9A/N: OH MY GOD IT'S AN UPDATE.
Okay yeah that's my sarcasm to myself because I really haven't been a very good person to my readers. I'm sorry my friends! I love you all for reading this story and I hope I don't disappoint you all in the next chapters to come. This really is the longest fic I've ever written and I especially love this fandom and this beautiful pairing. I could get a bit picky with my writing sometimes and now I have homework to worry about...
Thank you all for your comments/favorites/follows as that is what really motivates me to keep on going. I also would like to mention I wouldn't mind criticism as this story is ultimately my experimentation for future fics. I can only get better and I would be happy to listen to anything you guys have to say!
Anyways here's the usual: Not brit-picked and un-beta'd. I don't own any of the characters and everything belongs to BBC's awesome Gatiss and Moffat. The originals to Sir Conan Doyle. And the character portrayals by our very own brilliant Benedict Cumberbatch and the beautiful Martin Freeman.
Chapter 4: White
Sherlock was in a dark mood all the way home. His look was so livid, so murderous; the taxi driver nearly waved the fee for the ride.
The day is not going how Sherlock thought it would go. He didn't expect it to be so hard to not have John on-call, and he definitely did not expect John to get along so well with his blasted older-brother. That was the biggest betrayal of all.
The police cars outside of 221B Baker Street was just the icing on the cake of the blackness of Sherlock Holmes' mood. Neon police tape was surrounding the flat and some of the force were posted in strategic areas to move along curious onlookers.
Sally saw him first and alerted Lestrade through the walkie, "Freak's here."
The consulting detective let himself in and stomped upstairs while ignoring Mrs. Hudson's nervous titters.
Lestrade knew it was Sherlock who entered the room without really looking up from his examinations of the cluttered tea-table, "Okay Sherlock, we've looked through the sitting room and John's bedroom upstairs without finding much of anything. Your room only had books so there wasn't much to be found there either, but I wanted to get your permission before we look through the- Bloody hell Sherlock, you look horrible! Are you alright?"
"I'm not wearing white."
"Come again?"
"I will not be the one wearing white, Inspector."
"What are you going on about? What does white have to do with anything?"
"It has to do with everything!" Sherlock threw himself dramatically into his seat in front of the telly and tucked his knees up to his chest. "I can't be the one wearing white! I asked him!"
Stunned, Lestrade glances around at his team who was taking their time to stare at the misunderstood genius with a mixture of loathing and pity.
"I think he's finally lost it." Anderson's rat face poked downstairs from John's room, "By the way, is this your camera? I never thought of you as the sentimental type."
The young detective glances up, his lips twitched, "Oh yes, I've recently found sentimentality quite rewarding. However, I doubt you will find anything in pertaining to our case and I recommend you put that back on the nightstand where it belongs."
"I think you're hiding something," Anderson declared and switches on the little, silver digital camera, "and it's my job to find out exactly what that is-" The man choked on his last words. Very slowly, he lowered the camera. His beady eyes wide and his mouth dropping far enough to capture any passing flies.
Sherlock grinned, "Found what you were looking for?"
Speechless for once, Anderson shook his head and slowly made his way back upstairs. Lestrade thought it best not to ask.
"Control your team, Lestrade. Hardly professional." Sherlock resumed his moping but in lighter spirits.
"Oh yeah, and you're an expert on "professional"." Greg rolled his eyes, "Anyways, it doesn't seem like the kidnapper came here recently. We've got nothing much to go on."
"Oh I wouldn't say that." Sherlock gazed intensely at nothing but saw and heard every little detail he's observed from the last few hours as if they were right there in front of him screaming for his attention. Granted, he'll have to make some things up but there was enough to keep the DI busy, "Male, middle-aged, bachelor by the way he flirts shamelessly, but not gay, possibly bi-sexual. He's a writer, judging by his tendency to romanticize the situation, but not a professional as he has far too much time on his hands and unfulfilled fantasies. John isn't hurt (as far as I know), and the kidnapper hasn't seemed to gained any further information then what he's got from John's blog. Either Mr. Doctor hasn't realized the significance of his "incentive" or just lacks the maliciousness to act any further then a kidnapping. Probably the latter. You're looking for a man with simple tastes and a burning desire to prove himself. As for his name, it may be some feeble attempt at humorous irony."
The DI gawked, "You mean to tell me that you got all that from a singe phone call?"
"And the letter," Sherlock pulled the paper from his pocket, "This is a woman's handwriting, so, help from an outside source. Obviously not a girlfriend, bachelor remember? Possibly connections to someone rich considering the expense of this paper, wasted as it is on such a note."
"He had help? How do you know the nasty bugger isn't just some bored rich guy?"
Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh, mourning the stupidity of human-kind, "His accent; his speech patterns! Educated, but hardly the dialect of a well-spoken, high ranking gentleman. It isn't his money he's using, but the money of an interested sponsor."
Greg shook his head, amazed as always but with that familiar tinge on humiliation, "So where do we find him?"
"I've no idea." Sherlock lied and checked his watch, and then his cell. 6:01. Not very punctual John. What on earth are you planning?
It was at that exact moment that Sally Donovan entered the flat; a curious-looking, box held in her palms.
"Delivery for Freak from some homeless guy on the street. Said to get it to you as soon as possible." She hands the box over and crosses her arms, wondering if by some off chance she'll get some thanks or maybe even a nod.
Sherlock turns it over in his hands rapidly to check every possible nook and cranny that could provide any clue or notable detail. The box wasn't very large, but big enough to snugly rest across his fingers. It was unnecessarily elaborate with all types of pearly seashells settled within solid walls of sand; the texture was a mixture of rough and smooth. A soft green colored the trimmings of the lid and the bottom face.
"Looks like the beach," Greg offered.
"Hmm…" Sherlock eyed the fragile golden clasp, a tiny keyhole set as a guardian to the secrets of the little box.
He turned his attention back to Sally, "Is this all?"
She shook her head, "That's all."
"Are you sure? Are you sure you didn't drop some kind of key?"
Anderson, recovering spectacularly from his initial shock, stuck his head down to once again to contribute to the conversation, "Why? The great Sherlock Holmes can't open an innocent little box without a key? I think hell just froze over."
Sherlock rounded on the man who's only worth in life seems to be an attempt at forensics and was about to make another whipping retort, but was held back when his phone rang the same recognizable tune.
In an instant, the entire team froze to listen in on the speakerphone.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Shirly!" The high-pitched voice greeted as if they were old friends. Sherlock grimaced at the tasteless nickname, "Did you get my gift?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied smoothly, "Though I do seem to be missing a key. Care to explain?"
"Not wasting any time are we?" Mr. Doctor chuckled, "Very well then, here is your first puzzle. Hidden within your flat is a clue. This clue will lead you to the first piece of the key and the second clue. Collect all three pieces and the box will be free for you to open and collect your reward."
"There must be a catch," Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"There's always a catch."
"I have a time limit."
"Figured that out on your own have you? You have 48 hours."
"And if I don't open the box within that time?"
"You will do whatever I please." The voice replied lightly, "That includes, of course, any… disagreements we need resolved."
Sherlock froze, his eyed widened when the intentional implication practically hammered his calm demeanor.
Oh John, you beautiful demon.
Sherlock recovered quickly, "You realize I never lose."
"But we both know that's not quite true."
Sherlock frowned when an unfamiliar sensation pummeled him in the gut and writhed low in his chest, making it throb with a dull pain. It wasn't a very good feeling and it didn't take long for Sherlock to rate it low on his Human Feelings Scale from 1 to 10. This was a -20.
His eyebrows pulled together, lips parting as if to reply but no words came. He couldn't place what the hell was wrong with him all of a sudden, or quite frankly, why it was happening. And that scared Sherlock more then he would care to admit.
The flat rang with the buzz of silence, all eyes on the consulting detective with the phone in his palm.
He hated this game. He hated having John so close, but so far away from his reach. He despised the lack of true intelligence currently moving about like a leper in his flat, and most of all he abhorred the fact that he was the one suffering through it all without being able to do anything about it.
But this is what John wanted; in fact, he was truly excited about it. Sherlock once read in one of Mrs. Hudson's magazines that a good relationship works best when there's excitement and sometimes a change of pace. The excitement, he could do. Change? Not so much. Sherlock never liked change, but he did love a challenge. The only good change Sherlock has ever been through was moving into 221B, and meeting John Watson. So when John concocted this scheme, he went along with the idea that they will both perform this amazing act and play the most hilarious prank together.
He never dreamed he would feel so… bad or so… lost…
But this was for John.
"Sherlock?"
It was John who brought him out of that painful reverie. Even separated on different sides of the spectrum on opposite sides of London and on opposing sides of the law, John knew there was something wrong with him. And, despite the ridiculously high voice, despite the chaos of their game, Sherlock held on to that one thing that never failed to remind him that there's still a world worth living in beneath his feet.
Sherlock's mind snapped to attention, "I'm still here."
"Oh God I didn't mean… I'm s-"
"So tell me, how do we start this game?" Sherlock cut in, hoping John didn't give anything away and the Yarders were as stupid as he knew they were.
The voice paused, and then cleared his throat, "Yes well, here's your clue and it'll lead you to the next one okay? Ready? 'My deathly grin froze long ago, from my perch I see, all I know.'"
Sherlock sighed, "Obvious."
"Was it?"
"Was that really the best you could do?"
"Well actually I was having a hard time rhyming. Don't worry though; the rest won't be as easy."
Sherlock smirked, the feral light working its way back into his eyes again.
Well if John wants to play, there's nothing to do but win.
"I would hope you're right, Mr. Doctor." He ended the call, "Or this game will be over before you say white."
John stared long and hard at the phone in his palm, his forehead crinkled in worry and his lips pursed thoughtfully.
"That was… interesting…" Mycroft mused, looking up from his papers in his hands.
John nodded. Mycroft is spending a surprising amount of time in his flat and John couldn't figure out if it was because he always spent his time at home or he was just enjoying John's company. Probably the former.
"Am I being too hard on him?" John muttered thoughtfully more to himself then anything.
Mycroft scoffed, "Are you worried about hurting my brother's feelings? Really John, don't you live with him?"
John rolled his eyes but didn't bother to answer. Mycroft was right of course. Only a few select things really bothered Sherlock Holmes' feelings and when they did, John usually wouldn't realize it until it was too late. Despite being so outspoken, Sherlock was a big-fat introvert when it came to his "weakness". A bored Sherlock, John could handle. A hurt Sherlock… it didn't happen enough. That's what scared John, because he couldn't shake that little nag that Sherlock was hiding some kind of feeling, and John had no idea how to handle it when he was all the way on the other side of London with no other way to contact him but through the villain, Mr. Doctor or the brother Mycroft Holmes.
It was tough being the bad guy.
Mycroft cleared his throat, "By the way John, are you still planning on going through with the commercial?"
"Hmm? Oh yes."
"My brother won't be very happy."
John quirked an eyebrow, "You don't sound very concerned though."
"There is no harm done in community service." Mycroft plastered on another grin.
John shook his head and rose to his feet, making a decision to go to bed early that night. There's only so much Mycroft Holmes one could take and John was afraid he was getting an overdose. No wonder Sherlock started smoking.
But he couldn't get to sleep. No matter how much he turned or how many pillows he fluffed, his eyes wouldn't even close. What's more disturbing was that Mycroft's smell was everywhere. A mixture of frosting and cinnamon. Mycroft was in the sheets, in the pillows, against the mattress, in the duvet covering his entire body-
Ew, stop thinking now.
Being in the army, John was used to sleeping in strange places previously used by other men. After the army, he slept alone unless he was lucky enough to find a date for the night. After moving in with Sherlock, John got used to (somewhat) to what he fondly called "Sher-life".
Sher-life basically consisted of constant footsteps creaking about the shared living room, abrupt shrills on a violin (or if he was lucky a melodic tune), and the clink or thud of a latest experiment. If there was a case going on, John would even get to hear the constant ramblings of the genius. Some brilliantly thought out and some so random, John wondered if he should just secretly record him and make a book out of it.
Then, since all this was usually performed at 3am, any random noise would be amplified by ten-folds
Someone once asked John what it was like living in 221B, John said that if he had to compare it to anything, it was like living in an asylum.
Then Sherlock cut in and ruined the joke by reminding him that there were no bars on the windows and that Mrs. Hudson would be a failure as a nurse as she can't even do the simplest task of brewing coffee when requested of her.
Oh God, he loved that man.
Maybe that was the problem.
Everything was so empty without Sher-life. Even after Sherlock finally stopped making so much noise at night and slept peacefully at John's side, Sherlock still created life. He talks in his sleep, he jabs John in he ribs, he takes up most of the pillow space, his hair was ticklish, and he clings on to John like alien face-hugger. John couldn't even sleep without Sherlock's smell, the mixture of antiseptic and the strawberry conditioner, clinging to his bed sheets.
"Sod this," John growled finally. He pushed himself from bed and headed back to the main room of Mycroft's home. It was weird staying with another man other then Sherlock, especially since it was his older brother Mycroft. When John was first there during "The Woman" case, he realized the place was exactly as he thought it would be. Old-fashioned, but modern.
He shuffled into the room and glances over to the chair he previously occupied earlier that evening, "You're already awake?"
"I never slept." Mycroft spoke with the Holmes nonchalant.
John checked his watch. 3am. Of course. "Right… Okay then, don't mind me…"
John shuffled over to the kitchen and found that the tea has long since settled and chilled. He scrapped it and on habit made another kettle enough for two.
"You couldn't sleep." It was more of a statement then a question.
John sighed and decided to play along; he turned to face the other Holmes while he waited for the tea to boil, "Yes."
"You miss him."
"Of course."
"Anything I could do to help?"
"N-… What?" John gaped.
Mycroft gave a long suffering sigh that John couldn't help but compare to his younger brother's, "John, although I am allowing you in my house as a favor, I am still entitled to treat you as an honored guest."
John was still gaping like a child witnessing a naughty act, "Erm… ah… no, it's fine. You don't need to. Really, I'm fine. Thanks."
Mycroft nodded and continued his work.
John stood there in silence for another long few minutes, still trying to get his head around what just happened. When the tea was ready, he did make enough for two but gave one to Mycroft who accepted without a word. John took his original seat and sipped his own tea in silence.
All in all, John will never forget that night.
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