"Isn't that an illegal firearm?"
"Shut up, Greg."
"All right, split up and search for Sherlock then?" He glanced enviously at John's gun. "I feel like you have a distinct advantage here."
"At least you get trousers," John smirked. "I'll take the first floor, yeah? Hope Sherlock was smart enough to phone the Yard before he got here."
Greg grinned in response and sprinted for the stairs.
* * *
Meanwhile, the cabbie led Sherlock to the back of the building into a small classroom looking out onto the courtyard. Their steps rang eerily against the polished floor and the fluorescent lights cast strange shadows.
"We're here. So what's this game?"
"Hahaha-" The cabbie chuckled in what might have been a menacing tone if his voice hadn't cracked in the middle. He coughed. "This is a battle of wits, Mr. 'olmes. There are two bottles. One with the good pill, one with the bad. The bad one, that's the one what kills ya. You take one, and I take the other." He set down two glass vials in front of him, carefully unscrewed the caps, and retrieved a single pill from each bottle. He placed one pill in front of himself, and one in front of Sherlock. "Now, the question is, would I put the good pill in front of me? Or in front of you?"
Sherlock groaned. "Seriously? You just stole this entire scene from the Princess Bride. Why not throw a sword-fighting Spaniard at me while you're at it?"
The cabbie frowned petulantly. "I thought you woulda known by now. Never go up against a cabbie when death is on the line!"
Sherlock giggled despite himself. "Well, that explains why you're so confident about getting out of this alive; the game's rigged. Both pills are poisoned."
"Nuh-uh!" the cabbie protested, pouting furiously. "Not rigged. There really is a good pill." He pulled a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Sherlock. "An' if you don't choose, I choose for ya. I don't think you'd like that much."
Sherlock frowned. The police were on their way; he'd texted them as soon as he'd locked onto the GPS location. All he needed to do was stall.
"I see that you have appalling taste in clothing. That jumper is frankly hideous."
"Oi! I happen to like this jumper! And anyway, what's this got to do with finding the poisoned pill?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I'm just trying to get to know you better. It's only fair, isn't it? If I'm to pick one of these pills, I should understand my opponent." He cleared his throat. "As I was saying about your terrible fashion sense... Clearly you're still living with your mother, playing video games all day, eating quavers, and generally wasting your life away. After all, you can't afford a flat in London on a cabbie's wages. I s'pose you got into serial killing as a way to pass the time?"
The cabbie looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. "I'll have you know, my mother makes excellent chicken casserole! That's the only reason I put up with 'er. Besides, it's economical." He nodded severely. "Also, I didn't go into serial killing on a whim. I've got a sponsor. He gives me loads of money for each person I off. Besides, it's fun."
"A sponsor?"
"Yeah, he's a big fan o' yours. Thinks you're sexy."
Sherlock flushed pink and giggled. "Yes, I suppose I am. Don't suppose you could give me his number?"
The cabbie snorted. "Sorry, guv. You'll 'ave to work that one out on your own." His eyebrows furrowed and he glared at Sherlock. "Enough stalling! You'd best pick a pill, or you'll be getting a bullet in your 'ead."
Sherlock gazed at the two pills suspiciously. It had to be a trap. He'd just have to put his faith in luck...
* * *
Arthur stared at the die blankly. Unfortunately, no matter how much he stared, the number one displaying did not morph into a higher number.
Laurie grimaced. "Critical miss, huh? You grab the pill in front of the cabbie, and you know with absolute certainty that you've made the right choice."
Arthur just groaned and slumped back in his chair.
Laurie smiled eerily, converting back into the ridiculously camp villain. "Made your choice, 'ave you? Well then, down the 'atch."
"Bloody fantastic. How close are we?" Tom asked, worried.
"Greg, you're still searching, and haven't found anything useful. John, you open the door to the nearest classroom... To find it empty. You can, however, see Sherlock through the window, in a room across the courtyard, talking to the cabbie. Sherlock's holding a bottle up to the light, inspecting it closely."
"Damn it! I knew I should have put points in navigate! Whatever. I'm just going to try to shoot the cabbie through the window. I'll roll to hit."
Everyone waited with bated breath as the die rolled to a stop on the table.
"Yes!" Tom yelled, jumping out of his chair in excitement and pumping his fists. "Twenty! In your face, cabbie!"
"You shot him in the face?" asked Arthur, disgruntled.
"No, I - it's an expression. Never mind."
Laurie giggled at Arthur's confused expression. "All right, Tom, roll again to see if the damage is critical."
"I got a twelve total," he responded, vaguely disappointed.
"Well, it was a pretty difficult shot, so no, you don't get the crit damage. Good thing you rolled a twenty, eh?"
Arthur gulped nervously. "I'll say!"
Laurie's eyes crinkled merrily. "Roll for damage," she directed.
"Okay, 1d12 + 2 damage. I rolled a nine, plus two is eleven."
Arthur looked vaguely confused. "I still don't understand how combat works in this game," he complained.
"It's a good thing you're not the one with the gun, then," Tom quipped.
"The bullet rips through the cabbie's shoulder; he cries out in pain and collapses on the floor."
Arthur let out a small gasp. "I dodge back when I see the cabbie fall over, and then I go over to him and ask who sent him. 'Who's your employer? Tell me!'"
Laurie sneered malevolently and coughed dramatically. She seemed to be somewhat overenthusiastic about this whole villain thing. "Never!"
Arthur frowned. "Fine. I'll play dirty. I lean forward and… poke the cabbie's wound."
Laurie cut through Tom's sniggers. "Ow! All right! I'll tell you! It was…" She took a theatrical pause. "Moriarty!"
Arthur laughed. "You're so melodramatic, Laurie."
"Oi! I happen to enjoy being villainous, what's wrong with that?" Laurie mock-pouted and Arthur started laughing even harder.
Tom looked over at Arthur, giggling. There was something fascinating about seeing Arthur relaxed and happy. He was so often reserved, nervous, and uptight… A strange tension was building in his gut. Tom's breath suddenly caught in his throat, and he forced himself to tear his gaze away.
Laurie was staring at him, a strange smile on her face. "What?" he snapped, unthinking.
Laurie shrank back a bit. "Nothing." She took a breath and unclenched her shoulders before turning and looking deliberately at Arthur. "You hear sirens approaching. It sounds like your reinforcements have arrived."
"Excellent. I'll go outside and tell them what happened."
"Tom? David?"
David continued absently playing with Laurie's ponytail as he spoke. "I'll go out and let them know I'm all right. And corroborate Sherlock's story as far as I can."
Tom, feeling a bit off-balance, shifted in his seat as he tried to parse the question. "John's still just dressed in his pants, yeah? I think I'm going to see if I can find some trousers before I go find Sherlock."
Arthur glanced over at Tom tentatively. "Do I… can I tell? That it was Tom?"
Tom looked over at Arthur, confused. "What?"
Arthur redirected his gaze to Laurie. "Does Sherlock know that John saved his life?"
Laurie smiled lopsidedly. "You tell me."
Arthur bit his lip thoughtfully. "Fine. It was a crack shot - the angle was nearly impossible, but the shooter got the cabbie squarely in the shoulder and didn't even come close to me. He waited until the last minute - so either he didn't want to fire until he knew I was in immediate danger, or, more likely, he didn't have the opportunity to fire earlier. And I know that John was trapped with Greg until a few minutes before the shooting. Furthermore, he was known to be in the area, he has the right background, and he…" Arthur broke off suddenly, the tips of his ears turning pink.
"I what?" Tom demanded.
"Nothing. It's a bloody role playing game, of course it was you." He was fidgeting nervously, looking down at his hands in his lap.
Tom blinked back his confusion. "Yeah, okay. John will walk up to Sherlock once he's properly dressed."
Arthur looked up at Tom suddenly, smiling nervously. "Good shot."
Tom smiled crookedly. "Don't say that so loud. There are coppers here, you know."
Arthur's lips twisted up and his eyes softened. "Right. Wouldn't want to blow your cover."
David coughed. "Greg is glad to see John's all right. He'll say hi."
Tom suddenly felt quite self-conscious and turned back to Laurie. "Right. So, is that it? That's the conclusion?"
Laurie smiled. "Yep, that's it for now. David was going to take over the next story arc so I got a chance to play."
"I'm not going to be ready next week," David said, "so was thinking maybe we could watch a film or something. Order a Chinese."
"That sounds like fun," Laurie agreed enthusiastically. "We can pick the film next week."
Tom was relieved to finally be going home. It had been a long night. It didn't dawn on him until he'd stepped out onto the front porch that he still needed to drive Arthur home. Bloody hell.
Arthur, for his part, strolled out to the car and waited patiently at the side door. He smiled stiffly at Tom. "That was fun."
"Yeah. I..." don't know what I want to say. "I had fun, too."
"Thanks, again, for the lift."
Tom licked his lips absently. "Yeah. It was... nice. Maybe we could... carpool next week, too?"
Arthur smiled and ducked his head as he climbed into the passenger seat. "I'd love to."
The ride to Arthur's flat was spent in mostly comfortable silence. Tom returned to his own house, mind spinning, and he barely noticed his mum's polite inquiry about his evening.
It took him longer than usual to fall asleep that night, and when he finally did, he dreamt of flying bullets, murderous cabbies, and running over rooftops.
Thanks so much for reading this far! I'd love to hear your comments.