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Sep. 17th, 2011 10:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sozettaslowTitle: Currently unnamed; Prologue & Chapter 1
Series: The World Ends With You/Sherlock crossover
Genre: Gen-fic, ongoing
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Summary: Sherlock's older brother was declared dead almost twenty years ago. Then he gets an invitation, for a trip to Shibuya.
Notes: Trigger warning for a brief mention of suicide
Prologue:
The most frequent argument among the Holmes brothers was, naturally, concerning who was more upsetting to their mother. Sherlock would veiled references to a shattered teapot, and Mycroft would allude to a poisoned cat, generally petty arguments because both of them were guilty of the more dangerous ones. Still, it was a relatively safe argument, since both of them knew who really upset Mummy the most. And that was their older brother.
The eldest Holmes (generally left unnamed, since the mention of him was enough to usually enough to set off Mummy Holmes) had been five years Mycroft’s senior, which left him to be a fair bit older than Sherlock. Still, he was a hard person to forget- the typical Holmes boy, brilliant and arrogant, but while he had the head for logic and deduction and certainly used it to annoy his younger siblings, his passion lay elsewhere.
More than once, Sherlock had sat outside of the room with their piano, listening to his older brother play. He was very good- when the early personal recording devices came out, their mother had bought one to record him playing so they she wouldn’t have to put up with his refusals when she wanted to listen to his music.
He’d given Sherlock a violin (the violin, the one he kept to this day) and taught him how to play. He was a harsh teacher, to be sure, never quite pleased with his little brother but Sherlock would have given up and gotten bored if it had been any other way.
There had been a bit of a row, Sherlock remembered, when he’d gone off to college. There had never been a Holmes attend for music, after all. Still, he’d gone through with it, and once he’d graduated was promised greatness. Sherlock distinctly remembered asking him what he thought he was going to do with that.
His brother had smiled, in a way that usually meant he was saying more than the words. “I’m going to be a composer,” he had said.
“Do you believe you will be able to survive doing that?” Sherlock had replied.
His brother had turned away, looking out as their mother approached, though Sherlock could still see the smirk. “Yes. I think I will.”
But it wasn’t that. The music, the profession, the infuriating ability to beat Sherlock at every game of logic they’d ever played... none of those had upset their mother.
What upset her was that he’d died.
He’d gone off on a trip, on a whim, citing creative eccentricity, something none of the Holmes’ could really argue seeing as his ‘creativity’ made no sense to their logic, and had been murdered. A back-alley shooting, nothing planned, nothing extraordinary. An average death, a sad happenstance. Not the way a Holmes should pass.
It is quite possible, Sherlock thinks, that Mycroft’s obsession with monitoring him at every moment might have something to do with that. Or it could just be Mycroft. Still, it had certainly had a hand into Sherlock’s descent into a drug-addled world. His brother had been so interesting, after all- how would he have kept from being bored, otherwise?
When he’d finally broken from that, he’d looked into the very short-lived case. There were questions he had from the start that hadn’t been answered, and possibly never would be.
“Sherlock, you really need to check your mail, dear,” Mrs. Hudson tsked as she handed Sherlock an envelope, “I’m your landlady, not your mail carrier.”
“Of course, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied without feeling, frowning at the letter.
John looked up from his chair, apparently just as puzzled but amused. “People actually still get mail?” he asked, grinning.
“Naturally,” Sherlock replied, starting to open it, “for multiple reasons; it’s less traceable and I have observed that people find it more ‘personal,’ though I can’t imagine w--”
He stopped abruptly, opening the envelope and pulling out three items. “Two tickets to Tokyo,” he said, “And...”
A note. A note that read: “Meet you at Hachiko.”
It was signed ‘Joshua’, with a very distinctive flourish.
Chapter 1:
John had no idea what was happening.
Sherlock had received a letter with two plane tickets to Tokyo, and a note saying to meet someone at ‘Hachiko,’ whatever that meant. John assumed Sherlock knew, but considering the consulting detective hadn’t been saying much, he couldn’t know.
The plane ticket had been for a few days after the letter arrived, leaving them ample time to prepare for the sudden trip and more than enough time for Sherlock to brood. He’d managed to avoid all the questions John had wanted answers to so far, mostly by avoiding John, but on the plane he wouldn’t have a choice.
Sherlock, obviously, knew that, so the moment the plane took off and John opened his mouth to demand an explanation he finally started talking. “Joshua is my older brother,” he said, “And Mycroft’s too, I suppose. Hachiko is the name of a dog- or, more specifically, a statue of a dog commemorating a story similar to that of Greyfriar’s Bobby. It is located in the Shibuya district of Tokyo and is a very popular meeting place. While there was no time listed on the note, judging from our arrival time, what I remember of his general time keeping, and the fact that he knows I don’t sleep, I assume we are meant to meet him at 3 PM.”
John closed his mouth, frowning as he processed the information. Well... yes, that explained a lot. Still... “You’ve never mentioned him before. Though, you never really mention anything. You seemed surprised, when you saw it. Why--”
Sherlock’s look alone cut him off, before the detective faced forward once more. “Joshua died when he was 22 years, 4 months, and 24 days old, shortly after he graduated from university,” he said, “He took a trip to Japan, and was killed in a shooting.”
That certainly knocked John back into silence. “22 years, 4 months, and 24 days?” he said finally, not sure if he should try and lighten the conversation or not, “Very specific.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Relevant information. Not worth deleting.”
Somehow John doubted that, but he didn’t continue on that path. “Then, who sent the note? Do you think it’s a trap?”
“Oh, I’m almost certain it’s a trap,” Sherlock replied, glancing over at John, “I’m also quite sure that Joshua is the one who sent the note.”
John’s grasp of what went on in Sherlock’s mind was weak, at best, but usually he could at least follow. “You think your dead brother is sending you into a trap.”
“Seems like something he would do.”
The doctor sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Sherlock, if he’s dead, how could he have sent you the note? As a medical professional, I can assure you that dead people don’t write letters, or do much of anything.”
He had expected a cold look and snappish reply. It wasn’t what he got. Sherlock’s look got very focused, leaning back in his seat and tapping his hands together. “I’m not so sure,” he said, slowly, “Obviously, anything scientific would dictate that your explanation is the only viable one. However, there are many factors that would lead to another one. For one, Joshua was always unusually interested in the dead.”
John couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “And you aren’t?” he replied.
Sherlock frowned. “No. I’m interested in death, the act- why it occurred, how it occurred, what the reasons or lack thereof were. Joshua’s interest was in what followed. The act of being dead. What had happened to those that died. Manifested in a liking for ghost stories that mummy tried to drive out of him we when were younger. When we were older, it was a general interest in religion and cultural perceptions.”
John shrugged. “Doesn’t sound too unusual.”
“There was another addition,” Sherlock continued, not seeming to care that John had interrupted him, “one that is the only reason I would ever consider the possibility.”
He closed his eyes, and John could tell that he was recapturing a moment clearly imprinted in his memory for eternity.
---
The brothers had gone wandering the streets during a festival, none of them terribly interested in the affair itself but Joshua was in charge for the day and was getting irritated by Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s bickering and dragged them all out of the house. Sherlock was never quite sure if it was just to get them moving, or if it was a punishment for their behavior. Either way, it was effective.
They had finally convinced Joshua to let them go back home, with the promise that they would stay on different sides of the house until they could be civil to each other, and were heading back. A gypsy woman stopped them, trying to con them into paying her for a fortune or some such when she stopped and stared at Joshua.
(Her expression shifted from coy and warming to shocked, and possibly frightened. She no longer reached out, as one would do to drag them in or pick their pockets, and withdrew slightly into herself. Her right hand reached into a pocket and rubbed at something, a coin by the shape of it- probably a nervous habit. All signs pointed to fear.)
Joshua brushed her aside, clearing the path for his brothers to pass by and his expression making it very clear that if they didn’t move along there would be trouble. The woman seemed to recover herself, and grabbed Joshua’s arm.
“You can see them, can’t you?” she said, eyes wide with a maddened look to them, “The dead. The spirits, and their game.”
(Reading Joshua was always more difficult- he was closed by nature, unwilling to give any information away. Difficult, but not impossible. There was the slightest amount of tension gain in his shoulders-- being a pianist, he usually generated tension there-- and the movement in his hand stilled. The most telling was always the smirk. This was his most secretive, his most cryptic. The one he used when whoever it was aimed at was about to suffer.)
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he said, response coy and playful as he gracefully twisted out of her grasp, “Though, women of your profession usually are, hm? You’d think more people would see through it eventually.”
He turned, gesturing for Sherlock and Mycroft to quicken their paces. Neither of them tried to talk back.
---
The description Sherlock gave sent a shudder down John’s spine, like it would after one heard a ghost story. If, by some strange scenario, they actually were going to meet Sherlock’s brother, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to enjoy the experience. The idea was incredible enough that he shook his head. “You think your brother could see dead people?” he said, “Wasn’t that a line in a movie, or something?”
“If he didn’t, then he thought he could,” Sherlock said, “It was there, in his actions. It wouldn’t be like him to delude himself, either. Well. Not that much.”
“Sherlock, I don’t--”
“There’s more.” The dark-haired man turned to face John, reaching into his pocket. “I acquired this, as a part of his will.”
“He had a will?” John stared. This was just getting stranger and stranger. “22 years old, and he had a will?”
“Yes. Another reason for my suspicions.” Out of his pocket, Sherlock produced a small, black item.
Upon closer inspection, John discovered it was some kind of pin, the time that he’d seen children and young adults fasten to their bags and hats and everything else. It was pretty plain, a black background with a white skull-motif. “What is this?” he asked, picking it up and examining it.
“He referred to it as a prototype,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his seat and facing forward again, “Press it.”
John looked over at him. “Press it?”
“Yes, John. Press it.”
Now throughly convinced that Sherlock had gone completely out of his mind (and, most likely, that he would be soon to follow), John sighed and pressed down on the pin.
Something around him... changed. Spoken words became muddled and unclear, but there was something. A sense that something else was lurking very nearby, possibly many somethings, and if he focused in on people--
He clutched it tighter and the feeling faded. Sherlock was, as usual, completely unfazed by the shocked look on his face. “Now, John,” he asked, “what was I thinking?”
John was more than surprised when he managed to find an answer. “You were thinking that this plane ride is exceptionally dull and I’m not helping by being an idiot. Or... something like that, I think.” He paused. “How did I know that?”
“More or less correct,” Sherlock replied, closing his eyes, “Think about it, John. How would you know that?” The doctor didn’t speak, looking down at the pin. Sherlock took this as a sign to continue. “Exactly. That pin, more or less, gives the user an impression of what the people around them are thinking. It’s not always reliable, I can see why he called it a prototype.”
John held up the pin in disbelief. “You’ve been using this to read people’s minds?!” he said, halfway between stunned and furious. He stopped, and considered this for a moment. “Is that why you told Lestrade to stop thinking?”
“Yes. His thoughts are generally very tedious and distracting.” Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. “I’ve learned not to use it around him.”
He held out a hand, and John dropped the pin it in, not wanting to hold onto it any longer, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted Sherlock to have it. “There was one more thing,” Sherlock said, “The actual shooting. It was very simple, very straightforward. Anyone would have seen it coming. Joshua had a thousand ways of preventing such a thing happening to him. The only thing that wasn’t simple was identifying him- he’d been using a different name when he was over there. The body was never identified by the family, because by the time we connected Yoshiya Kiryu with Joshua Holmes, he’d been cremated.”
“Do you think it wasn’t him, then?” John wished he’d said that at the beginning of the conversation, if he did.
“No.” The man opened his eyes. “There was someone to identify the body- a coworker who felt like they knew him quite well. Most likely, he did it to avoid association with the family name. It’s infamous enough that it would raise attention and making whatever he wanted to do harder. You’re missing the point, John.”
John thought for a moment, a sinking feeling coming to him as he realized what Sherlock was hinting at. “You think he got himself killed on purpose?” he said, quietly.
“Probably,” Sherlock replied.
The doctor was quiet again, before asking, “Sherlock, did he have a history of depression, or--”
“Joshua was entirely too fond of himself to commit suicide, John,” Sherlock replied, “It was intentional, but with a purpose. I intend to find out what that is.”
The rest of the plane ride was uneventful, Sherlock sitting in a pondering silence for the duration while John either slept, ate, or tried to find something to do to stave off the boredom. Arriving in Tokyo was chaotic, but they hadn’t brought much of anything (John wasn’t sure why) so getting out was easy enough. They caught a train to Shibuya, and arrived at Hachiko shortly before 3 o’clock.
They stood out, very obviously. Most of the people in the area were dressed in what John could only assume was considered ‘fashionable,’ and it seemed to be mostly a collective of young adults. Quite a few people surrounded the statue, a few chatting with their friends and a few more waiting, texting or playing with their phones or listening to music.
It was then that John realized that he didn’t understand any Japanese.
Sherlock, annoyingly enough, didn’t have the slightest problem with it. He surveyed the crowd for a moment and walked over to a boy, speaking to him in Japanese while the teen stared at him, and proceeded to flip him off when he was done.
John walked over, sighing. “Sherlock...”
“Apparently, he did not appreciate my analysis,” Sherlock said. The boy frowned.
“No, I didn’t,” he said. His voice was accented heavily, obviously having been taught English later in his life, but it was relatively easy to understand. “Why the hell would you go up to people and just... tell them that?”
“Sorry. He does that,” John said, about to pull Sherlock away but the detective stopped him, watching the boy again. He was about sixteen or seventeen, with bright orange hair half-covered by the purple headphones on his head. He’d looked irritated before, but was now looking at Sherlock with a concentrated frown, as if he was trying to remember something.
“Do I look familiar to you, somehow?” Sherlock asked.
“What?” The boy snapped out of it, looking down at his iPod. “No.”
Somehow, John doubted that, but had no idea what that would be for. The teen apparently noticed, opening his mouth as he looked up at him but then looked past John, appearing to be very confused. “What the hell are you--”
There was a gunshot, and Sherlock fell. Another shot, and John felt himself slip very quickly into unconsciousness.
Series: The World Ends With You/Sherlock crossover
Genre: Gen-fic, ongoing
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Summary: Sherlock's older brother was declared dead almost twenty years ago. Then he gets an invitation, for a trip to Shibuya.
Notes: Trigger warning for a brief mention of suicide
Prologue:
The most frequent argument among the Holmes brothers was, naturally, concerning who was more upsetting to their mother. Sherlock would veiled references to a shattered teapot, and Mycroft would allude to a poisoned cat, generally petty arguments because both of them were guilty of the more dangerous ones. Still, it was a relatively safe argument, since both of them knew who really upset Mummy the most. And that was their older brother.
The eldest Holmes (generally left unnamed, since the mention of him was enough to usually enough to set off Mummy Holmes) had been five years Mycroft’s senior, which left him to be a fair bit older than Sherlock. Still, he was a hard person to forget- the typical Holmes boy, brilliant and arrogant, but while he had the head for logic and deduction and certainly used it to annoy his younger siblings, his passion lay elsewhere.
More than once, Sherlock had sat outside of the room with their piano, listening to his older brother play. He was very good- when the early personal recording devices came out, their mother had bought one to record him playing so they she wouldn’t have to put up with his refusals when she wanted to listen to his music.
He’d given Sherlock a violin (the violin, the one he kept to this day) and taught him how to play. He was a harsh teacher, to be sure, never quite pleased with his little brother but Sherlock would have given up and gotten bored if it had been any other way.
There had been a bit of a row, Sherlock remembered, when he’d gone off to college. There had never been a Holmes attend for music, after all. Still, he’d gone through with it, and once he’d graduated was promised greatness. Sherlock distinctly remembered asking him what he thought he was going to do with that.
His brother had smiled, in a way that usually meant he was saying more than the words. “I’m going to be a composer,” he had said.
“Do you believe you will be able to survive doing that?” Sherlock had replied.
His brother had turned away, looking out as their mother approached, though Sherlock could still see the smirk. “Yes. I think I will.”
But it wasn’t that. The music, the profession, the infuriating ability to beat Sherlock at every game of logic they’d ever played... none of those had upset their mother.
What upset her was that he’d died.
He’d gone off on a trip, on a whim, citing creative eccentricity, something none of the Holmes’ could really argue seeing as his ‘creativity’ made no sense to their logic, and had been murdered. A back-alley shooting, nothing planned, nothing extraordinary. An average death, a sad happenstance. Not the way a Holmes should pass.
It is quite possible, Sherlock thinks, that Mycroft’s obsession with monitoring him at every moment might have something to do with that. Or it could just be Mycroft. Still, it had certainly had a hand into Sherlock’s descent into a drug-addled world. His brother had been so interesting, after all- how would he have kept from being bored, otherwise?
When he’d finally broken from that, he’d looked into the very short-lived case. There were questions he had from the start that hadn’t been answered, and possibly never would be.
“Sherlock, you really need to check your mail, dear,” Mrs. Hudson tsked as she handed Sherlock an envelope, “I’m your landlady, not your mail carrier.”
“Of course, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied without feeling, frowning at the letter.
John looked up from his chair, apparently just as puzzled but amused. “People actually still get mail?” he asked, grinning.
“Naturally,” Sherlock replied, starting to open it, “for multiple reasons; it’s less traceable and I have observed that people find it more ‘personal,’ though I can’t imagine w--”
He stopped abruptly, opening the envelope and pulling out three items. “Two tickets to Tokyo,” he said, “And...”
A note. A note that read: “Meet you at Hachiko.”
It was signed ‘Joshua’, with a very distinctive flourish.
Chapter 1:
John had no idea what was happening.
Sherlock had received a letter with two plane tickets to Tokyo, and a note saying to meet someone at ‘Hachiko,’ whatever that meant. John assumed Sherlock knew, but considering the consulting detective hadn’t been saying much, he couldn’t know.
The plane ticket had been for a few days after the letter arrived, leaving them ample time to prepare for the sudden trip and more than enough time for Sherlock to brood. He’d managed to avoid all the questions John had wanted answers to so far, mostly by avoiding John, but on the plane he wouldn’t have a choice.
Sherlock, obviously, knew that, so the moment the plane took off and John opened his mouth to demand an explanation he finally started talking. “Joshua is my older brother,” he said, “And Mycroft’s too, I suppose. Hachiko is the name of a dog- or, more specifically, a statue of a dog commemorating a story similar to that of Greyfriar’s Bobby. It is located in the Shibuya district of Tokyo and is a very popular meeting place. While there was no time listed on the note, judging from our arrival time, what I remember of his general time keeping, and the fact that he knows I don’t sleep, I assume we are meant to meet him at 3 PM.”
John closed his mouth, frowning as he processed the information. Well... yes, that explained a lot. Still... “You’ve never mentioned him before. Though, you never really mention anything. You seemed surprised, when you saw it. Why--”
Sherlock’s look alone cut him off, before the detective faced forward once more. “Joshua died when he was 22 years, 4 months, and 24 days old, shortly after he graduated from university,” he said, “He took a trip to Japan, and was killed in a shooting.”
That certainly knocked John back into silence. “22 years, 4 months, and 24 days?” he said finally, not sure if he should try and lighten the conversation or not, “Very specific.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Relevant information. Not worth deleting.”
Somehow John doubted that, but he didn’t continue on that path. “Then, who sent the note? Do you think it’s a trap?”
“Oh, I’m almost certain it’s a trap,” Sherlock replied, glancing over at John, “I’m also quite sure that Joshua is the one who sent the note.”
John’s grasp of what went on in Sherlock’s mind was weak, at best, but usually he could at least follow. “You think your dead brother is sending you into a trap.”
“Seems like something he would do.”
The doctor sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Sherlock, if he’s dead, how could he have sent you the note? As a medical professional, I can assure you that dead people don’t write letters, or do much of anything.”
He had expected a cold look and snappish reply. It wasn’t what he got. Sherlock’s look got very focused, leaning back in his seat and tapping his hands together. “I’m not so sure,” he said, slowly, “Obviously, anything scientific would dictate that your explanation is the only viable one. However, there are many factors that would lead to another one. For one, Joshua was always unusually interested in the dead.”
John couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “And you aren’t?” he replied.
Sherlock frowned. “No. I’m interested in death, the act- why it occurred, how it occurred, what the reasons or lack thereof were. Joshua’s interest was in what followed. The act of being dead. What had happened to those that died. Manifested in a liking for ghost stories that mummy tried to drive out of him we when were younger. When we were older, it was a general interest in religion and cultural perceptions.”
John shrugged. “Doesn’t sound too unusual.”
“There was another addition,” Sherlock continued, not seeming to care that John had interrupted him, “one that is the only reason I would ever consider the possibility.”
He closed his eyes, and John could tell that he was recapturing a moment clearly imprinted in his memory for eternity.
---
The brothers had gone wandering the streets during a festival, none of them terribly interested in the affair itself but Joshua was in charge for the day and was getting irritated by Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s bickering and dragged them all out of the house. Sherlock was never quite sure if it was just to get them moving, or if it was a punishment for their behavior. Either way, it was effective.
They had finally convinced Joshua to let them go back home, with the promise that they would stay on different sides of the house until they could be civil to each other, and were heading back. A gypsy woman stopped them, trying to con them into paying her for a fortune or some such when she stopped and stared at Joshua.
(Her expression shifted from coy and warming to shocked, and possibly frightened. She no longer reached out, as one would do to drag them in or pick their pockets, and withdrew slightly into herself. Her right hand reached into a pocket and rubbed at something, a coin by the shape of it- probably a nervous habit. All signs pointed to fear.)
Joshua brushed her aside, clearing the path for his brothers to pass by and his expression making it very clear that if they didn’t move along there would be trouble. The woman seemed to recover herself, and grabbed Joshua’s arm.
“You can see them, can’t you?” she said, eyes wide with a maddened look to them, “The dead. The spirits, and their game.”
(Reading Joshua was always more difficult- he was closed by nature, unwilling to give any information away. Difficult, but not impossible. There was the slightest amount of tension gain in his shoulders-- being a pianist, he usually generated tension there-- and the movement in his hand stilled. The most telling was always the smirk. This was his most secretive, his most cryptic. The one he used when whoever it was aimed at was about to suffer.)
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he said, response coy and playful as he gracefully twisted out of her grasp, “Though, women of your profession usually are, hm? You’d think more people would see through it eventually.”
He turned, gesturing for Sherlock and Mycroft to quicken their paces. Neither of them tried to talk back.
---
The description Sherlock gave sent a shudder down John’s spine, like it would after one heard a ghost story. If, by some strange scenario, they actually were going to meet Sherlock’s brother, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to enjoy the experience. The idea was incredible enough that he shook his head. “You think your brother could see dead people?” he said, “Wasn’t that a line in a movie, or something?”
“If he didn’t, then he thought he could,” Sherlock said, “It was there, in his actions. It wouldn’t be like him to delude himself, either. Well. Not that much.”
“Sherlock, I don’t--”
“There’s more.” The dark-haired man turned to face John, reaching into his pocket. “I acquired this, as a part of his will.”
“He had a will?” John stared. This was just getting stranger and stranger. “22 years old, and he had a will?”
“Yes. Another reason for my suspicions.” Out of his pocket, Sherlock produced a small, black item.
Upon closer inspection, John discovered it was some kind of pin, the time that he’d seen children and young adults fasten to their bags and hats and everything else. It was pretty plain, a black background with a white skull-motif. “What is this?” he asked, picking it up and examining it.
“He referred to it as a prototype,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his seat and facing forward again, “Press it.”
John looked over at him. “Press it?”
“Yes, John. Press it.”
Now throughly convinced that Sherlock had gone completely out of his mind (and, most likely, that he would be soon to follow), John sighed and pressed down on the pin.
Something around him... changed. Spoken words became muddled and unclear, but there was something. A sense that something else was lurking very nearby, possibly many somethings, and if he focused in on people--
He clutched it tighter and the feeling faded. Sherlock was, as usual, completely unfazed by the shocked look on his face. “Now, John,” he asked, “what was I thinking?”
John was more than surprised when he managed to find an answer. “You were thinking that this plane ride is exceptionally dull and I’m not helping by being an idiot. Or... something like that, I think.” He paused. “How did I know that?”
“More or less correct,” Sherlock replied, closing his eyes, “Think about it, John. How would you know that?” The doctor didn’t speak, looking down at the pin. Sherlock took this as a sign to continue. “Exactly. That pin, more or less, gives the user an impression of what the people around them are thinking. It’s not always reliable, I can see why he called it a prototype.”
John held up the pin in disbelief. “You’ve been using this to read people’s minds?!” he said, halfway between stunned and furious. He stopped, and considered this for a moment. “Is that why you told Lestrade to stop thinking?”
“Yes. His thoughts are generally very tedious and distracting.” Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. “I’ve learned not to use it around him.”
He held out a hand, and John dropped the pin it in, not wanting to hold onto it any longer, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted Sherlock to have it. “There was one more thing,” Sherlock said, “The actual shooting. It was very simple, very straightforward. Anyone would have seen it coming. Joshua had a thousand ways of preventing such a thing happening to him. The only thing that wasn’t simple was identifying him- he’d been using a different name when he was over there. The body was never identified by the family, because by the time we connected Yoshiya Kiryu with Joshua Holmes, he’d been cremated.”
“Do you think it wasn’t him, then?” John wished he’d said that at the beginning of the conversation, if he did.
“No.” The man opened his eyes. “There was someone to identify the body- a coworker who felt like they knew him quite well. Most likely, he did it to avoid association with the family name. It’s infamous enough that it would raise attention and making whatever he wanted to do harder. You’re missing the point, John.”
John thought for a moment, a sinking feeling coming to him as he realized what Sherlock was hinting at. “You think he got himself killed on purpose?” he said, quietly.
“Probably,” Sherlock replied.
The doctor was quiet again, before asking, “Sherlock, did he have a history of depression, or--”
“Joshua was entirely too fond of himself to commit suicide, John,” Sherlock replied, “It was intentional, but with a purpose. I intend to find out what that is.”
The rest of the plane ride was uneventful, Sherlock sitting in a pondering silence for the duration while John either slept, ate, or tried to find something to do to stave off the boredom. Arriving in Tokyo was chaotic, but they hadn’t brought much of anything (John wasn’t sure why) so getting out was easy enough. They caught a train to Shibuya, and arrived at Hachiko shortly before 3 o’clock.
They stood out, very obviously. Most of the people in the area were dressed in what John could only assume was considered ‘fashionable,’ and it seemed to be mostly a collective of young adults. Quite a few people surrounded the statue, a few chatting with their friends and a few more waiting, texting or playing with their phones or listening to music.
It was then that John realized that he didn’t understand any Japanese.
Sherlock, annoyingly enough, didn’t have the slightest problem with it. He surveyed the crowd for a moment and walked over to a boy, speaking to him in Japanese while the teen stared at him, and proceeded to flip him off when he was done.
John walked over, sighing. “Sherlock...”
“Apparently, he did not appreciate my analysis,” Sherlock said. The boy frowned.
“No, I didn’t,” he said. His voice was accented heavily, obviously having been taught English later in his life, but it was relatively easy to understand. “Why the hell would you go up to people and just... tell them that?”
“Sorry. He does that,” John said, about to pull Sherlock away but the detective stopped him, watching the boy again. He was about sixteen or seventeen, with bright orange hair half-covered by the purple headphones on his head. He’d looked irritated before, but was now looking at Sherlock with a concentrated frown, as if he was trying to remember something.
“Do I look familiar to you, somehow?” Sherlock asked.
“What?” The boy snapped out of it, looking down at his iPod. “No.”
Somehow, John doubted that, but had no idea what that would be for. The teen apparently noticed, opening his mouth as he looked up at him but then looked past John, appearing to be very confused. “What the hell are you--”
There was a gunshot, and Sherlock fell. Another shot, and John felt himself slip very quickly into unconsciousness.
