And Still We Play - A BBC Sherlock FanFiction

Chapter Five

"You'll be hearing from Jim soon enough. He's ready to play."

Sherlock kept turning those words over in his head, dissecting them and rearranging them to force them to make sense. But there is nothing he can do to make them any less menacing. Just a small, seemingly innocent phrase was all it took to reduce Sherlock to a young child again.

After a moment of standing in the middle of the flat, staring unseeing at the door, he pulls himself from his thoughts and quickly steps toward the desk holding his mobile.

He texts John as he sits heavily down in his chair.

Come to Baker St. if convenient. -SH

Moments later, he sends another.

If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH

After a second, John responds.

NO. -JW

Sherlock sighs loudly.

Please. -SH

What is it? -JW

I need you. -SH.

John's reply came back quickly.

I'll be there in ten minutes. -JW.

Sherlock lays down his mobile, satisfied. He sits up straighter in order to speak to Mrs Hudson, but realises that she has since left. He ponders for a moment, but abandons that train of thought to these more pressing matters.

Faithfully, as John always is, he appears in the doorway to the flat promptly ten minutes later. He looks at Sherlock and clears his throat loudly. Sherlock was merely skirting along the edge of his thoughts, so he is easily jolted out of them.

"Well?" John pushes.

Sherlock stands up and pulls his suit jacket closer around him, profiling the gentle swoop of his chest and the soft curve of his waist as it meets his bony, angular hips in a delicious contrast. John starts as he realises he was staring at Sherlock's....body.

John quickly shifts his gaze to Sherlock's eyes, hoping he hadn't noticed. But, as usual, he did.

"He always notices." John thought wryly.

Sherlock clears his throat. "We have a slight issue."

John looks at him skeptically. "How slight?" John asks, because, knowing Sherlock, he probably blew up the Tower of London or something. Or at least the kitchen.

John turns and peers into the kitchen. As if Sherlock could read his thoughts, he answers irritably-

"No, John. I did not blow anything up this time." He's silent, and looks hurt for a second before sitting down in a huff and mumbling, "Nothing even caught on fire."

John rolls his eyes. "What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looks up. "There's another one."

John stares at him. "Sherlock. We've talked about this."

"What?" Sherlock asks, mildly confused.

"That thing you do."

"Thing? What thing? I do lots of things."

"The one where you say something that is supposed to be utterly poignant and earth-shattering but no one else understands except you." John answers.

"Oh. That thing." Sherlock replies.

John sighs and gives Sherlock his if-you-don't-explain-to-me-what's-going-on-I-will-leave-this-flat-right-now look. "What do you mean, 'There's another one.'?"

"We have another Moriarty, in a sense." Sherlock answers after a moment.

John sits down in his chair. He takes a deep breath in order to process what Sherlock is saying more clearly, but it doesn't help.

"What?" John asks, completely dumbfounded.

"That woman with Mrs Hudson. Her name was Jenna McKinnion. She is in league with Moriarty. She delivered a message from him." Sherlock explains.

John swears under his breath. "What did she say?" he asks slowly, not really wanting to know the answer, but is still filled by a morbid sense of curiosity that he can't get past.

Sherlock pauses, then looks John in the eye and evenly repeats what she said. "'You'll be hearing from Jim soon enough. He's ready to play.'"

John stares uncomprehendingly at Sherlock. "But, he could just be using her. You know, as a mouth-piece. She might not get a say. He does threaten people." he says.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't think so." he replies.

"Why not?"

"The personal way with which she refered to Moriarty. The way she kept her manner unreadable. I couldn't deduce her. The way she held herself." Sherlock says, getting up from his chair and beginning to pace.

John watches him, still in disbelief. "But...you couldn't deduce her?" he asks.

Sherlock looks at him. "No. I couldn't. Her body language, her eyes, her manner, and her voice were all contradicting themselves. All I know is that she doesn't work with her hands much at all and is well paid." he replies.

"But how do you know that?"

"It was elementary." he says sarcastically. "She was very well dressed and her fingers were simply impeccable."

John looks at him flatly. "Oh." he says. "Well, what do we do now?"

Sherlock stops pacing and stares at the wall for a moment before answering. "What else would we do? We play the game."