The Science of Deduction

Steve wasn’t getting as much from Sherlock as the man was getting from him, but he was intelligent enough to gather his own information. Though he didn’t babble it back like a know-it-all. Sherlock was unstable- really unstable. Obsessive, neurotic. Clearly an adrenaline junkie. The angrier Steve got, the more excited he became. Danger was his drug of choice, though Steve would have been willing to bet he wouldn’t say no to other substances.

Anything to alleviate the boredom. Steve guessed the text wasn’t as interesting as the potential of getting his head slammed into a wall, and decided that the man in front of him might be the most intelligent person he would ever meet, but no less crazy.

He physically recoiled in defense at the fresh barrage of accurate, but incredibly private information was spewed out of his mouth. Steve didn’t need to confront any of this now- or ever. He’d been raised in a time when being a ‘fairy’ meant that you couldn’t even call yourself a man, when conformity was survival. Steve had grown up under the fist of a man who screamed at his small, sick son, that he was a failure, that he was not enough, that he wasn’t a man, and never would be. While he’d never doubted his love for Loki, and never felt shame in their relationship, his perception of himself…it was difficult. 

Defensive anger and a furious frustration boiled over. A condemned man who saw through Captain America. Fear of cold. Steve snapped into action the moment he said that Loki must be ‘frightfully damaged’. Screw being inconspicuous, his arm shot out, fist connecting squarely with the detective’s face, knocking him out. Steve dragged him outside. 

Super soldiers could hit with tremendous force. He would remember that.

Pain exploded as he attempted to lift his head, enough to make him hiss aloud. Sherlock found he was able to rest his head against a wall of concrete behind him, and that helped. He was bound to a chair by an amateur, still able to move enough to work himself free with time and patience. When he tried to open his eyes, he found only his right could manage it. The left was swollen shut.

He gazed into the darkness with his one good eye, trying to discern what he could without moving his head. Warehouse. No signs of outside life while it was no doubt early evening, which meant this was one of the abandoned blocks on the lower east end... smart. The captain wasn’t going to kill him, but beating London’s famous detective would reflect rather poorly on him.

They wouldn’t be interrupted here.

“... I commend your choice of location.” Sherlock finally spoke, though his voice was faint with pain, stripped of arrogance. “A body here would not be discovered for months... and even then would probably be taken for that of a junkie and ignored. They would not be wrong... but you guessed that already.”

His good eye slid shut as he momentarily faltered under the pain. He could feel his mobile in his pocket, the warmth indicating it was on and desperately searching for a wireless signal. John was prone to searching for his GPS, and would likely come running if he saw the signal’s origin. He’d suspect him of raiding a heroin den. Again.

“I was not planted, Captain. Put any human being in front of me and I could do the same. I know it felt personal, but it wasn’t. You won’t believe that, they never do...”

The thought broke cleanly in two as a sudden flash of green light blinded them both, the windows shattering outward. The metal door blasted off its hinges, crumpling in on itself in its haste to move aside. A thin, towering figure strode evenly through the malestrom, a sort of green energy sparking near its hands.

The moment he stepped into the light, it all ceased, pale blue eyes staring at the scene with confusion. He was not unlike Sherlock in physique, tall, pale, gaunt, raven-black hair. But there was more, so much more. Sherlock’s good eye had blown wide, staring at the man before him with a mixture of interest and genuine horror.

a condemned man

     some old enemy turned not quite good

          he tries to be for your sake

     that doesn’t what he’s done

Loki

The trickster turned his gaze from the detective to the captain, his face a mixture of relief and annoyance. Like he’d just been frightened half to death for nothing.

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This is for sixpenceee. Since everyone is sharing super cool posts for her super cool blog!

Assuming this Sherlock character didn’t plan on publicly calling him on it, anyway. Having a conversation likely drew the attention off him anyway, so Steve allowed it, sitting back in his chair to absorb as much as he could about this guy. 

A wide grin curved his lips up at the sight of the scar. “I’ve gotta get him to tell me that story…did you bring up Howard? He’s almost come for me for talking about him before.” One of his brows lifted slightly, but he said nothing about SHIELD. It was intriguing, though, that Sherlock had dealt with them before. He wondered what the consulting detective thought of them, if he could have unveiled HYDRA sooner, given the chance.

His head canted slightly to the side. He’d gotten his order right. Steve supposed he could have guessed that based on knowing what kinds of rations they got during the war, but…it was still impressive. Impressive and intimidating. There were things about himself he wanted to remain un-deduced and un-discussed.

He stiffened right back up at the tongue-in-cheek reference to Bucky. Steve’s eyes flashed dangerously- he did have a dark side, and he knew that well, but he didn’t want it talked about over coffee. With a fucking stranger. His fists clenched, and when he spoke, it was nearer to a growl than words. 

He gestured for Steve to drink his coffee, sipping more of his own.

“Violence and I go way back, but it was worthwhile shot in the dark. I’ve no doubt you are angry enough to physically hurt me, but your strong moral principle will hold you back from any lasting damage, and the fact you raised your hand to an unarmed stranger will leave a bad taste in your mouth no matter what I’ve said.”

Sherlock glanced down at his phone as it buzzed, briefly scanning the text from John and tucking it into the folds of his coat. John would have to wait, this was far more interesting.

“Unless of course you are simply stalling for - ohh.”

Ice green eyes went wide in revelation, and those slender hands steepled beneath his chin once more.

“Oh Captain, I almost missed it… you’re bisexual. And beneath all that bravado, desperately struggling against the homophobia you endured in the 30s and 40s. You’re in your first relationship with a man, and quite happily so, but you feel as if it scars your masculinity. How can you be the strong, courageous, unwavering Captain America if you’re in love with another man… Which is, of course, absurd, but it’s ingrained deep enough to give you pause. Despite this, you aren’t getting your desired fill of sex, but it is decent enough when it happens you don’t feel the need to pursue it outside the relationship… And it’s not just any man, oh no… It’s a condemned man. Some old enemy turned not quite good. He tries to be, for your sake, but that doesn’t change who he is or what he’s done. You look past who he is and what he’s done because when he looks at you, he sees more than that shield.” 

The Captain was more than ready to kill him, but Sherlock paid it no attention. The oiled machine that was his mind was firing on all cylinders.

“I can see why you’re a detective,” he muttered, studying Sherlock carefully. He was half tempted to drag him outside and knock him out. Not because he seemed particularly threatening, but he because Steve had no idea what he was after. He was a variable- a very unstable one.

His eyes were narrowed slightly. “You think you’re the smartest thing alive. You oughta meet my friend Tony, you’d love each other,” he said, trusting that Sherlock would put the pieces together enough to realize he meant Tony Stark. Steve folded his arms over his chest. If the guy really was here just for fun, and because he was bored, he might be useful or the worst possible thing that could have happened for this mission.

Sherlock inwardly shuddered at how quickly his mind would rot in a police academy. That smirk returned, a laugh coming with it.

“Smartest thing in this room at any rate, though you do grant me some competition. I never insulted your intelligence, captain, merely your attempt at espionage. It’s a highly disciplined art even the naturally gifted must study for years. You’re extremely adaptable, a force when motivated, and not easily dissuaded by hardship. They would have to put particular effort into your lying abilities, but otherwise, you could definitely become a spy to be reckoned with.”

Slender fingers removed his scarf, tugging the collar of his jacket and shirt aside to reveal a jagged scar on his shoulder.

“I have met Mr. Stark. Brilliant man, but not at all observant. We had a heated discussion under generous amounts of alcohol, and he came at me with a broken bottle. One of his shield handlers wrote me a very nice cheque for my trouble.”

Sherlock ordered a coffee for the captain, a rich brew with nothing added. No doubt he’d unlearned the desire for additives in the war, where coffee was taken hot, black, and whenever possible. 

“Bored enough to bother you, and to keep those men’s semi-automatics off your scent. Funny how you’re suddenly more interested in beating an unarmed stranger than the two men who belong to the organisation that robbed you of your best friend.” 

Those long hands steepled again, eyes analyzing Steve harder than ever.

“In the midst of the drunken ramblings that nearly cost me an artery, Mr. Stark informed me Captain America doesn’t have a dark side... but that’s not true at all, is it? No... not one bit...”

He sat up straighter and continued.