The Reichenbach Fall [Reader Insert]

Off With His Head - Part 2

"We cannot resist the fascination of sacrifice, since a passion for sacrifices is a part of a Chess player's nature." -Rudolf Spielman

    "Remember--"

     "Yes," came your instant reply. John, who'd spoken the word, frowned in frustration.

     "Remember--" 

     "Yes," you answered just as quickly.

     John sighed, glaring out the car window pointedly. A pause. "Rememberwhattheytoldyou, don't trytobeclever," he rushed, "andplease, keep it simple and brief."

    You raised a brow and added tersely, "God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent."

    By your side, Sherlock tch'ed. "Intelligent's fine, I should think, but maybe give smart-ass a wide berth."

    "You're one to talk," you shot back, though not without a little smirk. It reminded you of the cool back-and-forth (sometimes vicious) banter between you and Sherlock, way back when. Nowadays the banter was a tad more light-hearted and playful. "We'll just... be ourselves."

    "Did you hear literally anything I said?" John asked exasperatedly, while simultaneously Sherlock said, "No one wants that."

-

The halls had an eerie, desolate feel to them. The walls were clean, the carpet stiff, and the lights overhead were warm but just dim enough to make the room feel cold. 

     "Ms. (L/N), follow me," said an escort, one of three that led you, Sherlock and John to the room. You exchanged a look with Sherlock, who looked to be scrutinizing the escort. This wasn't custom, for a witness to be escorted separately. Granted, you were hardly the average witness. The only reason for a separation from the group was if you yourself were suspected of something, or...

    A twitch in the fingers, stiff chest-- too still one second, rising and falling too fast the next. His throat wasn't lax enough; it was constricted. The escort was nervous. 

     "Ms. (L/N)."

     You nodded to Sherlock and followed the escort through a door on the right. The room was even darker than the hallway, and much more constricted.

     "This is a broom closet," you stated.

     "Yes ma'am, it is," he replied, moving to stand by the entrance. He took a deep breath. "Nice to meet you, (Y/N) (L/N). I'm Able Spencer. I'm... sort of a fan."

     You gave him a deadpan look. "Are you?" Scrutinizing him, you could hardly find much that would prove he was, though lack of condemning evidence is not proof of innocence. He had a pen in his chest pocket, a recording device in his right pants pocket, a tiny nick on his jaw and startingly familiar eyes. Sort of like Sherlock's, only they didn't change. Also he had the faint marks of lipstick on his lips, but not worn only on the outermost parts of his lips. Not his lipstick. His girlfriend's, perhaps.

     "I don't suppose the audio recording is your version of asking for a picture with me," you said.

     Able looked down at his pocket. "Er, no, that's for. Work."

     You nodded, unconvinced. "Well is there a purpose to this?"

      Able shrugged nonchalantly, but a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. His act was lacking. "I just wanted to meet you, (Y/N). Like I said..." he took a step forward. "I'm a fan. I've heard-- I mean read a lot about you."

     "Evidently," you acceded sarcastically. "Well, I have three types of fans. Type A: Catch me before I kill again, and type B: your bedroom's just a taxi ride away."

     "And type three?" Able prompted with a smirk.

     "Type C is both. But right now I'm getting type D vibes from you--"

     "Type D as in--"

     "As in none of the above, because you're not a fan, Able."

     He blinked. "I--"

    "You also have a girlfriend, and I'm sure she wouldn't be too happy if she..." you trailed off, noticing his increasingly nervous expression. "Oh no, she's in on it, isn't she?" That would explain the freshness of the lipstick on his lips. "She's here..."

     "Er..."

     "And she's with Sherlock. Well isn't that a laugh! Hold on, hold on, I've got it. You're a regular guard, escort, whatever it is your meaningless job is, but your girlfriend is a journalist looking for her big scoop. You brought her here because you knew I was coming and had the idea to get some dirt on me, while she tried for Sherlock and John-- or no, perhaps only Sherlock. That's a shame, you should have sent her to go for John; he would have spilled most easily. And he's single, so she would've had more luck there." Able opened his mouth to speak, but you glared and went on, "Here's my question, why did you say you heard about me?

     "Innocent enough on it's own-- radio shows, videos, television, but you rushed to correct yourself. Which means the source of how you've 'heard' about me is something you'd rather I not know. Someone--" You stopped.

     Able stared, wide-eyed. "It's not what you--"

     "No, shut up. Someone.... You said your name was Able Spencer?"

     "Uh...... Yes?"

     ".........Able Spencer as in Aaron Spencer Able Spencer?"

     ".........Yes," he replied smally.

     "You're Aaron's brother. That is... hilarious. Ha! Wait till he hears his little brother--"

     "Older actually," Able put in, and you were ready to make a sharp retort when the door opened.

     "Oh, hello John," you said. "Sherlock." The two stared at you and Aaron in such close quarters. You looked at them, then at Aaron, and back up to John and Sherlock. "Don't mind our limited proximity," you said, stepping out of the closet, "we really ought to be going. I doubt being late would make a very good impression."

     Sherlock took up your side with a vaguely troubled look as you strode down the hall (John close behind, Able Spencer hurrying after).

     "Did you meet his girlfriend?"

     "Mm? Oh yes," Sherlock replied easily. Too easily. You looked up at him. He avoided your gaze.

    "Sherlock. You're not jealous, are you?"

      "Of course not, (Y/N), what a ridiculous notion, whyever would you think you needed to ask(?)."