Chapter Text
I flinched as the door at the far end of the swimming pool flew open with a bang, and William Scott swanned into view. I tried desperately to get my breathing under control, winded from rushing to get here ahead of him, sliding into my current hiding spot with only a moment to spare. I was tucked behind a curtain, in one of the many changing rooms that lined the walls on either side of the competition-sized pool.
Scott was currently making his way slowly towards the shallow end. He stopped at the edge and turned, peering up into the darkened viewing gallery. I couldn’t see anything, and it didn’t appear that he did either. But his expression was pensive, as if he feared there might be multiple sets of eyes – and possibly rifles – trained on him at this very moment. I wondered if he was being melodramatic, but I too felt uneasy. If what William suspected about Chris Melas was true, that meant Magnussen had been capable of murder even as a teenager. Now that he’s acquired a significant fortune, he could hire a dozen snipers to do his dirty work for him.
With one last look up at the gallery, William turned back towards the pool, raising one hand and holding up what looked like a memory stick. He appeared poised to address an audience, but I could see no one. Scott raised his voice and called out into the void, “Brought you a little present. Just a glimpse of all the evidence I have on Chris Melas. It’s no Appledore, but it will have to do.” He paused for a moment, as if listening for a response. He narrowed his eyes, his tone hardening. “That’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – it all comes down to this.” He gestured with the memory stick, turning in a slow circle, waiting breathlessly for Magnussen to take the bait.
Sherlock glared at his laptop screen, then leapt to his feet and began to pace. This was tedious. Extremely tedious. He’d already finished the fun part, where William ran all his tests on the shoes, made deductions, then explained to Joe how Carl Powers (or Chris Melas as he was calling him in the story) had been murdered. Joe proclaimed it to be brilliant, amazing, blah blah blah. Now Sherlock had to do the action bit. The running around and waving guns and confronting villains. Dull. Well, it wasn’t dull reading about it. As William once said to Joe, “You love it! The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world.” No, trying to write about it was the dull part.
What did he know about witty exchanges with master criminals? He was a man of science, not James Bond. Or William Scott, as the case may be. But he wanted to win this contest, and to do that he had to write in the style of the William Scott Adventures. That meant he had to do more than describe his deductions like he does on his blog - he had to tell a story. And as excruciating as it was, he had to do so in the romantic language that characterized Joe Weston’s point of view.
Right. He sat back down in front of his laptop. He’d already planned in his head the way the confrontation scene was going to play out, he just needed to write it. He wiggled his fingers over his keyboard and continued to type.
I could no longer stay in hiding. William was too vulnerable standing there in the open, waving that stick around like he was a matador with a red cape. If there were snipers in the gallery, it would be all too easy to pick him off and then grab the memory stick. I stepped from behind the curtain and walked towards William. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, his eyes alight with anticipation.
Anticipation turned to ice as he saw that it was me, not Magnussen. “Joe? What are you…? How could you have known where I’d be?” For an ugly moment, I could see his confusion and a hint of betrayal as if he…no, he couldn’t actually be wondering if I’m here on Magnussen’s behalf? But then his face softened and I could see that he’d dismissed the idea. He damned well better have. I’ve been his constant companion for years, long before Magnussen’s blackmailing schemes sent a steady stream of clients to the door of 221B Baker Street.
I gave him a reproachful look as I finally spoke up. “You thought you could get me out of the way with that ruse about Aunt Edna being hurt. As soon as I realized your game, all I had to do was log into your mobile online and find out where you were through the GPS.”
William looked incredulous. “You logged into my mobile account?”
I smirked at his disbelief. “You’re not the only one who can guess a password.”
Sherlock stopped typing for a moment. Was Joe really clever enough to guess William’s password? He didn’t want to write something out of character just because it would be convenient for the plot. Sherlock tapped his lips. Joe might not be as clever as William, but he was still pretty damned smart. And he’d lived with William for years. Even a genius could be predictable if you know him well enough. Sherlock carried on typing.
William scoffed. “I don’t guess, I deduce.”
My expression sobered. “What I can’t deduce is why you felt the need to cause a diversion so I wouldn’t come with you to this rendezvous.”
William gave me a troubled look. “I…I couldn’t risk your life, Joe. It’s too dangerous.”
His concern for me was touching, even as it bewildered me. “William, it’s always been dangerous. You’ve counted on it to lure me into your adventures. What’s changed?”
William shook his head vigorously. “This goes far beyond any danger we’ve ever encountered, Joe. I’ve always known that Magnussen was a ruthless blackmailer. But now I know he’s a ruthless killer, as well. He won’t hesitate…” William glanced back up at the darkened gallery. If they were up there, they weren’t yet ready to shoot. There were no telltale dots of red.
I exhaled and my eyes grew wide. “So, you’ve proven it, then? That Magnussen was the one who killed Chris Melas? That’s why we’re here. The scene of the crime.”
A voice called out, startling us both. “Yes, it was a nice touch, this. The pool where little Chris died. I stopped him. I can stop Joe Weston, too. Stop his heart.” William froze, his gaze riveted on my chest. I knew, based on his horrified expression, what I would see when I looked down at myself. Indeed, there it was – a tiny dot of red on the lapel of my blazer.
William turned away and barked, “Where are you?” Footsteps sounded at the far end of the pool and a man stepped into view. Charles Augustus Magnussen. I stared at him, hatred for the man engulfing me. I recognized him from newspaper photographs and the telly. We’d been adversaries for years, but it was my first time seeing him in person.
Sherlock paused, a wicked idea forming in his head. There’s never been a description of the loathsome Magnussen in any of the books, remaining always a shadowy figure. Here now was a marvelous opportunity to give him a face. With a sly grin, he continued.
Magnussen’s most distinguishing features were his receding ginger hair and his rather beaky nose. He wore an impeccably tailored three-piece suit, and brandished an unfurled umbrella as if it were a walking stick. His voice was even more vile in person. Unctuous was the only adequate word for the oily tones, which went well with his condescending expression.
William glared at Magnussen, who casually began to stroll alongside the deep end of the pool, heading towards William and I. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”
William reached down to his trouser pocket and removed a pistol, aiming it at Magnussen. “Both.”
Magnussen stopped, his umbrella poised in front of him, clearly unafraid. “So…you’ve finally deduced that blackmail is only a small part of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world.” He tilted his head forward, his gaze patronizing. “Now that you’ve seen what I can do, take this as a friendly warning, my dear: Back off.” His smile managed to be both polite and dangerous.
William’s grip on his pistol never wavered. “What if I was to shoot you now – right now?”
Magnussen’s eyebrows went up. “Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. Because I’d be surprised, Mr. Scott, and just a tiny bit disappointed. Of course, you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.” He looked pointedly over at me, at the red dot on my chest.
William stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment. Then with the hand not holding his pistol, he once again held up the memory stick. “Take it.”
Magnussen smirked. He walked over to William and plucked the memory stick out of his hand. “Please,” he said condescendingly, “I know this is just a copy, what use is it to me?” He tossed the memory stick into the pool.
I raced forward and plastered myself onto Magnussen’s back, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest. William backed up a step in surprise, but kept the pistol raised and aimed at Magnussen. Adrenaline was coursing through me as I shouted, “William, run!”
Magnussen had initially tensed up when I grabbed him, but then he relaxed against me and I felt a frisson of unease as he chuckled. “Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. People do get so sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal. But you’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Weston.”
He chuckled again, and that’s when I saw a red dot appear in the middle of William’s forehead. Cold dread froze me in place for a moment, but then I released my grip on Magnussen and stepped back, holding my hands up to signal my surrender to the sniper.
Sherlock stared at the words on the screen. It’d been difficult to write that bit. He’d never been able to understand why Joe was always willing to throw away his advantage whenever William was threatened. He always chalked it up as one of the disadvantages of sentiment. But just now as he was writing it, he realized how it would make him feel if he were William. To know that his life meant that much to Joe that he didn’t care about winning. It was. Well. It was…um…good. Sherlock shook his head to try and regain focus on his writing.
Magnussen primly brushed his hands down his suit, tugging slightly at his waistcoat to straighten it. He spoke in a tone of voice that was no longer oily, but made entirely of ice, “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Mr. Scott?”
William affected an air of boredom. “Oh, let me guess? I get killed.”
Magnussen smirked slightly. “Kill you? No, don’t be obvious. I mean, I am going kill you some day. I don’t want to rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special. No, no, if you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you.” He stepped closer, gazing intently into William’s eyes. “I’ll burn the heart out of you.”
William lifted his chin, his tone equally as cold. “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”
Magnussen’s face once again became smarmy and his tone oily. “But we both know that’s not quite true.” William blinked at him, and Magnussen shrugged. “Well, I’d better be off.” He gave a little twirl of his umbrella and started for the door.
William kept his pistol trained on Magnussen, his tone making an attempt at nonchalance, “Catch ... you ... later.”
As Magnussen stepped through the door, he called back in an almost amused tone. “No, you won’t!”
When the door closed behind him, the red dots immediately disappeared. William lowered his pistol, and looked over at me. Our faces mirrored our immense relief that the other was safe. For the moment, anyway. I knew from experience that William would not let up. Magnussen would follow through on his cryptic threat to burn William’s heart, whatever that meant. It would be up to me to protect it at all costs.
Sherlock exhaled and saved the document. He read over it twice, worrying his lower lip with his fingers. Then he gave a short nod. “I like it.”