![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madlorificTitle: The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson
Author: MadLori
Length: 3800
Genre: Family, humor, shameless fluff
Pairing: Sherlock/John (established), John/OFC (referenced, in the past)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Teenagerfic
Summary:This is why I like having Sherlock as a chaperone when I go to tourneys. For one thing, he can (almost) understand the level of chess-playing that goes on in competition. If you can’t follow what’s happening, it gets boring. Second, he doesn’t bug me with conversation and attempts to buck me up between games like Mum and Dad do. I know they mean well, but it’s just distracting. When he’s with me at a tournament and we go for a bite, he doesn’t try to talk to me unless I talk first. He leaves me alone to obsess over the thirty-fourth move of my last game and whether or not it could have left me open to attack from the opposing rook.
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Jack of All Trades
6 December
I had such good intentions for this week. I was going to liveblog my entire tournament experience. Use my tablet and make updates to a constantly-renewed document which I could then post in its entirety and it’d be oh-so-virtual. Well, that all went out the window the first time I sat across a chessboard from an actual opponent here.
Sherlock talks about being on a case and not being able to think about anything else, or focus on anything else. I know how he feels, because I get like that when I’m competing. My whole brain clicks over to Chess Mode and even when I’m sitting having a sandwich, I’m seeing moves and countermoves in my head.
This is why I like having Sherlock as a chaperone when I go to tourneys. For one thing, he can (almost) understand the level of chess-playing that goes on in competition. If you can’t follow what’s happening, it gets boring. Second, he doesn’t bug me with conversation and attempts to buck me up between games like Mum and Dad do. I know they mean well, but it’s just distracting. When he’s with me at a tournament and we go for a bite, he doesn’t try to talk to me unless I talk first. He leaves me alone to obsess over the thirty-fourth move of my last game and whether or not it could have left me open to attack from the opposing rook.
So here it is, Wednesday. The tourney is halfway over and I’ve yet to write a blog entry, which leaves me with rather a lot to catch up. I’m taking advantage of some afternoon downtime to do just that. The opponent I was to face this afternoon withdrew from the tournament, so I’ve got some unexpected liberty. Sherlock has faffed off in search of a decent cup of tea and I have another game after dinner, so I’m just holed up in one of the smaller rooms typing away.
Backing up. On Sunday, Sherlock and I had brunch at this little place called French Roast around the corner from the hotel. It’s open twenty-four hours a day. They seemed to be going for a French-cuisine thing but it was pretty casual. I had an omelet, which was roughly the size of my face. Sherlock was right about another thing, too. The coffee here is amazing.
Then, it was time to go to the Marshall Chess Club. I was a little intimidated. The greatest chess minds of all time have played here. This is where the Game of the Century was played between Donald Byrne and Bobby Fischer, who was only thirteen at the time. The minute we walked in, though, I felt like I had found my people. A lot of them knew who I was, and I knew a fair number of them from other tourneys. It was a big frenzy of greetings and handshakes and hugs and introductions. Sherlock let me to it and went and sat in the corner with a book and his mobile. Poor Dad. I bet he gets eight bajillion texts from him today.
I played eight games and won six. The two I lost were both to international grandmasters. I beat one guy who’s got almost a hundred Elo points on me. He seemed impressed. I was kind of impressed myself. I got so into it that I barely looked up until suddenly Sherlock was saying that we ought to get me some dinner. Dinner? Yeah, I’d been playing chess for eight hours straight.
We just went back to French Roast. I was feeling the jet lag a little, and he didn’t say so but I know Sherlock was, too. Contrary to what he’d have you believe, he is human. We went to bed early.
On Monday, the tournament began. I’m not sure how to write about it. It’s not easy blogging about chess games. How do I describe various moves again and again? It’ll be boring to just about anyone else but me and my fellow players, and I have all my sheets to remind me of the games. I can recreate every move later with Leonid and analyze my strategy. He’ll tell me that some of the games I won, I should have lost, and some of the ones I lost, I should have won. It’s rare for him to tell me that a victory was deserved or a loss was inevitable. But that’s why he’s the teacher and I’m not.
I won my first two games on Monday morning. Both were over fairly quickly, which is usually how it goes for me at the start of tournaments. This is a side effect of my lifestyle. See, opponents are matched up partly by Elo rating, and according to Leonid, my level of play is a good hundred points higher than my rating reflects. This is because given my schedule, my classes and other activities, I don’t have as much chance to play in FIDE tournaments where I can earn points. Therefore I get underestimated at the outset and matched with players less skilled. It doesn’t last long, though. As the tourney progresses, players start getting matched up by win-loss record, and that’s when I start getting more appropriate matches.
After my morning games we had some time to kill, so Sherlock and I walked a few blocks away looking for a place to eat. We ended up at this odd corner joint called Gray’s Papaya, which sounds like a fruit market but is actually a hot dog restaurant. It was fantastic! When we got back, I told everyone where we’d eaten and asked them if they knew about it. They all had a good laugh at my expense. Apparently Gray’s Papaya is one of those famous New York landmarks that everyone has to eat at when they visit, like – I don’t know. The Four Seasons? But with hot dogs. Who knew?
By Tuesday night I was at 5-2. I hadn’t drawn any games yet, which is rare. I was feeling confident enough to engage in actual conversation over dinner, at some pizza place that one of the other players recommended. Sherlock didn’t eat. I think I ate enough for both of us. The pizza was huge and floppy and greasy and cheesy and disgusting and absolutely brilliant. I wasn’t sure how I ought to eat it until I saw people around me folding up the slices, so I did the same.
“I’ve never seen you play like this,” Sherlock said. “You’re being faster, more decisive.”
“I’m feeling well sharp.”
“It shows. Your first opponent this morning didn’t know what hit him.”
I grinned. “I know.” He’d been a cocky guy in his early twenties with fifty rank points on me who’d sat down with almost an eyeroll, thinking about how stoutly he was about to trounce me, and I’d sent him running away with his tail between his legs. In twenty-nine moves. Because that’s how I roll.
“Leonid will be thrilled.”
“I can’t think about that while I’m playing. Or about you, or Mum and Dad watching. I have to play the board before me.” I took a bit bite and chewed. “Of course I’m never really playing the board.”
“You’re playing the person sitting across from you.”
“Right.”
Sherlock stared off into space, his eyes far away. “You want to know the truth?” he said, out of the blue.
I had no idea what he was talking about. “What truth?”
“About me and your father. Our…what was it? Grand romance.”
“Oh! Of course I do!”
“What you just said, about playing the person, not the board. It – recalled something to my mind.” He went quiet, his ‘thinky thoughts’ expression on his face. “The first night we met, John shot a man to save my life.”
I went very still. “What?” Sherlock just looked at me. I’d heard him and he knew it. “He – shot a man?”
“Yes. Not a very nice man,” he amended, the corner of his mouth quirking a bit. “We were pursuing a serial killer who made his victims appear to have committed suicide. He compelled them at gunpoint to choose between one of two pills, one harmless and one poison. Then he’d take the other.”
The horror of being faced with such a choice flooded me. “That’s diabolical.”
“Indeed. I found myself on the receiving end of this situation. I must admit that it was entirely my own fault. I was fascinated by the man’s methods and allowed myself to be drawn in. John discovered what had happened and tracked me. I was about to swallow the pill I had chosen when he shot my captor through two sets of windows from a hundred meters away.” He gave a little sigh. “He saved my life. At least, he thought he did.”
“He thought he did?”
“The truth is that I was in no danger. The murderer’s gun was fake, as I had already determined. All I had to do was walk away, but he…” Sherlock fidgeted a bit. “I could not resist the chance to prove myself better than his game, to choose the correct pill, the one that would spare me but kill him. I still believe that I was correct. Your father had no way of knowing this, of course. He believed me to be under forcible coercion, and that by shooting my captor he was saving me. I have never corrected this misapprehension, although given how well he knows me, he must suspect.” Sherlock folded his hands on the table and looked right into my eyes. “Genie, your father appears to be an ordinary man, but he is not. I’ve no doubt that you know this. It was that night that I first learned of it. He was the first person I had ever met who confounded my expectations, and he has continued to do so over our long, convoluted association. There are very few people in this world whom I like and even fewer whom I respect, and only one whose opinion of me matters. Long before I met him, I had committed myself to a life of solitude. I did not believe myself desiring or even capable of such a banal, inconvenient emotion such as love. I had seen what it does to people, and how many crimes are committed in its name. I thought myself above such concerns. I did not think there existed such a person alive who’d be capable of swaying me away from this belief. As I said, your father has a habit of confounding my expectations.” He nodded at my plate. “Finish your dinner, we’ve got to be off to the club soon, you’ve a game in half an hour. I’m going to settle our bill. I’ll be waiting outside.” He got up and swirled off.
I just sat there, staring at my half-finished Reuben sandwich (oh my god so tasty). Sherlock had just laid a lot of stuff on me. I knew my father had served in a war, and I also knew that he’d killed at least one other person in self-defense as a civilian (because I saw it happen), but I’d had no idea that he’d shot a man the very first night he’d known Sherlock. Why had he never told me? Was he afraid I’d be shocked or traumatized? That ship has well sailed, I think.
And why had Sherlock suddenly decided to unburden his soul to me tonight? But, then again – had he? He hadn’t really told me anything I didn’t already know (except for the whole shot-a-man bit), I’d just never heard it from his own lips before. I’d known that Dad was a surface-unassuming, secretly-badass man, and that Sherlock was quite helpless to control how he felt about him. I’ve no doubt that if he could have ripped it out of himself early on to preserve his dispassionate state of unattachment, he would have. But it’s too late now. He’s committed. He’s adjusted his life expectations, and they now include my father’s love and their life together, which includes me and mum.
I went outside. He was standing on the pavement, watching the people go by. Without a word, we fell into step and walked back to the club, where I won another game.
This morning he was quiet, and so was I. I’m feeling a little homesick. I miss Mum and Dad and Zack and Baker Street. I was so excited to be here, and I still am, but now I’m starting to feel excited to go home, too. Home to where people drive on the proper side of the road and the shop clerks don’t grin at you like Disney puppets.
I lost my morning game. It didn’t help my mood. “Don’t look so downhearted,” Sherlock said when I joined him in the lounge afterwards. “You’re still running one of the best records of the tournament.”
“I should have beaten him. I’ve got twenty points on him.”
“You’ve beaten players with higher ratings than you, it stands to reason that the opposite will sometimes occur.”
“Oh, hang you and your logic,” I said, but I was smiling a little. I leaned into his side and rested my head on his shoulder. “I miss home.”
“We’ll be back there soon enough.”
“You miss Dad?”
He hesitated. “Very much,” he said, quietly.
“I don’t think I ever said thanks for coming with me on this trip,” I said.
He looked down at me. “No thanks are required. I believe such things are my responsibility as a parent, are they not?”
“Still. I know how much you hate being away from your work.”
“That hate is somewhat mitigated by my enjoyment in watching you play.”
I grinned. “You mean, your enjoyment in watching me kick ass?”
“I believe the two are synonymous,” he said, smirking at me.
It was then that one of the FIDE officials came up to tell me that my afternoon game was cancelled due to withdrawal of my assigned opponent, and my next game wouldn’t be until after dinner. Sherlock went off in search of tea and I came in here to start this blog entry.
It’s four o’clock now. I’d better get some dinner before my next game, at six.
Where the hell is Sherlock, anyway?
later
Sherlock has not come back from his tea-errand. I’m starting to freak out.
I went to find him so we could go get dinner. He wasn’t in the lounge, he wasn’t anywhere in the club. Nobody had seen him. I texted him and got no answer. I even tried calling, no answer.
I walked to Gray’s Papaya by myself and got a hot dog. Going to Gray’s Papaya for dinner. Meet me there. I spent the whole time I was eating watching for him, looking for his black coat swirling toward me. He didn’t come.
He’s just caught a whiff of something interesting and gone off after it. He does that. He’ll turn up for my evening game. I didn’t really believe this. Sherlock is easily distracted, too true, but I didn’t honestly think he’d abandon me on some random quest without a word, and not answer my texts, of which I have now sent at least a dozen.
I hung around the lounge for as long as possible before my game, waiting for him, but he didn’t show up. I finally had to go take my place at the board. I was super distracted and I played abysmally. My opponent won in a quick hour-long game. I hardly cared, all I wanted to do was run and see if Sherlock was back.
He wasn’t. I’m still at the club. I’m going to wait for a bit to see if he shows, then I’ll go back to the hotel.
later
I can finally type again. Had a bit of a hysterical crying jag.
Sherlock is gone. He’s just gone. He isn’t here. He is nowhere. Before too long we’ll be upgrading his status to missing.
Right after my last update I went and found Jason Fitzwallace, the president of the Marshall Chess Club and more or less our host for this tournament. “Hello, Genie,” he said, cheerily. “Bit of a rough one, that last game, huh?”
I didn’t care about that, not one little bit. “Mr. Fitzwallace, I think I might have a problem. It’s my dad. I can’t find him anywhere. He went out just after lunch looking for a good cup of tea and he hasn’t come back. He isn’t answering my texts and calls and that isn’t like him. He missed my evening game.”
His expression turned concerned. “He’s been very attentive so far.”
“Yes, I know! This just isn’t like him. I don’t know what to do.” My voice shook a bit on that last.
“Of course. Don’t worry. Let’s make some calls.” He put his arm around me and took me to the club’s office. He and his assistant called the police and the hospitals to see if perhaps he’d been in some kind of accident. They came up empty. I just kept texting him and calling him. Nothing. It was unnerving. Sherlock can no more ignore a text message than he could stop blinking.
I thought about calling Dad. No, not yet. Wait until you’re sure it’s serious. I was having more and more difficulty imagining a scenario that would explain all this that didn’t involve catastrophe of some kind.
He wouldn’t leave me alone in a strange city, not without a word. He just wouldn’t.
Jason Fitzwallace offered to take me back to his house with his wife and kids and stay the night, so I wouldn’t be alone, but I just wanted to go back to the hotel.
I checked at the front desk. No messages for me or for Sherlock. I ran up to our room, hoping against hope that I’d burst in and find that he’d just fallen really deep asleep or something.
The room was empty. All our luggage was still there, including his. I sat down on the bed and called him again.
I heard his phone ring. From inside the room.
His phone was sitting on the little table by the window. I picked it up. My hand was shaking. All my text messages and voicemails were on it, unread.
Sherlock would never, and I mean never, leave without his phone. Not if he had a choice.
I called Dad.
“Hello? Genie?” He sounded asleep. It was after one o’clock in the morning at home.
“Dad?” I could hear my voice starting to waver and go all high-pitched.
“What’s wrong?” He was instantly awake.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Something’s happened. Sherlock’s gone.”
“What? What’s happened? He’s – he’s what?”
I told him the whole sequence of events. “He wouldn’t do this, Daddy, he wouldn’t leave me alone, he wouldn’t leave his phone, something must have happened to him. He’s just gone and I don’t know what to do.”
“No. No, he wouldn’t leave you alone.” Dad sounded just as sure about that as I was. “Genie, listen to me very closely, all right? I want you to stay in your hotel room. Do not leave. Do not, I repeat, do not go out and try to look for him. Stay where you are.” I could hear rustlings and something slamming about and I knew that he was getting dressed and packing. “I’m coming over there, right now, as soon as I can get a flight. I’m going to call Mycroft. He will handle everything. He will talk to the American police. Someone may come to ask you questions or take you somewhere. If they are from me or from Mycroft, they will know the password. You remember the password?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice all thick now.
“If they don’t know the password, do not open the door, do not talk to them. Call Mycroft and tell them someone’s trying to talk to you.”
“Daddy, what is all this? What’s going on? You sound like you already know what’s happened?”
He sighed. “Sweetheart, I don’t want to scare you.”
“I’m already scared! Don’t keep things from me, that makes it worse! I’m not a baby, I need all the information you can give me.”
“There are people in the world who would hurt Sherlock if they could. There are others who would want to use him, for his skills.”
“You think somebody took him?”
“Unless he’s been hurt or in an accident and can’t communicate, that’s the only explanation that makes any sense.” Dad sounded all stony and determined, although I knew what this had to be doing to him inside. “But I don’t have time to talk about it now. You mind what I said. I will be there as soon as I can. I’ll call you when I’ve got a flight.”
“Okay,” I whispered. “Hurry.”
“I’m hurrying, darling. Stay where you are. And Genie – don’t tell anyone else about this. Not Zack, not anybody. If Mr. Fitzwallace asks, say you’ve heard from Sherlock and he’s fine and everything’s sorted.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Try and get some sleep.” He hung up.
And then came the hysterical crying jag.
I had a shower and put my pajamas on. Sleep. Sure, right. That’ll happen.
I just sat on my bed and looked around the room, like Sherlock might pop out of the walls or suddenly materialize. I looked over at the door and realized I hadn’t bolted it. I hurried over to secure the deadbolt and the chain.
That’s when I saw it. On the floor, behind the door where I hadn’t seen it when I came in.
It was the small printout of the photo of me, Dad and Sherlock at last summer’s Pride parade. The photo that Sherlock keeps in his wallet. He’d had it tucked behind some business cards, folded in half. It could not have fallen out on accident.
He had dropped it. On purpose.
I thought back to his odd confessional to me the day before. His sudden desire for tea. He’d come back here and left his phone, and this photo.
He knew. He knew somebody was following him, or watching him, or what have you. He’d known something was going to happen.
If I ever get him back, after I’ve hugged him silly, he’s going to get a very thorough being-killed.
That last line is a bit of a borrow from Buffy, or more specifically from Giles, who spoke a variation on it in the episode "A New Man."
Next Entry
Author: MadLori
Length: 3800
Genre: Family, humor, shameless fluff
Pairing: Sherlock/John (established), John/OFC (referenced, in the past)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Teenagerfic
Summary:This is why I like having Sherlock as a chaperone when I go to tourneys. For one thing, he can (almost) understand the level of chess-playing that goes on in competition. If you can’t follow what’s happening, it gets boring. Second, he doesn’t bug me with conversation and attempts to buck me up between games like Mum and Dad do. I know they mean well, but it’s just distracting. When he’s with me at a tournament and we go for a bite, he doesn’t try to talk to me unless I talk first. He leaves me alone to obsess over the thirty-fourth move of my last game and whether or not it could have left me open to attack from the opposing rook.
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Jack of All Trades
6 December
I had such good intentions for this week. I was going to liveblog my entire tournament experience. Use my tablet and make updates to a constantly-renewed document which I could then post in its entirety and it’d be oh-so-virtual. Well, that all went out the window the first time I sat across a chessboard from an actual opponent here.
Sherlock talks about being on a case and not being able to think about anything else, or focus on anything else. I know how he feels, because I get like that when I’m competing. My whole brain clicks over to Chess Mode and even when I’m sitting having a sandwich, I’m seeing moves and countermoves in my head.
This is why I like having Sherlock as a chaperone when I go to tourneys. For one thing, he can (almost) understand the level of chess-playing that goes on in competition. If you can’t follow what’s happening, it gets boring. Second, he doesn’t bug me with conversation and attempts to buck me up between games like Mum and Dad do. I know they mean well, but it’s just distracting. When he’s with me at a tournament and we go for a bite, he doesn’t try to talk to me unless I talk first. He leaves me alone to obsess over the thirty-fourth move of my last game and whether or not it could have left me open to attack from the opposing rook.
So here it is, Wednesday. The tourney is halfway over and I’ve yet to write a blog entry, which leaves me with rather a lot to catch up. I’m taking advantage of some afternoon downtime to do just that. The opponent I was to face this afternoon withdrew from the tournament, so I’ve got some unexpected liberty. Sherlock has faffed off in search of a decent cup of tea and I have another game after dinner, so I’m just holed up in one of the smaller rooms typing away.
Backing up. On Sunday, Sherlock and I had brunch at this little place called French Roast around the corner from the hotel. It’s open twenty-four hours a day. They seemed to be going for a French-cuisine thing but it was pretty casual. I had an omelet, which was roughly the size of my face. Sherlock was right about another thing, too. The coffee here is amazing.
Then, it was time to go to the Marshall Chess Club. I was a little intimidated. The greatest chess minds of all time have played here. This is where the Game of the Century was played between Donald Byrne and Bobby Fischer, who was only thirteen at the time. The minute we walked in, though, I felt like I had found my people. A lot of them knew who I was, and I knew a fair number of them from other tourneys. It was a big frenzy of greetings and handshakes and hugs and introductions. Sherlock let me to it and went and sat in the corner with a book and his mobile. Poor Dad. I bet he gets eight bajillion texts from him today.
I played eight games and won six. The two I lost were both to international grandmasters. I beat one guy who’s got almost a hundred Elo points on me. He seemed impressed. I was kind of impressed myself. I got so into it that I barely looked up until suddenly Sherlock was saying that we ought to get me some dinner. Dinner? Yeah, I’d been playing chess for eight hours straight.
We just went back to French Roast. I was feeling the jet lag a little, and he didn’t say so but I know Sherlock was, too. Contrary to what he’d have you believe, he is human. We went to bed early.
On Monday, the tournament began. I’m not sure how to write about it. It’s not easy blogging about chess games. How do I describe various moves again and again? It’ll be boring to just about anyone else but me and my fellow players, and I have all my sheets to remind me of the games. I can recreate every move later with Leonid and analyze my strategy. He’ll tell me that some of the games I won, I should have lost, and some of the ones I lost, I should have won. It’s rare for him to tell me that a victory was deserved or a loss was inevitable. But that’s why he’s the teacher and I’m not.
I won my first two games on Monday morning. Both were over fairly quickly, which is usually how it goes for me at the start of tournaments. This is a side effect of my lifestyle. See, opponents are matched up partly by Elo rating, and according to Leonid, my level of play is a good hundred points higher than my rating reflects. This is because given my schedule, my classes and other activities, I don’t have as much chance to play in FIDE tournaments where I can earn points. Therefore I get underestimated at the outset and matched with players less skilled. It doesn’t last long, though. As the tourney progresses, players start getting matched up by win-loss record, and that’s when I start getting more appropriate matches.
After my morning games we had some time to kill, so Sherlock and I walked a few blocks away looking for a place to eat. We ended up at this odd corner joint called Gray’s Papaya, which sounds like a fruit market but is actually a hot dog restaurant. It was fantastic! When we got back, I told everyone where we’d eaten and asked them if they knew about it. They all had a good laugh at my expense. Apparently Gray’s Papaya is one of those famous New York landmarks that everyone has to eat at when they visit, like – I don’t know. The Four Seasons? But with hot dogs. Who knew?
By Tuesday night I was at 5-2. I hadn’t drawn any games yet, which is rare. I was feeling confident enough to engage in actual conversation over dinner, at some pizza place that one of the other players recommended. Sherlock didn’t eat. I think I ate enough for both of us. The pizza was huge and floppy and greasy and cheesy and disgusting and absolutely brilliant. I wasn’t sure how I ought to eat it until I saw people around me folding up the slices, so I did the same.
“I’ve never seen you play like this,” Sherlock said. “You’re being faster, more decisive.”
“I’m feeling well sharp.”
“It shows. Your first opponent this morning didn’t know what hit him.”
I grinned. “I know.” He’d been a cocky guy in his early twenties with fifty rank points on me who’d sat down with almost an eyeroll, thinking about how stoutly he was about to trounce me, and I’d sent him running away with his tail between his legs. In twenty-nine moves. Because that’s how I roll.
“Leonid will be thrilled.”
“I can’t think about that while I’m playing. Or about you, or Mum and Dad watching. I have to play the board before me.” I took a bit bite and chewed. “Of course I’m never really playing the board.”
“You’re playing the person sitting across from you.”
“Right.”
Sherlock stared off into space, his eyes far away. “You want to know the truth?” he said, out of the blue.
I had no idea what he was talking about. “What truth?”
“About me and your father. Our…what was it? Grand romance.”
“Oh! Of course I do!”
“What you just said, about playing the person, not the board. It – recalled something to my mind.” He went quiet, his ‘thinky thoughts’ expression on his face. “The first night we met, John shot a man to save my life.”
I went very still. “What?” Sherlock just looked at me. I’d heard him and he knew it. “He – shot a man?”
“Yes. Not a very nice man,” he amended, the corner of his mouth quirking a bit. “We were pursuing a serial killer who made his victims appear to have committed suicide. He compelled them at gunpoint to choose between one of two pills, one harmless and one poison. Then he’d take the other.”
The horror of being faced with such a choice flooded me. “That’s diabolical.”
“Indeed. I found myself on the receiving end of this situation. I must admit that it was entirely my own fault. I was fascinated by the man’s methods and allowed myself to be drawn in. John discovered what had happened and tracked me. I was about to swallow the pill I had chosen when he shot my captor through two sets of windows from a hundred meters away.” He gave a little sigh. “He saved my life. At least, he thought he did.”
“He thought he did?”
“The truth is that I was in no danger. The murderer’s gun was fake, as I had already determined. All I had to do was walk away, but he…” Sherlock fidgeted a bit. “I could not resist the chance to prove myself better than his game, to choose the correct pill, the one that would spare me but kill him. I still believe that I was correct. Your father had no way of knowing this, of course. He believed me to be under forcible coercion, and that by shooting my captor he was saving me. I have never corrected this misapprehension, although given how well he knows me, he must suspect.” Sherlock folded his hands on the table and looked right into my eyes. “Genie, your father appears to be an ordinary man, but he is not. I’ve no doubt that you know this. It was that night that I first learned of it. He was the first person I had ever met who confounded my expectations, and he has continued to do so over our long, convoluted association. There are very few people in this world whom I like and even fewer whom I respect, and only one whose opinion of me matters. Long before I met him, I had committed myself to a life of solitude. I did not believe myself desiring or even capable of such a banal, inconvenient emotion such as love. I had seen what it does to people, and how many crimes are committed in its name. I thought myself above such concerns. I did not think there existed such a person alive who’d be capable of swaying me away from this belief. As I said, your father has a habit of confounding my expectations.” He nodded at my plate. “Finish your dinner, we’ve got to be off to the club soon, you’ve a game in half an hour. I’m going to settle our bill. I’ll be waiting outside.” He got up and swirled off.
I just sat there, staring at my half-finished Reuben sandwich (oh my god so tasty). Sherlock had just laid a lot of stuff on me. I knew my father had served in a war, and I also knew that he’d killed at least one other person in self-defense as a civilian (because I saw it happen), but I’d had no idea that he’d shot a man the very first night he’d known Sherlock. Why had he never told me? Was he afraid I’d be shocked or traumatized? That ship has well sailed, I think.
And why had Sherlock suddenly decided to unburden his soul to me tonight? But, then again – had he? He hadn’t really told me anything I didn’t already know (except for the whole shot-a-man bit), I’d just never heard it from his own lips before. I’d known that Dad was a surface-unassuming, secretly-badass man, and that Sherlock was quite helpless to control how he felt about him. I’ve no doubt that if he could have ripped it out of himself early on to preserve his dispassionate state of unattachment, he would have. But it’s too late now. He’s committed. He’s adjusted his life expectations, and they now include my father’s love and their life together, which includes me and mum.
I went outside. He was standing on the pavement, watching the people go by. Without a word, we fell into step and walked back to the club, where I won another game.
This morning he was quiet, and so was I. I’m feeling a little homesick. I miss Mum and Dad and Zack and Baker Street. I was so excited to be here, and I still am, but now I’m starting to feel excited to go home, too. Home to where people drive on the proper side of the road and the shop clerks don’t grin at you like Disney puppets.
I lost my morning game. It didn’t help my mood. “Don’t look so downhearted,” Sherlock said when I joined him in the lounge afterwards. “You’re still running one of the best records of the tournament.”
“I should have beaten him. I’ve got twenty points on him.”
“You’ve beaten players with higher ratings than you, it stands to reason that the opposite will sometimes occur.”
“Oh, hang you and your logic,” I said, but I was smiling a little. I leaned into his side and rested my head on his shoulder. “I miss home.”
“We’ll be back there soon enough.”
“You miss Dad?”
He hesitated. “Very much,” he said, quietly.
“I don’t think I ever said thanks for coming with me on this trip,” I said.
He looked down at me. “No thanks are required. I believe such things are my responsibility as a parent, are they not?”
“Still. I know how much you hate being away from your work.”
“That hate is somewhat mitigated by my enjoyment in watching you play.”
I grinned. “You mean, your enjoyment in watching me kick ass?”
“I believe the two are synonymous,” he said, smirking at me.
It was then that one of the FIDE officials came up to tell me that my afternoon game was cancelled due to withdrawal of my assigned opponent, and my next game wouldn’t be until after dinner. Sherlock went off in search of tea and I came in here to start this blog entry.
It’s four o’clock now. I’d better get some dinner before my next game, at six.
Where the hell is Sherlock, anyway?
later
Sherlock has not come back from his tea-errand. I’m starting to freak out.
I went to find him so we could go get dinner. He wasn’t in the lounge, he wasn’t anywhere in the club. Nobody had seen him. I texted him and got no answer. I even tried calling, no answer.
I walked to Gray’s Papaya by myself and got a hot dog. Going to Gray’s Papaya for dinner. Meet me there. I spent the whole time I was eating watching for him, looking for his black coat swirling toward me. He didn’t come.
He’s just caught a whiff of something interesting and gone off after it. He does that. He’ll turn up for my evening game. I didn’t really believe this. Sherlock is easily distracted, too true, but I didn’t honestly think he’d abandon me on some random quest without a word, and not answer my texts, of which I have now sent at least a dozen.
I hung around the lounge for as long as possible before my game, waiting for him, but he didn’t show up. I finally had to go take my place at the board. I was super distracted and I played abysmally. My opponent won in a quick hour-long game. I hardly cared, all I wanted to do was run and see if Sherlock was back.
He wasn’t. I’m still at the club. I’m going to wait for a bit to see if he shows, then I’ll go back to the hotel.
later
I can finally type again. Had a bit of a hysterical crying jag.
Sherlock is gone. He’s just gone. He isn’t here. He is nowhere. Before too long we’ll be upgrading his status to missing.
Right after my last update I went and found Jason Fitzwallace, the president of the Marshall Chess Club and more or less our host for this tournament. “Hello, Genie,” he said, cheerily. “Bit of a rough one, that last game, huh?”
I didn’t care about that, not one little bit. “Mr. Fitzwallace, I think I might have a problem. It’s my dad. I can’t find him anywhere. He went out just after lunch looking for a good cup of tea and he hasn’t come back. He isn’t answering my texts and calls and that isn’t like him. He missed my evening game.”
His expression turned concerned. “He’s been very attentive so far.”
“Yes, I know! This just isn’t like him. I don’t know what to do.” My voice shook a bit on that last.
“Of course. Don’t worry. Let’s make some calls.” He put his arm around me and took me to the club’s office. He and his assistant called the police and the hospitals to see if perhaps he’d been in some kind of accident. They came up empty. I just kept texting him and calling him. Nothing. It was unnerving. Sherlock can no more ignore a text message than he could stop blinking.
I thought about calling Dad. No, not yet. Wait until you’re sure it’s serious. I was having more and more difficulty imagining a scenario that would explain all this that didn’t involve catastrophe of some kind.
He wouldn’t leave me alone in a strange city, not without a word. He just wouldn’t.
Jason Fitzwallace offered to take me back to his house with his wife and kids and stay the night, so I wouldn’t be alone, but I just wanted to go back to the hotel.
I checked at the front desk. No messages for me or for Sherlock. I ran up to our room, hoping against hope that I’d burst in and find that he’d just fallen really deep asleep or something.
The room was empty. All our luggage was still there, including his. I sat down on the bed and called him again.
I heard his phone ring. From inside the room.
His phone was sitting on the little table by the window. I picked it up. My hand was shaking. All my text messages and voicemails were on it, unread.
Sherlock would never, and I mean never, leave without his phone. Not if he had a choice.
I called Dad.
“Hello? Genie?” He sounded asleep. It was after one o’clock in the morning at home.
“Dad?” I could hear my voice starting to waver and go all high-pitched.
“What’s wrong?” He was instantly awake.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Something’s happened. Sherlock’s gone.”
“What? What’s happened? He’s – he’s what?”
I told him the whole sequence of events. “He wouldn’t do this, Daddy, he wouldn’t leave me alone, he wouldn’t leave his phone, something must have happened to him. He’s just gone and I don’t know what to do.”
“No. No, he wouldn’t leave you alone.” Dad sounded just as sure about that as I was. “Genie, listen to me very closely, all right? I want you to stay in your hotel room. Do not leave. Do not, I repeat, do not go out and try to look for him. Stay where you are.” I could hear rustlings and something slamming about and I knew that he was getting dressed and packing. “I’m coming over there, right now, as soon as I can get a flight. I’m going to call Mycroft. He will handle everything. He will talk to the American police. Someone may come to ask you questions or take you somewhere. If they are from me or from Mycroft, they will know the password. You remember the password?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice all thick now.
“If they don’t know the password, do not open the door, do not talk to them. Call Mycroft and tell them someone’s trying to talk to you.”
“Daddy, what is all this? What’s going on? You sound like you already know what’s happened?”
He sighed. “Sweetheart, I don’t want to scare you.”
“I’m already scared! Don’t keep things from me, that makes it worse! I’m not a baby, I need all the information you can give me.”
“There are people in the world who would hurt Sherlock if they could. There are others who would want to use him, for his skills.”
“You think somebody took him?”
“Unless he’s been hurt or in an accident and can’t communicate, that’s the only explanation that makes any sense.” Dad sounded all stony and determined, although I knew what this had to be doing to him inside. “But I don’t have time to talk about it now. You mind what I said. I will be there as soon as I can. I’ll call you when I’ve got a flight.”
“Okay,” I whispered. “Hurry.”
“I’m hurrying, darling. Stay where you are. And Genie – don’t tell anyone else about this. Not Zack, not anybody. If Mr. Fitzwallace asks, say you’ve heard from Sherlock and he’s fine and everything’s sorted.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Try and get some sleep.” He hung up.
And then came the hysterical crying jag.
I had a shower and put my pajamas on. Sleep. Sure, right. That’ll happen.
I just sat on my bed and looked around the room, like Sherlock might pop out of the walls or suddenly materialize. I looked over at the door and realized I hadn’t bolted it. I hurried over to secure the deadbolt and the chain.
That’s when I saw it. On the floor, behind the door where I hadn’t seen it when I came in.
It was the small printout of the photo of me, Dad and Sherlock at last summer’s Pride parade. The photo that Sherlock keeps in his wallet. He’d had it tucked behind some business cards, folded in half. It could not have fallen out on accident.
He had dropped it. On purpose.
I thought back to his odd confessional to me the day before. His sudden desire for tea. He’d come back here and left his phone, and this photo.
He knew. He knew somebody was following him, or watching him, or what have you. He’d known something was going to happen.
If I ever get him back, after I’ve hugged him silly, he’s going to get a very thorough being-killed.
That last line is a bit of a borrow from Buffy, or more specifically from Giles, who spoke a variation on it in the episode "A New Man."
Next Entry
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 12:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 10:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 01:16 am (UTC)I've just caught up on several blog entries and I've got to say you are doing a fantastic job of keeping the subjects fresh and varied; I love the little glimpses of John/Sherlock that Genie gets to see. I'm looking forward to your "origins" story.
I'm going away to Europe tomorrow so I won't be able to catch up with these until I get back. Can't wait to see what happens - whether Sherlock walked voluntarily into a trap, or if he was really surprised. I won't be too surprised if it was the former, it's so typical of him. =p
*thumbs up* and keep up with the awesome writing!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 02:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 01:22 am (UTC):O
Oooh, you are evil, putting me in shock and leaving it there!! Brilliant, as always. Can't wait for the next chapter!!!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 01:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 09:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 02:06 am (UTC):D
no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 09:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 02:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 09:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 02:51 am (UTC)(as long as Genie is safe and Sherlock can get back to John)
don't leave us hanging on for too long, dearie, some of us are getting on in years
no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 09:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 02:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 09:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 03:47 am (UTC)I can see why Sherlock dropped the picture; he wouldn't want who ever was following/kidnapping him to know too much about Genie.
Sherlock, you're only supposed to get kidnapped on Tuesdays!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 09:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 04:35 am (UTC)I'll let Martin handle my reaction to the end of this chapter.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 10:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 06:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 06:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 06:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 07:34 am (UTC)I do hate you a bit, but not as much as i love you
no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 08:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 08:11 am (UTC)Another excellent entry, well done!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-28 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 10:08 am (UTC)I was first excited about the "It's not chance, it's chess" reference from SIP and waggling my finger at what a clever writer you were and then Boom! Drama!
GO JOHN GO. GO TO AMERICA AND SAVE YOUR HUSBAND
Can't wait for the next entry!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-28 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-28 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-28 12:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-29 05:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-28 02:33 am (UTC)HOW CAN YOU JUST LEAVE IT THERE
no subject
Date: 2011-06-29 05:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-28 02:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-28 07:26 pm (UTC)I like how you just casually dropped this line in: I also knew that he’d killed at least one other person in self-defense as a civilian (because I saw it happen). What? How when where what? :)
no subject
Date: 2011-06-28 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-29 05:38 pm (UTC)Yey me :)
no subject
Date: 2011-06-29 07:22 pm (UTC)This is so sad, with Sherlock being all contemplative and talking about missing John and leaving his photo :'( I hope for Genie's sake John gets there soon - everything will be ok once Jon's on the scene... or at least a lot better :)
no subject
Date: 2011-08-02 10:27 am (UTC)