Orphan on Baker Street

Twenty Sixth: Crackers

At 221B, Sherlock orders me to follow him up the stairs to his flat.

"Sit," he says, gesturing to an armchair. It's his armchair, so I hesitate.

"I just want to sleep right now, Sherlock," I tell him weakly. My hands shake, and my lips feel chapped. Now is not the time to talk about decision making or whatever life lesson he's probably going to teach me.

"Do it later," he tells me as he walks into the kitchen. I watch him toss his scarf onto the table and open a cabinet. Sherlock begins to make some tea and as he sets a full kettle on the stove, he glances over at me. "Mickey, I thought I told you to sit." Now he's losing his patience.

I sway slightly, and my legs cross each other as I go to sit down in his chair. Then I hug my knees and watch him wander around the kitchen getting some snacks and a mug. I lay my head on the back of the chair and close my eyes. When I open them, Sherlock is setting a plate and mug down on the table. Did I actually go to sleep?

"Drink some tea," he says, still calm, as he sits down in the chair opposite of me. Slowly, I set my feet on the floor and take the mug with nervous hands. There's a long, buzzing silence as I sit back in the chair and hold the mug close to my chest. Sherlock's eyes are darting back and forth at things I can't see, and I start to wonder how hard it must be for him to stay calm and in one spot.

"What were you going to tell me?" I ask him softly. His eyes focus on me, and there's another silence.

"You need to stay away from Moriarty," he tells me finally. "He isn't someone you should trust."

"I've heard so much about how bad he is, but I've never heard any proof," I point out. Although my physical and mental states are weak, my attitude is still substantial. "Has he ever even done anything directly to you?"

Sherlock glares at me as his brows connect just above his nose. "Don't you read the papers?"

"I can't. I'm too busy slutting around with detectives," I say as I take a sip of my tea. This is stress talking.

"Maybe I should have let you go to sleep when you said you were tired," he tells me. His eyes still burn a hole into my face. "But, I guess I would have seen this side of you either way."

"This 'side' of me?" I repeat. "I like to think of it as more of a layer."

"He convinced everyone that I was a fraud," Sherlock says angrily, "and forced me to fake my own suicide promptly after he shot himself."

I let the words seep into my brain and set my mug on the table beside me. Then I pick up a cracker and nibble on it until one of us decides to talk again. He must not be willing to continue.

"So, you're telling me he's dead?" I ask.

"I'm telling you he's a very persuasive man." He raises his voice now, and I frown. "He could tear your world down in an instant," Sherlock exclaims, leaning forward in his chair. "Please, for the love of God, do not get involved with this man." Desperation coats his words like butter on toast, and I finish my second cracker before speaking again.

"If he was going to tear my world down, don't you think he'd done it by now?"

The man closes his eyes and releases a frustrated sigh. "Mickey," he opens his eyes, "I am telling you to stay away. He's trouble; don't you get that?"

"I get that completely," I say quickly, "but I'm trouble; you're trouble; Lestrade is trouble. There's not much of a difference between him and me." Now I sound like I'm trying to convince myself of lies. Is this what Sherlock means? Is one conversation with Moriarty enough to let him manipulate you without even trying? My brain gets fuzzy, and I squeeze my eyes shut. "What's better than spending your last days doing exciting things with an exciting person?"

"Mickey, look at me," Sherlock says roughly. His voice sounds closer, and I open my eyes. He kneels in front of me, hands on the arms of the chair. "You aren't going to die. You're going to make the most of your youth and live well into your 50s."

"My 50s?"

"You already do exciting things," he continues. "You think I'm exciting; that's why you're still here. What's the difference between helping me and helping him?"

I hesitate. When I open my mouth to speak, however, nothing comes out. Sherlock frowns slightly, looking at me expectantly. Then he stands up quickly and whirls around, walking away somewhat angrily.

"Tell me your thought process," he says, holding his elbow up and putting a finger to his temple. "Tell me why you're so oblivious to how different we are." I've made him mad, and I don't know if I can fix it.

"Well," I begin, trying to figure out ways to keep him calm. "I never really said you weren't different. I kind of just failed to say anything."

"Tell me your thought process," Sherlock repeats loudly.

"Um," I stutter nervously. "You're both manipulative. Like that whole Lestrade thing - you told me that I shouldn't get into a relationship with him because of who he was instead of focusing on the fact that it's illegal. I'm sure I don't need to tell you an example for Moriarty." I pause and prioritize my thoughts. "You're both very clever and smart. He has the mind of a criminal, and you know the mind of criminals. You both crave a sidekick."

"He doesn't crave a sidekick," Sherlock interrupts incredulously. "He's just making you think he does. He probably wants you to consider how alike we are and not see the troubles in helping him." Now he looks worried, and he drops his arms to his side. His hands fidget, and he removes his coat to hang on the hook.

"Damn it, Mickey," he mutters. I let out a slow sigh and stare at the ceiling. "Why does this need so much discussion? He doesn't want you because you're special; he wants you because I have you."

"That makes this sound like a big love triangle," I say, reaching for my tea. I take a huge gulp as Sherlock paces.

"How can I convince you that he's a bad person?" It sounds like a rhetorical question, but I respond anyway.

"Oh, you've convinced me." He pauses and turns to me. "Moriarty is 100% bad news, but I feel like it's worth a try."

"What's worth a try? Risking your life?"

"Yes," I say too quickly. There's yet another silence, and Sherlock pulls his gaze away from me to stare at the floor. He returns to pacing.

While he thinks, I decide to finish my snack. I couldn't provide enough proof that Moriarty and Sherlock are alike, but that doesn't make it any less true. Plus, I could totally be a double agent. We could feed Moriarty fake information about what Sherlock's doing, and I could give Sherlock hints about what Moriarty's doing. It's the perfect plan.

"I figured it out," we say in unison.

"Oh," I sag back into my chair. "What were you going to say?" He glances around as if someone were listening.

"I don't think we should talk about it here," Sherlock says. When he looks at me, I see a happy glint in his eyes, and I smile. "We'll have to go somewhere else..."

"Since that's all figured out, then, can I go to sleep?"

"Yes, you may go," he tells me with a smirk. I hop up from the chair and go back to my own flat. Successfully, I crawl into my bed without waking Mrs. Hudson. She could sleep through anything.