The Great Game [Reader Insert]

Carl Powers

     "What do you mean, queer?" Molly asked you, smiling nervously. "We-we're together."

     You were still in a bad mood. You were angry, and although you didn't want to admit it, maybe even a little bit jealous. You looked up at Hooper with cold eyes. "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on at least three pounds since I last saw you."

     Her smile fell and you immediately regretted what you said. "Two and a half," she corrected.

     You gave her a doubtful look. "No, three."

     "(Y/N)..." John muttered warningly.

    Molly took a deep, shaky breath, starting to get worked up. "He's not gay!" she insisted. "Why do you have to spoil...? He's not!"

     "With that level of personal grooming?" you scoffed.

     "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair," John put in, obviously noticing how distressed Molly was.

     "You wash your hair," you retorted. "There's a difference. No-no – tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired clubber's eyes. And then there's his underwear." You went back to staring stubbornly at your phone.

     Molly wrinkled her nose. "His underwear?"

    "Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand," Sherlock answered. Of course he stepped in now that Jim's underwear was involved. Oh, Sherlock. *shakes head slowly* "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here... and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

     

    The door opened and closed. You looked up from your phone and realized that Molly had left.

     "Charming!" John said sarcastically. "Well done."

     "Just saving her time," you muttered. "It's kinda kinder."

     Sherlock shook his head with a hateful little smirk. "Kinder? No no, (Y/N), that wasn't kindness, that was jealousy acting." 

     You shot him a dark look. "Shut up. What about the shoes? What'd you find on them?" 

     Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "You're changing the subject," he said, pointing at you accusingly. Then he scooped up the shoes and placed them on the counter opposite you. "Before I tell you what I found, tell me what you see."

     You chuckled wryly, shaking your head. "Okay, fine." You picked up the trainers, still scowling, and examined them. "Sole's well worn; owner must have had them for a while. Traces of a name inside the felt-tip, so a child's. Owner loved them- scrubbed them clean, whitened where they got discoloured. Changes the laces three- no, four times. More worn on the inner side, so that means that the owner had weak arches. British-made, 20 years old. Someone has kept these new." You tossed the sneakers back to Sherlock carelessly, showing that you were done with them. 

     "Well done," he said, squinting at you with a begrudged look that made you suspect you had observed something he hadn't. "You did miss, however, that the wearer had eczema."

     "Eczema?"

     "Traces of his skin where he came into contact with the laces, of course. And the shoes are limited edition, two blue stripes- 1989."

     John stared at him. "How on earth would you know that?"

     "Well... I may have looked it up," Sherlock admitted reluctantly. You rolled your eyes. "But anyway, let's move on to what a closer inspection revealed..." he glanced over at the monitor to the computer. "Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles, I'm sure you noticed. Analysis reveals it's from Sussex with London mud overlaying it."

     "How do you know?"

     "Pollen!" Sherlock smiled proudly. "Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too."

     You narrowed your eyes and said, "So the kid who wore these trainers, he came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind. Something bad must have happened to him. I mean, he loved those shoes- he'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't let them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets-" you broke off suddenly, realization dawning. "Oh!"

     "What? What is it?" Sherlock demanded.

     You looked at him with sharp eyes. "Carl Powers. My first case ever. Where I began."

     For a moment, Sherlock looked almost confused, and then his eyes widened. "I know Carl Powers. 1989- young kid, champion swimmer. Murdered."

     You nodded along with him. "It was back before I'd moved to Chelmsford. He came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool. John, you wouldn't remember it- why should you?"

     John looked between the two of you. "But you and Sherlock do."

     You glanced over at Sherlock. "Yeah, we do, and it can't be a coincidence the bomber left something we both thought was fishy." (I realize now how bad it is that the writers said fishy. He drowned in a pool and they made a pun about it. Wow. And it's not even a good one.) 

     "I thought I was the only one who thought something was up," Sherlock remembered. "I read about it in the papers-"

     "Me too," you said. "He had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out, it was too late." You started staring into the distance thoughtfully. "There was something wrong somewhere. Something I couldn't get out of my head..."

     "His shoes," Sherlock murmured. "They weren't there. He's left all the rest of his clothes in his locker. But there was no sign of his shoes... until now." Louder, he continued, "I made a fuss, tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important." He looked at you meaningfully. "Except us."

     (I apologize, but this may be the only chapter I post today. I'm having computer problems. If in the future I do not post at all, it for the same reason. The schedule should be back to normal by Wednesday next week. Until then I'll just try my best.)