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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:I’ll get this out of the way up front: still no sign of Sherlock. From the time I last saw him it’s now been – lemme check the time – two days, eight hours. I am on the plane home. I’ll catch you up, don’t worry, Mythical Nonexistent Blog Reader Who Is Rapidly Becoming My Secret Imaginary Friend and Confessor.
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Who Can’t Be Arsed To Think of a Clever Title Right Now
8 December
I’ll get this out of the way up front: still no sign of Sherlock. From the time I last saw him it’s now been – lemme check the time – two days, eight hours. I am on the plane home. I’ll catch you up, don’t worry, Mythical Nonexistent Blog Reader Who Is Rapidly Becoming My Secret Imaginary Friend and Confessor.
I managed to get some sleep that first night. Pure adrenaline makes you crash pretty hard once the rush is over. I woke up to my phone ringing. It was Dad.
“Any sign of him?” He didn’t even say hello.
“No. I’ve been in the room the whole time.”
“I’ve got a flight out. I’ll be boarding here in a few minutes I ought to be there by afternoon.”
“Dad, I – I want to keep playing in the tournament.”
He sighed. “I don’t like the idea of you leaving the hotel alone.”
“It’s only one street over. I can’t just sit here, I’ll run mad. Anyway, Sherlock would want me to play.” I hated the way that sounded, like he was dead and I was honoring his last wish, or something.
“Well – all right. But stay at the club, don’t wander about. I’ll come there when I arrive.”
“Okay. See you soon. And Dad?”
“What?”
“We’re gonna find him.”
He was quiet for a moment. “That’s right, Genie. We are. I’ll see you soon.” He hung up.
I sat there for a few moments, gathering my nerve, then I got in the shower. By the time I was ready to leave it was too late for me to get breakfast, but there would be coffee and donuts at the club.
When I opened the door, there was a man standing there.
After I recovered from my near heart attack, I observed that he was not making any hostile moves. “Miss Watson?” he said, politely.
“Yes?”
“Your uncle sent me. I’m to watch over you.” He had a Yorkshire accent. He was from home. How had Mycroft gotten him here so fast?
I remembered Dad’s warning. “What’s the password?”
He nodded approvingly. “Stradivarius.”
I eyed him for another moment. That was the password. But could this man have overcome the real bodyguard and tortured the password out of him?
I was starting to see how people become paralyzed with paranoia. “All right, then,” I said. “I’m going to the chess club for my tournament.”
“I’ll be going with you.”
“Okay.”
He walked at my side the whole way. He didn’t offer any introductions or small talk and I didn’t, either. I was too distracted to make conversation, anyway. My phone rang as we were walking up to the club, so I sat down outside to answer it. It was Mum. “Hi, Mum,” I said.
“Are you okay, Genie?”
“I’m okay. Mycroft sent me a bodyguard.”
“Did you…”
“He knew the password. It’s all right.”
“Your dad said you were going to keep playing. Are you sure?”
“Mum, I’m going to go crazy otherwise. I don’t care if I lose every game, I just want to think about something else. I need the distraction.”
“I certainly understand that. Well, your father’s plane left half an hour ago. He’ll be there soon, so you just hang on.”
“I wish everybody would stop worrying about me!” I exclaimed. “I’m not the one who’s missing, or maybe hurt, or even…” I couldn’t finish.
“Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. You know how clever Sherlock is. He’s going to be just fine.”
“But, Mum – what if he, what if…”
“Genie. Don’t think like that.”
I sniffed and wiped at my eyes. “I don’t want to lose him.”
“None of us do. We’re not going to.”
“Dad would never get over it.”
“Nothing bad is going to happen.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I know that it won’t help you or anybody to assume the worst.”
“Yes, it will. If I assume the worst, then I can only be pleasantly surprised.”
Mum sighed. “I’m going to try and stay optimistic, sweetheart.”
“I’ll try, too, but I can’t help it if a little fatalism sneaks in.” I shut my eyes. “I miss you, Mummy.”
“Oh, Genie. I miss you awfully. I’ll be seeing you soon. You call me anytime, day or night, if you need to talk.”
“Okay. I gotta go, I’ve got a game soon.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you, too.” I hung up. Me and my attack dog went inside the club.
Jason Fitzwallace was waiting for me inside. “Genie! Any news of…”
“It’s all right, Mr. Fitzwallace. I’ve heard from my dad, he was called away on an emergency at work. My other dad is on his way here. In the meantime, this is Mr…Croft. He’s sort of a temporary chaperone.”
He looked relieved. “Oh, I’m so glad. Well, welcome, Mr. Croft. Genie, you’re playing in ten minutes.”
“Let me grab a cup of coffee and I’ll be ready.”
And strange as it sounds, I was. I was more than ready. If I couldn’t go out and round up the usual suspects and conduct badass interrogations to find Sherlock, if I couldn’t pound the pavement and order surveillance and mobilize a task force, at the very least I could trounce this poseur sitting across the chessboard from me.
And trounce her, I did. My first opponent conceded after an astonishingly brief game of fourteen moves. “You’ve got me at checkmate in twelve moves,” she said.
“Eight,” I corrected. I shook her hand and moved on to the next.
Four more opponents fell that morning and afternoon. I wouldn’t have even stopped for lunch, but Mr. Croft made me eat. I dragged him to Gray’s Papaya, which had acquired a strange talismanic quality for me, and had the amusing diversion of watching him discover the wonder of their hot dogs.
I didn’t get a break until three o’clock. My next opponent was still playing his current game and they looked like they’d be at it for awhile. Mr. Croft and I went for a coffee from the nearest Starbucks.
When we got back, Dad was sitting in the lobby.
My self-control took a bit of a hit at the sight of him. Dad was here, that meant everything would be okay and I could stop being brave and just go ahead and freak the hell out if I needed to. He stood up and smiled at me and I couldn’t even talk, I just ran and flung myself into his arms. “Genie,” he said into my neck, hugging me so tight he lifted me off the ground a little. Not much – he can’t, he’s only three inches taller than me.
I drew back and looked at him. He looked exhausted and upset and about ten years older than he usually looks. “Are you okay?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. But this isn’t about me. Are you okay?”
“I’m dealing. I won four games today.”
He forced a smile. “Good. That’s good.”
“Dad, what did Mycroft say? What’s going on? Has he been able to find anything out?”
“I just talked to him. There’s nothing yet. They don’t have CCTV cameras here like we have at home. There are cameras in the lobby of your hotel. They have him on film leaving the hotel lobby, alone, just after four o’clock. None of the cab companies picked him up. Mycroft’s people are canvassing the neighborhood looking for anybody who might have seen him. They’ve double-checked all the hospitals and morgues and police stations, but he didn’t turn up in any of those places.” Dad stopped and took a deep breath. He rubbed a hand through his hair like he was buying himself time.
“Nothing, in other words,” I said.
“Yeah. Nothing.” He looked past me into the club. “When’s your next game?”
“Fifteen minutes. It’s my last of the day.”
His mouth worked and he looked a little shamefaced. “Genie, I – would you be upset if…”
“Go. Dad, go. Seriously.”
“Mycroft’s arranged for me to be a consultant to the police and the people he has here looking. Nobody knows Sherlock like I do.”
“Then you’re wasted here. You’d just be distracting me. Go find him, please.”
He looked relieved, and pulled me into another tight hug, then kissed my cheek. “Text me when you’re done, I’ll meet you at the hotel.”
“Okay.” He still looked worried. “Dad, Mr. Croft will look after me. Promise.”
“All right, then.” He exchanged a nod with Mr. Croft and left, turning back when he got to the door. I waved, and then he was off.
I turned to Mr. Croft. “All right. Time to beat up on somebody.”
As it turned out, my evening game was a bit of a marathon. Four hours I slogged it out with this bloke from Michigan. We were very evenly matched. We were the last ones playing and by the time we were done, everyone else was huddled around us, watching. There were only ten pieces left on the board by the time I checkmated him. Everyone clapped.
I was tempted to go out for coffee with some of the other players, but Mr. Croft was giving me a stern look so I declined. I texted Dad that I was on my way to the hotel, and within twenty minutes I was safe in my room with Mr. Croft outside the door. Dad arrived half an hour later, looking even more tired. “Anything?” I said, getting up off the bed to hug him.
He shook his head. “No. Mycroft’s lead investigator is about 98% sure that Sherlock’s been taken out of the country. The trail is pretty cold. The team’s going to send the video of Sherlock in the lobby here to my computer so I can look at it. They’re hoping I see something.” He sighed. “What are you doing?”
“Watching ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ on the telly.”
He put on a pretty convincing smile. “Brilliant, I love that film.” He sat on the bed propped up against the headboard. I clambered up next to him and cuddled up to his side a bit. He put his arm around me and I tried to pretend that everything was okay. It didn’t really work out very well.
We stared at the screen for a bit. I don’t think either of us was really watching. “Where is he, Dad?” I whispered.
He was quiet for a moment. “I wish I knew, Genie.” He sounded so hollow, it broke me a little bit.
I looked up at his face. Maybe I could get him talking about something happier. I could stand to hear something happier, too. “Did you propose to Sherlock, or did he propose to you?”
He smiled a little. “Don’t you remember?”
“No. I don’t know if I ever knew. I remember the wedding. I remember you two sitting me down and telling me that you were getting married. I was confused because I’d sort of been thinking that you already were and I didn’t really understand what would be different.”
“Not much was,” he said, chuckling a bit. “Just this.” He held up his left hand.
I touched the gold wedding ring there. “Is it engraved?”
“Yes.” He slipped the ring off his finger and handed it to me.
On the inside of the band was inscribed the word ‘Always’ and both their initials. “Does it mean something? Besides the obvious, that is.”
He put the ring back on. “Yes, I suppose it does.” His tone told me not to inquire further, so I didn’t.
“So, who proposed? It was you, wasn’t it? Finally nagged him into it.”
That got a real laugh, albeit a brief one. “No, he asked me.”
“Really?” I was honestly surprised. I had trouble picturing Sherlock suggesting any kind of change to the status quo. Where Dad was concerned, he liked to keep things just as they were.
“Really. Got down on one knee and everything.”
“You’re having me on.”
“I swear I’m not!” he said, smiling now, holding up his hands to demonstrate his innocence. “I suppose I ought to have been suspicious when the date night was actually his idea. We went out for a nice dinner then we walked through the park and we sat by a fountain and he got this little box out of his pocket and knelt and – blimey, I haven’t thought about this in awhile. He said if he was going to do this he’d damn well do it properly. I was so stunned I could hardly see straight. I thought he must have been taking the piss.”
“That would have been awfully cruel of him.”
“You know, it was all quite revealing. It told me that he took it seriously For once he didn’t crack smart, or make a cutting remark, or act flippant, like it didn’t really matter and he was just putting it on to humor me. He was very direct. Not flowery or gushy, which wouldn’t have been like him. He just told me that he loved me and wanted us to be together always, and asked me if I’d marry him.”
My lower lip trembled a little. “Awww. Did he get teary?”
“No. I did, a bit. Don’t mind telling you. But when I said yes, of course I would marry him, and I may have called him a daft git for thinking otherwise or something along those lines, he just beamed this smile at me, like…” He sighed. “You know.”
I nodded. I did.
“So there you have it. I said yes. There may have been some snogging at that point. Then I asked him what was in the box, because, well – men don’t tend to wear engagement rings, and I certainly wasn’t keen to be seen sporting a diamond solitaire. He got a bit embarrassed and handed me the box. It was empty.”
“Empty? He proposed to you with an empty ring box?”
Dad chuckled, remembering the moment. “He said he needed the prop.”
I laughed with him, and for a moment, we forgot.
Dad’s mobile rang off a text message. “Oh, it’s the video footage. Come on, let’s have a look.”
We went to the table and I looked over Dad’s shoulder as he loaded the clip. He played it and we saw Sherlock emerge from the lift, cross the lobby and disappear out of frame. It was perhaps ten seconds of him. It made me feel both better and worse to see his image there, whole and alive and right here, knowing that now he was gone.
Dad replayed it, at a slower speed. “Look,” he said, pointing. “Right there, just as he comes into view, he looks directly at the camera just for a moment. It’s a signal. We’re supposed to be seeing something. I’m supposed to be seeing something.”
We watched it again. I just saw Sherlock walking. After that first glance at the camera, he kept his eyes front. Then something did start to seem strange on repeated viewings. “Dad, what’s he doing with his hands?”
“I know. That’s strange. He’s fidgeting with his fingers. And he’s not wearing gloves. He always wears gloves when he’s going outside. And he doesn’t fidget.” Dad played it again, even slower, and again. I couldn’t tell what was going on, but Dad suddenly went still and straight and I knew he’d just figured something out. “He isn’t fidgeting. Those are numbers.” He reached over and grabbed a pen and paper from the desk.
“Numbers?”
“He’s fingerspelling. It’s sign language.” Dad made two columns on the paper, labeled R and L, and played the video again, as slow as it would go, writing down a number in each column. He had six pairs of numbers by the time Sherlock passed out of vision. “He’s making one number with each hand, in six pairs. It’s a code.” He stared at the pad.
“A code for what? What kind of code? Why didn’t the police notice this?”
“They might not have recognized it. British sign language is different than American.”
“It is? But – they’re both English.”
“Actually, they’re not. Sign language isn’t English, it’s a unique language all its own, so American and British signing is completely different. The number fingerspells are similar to the American ones but not identical, especially for six through zero.”
“I didn’t know you knew sign language.” The fact that Sherlock did was so little of a surprise that I didn’t even need to remark on it.
“I know a bit. Sometimes Sherlock and I use it. It’s handy. Silent and covert and doesn’t depend on being within hearing distance.”
“So what’s the code?”
“Probably a book code. He’d have kept it simple so I’d recognize it. There was a book code in one of the earliest cases we worked together.” He was looking around. “The book must be in this room, the one he used.”
“How do you know it’s in the room?”
“He obviously knew he was being followed. He came back here and left his phone and that photograph, so the book had to have been here, too. Was he reading something?”
I grabbed Sherlock’s book from off the nighttable. “He finished the two he brought so he bought the new David Mitchell on Tuesday.”
Dad flipped the book open. “The numbers are pages and words. First number is the page, second number is the word on that page.” He started writing, flipping pages, while I waited in suspense, chewing my nails. Six words and we might find him.
When Dad finished, he sat back and shut his eyes. “What’s it say?” I demanded.
He glanced at me. He didn’t look hopeful or encouraged. He just handed me the paper.
DON’T SEEK SCAR FINE STAY WAIT
“What? Scar, what?”
“He means you.”
“So he picked the word ‘scar’ to mean me?”
“He didn’t have much to work with, luv, he could only use the first nine pages and the first nine words on each page. He’s telling us not to look for him. Like that’s going to happen.”
“Scar fine,” I repeated. Dad was intentionally not looking at me. “That’s how whoever it was got him to just walk out, isn’t it? They threatened me.”
“Probably.”
Oh, God. Now the guilt. Guilt guilt guilt. “Dad, I’m – I’m sorry…”
“No, don’t you dare,” he said, turning to face me, his eyes blazing. “This is not your fault.”
“But – they used me against him. If he didn’t care they couldn’t do that.”
“That’s not a trade anybody is willing to entertain,” he said.
I didn’t say anything else. I knew all the rationalizations and the logical arguments. But the awful truth was that if we never got Sherlock back, I would always be the lever that they used to pry him out of safety and into harm’s way. I didn’t know what I’d do with that. Or what Dad would do with that.
Dad went back to Mycroft’s team the next day while I played my last three games. Coming in to the last day I was sitting on ninth place, out of forty players. Not too shabby. I couldn’t mathematically win, but I could improve my standing if I won at least two of those games. I buckled down and tried not to think about Dad or Sherlock. I was mostly successful. I won all three of my games, which was honestly more than I expected.
Dad showed up for the closing of the tournament, which was nice of him. It was good to see him in the audience. I got a certificate for my fifth-place finish, and the FIDE officials said I’d be earning thirty more rank points.
He hugged me tight when I met him in the lobby. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. Sherlock would be proud, too.”
“I just want to go home now,” I said, feeling more tired than I would have thought possible.
“I know. I got your flight changed so you can leave tonight.”
I pulled back, a dull horror coming over me. “You mean, so we can leave, right?”
Dad bit his lip. “I can’t leave yet, Genie. I just can’t.”
“But – you said he’d been taken out of the country! Can’t you help the team from home?”
“This is still where he was last seen. We’ve still got leads to follow up here.”
I was starting to panic. I thought I’d held it together right well for someone whose dad up and vanished into thin air, but now the adrenaline from the tournament was gone and home was beckoning and all I could think was that I couldn’t leave both of them here, I just couldn’t. Not both, not both, not both, was all I was hearing. “Dad, you’re not an investigator, you’re a doctor!”
“And I’m the world’s foremost expert on Sherlock Holmes, if such a thing exists, and they need my help.”
“I get that, but…” The tears were starting. I didn’t want to play that card but it wasn’t like I could stop myself. “Dad, please come home with me. Please. I can’t not have either of you there.”
He grabbed me up and hugged me again. “Oh, God, sweetheart, I want to go home with you very badly. But I can’t. I have to keep looking.” He drew back and took me by the arms, looking right into my eyes. “I know you’re feeling scared and emotional. I came over here to make sure you were okay and look after you. Now you’re going home to your mother and I’m staying here. Genie, you’re my daughter and I love you more than you can possibly know, but now I need you to be at home, safe with Mum, because I have to focus on my husband. I hope you can understand that.”
I looked in his eyes, and I saw that he was scared and exhausted and he really needed me not to fight him on this. I knew in my head that I shouldn’t, that he was right, and that I’d be fine flying home on my own and once I was there I’d feel better, but all I wanted was just to cling on tight like one of those monkey babies and never let him out of my sight again.
But that wouldn’t help. “Okay, Dad,” I said, swiping at my streaming eyes.
He sighed. “Thank you.” He kissed my forehead. “I will come home soon, I promise.”
“Not alone, right?”
“Not if I can help it.”
So here I am on the plane. Dad and I just about hugged each other into hernias when he put me on the plane. I talked to Mum, she’ll be there to collect me when I land. It’s a nonstop flight so I can’t possibly screw it up; I’m not exactly functioning up to factory specs just now.
The seat next to me is really, really empty.
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:I’ll get this out of the way up front: still no sign of Sherlock. From the time I last saw him it’s now been – lemme check the time – two days, eight hours. I am on the plane home. I’ll catch you up, don’t worry, Mythical Nonexistent Blog Reader Who Is Rapidly Becoming My Secret Imaginary Friend and Confessor.
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Who Can’t Be Arsed To Think of a Clever Title Right Now
8 December
I’ll get this out of the way up front: still no sign of Sherlock. From the time I last saw him it’s now been – lemme check the time – two days, eight hours. I am on the plane home. I’ll catch you up, don’t worry, Mythical Nonexistent Blog Reader Who Is Rapidly Becoming My Secret Imaginary Friend and Confessor.
I managed to get some sleep that first night. Pure adrenaline makes you crash pretty hard once the rush is over. I woke up to my phone ringing. It was Dad.
“Any sign of him?” He didn’t even say hello.
“No. I’ve been in the room the whole time.”
“I’ve got a flight out. I’ll be boarding here in a few minutes I ought to be there by afternoon.”
“Dad, I – I want to keep playing in the tournament.”
He sighed. “I don’t like the idea of you leaving the hotel alone.”
“It’s only one street over. I can’t just sit here, I’ll run mad. Anyway, Sherlock would want me to play.” I hated the way that sounded, like he was dead and I was honoring his last wish, or something.
“Well – all right. But stay at the club, don’t wander about. I’ll come there when I arrive.”
“Okay. See you soon. And Dad?”
“What?”
“We’re gonna find him.”
He was quiet for a moment. “That’s right, Genie. We are. I’ll see you soon.” He hung up.
I sat there for a few moments, gathering my nerve, then I got in the shower. By the time I was ready to leave it was too late for me to get breakfast, but there would be coffee and donuts at the club.
When I opened the door, there was a man standing there.
After I recovered from my near heart attack, I observed that he was not making any hostile moves. “Miss Watson?” he said, politely.
“Yes?”
“Your uncle sent me. I’m to watch over you.” He had a Yorkshire accent. He was from home. How had Mycroft gotten him here so fast?
I remembered Dad’s warning. “What’s the password?”
He nodded approvingly. “Stradivarius.”
I eyed him for another moment. That was the password. But could this man have overcome the real bodyguard and tortured the password out of him?
I was starting to see how people become paralyzed with paranoia. “All right, then,” I said. “I’m going to the chess club for my tournament.”
“I’ll be going with you.”
“Okay.”
He walked at my side the whole way. He didn’t offer any introductions or small talk and I didn’t, either. I was too distracted to make conversation, anyway. My phone rang as we were walking up to the club, so I sat down outside to answer it. It was Mum. “Hi, Mum,” I said.
“Are you okay, Genie?”
“I’m okay. Mycroft sent me a bodyguard.”
“Did you…”
“He knew the password. It’s all right.”
“Your dad said you were going to keep playing. Are you sure?”
“Mum, I’m going to go crazy otherwise. I don’t care if I lose every game, I just want to think about something else. I need the distraction.”
“I certainly understand that. Well, your father’s plane left half an hour ago. He’ll be there soon, so you just hang on.”
“I wish everybody would stop worrying about me!” I exclaimed. “I’m not the one who’s missing, or maybe hurt, or even…” I couldn’t finish.
“Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. You know how clever Sherlock is. He’s going to be just fine.”
“But, Mum – what if he, what if…”
“Genie. Don’t think like that.”
I sniffed and wiped at my eyes. “I don’t want to lose him.”
“None of us do. We’re not going to.”
“Dad would never get over it.”
“Nothing bad is going to happen.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I know that it won’t help you or anybody to assume the worst.”
“Yes, it will. If I assume the worst, then I can only be pleasantly surprised.”
Mum sighed. “I’m going to try and stay optimistic, sweetheart.”
“I’ll try, too, but I can’t help it if a little fatalism sneaks in.” I shut my eyes. “I miss you, Mummy.”
“Oh, Genie. I miss you awfully. I’ll be seeing you soon. You call me anytime, day or night, if you need to talk.”
“Okay. I gotta go, I’ve got a game soon.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you, too.” I hung up. Me and my attack dog went inside the club.
Jason Fitzwallace was waiting for me inside. “Genie! Any news of…”
“It’s all right, Mr. Fitzwallace. I’ve heard from my dad, he was called away on an emergency at work. My other dad is on his way here. In the meantime, this is Mr…Croft. He’s sort of a temporary chaperone.”
He looked relieved. “Oh, I’m so glad. Well, welcome, Mr. Croft. Genie, you’re playing in ten minutes.”
“Let me grab a cup of coffee and I’ll be ready.”
And strange as it sounds, I was. I was more than ready. If I couldn’t go out and round up the usual suspects and conduct badass interrogations to find Sherlock, if I couldn’t pound the pavement and order surveillance and mobilize a task force, at the very least I could trounce this poseur sitting across the chessboard from me.
And trounce her, I did. My first opponent conceded after an astonishingly brief game of fourteen moves. “You’ve got me at checkmate in twelve moves,” she said.
“Eight,” I corrected. I shook her hand and moved on to the next.
Four more opponents fell that morning and afternoon. I wouldn’t have even stopped for lunch, but Mr. Croft made me eat. I dragged him to Gray’s Papaya, which had acquired a strange talismanic quality for me, and had the amusing diversion of watching him discover the wonder of their hot dogs.
I didn’t get a break until three o’clock. My next opponent was still playing his current game and they looked like they’d be at it for awhile. Mr. Croft and I went for a coffee from the nearest Starbucks.
When we got back, Dad was sitting in the lobby.
My self-control took a bit of a hit at the sight of him. Dad was here, that meant everything would be okay and I could stop being brave and just go ahead and freak the hell out if I needed to. He stood up and smiled at me and I couldn’t even talk, I just ran and flung myself into his arms. “Genie,” he said into my neck, hugging me so tight he lifted me off the ground a little. Not much – he can’t, he’s only three inches taller than me.
I drew back and looked at him. He looked exhausted and upset and about ten years older than he usually looks. “Are you okay?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. But this isn’t about me. Are you okay?”
“I’m dealing. I won four games today.”
He forced a smile. “Good. That’s good.”
“Dad, what did Mycroft say? What’s going on? Has he been able to find anything out?”
“I just talked to him. There’s nothing yet. They don’t have CCTV cameras here like we have at home. There are cameras in the lobby of your hotel. They have him on film leaving the hotel lobby, alone, just after four o’clock. None of the cab companies picked him up. Mycroft’s people are canvassing the neighborhood looking for anybody who might have seen him. They’ve double-checked all the hospitals and morgues and police stations, but he didn’t turn up in any of those places.” Dad stopped and took a deep breath. He rubbed a hand through his hair like he was buying himself time.
“Nothing, in other words,” I said.
“Yeah. Nothing.” He looked past me into the club. “When’s your next game?”
“Fifteen minutes. It’s my last of the day.”
His mouth worked and he looked a little shamefaced. “Genie, I – would you be upset if…”
“Go. Dad, go. Seriously.”
“Mycroft’s arranged for me to be a consultant to the police and the people he has here looking. Nobody knows Sherlock like I do.”
“Then you’re wasted here. You’d just be distracting me. Go find him, please.”
He looked relieved, and pulled me into another tight hug, then kissed my cheek. “Text me when you’re done, I’ll meet you at the hotel.”
“Okay.” He still looked worried. “Dad, Mr. Croft will look after me. Promise.”
“All right, then.” He exchanged a nod with Mr. Croft and left, turning back when he got to the door. I waved, and then he was off.
I turned to Mr. Croft. “All right. Time to beat up on somebody.”
As it turned out, my evening game was a bit of a marathon. Four hours I slogged it out with this bloke from Michigan. We were very evenly matched. We were the last ones playing and by the time we were done, everyone else was huddled around us, watching. There were only ten pieces left on the board by the time I checkmated him. Everyone clapped.
I was tempted to go out for coffee with some of the other players, but Mr. Croft was giving me a stern look so I declined. I texted Dad that I was on my way to the hotel, and within twenty minutes I was safe in my room with Mr. Croft outside the door. Dad arrived half an hour later, looking even more tired. “Anything?” I said, getting up off the bed to hug him.
He shook his head. “No. Mycroft’s lead investigator is about 98% sure that Sherlock’s been taken out of the country. The trail is pretty cold. The team’s going to send the video of Sherlock in the lobby here to my computer so I can look at it. They’re hoping I see something.” He sighed. “What are you doing?”
“Watching ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ on the telly.”
He put on a pretty convincing smile. “Brilliant, I love that film.” He sat on the bed propped up against the headboard. I clambered up next to him and cuddled up to his side a bit. He put his arm around me and I tried to pretend that everything was okay. It didn’t really work out very well.
We stared at the screen for a bit. I don’t think either of us was really watching. “Where is he, Dad?” I whispered.
He was quiet for a moment. “I wish I knew, Genie.” He sounded so hollow, it broke me a little bit.
I looked up at his face. Maybe I could get him talking about something happier. I could stand to hear something happier, too. “Did you propose to Sherlock, or did he propose to you?”
He smiled a little. “Don’t you remember?”
“No. I don’t know if I ever knew. I remember the wedding. I remember you two sitting me down and telling me that you were getting married. I was confused because I’d sort of been thinking that you already were and I didn’t really understand what would be different.”
“Not much was,” he said, chuckling a bit. “Just this.” He held up his left hand.
I touched the gold wedding ring there. “Is it engraved?”
“Yes.” He slipped the ring off his finger and handed it to me.
On the inside of the band was inscribed the word ‘Always’ and both their initials. “Does it mean something? Besides the obvious, that is.”
He put the ring back on. “Yes, I suppose it does.” His tone told me not to inquire further, so I didn’t.
“So, who proposed? It was you, wasn’t it? Finally nagged him into it.”
That got a real laugh, albeit a brief one. “No, he asked me.”
“Really?” I was honestly surprised. I had trouble picturing Sherlock suggesting any kind of change to the status quo. Where Dad was concerned, he liked to keep things just as they were.
“Really. Got down on one knee and everything.”
“You’re having me on.”
“I swear I’m not!” he said, smiling now, holding up his hands to demonstrate his innocence. “I suppose I ought to have been suspicious when the date night was actually his idea. We went out for a nice dinner then we walked through the park and we sat by a fountain and he got this little box out of his pocket and knelt and – blimey, I haven’t thought about this in awhile. He said if he was going to do this he’d damn well do it properly. I was so stunned I could hardly see straight. I thought he must have been taking the piss.”
“That would have been awfully cruel of him.”
“You know, it was all quite revealing. It told me that he took it seriously For once he didn’t crack smart, or make a cutting remark, or act flippant, like it didn’t really matter and he was just putting it on to humor me. He was very direct. Not flowery or gushy, which wouldn’t have been like him. He just told me that he loved me and wanted us to be together always, and asked me if I’d marry him.”
My lower lip trembled a little. “Awww. Did he get teary?”
“No. I did, a bit. Don’t mind telling you. But when I said yes, of course I would marry him, and I may have called him a daft git for thinking otherwise or something along those lines, he just beamed this smile at me, like…” He sighed. “You know.”
I nodded. I did.
“So there you have it. I said yes. There may have been some snogging at that point. Then I asked him what was in the box, because, well – men don’t tend to wear engagement rings, and I certainly wasn’t keen to be seen sporting a diamond solitaire. He got a bit embarrassed and handed me the box. It was empty.”
“Empty? He proposed to you with an empty ring box?”
Dad chuckled, remembering the moment. “He said he needed the prop.”
I laughed with him, and for a moment, we forgot.
Dad’s mobile rang off a text message. “Oh, it’s the video footage. Come on, let’s have a look.”
We went to the table and I looked over Dad’s shoulder as he loaded the clip. He played it and we saw Sherlock emerge from the lift, cross the lobby and disappear out of frame. It was perhaps ten seconds of him. It made me feel both better and worse to see his image there, whole and alive and right here, knowing that now he was gone.
Dad replayed it, at a slower speed. “Look,” he said, pointing. “Right there, just as he comes into view, he looks directly at the camera just for a moment. It’s a signal. We’re supposed to be seeing something. I’m supposed to be seeing something.”
We watched it again. I just saw Sherlock walking. After that first glance at the camera, he kept his eyes front. Then something did start to seem strange on repeated viewings. “Dad, what’s he doing with his hands?”
“I know. That’s strange. He’s fidgeting with his fingers. And he’s not wearing gloves. He always wears gloves when he’s going outside. And he doesn’t fidget.” Dad played it again, even slower, and again. I couldn’t tell what was going on, but Dad suddenly went still and straight and I knew he’d just figured something out. “He isn’t fidgeting. Those are numbers.” He reached over and grabbed a pen and paper from the desk.
“Numbers?”
“He’s fingerspelling. It’s sign language.” Dad made two columns on the paper, labeled R and L, and played the video again, as slow as it would go, writing down a number in each column. He had six pairs of numbers by the time Sherlock passed out of vision. “He’s making one number with each hand, in six pairs. It’s a code.” He stared at the pad.
“A code for what? What kind of code? Why didn’t the police notice this?”
“They might not have recognized it. British sign language is different than American.”
“It is? But – they’re both English.”
“Actually, they’re not. Sign language isn’t English, it’s a unique language all its own, so American and British signing is completely different. The number fingerspells are similar to the American ones but not identical, especially for six through zero.”
“I didn’t know you knew sign language.” The fact that Sherlock did was so little of a surprise that I didn’t even need to remark on it.
“I know a bit. Sometimes Sherlock and I use it. It’s handy. Silent and covert and doesn’t depend on being within hearing distance.”
“So what’s the code?”
“Probably a book code. He’d have kept it simple so I’d recognize it. There was a book code in one of the earliest cases we worked together.” He was looking around. “The book must be in this room, the one he used.”
“How do you know it’s in the room?”
“He obviously knew he was being followed. He came back here and left his phone and that photograph, so the book had to have been here, too. Was he reading something?”
I grabbed Sherlock’s book from off the nighttable. “He finished the two he brought so he bought the new David Mitchell on Tuesday.”
Dad flipped the book open. “The numbers are pages and words. First number is the page, second number is the word on that page.” He started writing, flipping pages, while I waited in suspense, chewing my nails. Six words and we might find him.
When Dad finished, he sat back and shut his eyes. “What’s it say?” I demanded.
He glanced at me. He didn’t look hopeful or encouraged. He just handed me the paper.
DON’T SEEK SCAR FINE STAY WAIT
“What? Scar, what?”
“He means you.”
“So he picked the word ‘scar’ to mean me?”
“He didn’t have much to work with, luv, he could only use the first nine pages and the first nine words on each page. He’s telling us not to look for him. Like that’s going to happen.”
“Scar fine,” I repeated. Dad was intentionally not looking at me. “That’s how whoever it was got him to just walk out, isn’t it? They threatened me.”
“Probably.”
Oh, God. Now the guilt. Guilt guilt guilt. “Dad, I’m – I’m sorry…”
“No, don’t you dare,” he said, turning to face me, his eyes blazing. “This is not your fault.”
“But – they used me against him. If he didn’t care they couldn’t do that.”
“That’s not a trade anybody is willing to entertain,” he said.
I didn’t say anything else. I knew all the rationalizations and the logical arguments. But the awful truth was that if we never got Sherlock back, I would always be the lever that they used to pry him out of safety and into harm’s way. I didn’t know what I’d do with that. Or what Dad would do with that.
Dad went back to Mycroft’s team the next day while I played my last three games. Coming in to the last day I was sitting on ninth place, out of forty players. Not too shabby. I couldn’t mathematically win, but I could improve my standing if I won at least two of those games. I buckled down and tried not to think about Dad or Sherlock. I was mostly successful. I won all three of my games, which was honestly more than I expected.
Dad showed up for the closing of the tournament, which was nice of him. It was good to see him in the audience. I got a certificate for my fifth-place finish, and the FIDE officials said I’d be earning thirty more rank points.
He hugged me tight when I met him in the lobby. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. Sherlock would be proud, too.”
“I just want to go home now,” I said, feeling more tired than I would have thought possible.
“I know. I got your flight changed so you can leave tonight.”
I pulled back, a dull horror coming over me. “You mean, so we can leave, right?”
Dad bit his lip. “I can’t leave yet, Genie. I just can’t.”
“But – you said he’d been taken out of the country! Can’t you help the team from home?”
“This is still where he was last seen. We’ve still got leads to follow up here.”
I was starting to panic. I thought I’d held it together right well for someone whose dad up and vanished into thin air, but now the adrenaline from the tournament was gone and home was beckoning and all I could think was that I couldn’t leave both of them here, I just couldn’t. Not both, not both, not both, was all I was hearing. “Dad, you’re not an investigator, you’re a doctor!”
“And I’m the world’s foremost expert on Sherlock Holmes, if such a thing exists, and they need my help.”
“I get that, but…” The tears were starting. I didn’t want to play that card but it wasn’t like I could stop myself. “Dad, please come home with me. Please. I can’t not have either of you there.”
He grabbed me up and hugged me again. “Oh, God, sweetheart, I want to go home with you very badly. But I can’t. I have to keep looking.” He drew back and took me by the arms, looking right into my eyes. “I know you’re feeling scared and emotional. I came over here to make sure you were okay and look after you. Now you’re going home to your mother and I’m staying here. Genie, you’re my daughter and I love you more than you can possibly know, but now I need you to be at home, safe with Mum, because I have to focus on my husband. I hope you can understand that.”
I looked in his eyes, and I saw that he was scared and exhausted and he really needed me not to fight him on this. I knew in my head that I shouldn’t, that he was right, and that I’d be fine flying home on my own and once I was there I’d feel better, but all I wanted was just to cling on tight like one of those monkey babies and never let him out of my sight again.
But that wouldn’t help. “Okay, Dad,” I said, swiping at my streaming eyes.
He sighed. “Thank you.” He kissed my forehead. “I will come home soon, I promise.”
“Not alone, right?”
“Not if I can help it.”
So here I am on the plane. Dad and I just about hugged each other into hernias when he put me on the plane. I talked to Mum, she’ll be there to collect me when I land. It’s a nonstop flight so I can’t possibly screw it up; I’m not exactly functioning up to factory specs just now.
The seat next to me is really, really empty.
Next Entry
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no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 12:12 am (UTC)Also: "they don’t have CCTV cameras here like we have at home" Really?
no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 12:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 02:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 01:48 am (UTC)If the police or the government think a private security camera might have picked something up, they have to first politely request and then (sometimes) subpoena the footage.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 02:39 am (UTC)This is entirely untrue. Maybe if you don't live in a large city; I can't speak to that with any deep knowledge, but it is entirely untrue in big cities. Cameras are *everywhere*, all over.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 07:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 08:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 06:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 07:34 pm (UTC)I also meant it as a response to this: "If the police or the government think a private security camera might have picked something up, they have to first politely request and then (sometimes) subpoena the footage." Though I can see that that comment was left by someone else, I didn't see that when I replied.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-02 07:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-03 02:52 am (UTC)Re: CCTV camera coverage
Date: 2011-06-30 07:21 am (UTC)Well, they certainly *exist* right now in downtown Orlando, Florida so I have no trouble believing that near-future New York has them too. Yes, that's of the scanning-the-streets variety (they're mentioned on TV every so often and the footage put on when someone is arrested for something that was caught on camera, e.g. beating someone up).
Disclaimer: Of course, that's Florida, not New York, and now, not 20 years from now. It's also in the central part of town, not all over.
The question about 'like we have at home' is how thorough the coverage is, in particular in the neighbourhood where Sherlock and Genie have been staying.
If they *had* been at the Plaza instead of a modest hotel on a tree-lined street the odds of being caught on camera more would have been higher - that is, if they'd been staying in a very busy part of the city. One can certainly make a case for saying that they just happen to be staying in a neighbourhood where the surveillance on the street is sketchy enough that Sherlock couldn't be tracked further once he was out of the hotel.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 12:14 am (UTC)Love, love, love...
J
no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 02:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 12:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 02:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 12:47 am (UTC)Oh, I hope Sherlock is okay!
no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 02:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 12:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 02:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 12:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 02:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 01:31 am (UTC)I wasn't sure if I was going to like where it went. I tend to dislike extra people not in original canon or from the TV series itself.
But you've kept me enthralled and interested. I find myself waiting impatiently for your next entry.
Well done.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 02:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 01:34 am (UTC)Ah, I'm still hanging by a thread here, but this was a gorgeous entry!
no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 02:18 pm (UTC)I thought long and hard about the proposal, and who would have actually asked who. I decided that John would have wanted to marry Sherlock but would also have assumed that Sherlock would scoff at any attempt to formalize as unnecessary and boring, and Sherlock would know this and decide that he'd better man up and do it right and proper.
Oh God --
Date: 2011-06-30 02:31 am (UTC)PLEASE UPDATE QUICKLY.
Re: Oh God --
Date: 2011-07-01 02:19 pm (UTC)OH GOD
Date: 2011-06-30 04:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 02:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 06:01 am (UTC)Hoping for an update REAL soon!!
no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 02:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 01:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 02:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 02:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 09:32 pm (UTC)I'm sorry I didn't comment on this fic sooner. Genie and Grace are wonderful and John and Sherlock as brilliant as ever. The backstory!
At the moment though, that's all I can manage because oh hell the tension. Soon, please. x
no subject
Date: 2011-07-02 01:57 am (UTC)Hope all is better for you at home. Dealing with my own issues, so I sympathize.
As always, hanging on tenterhooks for more, when you have a chance!
Kisses, Spencerphile
no subject
Date: 2011-07-04 03:32 pm (UTC)Any particular reason why Sherlock's reading David Mitchell? I got a bit curious about that because I've recently borrowed one of his books from a local library ("Cloud Atlas")... I haven't read it yet, though, so I don't know what kind of writer Mitchell is. Is there something about his books that you think would interest Sherlock? :--)
no subject
Date: 2011-07-04 04:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-02 10:37 am (UTC)