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As Though of Hemlock	By : Katiesroom Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1156 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or any of its wonderful characters. Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC own the Sherlock universe and everything in it. Nor am I making any money off of the crazy shit my friend and I are making them do.

Chapter List
- 1-As Though of Hemlock
- 2-Chapter Two
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"Mushrooms? That’s what this whole “crime syndicate, smuggling operations” thing is about?” To say John was taken aback would have been a drastic understatement. “All this sneaking around in back alleys and sending me out to spy on black market exchanges in the middle of night… For some bloody mushrooms?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes as if to say that John was being particularly juvenile. “Not just mushrooms, John. Truffles. French truffles to be exact. An endangered species of mushroom, if my research was correct.”
“Right. Of course.” John threw his hands up. “I’ve been missing out on sleep over endangered, French truffles. That’s much less aggravating. In a competition between truffles and my health, the truffles would certainly have come out on top anyway. My apologies for being so inconsiderate.”
“Apology accepted.”
“You do realise I was being sarcastic.” John frowned, shoving his hands deep in his pockets to keep from punching Sherlock across the face with one of them. Sherlock actually smirked at that.
"Animatedly so.” The man took a breath, releasing a puff of white into the cold London air on a long sigh. “Would it help if I told you that not all of the shipments were recovered?”
John raised an eyebrow at him. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better how?”
“Because I have it on good faith that there’s a restaurant nearby that utilizes them in a few of their dishes,” He flashed John a look that bordered on mischievous. “Hungry?”
John rolled his eyes at him, still trying to cling to his frustrations, though another thing this case had put a bit of a hold on the last few days was full meals. “I don’t even know if I like truffles.” He offered lamely, though he was already following willingly behind as Sherlock led the way to the mystery restaurant.
“Six people have been murdered over them in the last week.” Sherlock shrugged. “I can only assume they’re to die for.”
John practically tripped over himself in shock. “Was that… a pun?”
Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him, a look of indifference on his face. “Was it?” He hummed, not bothering to answer further before hailing a cab.
As it turned out, though John had long ago stopped allowing himself to be surprised by it, Sherlock was right about the truffles. With no idea what to expect, John ordered some sort of macaroni and cheese with black truffles and bacon, and barely said a word to Sherlock after he’d gotten past the first bite.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Sherlock finally chuckled once the plate was half empty. John swallowed down his rather enthusiastic bite and smirked.
“Oh, it’s to die for.” He replied sardonically, shoving another forkful into his mouth and continuing to talk around it. “Aren’t you going to order something? You solved the case, yeah?”
Sherlock raised his glass of water to his lips, barely taking a sip, eyes far away, analyzing something John couldn’t see, let alone begin to comprehend. “There’s something still bothering me about the shipping details.” John made a noncommittal noise for Sherlock to continue. “The truffles were shipped here under an unregistered company.”
“You said the exchange was illegal. I doubt they would put their actual name on the docket.”
“That’s just it. For an exchange like this, they wouldn’t have put any name.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly, locked on something intangible and far away. “It was almost as if somebody wanted that name to be seen. As if somebody wanted to make sure that detail explicitly made it into the case, left out in the open for me to find.”
“You personally?” John said through his final bite of pasta, pushing the plate aside and signaling for the waitress to bring him another pint. Sherlock looked over at him as if he’d been wrenched from a dream.
“Excuse me?”
“You said ‘left it out in the open for you to find.’ As in you personally.” John reiterated. “You think someone left that name there specifically for you?”
Sherlock looked at John for a long enough moment that it was almost uncomfortable, but before John could do little more than clear his throat, Sherlock put his glass down on the bar and got up, heading to the loo without a word. John shook his head, exasperated. It was like talking to a wall.
“Here you go, hun,” the waitress smiled, putting the fresh pint on a coaster in front of him.
“Ta,” John picked it up and held it out a bit to her before turning around some in his seat and taking a sip. He scanned the small restaurant out of habit, picking up on a few things here and there thanks to so many years working with Sherlock. No major deductions by any means, but it was more than he could have done five years ago. Eventually, his eyes settled on the woman he’d noticed when they first arrived: long black curls, pink dress, slim, great calves, and walking up to the bar. Which put her right in his line of fire. He’d noticed her date, of course, and had every intention of admiring her from afar, but when they locked eyes, he couldn’t help himself. Especially the way she blushed, looking away cutely. Slowly, John got to his feet, leaning against the bar as casually as he could.
"Hullo. I’m John.”
"Hullo," She smiled, voice a soft, expressive alto. "I'm Delilah. All right?"
"I'm quite all right, now that I've seen you." He smirked, taking a sp of his beer.
Her smile grew a bit teasing. "Oh, really? See anything you like?"
John gave her the once over, trying not to linger too long, though finding the hint of bra showing at the edges of her neckline to be a bit distracting. He forced his eyes back to her face, wishing he could brush those curls behind her ear to get a better look. "Oh, yes.” He said at last. “I see a very attractive woman who's currently out with a boring date."

---

It took one person trying to enter the bathroom before Sherlock decided to lock the door. He needed silence, no interruptions, just for a moment, to process why John’s words had triggered something.

Of course, as to be expected of public, restaurant toilets, there was the jiggling of the handle and a knock before Sherlock even had a chance to press his hands together in thought. “Occupied,” Sherlock called out, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers lightly to his lips.

“You said ‘left it out in the open for you to find.’ As in you personally.” John had said. “You think someone left that name there specifically for you?”

Another knock, Sherlock rolling his eyes and offering an audible groan of annoyance. “I said occupied!” He shouted.

“There’re three other stalls in there, mate.” The man behind the door whined, an obviously drunken slur to his already thick eastern accent. “You can’t hog the lot of ‘em when there’re paying customers out here lookin’ to take a piss.”

Sherlock threw open the door abruptly enough for the man to stumble, and just long enough to say, “The women’s looks vacant,” before closing it in his face, locking it once more.

Sherlock leaned his back directly against the door this time, focusing back on the task at hand. Again, John had said. “You think someone left that name there specifically for you?” That was important. But why was it important. Clearly his subconscious had decided the name on the roster had been left there for him. But what for? And what could that name possibly mean even if it did?

This time, there was no time wasted on knocking, the door shaking underneath the weight of the man on the other end throwing his shoulder hard into the wood. Sherlock took a step back, watching as the door shook under the man’s second apparent attempt at breaking the door down. Surely this could not be simply ignored.

Making as little sound as possible, Sherlock unlocked the door, turned the handle just enough for the lock to slide out of place, and took a step back. Just in time for the man to ram his shoulder through the door and onto the toilet floor. Already resigned to the fact that no further data could be achieved by silence and solitary thought alone---as little as he’d received---Sherlock walked over the man and back into the restaurant with an indifferent, “It’s all yours.”

He made it three steps before he saw them. And ten precious seconds before he registered what he was seeing.

Despite the dress---a vibrant and tacky shade of pink that screamed and overzealous attempt at femininity---and the hair---a shade of black that would only be found in a wig with curls that hung more like silicone fiber than actual hair---Sherlock had no problem identifying the man. What he couldn’t understand was why John didn’t seem to notice. In fact, it took a few extra seconds before he realised that John wasn’t suspicious at all, no connection being made to the blatantly obvious disguise, no hint of recognition, nothing.

Briefly, Sherlock thought that John was playing Moriarty, pretending to fall for his ploy in order to get information, a possibility that send a flash of panic through him. There was no way Moriarty wouldn’t know. Unless it was pulling rank or feigning a medical emergency, John was a horrible actor. But then, watching John grab hold of his arm, keeping him close, that smile on his face he reserved for the girls that were interested but not attainable, Sherlock knew for certain. John had been fooled in the most obvious and pathetic of ways. And it had left him wide open for whatever Moriarty wanted to do to him.

A list of possible attacks ran through his head in under a second, all of which ending with John either dead, incapacitated, or traumatized. So when Moriarty finally noticed his attention, their eyes locking sharply, Sherlock’s feet began moving virtually of their own accord. But it wasn’t quick enough. He could see the look in Moriarty’s eyes, could feel the intention, and he was do far away to stop it from happening.

“You!” Sherlock’s voice echoed throughout the restaurant, every pair of eyes turning towards him as he attempted to push past people and tables and wait staff to get to the exit. If he couldn’t get there in time, the least he could do is cause a distraction, get John’s attention. “Stop!”

But Moriarty didn’t do anything Sherlock expected, opting for grabbing her clutch and hastily making her way to the door. So Sherlock followed. Or, at least, he would have had two waiters not grabbed at him from behind, holding him in place muttering something about skipping out on his tab. And within moments, Moriarty was gone. Which left John staring at him in poorly concealed humiliation and outright confusion, still not a clue on his face of what he’d just missed.

It took a substantial amount of apologizing from John and a hideously large tip before they’d finally been allowed to leave. But once they were outside, Sherlock turned on John with what he hoped was every ounce of anger he could muster. “You imbecile! What were you thinking?” How he hadn’t noticed, how he hadn’t even seen let alone observed this time… He knew John wasn’t as intelligent or perceptive as he was, but this? This bordered on the Cro-Magnon. Is that all it took to fool the man? A little make up and some fake breasts? How could he have been so… So… “Idiotic! Irresponsible! Careless!” The words left him in a rush, arms gesticulating wildly at John in front of him, the man staring up at him in shock. “I had always hoped you would shock me one day with a bout of uncharacteristic intellectualism, but I never expected it would be your blatant, unobservant stupidity to catch me by surprise!”

“Excuse me?” John scoffed, baffled. “You’re the one who went bloody nuts just now? What in the hell have I done, exactly?”

“Even now?” Sherlock was stunned, fury lessening to aggravation under the weight of John’s defensiveness. Did he really not understand? “Do you honestly not comprehend how close you just were to being killed?” He put his hands on John’s shoulders and lowered his gaze level, the man tensing under his touch. “Are you seriously so dense that you can’t, even now, recognise how easy it would have been for him to-”

“Him? Him who, Sherlock? I don’t-”

“Moriarty!”
Even in the dim lighting outside the restaurant, Sherlock could see John visibly pale. Then, as if reaching for the protection of his military days, he straightened, eyes stern and focused though his skin no less washed of color. “What does he have to do with anything?”
Sherlock sighed, removing his hands from John’s shoulders and shaking his head. “Honestly, John. I’m disappointed in you.” John’s frown deepened, but he didn’t protest, waiting for Sherlock to explain. As always. So he did. “This might come as a bit of a shock,” he sniffed, the words cold and biting. “But that woman you were talking to?”
“Delilah,” John filled in the unnecessary detail. “Does she work for him or something?”
“That was Moriarty!” Sherlock all but yelled, John stilling, eyes glazing over for a moment as if wracking his brain for every detail from their conversation. Apparently it wasn’t enough.
“No… That was… I mean,” John looked almost panicked. “That was a woman! She was… I saw her, Sherlock! I mean…” Sherlock could practically see some of the details getting clearer as John reeled, his knees practically giving way once it became otherwise undeniable. “Oh god,” John groaned, reaching out to grab a chunk of Sherlock’s jacket to keep himself upright. “I just… flirted… with Moriarty. How could I not have noticed, I…” He put a hand over his mouth, no doubt images of being rigged with a bomb racing through his head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Sherlock was wrapping an arm around the good doctor’s shoulders before he even realised it, hoisting him up and walking them both towards the main street. “Best not to waste those truffles if you can help it,” Sherlock offered in attempt to lessen the tension. Thankfully John chuckled hoarsely, running a hand over his face.
“Endangered. Right,” He sighed, smirk weary and forced. “I know how they feel.” They walked for a moment, Sherlock trying to figure out Moriarty’s motive while simultaneously attempting not to, stumbling under the weight of John leaning against him.
“It’s pretty disturbing, actually,” John mumbled, though it seemed more to himself than to anyone, so Sherlock listened in silence. “How good of a woman he makes. I had…” John shook his head. “I honestly had no idea. Why do that in the first place? Just to humiliate me? She… He asked me a few questions, but nothing he doesn’t already know. I just don’t get it.” A few more moments of silence passed before John stopped, though he didn’t remove himself from Sherlock’s half embrace. “I didn’t realise. I’m sorry.” He kept his eyes straight ahead, though whether it was because he couldn’t bring himself to look at Sherlock or because he was too frazzled from the events of the night, Sherlock wasn’t sure. “It won’t happen again.”
“I don’t doubt that it won’t.” Sherlock offered. “This whole ordeal must have been scarring for you.” John looked up at him, blinking, a sort of confusion in his eyes that Sherlock hadn’t expected. He’d meant it as a joke. Was it too much?
All of a sudden, John’s eyes shifted over Sherlock’s shoulder, narrowing as if to better get a look at something in the distance. And widening once they managed to get a clearer view. “Sherlock.” John whispered, grabbing a hold of Sherlock’s collar and turning him around. No more than twenty feet away from them was the obvious contorted form of a body. Sherlock took a step forward as if drawn, separating himself from John to get a better look.
Odor reminiscent of no more than an hour of decomposition, means of death consistent with blood-loss judging by the splatter ratio in the surrounding snow. Slit throat, if the angle of the head in relation to the neck was any indication. Sherlock leaned a little closer, registering vaguely that John had walked up behind him, studying the dead body from a distance.
“Was it-?” John started at about the same second that Sherlock noticed the tracks. Even with the attempt at femininity, the gait was still identifiably masculine, the tread a set of Manolo high-heeled pumps.
Sherlock nodded. “Moriarty’s doing.”
John cursed under his breath, already reaching for his cell phone. “I’ll call Lestrade.”
Sherlock heard it but chose not to process it, eyes already locked on a slip of paper protruding from the man’s pocket just enough for it to be intentional. Predetermined. Sherlock made sure to slip a glove over his hand before reaching it for it, folding back the edges to reveal a creased and time worn photograph. Sherlock jolted to his feet quick enough for John to startle, whatever sentence he’d been on in his conversation with Lestrade shortened abruptly with a sharp, “Jesus, Sherlock!”
But the gears of Sherlock’s mind were already whirling, the miles and miles of backlogged memory coming forward one by one searching for why this picture was important, how it was familiar, where it had been taken. It lasted no more than a fraction of a second before he located it, that tree outside of University where he’d taken solace when the library was otherwise occupied. The one with the bench that had been donated by the family of a man whose name was written in memoriam on a plaque cemented to the ground beneath its feet. A rather unique name that had stuck in the back of his mind when most other names from Uni had been deleted. And a name that resonated even more prominently now.
“Herandale.” Sherlock blurted out, already rushing the rest of the way to the main street and waving down a cab. John was at his side in an instant, muttering something to excuse himself to Lestrade before shoving his phone in his pocket and following Sherlock into the taxi.
“Who?” John asked. As expected.
“Herandale.” Sherlock held the photo out for John to see, ignoring as always the nagging sensation that Lestrade would certainly berate him for removing evidence from the scene of a crime. Again. “That tree was dedicated to a man named Alfred Herandale.”
“How could you possibly know-?” John tried, but Sherlock was on a string of thought that would not be broken.
“I knew I recognised the name in the shipping logs, the unregistered company responsible for exchanges the crates of French truffles with the London crime syndicate. Hernadale Enterprises. A non-existent company, and therefore named with the intention of being recognised, a clue left out in the open to connect this man, the smuggling case, and one other thing.”
John was following but not fast enough. As usual. “What?”
“Not what, John. Who.” Sherlock prompted, but John seemed to be in no mood, running a hand over his face.
“Alright then. Who?”
Sherlock smirked. “Me.”
The look of confusion lasted only a moment, impressive for John considering how discombobulating the night had become. John frowned, looking out the window as if that might make the realization seem less all consuming. “Moriarty.” It wasn’t a question. But then again, recently, it didn’t need to be.
Sherlock nodded, turning the photo over and over again between his fingers. “Moriarty.”
---
It didn’t take long to realise that the photograph on the body---a man identified as Bruce Warren, though John recognised him initially as Delilah’s/Moriarty’s date---would be the first of many “presents” left behind for Sherlock and John to find. And with those presents, the tell-tale signs of Moriarty’s twisted idea of a game, the items always related in some way to themselves, his signature always left behind in the form of a body or two. It was as though he was waiting for them to catch on, to beat him to the next one, luring Sherlock into another trap with a trail of dead bodies and a finish line made of the devastation left behind.
The first one, aside from the photo, was waiting for them when they got out of the cab, pinned to the door of their flat. “Is that…?” John got to it first, ripping the object from the door with no little amount of force, colorful fabric tearing down the middle but leaving it no less recognizable. A kite. And not just any kite.
“Do you need a moment?” Sherlock’s voice was at his ear, John whipping around to face his flatmate only to realise he’d been staring at the kite long enough for Sherlock to pay the cabbie and walk up the stairs to settle behind him unnoticed. His eyes were as observant as always, and something else behind that familiar, calculating stare that took John far too long to interpret. Something very similar to concern.
Which meant he’d already figured it out.
Once they were in the flat, Sherlock wasted no time. “The kite is nowhere in my personal recollection. Which means it must be in yours.”
“This isn’t just about you. Moriarty’s targeting me too.” John translated, more for himself than for anyone else, as if hearing it out loud, in his own voice, would make it seem less terrifying, less suffocating. It didn’t. “But why?”
“Why does James Moriarty do anything?” Sherlock picked up the kite and passed it from hand to hand, flipping it over like it might reveal something if the perspective changed. For Sherlock it very well could have. “He’s bored.”
“But why do we always have to be on the opposite end?” John groaned, grabbing the kite out of Sherlock’s hands and chucking it across the room. “Why can’t he just play Cluedo like a normal person?” Sherlock opened his mouth to offer an opinion, most likely about John not letting him play Cluedo, but John held up a hand and shook his head, letting himself collapse onto the couch in a huff. “I was being rhetorical.”
John could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, raking over every inch of him as he hung his head in his hands, could practically feel his voice when he whispered, “I see. So this has something to do with your sister.”
And John should have been expecting it, should find nothing surprising anymore about the conclusions Sherlock was able to gather, but it still caused him to look up in surprise. “And how… could you possibly have-”
“The kite is obviously meant to be nostalgic to you, and assuming you haven’t taken up kite flying in the last few years, it is also meant to be representative of something in your childhood.” Sherlock explained. “Your reactions tend to be more defensive and less controlled when they in some way involve your family. And since the only remaining relative you keep any contact with, albeit very little, is your sister, I can only assume the kite has meaning not just to you but to her as well.” Sherlock took a seat in the chair to his left. “Perhaps you both used to fly kites together. Perhaps she was the one who taught you how. Most likely with a kite almost if not completely identical,” he directed his gaze to the crumpled form of colored fabric and string staring at them both from the corner. “To that one.”
John let out a breath, shaking his head in a disbelief he was amazed he could still have. “Right on all counts.” He ran a hand over his face. “But that still doesn’t explain why. I mean, there must be some connection, right? The kite on our door, the photo in that man’s-”
The sound of Sherlock’s phone cut him off, Sherlock reaching into his pocket and answering in the same fluid motion, the distant, muffled sound of someone talking filling the silence for a moment before Sherlock abruptly hung up, eyes wide and calculating and staring right at John, the case practically visibly being solved. “Where did you fly kites?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where did you fly kites with your sister? Or, where did she teach you how?” Sherlock was right in front of him now, arms barred on either side of John’s head, clutching the back of the couch, locking him in. “What place do you associate with that kite?”
“Um,” John looked away from those eyes, so bright and bold and too intense to think straight when pointed at you. “Hampstead Heath.” If it was possible for Sherlock’s eyes to light up with any more intensity, they did in that moment, Sherlock pushing himself away from the couch with a sort of bubbling, enthusiastic flourish.
“Grab your coat.” He grinned, clapping his hands. “We’re going to Hampstead Heath.”
John did as told, following Sherlock out the door. “What? Why?”
“Lestrade has a body waiting there for us. Another present from Moriarty, I imagine.” Sherlock threw a hand in the air, hailing a cab far easier than should be possible for anyone. “Please do try to keep up, John. This is about to get interesting.”
After that, it was simple. Though the waiting seemed to drive Sherlock mad.
Every couple of days, though in no discernible pattern, another item would show up in a place where Sherlock or John were certain to happen upon it, the item in question having some connection to a place from their individual past, or more recently, a place they frequented alone or together since becoming flatmates. And with each item followed a body, placed as conspicuously as dead bodies were want to be. It was like being two seconds out of sync on a time line, one step behind and just enough to miss the moment between the life and death of some poor innocent soul caught up in the webs Moriarty effortlessly and mercilessly weaved. Each time, there was no evidence for Lestrade and no case for Sherlock, each scene wiped clean of any crime other than the result.
Moriarty was toying with them.
It was shortly after just barely missing the murder at Angelo’s---the item left behind at Bart’s, a blatantly placed coaster hanging from the toe of one of Molly’s post mortems like an ID tag---that the final present arrived. Neither man could really describe how they knew. Perhaps it was the fact that there’d been no call from Lestrade. Perhaps it was the item itself. Either way, they both knew, on some level, that Moriarty had grown tired of showing off. That there was a new game coming.
John walked out into the middle of the street, barely even watching for cars, and picked up the mug, holding the handle between thumb and forefinger like it had been contaminated. His favorite mug, at that, cheeky bastard. He remembered drinking out of it that morning, washing it up, putting it away in the cupboard to the right of the sink like he did every bloody morning. And now it was here, taunting him like Moriarty’s messenger from a busy intersection.
John looked from the mug back up to the window of 221B Bakerstreet at the all-knowing gaze of his flatmate, not even bothering to pretend he wasn’t watching. Not this time. And John was no Sherlock Holmes by any means, but he understood what the mug meant.
Yeah. There was a new game coming. And if Moriarty had his way, there would be a body left in 221B by the end of it.
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As Though of Hemlock