Tuesday 24/08/2010, 12:36 p.m.
When Sherlock came back to 221B Baker Street, he joined John and Mrs Hudson in the living room bowing to the beauty of the golden afternoon lustre. Perched on Sherlock's straight-backed, heavily upholstered armchair and John's more worn-out one, the duo was glued to the vibrant plasma screen sitting alone in a corner, filling the otherwise quiet room with its incomprehensible droning. The monotony of their own life was being reflected back to them in the form of some brainless reality TV show, getting infused with their boredom.
Sherlock couldn't understand why ordinary people found any TV channels worth their time - he only ever browsed through news related to his investigations and occasional crime documentaries with bumbling cops who gave him a headache (thanks to their soaring levels of incompetency) and also a boost to his self-confidence. Not that he usually needed any more.
Mrs Hudson was the first to spot the lanky, man-shaped figure looming at the doorway. Her chestnut eyes breaking away from the TV program, she flashed one of her countless loving smiles upon recognising the detective, a seed that grew to form infinite branches, petals that never withered. "Would you like some tea, Sherlock?" she offered in silver tones, unusually good-natured. The sun had warmed everything one touched from the creaking, rugless floor to the wooden table the posts of which held two half-empty teacups; they'd been here for at least fifteen minutes. So John arrived about half an hour ago, wonder where he was all this time. Doing the actual math was a way for Sherlock to assure his logic was still in control of his emotional turbulence none of which he hoped was on display on his face. "There are still yesterday's chocolate biscuits left."
"Drinking and eating are bad for-" Sherlock paused mid-sentence, all the movements of his well-defined body ceasing. He cast his icy eyes wildly about the room, the notion of break-in growing in the very core of his being as he took in the clear signs. Such glaringly obvious methods were one of Moriarty's distinctive features... Strictly speaking, obvious only to Sherlock whereas Mrs Hudson and John seemed perfectly undisturbed.
Moriarty had taken the opportunity to trespass on this flat today when he'd been out solving the Santos' case with John. Sherlock made a quick mental time travel into the recent past to compare the stored images with the current ones, trying to spot the difference. There were plenty, though. The desk was two inches off the place, meaning the criminal had purposefully bumped into it - with perfect precision. It couldn't have been John since he'd just arrived here going by the amount of the remaining tea, nor Mrs Hudson who, in her steadfast loyalty to order, would have adjusted the table closer to its original position. The books and pictures resting on the shelves were in a slightly different array, although Moriarty had done quite a good job of putting them back as opposed to that bulky ox that bulldozed here yesterday like a bull in a China shop. The blobs of mud from his shoes proved that John didn't go anywhere near the bookshelf except to turn the chairs around so they would face the TV while Mrs Hudson heeded Sherlock's plea to leave his books untouched. It was the small details that gave it away: Moriarty's purpose to come here had been the search for the stolen cigarette case. Sherlock held back a faint smile. He'd hidden it so well even Mrs Hudson couldn't find it - and that woman knew every nook and cranny in her own house.
Moriarty's obsession with his abusive mother's keepsake seemed to be real as evidenced by his numerous attempts to get it back. Sherlock couldn't blame him. It was a symbol of his first-ever felony, the successful murder of Helene Moriarty. Despite that, the lengths that he went to pursue it were absurd to the point of distraction, but he was still above threatening him to give it back. They both shared the same penchant for variety in light of which that calling card was becoming rather old and tasteless. So no wonder he'd implemented an alternate and more elegant plan by disguising himself as Jim from IT to look into the last possible place he could think of: Sherlock's pockets. Elegant, indeed.
Sherlock had purposefully created a mess in the flat for two days straight since it helped him notice who had visited it. To others, they were a bunch of scattered items, but to him, they were strategically placed objects. However, he couldn't prevent yesterday's cleanup, and it looked like Moriarty had seen his chance. In times like these, Sherlock thanked himself for having left a few books on the floor in the morning along with a message to Mrs Hudson where he asked her not to touch them, explaining it was all for an experiment. If it wasn't for his clumsy flatmate trampling everything down, he might have made something of it.
But one thing just didn't make any sense. The paper, the one with his name on it, was no longer trapped under the knife on the mantelpiece. Moriarty had stolen it. Why? Why? Understanding how it figured into everything else required a deeper look, and Sherlock had failed to do so. While following another compelling trail of clues, he'd been up against the clock with this puzzle. Had he been onto something? Had he wasted time pursuing a line of enquiry that didn't pan out to anything? Moriarty could've just slapped in a completely unrelated thread, but Sherlock found that questionable, given the amount of thought and detail put into it.
And against the backdrop of the warm-toned Victorian wallpaper was Jon, the skull which Moriarty had rotated around exactly 48 degrees so it was pointing directly at... Filled with inklings, Sherlock stormed into the bedroom to check if there were any items in unbelonging places. The metallic handle had been moved out of its position, delivering the evidence that the door was opened and closed. Neither Mrs Hudson nor John went there without a good reason. It was Moriarty's blatant way to gloat at the fact that he could pop in and out anytime he pleased, leaving subtle traces behind. Traces that only jumped out at Sherlock's trained eye.
His eyes darting around in a frantic search, he went through his entire room in three minutes from top to bottom. Moriarty had been childish enough to remove the book blocking the cam's view to his bedroom and, after nosing his bed, Sherlock concluded he'd lain down on it - the puckers in the sheets, the scent of unfamiliar shampoo that is too sweet on the nose -, but apart from that, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. The bed was a monument to his lack of self-restraint and shame, further driven home by the fact that Moriarty had taken his sweet time to make sure he got the point. The idea jacked up Sherlock's heartbeat for a reason that was nothing short of a fossil at this point, interspersed with the layers of unwanted memories, and underneath it all lay the bones of his frustrations. Ignore it.
He cleared his thoughts and let out a resigned sigh, which sounded out throughout the entire room, and went on to put The Beekeeper's Handbook back in front of the camera. If there was one thing he'd love to do in his retirement, it was to own an apiary or two to offer accommodation to those fascinating, solitary honey-making insects. John had asked him about the seemingly random book in his collection some time ago with Sherlock bringing him into the surreal yet humble dreamscape of his, the sweet imaginary odd for a mastermind like him in such a constant flamboyant bloom. It understandably left the other in a state of wonder. While other people liked to have children, Sherlock preferred bees to a family. They were easier to maintain and would not cry, laugh or talk. Furthermore, he was quite fond of the thick taste of honey.
After returning from his bedroom, Sherlock stopped to lean (or more like sit) against the kitchen table well supplied with an impressive assortment of laboratory glassware, his handsome profile turned away from Mrs Hudson and John who were so used to the genius' habits as to ignore him. He could go on like that unknowingly for hours at best in the strangest of places. Twice had Mrs Hudson found the detective lying on his armchair - his fort of deduction - with spindly legs up and over the backrest to boost blood flow to the master brain, and once John stumbled upon a scene where Sherlock was standing on his hands against the olive-green bedroom wall. For an experiment, he'd said, to know how long I could survive upside down if I were to be hung from the ceiling by a bunch of housebreakers. It turned out, lungs evolved to sit atop all the heavier organs for a reason. After half an hour, the bodily responses to blood pooling in the brain were no longer bearable with Sherlock feeling a crashing wave of dizziness and pain so severe he had to drop down.
The ongoing conversation flew past his scope of attention with feathered wings but he didn't hark to it due to the great diminution of sensibility that occurred whenever his conscious mind began wandering through worlds that weren't really there. "...Are you going to write about this on your blog?" Mrs Hudson asked the blogger.
"I don't know. It's difficult to write when Sherlock keeps everything to himself. Besides, I already wrote about yesterday's murder: 'A Gruesome Gift at 221B'. Although we didn't catch the killer, it was certainly worth mentioning for the unexpected nature of the crime..."
A sigh of apathy defined Mrs Hudson's position, her wrinkled hands falling into her lap. "It's so horrible to think that it was only yesterday when I found that poor woman here, impaled by a fireplace poker," she expressed, dwelling in a fleeting moment of grief. "What an inhuman way to die!"
"This one was far worse. Ugh, I wouldn't care to look at dead bodies for a while either..." John shook his head and brought the rim of the cup to his thirsty lips to down the deep-coloured taste of the heavens.
"But you have to." Like a flower unfurling its delicate petals, Mrs Hudson smiled with elfin childlikeness present even in her advanced years, and John couldn't help but goggle at her in wonderment, having just taken a sip of his tea. That's when the old lady went on to add, "I mean that's the price you pay for living with Sherlock Holmes."
John mirrored her expression with a dulcet chuckle while a particle of thought seemed to pop into existence in his head. "By the way, how did you manage to have the front door fixed already?" he enquired suddenly. Mrs Hudson's efficiency always went way beyond his understanding.
This was a story Mrs Hudson wanted to tell. A prelude to the source of her jovial humour. "I met someone recently. And that someone was quite expert at changing locks," she replied full of the joys of spring, then raising her mellifluous voice a bit with her twinkling, Kohl-rimmed eyes that matched her dress in colour on Sherlock, "James is truly a helpful young man."
What she was trying to accomplish with her jolly teasing just didn't land. The man was so utterly lost in his own thoughts he didn't hear her, which was probably for the best, considering his unstable state of mind. John, on the other hand, absorbed every syllable, hence the mask of sheer confusion. "James who?"
Mrs Hudson spun the soft-spoken word 'boyfriend' into reality before she excused herself and hurried to the loo, jiggling with silent laughter like a schoolgirl knowing her crush's deepest secret.
The boundary between suspicion and certainty grew all thinner, separated from one another by a mere translucent film of confirmation from Sherlock himself. For someone private like him, giving anyone this extent of insight into his life took the utmost faith, and John felt like he wasn't worth the trust. He sighed the sigh of a tired man, coming to terms with the fact that it was useless to bring up the old topic, therefore he chose another, a more secure one. "Sherlock, I need to tell you something... Sherlock? Can you hear me, or am I invisible again...? Never mind," he shrugged, turning his back to his pensive roommate. "There's just this strange 'Murtaugh' commenting on yesterday's entry... Why would you car-"
"What did it say?" Sherlock asked, suddenly growing sharply into focus as indicated by the intelligent glint in his eyes. Maybe Moriarty had left something that would tip him off like last time?
John was unequivocally taken aback by his interest because Sherlock didn't usually give two shits about his blog or its readers. On the contrary, he, for one, criticised John's 'sappy scribbles' for their scantiness of scientific accuracy and educational value as well as their partial description of the events, highlighting the fact that John was more of a storyteller in pursuit of 'appealing to the lowest common denominator' than a reliable spokesman advocating the truth. It went without saying that John had been deeply offended as if he was nothing but an outlet for Sherlock's grandiose ego. For the most part, Sherlock Holmes was the type of man to be unmoved by the public's recognition but who was easily elevated by a warm praise of an acquaintance. "Umm, it read, 'I wonder why she was murdered at 221B Baker Street? It's almost like a love letter to the detective'..."
No use. Sherlock fell silent again. A love letter... The paper had been important and now it was gone. A timed puzzle? His adherence to the Richter case came, naturally, as a slight detriment in some areas of investigation. He should've tried harder to solve it instead of being fixated on the cigarette case and Molly. Moriarty could've been misleading him with it, but now that he knew about Molly's importance, it would've been dumb of him to do such a thing if it wasn't a piece of evidence. Although it had been satisfying to watch how the cigarette case had bolted itself to both the Moriartys and Richters' timeline with a single unifying factor, Dr Otto Richter, Sherlock still struggled to see the big picture. The problem was, Sherlock couldn't find any meaning to the message. It seemed completely mindless and unrelated.
In the midst of it all was a teeny-tiny fragment of self-loathe that kept repeating how stupid and blind he had been. Worshipping the grotesque totem of its own making, the voice told him how he deserved to be punished for his failures... Not even Sherlock was exempt from such psychological pains, despite constantly putting up a tough front of self-proclaimed sociopathy. He feared what might happen if he didn't. He didn't want to think about what might happen if he didn't.
"Are you alright?" John thought that, at times, Sherlock might've used secrecy as an attention-seeking device to elicit reverence or curiosity, but it was his caring nature that drove him to ask anyway.
Sherlock flickered his eyelids, leaving the comfort of his silence. "What do you mean?"
"You've been acting strangely."
"How so?"
John's eyebrows literally hit the roof as if he couldn't believe his words. Taking the trip down memory lane, he started to enumerate, each point marked by a finger to demonstrate the unfathomable backlog of communication they had developed in just a few days. "First off, you left the house two days ago randomly and refused to talk about who you met. Secondly, you changed your phone password so I couldn't access it and almost destroyed half of the house after receiving a text message. Speaking of text messages, you've been quite a texter for the past few days, and then Mycroft comes and starts a speech about your 'significant other'. Not to mention the fact that you disappeared yesterday without a word! I'm not that dumb, Sherlock, even I know that something's going on."
"Well, you have a point," Sherlock gave a shrug with a reluctant murmur of assent. He'd been called out on his mysterious disappearances again. However, John's point still stood. His every action attested to it. "But I can't tell you."
"Why?"
"Because there's nothing to tell."
In spite of numerous attempts, John hadn't managed to advance against the strong winds of resistance gusting from Sherlock's direction, failing to re-establish the pillars of whatever feeble connection they had. "Sherlock-"
"John, please," Sherlock begged, his brain weaving an array of excuses he abandoned one by one. Unsure how to pretend to ignore the obvious difference in his words and actions, he slid off of the table, planning to resort to a more emotional mode of persuasion he knew was, on a good day, one of the doctor's weaknesses. John got up too, a mirror movement. The taller man grabbed his friend's shoulders, bookending him with a pair of long arms, peering pleadingly into the pits of his grayish-blue eyes. "Just trust me. Okay?"
John had grown suspicious beyond belief as to where he'd begun to see everything through a personal lens instead of buying Sherlock's half-baked stories. "Okay..." he mumbled begrudgingly - the end of their argument. A welcome lull in a chaotic opera.
They stared at each other wordlessly for a while, unable to peel their eyes away from the unresolved tension dancing a jig in the oxygen molecules drifting across the air. Both sensed the growing rift between them, even Sherlock who was normally blind to such social intricacies and lacked the proper skills to fix the situation. Oftentimes, his inner gravitation was pulling him towards an easy escape: indifference. And that time was now. Sherlock squinted, a question popping into his head. "Don't you have work today?"
It took John a couple of seconds to register the set of words before his mouth slackened to release the answer the other did not care to hear, "I still have forty minu-"
"Excellent," Sherlock noted and made some awkward gestures to aid the expression of his thoughts before adding a line he remembered to have seen somewhere online, "Have a great day at work!" Before John could say anything, Sherlock dragged him out of the room with ninja-speed. His flattened palm not fast enough to stop the wooden door from reaching the frame, John was rudely shoved out by his flatmate just in time when Mrs Hudson came back from the toilet.
The landlady looked around with eyes like miniature moons, heralding the blooming confusion she must've felt. "Where did John go?"
"To work," Sherlock informed with a dire face of urgency, leaning his back against the door with his fingers splayed starfish against the wood to keep it shut. There was a knock behind him. It was an unignorable knock, too sharp to be friendly, too loud for the size of the man who made it. A question, nay a demand.
"Sherlock Holmes! You bugger!" the upset little hedgehog screamed out.
Even Mrs Hudson's half-deaf ears could pick up the ruckus coming from the other side of the door. Her befuddlement was marked by the slightest frown, springing forth from behind her next question. "This early?"
With a jerk of his curly head, the detective indicated the kitchen door the doctor was yet to burst through. "I need some time alone. I need to think." It was Sherlock's friendly way to say: get out.
Full volume resumed shortly with an even angrier drone thrown in for good measure. "Fine! I'll leave if that's what you want!" It was followed by a disappearing thrum of thunderous footsteps slapping away against the creaking wood. John supposedly scheduled shifts at the hospital, but they magically disappeared whenever something interesting happened. He should be thankful, for Sherlock had just made sure the doctor would not get sacked.
Mrs Hudson seemed to contemplate leaving but quickly tossed that option out as she took a sudden plunge into a world of mischief. "Oh!" The old lady's features melted into one huge, golden pot of a grin. Not another thought was spared for the poor doctor as a pure strain of delight spread over her visage like green leaves opening for sunlight. "Thinking about him I see?"
"Him?"
"Your boyfriend."
Sherlock's thick eyebrows quirked like the wrinkles above a confused puppy's eyes. "Boyfriend?" he repeated, a desperate whine creeping into his tone. He felt like his mind was on complete lockdown again, which seemed to happen quite often as of late. "Why do you think I have a boyfriend?"
"Oh, I met James at Tesco Express this morning. He heard me talking about the murder to Mrs Wilson and introduced himself to us as your boyfriend. He seemed to be very concerned about you, especially after what happened, and offered to fix the lock with no charge," Mrs Hudson giggled at the memory that had cranked her joy right up. There was something carefree about her laugh as it fell into the warm air. It caused Sherlock to almost snort. He had fleetingly taken note of the repaired lock on the front door, but without connecting it to the man who broke it in the first place. Ah, his sense of humour. "James said that he knows you're too shy to admit that you're seeing him and that's why he can't just pop in anytime he wants."
"Jim is not my boyfriend," Sherlock repeated robotically, soaking in the sound of his own blood rushing in his veins. For a microsecond, he felt that familiar bend in the rope of his guts, and Mycroft, John, Molly and Mrs Hudson's beliefs added to the mix only made matters worse for him. A tighter knot.
An authentic smile sliced Mrs Hudson's face in half again, this time victorious. The fact of the matter, as it dawned on Sherlock, was that he had accidentally dug a hole for himself and cemented her beliefs - he might've as well concurred with her. "He said that you call him Jim. Good catch if I may say," the landlady winked playfully. "Very polite and charming. And handsome, too."
Sherlock just stared, strangling back a groan that emerged from the depths of his throat. Words failed him, his answer lost to the ravages of his restless mind. No, no, no, no!
"But what happened to you and John?" Mrs Hudson wondered. There was no way she'd believe whatever form of rejection came out of Sherlock's mouth - further attempts to prove his point were inherently associated with the risk of failure. "Did you two break up?"
Right. Mrs Hudson was still under the assumption that Sherlock and John were a gay couple. The detective's eyes clenched shut on their own as he enunciated, "John is not my boyfriend, Mrs Hudson, nor is James." Why did no one hear him out? Why did everybody keep falling into the territory of wrong assumptions? After all his endeavours to impress upon everyone the importance of logic and equating emotions with abhorrent failure of the brain system, how could they think so lowly of him?
"It's okay, dear," she comforted briskly, patting his shoulder motherly. Sherlock's stern eyes flew open, and her veiny hand retreated. "You'll get used to it."
"Used to what?" Sherlock sissed back.
"Dating," Mrs Hudson responded with an all-telling smirk and left in the peal of echoing laughter, the soft melodies floating out of the door with her. If Sherlock was to speak now, his voice would've faltered into unintelligible croaks of denial. Imbued with a spectrum of emotions he couldn't even name, the genius kept staring stupidly at the place she'd occupied a few seconds ago.
He could almost hear Moriarty's mocking comments chiming in his ears in the most unpleasant and bell-like of notes, composed of despair, humiliation and rage. It was almost a surprise Mr Sharp-tongued hadn't sent one already. Oh, but that's right. He was too busy camping it up and crying into Molly's shoulder right now, putting up a more Bafta-worthy play than any deserving actor. Molly would, knowing her empathetic disposition, go out of her way to console him, and after a heart-to-heart chat, the two would form a bond upon getting rejected by the same man who happened to play the role of the villain in this tale. The evolving scenarios were pieced together so perfectly in Sherlock's head it left little to his imagination. And that enraged him.
Neurotransmitters fired and exploded like super-fireworks, freeing his inner animal from the chains of civilised sophistication. He felt compelled to find a target to lash out at and let out the throwaway emotions he'd been withholding all this time. His fingernails stabbed themselves into his soft palms like a scavenger eagle's claws, dousing him with a good slice of pain. Not nearly enough. Sherlock proceeded to kick his armchair with the hateful passion of a thousand burning suns, imagining it was Moriarty there, bloody and battered and fucking weak. Ouch. The chair barely moved, but his toes responded with a throbbing ache. He did it again, just for the hell of it. And again. And again.
It was strange that pain brought supposed relief by numbing the senses, but it was either drugs or this. It had always been. As long as Sherlock could remember, he'd always been like this, hard-wired to do harmful things to himself and sit in drug dens, which Mycroft used to worry a lot about. He still did, in fact, to the point of always keeping an eye on his little brother and making him write down every substance he abused. There was no point in fighting this... this animal that raged like wildfire inside him, because it would be a losing battle. And still, he chose to bury his head in the sand. It was a stupid weakness, a shameful weakness that could be easily weaponised against him. But more than anything else, he was afraid of losing control over himself.
Any bottled-up feelings of guilt, shame and regret could become a pathway to addiction, like the one with drugs; it was his inner self manifesting itself in a more morally acceptable way while remaining true to his secret, twisted desires. The longer he went without drugs, the more the tension mounted. It was always on the tip of his tongue, the word, the name, the label, but he couldn't bear to think about it. Freak. Donovan used to call him that. Little did she or anyone else know...
All in all, Sherlock wasn't worried about other people's opinions so much as the vagaries of his subconsciousness - controlling it felt like riding a wild horse. Locked in a vault, the key very well hidden, yet still there. Within his reach. Any time he wanted. In the end, Mycroft was the only one who knew about his... problems, and not because Sherlock ever told him. He just knew everyone's secrets because he was so goddamn smart and-
Eventually, his emotions lost steam midway through what was supposed to be the seventeenth kick. Accompanied by the roll of the drums in his heart, Sherlock collapsed into the armchair in a heap of aching exhaustion. A familiar hum sauntered into his dreamlike state, the gentle tones of his nemesis. Having fun without me? Moriarty sang out, voice light and airy. His endlessly roaring sea, stretching into eternity on the plains of his self-doubt.
Sherlock knew there was no point in conversing with himself, but old habits died hard. What is it that you want? I've had it up to here with your nonsense. Just stop it.
The worse is still yet to come, Sherlooock~
Once the less emotional factor came into play, Sherlock managed to cool off his overheated system and welcome back rational thought. Moriarty sank back into the depths of his mind palace similarly to how a slick tar-covered monster would retreat back to its nest at the bottom of a stony well only to resurface when its victim ventured too close to pick up the forbidden fruit. Emotions. Just a chemical reaction to a perceived situation, obscuring logic and demanding its voice. How plebeian of me, losing it like that. Remember control.
The fly would continue to wriggle and tear at the spider's web, lure it out of its lair. He did not care whether or not those eyes, as dark as vantablack, were upon him. He would get a response to his outburst. Maybe now. Maybe in an hour. Maybe tomorrow. But one way or the other. Moriarty would not miss the chance to put Sherlock in his place.
His phone buzzed. Sherlock's bowlike lips, the ones that really didn't want to smile at the moment, crept into a defeated grin as he glanced across at the camera he knew was hidden behind the books on the left shelf. Speak of the devil.
He scooped up the damned device from the oaken coffee table and realised that he had been wrong for once. It was not Moriarty who had sent the message but Lestrade who, by Sherlock's request, had attached the facial images of Paulo Santos and Darcie Evans under their addresses the latter of which Sherlock already knew but had asked for anyway. One of the most remarkable things about Lestrade's unremarkableness was that, unlike stubborn people like Dimmock, he didn't ask questions if told not to.
Sherlock took a solemn moment to scrutinise those two familiar faces, conduits for vigour, the kind of green that set free the flame of life - long before the cosmic chessboard brought fear into the equation and two fates were sealed by nefarious commitments. Such delicately placed nods to peace and tranquillity were to be seen in how dark hair fell onto Paulo Santos' lean shoulders, how his auburn eyes framed with thick eyelashes gleamed at the peak of joy. Darcie Evans looked just as healthy in all her youthful bloom from her golden waterfall of hair to her turquoise jewel-like gaze and untouched, creamy skin. All Sherlock had seen was the cold, unmoving spell of death upon their bodies like a curse. They were to be applauded for their resilience in the face of such an insurmountable adversary, Sherlock would give them that. Not everyone was able to last that long.
Sherlock thumbed through his screen, navigated to the right messaging app and entered the group chat of the Homeless Network, at least those who had a phone were connected to it. He sent the victims' pictures and addresses there, pleading with someone to ask around and find information on these individuals and where they had frequented. That was all he could do for now. Expect...
A new thought came up, seeping into the rich earth of his mind and becoming fodder for it. Ah yes. Molly. She was yet to keep him updated on Jim who had conveniently come to intercept their conversation at the café. Regardless of this 'Jim' sharing a lot of the DNA of the previous one, Sherlock could sense that Moriarty no longer bothered to put his best foot forward in terms of consistent play. They knew each other, they had met each other - five times, spot on - so there was no need for a perfect act. But as always, it was only Sherlock who saw the distinction. Moriarty was a different person to him than he was to others.
Sherlock had always been infamously impatient so it was no surprise that he gave in to the temptation of a straightforward request to Molly. Instead of climbing the mountain of empathy and consideration, he once again picked his path with intelligence and determination, wrongly coming off as cold and rude as ever when he hit the 'send' button.
[Sent at 01:01 PM]
Have you found Jim's code yet? I really need it, Molly.
- SH
It went unquestioned when it came to her answering his text messages, especially when he'd phrased it as a petition. She always answered in a few hours' time anyway. Then Sherlock could start decrypting the silly little code, which should not take too long.
In the meantime, Sherlock moved to plant himself on the chair parked near the desk to clear the research awaiting him. Laptop. Mike Brown. The same old song. Eyes hooded with contemplation, he started to surf in the big, blue sea of Google to dig out more info. He'd already done all this before, but maybe, being wiser now, he would find connections or subtexts he'd missed back then.
A key slice of Moriarty's criminal net was tied to those brothels. Sherlock was completely in his element amidst mysteries involving some very obscure things, his shining beacon of intelligence illuminating the dark seas of unsolved riddles. He produced vibrating thoughts one after another with as much ease as he plucked the strings of a violin, all coming together in a full melody.
According to the news, Mike Brown had been less in publicity due to an unnamed illness for a few months now, a bit before the time Moriarty stepped out of the shadows. Correlation did not imply causation, after all. What Sherlock found notable was that only yesterday, after being away for so long, the luminary in the field of business made a comeback to give a short speech in which he disclosed no information on his condition - he does not seem to be the type of person to sugarcoat the truth so it's painfully obvious that he is hiding something -, but his sudden public appearance made it to the headlines of the tabloids, receiving an immediate outpouring of responses from people.
Sherlock eyed the man clad in a sleek checkered tailored three-piece suit hugging his frame. The evidence of whom he was were there for the careful eye; he was a clean facade with minor cracks. As far as Sherlock was concerned, most monsters smelled of cologne and mouthwash, were clean-shaven and wore high-end suits. They did the devil's work, but rarely did they look like one behind their masks of philanthropism. Whereas some journalists commented on Brown's slightly longer hair, lusher beard and weight loss that made the suit hang more loosely on him, Sherlock found himself drawn to the dark dead-eyed stare that stank of emotional indifference and the worn-out features which made it look like he'd gotten so much older in less than a year. Something in him was different. Could Magnussen affect him that much? Was he that afraid of losing his good reputation that he got ill?
The real value wasn't so much in Brown's sick leave coinciding with Magnussen's case but more in the man's sagged features that looked so unnatural when expressing an unnerving semblance of a weary smile, yielding another interesting wrinkle to pursue in the seemingly silky-smooth cloth. Maybe despair and anguish drained life itself, leaving only a husk of a man behind. Or then there was something truly off.
Moriarty had promised that he would send someone to take part in tomorrow's arduous negotiations with Magnussen hopefully resulting in something both parties feel would benefit them as it was crucial to conceal the true identity of Mike Brown and protect his public image. Needless to say, Moriarty also gained something from this game other than simple entertainment. He couldn't just kill off Magnussen like that, he'd said it himself, and Sherlock couldn't imagine why.
In his most shallow of twisted highs, Magnussen had asked the bold question of whether he could fight the invincible if he was to find their weak spot and sink his scavenging claws into it. What was Moriarty's pressure point? His mother? His brother? The Richters? The consulting criminal was possessed of a deeply warped psyche, so much so that it protected him from getting attached to anything and thus from the fear of losing it. Despite being in denial, even Sherlock had those things to which the strings of his heart were connected. But he was beyond curious to gain knowledge of what made someone like Jim Moriarty stir - it was the main hook of this case, after all.
For the past months, Sherlock had been aided on his quests by John's ordinary mind, that dark veil of ignorance that made him shine brighter. Now without his dark, there was no light. It was a peculiar medley of emotions for a sworn loner like him since even his most faithful sidekick Jon wasn't enough to fill in for John Watson in this case. Sherlock felt his absence - anyone's absence - for the first time in his life. How strange.
In case you haven't noticed, I'm still here. In your head.
Ah, dear John. Of course, you are. Of course, you are...
Columns of data emerging one after another, Sherlock clicked open many websites to search for the possible meaning behind these 'X' marks. They could imitate duelling scars known as Schmisse, symbolise the life-long suffering one must endure with stoicism, be a form of body art or serve a theological function like medieval scars in Christianity... The first seemed odd, however. Evenly cut, barely skin-deep, self-inflicted. Rules out the possibility of accidental markings. And within the religious context, self-inflicted scars were usually frowned upon despite the conviction of the religious practitioner, but maybe they somehow stood the test of time in such communities. As for the body art, they might have had an aesthetic purpose as well as be a way for the members to recognise one another. But no matter how much research Sherlock did, he didn't manage to move out of square one.
The next thing he did was to look for existing cults and gangs, coupled with a variety of different examples, broadening his horizons on many subjects. He steered himself into a prolonged period of intense focus with the intention to arrive at some breakthrough or revelation that would shed light on Moriarty's plans. The knowledge he'd accumulated was put to some good use, which rocketed his minute count of research through the roof. Most simplistic explanations were either wrong or incomplete. This indeed had to be much bigger than he thought. Humans were too complex to nail down something as complex as the birth of such a criminal web to something that could be summed up in a few paragraphs.
At some point, Sherlock's hands were pressed together again, his chin perched between his thumbs and forefingers as if he was praying. And so he slipped deeper into his mind palace, theorising possibilities that soared into skies ordinary people couldn't even fathom. Although being an intellect had its lower lows, it also had higher highs.
♧♧♧
[08:40 p.m.]
The evening came in deepening blues upon the lamp-lit alleys of London. Sherlock lay on the couch, having fallen into his stupor or, for the lack of a better word, his mental prison where he had long lost his concept of time. Any feelings of a golden dawn had long since faded back to colourless grey, marking the zero progress the detective had made. He had just about avoided a gap in his deductions, but it had come at a price. And that price was ignorance.
There was a suppressive force in the folds of his neurological tissues preventing him from sculpting new pathways. He was an island, hit by the same tidal flows over and over again. Whenever down on luck, Mycroft who had already connected the dots used to make a day of asking him, What did you do when you were sure that you weren't sure about anything?
Gather more evidence, Sherlock would reply, to which Mycroft would smile the smile that served as a reminder of the fact that what stretched Sherlock's limits didn't even challenge his deductive reasoning skills. Mycroft pushing papers in some government job and still being one step ahead of him was infuriating, to say the least.
Molly's unresponsiveness had started to weigh on him over the course of the past hours. No answers to his messages or calls (he didn't usually call anyone so when he did it was serious), only curt silence that could indicate one thing. Sherlock hadn't even hurt her so it was beyond him why Molly would be so angry with him, but that seemed to be the case... It had to be Moriarty, stupid Moriarty, hindering his plans and rooting her resentment. But that was no excuse to end the pursuit of the code. Having descended deep into the mines of his mind, there was no going back up before he would find a solution to this Molly-sized problem.
On the positive side, Sherlock had got some additional information from Lestrade. Nothing ground-breaking, but rather a reassuring confirmation. The DI had texted that whoever had met her end in the car accident wasn't Anna Richter. Taking a skin biopsy from the body and cell samples from the letter, the forensic analysis team had multiplied the DNA with PCR and used electrophoresis to draw two completely different DNA profiles. The usual procedures. The victim's name was Philomena Dawkins, 29 years, upper secondary school teacher, unmarried, lived in Marylebone. Nothing that was of much value anymore now that she was dead.
Leaving the stillness of his mind, Sherlock rolled out of the sofa and got to his feet ungracefully. He could extract the code from Molly, and that was only if she was alone for tonight. Sherlock didn't want to get distracted by wishful thinking, but it seemed to be a part of being a human. No matter how dark a sky, people would paint it with stars. Molly being alone was a tenuous assumption to say the least, however, that didn't prevent him from trying.
Having used phone tracking services before to help with his investigations, Sherlock opened an app he was subscribed to and logged into his account. Typing in Molly's phone number to get accurate results, he located her device in what was most likely her house. She might've once told him her address but he had deleted that triviality from his mind's disc.
Sliding his Belstaff coat on, Sherlock exited his dwelling, hailed a cab that was just rolling down the unbusy street and hopped on. After giving the directions to a laconic, chocolate-skinned Muslim - a former alcoholic with a long list of vices -, the squeaky wheels began turning again, black rubber meeting the almost black road under a gradually blackening sky. The drive was peaceful, allowing him to slip into the nightmarish echo chamber of anxiety pounding within the confines of his skull like the most painful headache.
Sherlock swore that whatever storms stirred, he would route them through his prefrontal cortex instead of letting the more primitive brain do the choice-making like last time. He could chalk it up to the advantage of surprise that had been on Moriarty's side. Now he was ready, armed with three options. One: convince Molly to trust him. Two: play Moriarty's dirty game with his own rules. Three: give up. Sherlock wasn't exactly blessed with a heady potion of excitement when thinking about the last two options, but the third one was to be implemented in the case of a total failure.
The taxi dropped him off at Parkside Avenue Romford, on a suburb area of London. The forty-minute drive had taken a heavy toll on Sherlock's wallet. Nothing that he couldn't pay, though. The detective navigated his way around the maze of asphalt roads fringed by hugs of detached houses, their gravelly driveways and grassy gardens, shielding the serene alleyways like sentries; a far cry from the towering buildings fitting in the feel of newer eras in their straight perfection or the flawed curves of low homes born in centuries passed found at the heart of the city.
There was no sign of life except his own Oxfords, sounding like the crash of the cymbals, an unpleasant rhythm against the hard concrete when he approached Molly's two-storey semi-detached residence flaunting a minimalised garden to the entrance. Painted in a light cream tint and dressed in modern, broad windows with closed blinds - not a good sign - running throughout the entire house, it was as practical and plain as its owner with very unnotable physical attributes, apart from a tan cat-themed doormat chuckling in cursive letters 'I hope you like cats'.
Sherlock rang the doorbell, that simple, unremarkable thing next to the bare front door. The cheery sound of a surprise call radiated throughout the silent house, and its unnerving, unwelcoming echo brought Sherlock an inner leap of untypical nervousness. His sense of intuition kept telling him what he'd previously deduced with logic; Molly was not alone.
Bundled up in a pink cat jumper and furry trousers, Molly soon greeted him from the doorway, silhouetted by a white gleam emanating from the narrow hallway behind her. "Sherlock," Molly said with a biting of frost in her voice - something he'd never associated with her -, surprised to see those familiar, chiselled cheekbones that stood prominent in the dark. She wasn't smiling as warmly as usual. Why does this make me feel bad? He could see her previous disappointment as clearly as if it had been written in the air, although some childish part of him had half-expected her to be out of her full emotionality by now. It turned out that he'd miscalculated. "What is it?"
"Have you found the code yet?" That might've not been the best start to the conversation.
Frowning unconsciously, Molly sighed by jutting her bottom lip out slightly, directing the airflow to a few stray strands of her long hair. For that brief moment, her brown hair fanned upwards before resettling just over her eyes sparkling with something Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. She opened her mouth to answer, but a new voice spoke behind her, knocking the moment askew.
"Who is it, Molly?" Moriarty asked but faked a deep gasp when seeing Sherlock. His eyebrows arched like black rainbows, protruding from his high forehead like sickles of surprise.
Sherlock's eyes darted away from hers, darkening upon landing on Moriarty's striped pyjama-clad figure. Staying for the night I see. Molly noticed his expression change. It bred even more reticence, and the rest of his hope disappeared into the ether. These were not good odds. He knew he was nowhere near owning up to the long string of insults that weighed Molly and his relationship down. He realised that in her mind, his initial hesitations towards Jim had been less indicative of his shyness or inexperience like Mrs Hudson thought and more of the unfortunate quality of their "relationship". She was surrounded by victims of tragedy every day. Heck, she probably even consumed fictional stories about tragedies so, of course, she saw tragedies everywhere as a reflection of reality!
"What is he doing here?" aghast Moriarty emoted, slack-jawed, the slightest of tremor in his voice very well timed. His puffy, blood-shot eyes proved that he had poured his non-existent heart out to Molly who had no idea that this gibbering, sobbing wreck she'd let into her house was practically the most dangerous mind in the world. He played everyone, and they caved in. He was the type of investor to take from the emotional bank and never make deposits, or a parasite to latch onto its host and drink every drop of empathy from them until they were carved empty. Jim Moriarty was the embodiment of how destructive it could be when emotional indifference and malevolence took command of logic, strategic thinking and high intelligence. He would paint a picture of his love with empty words to his victims so they'd open up to him until their emotions began to choke in the deadly stranglehold of the master villain.
"He wants to know what you wrote on my palm back then."
"Oh, that... They were just numbers, you know," Moriarty said nonchalantly but his cut-throat gaze said otherwise, that cruel mouth teasing him with a gloating smirk. Sherlock hacked his thoughts with ease this time. It was a warning of some sort; if he still refused to admit his defeat, Moriarty would apply more and more pressure until he would explode. "I didn't know it bothered you so much, Sherly. You could've told me. No need to hurt my feelings like that."
Stop calling me Sherly. A tingling tug of hatred spread through him but, this time, he managed to control himself by keeping count of each breath he took, despite the foul words hovering in the base of his throat. Moriarty's persona should've passed the point of provoking such an emotional response from him and drifted into the realm of being an unfortunate obstacle. "I was just curious to know," Sherlock replied simply after a careful assessment of the situation. He no longer made any efforts to deny Moriarty's words. Unless his words were backed up with truth, they would be as valuable as the print on a paper charring in the crackling blaze of a hearth. At least, to Molly.
"I get it. You're jealous," Moriarty uttered in a voice coated with a crusty layer of faltering offence. Fuel for the flame that begged for destruction. "But I think you might be a bit too possessive sometimes."
Me? Possessive? Look who's talking! Sherlock's inner raging threatened to become a solid sound which he forced back down his throat.
"That's right," Molly backed up suddenly, transferring her weight from one foot to another uncomfortably. Her statement had that kind of finality to it that gave it weight. Instinct and reason. When forced to choose between them, reason didn't stand a chance. "Jim and I are just friends, we've always been. I misinterpreted his advances. As you said, he is gay. So why would you even be jealous?"
You don't really believe that, do you? Sherlock thought in that sobering moment of self-reflection, answers stuck in his mouth. Moriarty looked joyously self-complacent like a kid who had just seen the sun planting rainbows everywhere. He even blew a kiss for good measure, but his soul of ice blew only icy, white lilies. All of this blended seamlessly into the main narrative Moriarty had fabricated for his cruel satisfaction: a romantic relationship, love triangle, jealousy, misinterpretations, miscommunication, drama, broken hearts and a hidden message. A perfect story for Molly Hooper.
An enduring silence, that vaporous wreath of awkwardness swirled up into the chilly night air. A tide of resignation rose in Sherlock's veins, and he knew, he knew that Molly would never believe, no matter what he said or did. It was all because he'd lost her trust by treating her badly, the realisation of his actions now hitting him hard. Instead of a gradual descent into self-reflection by peeling away the fabricated layers of his own personality, it was more of a headfirst plummet into the steep abyss. He'd never been one for social protocol, and now he paid for it accordingly. It was a heavy yet self-imposed cost. It would leave this undone. Unsolved.
What would that change?
An apology? A lot, Sherlock. It changes a lot.
Those words swam through his cerebral cortex like a wakeful dream. That simple, seemingly random question of his had been the last straw, the poison from a serpent's fangs and the tilt of the world's axis which had caused Sherlock to drop the ball. After all, he was the one who unknowingly taught Molly that the best way to interact with him was to not take at face value what he had to say, but instead, consider what he was saying in light of what she knew about his character as he often said one thing when he meant the other. And her vivid imagination invented the story that fit her view of him.
If he'd been torn between explaining and giving up, it was decided now. Even though a bit shaken up, Sherlock elected to withdraw voluntarily. Moriarty was exploiting his underlying feelings of anger to drive him to say the wrong things at the apex of his fury, and Sherlock no longer intended to play this game. He was a diamond in the rough, easily misunderstood, but he did have good intentions most of the time. He'd prove it one day, despite not quite ending on a high note in this instance.
"Good night." Those words left his lips and drifted into the dark as Sherlock turned around to leave the emotionally loaded tempest behind and braved the cold once more, coddling the one that spread within his heart, too. He felt the shadow of Moriarty behind him, engulfing Molly into a pitch-black blanket like petals begging against the dawning winter and welcoming the lightlessness. She clung to it in hopes of seeking relief, which came from a very misguided sense of protection.
Sherlock hadn't contradicted Moriarty in any way, which could've been an admission in itself that would only ground Molly's beliefs. Their friendship was balanced on a knife's edge, but he dropped the idea of doing or saying something in Moriarty's presence that would contribute to his goals. He'd given it a good-faith effort, and it was useless. It wasn't his duty to save everyone, was it? He wasn't a hero, he'd never been and he would never be. Sherlock had a more relativist way of thinking than John when it came to judging himself and preferred to rid of labels and presuppositions that a person and their actions were inherently good no matter the situation or outcome.
Sherlock walked away, saddling his heart with more and more excuses, ignoring the disembodied voice of Moriarty monologuing about his victory, like there wasn't enough of Moriarty to deal with in the real world. This case didn't represent a vast, untapped goldmine of entertainment anymore. The game was becoming a dead-serious one, and Sherlock's decision to play was now more and more made out of a sense of dread of what might happen to John and Molly if he didn't. Moriarty did everything he could to keep Molly Hooper wrapped around his finger while threatening and forcing Sherlock to push forward. It wasn't ever out of necessity; just out of the most rotten form of pleasure imaginable he derived from holding him on leash.
He had a walk that landed at a length of somewhere around one or two hours. Sherlock was sizzling and cracking like embers in the cool night, blind to the routes he took, caught in a moment of quiet reflection on a task unachieved. All he wanted was to be out from under the thumb of Moriarty tracking every minute of his life. In his mind, the criminal kept laughing the laughter of the heights to which he'd risen - those heights were by no means unreachable for Sherlock, but even he had more humanity in him.
On his march of desolation, Sherlock forced himself to reimagine his interactions with Molly as it put into perspective just what mouse trap he'd fallen into. The hunter had become the hunted when the predator flipped the script. It was a personal film by Moriarty casting Sherlock as its main character. With a simple whim, the plot could change direction. There was no denying that Sherlock had been negligent on his part - of course, this whole devil of a game was just more than what it looked like, and that's exactly where Moriarty had been going for with this analogy. Why hadn't he seen it?
It was difficult to change people's opinions once they had formed one. He had to surrender to the knowledge that Moriarty carried the day this time, but that did not mean the whole game was over for him. At the very least, Sherlock could give him a run for his money.
The symphony of eventide hues faded into the dead of night, and so did his frustration which had only managed to set off negative cascades of brain chemistry. The mind palace vignettes were slowly replaced by possible plans etching out in front of him. Sherlock slipped out of his mind to take note of his changed surroundings under the brilliance of the cosmic embrace. It was the silver hour, and he was just passing St John's Parish Church located on a silent, gloomy street to the south of Hornchurch.
Earnest grey eyes seeking Sherlock's across the street reflecting streetlamp gold into the black, a young woman clothed in jeans and a hoodie - a welcome pop of blue against such a dark background - jogged towards him, lips opened to give way for extra air to move into her lungs. New to the community of Homeless Network, in dire need of money, former computer hacker who served her time in prison. The grace of a gentle breeze made her stray oat swirls dance in front of her big-eyed, doll-like face. "Mr Holmes... Good that I... finally found you," she panted, stopping to catch her breath a couple of metres away. Seems like I'm not the only one who has resorted to GPS trackers today. "I happened to know a guy... who can access any CCTV footage in London... The place where Evans and Santos... were seen to go to a number of times... is to the southwest from here... We sent the coordinates to your phone."
A hand slipping into his pocket, Sherlock checked his cell phone to prove her right. A new link in the chain, how delightful. He must've been so preoccupied as to be desensitised to the vibration against his thigh. Or two, actually, since Moriarty had also dropped him a message one and a half hours ago.
[Received at 10:43 PM]
Dear me, it seems like you're starting to realise who calls the shots here. You'll be on your knees by the time I'm finished with you.
- JM x
We'll see about that, Sherlock thought to himself. In that moment of time as short as a photograph flash, he pictured it in his mind's eye, and for the first time ever, he could sense the faint outline of a possible future where Moriarty sat on a throne on the dawn of his victory, having mentally beaten the life out of Sherlock who lay at his feet in pathetic ruins of a human, a result of his humbling experiences, saturated by a deep-seated hatred for the man who put him there. Losing felt more like an alluring promise than an off-putting threat, and there was no logical explanation to that.
Without a conscious decision, Sherlock had bitten his curved lip and sandwiched it between his canines - something that was rarely a habit of his - before jumping to the right message thread. "Well done," he praised as if nothing happened and offered the prize to the young woman who seemed eager to scout for more opportunities to make more money. If she had perceived Sherlock losing the plot momentarily, she didn't show it in any way. After all, odd thoughts could seep into anyone's mind at the most inappropriate of times. "What is this place exactly?"
"Rumours say there's a cult."
"What kind of a cult?"
Smiling eerily with her thin lips stretching out to the round cheekbones, the woman built her next sentence with an impetus of a decrescendo for a greater effect. "Human vampires. Scary reputation, they say."
It cannot be a coincidence. Sherlock felt a tug in his guts when he was struck by a massively mortifying realisation that his speculations hadn't even been in the ballpark. It was then the full meaning of the cryptic message in Darcie Evans' mouth sank in, remaining as a horrifying metaphor of the towering sower of death. Sherlock Holmes. Written in her blood to symbolise this... blood-drinking cult of wannabe vampires that warranted even more research than he'd imagined. In this knowing, not really being able to know for sure yet, might have existed one of his strangest cases to date - and most dangerous, too. Nearly as dangerous as the gamble with the Clarence House Cannibal which nearly cost his kidneys but won him the demolished Leinster Gardens.
Now he knew with a hundred per cent certainty why Moriarty had stolen the so-called "love letter"; he had solved it. In a way. It was supposed to go this way, with him believing to have evaded the rules while relying on the support of the Homeless Network to narrow down locations for him. It turned out he'd been operating on a linear path all the time with a freedom that wasn't freedom in the end. A crested songbird that had always lived in an iron cage believed it was free when released into a larger one. There was no denying it anymore. Moriarty was always one step ahead in every way, and Sherlock was merely a captured creature of feathers fluttering around in panic.
Someone less pigheaded would have given up. But not Sherlock Holmes. John had, more than just a few times, complained about his dominantly stubborn nature, yet such confident qualities paired with the mastery of his own field stood testament to the extraordinary fortitude and proficiency of the detective. If he couldn't win the game on his own terms, he'd at least make sure Moriarty wouldn't burn him down. If the predator liked circling its prey and instilling fear in it before pouncing, then so be it. It couldn't be a more unlikely form of defiance, but he was ready to play along and drive over the bumps on the road if it meant attaining a favourable outcome in the long run by lulling Moriarty into thinking that he had won.
Sherlock could nearly taste the smell of insane criminality wafting from this dirty case, the one he couldn't wait to dip his fingertips into. The anticipation of such an adventure gave him a floaty feeling in the stomach that usually came in advance of danger. John wasn't the only one addicted to adrenaline. It was in the sliver of uncertainty where the tingling appeal of jeopardy lay for both of them. What he was about to do required a resolve of steel - there was no room for hesitation.
Shoving a note into the woman's hand, Sherlock fed her a small sample of the reward that would await her if she were to share the street people's collective expertise. Locking his serious eyes on hers. Proposing a wordless offer which she accepted in no time. "I need your help with the infiltration. Show me the way," he demanded, collecting his boarding pass for the land of the cursed. Ah, he wouldn't miss this for the world!