Why Sherlock?

The Great Game {11}

~(Y/N) P.O.V~

It was a little after eight when we all gathered to watch the news in the living room of  221B. We didn't have time to border up the windows yet, so it was chilly, and we could also hear the busy street below. Sherlock and John sat in their usual chairs, and I used the clients. Sherlock kept the pink phone on the left side of his armchair in case the bomber called again. On the TV, the news read "12 dead in gas explosion" and continued on with updates.

John looks to Sherlock in disbelief and shakes his head. "Twelve blocks of flats." He sighed and stopped chewing his fingernails. "He certainly gets about."

Sherlock sighed heavily and replied, "Well, obviously I lost that round, although technically I did solve the case." He angrily puts the TV on mute and puts his arm back on the rest, looking away thoughtfully. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him." He lifts his finger on the other hand. "Just once he put himself in the firing line."

John looks at Sherlock. "What d'you mean?" He asked, with the tilt of his head.

"Well, usually he... must stay above it all. He organizes these things but no one ever has direct contact."

"Like the Connie Prince murder, he-he arranged that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?"

Sherlock replies softly, his face full of admiration. "Novel."

John looks at him in disbelief, then turns and looks at the TV screen again, which has moved on to a new story. "Huh." He jerks a finger towards the screen and we look up to see Raoul de Santos ushered out of Kenny’s house by police officers. The press are snapping pictures and Raoul is shoved into the back of a police car. John looks to Sherlock, who is looking down at the pink phone sulkily.

"Taking his time this time." Sherlock sighs.

I clear my throat and ask, "Anything on the Carl Powers case?"

"Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection." Sherlock responds."

"Well, maybe the killer was older than Carl?" John suggests.

"The thought had occurred." He breathes in loudly, bringing his hands up towards his face.

"So why’s he doing this, then – playing this game with you? The both of you, actually. D’you think he wants to be caught?" John looks at me and I shrug.

Sherlock presses his fingertips together in front of his mouth and smiles slightly. "I think he wants to be distracted."

John laughs humorlessly and gets out of his chair, heading towards the kitchen. "I hope you’ll be very happy together."

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asks as he steps back into reality.

John turns back, furiously shouting, "There are lives at stake, Sherlock." He leans his hands on the back of his chair and lowers his voice when he noticed me cringing. "Actual, human lives. Just – just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

Sherlock looks up at John irritably. "Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope."

"Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake." He says bitterly.

"And you find that easy, do you?" John whispered, throwing an apologetic look in my direction and focuses back on Sherlock.

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?" Sherlock scrunched his face at John.

"No." John smiles bitterly at Sherlock. "No." He was smiling, but it was almost spiteful.

"I've disappointed you." Sherlock raises his head as realization hits.