The Trickster

Sherlock was being watched.

He gazed out of one of the sitting room windows, noting the presence of the surveillance van parked just across the road. They weren't even trying to be discreet. Just the opposite, they were meant to be a deterring presence, and perhaps they were even trying to convey a sense of security for him. He was sure there were other agents with their eyes on the flat which he couldn't see. It didn't matter.

Sherlock left the window, and activated the speakers. Musetta's Waltz for violin started blaring at a pre – set volume. In a few minutes Puccini will be replaced with Bach, followed by something of Sherlock's own composition. There will be an hour long pause, after which the violin music will start again. At three in the morning the music will cut off and the light in the flat will automatically dim.

Sherlock never bothered entertaining himself with magic tricks, even as a young child his interests had lain elsewhere. He did know the techniques, though. Outside the use of extravagant mechanical inventions, lightning fast hand movements and rigorous training that produced nothing but displays of physical endurance – the real secret behind most magic tricks was keeping your audience's attention fixed at one spot, while the real action happened elsewhere.

Making sure he could not be spotted through the sitting room windows, Sherlock exited the flat through the kitchen door. He always thought 221B's layout was absurd, yet oddly charming. He was newly appreciative of the little oddities and quirks the flat had to offer. Perhaps it was an attempt to distract himself from how little the place felt like home. He told himself that the feeling would pass.

He didn't bother muffling his footsteps. Mrs Hudson's hip was bothering her more often these days, and the quantities of herbal soothers she used increased in parallel. This late in the evening she'd already retire to her bedroom, and wouldn't arouse until the early morning hours, long past Sherlock's return.

Instead of making way to the front door, where he would be immediately spotted and then followed, Sherlock turned toward the entrance to 221C. He pulled a key from his pocket, and unlocked the door to the little basement flat. Back in the day, Sherlock had acquired the key to 221C so he could have access to the amount of mould found within the flat (mould was fascinating) it didn't take long for him to discover another use for the flat.

This was how 221B Baker Street came to be: years ago, the previous owners, Mr Hudson's family, had set about splitting the large house in an attempt to make a profit. The house was split in half; one half was sold away, the other divided into flats. That was the reason for 221B's baker street oddities, its little bits of layout that didn't make sense.

After stepping inside 221C, Sherlock made sure to close the door behind him. The flat hadn't changed in his three year absence. Sherlock made a quick beeline to the far end wall, at the place where the wallpaper was bumpy and peeling.

The wallpaper was the coarse, cheap type that didn't look good brand new, and positively heinous after so many years. It was held up by pins in the places it had come loose, and he made quick work of removing those. He peeled off the remaining wallpaper, revealing the rotting door that separated 221C from their next door's neighbour's basement.

Sherlock pushed a broken down table that was blocking his path, and stepped into the neighbour's basement. Marie Turner, going deaf and twice as loud as an ordinary person for compensation, was still up and about. Following her footsteps by ear, he waited until she'd entered the loo, and then quickly climbed up the stairs, this time making sure to be quiet. Even if she couldn't hear him, her tenants might. Satisfied that the road was clear, Sherlock quickly strode toward the front door and stepped outside. If Mrs. Turner realised that door was unlocked, she would probably attributed it to her own forgetfulness. If need be, Sherlock could still slip inside the flat through a window. He hoped he wouldn't have to.

From his viewpoint at Marie Turner's door, Sherlock could see the surveillance van parked close by. They wouldn't notice him there, their attention fixed solely on 221B. He allowed himself a small smile. One doesn't need quick hands or fancy equipment to make magic tricks. All one needs is an audience with tunnel vision.

With the faint violin music still ringing in his ears - Bach's Violin Concerto in E major – he walked away

With his hair slicked back and hunched form, no one spared Sherlock more than a customary glance. His simple black suit was a different cut than his usual preference, round at the shoulders with a thin black tie pinned to his padded dress shirt. He walked quickly, though not abnormally so, making long ways through alleys and main streets, avoiding security cameras as a precaution. No one was looking for him, but he'd rather not leave a trail.

After a long hour of seemingly aimless wandering, Sherlock arrived at his destination. He walked around the large, black funeral car that blocked most of the alleyway. Squeezing past the vehicle, Sherlock unlocked a door almost hidden in the shadows of the poorly lit alley. The door led into a small storage area. The smell of blood and urine swivelled nauseatingly in his nostrils before he managed to shut the door behind him, killing off the little light that seeped inside. The smell of blood lingered, but to that he was more than used to.

He didn't bother drawing the weapon holstered in his trousers. He doubted the man who occupied the room posed much of a threat. Sherlock reached up to the hanging overhead lamp, illuminating the room with a dull light.

Jim hadn't moved from where he'd left him yesterday, after their narrow retreat from the military compound Jim had been held in. Getting inside a second time wasn't a problem, much to Sherlock's disgust; no one had bothered updating the faulty security protocols that allowed Sherlock to breach the compound the first time. To be fair, this time Sherlock had come in disguise.

Getting out was trickier, as he had to drag Jim's barely cooperative body out of the compound without being noticed or raising any alarms. He probably wouldn't have been able to do so if he hadn't had personally acquired knowledge of the compound, and a few well paid contacts to back him up. Sherlock had paid a hefty fee for the security feed to be hacked. The hacker, a teen prodigy, was still out loose somewhere. Mycroft's people were on the hunt for him, but until that happened, Sherlock had no qualms about paying for his services. Mycroft would probably just end up hiring him, anyway.

Jim was still slumped against the wall, where Sherlock had left him the previous night. He didn't wake up on Sherlock's entrance, his chest rising and falling with deep, rattling breaths. Sherlock regarded him for a short moment. Jim had lost weight, blood and sweat in Mycroft's care, and his weeks of torture were evident on his slight frame. He almost looked vulnerable this way, fragile and small. The way he always looked when he slept.

With the toe of his shoe, he nudged Jim's body, but Jim didn't stir. Sherlock sighed and crouched beside him. He took hold of Jim's shoulder and shook it. "Jim," he said, voice stern.

With speed that was remarkable for a man in his condition, Jim's hand flew to Sherlock's, circling his wrist with a vice like grip. Jim's one good eye crinkled upon recognition, and his hold on Sherlock's wrist slackened, though he didn't let go. When he smiled, his mouth ranked of blood. Sherlock watched him impassively, remaining crouched by his side.

"Hi there," Jim breathed in a low voice. His thumb caressed the inside of Sherlock's wrist.

"I'll need that back," Sherlock said in a sotto voice.

Jim's smile widened for a short second. He pulled Sherlock's hand to his lips, placing a small kiss at the pulse point before letting go. Sherlock made no reaction except for a sardonic lift of his eyebrow. Standing back up, he surveyed Jim's prone form.

He didn't bother asking irrelevant questions. Like, "how are you feeling?" or even, "did you get any rest?" Instead, he nodded, satisfied that Jim was up, and tossed a backpack by his side. "Get changed," he said, not bothering to offer assistance or turn around. He preferred to have Jim where he could see him, injured or not.

Jim struck a lewd pose, knees sliding apart. "Baby, if you wanted a striptease, all you had to do was ask."

Sherlock didn't even twitch. "Stop wasting my time, Jim."

"Prude," Jim griped good-naturally, beginning to unbutton the front of his stained army fatigues one – handed. Sherlock didn't wince or offer sympathy at the sight of the bruises that littered Jim's chest and torso. Jim never gave him the same courtesy, after all.

"The plane will be leaving with or without you," Sherlock added. "So I suggest you hurry."

Jim was taking his time, movements slowed by his injuries and his awkward sitting position, not to mention his complete disregard for his nudity. "You could always help me out," Jim suggested, slinking out of trousers that had seen better days.

"Jim," Sherlock warned in a stern voice.

Jim smile disappeared briefly when he pulled the light black shirt over his head. "I never doubted you for a second," he said in a soft voice. "I knew you'd come for me."

Sherlock laughed. It was a dark, bitter laugh that didn't fit him. "Dear me, Jim. What precisely do you think is happening?"

"Raw, bittersweet sentiment, my dear." Jim's smile widened, the way it did when Sherlock did something to greatly amuse him. "When did you work it out?" Jim wondered, mouthing the words slowly, like he intended to savour them. In a throaty whisper he added, "That Brother Dear was going to kill poor old me?"

Sherlock bent down at the waist, one hand coming to rest on the wall by Jim's face. He brought their faces close, ignoring the smell of blood wafting from Jim's mouth. "Perhaps I wanted the honour of killing you myself?"

Jim tilted his head here and there, studying Sherlock from his disadvantaged perch on the floor. It didn't seem to matter to him. He acted as though he was the one in control of the situation – in spite of his weakened condition and apparent vulnerability. Sherlock could have hated him for it. Should have hated him for it.

Jim murmured, "I would have done the same for you."

Sherlock straightened, expressionless mask in place once more. "I'm not setting you free, Jim."

"Oh?"

"There are… conditions," Sherlock started. "You'll hear them only once. Do I have your attention?"

"Always," Jim whispered.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "This is where we part. You do not attempt to contact me, my brother, John or anyone else. Anyone." Sherlock smiled sardonically. "And I will be watching you, Jim. There's no place on earth where you can hide from me now."

He continued, not waiting for Jim's reply. "Secondly, you will abide by your… handlers. You will not attempt to harm them, and you will not attempt to escape. At the first sign of trouble, the deal is off. Do you understand?"

Jim said nothing, merely watched Sherlock with his one good eye.

"I asked, do you understand?"

"Yes," Jim murmured.

"You will receive medical attention upon landing," Sherlock gave a small nod.

Jim said nothing. A small, aggravating smile played over his lips.

"Now get up." Sherlock gestured to the door, with the funeral car parked just outside. "Your chariot awaits," he said dryly.

"Aren't you going to help me?" Jim sang, grinning up at Sherlock.

"The damsel act doesn't suit you, Jim." Sherlock bit out. "Get up."

Jim did, rising on shaking feet and using the wall for support. It was comforting at least, that his body couldn't be so easily controlled. Mycroft must have known this senseless torture would be fruitless, but Sherlock didn't think he cared at all.

Jim stumbled then, and without thinking, Sherlock made a lunge for him, catching him before he could tumble to the floor.

"Oops," Jim breathed, smirking up at Sherlock. It died as he gazed down, and saw the needle sticking out of his thigh.

"You didn't really think I'd trust you to be cooperative?" Sherlock murmured, keeping a firm grip on Jim as he began to sway dizzily, taken over by the powerful paralytic drug.

"Goodbye Jim."