Missing Parts
Intrigue
Ruby’s was busy and it made Billie Joe feel strange. Children giggling; teenagers goofing around over their burgers and shakes; truckers watching the freeway as they ate in solitude. All of them going about their everyday lives, unaware that - at the same time, in the same town, in the same room - there could be a handful of people caught up in a situation that was not everyday at all.
Across the plastic-topped table, he let his eyes roam over Sherlock’s features, taking in his creamy complexion, the gentle lines around his eyes and that cool grey gaze that seemed to filter right through his skin and into a part of him that even his closest friends failed to see. He wondered whether, with all Sherlock’s wisdom, he had any idea just how arresting he was.
He took another bite of his sandwich, watching the detective twizzle a paper sachet of white sugar between his pale fingers. The waitress had brought it over with his coffee, but he preferred it the way it came.
“How’d you meet Watson?”
Sherlock’s fingers stilled.
“I was doing lab work on some evidence in a hospital laboratory. He was a doctor there. I had a room to rent, he needed a place to stay. I haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”
The gentle smile that accompanied the anecdote reassured Billie Joe that the jibe was affectionate.
“I guess the friends that are tough to get rid of are the best kind,” he nodded, dropping his napkin onto his empty plate and leaning back in his seat. “So... you and him… you live… together?”
The question was tentative and a little clumsy. There was a clear affection between the detective and his mild-mannered sidekick; an unspoken trust and dependence despite Sherlock’s outward nonchalance and John’s apparent despair. Billie Joe wondered if he was the first to question their connection. He wondered why the hell it mattered.
“We’re flatmates,” Sherlock told him, definitely, a fleeting twinkle in his eye.
Billie Joe nodded, taking another sip of his coffee.
“… Right.”
“You and the drummer are close.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Sure,” Billie Joe nodded, “I don’t know how I’d get by without him. Even if he is a pain in the ass. Mike too… although things with him haven’t been all that easy lately.”
“Because of the album.”
“Well…” he hesitated, “Yeah. Because of that.”
“You think he cares it’s gone?”
Billie Joe chuckled, darkly.
“You haven’t seen him? C’mon man, he’s pissed as fuck. He might seem chill but he ain’t fooling me so I know he ain’t fooling you. Says he wants the asshole behind bars.”
“I know,” Sherlock nodded, thoughtfully, “But… when you asked for my help, you said the same.”
Billie Joe swallowed, then set down his coffee. For little while, he said nothing, just stared out of the window at the giggling kids playing on the swings, hoping his new companion wouldn’t notice his eyes glitter.
“The album’s a disaster, Sherlock, and they both know it. They probably couldn’t give a rat’s ass if they see it again either, so long as they find out why anyone would want to do this to us.”
Sherlock watched him, silently, for a long moment. Then he leaned forward across the table, close enough that Billie Joe could almost hear him breathing.
“You’re better than this,” he told him, his voice barely more than a low, gravelly whisper. “What you think, you become.”
Billie Joe turned to look at him, green eyes flickering in confusion.
“Buddha, I think,” Sherlock shrugged, “Who really cares? The point is this: You lost your faith in yourself. And now everybody else is losing their faith in you too.”
Their eyes locked, and Billie Joe felt a warm shiver run up from his toes.
“You know barely a thing about me ”, he insisted, but it was clear, even to himself, that his heart wasn’t in the statement, which came out in a strange, trembling voice he hadn’t heard himself use before.
Sherlock leaned back in his seat and began twizzling the sugar again. His eyes didn’t leave Billie Joe’s.
“You have money,” he told him, his voice firm and even. “Plenty of it. Yet your clothes are old. The lettering on the shirt you’re wearing now is cracked as though it has been washed and ironed for years… and your jeans fit strangely, as though you have either lost weight, or gained it. I know you’re married but your ring isn’t expensive - she married you before your money and the scuffs on the surface tell me that you never take it off but that you never polish it either. Those tattoos on your forearms are old too… Joseph… and Jakob. Two boys. The artwork looks dated, particularly the one on the left…”
Billie Joe stared, barely breathing, as Sherlock’s fingers brushed his skin, causing it to prickle beneath his touch. His heart pounded, as he met the detective’s eyes again.
“They’re growing up and you aren’t sure who you are to them anymore. The scars on your ears. Piercings, more than one, that you decided you didn’t need anymore. You’re leaving one world behind and you aren’t sure where to go next. Your hair curled in the rain. It looked good that way, but you straighten it because you don’t think so. You wore aftershave today, but not yesterday, as though you felt you needed to make a new impression, even though you’ve gone through your life rightly expecting people to take you as you are. Your wife…”
Billie Joe felt his breath catch, his racing heart forgetting a few beats, when Sherlock took hold of his wrist and turned it to reveal the patterned skin of his inside arm.
“… Adrienne. She drove from the other side of the city, on a Friday night, to pick you up when you were two-and-a-half hours late, and drunk. She could have called you a cab. She loves you. Would you have done the same for her?”
“I…” he flailed, mentally, for a moment, as the connections in his brain seemed to short-circuit and fizzle, trying desperately to take in such a wealth of wisdom and enlightenment in one moment. “… Of course.”
Sherlock let go of his arm and picked up the sugar again, his eyes leaving Billie Joe’s to stare through the window.
“Do you have someone to do it for you?” Billie Joe asked, quietly, his voice trembling with intrigue.
“I only need my work.” Sherlock’s voice was very soft, yet fiercely dismissive. He began to turn the paper sachet again and Billie Joe watched it spin around his fingertips, fast enough that it began to blur in his vision, until he reached out his own hand and stilled it. Sherlock turned back from the window, as warm, tanned fingers curled around his own.
“Sherlock… I don’t think you ever had anything else.”
Across the plastic-topped table, he let his eyes roam over Sherlock’s features, taking in his creamy complexion, the gentle lines around his eyes and that cool grey gaze that seemed to filter right through his skin and into a part of him that even his closest friends failed to see. He wondered whether, with all Sherlock’s wisdom, he had any idea just how arresting he was.
He took another bite of his sandwich, watching the detective twizzle a paper sachet of white sugar between his pale fingers. The waitress had brought it over with his coffee, but he preferred it the way it came.
“How’d you meet Watson?”
Sherlock’s fingers stilled.
“I was doing lab work on some evidence in a hospital laboratory. He was a doctor there. I had a room to rent, he needed a place to stay. I haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”
The gentle smile that accompanied the anecdote reassured Billie Joe that the jibe was affectionate.
“I guess the friends that are tough to get rid of are the best kind,” he nodded, dropping his napkin onto his empty plate and leaning back in his seat. “So... you and him… you live… together?”
The question was tentative and a little clumsy. There was a clear affection between the detective and his mild-mannered sidekick; an unspoken trust and dependence despite Sherlock’s outward nonchalance and John’s apparent despair. Billie Joe wondered if he was the first to question their connection. He wondered why the hell it mattered.
“We’re flatmates,” Sherlock told him, definitely, a fleeting twinkle in his eye.
Billie Joe nodded, taking another sip of his coffee.
“… Right.”
“You and the drummer are close.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Sure,” Billie Joe nodded, “I don’t know how I’d get by without him. Even if he is a pain in the ass. Mike too… although things with him haven’t been all that easy lately.”
“Because of the album.”
“Well…” he hesitated, “Yeah. Because of that.”
“You think he cares it’s gone?”
Billie Joe chuckled, darkly.
“You haven’t seen him? C’mon man, he’s pissed as fuck. He might seem chill but he ain’t fooling me so I know he ain’t fooling you. Says he wants the asshole behind bars.”
“I know,” Sherlock nodded, thoughtfully, “But… when you asked for my help, you said the same.”
Billie Joe swallowed, then set down his coffee. For little while, he said nothing, just stared out of the window at the giggling kids playing on the swings, hoping his new companion wouldn’t notice his eyes glitter.
“The album’s a disaster, Sherlock, and they both know it. They probably couldn’t give a rat’s ass if they see it again either, so long as they find out why anyone would want to do this to us.”
Sherlock watched him, silently, for a long moment. Then he leaned forward across the table, close enough that Billie Joe could almost hear him breathing.
“You’re better than this,” he told him, his voice barely more than a low, gravelly whisper. “What you think, you become.”
Billie Joe turned to look at him, green eyes flickering in confusion.
“Buddha, I think,” Sherlock shrugged, “Who really cares? The point is this: You lost your faith in yourself. And now everybody else is losing their faith in you too.”
Their eyes locked, and Billie Joe felt a warm shiver run up from his toes.
“You know barely a thing about me ”, he insisted, but it was clear, even to himself, that his heart wasn’t in the statement, which came out in a strange, trembling voice he hadn’t heard himself use before.
Sherlock leaned back in his seat and began twizzling the sugar again. His eyes didn’t leave Billie Joe’s.
“You have money,” he told him, his voice firm and even. “Plenty of it. Yet your clothes are old. The lettering on the shirt you’re wearing now is cracked as though it has been washed and ironed for years… and your jeans fit strangely, as though you have either lost weight, or gained it. I know you’re married but your ring isn’t expensive - she married you before your money and the scuffs on the surface tell me that you never take it off but that you never polish it either. Those tattoos on your forearms are old too… Joseph… and Jakob. Two boys. The artwork looks dated, particularly the one on the left…”
Billie Joe stared, barely breathing, as Sherlock’s fingers brushed his skin, causing it to prickle beneath his touch. His heart pounded, as he met the detective’s eyes again.
“They’re growing up and you aren’t sure who you are to them anymore. The scars on your ears. Piercings, more than one, that you decided you didn’t need anymore. You’re leaving one world behind and you aren’t sure where to go next. Your hair curled in the rain. It looked good that way, but you straighten it because you don’t think so. You wore aftershave today, but not yesterday, as though you felt you needed to make a new impression, even though you’ve gone through your life rightly expecting people to take you as you are. Your wife…”
Billie Joe felt his breath catch, his racing heart forgetting a few beats, when Sherlock took hold of his wrist and turned it to reveal the patterned skin of his inside arm.
“… Adrienne. She drove from the other side of the city, on a Friday night, to pick you up when you were two-and-a-half hours late, and drunk. She could have called you a cab. She loves you. Would you have done the same for her?”
“I…” he flailed, mentally, for a moment, as the connections in his brain seemed to short-circuit and fizzle, trying desperately to take in such a wealth of wisdom and enlightenment in one moment. “… Of course.”
Sherlock let go of his arm and picked up the sugar again, his eyes leaving Billie Joe’s to stare through the window.
“Do you have someone to do it for you?” Billie Joe asked, quietly, his voice trembling with intrigue.
“I only need my work.” Sherlock’s voice was very soft, yet fiercely dismissive. He began to turn the paper sachet again and Billie Joe watched it spin around his fingertips, fast enough that it began to blur in his vision, until he reached out his own hand and stilled it. Sherlock turned back from the window, as warm, tanned fingers curled around his own.
“Sherlock… I don’t think you ever had anything else.”