[Fanfic] The Excellent Adventures of Channel 221 Evening News [part 3/4]
Title: The Excellent Adventures of Channel 221 Evening News
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Author: plalligator
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sherlock/John with a side of Mycroft/Lestrade. Mostly gen and ensemble shenanagains, though.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, hooray!
Notes: Deanon from sherlockbbc_fic for this prompt.
Part 1 and Part 2.
::
Episode 3
“I can’t believe we were being played around by the network because that guy decided he wanted to seduce Greg!” Anderson hurls a pen across the newsroom, where it narrowly manages to avoid hitting a hapless intern.
Harry snorts.
“Anderson, you’re just jealous because Greg is getting laid now and you’re no-ohhhhhh, Greg. Hi. Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it.” Greg walks by the clump of of desks where they sit, and nods in response to Harry’s greeting. He’s smiling to himself, and walking with what can only be described as a spring in his step.
They all watch as he passes, and Harry sits back in her chair with a sigh of relief.
“That was deeply, deeply disturbing.”
Anderson shakes his head in disbelief.
“He was whistling!”
“And smiling.” Mike stares contemplatively into his coffee mug. “Well, mates, this might be the time for me to contemplate retirement. Sherlock cracking jokes and Greg being cheerful because he has a new boyfriend who is also the network owner. I’m not sure my nerves can stand the strain.” He holds up his mug. “Cheers.”
Half a dozen people echo “cheers” and clink their drinks together.
“Well, I do think it’s good Greg has found someone. He always seems so stressed, it’ll be good for him to have something to be happy about.”
“You are the sweetest girl, Molly.”
At this point, Sally cuts in. She’s sitting at her computer with a pen between her teeth.
“Does anyone have another word for ‘catastrophe?’ My brain isn’t working today.”
“Can’t you just use ‘catastrophe?’”
“Are you stupid? Would I be asking if I could? I’ve already used it twice in this bit.”
Mrs. Hudson bustles over and plumps herself down in a seat.
“Hello, dearies. Anything happening?”
“Sherlock’s turning into a normal human being, Greg’s getting laid, and Sally needs another word for ‘catastrophe.’”
Mrs. Hudson beams. “Yes, he is, isn’t he? I rather suspect it’s John’s influence. They make such a nice couple.”
“Wait, are you talking about Greg or Sherlock?”
“Which do you think?”
Sally groans. “So no one knows another word for catastrophe?”
Sherlock sails in, his coat billowing behind him. As always, he’s followed by John.
“Cataclysm, calamity, disaster. All synonyms for catastrophe.”
“Thanks, freak,” Sally says amicably, hitting the backspace bar a couple times and beginning to type again.
Sherlock passes by, diving into his office, while John stops to catch his breath, giving a nod to the assembled. Then he reemerges bearing an armful of books, texting furiously with one hand.
“You’re welcome,” he says, and runs out the door. John heaves a breath and follows him.
::
“You didn’t tell them.”
“No.” Sherlock strides along so quickly it’s hard for John to keep up. In a less dignified man, it would have been running. “There’s no need, and they wouldn’t have been able to help any. The first three were easy enough to solve. ”
“Hey-Sherlock, are you taking this seriously?”
Sherlock gives a frustrated huff.
“Yes, John, I am taking this seriously. It’s only because she started to describe him that he killed that old woman in the third one. These puzzles...they’re too easy. If this really is the man behind the serial murders and the Chinese smuggling operation, then he can do better than this.”
“Maybe you overestimated him.”
“I never do. These so-called challenges, they’re more like a taunt.”
John quells the impulse to roll his eyes. He doesn’t know why he puts up with this, he really doesn’t. He’s like a child, he really is. Attention span of a gnat unless something interesting comes along. In Sherlock’s world, there are two kinds of things. The boring things-which apparently encompass most of humanity, and the solar system as well, and and the things worth paying attention to, which is pretty much limited to peculiar and gruesome crimes.
“Take the painting-I reported on a break-in at the same place two years ago. Yes, the painting’s a good example. Clever of him to leave a message in plain sight like that, where he knew I’d find it but I might not realize what it means.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Really, John, keep up. There was a piece of paper taped to the underside of the frame. On it was a series of numbers, in groups of three.”
“The same code as-”
“As the smugglers used, yes.” Sherlock waves a scrap of paper a John. “Here, take this. Read off the numbers. The books probably isn’t London A-Z anymore, he’ll have changed it...” John takes the paper while Sherlock rips open one of the books he’s taken from the office.
“10...5...75...14...”
::
“Slow news day.”
“Mmm.”
Harry and Mike are playing an unenthusiastic game of basketball with a trash can and some wadded-up papers. Molly is updating her blog. Mrs. Hudson has fallen asleep in her chair.
“Hi, everyone. Hi, Molly. I brought you a latte.”
“Oh, Jim, you’re so sweet, thank you! Don’t tell me you came up here on your lunch break again just to see me.”
Jim gives a chuckle.
“What can I say, Moll? I guess I just like spending time with you. Though I had a time getting up here...there are construction people up and down the hallways everywhere. Are you getting some renovating done?”
“Oh, well, kind of. We’re finally getting a lot of our equipment replaced. I think they’re doing the lighting system today.”
“Wow, that sounds exciting! Is that why you’re all sitting around?”
“Well, yes and no. Yes, we have to be out from under their feet, but it’s a slow day. Not really much to do otherwise.”
“Sounds fascinating. Well, I’ve got to run! My boss’ll be angry if I’m back late.”
“Bye, Jim. Thanks for the coffee!”
Mrs. Hudson stirs.
“What a nice young man.”
::
“Yes...I’ve got it! It’s the pool where Carl Powers was killed. And the last bit isn’t part of the code, it’s a time. 12:00 PM. Noon.” Sherlock tosses aside the book. “Dull. Undoubtedly a trap, undoubtedly a show of brute force. No point. Dull. The place is probably full of explosives.” He pulls out his phone while John’s mind scrambles, frantically trying to change gears to keep up with Sherlock’s erratic reasoning.
“Wh-so what are you doing now?”
“Texting Mycroft. He can deal with it. Or rather, he can get some of his lackeys to do it for him.”
“Okay. That actually makes a lot of sense.”
“Occasionally I do “the sensible thing,” John.”
“Is this because I called you an idiot for trying to take the pill that cabbie offered you?”
“Of course not.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“You’re sulking.”
“Am not.”
John takes pity on Sherlock. It’s not his fault the man gets even more adorable when he’s flustered.
“Whatever you say. I still don’t understand how even the owner of a TV network has enough money to hire his own secret service and bomb disposal squad.”
“Convenient, isn’t it?”
::
“Well done, little brother. I wouldn’t have expected you to do the responsible thing and call me.” Before Sherlock can respond, Mycroft presses on, smoothly. “Just as well that you did. There was a full team of snipers waiting for you in there.”
Sherlock scowls, curled up in a worn-out armchair in his cave of an office.
“Boring. Predictable. Not worth my time.”
“We didn’t get the man behind it, the one you call Moriarty.”
“He’s too smart for you.”
Sherlock’s office really is horrifying, thinks Mycroft. He rather suspects that Sherlock is trying to assemble some kind of nefarious device, judging by the wires and mysterious pieces of circuitry and what looks like an dissembled hand grenade. And he’s almost certain that knife has bloodstains on it.
Sherlock flings a heavy envelope at him.
“Here. The whole case, plus the list of sources, transcripts of interview, and all John’s footage. Give it to Donovan or Anderson-actually, not Anderson, someone at least halfway competent-and get them to put a piece together on it. It’ll give the police a Now go away.”
“As you wish.” Mycroft gives a somewhat sardonic smile. “I have a date, anyway. And I’m sure you have things you’d rather be doing.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing at all.”
Sherlock scowls fiercely, and hides behind a newspaper, shaking out the pages rather loudly. He waits until Mycroft’s footsteps have died away before vaulting out of the chair, grabbing his coat, and rushing out the door. John does not see him leave.
::
John does not see him leave, because he has joined the rest of the reporters in standing around and alternately poking fun at and lamenting the stupidity of the construction crew currently tramping all over the studio.
“I don’t understand, is that even how you install light? That’s weird.”
“How many reporters does it take to change a lightbulb?”
“None, because they hire someone else to do it for them.”
“One, but that’s not counting the cameramen and the studio crew and makeup and the lighting and sound crews.”
John’s phone rings, and he wrestles it out of his pocket. It’s a text.
Angelo’s. Immediately. Most urgent. SH
He sighs, not able to find it in himself to be annoyed. Which, as he reminds himself, is a sure sign of insanity. Of course.
“Sorry guys, I have to go. Sherlock’s got himself into something again.”
“Yes, John. Go look after your boyfriend if it makes you happy.”
“Oh, shut up, Harry.”
::
John enters the restaurant and sees Sherlock immediately. For one thing, he’s one of the tallest people in there, even sitting down.
John pulls out a chair and sits down across from Sherlock, who looks up from studying the menu.
“Oh, John. Just in time. Should I have the pasta caprese or the pasta primavera?”
John went through another one of his rapid mental gear changes. This time, however, he didn’t come up with anything remotely making sense, so he settled for the decidedly less eloquent “what?”
Sherlock looks at him like John’s the weird one. That’s not fair, that really isn’t.
“It’s a simple question, John. I am requesting your opinion on which pasta dish I should order.”
“How should I know? Just pick one.”
“Hmm. The pasta caprese, then. Here’s your menu. Have whatever you like.”
John accepts the menu, but is not deterred.
“Is this about Moriarty? Or have you found another story?”
Sherlock merely looks evasive and buries himself in the menu again.
::
“Ten minutes, everyone! And we need makeup in here, now!”
“Sorry, Greg dear. Just finishing my tea.”
“It’s fine-”
(“Did you hear that, he said it’s fine!”
“Man, I could get used to Greg being in a good mood!”)
“-Donovan, are you all set with Sherlock’s story? It’ll all be on teleprompter, but you need to sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, I went over it a couple times.”
“Right. Good. I don't know, I just have a bad feeling about this.”
::
Their food arrives, and John’s still in the dark as to what in the world they’re doing here. It gets even more confusing when Sherlock actually starts eating his pasta, instead of just pushing it around on his plate and making loud, acid observations about their fellow diners.
“I-thought you didn’t eat on an investigation.”
Sherlock neatly spears a piece of pasta with his fork. “I don’t.”
“Uh, right. Okay then.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, John. Just enjoy the dinner, alright? I’m paying.”
And then he smiles, which is most disconcerting, not least because it induces a kind of fuzzy tingling in John’s chest. He has to remind himself that this it ridiculous, because he’s not infatuated with Sherlock, he’s...pleasantly attracted to him. It’s not, it’s not a thing. He’s rather surprised that Sherlock hasn’t noticed, especially since John can’t seen to stop remarking on Sherlock’s brilliance. But then, as John looks at Sherlock’s alarmingly adorable smile and thinks about the fact that he’s probably never payed for something legitimately in his life, maybe Sherlock has noticed.
"Sherlock, is this a date?"
Sherlock’s smile drains from his face and he sets down his fork. The sound is oddly loud, considering the noisy restaurant.
(Oh, that was the wrong thing to say, wasn't it?)
Sherlock stares at him blankly, wiping his mouth with his napkin and laying it on his plate.
"I was under the impression you were...at least somewhat interested. Um. In me."
John opens his mouth, not at all sure what he's going to say, when Sherlock's phone rings. Not breaking eye contact with John, Sherlock fishes it out of his pocket and spares it a quick glance. Then he pockets it again and stands up, his face completely impassive.
"That was Greg. I'm afraid it's urgent. Good night, John. Enjoy the dinner, please.”
::
It’s all fun and games until someone actually falls in love.
::
Sherlock strides out onto the street, walking without being entirely sure where he’s going. The text from Greg was actually something rather mundane; he’s really not entirely sure what it said, actually.
Damn it all.
A phone rings, and it’s not his phone, the ringtone is different. It must be the pink phone, he’d forgotten he’d had it in his pocket. He yanks it out, and stops dead. It’s not a picture this time, oh no. Instead, it’s a video feed that he recognizes all too easily.
“Hello, and welcome to Channel 221 Evening News. I’m Anderson Smith-”
“-and I’m Sally Donovan. Stay tuned, folks, because we’ve got the story of a lifetime tonight, brought to you by Channel 221’s very own Sherlock Holmes. But first, news at the top of the hour.”
::
Sherlock crashes through the doors of the newsroom, his coat flying behind him.
“Where-!”
The scene he intrudes on is completely normal. He can see Anderson and Donovan in the studio through the glass wall of the newsroom, their actual words muted by the soundproof glass. Everyone else is simply lounging around as normal.
“Oh! Sherlock! Where’s John, wasn’t he with you?”
Sherlock ignores this, scanning the room. Who’s missing...? There’s Molly, and Mike, and Harriet, and Mrs. Hudson. There’s Greg. Who’s not present? What’s different? Wait-
“-the lighting system! It’s different, why is it different?”
“Well, because we got it replaced, didn’t you know?”
That’s when Donovan puts a hand to her earpiece with a surprised expression. She half turns, looking more than a little angry. Then all color drains from her face. Just visible behind her is the silhouette of a man in a suit. He is holding a gun, which is trained on Donovan. Anderson starts violently, nearly jumping away from her.
Greg shoots out of his chair, bellowing at the tech crew.
“Get sound in here, now! I want to hear every word they’re saying!”
A harassed sound engineer pushes a few buttons with fumbling fingers, and sound comes through on the newsroom speakers. It’s the sound of Sally speaking, jerkily, gasping as if she’s trying not to panic.
“-a message for...Mr. Sherlock Holmes, delivered through...this bitch-I am the-the man called Moriarty-Jim Moriarty, actually-” Molly gives a little cry and leaps to her feet.
“No, no! That’s a lie!”
The man, standing in shadow, gives a sort of patronising half-bow and steps out into the light.
“Jim! But-but how-”
“-and I’m...very disappointed in you, Sherlock” Donovan continues, helplessly, her eyes darting back and forth frantically as Moriarty presses the barrel of his gun to her head. “...for not...keeping our appointment...this afternoon. So...I’ve rigged this whole station with...explosives! No...puzzle this time, Sherlock. You can’t...use that...phenomenal...brain of yours...to get out of this. It’s been...fun, but I’ve better...things to do.”
Moriarty turns to go, then turns back. He mutters something into a small microphone in his hand, and Donovan touches her earpiece, continuing.
“Just...for fun, I’ll give you ten minutes...to try and figure out...where the bombs are...and how they’re detonated...that’s a fair chance, don’t...you think?”
With that, he sweeps out. The studio, is, as always in the face of shock, dead silent.
Sherlock stands motionless in the corner, his eyes half-closed, stone-faced.
“Cataclysm,” he murmurs. “Calamity, disaster. All synonyms for catastrophe.”
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Author: plalligator
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sherlock/John with a side of Mycroft/Lestrade. Mostly gen and ensemble shenanagains, though.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, hooray!
Notes: Deanon from sherlockbbc_fic for this prompt.
Part 1 and Part 2.
::
Episode 3
“I can’t believe we were being played around by the network because that guy decided he wanted to seduce Greg!” Anderson hurls a pen across the newsroom, where it narrowly manages to avoid hitting a hapless intern.
Harry snorts.
“Anderson, you’re just jealous because Greg is getting laid now and you’re no-ohhhhhh, Greg. Hi. Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it.” Greg walks by the clump of of desks where they sit, and nods in response to Harry’s greeting. He’s smiling to himself, and walking with what can only be described as a spring in his step.
They all watch as he passes, and Harry sits back in her chair with a sigh of relief.
“That was deeply, deeply disturbing.”
Anderson shakes his head in disbelief.
“He was whistling!”
“And smiling.” Mike stares contemplatively into his coffee mug. “Well, mates, this might be the time for me to contemplate retirement. Sherlock cracking jokes and Greg being cheerful because he has a new boyfriend who is also the network owner. I’m not sure my nerves can stand the strain.” He holds up his mug. “Cheers.”
Half a dozen people echo “cheers” and clink their drinks together.
“Well, I do think it’s good Greg has found someone. He always seems so stressed, it’ll be good for him to have something to be happy about.”
“You are the sweetest girl, Molly.”
At this point, Sally cuts in. She’s sitting at her computer with a pen between her teeth.
“Does anyone have another word for ‘catastrophe?’ My brain isn’t working today.”
“Can’t you just use ‘catastrophe?’”
“Are you stupid? Would I be asking if I could? I’ve already used it twice in this bit.”
Mrs. Hudson bustles over and plumps herself down in a seat.
“Hello, dearies. Anything happening?”
“Sherlock’s turning into a normal human being, Greg’s getting laid, and Sally needs another word for ‘catastrophe.’”
Mrs. Hudson beams. “Yes, he is, isn’t he? I rather suspect it’s John’s influence. They make such a nice couple.”
“Wait, are you talking about Greg or Sherlock?”
“Which do you think?”
Sally groans. “So no one knows another word for catastrophe?”
Sherlock sails in, his coat billowing behind him. As always, he’s followed by John.
“Cataclysm, calamity, disaster. All synonyms for catastrophe.”
“Thanks, freak,” Sally says amicably, hitting the backspace bar a couple times and beginning to type again.
Sherlock passes by, diving into his office, while John stops to catch his breath, giving a nod to the assembled. Then he reemerges bearing an armful of books, texting furiously with one hand.
“You’re welcome,” he says, and runs out the door. John heaves a breath and follows him.
::
“You didn’t tell them.”
“No.” Sherlock strides along so quickly it’s hard for John to keep up. In a less dignified man, it would have been running. “There’s no need, and they wouldn’t have been able to help any. The first three were easy enough to solve. ”
“Hey-Sherlock, are you taking this seriously?”
Sherlock gives a frustrated huff.
“Yes, John, I am taking this seriously. It’s only because she started to describe him that he killed that old woman in the third one. These puzzles...they’re too easy. If this really is the man behind the serial murders and the Chinese smuggling operation, then he can do better than this.”
“Maybe you overestimated him.”
“I never do. These so-called challenges, they’re more like a taunt.”
John quells the impulse to roll his eyes. He doesn’t know why he puts up with this, he really doesn’t. He’s like a child, he really is. Attention span of a gnat unless something interesting comes along. In Sherlock’s world, there are two kinds of things. The boring things-which apparently encompass most of humanity, and the solar system as well, and and the things worth paying attention to, which is pretty much limited to peculiar and gruesome crimes.
“Take the painting-I reported on a break-in at the same place two years ago. Yes, the painting’s a good example. Clever of him to leave a message in plain sight like that, where he knew I’d find it but I might not realize what it means.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Really, John, keep up. There was a piece of paper taped to the underside of the frame. On it was a series of numbers, in groups of three.”
“The same code as-”
“As the smugglers used, yes.” Sherlock waves a scrap of paper a John. “Here, take this. Read off the numbers. The books probably isn’t London A-Z anymore, he’ll have changed it...” John takes the paper while Sherlock rips open one of the books he’s taken from the office.
“10...5...75...14...”
::
“Slow news day.”
“Mmm.”
Harry and Mike are playing an unenthusiastic game of basketball with a trash can and some wadded-up papers. Molly is updating her blog. Mrs. Hudson has fallen asleep in her chair.
“Hi, everyone. Hi, Molly. I brought you a latte.”
“Oh, Jim, you’re so sweet, thank you! Don’t tell me you came up here on your lunch break again just to see me.”
Jim gives a chuckle.
“What can I say, Moll? I guess I just like spending time with you. Though I had a time getting up here...there are construction people up and down the hallways everywhere. Are you getting some renovating done?”
“Oh, well, kind of. We’re finally getting a lot of our equipment replaced. I think they’re doing the lighting system today.”
“Wow, that sounds exciting! Is that why you’re all sitting around?”
“Well, yes and no. Yes, we have to be out from under their feet, but it’s a slow day. Not really much to do otherwise.”
“Sounds fascinating. Well, I’ve got to run! My boss’ll be angry if I’m back late.”
“Bye, Jim. Thanks for the coffee!”
Mrs. Hudson stirs.
“What a nice young man.”
::
“Yes...I’ve got it! It’s the pool where Carl Powers was killed. And the last bit isn’t part of the code, it’s a time. 12:00 PM. Noon.” Sherlock tosses aside the book. “Dull. Undoubtedly a trap, undoubtedly a show of brute force. No point. Dull. The place is probably full of explosives.” He pulls out his phone while John’s mind scrambles, frantically trying to change gears to keep up with Sherlock’s erratic reasoning.
“Wh-so what are you doing now?”
“Texting Mycroft. He can deal with it. Or rather, he can get some of his lackeys to do it for him.”
“Okay. That actually makes a lot of sense.”
“Occasionally I do “the sensible thing,” John.”
“Is this because I called you an idiot for trying to take the pill that cabbie offered you?”
“Of course not.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“You’re sulking.”
“Am not.”
John takes pity on Sherlock. It’s not his fault the man gets even more adorable when he’s flustered.
“Whatever you say. I still don’t understand how even the owner of a TV network has enough money to hire his own secret service and bomb disposal squad.”
“Convenient, isn’t it?”
::
“Well done, little brother. I wouldn’t have expected you to do the responsible thing and call me.” Before Sherlock can respond, Mycroft presses on, smoothly. “Just as well that you did. There was a full team of snipers waiting for you in there.”
Sherlock scowls, curled up in a worn-out armchair in his cave of an office.
“Boring. Predictable. Not worth my time.”
“We didn’t get the man behind it, the one you call Moriarty.”
“He’s too smart for you.”
Sherlock’s office really is horrifying, thinks Mycroft. He rather suspects that Sherlock is trying to assemble some kind of nefarious device, judging by the wires and mysterious pieces of circuitry and what looks like an dissembled hand grenade. And he’s almost certain that knife has bloodstains on it.
Sherlock flings a heavy envelope at him.
“Here. The whole case, plus the list of sources, transcripts of interview, and all John’s footage. Give it to Donovan or Anderson-actually, not Anderson, someone at least halfway competent-and get them to put a piece together on it. It’ll give the police a Now go away.”
“As you wish.” Mycroft gives a somewhat sardonic smile. “I have a date, anyway. And I’m sure you have things you’d rather be doing.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing at all.”
Sherlock scowls fiercely, and hides behind a newspaper, shaking out the pages rather loudly. He waits until Mycroft’s footsteps have died away before vaulting out of the chair, grabbing his coat, and rushing out the door. John does not see him leave.
::
John does not see him leave, because he has joined the rest of the reporters in standing around and alternately poking fun at and lamenting the stupidity of the construction crew currently tramping all over the studio.
“I don’t understand, is that even how you install light? That’s weird.”
“How many reporters does it take to change a lightbulb?”
“None, because they hire someone else to do it for them.”
“One, but that’s not counting the cameramen and the studio crew and makeup and the lighting and sound crews.”
John’s phone rings, and he wrestles it out of his pocket. It’s a text.
Angelo’s. Immediately. Most urgent. SH
He sighs, not able to find it in himself to be annoyed. Which, as he reminds himself, is a sure sign of insanity. Of course.
“Sorry guys, I have to go. Sherlock’s got himself into something again.”
“Yes, John. Go look after your boyfriend if it makes you happy.”
“Oh, shut up, Harry.”
::
John enters the restaurant and sees Sherlock immediately. For one thing, he’s one of the tallest people in there, even sitting down.
John pulls out a chair and sits down across from Sherlock, who looks up from studying the menu.
“Oh, John. Just in time. Should I have the pasta caprese or the pasta primavera?”
John went through another one of his rapid mental gear changes. This time, however, he didn’t come up with anything remotely making sense, so he settled for the decidedly less eloquent “what?”
Sherlock looks at him like John’s the weird one. That’s not fair, that really isn’t.
“It’s a simple question, John. I am requesting your opinion on which pasta dish I should order.”
“How should I know? Just pick one.”
“Hmm. The pasta caprese, then. Here’s your menu. Have whatever you like.”
John accepts the menu, but is not deterred.
“Is this about Moriarty? Or have you found another story?”
Sherlock merely looks evasive and buries himself in the menu again.
::
“Ten minutes, everyone! And we need makeup in here, now!”
“Sorry, Greg dear. Just finishing my tea.”
“It’s fine-”
(“Did you hear that, he said it’s fine!”
“Man, I could get used to Greg being in a good mood!”)
“-Donovan, are you all set with Sherlock’s story? It’ll all be on teleprompter, but you need to sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, I went over it a couple times.”
“Right. Good. I don't know, I just have a bad feeling about this.”
::
Their food arrives, and John’s still in the dark as to what in the world they’re doing here. It gets even more confusing when Sherlock actually starts eating his pasta, instead of just pushing it around on his plate and making loud, acid observations about their fellow diners.
“I-thought you didn’t eat on an investigation.”
Sherlock neatly spears a piece of pasta with his fork. “I don’t.”
“Uh, right. Okay then.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, John. Just enjoy the dinner, alright? I’m paying.”
And then he smiles, which is most disconcerting, not least because it induces a kind of fuzzy tingling in John’s chest. He has to remind himself that this it ridiculous, because he’s not infatuated with Sherlock, he’s...pleasantly attracted to him. It’s not, it’s not a thing. He’s rather surprised that Sherlock hasn’t noticed, especially since John can’t seen to stop remarking on Sherlock’s brilliance. But then, as John looks at Sherlock’s alarmingly adorable smile and thinks about the fact that he’s probably never payed for something legitimately in his life, maybe Sherlock has noticed.
"Sherlock, is this a date?"
Sherlock’s smile drains from his face and he sets down his fork. The sound is oddly loud, considering the noisy restaurant.
(Oh, that was the wrong thing to say, wasn't it?)
Sherlock stares at him blankly, wiping his mouth with his napkin and laying it on his plate.
"I was under the impression you were...at least somewhat interested. Um. In me."
John opens his mouth, not at all sure what he's going to say, when Sherlock's phone rings. Not breaking eye contact with John, Sherlock fishes it out of his pocket and spares it a quick glance. Then he pockets it again and stands up, his face completely impassive.
"That was Greg. I'm afraid it's urgent. Good night, John. Enjoy the dinner, please.”
::
It’s all fun and games until someone actually falls in love.
::
Sherlock strides out onto the street, walking without being entirely sure where he’s going. The text from Greg was actually something rather mundane; he’s really not entirely sure what it said, actually.
Damn it all.
A phone rings, and it’s not his phone, the ringtone is different. It must be the pink phone, he’d forgotten he’d had it in his pocket. He yanks it out, and stops dead. It’s not a picture this time, oh no. Instead, it’s a video feed that he recognizes all too easily.
“Hello, and welcome to Channel 221 Evening News. I’m Anderson Smith-”
“-and I’m Sally Donovan. Stay tuned, folks, because we’ve got the story of a lifetime tonight, brought to you by Channel 221’s very own Sherlock Holmes. But first, news at the top of the hour.”
::
Sherlock crashes through the doors of the newsroom, his coat flying behind him.
“Where-!”
The scene he intrudes on is completely normal. He can see Anderson and Donovan in the studio through the glass wall of the newsroom, their actual words muted by the soundproof glass. Everyone else is simply lounging around as normal.
“Oh! Sherlock! Where’s John, wasn’t he with you?”
Sherlock ignores this, scanning the room. Who’s missing...? There’s Molly, and Mike, and Harriet, and Mrs. Hudson. There’s Greg. Who’s not present? What’s different? Wait-
“-the lighting system! It’s different, why is it different?”
“Well, because we got it replaced, didn’t you know?”
That’s when Donovan puts a hand to her earpiece with a surprised expression. She half turns, looking more than a little angry. Then all color drains from her face. Just visible behind her is the silhouette of a man in a suit. He is holding a gun, which is trained on Donovan. Anderson starts violently, nearly jumping away from her.
Greg shoots out of his chair, bellowing at the tech crew.
“Get sound in here, now! I want to hear every word they’re saying!”
A harassed sound engineer pushes a few buttons with fumbling fingers, and sound comes through on the newsroom speakers. It’s the sound of Sally speaking, jerkily, gasping as if she’s trying not to panic.
“-a message for...Mr. Sherlock Holmes, delivered through...this bitch-I am the-the man called Moriarty-Jim Moriarty, actually-” Molly gives a little cry and leaps to her feet.
“No, no! That’s a lie!”
The man, standing in shadow, gives a sort of patronising half-bow and steps out into the light.
“Jim! But-but how-”
“-and I’m...very disappointed in you, Sherlock” Donovan continues, helplessly, her eyes darting back and forth frantically as Moriarty presses the barrel of his gun to her head. “...for not...keeping our appointment...this afternoon. So...I’ve rigged this whole station with...explosives! No...puzzle this time, Sherlock. You can’t...use that...phenomenal...brain of yours...to get out of this. It’s been...fun, but I’ve better...things to do.”
Moriarty turns to go, then turns back. He mutters something into a small microphone in his hand, and Donovan touches her earpiece, continuing.
“Just...for fun, I’ll give you ten minutes...to try and figure out...where the bombs are...and how they’re detonated...that’s a fair chance, don’t...you think?”
With that, he sweeps out. The studio, is, as always in the face of shock, dead silent.
Sherlock stands motionless in the corner, his eyes half-closed, stone-faced.
“Cataclysm,” he murmurs. “Calamity, disaster. All synonyms for catastrophe.”