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My name is Linus Sigerson and I am nothing special. At least, that is what you are meant to believe. With jumpers a size too big and trousers an inch too short, I am innocuous and poorly-dressed and unassuming. My hair is cut in a manner befitting an awkward math teacher, and I wear wire-rimmed glasses. The trainers are a nice touch, I have to admit, allowing me a bit of functionality as well as an extra kick of dull.
Linus Sigerson worked as a bank teller for several years before quitting to travel the world.
Linus Sigerson never meant to get caught up in this whole mess. Sherlock Homles, however, did.
It isn't enough to travel under an assumed name or in a disguise. Combining the two is good, and quite necessary, but it's really best to take it a few steps further. Perhaps a step or two too far, but considering the task at hand, there is really no such concept as too far.
The baggy jumper conceals more than my stature, of course. It's wonderful, really, what one can hide within the depths of knitted comfort. Now I know why John favoured them so much. No one suspects a jumper, no one expects loaded guns to be tucked neatly away beneath them. It's very nearly lovely. Of course, the gun is Sherlock Holmes. Linus Sigerson wouldn't even be able to put the safety on, let alone shoot it. That is why he and I occupy this body. Linus is, for the most part, simple transport. Only the shallowest layers of our brain allow his stinking dullness to come through.
That's not to say he's an idiot, though. Certainly not. He's sort of a burgeoning mathematician, and would be great if he possessed more confidence in himself. He isn't a scientist, or a philosopher, or an expert linguist. He speaks passable French, a bit of German, knows enough of other Romance languages to be somewhere within the realm of conversational. Not like me. Linus Sigerson and I are not the same man. We occupy the same body, but that is the extent of things.
His voice is softer and higher, less sure of itself. It has a tendency to trip over itself, lending itself to quiet stuttering and throat-clearing. He's a fidgety man, too. Not in the way that I am, not as a way to release energy before combustion or as an extension of the mind, but rather a constant busy movement that speaks of nerves and anxiety. Two things that have never afflicted Sherlock Holmes.
My first mission passed quietly enough. No one had cause to suspect Linus, and when I allowed his voice to drop into my own lower pitch, when his hands stopped shaking and reached for the (my) gun, I was only a few seconds away from shooting the man dead. He gave me the information I needed in exchange for his life.
I did not honor my word.
There is no honor to this world, and it almost pains me to know. Though if I am being truly honest, it does pain me. To put it bluntly, it rips me to fucking shreds.
Three months (four lives) in, and I admit to hearing the chemical siren's call. My veins itch in a way they haven't for years, and the purple scar shadows in the crooks of my elbows beg for reanimation. Five months (six lives) and I allow myself the hollow luxury.
Sherlock revels in the terrible compounds (sorry, John, sorrysorrysorry) and Linus is not even aware that they hummed through his veins/arteries/capillaries just the night before.
My name is Linus Sigerson. The marrow of my bones, the walls of my cells, the electrons of my atoms all belong to Sherlock Holmes, but you needn't worry--he is dead, after all.