Deduce Me

Thirty-one: Retrieving Information

Sherlock

The door opened to a greasy-haired boy. "What d'you want?" Anderson braked sharply. We'd hardly seen him in the few weeks since we returned to school after the break, but he had always been there, waiting in the wings for a chance to torment us. I'd decided it was time we confronted him about who was employing him.

"You're going to tell us who you're working for," John stated as he pushed his way into the dorm room. I followed him, but let him talk. He's always been the better talker. I remember on one of our cases, a serial killer with commitment issues had us tied up in some old abandoned warehouse. John had to keep him talking until the detectives from Scotland Yard arrived; I tried distracting him, but it seems people don't like when you uncover their secrets and point out their flaws to their face. It almost got us killed, actually. After that, John and I had a silent agreement that he would distract while I gather clues/find a way out, depending on what type of situation we were in.

I glanced around Anderson's room. Still dating Sally, I see... and still stupider than a post.

"Get out of my room, fags!"

"Who do you take orders from?" John sat in the desk chair in a relaxed position, making it clear that we weren't leaving anytime soon. I clasped my hands behind my back, and remained standing in my most intimidating stance.

Anderson flicked a knife out of his pocket. "I'm asking you the name of your boss, and now you're showing us a knife. Is it a clue?"

Anderson motioned towards the door. "Are you doing a mime?" John asked sarcastically. I chuckled silently at his wit.

"Go," Anderson spoke harshly, trying to sound intimidating. "Or I'll cut you."

Turning my attention back to Anderson, I instantly read that he never intended to actually use the blade- it was only a scare tactic. It probably worked well on people who weren't already accustomed to dealing with murderers, serial killers, bombers, and every other type of criminal John and I frequently find ourselves in the company of.

John looked up at me, silently assessing the situation. I shook my head slightly, letting him know that Anderson meant no real harm. John grinned. "Nope," John rose slowly. "Not from there. Let me help."

My stomach clenched as John moved closer to Anderson- within stabbing distance. I tried to reassure myself that John knew what he was doing; we'd been in dangerous situations before, and John could handle this. It didn't keep me from worrying, though.

"Now, concentrate." His voice was all commanding and determined. And sexy-- I mean, what? "Who do you work for?"

"Alright, you asked for it," Anderson threatened, but before anyone could even think about moving, John lashed out, grabbing Anderson's arm with his left hand and slamming his right hand down on Anderson's radius. As he cried out in pain and dropped the blade, John's foot swept under him to knock him off his feet. He slumped to the ground as John stepped away, glancing to me. I quirked my eyebrow at him. He shrugged, a faint hint of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

It was my turn. I stooped down next to Anderson, with John on his other side. "Now," I asked, "are you concentrating yet?"

"You broke my arm!" he yelled at John, who rolled his eyes. I glanced at it.

"No, he sprained it. Quite effectively, I might add. Good job." John grinned.

"It feels squishy! Is it supposed to feel squishy? Feel that!" He held out his arm to us, and I squeezed it.

"Yep, it's a sprain. Now tell us, who are you working for?"

"I don't know!" he insisted, to which John gave him a threatening look. "Really! I don't know any names, and he hasn't been in contact in a while. But he always used this... code name, I guess. That's all I know!"

I leaned closer, threateningly. "What name?" I spoke slowly.

Anderson looked at both of us, weighing his options before finally sighing. "Moriarty."

I nodded. "There," John patted Anderson's knee. "Wasn't that easy?" We headed toward the door.

"No," he said grumpily, holding his arm. "It's really sore. You two are fucking mental, you are!"

"Nope. Just used to a better class of criminal." John shut the door firmly behind him before hurrying after me.

"Nice one, back there."

"Uh, thanks. My dad- before he left for Afghanistan, I mean- taught me how to take someone down. Never thought I'd actually have a need for that information, back then..."

I studied him carefully. "You miss him. Your father."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." He shook his head, as if trying to dispel sad thoughts. "Anyway. It was Moriarty all along, then?"

We climbed the stairs together back to our dorm. "Yes. But I believed Anderson when he said he hadn't been in contact."

"So what do we do now?" John asked as we opened our door.

"Hello, John. Sherlock." A deep voice greeted us as we walked in.

(A/N: Hello, my lovely readers! You all have given me so much support and love for this fanfic, and I want to thank you so so SO much. You all are the best group of readers I could have asked for. (I mean, I now have OVER 8K VIEWS! HOW FREAKING AWESOME IS THAT?!?!?!?!)

You guys have made my life 98483431567 times better with all your appreciation and support.

Keep on voting, commenting, and following, dears.)