FIC: Staircase Wit [5/6]
May. 13th, 2012 10:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Staircase Wit
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: L'esprit de l'escalier - Sherlock never suffers from it, which isn't to say he doesn't suffer for it. Five times he took a beating, and one time he got away.
Warnings: Violence, possible explicit sex to come.
Notes: This is my very first Sherlock fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Can also be read on AO3
*
*
5. Twenty-eight
“Do you know who I am?”
Sherlock winced as blood from the cut over his eye filmed his vision into a scarlet haze, but he kept a tight grip on the thin length of steel rebar that held the three men at bay. “Certainly I do. Tony Hudson, builder, entrepreneur, con artist, extortionist, drug trafficker, kidnapper, murderer – did I leave anything out?”
One of Tony’s henchmen, beyond laughable in a Hawaiian shirt that billowed like a staysail over white trousers, surged forward, possibly to jump over the wide footing that separated Sherlock from his would-be assailants, but Sherlock swung the rebar, making a rather frightening noise with it that promised serious damage to anyone stupid enough to get in its way. Pointless, really – the man was in his fifties, never exercised, smoked and drank copiously, and had a minor heart condition. Sherlock swiftly wiped the blood from his eye and grinned at them. Should have let him fall – he’d have a nice greenstick fracture by now.
The man’s gold chain gleamed against his skin, tanned to the color and texture of an old saddle. “You got one smart fuckin’ mouth on you, you little shit.”
Sherlock beamed. “Thank you.” God, his head was killing him. He had to get out, and fast, before they could see that he wasn’t exactly at his best.
Tony, far more tastefully dressed in a beige linen suit, rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “All right, Stu. Let’s not get ourselves into a lather.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Young man – you’ve got about all of it, I’d say, but let’s not quibble over definitions. Tell me – are you the one who planted the camera in my office?”
“Oh, you don’t mind, do you? I got such a lot of really fascinating stuff. Did you happen to check your electronic and paper files for signs of tampering as well? Quite a bit of gripping reading there. You should probably invest in a tighter security system. Anyway, it was all quite engrossing. I think the police will find it equally engrossing, don’t you?” Bless Mycroft and his little band of well-mannered hired thugs. A horrible pain in the arse his older brother most certainly was, but he had access to all manner of spycraft in every possible location, even – curiouser and curiouser – Miami, Florida, and inasmuch as he dragged Sherlock half-willingly into any number of cases, Sherlock took full advantage of Mycroft’s connections whenever possible.
“I’m sure they will, but they’re not going to see it.” Tony Hudson took a step toward the edge of the deep footing, but Sherlock swung the rebar again, and Hudson stepped back. “Come on now, don’t be stupid. Just hand it over and we’ll let you live.”
“I’m not quite as stupid as your chums there, Hudson. The film’s already en route to the Miami PD. If I were you, I’d start putting my affairs in order, because with what they’re about to find out, you’re well on your way to an early expiry date yourself.”
“You’re bluffing,” Hudson replied calmly.
Sherlock snorted. He was bluffing, but there was no sense in showing his hand too early. There had to be a quick way out of the maze of vehicles and materials, but his point of ingress had been on the other side of the building site, behind the three men, and if the high wire-mesh fencing ran round the entire site without a break, he was in a spot of bother. “You’ll find out for certain in an hour or so. Might want to start packing.”
The other man with Tony, a vast-shouldered bald ox in a t-shirt and jeans, moved close to the edge of the footing. “Kid,” he said in a tone that, while it was gentle and almost friendly, left no doubt about his sincerity. “You’ve got about three seconds to put that bar down before I jump over there and twist it around that skinny neck of yours.”
Sherlock’s headache intensified. If there was a genuine physical threat, it was from this man. He packed quite an impressive wallop, as Sherlock had discovered about ten minutes before. “Jump, then.”
The man shook his head. “You really, really don’t want to do this.”
Stu seemed to take courage from his large friend’s calmness. “You see that footer, you smart-ass fuck?” He pointed downward. “We can play this two ways. You can give us the film and the other shit you stole – his tone was aggrieved, as if Sherlock were the criminal – “or we slit your fuckin’ throat and dump you down there and pour half a ton of concrete over your dead scrawny ass.”
“Hm. Excellent idea. It wouldn’t be much different from burying a corpse underground, you know. Concrete breathes a bit too, so the gases from my decomposing body will build up, invade their encasement, eventually rupture inside me, and compromise the structural integrity of the building, and I might bring the whole thing crashing down. I’ve always wanted to bring a building down single-handedly.” Sherlock glanced over one shoulder. If only a few work lights had been on…the only light, bright though it was, happened to be incidental, the tropical purple glow from the thousands of buildings thrumming in the steaming-hot Miami night. Heavy machinery behind him: a crane, a huge excavator, concrete mixer, a backhoe loader. His head was pounding with the insistence of a hammer drill now, and he fought to keep from swaying. If he could disappear in the maze of machinery, confuse his pursuers –
“Or,” Tony said, “we could just break both your legs and dump you in alive. I wouldn’t mind hearing you screaming for mercy as we drowned you. I wouldn’t mind that at all.”
That didn’t sound terribly pleasant. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
Tony nodded a bit sadly, as if he’d expected no less. “Get him, boys.”
Stu and Baldy lunged for him simultaneously. Sherlock took a step back, quickly calculated, and swung. The long, thin steel bar crashed into Baldy’s knee; Sherlock heard the exquisitely satisfying sound of cracking bone and the even lovelier music of the man’s scream before Baldy pitched forward and fell into the footer. Stu hesitated, his ludicrous shirt (topless women paddling racing canoes – charming) flapping in the muggy breeze, and Sherlock took advantage of his uncertainty to swing again. The rebar cracked against Stu’s arm, more music to Sherlock’s ear. Stu gasped and dropped to his knees, clutching his arm, his mouth moving soundlessly.
Tony Hudson gaped at the ease with which Sherlock had dispatched his henchmen. Slowly, he put a hand into his pocket, and Sherlock decided it was time to make his escape. He turned and fled into the maze of machinery, dashing behind a loader just as a bullet struck it. The report was disconcertingly loud, reverberating in his aching skull; Sherlock dropped low and scuttled through the forest of metal and rubber, looking for a hole in the fence.
Another bullet struck the nearby crane and ricocheted. Sherlock hissed and ducked even lower. Christ! No time to lose. Frantically, he darted through the machines in a zig-zag pattern, listening to Hudson’s curses, his rapid breathing growing alarmingly closer, the dim screams of his now somewhat redundant assistants. There! A breach in the fence, thank God. Sherlock dove for it, wriggled underneath, tearing his jacket and trousers both, but free. He rolled down a shallow embankment, picked himself up, and took off toward the city lights.
*
Without bothering to knock, he opened the door and staggered into the house, grimly satisfied as the owner, trotting down the peach-carpeted stairs, gave a little scream. “Sherlock! You frightened the wits out of me, young man.”
“Serves you right,” Sherlock snapped. “How many times have I told you to lock the door? You’re all right, aren’t you?”
“Yes, dear, of course.” Mrs. Hudson, in a dressing gown, night cream on her face, her hair pulled back beneath a silky kerchief, moved closer to Sherlock and gasped. She turned the foyer light on. “Sherlock, you’re hurt!”
“It’s nothing,” he replied, brushing the gently inquisitive fingertips away from the cut on his forehead. “Right, there isn’t a moment to waste. You have the package I gave you?”
“Dear, you’re terribly bruised – your clothes are filthy, torn – what in heaven’s name did they do to you?” Her face, under the greasy cream, tightened into a scowl. “Did Tony do it?”
“Well, his friends. Really, Mrs. Hudson, we haven’t got time.”
“How did you get here?”
“The bus. Have you no taxis here?” Really it was amazing – in a city as large and populous as Miami, taxis were remarkably few and far between. Sherlock was faintly astounded that he’d been able to find a bus. Did everyone own a car?
“Not many in Coral Gables, dear.”
“Mrs. H., we have to go to the police. Now. Could you get the package?”
“Oh! Of course, dear.” Mrs. Hudson went to a lacquered cabinet, opened a door, and took out a large brown envelope. She proffered it with a smile. “There you go.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. The motion hurt. “You’re coming too.”
“Me? Sherlock, I’m in my dressing gown!”
“We’re getting out of here until I’m absolutely certain that Mr. Hudson and his friends are in custody. You have exactly three minutes to change.” Sherlock grabbed the keys to Mrs. Hudson’s Taurus wagon that hung from a peg next to the door. Go. Go!”
*
Sherlock slipped his sunglasses on against the noontime sun and slouched down in his seat. Mrs. Hudson had insisted on driving back from the police station and Sherlock was happy enough to let her. The excitement of the evening was long gone, supplanted by the tedium of endless paperwork, and his injuries, which, leaving aside the cut on his head, he’d scarcely noticed hours ago, were starting to grind and ache, and he longed for a bath and a nap. Odd, the petty little concerns that actually seemed to matter when life ground to a near-halt again.
“I still can’t quite believe it.”
Sherlock gazed listlessly at the green foliage that adorned gated community after gated community, each with its own precious name: Snapper Creek Lakes, Gables by the Sea, Hammock Oaks, each sillier than the last. “Can’t believe what?”
“Well…he kept everything from me. I rather feel as if I’ve been played for a fool.”
“You have been.” Sherlock said with some satisfaction. He dug a pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket and lit up.
“Crack the window, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “No, what I mean is that…oh, I don’t know what I mean. I suppose it’s just that I loved him, and he’d been deceiving me all along. But he did love me, too, in his way. It’s all so complicated. I’m glad they found him, but still.”
Sherlock gave an elegant snort and exhaled a jet of smoke. “Love’s a ridiculous, over-inflated, artificial construct, Mrs. H., and you’re living proof of it. Look at you, you’re tied up in knots over a man who’s defrauded and extorted and even killed, and you feel guilty about doing your part to see that justice is done. I call that ludicrous.”
“Sherlock, have you ever been in love?”
“Waste of time.”
“Oh, no.” Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. “Oh, dear, you’re so wrong about that.”
“Am I? Doesn’t seem to have worked out too well for you.”
Mrs. Hudson’s face fell a bit. “Yes, but –“
“Oh, come on. First of all, I don’t know anyone, not one single person, whose life hasn’t been irrevocably changed for the worse by what they call love. It certainly didn’t enrich my parents’ lives, my brother’s love life, if indeed he has one, doesn’t bear speaking of, and half the people with whom I’m acquainted are in the process of divorcing or breaking up. It’s a physiological reaction, an increase in dopamine and serotonin and norepinephrine in response to a base mating instinct, and you made a muddle of things because when you were young and stupid and starry-eyed, Tony Hudson dressed well and put pomade in his hair and brought you flowers or took you to a film and waited like a gentleman until he’d got permission to grope you. Lucky, lucky you. And now he’s in prison, and you’re having second thoughts because somewhere along the line, you, like every other moron out there, convinced yourself that a surge of chemicals meant some sort of everlasting romance.” Sherlock pitched his cigarette out the window. “Rubbish.”
There was a silence, then Mrs. Hudson gave a meaningful sniff. “Some day, young man, you’re going to fall madly in love, and you’re going to think back on this conversation and laugh. And it won’t be me you’re laughing at.”
Sherlock smiled, even though it hurt his face. “I’ll bet you a fiver I won’t.”
“Done.” Mrs. Hudson stuck out her hand, and they shook on it.
They pulled into the drive, and Mrs. Hudson sat still for a moment. Sherlock picked his head up from the seat rest – it felt awfully heavy – and saw her staring at him. “What?”
“Sherlock, dear,” she said softly, “about last night – I know you risked your life on my behalf, and I just wanted to say –“
“It wasn’t so much on your behalf, Mrs. Hudson, and frankly there wasn’t anything at the building site that would have incriminated them. I went as a matter of curiosity and I got caught. Careless of me, when you come right down to it.” Sherlock shrugged.
“I don’t know how you can be so cavalier.”
“Would you prefer that I fall apart? Shall I go up to that horrid pink and aqua guest room of yours and weep gently into a pillow for a few days, or would you like this case handled in a competent and efficient fashion? Because I’m a fair actor, Mrs. H. – I can dredge up a few tears if it’ll make you feel better about having your husband arrested.”
Mrs. Hudson pressed her hands to her face in a gesture of despair. “I’m trying to thank you, you silly, stupid boy.”
“Oh.” Sherlock took off his sunglasses and stared down at them for a moment. “Well, you’re most welcome. Anyway, it was a bit more challenging and a lot more interesting than the work Mycroft had me doing.”
“Impossible,” Mrs. Hudson sighed, and hurried round to the passenger door to help Sherlock out.
He scowled at her outstretched hand. “What are you doing?”
“You’re done in, Sherlock. I’ve got eyes in my head, you know.”
“I’m fine, for God’s sake. Stop henning over me.” He got out of the car slowly, cataloguing his injuries. Aside from the cut on his head, he’d sprained his right knee, suffered some abdominal bruising from Baldy’s fists, possibly strained a tendon in his shoulder because Baldy had twisted one arm up behind his back, and he was generally scratched and dented in a dozen other places. Quite honestly, he felt like hell.
“Oh, hush. Just get inside and I’ll make us both a cuppa. We need it.”
Mrs. Hudson put an arm around his waist, and reluctantly Sherlock leaned on her as he limped up the walk. She deposited him on the sofa. He collapsed gratefully, kicked his shoes off, and closed his eyes, glad the curtains were closed. The insistently cheery Florida weather grated on his nerves. Even the rain smacked of Disney World, excessively dramatic and heavy; it was bizarre and vaguely disturbing, like the vast motorways, the bright colours of the houses, the ridiculous garb of far, far too many people – tourists, he reckoned, but then Mr. Hudson’s leathery friend Stu had worn that absurd shirt….
“Here we are, then.” Mrs. Hudson set a tray down on the table. “I can make you a fry-up after you’ve had this, if you like.”
Sherlock regarded the tea and toast dubiously. “I prefer the crust removed.”
“There’s a knife beside the plate,” Mrs. Hudson said, bustling back into the kitchen.
Sulkily, Sherlock set to cutting the crusts off. “Haven’t you got strawberry?”
“Just peach, love. It’s nice, try it.”
“No.” Sherlock leaned back and munched on the toast. “You’ll have to go back to England, Mrs. H. It’s not safe for you to stay here.”
“Yes, I expect so.” Mrs. Hudson came back into the living room, twisting the cap from a brown prescription bottle. She sighed and gazed at a large painting of pastel-coloured flowers over the sofa. “Pity. I rather liked having my own pool. Do you think they’ll make me come back if there’s a trial?”
“Don’t know. I’d have to check the statutes, but I don’t think they can compel you to testify. Anyway, there’s plenty of evidence without your testimony. I’ve been doing some legwork gathering information – your husband wronged a great many people, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Yes. It does seem that way.” Mrs. Hudson tipped the bottle into her hand. “Take one of these, dear.”
“What is it?”
“Vicodin. I had them for my hip operation. They’re still fine.”
Sherlock took the pill from her outstretched hand. “I suppose one won’t hurt.” He popped it in his mouth, washed it down with a swallow of tea, and stretched out his legs. It probably wouldn’t help him sleep, but it might take the edge off the pain.
“Do you want that fry-up, dear?”
“No. I want a bath and a sleep.” And, he reflected, he wanted to be on a plane bound for London as soon as possible. A dreary sensation of anticlimax was growing stronger in his limbic system, and Florida had long lost its novelty.
Mrs. Hudson sat in the chair opposite him. “Why don’t you have the sleep first, dear? I’d hate to have you drown in the bathtub. It’s quite big.” She sighed again. “I’ll miss that too. It had a Jacuzzi in it. Rather soothing, a Jacuzzi. I suppose they’ll start seizing everything in short order.”
“Probably,” Sherlock replied indifferently.
“Well, the Baker Street place is all mine, at least. I won’t be homeless.”
“I’d start packing today, if I were you.”
“Won’t that look odd?”
“Not as odd as the way you’d look with a bullet hole in your head, Mrs. H., if one of Tony’s pals comes gunning for you,” Sherlock replied.
“Oh, dear….” Mrs. Hudson knotted her fingers together.
Sherlock yawned. “Not to worry. I shouldn’t think he’ll work out that you were involved in any way for a while yet, if at all. Still, better safe than sorry.” He stretched out on the sofa and arranged a scratchily embroidered throw pillow under his head. “You might as well get some sleep.” He closed his eyes, conscious that Mrs. Hudson still sat across from him, her brow creased in anxiety. The Vicodin hadn’t kicked in, but he was pleasantly tired, and he felt himself drifting.
The doorbell rang, and he heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice, and another voice, a light tenor, young, with a note of pleading. Satisfied that it wasn’t a hired assassin, Sherlock dropped into a deep sleep.
*
“His name’s Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and he says there’s evidence with Miami PD already. You’ve got to help me, the fucking cops are probably on their way.” Tony Hudson’s voice reverberated with raw panic. “For Christ’s sake, Jim, are you listening to me?”
“Calm down. I’m going to give you an address. You and your boys go there and lay low awhile.” Jim massaged his eye with the heel of his hand; a headache, the kind that felt like icepicks driving into his brain, was blossoming behind his eyes. “Don’t worry about anything.”
“All right. Okay. Th—“
Jim rang off and stared at the phone. “Stupid fuckwit,” he whispered. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid fuckwit.” Gently, he placed the mobile on the coffee table and gazed at it. “Oh, sooo stupid,” he trilled in a hitching half-moan, and a beatific smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Now you’ve done it. Trip-trap, trip-trap.”
He knew someone had been sniffing around. He’d seen the evidence, but he hadn’t paid close enough attention. Sherlock Holmes. The name….
There had been watchers. Homeless kids, spaced-out trisexual clubbers, skateboarders, vagrants and junkies, and he hadn’t paid attention. A mistake.
He clenched his fists until red crescents decorated both palms.
A bright moon shone into his penthouse, washing his things with silver. Pretty things, luxurious, put together by a designer who’d been all sweetness and flirtation at first, but as time passed, he’d grown uncomfortable and wary.
People often did, eventually, and it made them afraid, but that was all right. Short doses of Jim Moriarty was all most anyone could take, because he was too much for ordinary people, because he yielded to compulsions too strong to deny, because after a while, if he lingered too long in any one place, even ordinary people began to see the changeling behind his eyes, they could smell the wolf in the pack of sheep, but that was all right too. They didn’t know why he made them nervous – not really, because Jim Moriarty, on the face of things, was no threat; there was nothing about him that cried predator, no visible claws or fangs, and so when he drew a game out, watching their mounting distress and confusion as they ignored the sensible low mutter of instinct that told them to get away, get away, oh God it was really quite something to watch.
So the designer had lingered, and Jim had watched, and waited, and when the designer (lumpy old queen, amphetamine habit, but good taste, Jim had to give him that) had tried his own brand of extortion, Jim had waited for a nice, dark, warm night, and had the designer taken to Shark Valley in the Everglades. Silly name, Shark Valley; they should have called it Alligator Valley, because there were so many of the critters hanging around, just waiting for a nice, plump piece of screaming, bleeding meat.
But Jim was grateful to the designer for setting him up in a really very attractive pad. He looked around with a contented little smile, storing it up, and then closed his eyes and opened a door.
It was black, and silent, and dismay and terror and fury hung in the air like clinging cobwebs. He never brushed them aside; he let them drift against his skin, feather-light, enveloping him like a second skin that never itched nor chafed, but settled against him comfortably as he travelled, waiting to be needed. There were dark treasures in this place, carefully enshrined memories stored away, and if there was a smell – a wet, awful smell, like mould and ancient newspapers with baffled headlines (Arson Claims Seven Lives, A Mother’s Tragedy, Couple Found In Leeds Basement) and discarded clothing stained with the panic-stricken sweat of final moments and a deeper, more dreadful smell; anyone following him down into the cellar would draw back at it as if they’d touched a writhing heap of serpents – if there was a smell, it was accomplishment, it was success after success, better than any balance sheet or favourable stock report. It kept him alive; it prevented the ennui that always scrabbled at the edges of his consciousness and reminded him that the little treasures made the smell worth it. The smell limned his world in gilt-edged misery and fear, black and glowing gold, exquisitely, painfully beautiful.
And here was a box, smelling of chlorine and leather and the rich tang of pain and terror. He stopped, knelt, opened it. Mocking laughter spilled out as if it were a malign music box, but he held it open, gazed through, gritted his teeth against the laughter.
Small and poor and foreign, that’s what he had been. Paddy, wee faggot Paddy, cheap clothes, cheap shoes. Pushing him in the halls, down a short flight of stairs. Nothing to permanently damage, only to humiliate and hurt, but it was enough. More than enough.
That first time, it had been more exhilarating, more terrifying than anything he’d experienced before. Watching him dive in awkwardly, waiting, waiting, waiting, and then the choked noises that nobody had noticed at first, and he’d watched from the top of the bleacher bank, hot and cold and shivering with excitement. The screams as he’d flailed, the lifeguard looking fruitlessly for his long hook (top of the bleacher bank, life preserver same) and diving in, Carl’s pale, lifeless body. Tragic Carl Death, the papers had said. Tragic, so tragic, so young.
And then a hiccup – someone had twigged. About the shoes. Another kid, of all people, not a copper, not Carl’s distraught and grieving parents.
Sherlock Holmes.
“There you are,” Jim murmured.
*
The mall, at six in the morning, was already bustling with senior citizens in shapeless flowered polyester, lurching along in the name of exercise, trying to stave off death for a few more years. Hopeless. He had a half-sympathetic urge to fix up an explosion to take out half the mall and help the poor sods toward their inevitable destination. They smiled at him, nodded approvingly; nice to see the younger generation up with the birds as well. Why, it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet – the sunrise was still a violent conflagration of pink, orange, and gold at the horizon, gradually fading into a blue sky, visible from the broad windows of the mall. Jim smiled back meekly, modestly, and went to a telephone booth.
“Hi. This is the non-emergency line, right? Well, just so you know, Tony Hudson and his friends are hiding out in Kendall. Here’s the address.” Jim laid it out clearly and concisely. No point in repeating himself. “Good luck – bye!”
He hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. “Trip-trap, Tony. You’re going to be gobbled up.”
*
Jim hitched up the frayed, knotted-together strap of his backpack and rang the doorbell. A tired-looking woman opened it and blinked at him. “Hello. Oh, dear, are you one of Sherlock’s friends?” She looked him up and down, taking in his dirty t-shirt, his threadbare jeans, his tattered trainers.
“More of a friend of a friend. Is he here? Could I talk to him?”
“He’s asleep, dear. Perhaps you could come back a bit later?“
As the woman (Mrs. Hudson. Tony’s own wife had helped to rat him out and Tony knew bugger-all about it. Oh, God, it was priceless) shook her head and began to close the door, Jim gave her a look of passionate, helpless appeal that would have done credit to a Save the Children telly advert and let tears come into his eyes. “Please…please. It’s just that…Smitty told me Sherlock might be able to help me. A friend of mine was stabbed last night, and he’d been helping Sherlock out, and I just thought Sherlock might know something about the guys who did it. I’m just –“ Jim swiped at his eyes. “I’ve been up all night, at the hospital, you know, and I’m beat, but if I could just talk to him for a minute….” Jim covered his face.
“Oh, dear, oh dear….” Mrs. Hudson stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “It’s just that Sherlock’s been up all night as well, and he – well, he caught the men who’ve been causing all the…er, trouble.”
Not without my help, you stupid cunt. “Really? Oh, God, that’s great to hear.” Jim wiped at his eyes again and flashed a grateful smile.
“He’s a bit worse for wear, though, poor lamb. I just gave him a little something to help him sleep, and I’m afraid he’s out for a while.”
Jim held up his hands, palm out. “I get it. I totally get it. Look, I can come back. I’d have him come and meet me, but –“ He shrugged, biting his lower lip. “Can’t say I have a permanent address or anything.”
Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue and shook her head sadly. “I understand, dear.” She hesitated a moment. “I can make you some sandwiches, if you like. It isn’t much, but –“
“God, no.” Jim tightened his facial muscles to feign a blush. “That’s really nice of you, but –“
“Not at all, dear. Come in for a moment, I’ll wrap them up for you. Be sure not to disturb Sherlock, though – he’s on the sofa. Couldn’t even make it up to his room. Not that he’s fond of that room, but honestly, where else was I supposed to put him?”
“You sure I won’t be bothering him?”
“Oh, he’s out cold,” Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully. “Still, best not to wake him. He’s had a rather rough night of it.”
“Thanks. That’s really, really sweet of you.” Jim followed Mrs. Hudson into the house, getting a fleeting impression of pastel colours and lots of wicker – hideous – and then his gaze fell upon the figure lying supine on the sofa.
“Do you need the loo, dear? Oh, what was your name?”
“It’s Jim, ma’am, and I’m fine, thanks.”
“Right. Well, just have a seat and I’ll be back in just a mo.” Mrs. Hudson bustled off to the kitchen, and Jim was left alone with Sherlock.
Moving silently, catlike, Jim crossed the room to the sofa. “So…you’re Sherlock Holmes.” Carefully, he crouched down and tilted his head to examine Sherlock’s face. “Oh. Oh yes. I remember you now, dear. You haven’t changed all that much, have you? Got a bit prettier….” He reached out and tenderly brushed an errant curl from Sherlock’s forehead, where a cut blazed vivid crimson. “But not much brighter,” he whispered. “It was so very easy to find you. You disappoint me a little, I have to say.”
Sherlock slumbered on, his face peaceful in repose. Peaceful and quite pretty, in its way.
Jim smiled. In retrospect, he saw the net that Sherlock had tightened around Tony, the tiny security breakdowns here and there, the spying, using his wife – now that was clever, almost diabolical. He approved heartily, even if he should have been paying closer attention. That was twice now that Sherlock had upset things; nobody had come close, not even once. A coincidence, perhaps? Jim did have his finger in so many pies.
“Trip-trap.”
It was a novel thought, someone smart enough to sift through so much debris to discover a thread or two of silk, a positively delightful idea to contemplate. And here was the perpetrator, asleep, no, drugged, he could tell, as helpless as helpless could be. Jim could do anything to him he liked. Kill the old cunt in the kitchen, drive Holmes away in the back of the Taurus, and he wouldn’t awaken for an hour at least, and by then he’d be safely restrained, and Jim could play.
Made his cock hard, just thinking about it.
Jim reached out and touched Sherlock Holmes’ pretty, pouting mouth. Not yet.
He’d let this one breathe for a while. He’d watch, and wait.
And then he’d play.
His heart filled with music, shredded strings and broken timpani. He rose to his feet silently and walked out, leaving the door wide open.
*
“We are all as safe as we want to be.”
Jim’s mobile chirped. He looked down, smiling in expectation.
Wrong!
Right.
He caressed the word on the screen affectionately.
Well, darling. Shall we dance?
*
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: L'esprit de l'escalier - Sherlock never suffers from it, which isn't to say he doesn't suffer for it. Five times he took a beating, and one time he got away.
Warnings: Violence, possible explicit sex to come.
Notes: This is my very first Sherlock fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Can also be read on AO3
*
*
5. Twenty-eight
“Do you know who I am?”
Sherlock winced as blood from the cut over his eye filmed his vision into a scarlet haze, but he kept a tight grip on the thin length of steel rebar that held the three men at bay. “Certainly I do. Tony Hudson, builder, entrepreneur, con artist, extortionist, drug trafficker, kidnapper, murderer – did I leave anything out?”
One of Tony’s henchmen, beyond laughable in a Hawaiian shirt that billowed like a staysail over white trousers, surged forward, possibly to jump over the wide footing that separated Sherlock from his would-be assailants, but Sherlock swung the rebar, making a rather frightening noise with it that promised serious damage to anyone stupid enough to get in its way. Pointless, really – the man was in his fifties, never exercised, smoked and drank copiously, and had a minor heart condition. Sherlock swiftly wiped the blood from his eye and grinned at them. Should have let him fall – he’d have a nice greenstick fracture by now.
The man’s gold chain gleamed against his skin, tanned to the color and texture of an old saddle. “You got one smart fuckin’ mouth on you, you little shit.”
Sherlock beamed. “Thank you.” God, his head was killing him. He had to get out, and fast, before they could see that he wasn’t exactly at his best.
Tony, far more tastefully dressed in a beige linen suit, rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “All right, Stu. Let’s not get ourselves into a lather.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Young man – you’ve got about all of it, I’d say, but let’s not quibble over definitions. Tell me – are you the one who planted the camera in my office?”
“Oh, you don’t mind, do you? I got such a lot of really fascinating stuff. Did you happen to check your electronic and paper files for signs of tampering as well? Quite a bit of gripping reading there. You should probably invest in a tighter security system. Anyway, it was all quite engrossing. I think the police will find it equally engrossing, don’t you?” Bless Mycroft and his little band of well-mannered hired thugs. A horrible pain in the arse his older brother most certainly was, but he had access to all manner of spycraft in every possible location, even – curiouser and curiouser – Miami, Florida, and inasmuch as he dragged Sherlock half-willingly into any number of cases, Sherlock took full advantage of Mycroft’s connections whenever possible.
“I’m sure they will, but they’re not going to see it.” Tony Hudson took a step toward the edge of the deep footing, but Sherlock swung the rebar again, and Hudson stepped back. “Come on now, don’t be stupid. Just hand it over and we’ll let you live.”
“I’m not quite as stupid as your chums there, Hudson. The film’s already en route to the Miami PD. If I were you, I’d start putting my affairs in order, because with what they’re about to find out, you’re well on your way to an early expiry date yourself.”
“You’re bluffing,” Hudson replied calmly.
Sherlock snorted. He was bluffing, but there was no sense in showing his hand too early. There had to be a quick way out of the maze of vehicles and materials, but his point of ingress had been on the other side of the building site, behind the three men, and if the high wire-mesh fencing ran round the entire site without a break, he was in a spot of bother. “You’ll find out for certain in an hour or so. Might want to start packing.”
The other man with Tony, a vast-shouldered bald ox in a t-shirt and jeans, moved close to the edge of the footing. “Kid,” he said in a tone that, while it was gentle and almost friendly, left no doubt about his sincerity. “You’ve got about three seconds to put that bar down before I jump over there and twist it around that skinny neck of yours.”
Sherlock’s headache intensified. If there was a genuine physical threat, it was from this man. He packed quite an impressive wallop, as Sherlock had discovered about ten minutes before. “Jump, then.”
The man shook his head. “You really, really don’t want to do this.”
Stu seemed to take courage from his large friend’s calmness. “You see that footer, you smart-ass fuck?” He pointed downward. “We can play this two ways. You can give us the film and the other shit you stole – his tone was aggrieved, as if Sherlock were the criminal – “or we slit your fuckin’ throat and dump you down there and pour half a ton of concrete over your dead scrawny ass.”
“Hm. Excellent idea. It wouldn’t be much different from burying a corpse underground, you know. Concrete breathes a bit too, so the gases from my decomposing body will build up, invade their encasement, eventually rupture inside me, and compromise the structural integrity of the building, and I might bring the whole thing crashing down. I’ve always wanted to bring a building down single-handedly.” Sherlock glanced over one shoulder. If only a few work lights had been on…the only light, bright though it was, happened to be incidental, the tropical purple glow from the thousands of buildings thrumming in the steaming-hot Miami night. Heavy machinery behind him: a crane, a huge excavator, concrete mixer, a backhoe loader. His head was pounding with the insistence of a hammer drill now, and he fought to keep from swaying. If he could disappear in the maze of machinery, confuse his pursuers –
“Or,” Tony said, “we could just break both your legs and dump you in alive. I wouldn’t mind hearing you screaming for mercy as we drowned you. I wouldn’t mind that at all.”
That didn’t sound terribly pleasant. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
Tony nodded a bit sadly, as if he’d expected no less. “Get him, boys.”
Stu and Baldy lunged for him simultaneously. Sherlock took a step back, quickly calculated, and swung. The long, thin steel bar crashed into Baldy’s knee; Sherlock heard the exquisitely satisfying sound of cracking bone and the even lovelier music of the man’s scream before Baldy pitched forward and fell into the footer. Stu hesitated, his ludicrous shirt (topless women paddling racing canoes – charming) flapping in the muggy breeze, and Sherlock took advantage of his uncertainty to swing again. The rebar cracked against Stu’s arm, more music to Sherlock’s ear. Stu gasped and dropped to his knees, clutching his arm, his mouth moving soundlessly.
Tony Hudson gaped at the ease with which Sherlock had dispatched his henchmen. Slowly, he put a hand into his pocket, and Sherlock decided it was time to make his escape. He turned and fled into the maze of machinery, dashing behind a loader just as a bullet struck it. The report was disconcertingly loud, reverberating in his aching skull; Sherlock dropped low and scuttled through the forest of metal and rubber, looking for a hole in the fence.
Another bullet struck the nearby crane and ricocheted. Sherlock hissed and ducked even lower. Christ! No time to lose. Frantically, he darted through the machines in a zig-zag pattern, listening to Hudson’s curses, his rapid breathing growing alarmingly closer, the dim screams of his now somewhat redundant assistants. There! A breach in the fence, thank God. Sherlock dove for it, wriggled underneath, tearing his jacket and trousers both, but free. He rolled down a shallow embankment, picked himself up, and took off toward the city lights.
*
Without bothering to knock, he opened the door and staggered into the house, grimly satisfied as the owner, trotting down the peach-carpeted stairs, gave a little scream. “Sherlock! You frightened the wits out of me, young man.”
“Serves you right,” Sherlock snapped. “How many times have I told you to lock the door? You’re all right, aren’t you?”
“Yes, dear, of course.” Mrs. Hudson, in a dressing gown, night cream on her face, her hair pulled back beneath a silky kerchief, moved closer to Sherlock and gasped. She turned the foyer light on. “Sherlock, you’re hurt!”
“It’s nothing,” he replied, brushing the gently inquisitive fingertips away from the cut on his forehead. “Right, there isn’t a moment to waste. You have the package I gave you?”
“Dear, you’re terribly bruised – your clothes are filthy, torn – what in heaven’s name did they do to you?” Her face, under the greasy cream, tightened into a scowl. “Did Tony do it?”
“Well, his friends. Really, Mrs. Hudson, we haven’t got time.”
“How did you get here?”
“The bus. Have you no taxis here?” Really it was amazing – in a city as large and populous as Miami, taxis were remarkably few and far between. Sherlock was faintly astounded that he’d been able to find a bus. Did everyone own a car?
“Not many in Coral Gables, dear.”
“Mrs. H., we have to go to the police. Now. Could you get the package?”
“Oh! Of course, dear.” Mrs. Hudson went to a lacquered cabinet, opened a door, and took out a large brown envelope. She proffered it with a smile. “There you go.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. The motion hurt. “You’re coming too.”
“Me? Sherlock, I’m in my dressing gown!”
“We’re getting out of here until I’m absolutely certain that Mr. Hudson and his friends are in custody. You have exactly three minutes to change.” Sherlock grabbed the keys to Mrs. Hudson’s Taurus wagon that hung from a peg next to the door. Go. Go!”
*
Sherlock slipped his sunglasses on against the noontime sun and slouched down in his seat. Mrs. Hudson had insisted on driving back from the police station and Sherlock was happy enough to let her. The excitement of the evening was long gone, supplanted by the tedium of endless paperwork, and his injuries, which, leaving aside the cut on his head, he’d scarcely noticed hours ago, were starting to grind and ache, and he longed for a bath and a nap. Odd, the petty little concerns that actually seemed to matter when life ground to a near-halt again.
“I still can’t quite believe it.”
Sherlock gazed listlessly at the green foliage that adorned gated community after gated community, each with its own precious name: Snapper Creek Lakes, Gables by the Sea, Hammock Oaks, each sillier than the last. “Can’t believe what?”
“Well…he kept everything from me. I rather feel as if I’ve been played for a fool.”
“You have been.” Sherlock said with some satisfaction. He dug a pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket and lit up.
“Crack the window, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “No, what I mean is that…oh, I don’t know what I mean. I suppose it’s just that I loved him, and he’d been deceiving me all along. But he did love me, too, in his way. It’s all so complicated. I’m glad they found him, but still.”
Sherlock gave an elegant snort and exhaled a jet of smoke. “Love’s a ridiculous, over-inflated, artificial construct, Mrs. H., and you’re living proof of it. Look at you, you’re tied up in knots over a man who’s defrauded and extorted and even killed, and you feel guilty about doing your part to see that justice is done. I call that ludicrous.”
“Sherlock, have you ever been in love?”
“Waste of time.”
“Oh, no.” Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. “Oh, dear, you’re so wrong about that.”
“Am I? Doesn’t seem to have worked out too well for you.”
Mrs. Hudson’s face fell a bit. “Yes, but –“
“Oh, come on. First of all, I don’t know anyone, not one single person, whose life hasn’t been irrevocably changed for the worse by what they call love. It certainly didn’t enrich my parents’ lives, my brother’s love life, if indeed he has one, doesn’t bear speaking of, and half the people with whom I’m acquainted are in the process of divorcing or breaking up. It’s a physiological reaction, an increase in dopamine and serotonin and norepinephrine in response to a base mating instinct, and you made a muddle of things because when you were young and stupid and starry-eyed, Tony Hudson dressed well and put pomade in his hair and brought you flowers or took you to a film and waited like a gentleman until he’d got permission to grope you. Lucky, lucky you. And now he’s in prison, and you’re having second thoughts because somewhere along the line, you, like every other moron out there, convinced yourself that a surge of chemicals meant some sort of everlasting romance.” Sherlock pitched his cigarette out the window. “Rubbish.”
There was a silence, then Mrs. Hudson gave a meaningful sniff. “Some day, young man, you’re going to fall madly in love, and you’re going to think back on this conversation and laugh. And it won’t be me you’re laughing at.”
Sherlock smiled, even though it hurt his face. “I’ll bet you a fiver I won’t.”
“Done.” Mrs. Hudson stuck out her hand, and they shook on it.
They pulled into the drive, and Mrs. Hudson sat still for a moment. Sherlock picked his head up from the seat rest – it felt awfully heavy – and saw her staring at him. “What?”
“Sherlock, dear,” she said softly, “about last night – I know you risked your life on my behalf, and I just wanted to say –“
“It wasn’t so much on your behalf, Mrs. Hudson, and frankly there wasn’t anything at the building site that would have incriminated them. I went as a matter of curiosity and I got caught. Careless of me, when you come right down to it.” Sherlock shrugged.
“I don’t know how you can be so cavalier.”
“Would you prefer that I fall apart? Shall I go up to that horrid pink and aqua guest room of yours and weep gently into a pillow for a few days, or would you like this case handled in a competent and efficient fashion? Because I’m a fair actor, Mrs. H. – I can dredge up a few tears if it’ll make you feel better about having your husband arrested.”
Mrs. Hudson pressed her hands to her face in a gesture of despair. “I’m trying to thank you, you silly, stupid boy.”
“Oh.” Sherlock took off his sunglasses and stared down at them for a moment. “Well, you’re most welcome. Anyway, it was a bit more challenging and a lot more interesting than the work Mycroft had me doing.”
“Impossible,” Mrs. Hudson sighed, and hurried round to the passenger door to help Sherlock out.
He scowled at her outstretched hand. “What are you doing?”
“You’re done in, Sherlock. I’ve got eyes in my head, you know.”
“I’m fine, for God’s sake. Stop henning over me.” He got out of the car slowly, cataloguing his injuries. Aside from the cut on his head, he’d sprained his right knee, suffered some abdominal bruising from Baldy’s fists, possibly strained a tendon in his shoulder because Baldy had twisted one arm up behind his back, and he was generally scratched and dented in a dozen other places. Quite honestly, he felt like hell.
“Oh, hush. Just get inside and I’ll make us both a cuppa. We need it.”
Mrs. Hudson put an arm around his waist, and reluctantly Sherlock leaned on her as he limped up the walk. She deposited him on the sofa. He collapsed gratefully, kicked his shoes off, and closed his eyes, glad the curtains were closed. The insistently cheery Florida weather grated on his nerves. Even the rain smacked of Disney World, excessively dramatic and heavy; it was bizarre and vaguely disturbing, like the vast motorways, the bright colours of the houses, the ridiculous garb of far, far too many people – tourists, he reckoned, but then Mr. Hudson’s leathery friend Stu had worn that absurd shirt….
“Here we are, then.” Mrs. Hudson set a tray down on the table. “I can make you a fry-up after you’ve had this, if you like.”
Sherlock regarded the tea and toast dubiously. “I prefer the crust removed.”
“There’s a knife beside the plate,” Mrs. Hudson said, bustling back into the kitchen.
Sulkily, Sherlock set to cutting the crusts off. “Haven’t you got strawberry?”
“Just peach, love. It’s nice, try it.”
“No.” Sherlock leaned back and munched on the toast. “You’ll have to go back to England, Mrs. H. It’s not safe for you to stay here.”
“Yes, I expect so.” Mrs. Hudson came back into the living room, twisting the cap from a brown prescription bottle. She sighed and gazed at a large painting of pastel-coloured flowers over the sofa. “Pity. I rather liked having my own pool. Do you think they’ll make me come back if there’s a trial?”
“Don’t know. I’d have to check the statutes, but I don’t think they can compel you to testify. Anyway, there’s plenty of evidence without your testimony. I’ve been doing some legwork gathering information – your husband wronged a great many people, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Yes. It does seem that way.” Mrs. Hudson tipped the bottle into her hand. “Take one of these, dear.”
“What is it?”
“Vicodin. I had them for my hip operation. They’re still fine.”
Sherlock took the pill from her outstretched hand. “I suppose one won’t hurt.” He popped it in his mouth, washed it down with a swallow of tea, and stretched out his legs. It probably wouldn’t help him sleep, but it might take the edge off the pain.
“Do you want that fry-up, dear?”
“No. I want a bath and a sleep.” And, he reflected, he wanted to be on a plane bound for London as soon as possible. A dreary sensation of anticlimax was growing stronger in his limbic system, and Florida had long lost its novelty.
Mrs. Hudson sat in the chair opposite him. “Why don’t you have the sleep first, dear? I’d hate to have you drown in the bathtub. It’s quite big.” She sighed again. “I’ll miss that too. It had a Jacuzzi in it. Rather soothing, a Jacuzzi. I suppose they’ll start seizing everything in short order.”
“Probably,” Sherlock replied indifferently.
“Well, the Baker Street place is all mine, at least. I won’t be homeless.”
“I’d start packing today, if I were you.”
“Won’t that look odd?”
“Not as odd as the way you’d look with a bullet hole in your head, Mrs. H., if one of Tony’s pals comes gunning for you,” Sherlock replied.
“Oh, dear….” Mrs. Hudson knotted her fingers together.
Sherlock yawned. “Not to worry. I shouldn’t think he’ll work out that you were involved in any way for a while yet, if at all. Still, better safe than sorry.” He stretched out on the sofa and arranged a scratchily embroidered throw pillow under his head. “You might as well get some sleep.” He closed his eyes, conscious that Mrs. Hudson still sat across from him, her brow creased in anxiety. The Vicodin hadn’t kicked in, but he was pleasantly tired, and he felt himself drifting.
The doorbell rang, and he heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice, and another voice, a light tenor, young, with a note of pleading. Satisfied that it wasn’t a hired assassin, Sherlock dropped into a deep sleep.
*
“His name’s Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and he says there’s evidence with Miami PD already. You’ve got to help me, the fucking cops are probably on their way.” Tony Hudson’s voice reverberated with raw panic. “For Christ’s sake, Jim, are you listening to me?”
“Calm down. I’m going to give you an address. You and your boys go there and lay low awhile.” Jim massaged his eye with the heel of his hand; a headache, the kind that felt like icepicks driving into his brain, was blossoming behind his eyes. “Don’t worry about anything.”
“All right. Okay. Th—“
Jim rang off and stared at the phone. “Stupid fuckwit,” he whispered. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid fuckwit.” Gently, he placed the mobile on the coffee table and gazed at it. “Oh, sooo stupid,” he trilled in a hitching half-moan, and a beatific smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Now you’ve done it. Trip-trap, trip-trap.”
He knew someone had been sniffing around. He’d seen the evidence, but he hadn’t paid close enough attention. Sherlock Holmes. The name….
There had been watchers. Homeless kids, spaced-out trisexual clubbers, skateboarders, vagrants and junkies, and he hadn’t paid attention. A mistake.
He clenched his fists until red crescents decorated both palms.
A bright moon shone into his penthouse, washing his things with silver. Pretty things, luxurious, put together by a designer who’d been all sweetness and flirtation at first, but as time passed, he’d grown uncomfortable and wary.
People often did, eventually, and it made them afraid, but that was all right. Short doses of Jim Moriarty was all most anyone could take, because he was too much for ordinary people, because he yielded to compulsions too strong to deny, because after a while, if he lingered too long in any one place, even ordinary people began to see the changeling behind his eyes, they could smell the wolf in the pack of sheep, but that was all right too. They didn’t know why he made them nervous – not really, because Jim Moriarty, on the face of things, was no threat; there was nothing about him that cried predator, no visible claws or fangs, and so when he drew a game out, watching their mounting distress and confusion as they ignored the sensible low mutter of instinct that told them to get away, get away, oh God it was really quite something to watch.
So the designer had lingered, and Jim had watched, and waited, and when the designer (lumpy old queen, amphetamine habit, but good taste, Jim had to give him that) had tried his own brand of extortion, Jim had waited for a nice, dark, warm night, and had the designer taken to Shark Valley in the Everglades. Silly name, Shark Valley; they should have called it Alligator Valley, because there were so many of the critters hanging around, just waiting for a nice, plump piece of screaming, bleeding meat.
But Jim was grateful to the designer for setting him up in a really very attractive pad. He looked around with a contented little smile, storing it up, and then closed his eyes and opened a door.
It was black, and silent, and dismay and terror and fury hung in the air like clinging cobwebs. He never brushed them aside; he let them drift against his skin, feather-light, enveloping him like a second skin that never itched nor chafed, but settled against him comfortably as he travelled, waiting to be needed. There were dark treasures in this place, carefully enshrined memories stored away, and if there was a smell – a wet, awful smell, like mould and ancient newspapers with baffled headlines (Arson Claims Seven Lives, A Mother’s Tragedy, Couple Found In Leeds Basement) and discarded clothing stained with the panic-stricken sweat of final moments and a deeper, more dreadful smell; anyone following him down into the cellar would draw back at it as if they’d touched a writhing heap of serpents – if there was a smell, it was accomplishment, it was success after success, better than any balance sheet or favourable stock report. It kept him alive; it prevented the ennui that always scrabbled at the edges of his consciousness and reminded him that the little treasures made the smell worth it. The smell limned his world in gilt-edged misery and fear, black and glowing gold, exquisitely, painfully beautiful.
And here was a box, smelling of chlorine and leather and the rich tang of pain and terror. He stopped, knelt, opened it. Mocking laughter spilled out as if it were a malign music box, but he held it open, gazed through, gritted his teeth against the laughter.
Small and poor and foreign, that’s what he had been. Paddy, wee faggot Paddy, cheap clothes, cheap shoes. Pushing him in the halls, down a short flight of stairs. Nothing to permanently damage, only to humiliate and hurt, but it was enough. More than enough.
That first time, it had been more exhilarating, more terrifying than anything he’d experienced before. Watching him dive in awkwardly, waiting, waiting, waiting, and then the choked noises that nobody had noticed at first, and he’d watched from the top of the bleacher bank, hot and cold and shivering with excitement. The screams as he’d flailed, the lifeguard looking fruitlessly for his long hook (top of the bleacher bank, life preserver same) and diving in, Carl’s pale, lifeless body. Tragic Carl Death, the papers had said. Tragic, so tragic, so young.
And then a hiccup – someone had twigged. About the shoes. Another kid, of all people, not a copper, not Carl’s distraught and grieving parents.
Sherlock Holmes.
“There you are,” Jim murmured.
*
The mall, at six in the morning, was already bustling with senior citizens in shapeless flowered polyester, lurching along in the name of exercise, trying to stave off death for a few more years. Hopeless. He had a half-sympathetic urge to fix up an explosion to take out half the mall and help the poor sods toward their inevitable destination. They smiled at him, nodded approvingly; nice to see the younger generation up with the birds as well. Why, it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet – the sunrise was still a violent conflagration of pink, orange, and gold at the horizon, gradually fading into a blue sky, visible from the broad windows of the mall. Jim smiled back meekly, modestly, and went to a telephone booth.
“Hi. This is the non-emergency line, right? Well, just so you know, Tony Hudson and his friends are hiding out in Kendall. Here’s the address.” Jim laid it out clearly and concisely. No point in repeating himself. “Good luck – bye!”
He hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. “Trip-trap, Tony. You’re going to be gobbled up.”
*
Jim hitched up the frayed, knotted-together strap of his backpack and rang the doorbell. A tired-looking woman opened it and blinked at him. “Hello. Oh, dear, are you one of Sherlock’s friends?” She looked him up and down, taking in his dirty t-shirt, his threadbare jeans, his tattered trainers.
“More of a friend of a friend. Is he here? Could I talk to him?”
“He’s asleep, dear. Perhaps you could come back a bit later?“
As the woman (Mrs. Hudson. Tony’s own wife had helped to rat him out and Tony knew bugger-all about it. Oh, God, it was priceless) shook her head and began to close the door, Jim gave her a look of passionate, helpless appeal that would have done credit to a Save the Children telly advert and let tears come into his eyes. “Please…please. It’s just that…Smitty told me Sherlock might be able to help me. A friend of mine was stabbed last night, and he’d been helping Sherlock out, and I just thought Sherlock might know something about the guys who did it. I’m just –“ Jim swiped at his eyes. “I’ve been up all night, at the hospital, you know, and I’m beat, but if I could just talk to him for a minute….” Jim covered his face.
“Oh, dear, oh dear….” Mrs. Hudson stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “It’s just that Sherlock’s been up all night as well, and he – well, he caught the men who’ve been causing all the…er, trouble.”
Not without my help, you stupid cunt. “Really? Oh, God, that’s great to hear.” Jim wiped at his eyes again and flashed a grateful smile.
“He’s a bit worse for wear, though, poor lamb. I just gave him a little something to help him sleep, and I’m afraid he’s out for a while.”
Jim held up his hands, palm out. “I get it. I totally get it. Look, I can come back. I’d have him come and meet me, but –“ He shrugged, biting his lower lip. “Can’t say I have a permanent address or anything.”
Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue and shook her head sadly. “I understand, dear.” She hesitated a moment. “I can make you some sandwiches, if you like. It isn’t much, but –“
“God, no.” Jim tightened his facial muscles to feign a blush. “That’s really nice of you, but –“
“Not at all, dear. Come in for a moment, I’ll wrap them up for you. Be sure not to disturb Sherlock, though – he’s on the sofa. Couldn’t even make it up to his room. Not that he’s fond of that room, but honestly, where else was I supposed to put him?”
“You sure I won’t be bothering him?”
“Oh, he’s out cold,” Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully. “Still, best not to wake him. He’s had a rather rough night of it.”
“Thanks. That’s really, really sweet of you.” Jim followed Mrs. Hudson into the house, getting a fleeting impression of pastel colours and lots of wicker – hideous – and then his gaze fell upon the figure lying supine on the sofa.
“Do you need the loo, dear? Oh, what was your name?”
“It’s Jim, ma’am, and I’m fine, thanks.”
“Right. Well, just have a seat and I’ll be back in just a mo.” Mrs. Hudson bustled off to the kitchen, and Jim was left alone with Sherlock.
Moving silently, catlike, Jim crossed the room to the sofa. “So…you’re Sherlock Holmes.” Carefully, he crouched down and tilted his head to examine Sherlock’s face. “Oh. Oh yes. I remember you now, dear. You haven’t changed all that much, have you? Got a bit prettier….” He reached out and tenderly brushed an errant curl from Sherlock’s forehead, where a cut blazed vivid crimson. “But not much brighter,” he whispered. “It was so very easy to find you. You disappoint me a little, I have to say.”
Sherlock slumbered on, his face peaceful in repose. Peaceful and quite pretty, in its way.
Jim smiled. In retrospect, he saw the net that Sherlock had tightened around Tony, the tiny security breakdowns here and there, the spying, using his wife – now that was clever, almost diabolical. He approved heartily, even if he should have been paying closer attention. That was twice now that Sherlock had upset things; nobody had come close, not even once. A coincidence, perhaps? Jim did have his finger in so many pies.
“Trip-trap.”
It was a novel thought, someone smart enough to sift through so much debris to discover a thread or two of silk, a positively delightful idea to contemplate. And here was the perpetrator, asleep, no, drugged, he could tell, as helpless as helpless could be. Jim could do anything to him he liked. Kill the old cunt in the kitchen, drive Holmes away in the back of the Taurus, and he wouldn’t awaken for an hour at least, and by then he’d be safely restrained, and Jim could play.
Made his cock hard, just thinking about it.
Jim reached out and touched Sherlock Holmes’ pretty, pouting mouth. Not yet.
He’d let this one breathe for a while. He’d watch, and wait.
And then he’d play.
His heart filled with music, shredded strings and broken timpani. He rose to his feet silently and walked out, leaving the door wide open.
*
“We are all as safe as we want to be.”
Jim’s mobile chirped. He looked down, smiling in expectation.
Wrong!
Right.
He caressed the word on the screen affectionately.
Well, darling. Shall we dance?
*
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no subject
Date: 2012-05-14 05:39 am (UTC)You're a day late! Last night at about this same time I got a feeling that it was close to update time ;)
Love seeing him helping out Mrs. Hudson and in riding her of her husband! And the way you wove Moriarty into it! Ack!
Edge of my seat when the baddies were after Sherlock and he was fending them off!
Looking forward (and equally dreading) the final part! Don't want it to end!
no subject
Date: 2012-05-14 02:59 pm (UTC)I had one of those moments where I thought Jim Moriarty had his hand in every damn bit of evil everywhere, and it tickled me. Glad you liked the actiony bit. :D Thank you so very much - I'm grateful for your lovely comments! :)