notquiteheartless | Deduction 1

Deduction 1 - [ written ]

[Sherlock Holmes has been on bedrest for about 48 hours.

However, when his doctor decides to go out for supplies and to see if any of the detective's clothes have shown up (it was either that or let the man get up and see himself, and apparently that was not going to be allowed)... the patient lets himself get up. Not much, just enough to make it into the sitting room.

Which is just as white-washed as the bedroom. Damn it.

Once he can stand to be on his feet for more than ten minutes at a time, those walls are getting painted or papered or something.

He's had time enough to read his Journal and the Guide it contains, and the system itself is straightforward enough. Something like a computer but not quite as efficient. Still, it's something.

It doesn't matter to him that his Journal is in his bedroom and John's is sitting out. It's John's he grabs and a pen nearby that he writes with, unaware of what was broadcast over the journals the previous day.]

I am aware that damage to the wings is ill-advised. However, I am curious: Seeing the distinct disadvantage that they pose, has anyone attempted to surgically remove them? Not ripping or merely cutting-- a proper medical procedure. An amputation. Has it been attempted? If it has, to what end?
SH

[After he's written out all of that, he starts on another project. To some, it may just be evidence of extreme boredom. Others... Well. Others might recognise it.]

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh, I'm a good cop now, am I? Is that what I am? Because for the past six bloody years I've been nothing but an inconvenience at best, so I'm so pleased you've changed your tune. Nothing I've ever wanted more than your approval.

I never thought you were an idiot, all right? You've got a clever trick you like to use to humiliate people for no good bloody reason, but nobody is as brilliant as you like everyone to think you are. Nobody can solve a crime with a flake of floorboard. Fine, you're not stupid, you're not even ordinary, but you're so prideful even though that isn't good enough for you!

And you make mistakes. Just like everyone else.

Of course you're an inconvenience. Lestrade is an inconvenience when he won't listen.

Still, that you lot don't always have to run for me for help says you are competent on your own, just not exceptional.

There's really only one complete idiot on your force.

[The desire to keep snapping at him is at war with the desire to know who he's talking about.

...All right, fine.]

Yeah, and who's that?

[...Yes, he might have just sighed.

But. Maybe it's an attempt to be polite. Maybe. Or else it's the fact that he still isn't at his best and still in a bit of pain. Either way... she doesn't get a sarcastic answer, nor does he snip about possibly changing his mind about his previous point.]

Anderson, of course.

For god's sake.

[She's honestly more resigned than anything else.]

I never did know why you hate him so much, you know. There's nothing wrong with him if you're not a bloody psychopath.

We've discussed this before, Sally--

Not a psychopath.

And I believe you! Of course I believe you; you've never given me reason to doubt you about anything else.

Tell me, then. What cause have I given you to doubt? Not "no one can do it."

We both know you're no scientist, Sergeant. I could lie through my teeth about the processes used to separate the traces from the impression of the boot in the school, and you wouldn't know any better.

So. Tell me. What is your evidence against me? Your evidence.

That little girl screamed her head off the moment you walked in that room. She was terrified. Of you. And you knew just where to find them, just where she'd be. You knew exactly what to look for on every step of the way, even the most obscure clues that it made no sense to look at first. That actor knew your whole life story; things you'd never get from even a close friend - you must have spent a lot of time convincing him he could trust you - and in the end, I don't need to tell you my evidence, because you proved it for me. You evaded arrest and you jumped off a bloody roof, Sherlock Holmes. You knew you were out of options. What more proof do I really need?

[He had begun to prepare his reply. To run through how traumatised the girl could be, how if you just looked it was obvious...

But then. Then she mentions it again. And he has no writing to hide his reaction. His voice quieted, a low growl.]

Don't talk about that. You have no idea what happened.

[It does manage to occur to Sally that, dangerous criminal or otherwise, driving home the point that someone has committed suicide and then, by way of dodgy miracle, returned from the dead is a bit untoward, if only because she shouldn't give him reason to come after her. It's not like she wanted him to die, anyway; that pretty emphatically hadn't been part of the plan.]

...Fine. No, I don't. But explain the rest of it. You're the one who asked.

I will take this point by point. Do be so kind as to not interrupt. Perhaps you'll learn something--

I could suggest that her kidnapper might have been my height with a similar build. Hair and profile could be similar. Then, combine a traumatic situation and the similarities, of course she would be frightened.

I knew where to find them because I looked. Ask Molly Hooper how many tests I ran on those samples from the floor. He gave me the clue-- "Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain." And in the girl's room? A book of fairy tales in an envelope. Delivered to our door? Another envelope with ground up bread.

Hansel and Gretel.

Last clue-- formulae used for chocolate.

I put my network out looking for what I found, for where everything coincided together. You have your sources, I have mine.

As for how much he knew about me-- I have John believing he can trust me. I could tell him anything, and he would accept it as truth. Do you imagine he knows even half of what "Richard Brook" knows? Or might he have done his own digging? Have his own "trick" by which he can uncover a man's life story?

As for evading arrest, well. You and yours had your minds quite made up. I-- Well. As you said.

Even I make mistakes.

I thought I could beat him at his own game.

Fine, of course the kidnapper could have been anyone, but it doesn't add up when you take everything else into account - all this nonsense about fairy tales, none of us knew about that until after, because you were hoarding evidence again. That's childishly easy to make up. And this homeless network - please enlighten me as to when a bunch of people living on the streets under the employ of one civilian became more reliable than the investigative work of an entire police force. Easy enough to bribe a bunch of homeless to say what you wanted if the press or police questioned them.

And sorry, but forgive me if telling me not even your best friend knows the intimate details of your past fails to inspire confidence. Where'd he get it, then? Even you can't tell about random little incidents from someone's childhood by looking at their fingernails or the sole of their shoe or whatever other little detail you conjure up, and I'd love to hear you admit your little actor was cleverer than you.

It's so wonderfully easy to believe.

That's the real genius in what Moriarty has done.

Every single denial I make only makes his story look more plausible. Any answer I have sparks ten more questions. He was quiet for months thinking this up.

It's... [John would not appreciate the awe that enters into his voice, but it comes] incredible. So many intricate details he had to have worked out, and he saw almost all of them.

He even got his information from the one source who will never admit to giving it up. The only man who hates admitting he made a mistake more than I do.

[The tone of awe makes her skin crawl a little.]

...You're sick, Sherlock Holmes. You really are.

And nobody hates admitting a mistake more than you do.

One more question, Sergeant Donovan.

Think about this one. Really think.

What would it take to convince you that I have no part in this other than what I have claimed? Could you ever be convinced? Or are you set in your belief?

I just want to know what it would take. I want you to think about what it would take.

[Okay, that gets a moment's falter, and then a smug bit of mirthless laughter.]

All right. Assume I think the only crime you're responsible for was the kidnapping of the Bruhl children. Assume you weren't the culprit. I want to know who did do it, the means, and the motive. And I want material evidence to prove who did it and for what reason. That's what it would take.

Maybe you'll get it if you get back to the precinct. We both know I have nothing here.

Well.

If you care what I think, which for some reason you seem to, why don't you tell me what you think happened.

Or at least why you flung yourself off a bloody--

I wasn't around to find out, but Lestrade could have lost his job because of your little stunt, and even if you almost certainly don't care, I do, so. If I don't know what I'm talking about, tell me.

I don't care what you think. [But you have Lestrade's ear. And he does care what Lestrade thinks of him, even if he won't admit it. And he cares what is thought about John.

His name only mattered because of how involved John had become. Because it had been John who had gotten him most of his clients, John's blog and praise that had made him known.

He doesn't care about his own name, but Moriarty has threatened everyone near him, in too many ways.] I've told you already--

Two men sit down to play a game of chess on a vast board. They pick and pick away at the pieces surrounding each other. A neutralised bishop, a turned knight, an outed pawn, a decimated rook. Bit by bit, they get at one another...

But one. One comes up with the most brilliant gambit. Lead the other straight into a ploy that ends in the other player sacrificing their own king while trying to evade the obvious trap. And he is clever enough to manipulate the board so his opponent has no choice, even when he sees the trap coming.

That. Tells me. Nothing. That's you trying to be clever again. If you won't tell me, tell me you won't tell me!

I'm tired of your games. I'm tired of working after your ridiculous riddles. I won't pretend to want your attention like everyone else, all right?

[The turned knight.

Not that she was ever loyal, but she did good work when she bothered to listen.]

You won't see a frame-job when it's right in front of you.

...All I see is you being unaccountably generous with your time for someone who never did anything but condescend to me, and I'll admit I've no idea why, but pardon me if I find anything you do a bit suspicious.

Not like I have anything better to do. [It's raining, and he can't get up anyway.

...Besides, he'd like to point out that he was condescending... but he would work with her. He doesn't, though.]

How reassuring.

But you do care, don't you. You wouldn't be talking to me if you didn't care. You want me to believe you.

[Sally just scoffs, because while it actually isn't, this all has the potential to be hilarious.]

I wonder if I should be honored you spent so much time on us - me and the rest of the force. Went to all the effort of pointing out our flaws and underlining all our mistakes. Because if you didn't just want to be better than everyone else, why go to all the trouble of making everyone else feel like they can't stand up to your greatness? Was being a colossal tosser something you did for fun while you "solved" cases for us?

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