Consulting Pineapples (Psychlock)

Chapter Eighteen--Behind it All

It was all going well until Shawn was nearly stabbed with an icicle.

    First, they had found the victim fairly easily and even managed to avoid notice. Then the assassin was found a few minutes before noon and they trailed both her and the victim. The moment came about ten minutes later when the assassin and victim were (apparently) alone in an alley shortcut.

    Sherlock perceived a shift in the assassin’s attitude; she was nearly ready. Not thinking twice, he shoved Shawn out of his hiding spot into plain sight, trying to look somewhat apologetic (although he found that he wasn’t at all sorry) as he flattened against the side of a building behind a row of waste bins.

    Shawn wanted nothing more than to kill Sherlock at that moment, but instead he grinned and said, “Hello! Perfect day for a murder, isn’t it?”

    Sherlock quietly skirted the assassin, staying behind the garbage bins, finally slipping the lid off of one of them. With the part of him that wasn’t focused on the ambush plan he heard the murderer answer in a cheerful Scottish accent, “Yes, gorgeous. Now out of the way.”

    “Gorgeous? You really think so?” Shawn winked and smiled but stayed where he was.

    She rolled her eyes and slowly reached into a pouch attached to her leg. At the same time, Sherlock lifted the lid and flicked his wrist, sending it flying at her head.

    Something or other alerted the trained killer to the makeshift frisbee, possibly the shift in Shawn’s eye contact, and she ducked out of the way, spinning to see who had thrown it, but not seeing anything but a collection of waste bins. Shawn ducked just in time to dodge the icicle in her right hand as she whirled around.

     “Who’s there?” the assassin called almost hesitantly. Ameteur, Sherlock decided as he crouched on the cold ground and watched through the space between two bins. Mid-twenties, obsessive shopper, hasn’t eaten or drank anything but coffee in the past day.

    Shawn was making the same conclusions, and he decided to put the large lid to good use. Beginner’s mistake, focusing on Sherlock like she was. He crept up behind her, holding the cover in both hands, and brought it down solidly on her head. “Well?” He made a shooing gesture towards Christian. “Go!”

    Mr Thomas took one look at Shawn, Sherlock, and the redheaded assassin and ran. “So,” Shawn said brightly, “Sherlock. What should we do with Ginger here?”

    Sherlock straightened and smoothed out his coat, eyeing the trained killer slumped on the ground with disinterest. He pulled out his phone. “We can have her taken in for questioning, I suppose.”

    “Probably should, yes,” Shawn agreed.

    “Yes, we probably should,”corrected a sing-songy voice from somewhere behind Sherlock. “Tut, tut, Mr Spencer, where are your grammar skills?”

    Shawn whirled around to see a man about five centimetres shorter than himself, dark hair, dark eyes. Nondescript, except for the eyes. They weren’t just dark in colour; they seemed to be dark in thought. Even stranger, Sherlock seemed to recognise this man. And how did he know Shawn’s name?

    The man’s gaze slid from Shawn to Sherlock. “Yes, hello, Sherlock, shame you aren’t dead, though that was a rather close call, wasn’t it, my dear?”

    “Sherlock, mind explaining?” Shawn asked, annoyed at being confused, with one eyebrow raised at the silent detective.

    Sherlock didn’t answer either of them, his face pale and his jaw clenched. Everything he had gone through, three years in hiding, all for what?