FIC: "What Happens While Nothing Happens, Part 1" Sherlock BBC
Title: What Happens While Nothing Happens, Part 1
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/Jim
Rating: R
Word Count:1,683
Summary: Right now the pencil felt angular against Sherlock’s hypersensitive fingertips, he was far too conscious of the food and sleep he had missed in the last 53 hours and all the best choices of next actions were on the “don’t tell John” list.
Sherlock Holmes held the dark blue pencil delicately between his fingers, and reviewed a mental list. The other occupants of the room had mercifully fallen silent, allowing him to think, at least as well as he could right now. Damn Moriarty. This gap, this silence, was a foreseen but unavoidable danger to his ability to work. Hence, obliquely, the list.
Lists could be useful. Their very simplicity- a series of ordered or unordered items linked by a common factor- made their creation almost inevitable. But categorising could be dangerous. A list drew the mind’s focus onto a single connection, away from a myriad other possibilities.
Sherlock knew the risks. Which was why he he currently had only... he idly counted...twenty three mental lists, including the new list of lists that he had just made.
The others were waiting for him to speak. That genuinely puzzled him, though he should be used to it by now. The museum curator was in custody. They were still in New Scotland Yard. Moriarty had not telephoned yet. He could draw no conclusion from the change in pattern, not without more facts. There were no further data at the moment, so why did they expect him to have any more to say?
Instead of letting it concern him, he allowed his mind to flick back to his list of things that it would be best if John Watson did not find out about. It had become a curiously dynamic work in progress.
John was here, of course, standing up against the wall. Without looking Sherlock knew exactly what expression the man would be wearing; that “look how patient I am being” one. Unlike Lestrade, who had just coughed, feet shifting. A pointless non-verbal signal. Sherlock had no intention of talking just to fill the silence.
It had been useful for a potential flatmate to know about the most likely disruptions in advance; the violin, the experiments. Certain other things might have an adverse effect on John’s willingness to stay. Over the last couple of weeks the potential inconvenience of finding a new flatmate had been augmented by a definite preference for the company of this one. Accordingly the priority of this particular list had increased.
It had been trivial to compile, originally. The three things that it was better that no-one knew. Legality, of course, didn’t concern him, but consequences undoubtedly did. Sherlock was confident of his ability to manipulate any jury, but the waste of his time that arrest and Crown Court trial might take would be intolerable.
Then the things that he’d known straight away that John would find difficult to accept. Doctor; likely to be hostile to anything he considered physically or mentally harmful. Soldier; similarly disapproving of anything judged too undisciplined. An army doctor would have a strong stomach; that at least was one thing that Sherlock didn’t have to worry about. The man might not like finding a head in the fridge but he was unlikely at least to overreact.
Instead the list now contained more subtle items, arising from his observations of John Watson as an individual. Potential revelations that might drive the man away from Baker Street. Away from Sherlock. The odds were good on superior reason persuading John not to go, but he saw no reason to gamble.
Right now the pencil felt angular against Sherlock’s hypersensitive fingertips, he was far too conscious of the food and sleep he had missed in the last 53 hours and all the best choices of next actions were on the “don’t tell John” list.
The inspector had given up on the coughing in favour of the direct approach. “What are you going to do now?”
That could be used. An accurate answer was clearly not necessary. What was required was something that would separate him from John, and the others, for an appropriate period of time. Sherlock pulled himself abruptly to his feet.
“Run the numbers on the hostage times and locations, all forms of transport. Find out if the same group of people could have been present at each.”
A fairly obvious red herring. Moriarty, whoever he was, undoubtedly had enough resources to set up separate kidnappings and in any case Sherlock could have found the information himself in less that two minutes. But it would give Lestrade something to distract him for a while.
Now for John. Sherlock turned to his associate and smiled, carefully.
“They’ll be debriefing the latest hostage. The boy. Incompetently, no doubt. Talk to him. Find out everything you can about why he was chosen and what happened. Get me facts to work with. I can do nothing in a vacuum.”
That might even be useful, although Sherlock doubted it. The solution to this one lay with understanding Moriarty’s mind. That he’d used others as his voice was important; how precisely he achieved it was almost certainly irrelevant.
“What about you?” Was that a hint of suspicion in John’s voice? No, just the man’s desire to see everyone organised. Army training.
“I” Sherlock said, entirely accurately, “have something that I need to do.”
Outside New Scotland Yard Sherlock slipped through the Mall to Trafalgar Square, almost certainly losing any possible tail in Waterstones and headed back towards Embankment. Reaching the river, he climbed the steps down to the secluded waterfront below road level and sank to his knees in the concrete archway, unseen.
Human physiology was not reasonable. Moriarty was playing games and Sherlock needed-needed- to win. Adrenaline was welcome, in its way; there was undeniably an increase in clarity. But his body had been running on it for 53 hours and 17 minutes now and the pause in events- Moriarty still hadn’t phoned with the single pip, and he had no idea why not- had dropped it into the familiar post-stress response that he really had no time for right now.
What he needed was a cigarette. Nicotine patches were an inadequate substitute at times of high stress. However Sherlock didn’t need to review the literature on failure rates of quitting to know that a cigarette now would be an extremely flawed idea. One would lead to more and John was unlikely to take kindly to his smoking in the flat. Also, it would be a failure and Sherlock Holmes was not used to failing.
Other drugs were out of the question as well, this time. He was working, still - there was a pip left, There was nothing he could take that wouldn’t dull his reasoning one way or another. Besides, John Watson MD was not a poor observer, as ordinary people went; certainly not in his professional capacity.
That left his least preferred option. Other people were annoying, unless they were data. Not only did this way involve interaction, but he had to find someone first. A complete waste of time and effort that should be spent on the problems in hand, but experience had proved that relying on willpower alone led to a deterioration in the brain’s performance. He needed something to counter the physiological response to prolonged adrenaline; if nothing chemical was appropriate, then biological would have to do.
So he dragged his thoughts off lists and Moriarty and memory sticks and applied them to the dull and pedestrian task of acquiring the necessary second party. It seemed to be a job eminently suitable for his subconscious, which had in the past appeared to take note of potential partners, even when he was not consciously aware of it. So he enquired. His subconscious responded with a picture of John Watson, with rather fewer clothes on than Sherlock felt was entirely likely or appropriate.
That was not unexpected. But not useful right now. Sherlock sighed. The sort of woolly thinking he expected from the non-rational parts of his brain. John was quite obviously not available, for a great number of reasons that he wasn’t even going to bother enumerating. Irrelevant, he informed his subconscious. Try again.
Another picture of John, and was that really the rug in their sitting room? This time Sherlock lost patience with his unhelpful and irrational innermost desires and resorted, as he should have done in the first place, to technology.
An application that a great number of people might have been rather surprised to find on Sherlock Holmes’ phone turned out to be not much help either, unusually. The only local candidates were clearly unsuitable, and Sherlock didn’t have time to chase across London; he thought of the pink phone nestling in his pocket.
Wrong time of day, wrong day of the week, wrong place. Everyone around here was tucked up in their offices, working. Sherlock briefly considered simply walking into one of the surrounding buildings and grabbing someone appropriate, before realising with relief that this was all unnecessary. St Barts was two miles away, traffic was light, their mutual destination happened to be conveniently in between. No need to waste any more time with the problem. That solution would do.
Sherlock had found that it was more efficient to memorise every number that came his way when he was working than it was to triage them at source. In a new text message he typed;
“17A Savoy St. 12 min. Confirm. SH.”
entered the number from the piece of paper that had led to John accusing him, rather unfairly, of cruelty, climbed back up to the road and hailed a cab. Four minutes to get there, slightly more to work out how to get past the inevitable new security system, would leave him three minutes to spare.
Just over forty five seconds and his phone beeped. Not the pink one. He settled into the cab, glanced at the text.
“OK. Jim”
Commendably brief. That was something, at least. For the first time Sherlock allowed himself to feel a hint of anticipation at the dissipation of this inconvenient and distracting tension. Jim from IT with the expensive taste in underwear, liar, cheat and Sherlock Holmes fan, would at least fill a few of the empty moments until Moriarty deigned to contact him again.
" What Happens While Nothing Happens part 2"
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/Jim
Rating: R
Word Count:1,683
Summary: Right now the pencil felt angular against Sherlock’s hypersensitive fingertips, he was far too conscious of the food and sleep he had missed in the last 53 hours and all the best choices of next actions were on the “don’t tell John” list.
Sherlock Holmes held the dark blue pencil delicately between his fingers, and reviewed a mental list. The other occupants of the room had mercifully fallen silent, allowing him to think, at least as well as he could right now. Damn Moriarty. This gap, this silence, was a foreseen but unavoidable danger to his ability to work. Hence, obliquely, the list.
Lists could be useful. Their very simplicity- a series of ordered or unordered items linked by a common factor- made their creation almost inevitable. But categorising could be dangerous. A list drew the mind’s focus onto a single connection, away from a myriad other possibilities.
Sherlock knew the risks. Which was why he he currently had only... he idly counted...twenty three mental lists, including the new list of lists that he had just made.
The others were waiting for him to speak. That genuinely puzzled him, though he should be used to it by now. The museum curator was in custody. They were still in New Scotland Yard. Moriarty had not telephoned yet. He could draw no conclusion from the change in pattern, not without more facts. There were no further data at the moment, so why did they expect him to have any more to say?
Instead of letting it concern him, he allowed his mind to flick back to his list of things that it would be best if John Watson did not find out about. It had become a curiously dynamic work in progress.
John was here, of course, standing up against the wall. Without looking Sherlock knew exactly what expression the man would be wearing; that “look how patient I am being” one. Unlike Lestrade, who had just coughed, feet shifting. A pointless non-verbal signal. Sherlock had no intention of talking just to fill the silence.
It had been useful for a potential flatmate to know about the most likely disruptions in advance; the violin, the experiments. Certain other things might have an adverse effect on John’s willingness to stay. Over the last couple of weeks the potential inconvenience of finding a new flatmate had been augmented by a definite preference for the company of this one. Accordingly the priority of this particular list had increased.
It had been trivial to compile, originally. The three things that it was better that no-one knew. Legality, of course, didn’t concern him, but consequences undoubtedly did. Sherlock was confident of his ability to manipulate any jury, but the waste of his time that arrest and Crown Court trial might take would be intolerable.
Then the things that he’d known straight away that John would find difficult to accept. Doctor; likely to be hostile to anything he considered physically or mentally harmful. Soldier; similarly disapproving of anything judged too undisciplined. An army doctor would have a strong stomach; that at least was one thing that Sherlock didn’t have to worry about. The man might not like finding a head in the fridge but he was unlikely at least to overreact.
Instead the list now contained more subtle items, arising from his observations of John Watson as an individual. Potential revelations that might drive the man away from Baker Street. Away from Sherlock. The odds were good on superior reason persuading John not to go, but he saw no reason to gamble.
Right now the pencil felt angular against Sherlock’s hypersensitive fingertips, he was far too conscious of the food and sleep he had missed in the last 53 hours and all the best choices of next actions were on the “don’t tell John” list.
The inspector had given up on the coughing in favour of the direct approach. “What are you going to do now?”
That could be used. An accurate answer was clearly not necessary. What was required was something that would separate him from John, and the others, for an appropriate period of time. Sherlock pulled himself abruptly to his feet.
“Run the numbers on the hostage times and locations, all forms of transport. Find out if the same group of people could have been present at each.”
A fairly obvious red herring. Moriarty, whoever he was, undoubtedly had enough resources to set up separate kidnappings and in any case Sherlock could have found the information himself in less that two minutes. But it would give Lestrade something to distract him for a while.
Now for John. Sherlock turned to his associate and smiled, carefully.
“They’ll be debriefing the latest hostage. The boy. Incompetently, no doubt. Talk to him. Find out everything you can about why he was chosen and what happened. Get me facts to work with. I can do nothing in a vacuum.”
That might even be useful, although Sherlock doubted it. The solution to this one lay with understanding Moriarty’s mind. That he’d used others as his voice was important; how precisely he achieved it was almost certainly irrelevant.
“What about you?” Was that a hint of suspicion in John’s voice? No, just the man’s desire to see everyone organised. Army training.
“I” Sherlock said, entirely accurately, “have something that I need to do.”
Outside New Scotland Yard Sherlock slipped through the Mall to Trafalgar Square, almost certainly losing any possible tail in Waterstones and headed back towards Embankment. Reaching the river, he climbed the steps down to the secluded waterfront below road level and sank to his knees in the concrete archway, unseen.
Human physiology was not reasonable. Moriarty was playing games and Sherlock needed-needed- to win. Adrenaline was welcome, in its way; there was undeniably an increase in clarity. But his body had been running on it for 53 hours and 17 minutes now and the pause in events- Moriarty still hadn’t phoned with the single pip, and he had no idea why not- had dropped it into the familiar post-stress response that he really had no time for right now.
What he needed was a cigarette. Nicotine patches were an inadequate substitute at times of high stress. However Sherlock didn’t need to review the literature on failure rates of quitting to know that a cigarette now would be an extremely flawed idea. One would lead to more and John was unlikely to take kindly to his smoking in the flat. Also, it would be a failure and Sherlock Holmes was not used to failing.
Other drugs were out of the question as well, this time. He was working, still - there was a pip left, There was nothing he could take that wouldn’t dull his reasoning one way or another. Besides, John Watson MD was not a poor observer, as ordinary people went; certainly not in his professional capacity.
That left his least preferred option. Other people were annoying, unless they were data. Not only did this way involve interaction, but he had to find someone first. A complete waste of time and effort that should be spent on the problems in hand, but experience had proved that relying on willpower alone led to a deterioration in the brain’s performance. He needed something to counter the physiological response to prolonged adrenaline; if nothing chemical was appropriate, then biological would have to do.
So he dragged his thoughts off lists and Moriarty and memory sticks and applied them to the dull and pedestrian task of acquiring the necessary second party. It seemed to be a job eminently suitable for his subconscious, which had in the past appeared to take note of potential partners, even when he was not consciously aware of it. So he enquired. His subconscious responded with a picture of John Watson, with rather fewer clothes on than Sherlock felt was entirely likely or appropriate.
That was not unexpected. But not useful right now. Sherlock sighed. The sort of woolly thinking he expected from the non-rational parts of his brain. John was quite obviously not available, for a great number of reasons that he wasn’t even going to bother enumerating. Irrelevant, he informed his subconscious. Try again.
Another picture of John, and was that really the rug in their sitting room? This time Sherlock lost patience with his unhelpful and irrational innermost desires and resorted, as he should have done in the first place, to technology.
An application that a great number of people might have been rather surprised to find on Sherlock Holmes’ phone turned out to be not much help either, unusually. The only local candidates were clearly unsuitable, and Sherlock didn’t have time to chase across London; he thought of the pink phone nestling in his pocket.
Wrong time of day, wrong day of the week, wrong place. Everyone around here was tucked up in their offices, working. Sherlock briefly considered simply walking into one of the surrounding buildings and grabbing someone appropriate, before realising with relief that this was all unnecessary. St Barts was two miles away, traffic was light, their mutual destination happened to be conveniently in between. No need to waste any more time with the problem. That solution would do.
Sherlock had found that it was more efficient to memorise every number that came his way when he was working than it was to triage them at source. In a new text message he typed;
“17A Savoy St. 12 min. Confirm. SH.”
entered the number from the piece of paper that had led to John accusing him, rather unfairly, of cruelty, climbed back up to the road and hailed a cab. Four minutes to get there, slightly more to work out how to get past the inevitable new security system, would leave him three minutes to spare.
Just over forty five seconds and his phone beeped. Not the pink one. He settled into the cab, glanced at the text.
“OK. Jim”
Commendably brief. That was something, at least. For the first time Sherlock allowed himself to feel a hint of anticipation at the dissipation of this inconvenient and distracting tension. Jim from IT with the expensive taste in underwear, liar, cheat and Sherlock Holmes fan, would at least fill a few of the empty moments until Moriarty deigned to contact him again.
" What Happens While Nothing Happens part 2"