Face the Odds

Chapter 17: Predictable

He gave a mirthless smile at his former best friend, challenging the younger man, and Sherlock rose to the bait.

"That creature," Sherlock spat viciously as he pointed again at Smith's photo, "that rotting thing, is a living breathing coagulation of human evil, and if the only thing I ever do in this world is drive him out of it, then my life will not have been wasted."

Sherlock paused to take a deep breath, before looking up at John. The blond man was still looking skeptical, staring at Sherlock with his head tilted to one side as Sherlock begged insistently: "Look at me."

He took a shaky breath as he admitted: "Can't do it, not now. Not alone."

Sherlock looked away, his eyes slightly teary, and he swallowed heavily as he fought both his unusually heightened emotions and the effects of the drugs on his body. John examined Sherlock for another moment before he sighed and unfolded his arms.

Holding his right hand out towards Sherlock, John waited while Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. Standing, Sherlock also let out a small sigh as he grasped John's hand... only for John's other hand to come over and clasp Sherlock's hand and turn his arm over.

Sherlock – seeming unsurprised by this – simply rolled his eyes as John pushed up the younger man's sleeves to reveal the dark marks on the inside of Sherlock's arm.

"Yeah, well," John muttered as he released Sherlock's arm with a sharp breath, "they're real enough, I suppose."

"Why would I be faking?" Sherlock muttered, turning away, and John answered loudly and just a little sharply: "Because you're a liar."

At that, Sherlock turned back to him, his own eyes narrowed slightly as John pointed out sharply: "You lie all the time. It's like your mission."

"I have been many things, John," Sherlock retorted, "but when I ever been a malingerer?"

"You pretended to be dead for two years!" John shouted back, his eyes flashing as his temper flared.

Sherlock paused for a moment, before he tried: "Apart from that?"

John threw up his hands, turning away as he demanded: "Where's Marie?"

Sherlock didn't reply immediately, and John turned back to him as he said: "Smith seemed to think she was going to be there-"

He was interrupted as a loud knocking – banging more like – sounded from the front door.

John paused before his eyes narrowed as Sherlock exhaled sharply, looking between a mix of apologetic and apprehensive.

His jaw locking, John turned and stalked to the front door where the banging was continuing insistently as Marie hammered on the door, impatient and annoyed.

"Where is he?" Marie almost snarled when John opened the door.

John blinked, surprised.

First, there was the car behind Marie – a dark Jaguar sports car that he was certain couldn't belong to the woman... could it? Then, he felt a strange guilty twinge as his eyes fell on something around her neck. Marie was no longer wearing her wedding ring on her finger but on a necklace hanging from her neck... the way many widows wore them.

"John, where's Sherlock?" Marie demanded sharply, and John shook himself.

"He's... he's inside." John answered slowly, before adding incredulously: "What are you doing here?"

"Sherlock called me, two weeks ago, to tell me to come here if Mrs. Hudson ever called me." Marie answered flatly.

"Two weeks..." John sighed, and Marie sniped: "Yes. I'm assuming you've noticed a trend."