Vague Shadows

“Have you seen my phone?” I asked Sherlock, wandering back upstairs after another disappointing search of my bedroom. Sherlock hadn’t moved at all, still relaxed back in his chair with his fingers pressed together, resting against his lips.

“Yes, quite a few times,” he murmured, not glancing up at me, still partially submerged in his sea of thoughts. “White iPhone, small scratch on the bottom of the screen, an indent on the corner from when you dropped it last weekend-“

“No, I didn’t mean-“ I let out a sigh and gave him a look. “I’ve lost my phone again. I meant, have you seen it lying about recently?”

“Oh,” Sherlock muttered, flicking his eyes up to me. “Not recently, no.”

“Right, then I’m borrowing yours,” I told him, crossing to his jacket and fishing his out, then settling on the arm of John’s chair.

“Calling it won’t work, your phone is on silent,” Sherlock reminded me as I typed out a quick text to John.

“I know, that’s why I didn’t-“ I began, then cut off, giving Sherlock a suspicious frown. “How do you know it’s on silent?”

“Hardly a difficult deduction,” he sighed, dropping his hands and looking slightly put off that I even had to question his knowledge. “You had your phone turned on silent last night during the movie, and it died. You plugged it in and didn’t bother turning the volume up again, what for? You were going to sleep. You lost it sometime this morning, just after you woke up. You didn’t turn it on before your shower –you never do- and now that it’s gone, how could it possibly be turned up?”

“You notice all that, but you couldn’t manage to see where I set it down?” I sighed, reading the text John sent back.

“I’m not the one who lost it,” he pointed out, giving a pompous sniff. Shooting him a slightly irritable frown, I stood and tossed his phone onto his lap.

“I’m heading to lunch with John. D’you wanna join us?”

“I’m on a case, Laicee.”

“Still?” I asked, a little put off. Sherlock hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning; since then, the ‘game’ with Moriarty had consumed him. Nothing new had turned up. No new evidence, clues, murders, hints.. nothing. It was driving Sherlock crazy. Every other week or so, he’d delve back into the game in attempts to see if there was anything, anything else at all, that would give him a clue. It would eat away at him until John and I forced him back into the real world.

“Until it’s solved, the answer to that question won’t change,” he informed me, his left nostril twitching as he gave me his signature Sherlock look. I sighed and gave him a concerned glance, but let the matter slide. Arguing with Sherlock was a moot point.

“I’ll be back in a bit. If you need anything from the shop, text John’s phone, alright?”

“Fine, fine,” he said dismissively, pressing his fingers back to his lips and furrowing his brows slightly. I knew that was my signal to keep quiet and leave him be, so I snagged my wallet and jogged down the steps, calling goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as I went.

It was a surprisingly lovely day, given that it had been a constant downpour the last couple of days. The weekend couldn’t have come fast enough; as of late, school had become a serious nuisance. Since the whole incident with Oliver, topped with Jeanette blabbing about the attack a couple months ago, I was pretty much talk of the school. It got old faster than I could have imagined; I was constantly swarmed by people, mostly girls, asking about the life of Sherlock Holmes’ flatmate. I wanted to strangle them all.

I caught sight of John seated outside our usual diner, waiting patiently. He looked up as I drew near, and gave me a smile.

“Lost your phone again?”

“I swear it grew legs and walked away this time,” I sighed, only half-joking. “How’s work?”

“Busy, for once,” he said, pulling me into a warm hug. “How’s Sherlock doing?”

“He’s still on that bloody case,” I muttered as we slipped inside and got in line. “I’m a little worried, honestly.”

John nodded in understanding.

“He’ll pull out of it. It’s Moriarty; of course he’ll be obsessed with it for a while. Let’s just hope it ends quickly or dies down.”

I nodded my agreement as we fell into our usual passing chatter, doing nothing more than enjoying each other’s company.

***

“Is there anything you’d like for dinner?” I asked as we left the diner. I wasn’t surprised to see a storm had started up. Good weather never really lasted long, it seemed. I now deeply regretted not wearing a jacket, the wind being stronger than usual.

“I’ll be staying late tonight, I think,” he sighed. “Don’t bother with anything special. I’ll take whatever you make.”

“Right,” I said, giving him a swift hug. “Hurry back, it’s getting worse. Text Sherlock if you need anything.”

“I’ll see you tonight, Lace,” he said, turning up his jacket collar and bustling away, disappearing around the corner. I all but sprinted to the shop as the low growl of thunder began to grow louder. It was very unfortunate, really, having a fear of thunder while living in London.

I made the trip quick, knowing it would only be getting worse from here. I grabbed only the things we really needed, and a few extra supplies for supper. I was in and out in ten minutes, racing up the street, doing my best to resist flinching as the storm raged on.

I burst through the front door in a flurry of rain and lighting, slamming it and then slumping against the wall, catching my breath. Setting the groceries down momentarily, I did my best to straighten my soaked shirt and smooth down my uncontrollable curls. Knowing I was as decent as I could get right now, I made my way back up to the flat.

“Did you get the cheese?” Sherlock mused, still in his same spot, now idly flipping through a magazine. I frowned at him as I sat the bags on the table.

“Cheese? What cheese?”

“I texted you half an hour ago, saying we needed cheese.”

“Sherlock I don’t have my phone,” I reminded him, beginning to put the groceries away. “I told you to text John.”

“Well then, we still need cheese,” he then informed me, and I rolled my eyes, suppressing a sigh. I grabbed the frozen veggies and pulled open the freezer, about to stick them in when my hand faltered.

There, perched on a half-empty ice cube tray, was my phone. I stared at it in disbelief for a moment, my brows drawing together.

“Sherlock? Why is my phone in the freezer?”

“Experiment.”

“Care to explain?” I snapped, pulling it out and trying my best to warm it. He hesitated for a second; I heard a page turn in the magazine.

“No.”

“Bleedin’ Christ,” I muttered, switching hands when my phone began to numb my fingers. I was about to retreat downstairs to change when I stopped and turned to look incredulously at him. “I thought you said you hadn’t seen it! You lied to me!”

“I did no such thing,” he argued, putting the magazine down and staring up at me, almost looking hurt that I’d accuse him of being dishonest. “You asked if I had seen it recently, and the answer was no. I took your phone this morning; that is not recently. I didn’t lie, I simply answered the question you asked.”

“You know damn well what I meant, Sherlock Holmes,” I retorted; the corner of his lip twitched up into a smirk. I jogged back down the stairs, muttering to myself.

I changed fast and returned upstairs with my bag, deciding to do some studying. I’d fallen behind after my nearly week-long absence, and I didn’t want to risk failing any of my classes. Sherlock had taken to standing in front of the window, hands folded neatly behind his back, his gaze trained on the empty London streets.

The storm raged on; I was suppressing my flinches as best I could as I curled up on John’s chair, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. I cracked the book open and began to read, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

I’d only been studying for about an hour when I felt a presence hovering over my shoulder. I glanced up from the book and met Sherlock’s sea green eyes, just a couple inches from mine. He was leaning on the back of the chair, his curls brushing mine.

“Light reading?” he mused, and I chuckled, handing my book up to him.

“No, I’m studying,” I informed him, tilting my head up to watch him scrutinize my textbook.

“Homework, dull,” Sherlock mumbled, flipping through the pages. “Studying, it’s a waste of time.”

“Not all of us are brilliant,” I reminded him, taking it back while giving him a look. “Some of us have to work at being smart.”

“You are brilliant,” he said immediately, and then quickly averted his gaze when I looked up. I stared at him, feeling my cheeks tint pink. I sat the book down and continued to gaze at him. Most everyone he met was automatically deemed mindless and insignificant. He’d even called John an idiot on multiple occasions. To be called brilliant by Sherlock Holmes was the highest complement I could receive.

“You’re just being nice to me because I’m pretty,” I teased, forcing the blush off my face and trying to lighten the mood. Sherlock gave me a look.

“That’s not my only reason,” he argued, and I grinned.

“So you do think I’m pretty.”

Sherlock scoffed and looked away; I didn’t miss the red flush creep up his cheeks. I smiled to myself as I went back to reading.

“Your complacent smirk isn’t flattering,” he said, wandering away from my chair.

“And that shade of red isn’t doing anything for you,” I teased, sneaking a glance at him as he wandered towards his room. I’d just gotten back into the reading when I heard the front door open. Immediately, I checked the time. It was half past four, not quite time for John to be home yet. He hadn’t texted me either, so I pushed my book and blanket aside and stood at the top of the stairs.

“Get the post, while you’re up,” Sherlock called out to me; I rolled my eyes, and could almost feel him smirking. As I began down the stairs, my mouth opened, ready to call out to John; I faltered on instinct, and my stomach tightened. Something was wrong. The front door was wide open, and I could hear someone with heavy steps maneuvering around the entryway.

Definitely not John.

Slowly, I crept down the stairs, minding the loose boards and staying silent. At the landing, I glanced around, and was about to call out for Mrs. Hudson when the board creaked behind me. I whipped around, but I wasn’t fast enough.

Something hard caught me on the back of the head, and I swayed. The storm outside the front door blurred, and I felt my legs give out. I dropped to the ground, my vision darkening as my head hit the floorboards. Someone stepped over me, and pressed a bundle of blurry somethings into my hand, giving me a twisted grin as they stood again, disappearing through the open door.

***

“Honestly, the two of them, bustlin’ about, leaving the door open,” Mrs. Hudson sighed, shivering as another cold draft blew under her door. There was a loud thud from the hallway, and then hurried footsteps racing about. What Sherlock and Laicee were up to now, she could only guess.

With the appearance of another chilled breeze, Mrs. Hudson had to put her foot down. She wrapped her sweater tighter and stood from the couch, sipping on her tea as she went to shut the front door and settle the two of them.

As she stepped into the entryway, her stomach dropped, and she drew in a gasp. Laicee was crumpled on the ground, her head resting in a small pool of blood, a bouquet of flowers grasped in her hand.

Tea forgotten, Mrs. Hudson knelt beside the young girl, the panic rising in her throat. It took her a moment to form a sentence, her fear taking over and making her sick inside.

“Sherlock! SHERLOCK!” she hollered, her shaking hands fluttering over Laicee, unsure of what to do. Swift steps hurried down the stairs; Sherlock was slightly put off by the sudden shrieking.

“Mrs. Hudson, really, must you shout-“

Sherlock cut off as he came round the stairs; his eyes fell onto Laicee, and his entire face fell. It was as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He nearly doubled over at the sight of her, and he had to take a deep breath before he could proceed.

“I just found her,” Mrs. Hudson panicked. “Thought the two of you were mucking about. I, I don’t know if she’s alright, she’s bleeding-“

“Please go upstairs and put the kettle on,” Sherlock said, his voice even and calm, as if his mind and heart weren’t in turmoil. He came down the last few steps and knelt beside Laicee, his slender fingers sweeping over her neck. The relief to feel a steady heartbeat was so powerful it nearly knocked him over.

“She’s only unconscious,” he reassured Mrs. Hudson when the woman refused to move. “She’ll be awake soon, and I’m sure she’d enjoy a nice cup of tea.”

Slightly taken aback by Sherlock’s calm, and almost gentle manner, Mrs. Hudson got to her feet and hurried up the stairs, mumbling anxiously to herself. Alone, now, Sherlock let out a breath, and swallowed hard. He stooped over Laicee, pressing his forehead to hers and sweeping his thumb over her cheek.

A little more composed, now, Sherlock righted himself and studied her closer. He gently removed a small bundle of flowers from her hand and studied them. Three white roses, perfectly shaped, freshly cut.

He’d examine them later. For now, he rested them on Laicee’s chest as he slipped his arms under her, cradling her to his chest. He held tight to her as he took the stairs two at a time, making immediately for the couch. He laid her out across it, sweeping her curls back from her face.

“Here,” Mrs. Hudson offered, pressing a warm damp cloth into his palm. With one hand, he began to wipe the blood from Laicee’s temple; he pulled out his phone with the other.

To: John
Laicee’s been hurt. Come at once, convenience be damned. –SH

Sherlock wiped the last of the blood off Laicee’s skin, and then gratefully took the bandage Mrs. Hudson offered. As she went to tend the tea, Sherlock took Laicee's hand and held it tight. He let out a heavy sigh, lifting her hand and pressing his lips to it as he stood.

Leaving her to rest, Sherlock retreated to the window, gazing out over the streets. His phone went off, and Sherlock glanced at the text, expecting a worried question with promises to hurry.

His stomach tightened at the words, and his hands began to shake. He read them twice, three times, four, five… No matter how many times he ran his eyes over the single word, he almost couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Yes, the text had come from John’s phone, but it had not been written by John’s hands.

Set. –JM

Moriarty. The next move in the game had been made.

John was in trouble.