There Were Three - Sherlock BBC

See How They Run.

          New Message.
                 From: Unlisted.
                         -- He's getting closer~.
         Freya tapped impatiently at the phone. The number was unlisted, so there was no way that she could tell who was sending it, nor track it to its' source. Instead all she could do was sit in the quiet that Sherlock and John had provided in her living quarters, each passing glance supporting an even greater weighted anxiety.
          "So, uh--" John broke the silence, grasping his hands together and leaning forward on his knees. Freya noticed the similarity between Sherlock and John's positions, and assumed that they spent a lot of time together... Or that they were a couple. "Are you alright? About the situation, I mean."
She tipped her head forward and her eyes surveyed the ground, each piece of fabric laced delicately while a few popped out due to Anya's clawing. "I should be soon. It's just tough news."
          "Most people would have cried, you know." He added. Sherlock seemed locked away in his mind. And he was. While the two were talking, he was arranging all sorts of things in his head.
          "Yeah, well..." Freya chuckled at that, sending a sad but playful glance over towards the doctor.             "I'm not exactly most people."
          "Three," Sherlock said out of the blue, his head popping up from his prayed position. His eyebrows were just slightly raised and eyes alert and full, though his mouth rested in a line.
          "Sorry--Three what?" John questioned his detective, scrunching his eyebrows together.
          Sherlock's eyes wandered around the room. So far, three was popping up everywhere. At Trunk, at the accident. Maybe even where Freya lived at that moment. He was making sure he kept a tight focus at his surrounding area so that he could catch any sort of threes.
          "Hm? Oh, sorry. Ignore me, just an intelligent mind working while you two saunter about sentiment."
          "We weren't sauntering." John objected.
          "Of course not."
          Another chime came from Freya's phone, this time grabbing the attention of Sherlock, whose face stayed still but eyes tipped down to watch the phone carefully. Her tender hands grabbed at the phone to read the other message that she'd gotten.
          New Message.
                    From: Unlisted.
                              - Three blind mice, three blind mice. See how they run.
          Her blood ran cold at the sight of the message. At first the retail associate figured it was just a wrong number--maybe someone typed in the wrong digit; but this, this was showing that the messages were coming on purpose. At the thought of it, Freya almost immediately turned pale. And Sherlock noticed.
          "A friend of yours?" He commented, lifting his poise to attempt to sneak a peak at the device in her hand, though it failed. "Seems quite eager to get your attention."
          "It's just the wrong number. Probably meant to text a friend from his mobile." Freya lied, almost flawlessly and she regained her posture. For just a moment, Sherlock believed her; but he soon dismissed it so that he could get back to the subject at hand.
          "Anyway--Sherlock. What about threes? You said three." John shifted in his seat, watching his companion patiently, waiting for an explanation.
          "Oh. Yes. It's quite clear."
          "Sorry. Quite clear?"
          "Yes, obvious." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
          "You lost me."
          "And me, too." Freya blinked, sliding her two cents on the table. "Could you elaborate?"
          Sherlock sat there for a moment, grey eyes bouncing between the two of them. How someone could have such an empty space congregating in their head when there were things that could be stored there was beyond him, however he decided to take it upon himself (and to Freya) to give a proper example of what he was talking about.
          "Yes, you." He pointed his hands at Freya, who scrunched her eyebrows together in offense. Most people would learn others' names by then. "How many employees work at your shop, including you?"
She didn't have to think. "Three."
          "Yes, well. Two now." He added before turning to John. "And how many owners and co-signers?"
          "...Three." John answered, finally getting it. But he took a moment to shake his head. "It's just a number, Sherlock."
          "Ah. Of course you would think so. A number that shows up continuously no matter where we look." The detective stood up, flipping the collar of his coat up to hide his jaw and enunciate his cheekbones. His burly voice rupshered through his throat in an almost aroused growl."So simple. There's a game. And I'm ready to play."
          Suddenly, there was a ringing sound vibrating throughout Freya's flat, but this time it didn't belong to her. The sound echoed through from a muffled audio in Sherlock's pocket. In an anticipated swoop, the detective brought the phone up to his ear.
          "Yes?"
          Silence on their end, but what John and Freya didn't know was that there was muffled speaking from the mobile at Sherlock's ear. The two sat there, eyes passing at each other while the taller brunette paced around the bricked room.
          "What?" He stopped abruptly, his eyes landing on Freya's, whose landed on his in reaction. Hazel eyes masked confusion as they stared at grey ones, and poor John sat there between the two in a fit of ignorance. "And you're certain?" Another pause, long enough to cause anxiety to well up in Freya's chest. "We'll be there." And then he hung up, an exaggerated sigh passing at his lips when he headed towards the door with no explanation. John, out of habit, followed suit and turned to wave an apologetic goodbye before he shut the door. Poor Freya sat there in confusion, but didn't chase after the two.
          A final chime came from her phone, and she looked down without anticipation. She already knew what it was.
          New Message.
                    From: Unlisted
                               - See how they run.
-
          On Sherlock's side, John's hands shifted on each other in his lap--the blogger didn't know how to take any of this, and just like any other time, he was left in the darkness of his consulting friend. Maybe it was moreso the idea that he couldn't comprehend things the way that Sherlock did, but whatever it was made him start to feel a bit insignificant.
          "Stop." Sherlock said abruptly, but in a softer tone toward the blogger. John only shifted his head and tightened his eyes in uncertainty. The brunette didn't move his face, but he passed a sideglance at John. "You're feeling dubious. Uncertain and starting to question yourself. Don't do that, John; it causes for a rather uncomfortable cab ride."
          John's brows knitted together and he shook his head almost sarcastically. "Right--yeah. I'll just... do that."
            His tone caused Sherlock's face to shift ever so slightly in his direction, his eyes digging into the detail of his flatmate's own. A moment passed and John didn't look at him, so Sherlock slowly rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the scenery outside of the window. "Whoever the other employee is has seemed to get himself in a bit of trouble."
          "How do you mean?" John asked with a tone that lacked enthusiasm.
          "Lestrade--as blind as he sometimes may be--has actually found him." He shifted as he opened the door just as the cab stopped, John exasperatingly following suit. "Right in the act."
          When they walked around the cab, the sight in front of them was rather ordinary--aside from the dozens of cop cars that surrounded a white house. Cement stairways lead up to mahogany doors of the two story home, pillars reaching out as a sort of protection for the front. Lestrade was standing next to the window, eyes in and alert until Sherlock was next to him.
          "How did you find him?" Sherlock asked.
          "He actually called us," Lestrade answered, his brown eyes darting back to the window. "Said that this house was about to go up in flames. But we can't go in."
          Sherlock's eyes moved to the door, registering that it was unlocked. There were tick marks at the edge near the knob while the wood hung loosely on the hinges. "The door's unlocked. Though if what you said was true that means he was threatened to do this, and he called the police." Grey hues studied the side of the house, flickering as though he were reading a book.
          "Wait, Sherlock. There's another thing." The investigator was quiet and his face was pointed downwards. "He's in there. Got two guns in his hands pointing at explosives, and one under his foot."   He gulped. "And if he steps off of it the whole place explodes."
           There was little time for Sherlock to react. Between what Lestrade was telling him and the actual facts of the situation, there was only so much he could do. Yes, he was the incredibly intelligent Sherlock Holmes, but he can't stop the inevitable from happening, especially when the actions have already taken their course.
          His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his mobile, the old telephone noise tickling the pocket of his coat. He reached for it--an unknown number-- not many people it could be sense he didn't give a lot of people a way to contact him. It was usually on his website--or John's.
          Sherlock answered the phone, waited a moment, and then spoke. "Hello." The detective urged, allowing time for the other end to make their message.
          "Mr. Holmes?" A gasping male voice choked on the opposite side of the line.
          "Yes." Sherlock answered.
          "Mr. Holmes. I'm going to die." Sniffles and cries erupted and continued for a few seconds before the man could continue. "I'm in the house and I'm going to die."
          "Is someone making you do this?" John and Lestrade looked quickly to Sherlock. Lestrade, who had quickly figured out who Sherlock was talking to, pointed to the side of the house to clarify to John.
           "Y-Yes," the other stuttered. "My name is R-Roman, sir. Please let them know."
          "I need you to give me information Roman," Sherlock's eyes glanced over to John, who was already writing down Sherlock's portion of the conversation--tiny details that may be valuable. "Who is making you do this?"
           "T-There's no time left, sir." A long pause came, and the sound of two loading pistols could be heard on the other side of the line. "They've told me to give you a message."
          "A message?"
          "J-Jealous hearts d-do know," he began to speak steadily in an attempt to calm himself. "The strategy of revenge... Is brighter than fire." And then the line ended.
          Sherlock looked up to John and Lestrade, who awaited any news patiently. Their faces were so dull, unexpecting of any sort of danger. However, Sherlock knew. He knew that after the mobile line ended that there was going to be a detonation. So he leaned forward and grabbed the two smaller men and pushed them away from the house as harshly as he could, himself included. And it was so sudden. To Sherlock, the glass slowly chipped away as the fire blasted through the gaps, and then it got faster. Chips of the window sill came flying forward, the door off its hinges completely and the top of the building ignited into flames while the sides of the house--they erupted in smoke and crumbled to pieces. Everyone who was within distance got pursed back, smacked to the ground by the sudden detonation. If John and Lestrade hadn't been torn away from the building by Sherlock, then they surely would have been caught in the crossfire.
          John and Sherlock were on the ground, screeching sounds echoing in their ears from the detonation while they attempted to find their footing. Lestrade, grey hair and all, stood next to one of the cop cars that was only a few feet away from the blogger and detective. His eyes were glued intensely on the house--or whatever was left of it.
          "W-Why did he have to do that?" Lestrade said a couple moments after everything quieted down. Everyone around the house--all the investigators and cops and pedestrians-- they just stopped and stared in awe at the broken building. "We could have helped him."
          "No." Sherlock said, his hand to the side of his head while his other arm steadied John. "You said there was an explosive under his foot. He was dead from the moment he planted it on top of the bomb... And he shot the explosives." The fire service was driving up next to two ambulances and the doctors and fighters emerged from the vehicle doors to help any who were injured.
          "What did he say, Sherlock?" John's eyes squinted, a reverberating feeling shaking at his head.               "Before you got off the mobile. What did he say?"
          "He said--" Sherlock paused, digesting what Roman had planted in his brain. "Jealous hearts do know the strategy of revenge is brighter than fire."