John left about an hour later, soon after waking up. My parents asked no questions, despite clearly seeing John as he left my room. They simply smiled and waved, as though they were completely used to having their social freak of a child invite people into his bedroom.
As soon as John departed, I set to work. Over the sixty-or-so minutes that John had spent napping, I had composed a mental list of several possibilities linking the murderer to my dear Watson. After all, he mattered even more to me after muttering those three words, and I felt a great desire to protect him- at all costs. The list was frightening and involved no evidence whatsoever, but a list it was, and therefore, I found use in it.
1. The murderer had some sort of deeply personal relationship with John. They tried to be rid of him in the crash when he was young, and now they had hunted him down to this place, prepared to strike.
2. Someone was stalking my dear blond blogger, and chose to be involved in John's life in poor, mysterious ways.
3. The murderer is cruel (and, admittedly, clever) enough to avoid hurting John physically. Instead, the attacker kills people who mean something to John, permanently damaging him emotionally.
The third theory on the list was the one that terrified me the most. If this was the case, then there was the possibility that I was next on this hit list (if such a thing existed, anyways). John seemed to have grown very fond of me (a mutual feeling), and I wasn't as concerned about my own death as I was about John's state of mind after such an event. The poor man had seen enough dark days for a lifetime, and I would hate to bring him even more.
Lifting myself from my bed, I launched into my favorite phase of the mystery-solving process: the visuals. I printed off every single fact about John, about Molly, about my school and many of my peers. I began to pin things onto my bedroom wall, connecting certain facts with others by using pieces of colored string. By the time I was finished, my wall looked a bit messy, but a few connections had been made: sadly, I found nothing that I didn't already know.
I felt as though I had reached a dead-end, and, feeling the frustration building inside of me, I decided that it was time I took a break. I found Mycroft downstairs in the kitchen, clutching a cup (Ceramic. Made in China. 8 years old.) of tea in one hand and a recent copy of The Sun in the other.
"I can't believe you haven't moved out yet," I grumbled.
"Ooh, dear brother, please, at least act like you're pleased to see me."
"Mycroft, I am many things, but we both know that I'm not an actor."
"Really? You seem dramatic enough already to excel in theatre. Frankly, you should consider picking it up. It's not like you have any other hobbies."
I rolled my eyes and opened the fridge, searching for any remaining leftovers from the previous night's dinner. "Ha-ha."
"Ah, yes. Speaking of laughing matters, how is that pathetic little 'case' you and your boyfriend have decided to waste your time on?"
"John isn't my boyfriend."
Mycroft laughed. "He obviously thinks he is." He began to speak in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like John's. "Oh Sherlock, how frightened I am! Oh Sherlock, is this my fault? Oh Sherlock, I love you!"
I shut the fridge quickly, feeling my face heat up. "It isn't polite to eavesdrop."
"Thin walls, little brother. I can't help myself."
I turned around and slammed my hands down on the kitchen island, glaring at Mycroft. "That doesn't make it okay."
Mycroft hardly jumped, but did care to look up from his paper and meet my eye. "That temper, Sherlock. It will be the death of you, really."
"At least I'm able to care about someone besides myself. At least I'm human."
Mycroft laughed. "You? Human? You're practically alien, with your 'disability.' No wonder no one talks to you."
"John does."
"Do excuse me, dear brother. I meant to say 'no one important.'"
I spoke through gritted teeth. "John is important to me."
"Exactly. You consider him important, and the rest of us know better than to trust your judgment."
I stormed out of the kitchen and out the front door. I'd never known what Mycroft ever intended to do with his petty remarks- but they certainly worked in pissing me off.
The problem with storming out of your own house is that, often, there aren't many other places to go. I decided to wait it out, sitting by a stop sign down the street until it grew dark outside and goose bumps ran up my arms. Only then did I trek back to my home, not so much defeated as disappointed in my body's incapability to stay outside longer. That was me, though. Expecting far too much of those around me- and, of course, of myself.
--
Over the next week, John and I found that we had hit a dead end in our research. I could find no more information about John's past, and together, we had difficulty finding any evidence at all. Sitting together on the floor in the library bathroom, I felt the two of us begin to give up on the case entirely.
John sighed heavily. "If we aren't going to get any further-"
"John, don't be ridiculous. Of course we're going to get further in this case. I care greatly about this, and I'm not going to quit. Neither are you."
"Why do you care so much about this case, Sherlock?"
"Because you care about it, and I care about you."
He shook his head, but only as a smile crept onto his face. "That's terrible reasoning, if you ask me."
I grinned. "Terrible reasoning is better than none at all. Right," I clapped. "Before we get too absorbed in flirting, where do you think we should look next?"
Before John could give any answer, a door to one of the stalls slammed open, and the one and only Jim Moriarty stepped out. "Right here," he purred.
John had jumped upon hearing the sudden clatter. "Oh for fuck's sake," he muttered, "always so dramatic... This is ridiculous..."
Moriarty cleared his throat. "John, if you would care to stop being so whiny, I could continue?"
The blogger simply rolled his eyes in response.
"Right," Jim continued. "You two are obviously desperate. Let's be real here, two idiots like yourselves couldn't get halfway to finding out who did this. And you haven't. Frankly, you guys have hardly scratched the surface."
I smirked. "You genuinely believe that you know more about this case than we do?"
He grinned back at me, widening his lips enough to show almost every tooth in his mouth. "It isn't a belief, Sherlock Holmes. It's a fact."
I crossed my arms across my chest. "Please, feel free to prove your point at any time."
"One condition."
"Shoot."
"You lovebirds have to accept me onto whatever 'team' you're trying to collect here. To help on this case. Okay?"
It was beyond ridiculous, but I wanted to hear what he had to say. "No promises."
"Yes promises. Or no info."
I sighed, and looked at John. He nodded grudgingly, and I focused back on Moriarty. "Fine, you're in."
He sat down, coldly eyeing up both John and I. "Sure is nice to be part of a group like this."
I raised my eyebrows. "Jim. Information. Now."
"I know where the killer works."
The guy was exhausting me. "You know, Jim, most of the time when people offer information, they eventually tell others exactly what they know."
Moriarty rolled his eyes. "The Attendant. The cafe you and John always go to as an excuse to seem normal."
John furrowed his brow. "How did you know that Sherlock and I go there?"
"Oh, trust me," said Moriarty, "everyone in the school knows about you two. You're the talk of the town. The weird kid and the new guy: who could imagine that they'd end up being a couple?"
I would have to deal with the public factor later. "Right. Well, now that I've given you what you wanted, and you've given us what we needed..."
Moriarty laughed and moved towards the door. "Of course. The two lovers want some alone time together. I understand completely. Bye-bye, boys!"
John groaned the moment the door shut behind Jim. "I hate that kid."
"I do too. But that information..." I shrugged. "That could lead us straight to the murderer. Assuming that it isn't just a bundle of lies."
The blogger shook his head. "I don't trust him."
I stood, tossing my remaining food into the trash. "You're right not to. The man's a psychopath."
"You know, Sherlock, a lot of people could mistake you for a psychopath as well."
"Highly-functioning sociopath," I corrected. "Hang on; did you just defend Jim Moriarty?"
John grimaced. "Ew. I think I did. This whole team-mate thing with him is settling way too quickly."
"I'm sure we'll be rid of him soon enough. I doubt I'd be able to survive longer than five minutes in the same room as him."
John laughed as the end-of-lunch bell rang, and we each returned to our respective classes.
By the time the final bell rang, I felt much better. There was no way that Moriarty could tear me and John apart, and we already had enough of our own information to solve this case without him. Kind of. If we just let him tag along for a while... Well, he'd have to leave us alone at some point or another, right?
I met John at the front of the school. "To the Attendant?"
"Yeah, that sounds-"
"Wonderful," Moriarty finished. He'd crept up on us.
I groaned. "You aren't seriously planning on coming with us, are you?"
Moriarty gave me a mock-offended look. "Sherlock, dear, we're on the same team now! You can't just expect every outing with John to be a date anymore."
I sighed, but, aware that I had no other choice, walked with John and Moriarty to the Attendant. As soon as we'd entered, I rushed to the front desk. "I'm going to need a list of all of your employees. Now."
The poor barista looked downright befuddled and beyond uncomfortable. "Um, I don't know if I can, uh..."
Moriarty stepped up next to me and spoke in an unbearably bright tone. "Please excuse my friend, he was never really taught proper manners. My name is Jim; you can call me Moriarty. We're working on a project to celebrate this cafe's 20th anniversary, and we need all of the names to complete it. Could you please help us?"
A look of realization crossed the barista's face. "Oh... Of course! I'll go print one off, Moriarty." He hurried to the back room.
John looked at Moriarty in awe. "20th anniversary? How did you know that?"
Jim smiled proudly. "I didn't. But obviously, neither did that guy." He turned to me. "You know, Sherlock, you really should learn how to interact with regular people. It's a reasonably important life skill."
Before I could give an equally-snarky answer, the barista returned with a long sheet of paper. I snatched it from his hands and muttered a quick thank-you before leaving the front counter and taking a seat. John remained at the counter and ordered our drinks before joining me at the table. Moriarty stayed by the barista and talked up a storm.
I faced John and raised my eyebrows. "The thing about Moriarty is that I can't seem to read anything from him. He could be anyone, here to do anything. All I really know is that he's a total asshole, and I'm only aware of that because of the way he's treated me in the past."
John shook his head. "I don't like him, Sherlock."
"Yes, I don't think it would be possible to like him even if-"
Before I could finish, Moriarty himself joined us at the table, slamming his palms onto the stone surface. "I have some information for you boys."