He was settled entirely comfortably that day, a workbench supporting his well-polished leather shoes as a rubber ball darted back and forth, back and forth, between slender fingers. A shorter, less kempt man sat near him, a phone held to his ear.
"Yeah... Speaking?" The shorter man's face froze and his eyes settled on some point between the floor and the wall.
"Uhm, what?" His tone was saturated with disbelief as dawn broke slowly, light beginning to leak through the inky blackness of the London sky. The taller man continued to propell the ball back and forth, back and forth... The shorter man stood up, visibly pale.
"What's happened? Is she okay?" Almost frantically, he babbled into his phone. "Oh my God... Right - Yes - I'm coming." He ended the call with a sharp gesture and turned to face the lounging man. At this, the seated man paused with his rapid flickering of the ball and rose pale eyes to the shorter man's own.
"What is it?" This man's tone was far lower, a rumble compared to the other higher voice mingling with his almost before the question had ended.
"Paramedics." The short man replied sharply. "Mrs Hudson. She's been shot." The shorter man's eyes swam with fear verging on panic, his usual surgical calm deserted. The tall man's bowed lips simply parted and a tongue darted out to moisten them before he continued, brows dipping slightly.
"What? How?" The tall man seemed disinterested, detatched. He tilted his head to one side, disshevelled curls shifting slightly. The short man's body thrummed with tension and his reply was intensely phrased - a military order.
"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract... Jesus. Jesus!" He fought back panic that threatened to overwhelm him, breathing strained and quick. "She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." He was frantic now, turning towards the door and ready to open it. The taller man - Sherlock - spoke again, still in his casual lounging pose. His tone was utterly void of anything - except maybe boredom.
"You go. I'm busy." The shorter of them turned to face Sherlock, apalled.
"Busy?!" He questioned, a high whine to his voice. Hysteria? Sherlock's face didn't even ripple. He was like stone. He was stone.
"Thinking. I need to think." The short man stared, disbelieving now. Anger coloured his skin and harshened his tone.
"You need to...! Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he lay a finger on her-" He was cut off by a nonchalant shrug and calculated words, precise and cold. Mechanical.
"-She's my landlady." Sherlock watched him thoughtfully, as if assessing why the shorter man was reacting in such a manner. The short man's chest swelled and his fists were clenched, white knuckled.
"She's dying-" He stopped, overcome, an involuntary hand outlining everything he couldn't verbally express. He stared dead at Sherlock and replied with some equally calculated words in exchange.
"You machine." The short man looked down at the clean-wiped floor, shaking his head slowly. He turned back to the taller man, still unmoving, and coloured the air with defeat.
"Sod this. Sod this." He turned to the door, throwing yet more over his shoulder to further rip and tear.
"You stay here if you want. On your own." Sherlock didn't miss a beat.
"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." The man still allowed no emotion - if he even had any to hide - to pass over his chiselled features, even his eyes remote and staring at a faraway place. The shorter man threw the door open and glared at Sherlock, side on.
YOU ARE READING
The Humanity Extraction
Fanfiction"John. When you said I was a machine... Did you really mean it?" Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective - the only one in the world, let me remind you - at your ser... Never mind. Your commander, and additionally the best amateur detective - I d...
