“Hello, Sherlock, you all right?” came John’s voice from the doorway.
Sherlock took a slow breath as he listened to John’s keys clatter onto the mantel piece and then the orderly clip in John’s steps approached him.
The voice shuddered in Sherlock’s ear. “I’ve sent it.”
Sherlock looked over his shoulder and waited to hear John’s mobile signal a text. However, the familiar beep failed to sound. Sherlock’s brow crinkled and his mouth swiveled side to side in confusion.
“I’m turning in, Sherlock.”
“John,” the detective began in an understanding voice before his friend cut him off.
“We’ll talk in the morning.” The doctor’s footsteps faded and the sound of a door closing left Sherlock alone again.
Curious that the doctor hadn’t received the text, Sherlock looked at the calendar and then the time. It was Friday, eleven o’clock. John always charged his phone on Friday before the weekends. Sighing, Sherlock collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. “What did you say in the text?”
“You’ll see when I return your phone. Speaking of your phone, Lestrade called ten times about different cases and questions.”
Sherlock shot up and gave his attention to the stranger. “I’m assuming you brushed him off just to irritate me.”
“Exactly. That’s why I love you, Mr. Holmes, you rarely call, and always text. So, any text I send to anyone from your phone, they’ll believe it’s you. And no worries, Lestrade probably won’t want to speak to you in months!”
The detective’s teeth grinded together and his fists squeezed so hard that his nails broke his skin. He wanted to think of something ferocious and witty to scare the stranger with, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know what threat would frighten a man who was strong enough to destroy everything that was important to him. Sherlock, determined to show he wasn’t a coward, reached up to the earpiece and made to remove it.
Sadly, the shocking shriek raged through his skull, and no matter how hard he tried to fight it, the louder it became until he heard a ‘pop’ in his ear. Stopping, Sherlock listened to his surroundings. The static from the radio crackled in his ear and a low hum filled the atmosphere. He placed a soft hand over his rigged ear and felt a cold, sticky trickle on his jawline.
“Don’t worry, it’ll heal. Maybe next time, you’ll leave it be.”
Enraged, Sherlock jumped to his feet and began searching his room for the security cameras. He looked in the corners, in the rug, on the bed, and behind picture frames. It was when he wanted to give up did he finally spot the security cameras. Leaning in close to the portrait, he saw they had replaced the screws. Smiling, Sherlock made to cover it up before the voice boomed in his ears.
“Na ah! Don’t touch those; I specifically had Mrs. Hudson put those in—all over the house!”
“How did you convince her?”
“I did it with a smile, forged credentials, and saying you ensured it. She believed me instantly.”
“A master of disguise, aren’t you? You also planted cameras that night the ape was in the palace, right?” Sherlock whispered, picking at his lip thoughtfully. He shook a fist in anger. “Why didn’t I think about that when I saw the portrait had been moved in the foyer?”
“You are to stay in Baker Street until I say you’re to perform. You try to leave, I’ll kill everyone you’ve ever cared about. And it’ll be easy because, there’ll only be one killer to keep track of.”
“You’re the killer?”
“I want to see their faces when I kill them, Mr. Holmes. That’s what I live for.” With that, the voice remained quiet all through the night.
The sun rose within a couple of hours, and Sherlock’s opened slowly. He stared at the orange beams with a smile—waking up early was never a chore for him, for he always found something to do. Sherlock flung himself out of bed and went over to his laptop. He powered it up and then left the room to put on the kettle. He knew John would want tea and biscuits, so he made sure to clear a pathway to the icebox. He scratched his thigh and yawned loudly, almost as if he purposely wanted to wake John up.
When he got the kettle boiling, he returned to his lap top, only to be greeted with over a dozen messages from Lestrade. Sherlock groaned and opened his inbox. The unread mail filled his inbox to the point where Sherlock had to leave the machine alone and let it function without his help.
“You have 23 new messages!” his laptop informed.
Sherlock’s face sunk and he scrolled through the messages, trashing all from Mycroft and Molly, and leaving those only from Lestrade in his box. Once he had narrowed his messages down, he looked through the detective inspector’s mail.
“Sherlock, I’m sorry you’re miffed, but, if you’re not busy, please come to the scene – Lestrade.”
Sherlock opened the next email.
“It’s been two hours and we need your help – Lestrade.”
Moving his mouse down, the detective clicked the next one. His heart squeezed and Sherlock began finding it hard to breathe.
“Never mind, Sherlock. We got a few things sorted – though, everything’s botched now. Respond as soon as you can. - Lestrade”
Sherlock threw his face into his hand and moaned in bitterness. The thought that someone else was ruining his identity at the expense of others, bothered Sherlock. Naturally, the detective didn’t care how people felt as long as they were cooperative, but this time, Sherlock felt mortified. Balling one of his hands, he placed it against his mouth and thought. He knew the stranger couldn’t hear him thinking, so, Sherlock thought for a long time.
He thought about the clues, the duchess, John, and Lestrade. Sherlock began wondering if having his friends turn away from him was a good thing because if they got involved, there was a terrible chance in them getting hurt. Sherlock knew, above everything else, that he didn’t want that to happen.
“Morning, Sherlock,” John greeted as he tottered out of the bedroom. He weaved through Sherlock’s boxes and books and stopped in front of the kettle. “You have anything you want to tell me?”
“No, John. Only that I’m sorry.”
John made a soft laugh and shook his head. “Are you really sorry? Do you even remember what you said to me?”
“Yes. I told you that Alana deserved better and that you were an old bloke.” Sherlock stood up from his chair and placed his hands behind his back. He wanted to tell John that it was just a front and that he didn’t mean it. But the nagging fear that either of them could be killed kept his tongue quiet.
“Yep, that’s exactly what you said. Now, I’m going to Alana’s tonight. She invited me to a party.”
“I suppose she didn’t invite me.”
Dropping a tea bag into his mug, John turned to Sherlock. “Actually, she did invite you. But I uninvited you. I know that wasn’t mature for me to do, but, I was still rather put off.”
“Understandable.”
John’s mouth twitched and he flattened his palms on the kitchen counter. “Fine, fine. You can come. I don’t know why I’m letting you, but you can.”
Remembering that he wasn’t allowed to leave Baker Street, Sherlock mumbled, “I can’t, John. Lestrade has been messaging me and I need to get back to him. But, thank you.”
“Right, well, suit yourself.” John waited a few more moments by his tea before removing the bag and returning to the bedroom. When his door had closed, Sherlock raced over to John’s phone and unplugged it. There was a four digit code, but Sherlock simply typed in: John. The screen opened and Sherlock quickly went to the received folder and opened the message sent by the stranger.
“What are you doing?” John asked.
Snapping his head in his friend’s direction and clutching the phone between his sweaty palms, Sherlock answered curtly, “I needed your phone.”
“You always need it!” Having enough of Sherlock’s antics, John hurried over and snatched the phone away. “Where’s yours?”
“Lost it.”
“And what’s this?”
“A message,” Sherlock answered right after.
“From you? Thought you lost your phone?”
“This morning, I did,” Sherlock lied as he hovered over John’s shoulder. He hadn’t been able to read the message yet either.
John took a seat at his desk and, before reading the message, looked up at Sherlock and said in disbelief, “You sent this to Alana, too. Why?”
Sherlock remained silent. A dry lump formed in his throat and he skimmed the message. His face became white and he sunk down onto the floor.
“As a friend of John’s, I want you to know the truth,” John began suspiciously, “he’s not who you think he is. In fact, he’s opposite in every manner. You needn’t bother to pursue the relationship. John has no interest and only entertaining the idea of loving a woman. – SH.” The mobile dropped from John’s hands and his eyes stared vacantly ahead of him.
“John, it’s really not—,” Sherlock began before a bolt of static shot through his brain. He jumped and closed his mouth. Seeing that explaining would do no good, Sherlock escaped to his room and locked the door.
The doctor remained seated, wondering if what he had just read was a joke, or if it was true. The thought of Alana receiving the message shattered John’s heart. He wasn’t sure how he would face her at three o’clock. “Oh God,” the doctor muttered, rubbing his forehead. Just as he had doubts about Alana, he knew that the message could only feed her biggest doubt, which had been mentioned in one of their first conversations together.