Have we kept you waiting long?
Apr. 28th, 2012 09:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
monkeybardLike methylviolet10b said, just because we're not much online right now doesn't mean we've not been attending to our drabbling.
Round 1 here.
Round 2 here.
Round 3 here.
Round 4 here.
Round 5 here.
Round 6 here.
Round 7 here.
Round 8 here.
Round 9 here.
Round 10 here.
Round 11 here.
Round 12 here.
Round 13 here.
Round 14 here.
Round 15 here.
Round 16 here.
Round 17 here.
Round 18 here.
Round 19 here.
Round 20 here.
Rounds 21 through 33 here.
34. Fear
John hurried to match Sherlock's longer stride as they left the Yard. "Where are we going?"
Rather than answering, Sherlock tapped away at his mobile's screen, using nothing but his peripheral vision to keep himself from running into other pedestrians. In any other person, such foolhardiness would make John fear for their life. Because it was Sherlock, he had no worry of his flatmate stepping out into traffic and being run down by a London cabbie.
"Where are--?"
"Not Chiswick."
"Small favours. What about the press conference?"
"We'll be back in time. I want to speak to someone first."
35. Swim
“Who?”
“Langdale Pike.”
John tried again. “Who?”
Sherlock gave him a half-smile. “We’re taking a swim in what you might call the world of gossip, innuendo, and scandal. Langdale calls himself a society reporter, but he’s really the transmitter for all the gossip in London, including any tidbits about the reporters themselves. If there’s any news to be had about our three victims – or anything to know about personalities in Chiswick – he’ll know it. He’s usually close-mouthed, but he’ll talk to me.”
“Oh.” John briefly wondered why, but didn’t ask. “We’d better warn him.”
“Yes, that had occurred to me.”
36. Danger
It didn't take long to reach Pike's office. It was smaller even than Lestrade's and yet managed to contain the man himself, not one but three computers, and countless bits of journalistic detritus that meant nothing to John.
"Sherlock, my dear!" Langdale Pike rose languidly to his feet to greet them. "And Doctor John Watson. Such a pleasure to finally meet the man who managed to tame Sherlock Holmes." He put out a hand.
"I didn't—"
Sherlock cut to the point. "Langadale, you're in danger."
"My dear, I know."
"What can you tell us about about the dead reporters?"
37. Cemetery
“I could tell you a great deal, but how much of it would be of use is questionable. I highly doubt you want details of poor Jessica’s love life, or Mark’s peccadillos.”
“Wait a minute.” John scowled suspiciously at the pale, strange man behind the desk. “How did you know we wanted information about those two people? Their own families don’t know yet, or didn’t as of a few hours ago.”
Langdale’s eyebrows rose. “I was aware of their disappearances, naturally. And when Sherlock says “dead reporters,” it’s not exactly a leap from flower to cemetery, as the song goes.”
38. Honour
Sherlock ignored John's accusing look. It wasn't as if he'd given up any secrets that wouldn't be public knowledge soon enough. And Langdale knew how to manage information better than almost anyone.
"What about Chiswick?"
"My dear, I try to know as little as humanly possible about Chiswick." Langdale said the name with a certain obvious distaste. "However, that so-called fashion show Ravi reviewed? One of the sponsors was a local paper company, of all things."
"New information, Langdale," prompted Sherlock, although this was news to John.
"Dear sweet tenacious Jessica, was in the show, my dear! Word of honour."
39. Love
Sherlock’s gaze sharpened. “Not as herself.”
“Of course not, love. She could hardly investigate the company while temping and modeling as herself, now could she?”
“But investigating what? And where does MacKenzie come into it?”
Langdale looked thoughtful. “This is pure speculation on my part, but paper and textile are both fibre arts. The show was all about using alternate fibres – including industrial hemp for paper and clothing. Or allegedly industrial-grade hemp.” Langdale sniffed. “Given that Mark was a pothead, if there was something fishy about the marijuana supply on the streets…”
“Wait. The serial killer angle is a cover-up?”
40. Cold
"Bit extreme even for a drug ring, Johnny dear."
"No." Sherlock frowned. He was missing something and that always irritated him. "But that's not it. Jessica was working undercover. The killer must have known who she really was."
"What about MacKenzie?" asked John. "Did he know her? Could he have blown her cover to, I don't know, maybe convince someone on the inside that he could be trusted?"
Langdale shook his head. "Mark was as cheap as they come, darling, but even he wasn't as cold and calculating as all that."
"He might not have realised the full danger."
"Obvious!"
41. Time
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “It all comes back to the fashion show. We know Ravi and Jessica were there. Mark – “ He glanced over at Langdale, who shrugged. “ – might have been there too, might not, might have been investigating the paper company, might not. And while Ravi was at the show, he wasn’t an investigative reporter, but a fashion blogger; was he taken to disguise the true targets, or was he in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“We’ll need to sort that later,” John said. “Right now we must go, or we’ll be late to the press conference.”
42. Suffer
Lestrade never enjoyed dealing with the press. He accepted it as part of his job, a necessary distraction from proper police work. That didn't mean he liked it. At least he had Donovan backing him up, and today he had three additional officers on hand, keeping a subtle eye on everyone. Chances were fair that the killer's next target was in this room, and he wanted as many eyes on the scene as possible. No one deserved to suffer as the first victims had, and he was damned if he was going to let anyone else go that same way.
43. Beat
Most of the faces in the press room were familiar, reporters who regularly worked the police beat. Obviously someone had let something slip, however, because a few of them were bigger names who only ever turned up when a big story was in the offing. And the rest of the room was nearly filled with reporters Lestrade didn’t recognize offhand.
Lestrade was just about to start when he saw Sherlock and John slip in through the back door. John took one of the few remaining seats, while Sherlock leaned nonchalantly against the wall, his quicksilver eyes taking in every face.
44. Cripple
This was when the circus began and Lestrade was the tightrope walker. His was the unenviable task of handing the press enough information to satisfy them without giving away so much that it would cripple the investigation. Donovan was his balancing pole, helping find centre again when a particularly persistent or overly clever reporter threatened to send him too far to the wrong side of that fine line.
Shame he didn't have a net.
He pointed to a familiar woman in the second row. "Yes, Amanda?"
"What steps are the police taking to protect the public from this brutal killer?"
45. Evil
It was times like these that Lestrade had to remind himself firmly reporters weren’t evil, weren’t agents of the Devil sent to drive him distracted. It was a hard sell, but he made himself believe it, and even smile charmingly at Amanda as he answered. “I can’t give you details, but we have several promising leads, and we are devoting all possible attention to this case.” It was essentially a non-answer, but Amanda didn’t follow up. She probably would have if we’d released the victims’ names. The whole press pool will go into a frenzy as soon as we do.
46. Battle
It can't have missed their collective notice that Sherlock was lurking in, well, not the shadows. More like the wings. After all, this was playing out like some stage fiction, between the mimes, the museum, and the strange Whovianesque connection to a paper company in Chiswick.
Oh yes. Lestrade watched the show. He half-wished for a Time Lord to sort this mess out and battle the baddies, if only so he could catch a couple hours of shut-eye.
Fantasies, Greg, he chided himself as he ended the press conference and made a swift exit with Donovan running interference behind him.
47. Chivalry
By the time the press conference ended, Sherlock had identified two reporters who bore watching, and possibly warning: a crime-beat journalist for the Guardian whose invalid aunt lived in Chiswick; and an entertainment-and-arts specialist who lived in the borough. Naturally, Sherlock decided they should split up without consulting John. Resigned, John followed the arts reporter, joining the scrum leaving the building and holding the door for several out of an ingrained sense of chivalry.
“Where are you headed?” John asked the man.
“SoHo.”
“I’m headed that way myself. Share a cab?”
“Sure.” The man blinked. “Say, aren’t you John Watson?”
48. Drag
John gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Guilty as charged." He hailed a cab and one pulled up right away. He let his companion get in first and followed him.
The man gave the cabbie an address, and John nodded. "Close enough."
"I don't suppose there's a chance of an exclusive?" the fellow asked.
"Afraid not, no."
"Never hurts to ask."
"No. Quite. I, uh, didn't catch what paper you're with."
"Freelance. Bit of a drag, really. Print, online, whatever sells. Reviews, mostly. Books, films, theatre."
"Odd you'd be at a police press conference."
"Well, it's its own sort of drama, innit?"
49. Fall
“Besides, it’s closed the V&A for a day, y’know? Which is news, no two ways about it. God knows how many tour buses and groups they’ve had to turn away. It’s got to be costing them a pretty penny.”
“I suppose it must,” John agreed.
“Yeah, and that’s not even counting the dent something like this might make in future donations. I mean, the corporations and wealthy toffs aren’t going to fall all over themselves giving big gifts and naming grants to an institution that can’t mind its own security well enough to keep out a killer, now are they?”
50. Hide
"No, quite." John hadn't thought about that. It was a curious point and he wondered if it had crossed Sherlock's mind enough to stick and hide in a corner somewhere, or if he'd considered it, found it wanting, and discarded it.
The fellow pulled out his mobile and texted a message. "Sorry. Rude, right?" He pocketed the device. "The wife likes updates on my doings. I don't mind. Means she cares, doesn't it."
"I suppose so." John was almost relieved. If this fellow checked in with his wife that often, he'd be certain to be missed quickly if he disappeared.
51. Loss
“So about this potential loss to the V&A. Could you tell me more about that, um…” John gave the other man a sheepish look. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“Charles. Charles Farnsworth.” The arts reporter offered his hand, and John was surprised by the firm handshake. The reporter didn’t look like he had that kind of strength. “Why, do you think it might be important?”
“Well, I’m not the detective, but it might be,” John admitted. “And you seem like you know something about the subject.”
“Ought to, after thirty years. Sure, come on up to my place.”
52. Shiver
The afternoon had grown overcast and gloomy, threatening more rain. John fought a shiver as he climbed from the cab.
"Top floor," Farnsworth said. "Hope you don't mind a climb."
"It's fine."
"There's a lift but more than half the time it don't work, so most folks just don't bother."
"So, you're a fan of the V&A?" John hazarded. Thirty years was a long time to research anything if you weren't fascinated by the subject.
"Something like that. Here we are." He opened the door, and the last thing John felt was a crushing grip and needle in his wrist.
Round 1 here.
Round 2 here.
Round 3 here.
Round 4 here.
Round 5 here.
Round 6 here.
Round 7 here.
Round 8 here.
Round 9 here.
Round 10 here.
Round 11 here.
Round 12 here.
Round 13 here.
Round 14 here.
Round 15 here.
Round 16 here.
Round 17 here.
Round 18 here.
Round 19 here.
Round 20 here.
Rounds 21 through 33 here.
34. Fear
John hurried to match Sherlock's longer stride as they left the Yard. "Where are we going?"
Rather than answering, Sherlock tapped away at his mobile's screen, using nothing but his peripheral vision to keep himself from running into other pedestrians. In any other person, such foolhardiness would make John fear for their life. Because it was Sherlock, he had no worry of his flatmate stepping out into traffic and being run down by a London cabbie.
"Where are--?"
"Not Chiswick."
"Small favours. What about the press conference?"
"We'll be back in time. I want to speak to someone first."
35. Swim
“Who?”
“Langdale Pike.”
John tried again. “Who?”
Sherlock gave him a half-smile. “We’re taking a swim in what you might call the world of gossip, innuendo, and scandal. Langdale calls himself a society reporter, but he’s really the transmitter for all the gossip in London, including any tidbits about the reporters themselves. If there’s any news to be had about our three victims – or anything to know about personalities in Chiswick – he’ll know it. He’s usually close-mouthed, but he’ll talk to me.”
“Oh.” John briefly wondered why, but didn’t ask. “We’d better warn him.”
“Yes, that had occurred to me.”
36. Danger
It didn't take long to reach Pike's office. It was smaller even than Lestrade's and yet managed to contain the man himself, not one but three computers, and countless bits of journalistic detritus that meant nothing to John.
"Sherlock, my dear!" Langdale Pike rose languidly to his feet to greet them. "And Doctor John Watson. Such a pleasure to finally meet the man who managed to tame Sherlock Holmes." He put out a hand.
"I didn't—"
Sherlock cut to the point. "Langadale, you're in danger."
"My dear, I know."
"What can you tell us about about the dead reporters?"
37. Cemetery
“I could tell you a great deal, but how much of it would be of use is questionable. I highly doubt you want details of poor Jessica’s love life, or Mark’s peccadillos.”
“Wait a minute.” John scowled suspiciously at the pale, strange man behind the desk. “How did you know we wanted information about those two people? Their own families don’t know yet, or didn’t as of a few hours ago.”
Langdale’s eyebrows rose. “I was aware of their disappearances, naturally. And when Sherlock says “dead reporters,” it’s not exactly a leap from flower to cemetery, as the song goes.”
38. Honour
Sherlock ignored John's accusing look. It wasn't as if he'd given up any secrets that wouldn't be public knowledge soon enough. And Langdale knew how to manage information better than almost anyone.
"What about Chiswick?"
"My dear, I try to know as little as humanly possible about Chiswick." Langdale said the name with a certain obvious distaste. "However, that so-called fashion show Ravi reviewed? One of the sponsors was a local paper company, of all things."
"New information, Langdale," prompted Sherlock, although this was news to John.
"Dear sweet tenacious Jessica, was in the show, my dear! Word of honour."
39. Love
Sherlock’s gaze sharpened. “Not as herself.”
“Of course not, love. She could hardly investigate the company while temping and modeling as herself, now could she?”
“But investigating what? And where does MacKenzie come into it?”
Langdale looked thoughtful. “This is pure speculation on my part, but paper and textile are both fibre arts. The show was all about using alternate fibres – including industrial hemp for paper and clothing. Or allegedly industrial-grade hemp.” Langdale sniffed. “Given that Mark was a pothead, if there was something fishy about the marijuana supply on the streets…”
“Wait. The serial killer angle is a cover-up?”
40. Cold
"Bit extreme even for a drug ring, Johnny dear."
"No." Sherlock frowned. He was missing something and that always irritated him. "But that's not it. Jessica was working undercover. The killer must have known who she really was."
"What about MacKenzie?" asked John. "Did he know her? Could he have blown her cover to, I don't know, maybe convince someone on the inside that he could be trusted?"
Langdale shook his head. "Mark was as cheap as they come, darling, but even he wasn't as cold and calculating as all that."
"He might not have realised the full danger."
"Obvious!"
41. Time
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “It all comes back to the fashion show. We know Ravi and Jessica were there. Mark – “ He glanced over at Langdale, who shrugged. “ – might have been there too, might not, might have been investigating the paper company, might not. And while Ravi was at the show, he wasn’t an investigative reporter, but a fashion blogger; was he taken to disguise the true targets, or was he in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“We’ll need to sort that later,” John said. “Right now we must go, or we’ll be late to the press conference.”
42. Suffer
Lestrade never enjoyed dealing with the press. He accepted it as part of his job, a necessary distraction from proper police work. That didn't mean he liked it. At least he had Donovan backing him up, and today he had three additional officers on hand, keeping a subtle eye on everyone. Chances were fair that the killer's next target was in this room, and he wanted as many eyes on the scene as possible. No one deserved to suffer as the first victims had, and he was damned if he was going to let anyone else go that same way.
43. Beat
Most of the faces in the press room were familiar, reporters who regularly worked the police beat. Obviously someone had let something slip, however, because a few of them were bigger names who only ever turned up when a big story was in the offing. And the rest of the room was nearly filled with reporters Lestrade didn’t recognize offhand.
Lestrade was just about to start when he saw Sherlock and John slip in through the back door. John took one of the few remaining seats, while Sherlock leaned nonchalantly against the wall, his quicksilver eyes taking in every face.
44. Cripple
This was when the circus began and Lestrade was the tightrope walker. His was the unenviable task of handing the press enough information to satisfy them without giving away so much that it would cripple the investigation. Donovan was his balancing pole, helping find centre again when a particularly persistent or overly clever reporter threatened to send him too far to the wrong side of that fine line.
Shame he didn't have a net.
He pointed to a familiar woman in the second row. "Yes, Amanda?"
"What steps are the police taking to protect the public from this brutal killer?"
45. Evil
It was times like these that Lestrade had to remind himself firmly reporters weren’t evil, weren’t agents of the Devil sent to drive him distracted. It was a hard sell, but he made himself believe it, and even smile charmingly at Amanda as he answered. “I can’t give you details, but we have several promising leads, and we are devoting all possible attention to this case.” It was essentially a non-answer, but Amanda didn’t follow up. She probably would have if we’d released the victims’ names. The whole press pool will go into a frenzy as soon as we do.
46. Battle
It can't have missed their collective notice that Sherlock was lurking in, well, not the shadows. More like the wings. After all, this was playing out like some stage fiction, between the mimes, the museum, and the strange Whovianesque connection to a paper company in Chiswick.
Oh yes. Lestrade watched the show. He half-wished for a Time Lord to sort this mess out and battle the baddies, if only so he could catch a couple hours of shut-eye.
Fantasies, Greg, he chided himself as he ended the press conference and made a swift exit with Donovan running interference behind him.
47. Chivalry
By the time the press conference ended, Sherlock had identified two reporters who bore watching, and possibly warning: a crime-beat journalist for the Guardian whose invalid aunt lived in Chiswick; and an entertainment-and-arts specialist who lived in the borough. Naturally, Sherlock decided they should split up without consulting John. Resigned, John followed the arts reporter, joining the scrum leaving the building and holding the door for several out of an ingrained sense of chivalry.
“Where are you headed?” John asked the man.
“SoHo.”
“I’m headed that way myself. Share a cab?”
“Sure.” The man blinked. “Say, aren’t you John Watson?”
48. Drag
John gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Guilty as charged." He hailed a cab and one pulled up right away. He let his companion get in first and followed him.
The man gave the cabbie an address, and John nodded. "Close enough."
"I don't suppose there's a chance of an exclusive?" the fellow asked.
"Afraid not, no."
"Never hurts to ask."
"No. Quite. I, uh, didn't catch what paper you're with."
"Freelance. Bit of a drag, really. Print, online, whatever sells. Reviews, mostly. Books, films, theatre."
"Odd you'd be at a police press conference."
"Well, it's its own sort of drama, innit?"
49. Fall
“Besides, it’s closed the V&A for a day, y’know? Which is news, no two ways about it. God knows how many tour buses and groups they’ve had to turn away. It’s got to be costing them a pretty penny.”
“I suppose it must,” John agreed.
“Yeah, and that’s not even counting the dent something like this might make in future donations. I mean, the corporations and wealthy toffs aren’t going to fall all over themselves giving big gifts and naming grants to an institution that can’t mind its own security well enough to keep out a killer, now are they?”
50. Hide
"No, quite." John hadn't thought about that. It was a curious point and he wondered if it had crossed Sherlock's mind enough to stick and hide in a corner somewhere, or if he'd considered it, found it wanting, and discarded it.
The fellow pulled out his mobile and texted a message. "Sorry. Rude, right?" He pocketed the device. "The wife likes updates on my doings. I don't mind. Means she cares, doesn't it."
"I suppose so." John was almost relieved. If this fellow checked in with his wife that often, he'd be certain to be missed quickly if he disappeared.
51. Loss
“So about this potential loss to the V&A. Could you tell me more about that, um…” John gave the other man a sheepish look. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“Charles. Charles Farnsworth.” The arts reporter offered his hand, and John was surprised by the firm handshake. The reporter didn’t look like he had that kind of strength. “Why, do you think it might be important?”
“Well, I’m not the detective, but it might be,” John admitted. “And you seem like you know something about the subject.”
“Ought to, after thirty years. Sure, come on up to my place.”
52. Shiver
The afternoon had grown overcast and gloomy, threatening more rain. John fought a shiver as he climbed from the cab.
"Top floor," Farnsworth said. "Hope you don't mind a climb."
"It's fine."
"There's a lift but more than half the time it don't work, so most folks just don't bother."
"So, you're a fan of the V&A?" John hazarded. Thirty years was a long time to research anything if you weren't fascinated by the subject.
"Something like that. Here we are." He opened the door, and the last thing John felt was a crushing grip and needle in his wrist.
