You and Sherlock

Just like Spider-Man

Yes, you were coming. You really didn't suppose you had a choice, given the fact that once you'd climbed into the cab, Sherlock had turned to you with that manic joy all over his face. The ride over was quiet enough, despite the prickly air, charged with Sherlock's silent excitement. 

The flat was swarmed with police when you arrived, but Sherlock merely gripped your hand tightly and pulled you through the throng, ducking under the police tape gracefully while you hit it head on and tripped, faceplanting into Sherlock's back. 

The smell of London and rain and cigarette smoke briefly filled your temporarily-darkened world, and then Sherlock took another step forward, sending you swirling back to reality.

"Come on, now, Y/N," Sherlock half turned back to you, impatient. "We haven't much time."

He hurried up the stairs and you suppressed a sigh. Would it really kill anyone -- no pun intended -- to install a lift for once? Honestly. Nonetheless, you trotted up the stairs behind the detective. By the time you reached the fourth floor, you were out of breath and vaguely irritated; Dimmock had caught you at the second floor and had shot you a look so smug as he stepped into stride beside you, you considered knocking him out. You were tempted to ask how he'd arrived at the scene before you had, but not so much that you actually wanted to talk to him.

But none of that mattered. Sherlock was on the case; he'd already entered the flat and was scrutinizing it. The living room was messy, you noted with distaste; an open, empty suitcase on the floor, and books. Books everywhere, on the desk and coffee table and the floor. Newspapers also littered the carpet, but what caught your attention was the small black origami flower -- the exact same flower that Sherlock had pulled from Van Coon's mouth. Looking back up at Sherlock, you watched as he strode over to the kitchen area and looked through the window, pushing the netted curtains away, at the nearby rooftops of the lower buildings. 

"Four floors up," Sherlock shook his head, smirking. "That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut; think they're impregnable."

Sherlock walked back into the middle of the room thoughtfully, spinning around to look at it all again. 

"They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in. They never think, do they, Y/N?" Sherlock turned back towards the stairs and stopped under a skylight you hadn't noticed. 

"I don't understand," Dimmock frowned. 

"Really?" You feigned shock. "That's a first."

Sherlock shot you a reproving look before addressing dim Dimmock.

"You're dealing with a killer who can climb." He stepped up on something -- a step stool, you supposed, from a nearby supply closet, to analyze the skylight. 

"What are you doing--?" Dimmock interjected, rushing out to the landing to Sherlock. You wished Lestrade were here. Dealing with Dimmock was like dealing with Dudley Dursley. Entitled, and not very bright. Sherlock ignored the man-child who was now tugging at his coattails.

"He clings to the walls like an insect." Unhooking the latch, Sherlock pushes the window upwards and smiled faintly. "That's how he got in."

'What?!"

Dimmock's neverending shock was getting tiresome, and you wished you had the ability to ignore people as thoroughly as Sherlock could. Mostly, to himself, Sherlock continued talking contemplatively.

"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."

"You're not serious! Like Spiderman?" 

"Yes," you interjected sarcastically. "Just like Spider-Man. Your friendly neighborhood murderous spiderman."

"He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon." Sherlock stepped off the landing and looked at Dimmock expectantly, who was laughing incredulously.

"Oh! Hold on. You expect me to believe --"

But Sherlock cut him off, impatient again. Good. You were impatient, too. 

"And of course that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace." Sherlock turned to you, grave now. "We have to find out what connects these two men."

And then, just as quickly, his attention was elsewhere -- on the scattered books littering the apartment. 

"Your time, here, Mr. Holmes," Dimmock said coolly, "Is up."

"Won't be needing anymore, Inspector. Come along, Y/N. We've got a murderer to catch." And with that, in typical Sherlock fashion, he whirled away, pulling the collar of his coat high and prancing down the stairs.

"Hope I won't see you any time soon," you said brightly to Dimmock on your way out, sending him a cheerful grin, and conveniently distracting him from the fact that Sherlock had picked up a book from the floor and stashed it in his coat. 

***

Outside, away from the crime scene, you gently pulled Sherlock to a stop.

"The book?" 

He pulled it out of his jacket and handed it to you. Curious, you flipped through it, and aside from the fact that it had been borrowed from a library, West Kensington Library, to be exact, it didn't seem that special.

"This book doesn't seem special, Sherlock," you handed the anticlimactic book back to him, brows furrowed.

"It isn't about the book itself, Y/N. It's the message behind it." Sherlock shot you a cryptic grin and climbed inside the just-arrived cab. "West Kensington Library," he told the driver.

"Come on, Y/N," he smiled. "Let's go find our 'Spiderman.'"

***

And that's how you found yourself inside the West Kensington Library, riding up the escalator toward wherever Lukis' book had come from. 

"Why, exactly, are we going here?"

"You didn't notice, Y/N?" Sherlock's turned his inquisitive blue eyes on you. "I'm disappointed."

He thumped the book gently against your nose.

"Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died." Flipping the book over, he looked at the reference number and stepped off the escalator, deftly working his way through the shelves. When he stopped in the right area, he began examining books.

Deciding you may as well be of whatever help you could, and hoping you'd get lucky, you began pulling out the books on a nearby shelf across the aisle randomly. And -- almost immediately, get lucky you did. 

"Sherlock."

Because in between the little gap the book had left was a familiar and unmistakable yellow. You heard the rustle of Sherlock's coat as he turned and then suddenly felt his warmth at your back as his arm reached to where yours hovered, and he pulled away a handful of books, revealing more yellow paint. 

His lips brushed your earlobe and involuntarily you shivered, lurching yourself forward a little to help him clear the shelf.

And on the back of the shelf, as clear as it was on in the banker's office, the same two symbols in bold yellow paint.

"And there," Sherlock murmured against your ear, "Y/N, is our Spiderman."

----

Author's note: I know it's been a while, but I've made it my goal to finish the first series (first three episodes -- and we're about halfway through the second) by the end of August. So over the next few months, expect content. As always, like and comment if you please!