SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

From or From?

Sitting in front of John’s laptop, legs crossed and hands in the prayer position, Sherlock updated his blog. His hands broke from his face and came down to type in an idea before the hotel door creaked open. Not even waiting to see who it was, Sherlock’s hand flew to the drawer by the bed and pulled out a handgun. He flicked the safety off and pointed the gun at the partly open door.

The figure came in and then, upon seeing himself targeted, dropped to the ground with his empty palms in the air.

"It's me, John!"

Lowering the gun and pretending he knew who it was all along, Sherlock replied in his cheeky, unconcerned tone, "And, I’m Sherlock. Sorry about Alana." He tossed the gun onto the table and leaned back against the marshmellowey pillows. He folded his hands behind him and crossed his legs at the ankle.

Pushing himself from the ground, John replied in a low voice, "How did you possibly know?"

"Your scent caught me off guard. Though, once seeing that your clothes have been changed I figured it was because you had to hide something.”  Sitting up, Sherlock folded his hands and began deducing. “You were either given clothes to change, or you took them from someone. Either way, you did it to hide her blood. Though, you ought to have cleaned the splatter about your neck!"

John thumbed the side of his nose before stretching and curling his fingers in anxiety. "My face is covered in blood—at least I tried to wash most of it off. How do you know it's hers?"

"Your flesh just exudes her perfume! She was against you when they shot her from behind, hitting her on her right. Blood splashed up. Unless the blood from your cheek decided to shoot out and then come around again and hit your neck like jam. Clearly it's Alana's. Not to mention it is older blood than the blood about your face. Did they really use brass knuckles on you?"

“Why do you keep saying, ‘they’? It could have been just one person!” John argued, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

“I know Charleston, Derby, and Foster had to be there. And you didn’t change your trousers. They’re scuffed and tugged at the ends. That means one person held your legs, another by your wrists—there are wring marks about them, if you don’t believe me—,”

“Of course, I believe you,” John snapped.

“Don’t interrupt me. Anyway, you were cornered in a rather sooty part of the building; the back of your head is a bit scuffed by a dirt-dusted wall. Is that a word? And, well, you got your arse beaten.”

John dabbed his swollen cheek with the back of his hand and winced. Turning to Sherlock, he asked stiffly, "All right, is Alana dead or alive?"

"Obviously, alive. Her scratch marks are all over your hands. The bullet would've gone right through her and you if she hadn’t been shot from a rubbishy .380 pistol.”

Holding up a flat hand in front of Sherlock’s mouth, John laughed in disbelief. “All right, the pistol part must’ve been a guess. How could you possibly know what kind of gun they fired?”

“They hit you on the back of the head with it, didn’t they? There’s bruising the size and shape as such a pistol.”

John’s eyes squinted and his chest welled up with both admiration and irritation. “Sometimes, Sherlock, I don’t know if I should just hate you for your persnickety way of sleuthing, or just bow down and pray that I had such a mind as yours? Don’t answer it, I know which one you’ll choose, you sod.”

“Well, the pressure in the gun mustn’t been strong. Or, the handler had poor aim, or the pistol had been repaired several times and lost its strength. Anyway, I know Alana is alive because of the scratch marks and because you didn't come home with her. Rawlings texted me and said he texted Alana 20 minutes ago to tell her to tell you that she could come home."

"Right. Well, she’s not with me now, is she? Don’t think you could figure out where they’d taken her?"

"Of course, I can. And she’ll be alive, after all, they’ve probably researched her and found out she’s the Duchess of Cornwall. Only a fool would kill her and think the whole Royal Fleet wouldn’t be after them. This is a small group, these Americans. They want a low profile.” Sherlock slid off the bed and grabbed his purple button-down shirt. He pulled it over the white tank top he was wearing and began buttoning it.

John twisted around to ask Sherlock a question before his hand hit his computer. “Why are you using my laptop? Can’t you just get your own?”

“Yours was closer. By the way, were you really going to send that letter to Alana? Your writing is so mawkish! Have to dab every word with a towel to see through the sap!”

John only rolled his eyes and changed his password—as if that would stop the detective next time. Closing the laptop, he pursed his lips. “You think those men caught on to us? So quickly?”

"Sounds like it. You see, Alana forgot to take her wedding ring off, as did you. So, I'm thinking that they saw her flirting with you and, seeing weddings bands on both your fingers, they probably took a wild guess and figured you two were onto something. By the way, what was Alana’s message this time?”

“She said that they were talking about the Russians. And she gave me a message that one of the men had given her. Sadly, I don’t have the message with me because that’s when they came in.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mouth parted in excitement. “Ah! They gave a secret away! What morons.”

“Alana also said that the message was ‘from’ the Russians. So, you think they’re trading diabolical plans to destroy the world?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Sherlock replied, pushing a pile of his clothes underneath the dresser. He grabbed his miniature magnifying glass and headed for the door. “Come along, John, we’re going back there. We’ll talk while we walk.”

“Right.” John popped off the bed and followed his friend out the door and down the carpeted hallway.

“Now, by ‘from’.  That could mean two things. Either the Russians gave it to these Americans, or the Americans took it from them. Something tells me it’s the latter, but I’ll know more once I get to the scene.”

The two checked out and entered the bright, sunny streets of Miami, Florida. Turning to one another with adventurous grins, the two simultaneously pulled out a pair of sunnies and slipped them over their ears. Nodding to one another, they marched down the sidewalk to the parking lot.

“Did you finally rent one?” John asked, referring to Sherlock’s transportation.  

“Yes. I got two. They weren’t terribly expensive and I also paid extra to have their mufflers removed.” Sherlock stopped at the entrance of the parking lot and beamed with pride at the two jet black motorbikes he had purchased.

With a gaping mouth, John shook his head. “No, you’re not making me ride one of those. I had one in the army and that was the last time I ever wanted to use one.” John turned to leave before Sherlock caught him by his shirt’s tail and dragged him back.

“Behave yourself, John! Just climb on, adjust the seat, press on the gas pedal, and just let the vibrations become a part of you.” Sherlock knocked him playfully in the shoulder and mounted his own bike. He pulled the helmet over his face and threw the protective shield over his eyes. He revved the engine and, just like he had mentioned, the motorcycle hardly made a noise.

John stubbornly stood where he was and his mouth fidgeted in decision-making.

“Either you ride yours or you sit behind me.”

“Fine, whatever. I’ll ride my own.” John took a courageous step towards the machine and threw a leg over it. Looking at Sherlock with annoyance, he pulled his helmet on and started it.

Then, with one behind the other, the two pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the club.