Mobile: Chapter 3, Part 2
Chapter Three
Title: Mobile
Author: A Study in Schadenfreude
Pairing|Characters: No strict pairing
Length: Looks like it’ll be a long one
Genre: angst, action-adventure
Warnings: Post-Reichenbach Fall.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, and Conan-Doyle own the characters, we’re just making them dance to our tune.
Summary: John Watson’s on the verge of leaving 221B behind. Until he receives a message that will change his life forever... “Text Received from Sherlock Holmes.”
-----
John shouldn’t be surprised, really. So he wasn’t. He sighed instead. Clearly Sherlock’s fame wasn’t only getting Sherlock noticed. He would need a better disguise if this stranger could see right through it.
But then again, Steve was anything but an ordinary stranger. The man grinned at John, his movements sure and confident. Charm rolled off the man in waves, and John could see why people trusted him. Something about those sharp, blue eyes however, told John that the man was great at selling his lies, and twisting them with the truth. And John wouldn’t lie, the man was a good-looking bloke. That probably helped put people at ease.
John had been pointed in his direction by a friend who worked somewhere in law enforcement, and their sources are usually spot on, if not a bit shy of the truth. And John could see that his source was wrong - this man seemed to be better than what they have on record.
“When did you realize who I was?”
“The moment I saw you walk.” Steve stretched his legs on the sofa and put them on the coffee table. “All right, maybe a little after you started talking.”
“Right then. I’ll have to work on changing that. Will I be recognizable to anyone else I don’t know?”
“Look, John, I’m a special case. I do this for a living. Others - not so much.” Steve looked at John, scanning him from head to toe. He gestured at John. “You need to... change everything. The way you talk, the way you think, the way you act. You have to believe in this character you made up.” He frowned. “I don’t know why you’re doing this (probably has something to do with Sherlock) but you need to be less you for this to work. Arthur Dent needs to become more... real.”
Change everything. Combat 35 years of habits, mannerisms...his identity.
No pressure.
It was sound advice. It was going to be hard, pretending to be a different person every day, never letting your guard down even while you sleep. But he could do it - he will do it. Come tomorrow, John Watson would be dead, and Arthur Dent would materialize out of thin air.
His mind ran as it considered possibilities. Arthur Dent. Who would he be? Would he be loud? A cynic? Does have a family? John felt a rush as he remembered what had made Richard Brook so believable to the public. A background. Arthur Dent needed a history. Everything else would build from there.
“You’ve been incredibly helpful. Thank you.”
“I could help you, you know.” Steve said with a grin. “Always for a price, but I can help.”
“How much would it cost me?”
“I’ll send you a bill.”
“Send it here.” John wrote down Henry’s mailing address. “I’m not sure where I’ll be when you bill me.”
“Will do.” Steve grinned, and hid the paper in his pocket. “Tell you what. We fix your back-stories, histories, papers, everything, and me and my driver here will take care of the rest. And then I could be your... consulting criminal for the week.”
John tensed at the title. Relax, John. He’s no Moriarty. “As long as you never call yourself my consulting criminal again. I’ve got a bad history with consulting criminals.”
Steve thought for a moment, and rubbed his forehead in dismay. He shook his head. “Right. Him. The consulting criminal. Moriarty.” He grimaced, and frowned apologetically at John. “Sorry, forgot for a moment there.” He glanced at his driver, who made a disgusted, if not terrified, face. “I never liked him. He always was too creepy, and every ‘favour’ you get has strings attached. Never liked all the killing, either.”
The forger flashed a smile again, as if remembering something. He looked at John pointedly. “You know what, I met him once. Sherlock. Nice enough guy, almost - almost handed me over to the Yard. If only the FBI didn’t get first dibs on me and everything got buried under the bureaucratic red tape we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
John laughed. “You must have made a good impression, if he almost handed you over to the Yard.”
Steve shook his head, laughing too. “Almost - I slipped away before they could get me.”
“And just what was it you were up to? Stealing a Raphael?” John chuckled at the absurdity.
Steve raised his eyebrows suggestively, and ignored the question altogether. “How is Sherlock doing? He couldn’t have just killed himself. I’ve seen people pull that con many times and they still pop up in someone’s radar at some point.” He leaned forward. “Besides, between you and me, I bet Moriarty’s knee deep in whatever happened. His fingers are in everybody’s cookie jars.”
John didn’t want to share his hopes of Sherlock being alive. It wasn’t worth the risk. John kept his face passive. “Sherlock is dead, everybody knows that. I saw it happen.” He paused. “I’ll tell you one thing, I wouldn’t be surprised if Moriarty was at the centre of it. Sherlock was his favourite game.”
Steve shook his head in amusement, as if he knew John wasn’t telling him something. “Okay, that’s okay, I wouldn’t tell you anything either if I was running a con.” He grinned, and waved at one of the drying licenses. “So, Mr ‘Dent’, let’s see how we can bring you to life.”
---
Tabernacle did not disappoint. The papers were perfect; John compared them to his originals and he couldn’t tell the difference.
Next on his list was shopping. Clothes shopping. Honestly. He usually had Clara or Harry help him for this, but now he was on his own. He sighed, missing the ease of army uniforms. Civvys could get a little complicated. But Arthur was a civilian, and he needed clothes that did not consist of jumpers and jeans.
A cab dropped him off at the Debenhams. John browsed the racks, grabbing shirts that weren’t his usual button ups, hoodies that weren’t his knit jumpers, and a couple pairs of jeans that John Watson wouldn't wear. He saw a grey jacket that reminded him of his green one and added it to his growing pile of Arthur clothes. John wasn’t very materialistic, but maybe if he had some pieces that reminded him of who he was, who he’d been, this would be easier. He couldn’t simply dispense of John Watson simply because he was going to ‘die’.
Next came a comfortable pair of black ankle boots that looked good for running and some toiletries. A flat cap and a pair of leather gloves. He moved on to the toy section to find an item of significant importance: a water gun. He felt ridiculous, a grown man scanning through the toy department for water guns, but thank heavens he didn't actually have to browse for one, since there was only one type. It was perfect: different settings for spraying or streaming. It was necessary. How else was he to spray his blood all over the flat? He grabbed a duffle bag and a new wallet for his new ID. He needed to leave his own on the body, and John sighed at the thought. Clara had given it to him for Christmas. It was a nice wallet.
He fought his way through the lines and managed to check out without much fuss (which was, in retrospect, a complete miracle that the machines didn't hate him this time; never mind that someone else was operating the counter.) He caught the tube back to Baker Street. No more cabs for a while. He was running out of money. He needed to save some.
John packed with the ease of a man who has been doing it for years. His position in the army had him move from checkpoint to checkpoint, camp to camp, and he had become efficient at packing his clothes quickly and neatly, managing to fit all of what he needed into his bag. He carefully laid his fake papers at the bottom of the bag, and slipped in his new phone in the bag's pocket.
He placed the packed bag in the middle of the den, and sat in his chair. He stared at it.
There was Arthur Dent's life (along with one Hector Dixon and a Tim Canterbury) in a duffle bag.
John Watson stood up. He glanced around the flat. He was leaving 221b. He had been here for so long… far too many memories. Sherlock, playing the violin on the couch or by the window, composing music or playing Chopin. Himself, eating toast and jam, drinking tea on the table next to a sliced open heart with electrodes stuck in it. Mrs Hudson, coming up the stairs telling the boys they had another client, and asking if they wanted tea. Greg, Donovan - hell, even Anderson, combing through the flat under the pretense of a drug bust.
The animal skull with headphones, the human skull on the mantel, the Cluedo board, the bullet holes and smiley on the wall.
It was his home, and he was leaving it.
John exhaled slowly. He wanted to keep a part of it, a piece of it that wouldn't be missed when he leaves. The skull was too conspicuous. Sherlock's violin? No, John, don't be stupid. What would you do with Sherlock's violin? Too obvious. People would wonder where it went. Sherlock. Maybe just a piece of Sherlock. 221B. He'd always associated it, partly, with his best friend anyway.
Sherlock. His dressing gown? No. Too big, too noticeable. Wouldn't fit in his bag, at that.
His scarf. His scarf, the scarf he used to wear. The one the detective left huddled up in the corner of his closet, partly forgotten after Mrs Hudson presented him with a new one. It still even smelled like the man, not that John ever paid attention to that.
The scarf smelled like Sherlock, and it smelled like the wardrobes in 221B. A box of nicotine patches caught his eye, and a memory flashed across John's mind: Sherlock lying down on the couch, gesturing with three patches on his arm at Mrs Hudson to go away, for Greg to shut up and for John to listen.
He grabbed that too, and stuffed everything into the bag.
He stared at it again.
He was ready. John was ready. John exhaled slowly, and turned around, his feet moving in a familiar military march that conveyed respect. He respected this place. It was home.
He made his way upstairs, climbing up the familiar steps for the last time. He crawled under his covers, relishing each movement, trying to imprint the small, habitual motions into his brain. He was leaving the life he knew, after all. Surely he could be permitted this.
He fell asleep trying to memorize the patterns on his butter yellow ceiling.
----
Morning.
The alarm rang precisely at zero-five-hundred, and John turned it off. He always woke up a few minutes before five, as his practice had been in the army. He sat on his bed, and sighed. He looked up to the ceiling, and whispered to the powers-that-be for luck.
Today was the day he was going to die. John tried saying it. I’m going to die today. It left a weird taste in his mouth, and John swallowed and repeated it out loud.
“I’m going to die today.”
It didn’t make it any easier.
But at least now, he could look for Sherlock. Now, he could look for Sherlock in relative peace, and not worry about his loved ones getting harmed because of this lunacy he was engaging in.
At the end of the day, that was why he was going to ‘kill’ John Watson. So John Watson’s loved ones will be safe.
John sighed. Still didn’t make it any easier.
Well. That’s that, then.
He stood up. He had a long day ahead of him, and he’d better get started.
He was dying today, after all.
-----
The dry grass crunched under his boots as John made his way to the hopefully empty grave of Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing the flat cap he bought, the counterpart to Hat-man’s deerstalker, to cover his hair. John didn’t see many other visitors, not uncommon for a week-day. The black headstone was partly visible now, shadowed by the pine tree.
John had a vague idea of what he was going to say, but when he arrived at the grave, he was silent. This was the last chance to back out.
He wasn’t going to.
“Sherlock, if you can hear me, I came to say goodbye.” John paused, trying to remember the script he wrote for this earlier. He couldn’t. He improvised. “I’ve tried to remember what life was like before you, but all I can remember is how I was so alone. I didn’t care what happened to me, but nothing happened to me. Nothing good, nothing bad. I can’t...I just can’t do that again. So I’m...” He inhaled, a little too sharply for a pretend goodbye. It felt too real. “You were my best friend. Maybe we’ll meet again. Goodbye Sherlock.”
He reached his hand out to touch the top of the marker, like before, before walking away despondently.
John wondered if he would ever get this close to his best friend’s grave again.
Hours later, after reviewing the footage, Mycroft Holmes would be alerted of the message. It would be too late.
---
It was easier than John thought.
Really, it was. Considerably.
With almost the whole of the hospital was on your side, it wasn’t really that much of a stretch that stealing a body wouldn’t be difficult. Also, as John was already a doctor, it wasn’t too hard to act like he knew what was going on and that he actually worked at the hospital. Sort of.
Greg Laurie was supposed to meet him in the office early that morning, talk to him about how to acquire the body, and let him borrow his car. Instead, John found the other doctor bickering with someone in the small room, and John waited outside the office as patiently as he can.
The man stormed out after a few minutes, and Greg emerged from the room with a huge grin.
“Don’t worry about anything Doctor Leonard - I will take care of your patient with extra love and care!”
Doctor Leonard turned around and stopped. He walked back, and glared at Greg. “You still owe me lunch, Laurie.”
“I thought that sandwich was free for all.”
“It had my name on the package!”
“You didn’t have a name on the food itself! You should write it down with a biro.” Greg said. Doctor Leonard rolled his eyes, looking like he didn’t really expect to win, and just walked away, shutting himself in another office.
John looked up at Greg. “Having a little domestic?”
“We’re not together, although we can be in your head if you like.” Greg grinned widely, winking at John.
John rolled his eyes and sighed in impatience. “I don’t have long, Greg, and you know it. I’ve got somewhere I have to be and I need something along with me…”
“Got somewhere important to go? Leaving this plane of existence?”
John glared at him. “Anytime, doctor.”
“Follow me.” Greg said, and he hobbled out of the office. He tossed John a white coat and John shrugged it on. It felt different. He was more used to the uniform of an army doctor.
They walked into the Palliative Care Unit, Greg exuding the arrogant air he always had, and John trying his best not to remember how similar it felt being with him to how it was being with Sherlock.
Greg tapped his cane loudly in the middle of the department. “Listen up. This is Doctor Dolittle. He’s here with me consulting on a case. Whatever he does, just let him do it. Got it?”
Nobody answered. Greg shrugged, and called on two orderlies. “Do whatever he asks. Oh, and, did that man in forty-two die already?”
One of the orderlies nodded, and said that the machines had just been recently disconnected. Greg smiled. He patted John on the back. “Well then, Doctor, he’s all yours.” Greg turned to leave, and then stopped. “Oh, and here.” Greg tossed him some keys. “Take care of my car, it’s the only one I have. Go in peace, Doctor McCoy.”
John exhaled. Yes, he was going to do this. There was no turning back. He had already dyed his hair ginger.
The orderlies had very confused looks on their faces. “Doctor who?” the tall, thin one on the right asked. Why did Greg have to use those fake names? John really hated Greg Laurie sometimes. Most times probably.
“Doctor Smith...Jones. Doctor Smith-Jones.” he said, coughing lightly hoping that would keep them from noticing his hesitation. He stared them down, trying to see if they would call him on it. They seemed to accept his horrible alias. John really watched too much Doctor Who.
He tried his best not to act like a captain, and more like a civilian doctor. “So, ah, mates, forty-two?”
The orderlies shrugged, and showed him in. The man was being covered with a bed sheet, and the tag on the foot told John that it was going to the morgue. John nodded in approval, and peeked behind the bed sheet. Yes, that was the man that he needed.
“I’m going to need a body bag.” John said with a slight grin. The orderly raised an eyebrow. “Ah… Doctor Laurie and I have an understanding that I need these bodies for a… scientific experiment on… tobacco ash.”
John inwardly cringed. Tobacco ash? Really, John?
“Tobacco ash, Doctor?” The orderly repeated sceptically. “This man has been in a coma for six months. How does tobacco ash play into it?”
John didn’t know. So he made something up. “There are as many as 243 types of tobacco ash that I can identify. The experiment to be conducted has something to do with its effects on post-mortem skin and internal organs.” He recited, recalling a little of Sherlock’s deleted post on his blog.
John paused. He needed something to convince these two orderlies to help without breathing a word about it to anyone. Then it hit him.
Sherlock had used this tactic on other people, and it always made them want to keep a secret - after all, they’re part of it now, and that made people want to be part of the circle. John leaned over, and whispered. “Part of a government investigation. Classified.”
One of the orderlies grinned, and the other one looked like he was in awe. “Classified?”
“Yes. Now, will you help me get this to Doctor Laurie’s car?” John smiled at them, and nodded, as if he was affirming that they’re part of the secret now.
John had never seen anyone move that fast before, not even in the war.
[Part Three]
[Part One]
Title: Mobile
Author: A Study in Schadenfreude
Pairing|Characters: No strict pairing
Length: Looks like it’ll be a long one
Genre: angst, action-adventure
Warnings: Post-Reichenbach Fall.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, and Conan-Doyle own the characters, we’re just making them dance to our tune.
Summary: John Watson’s on the verge of leaving 221B behind. Until he receives a message that will change his life forever... “Text Received from Sherlock Holmes.”
-----
John shouldn’t be surprised, really. So he wasn’t. He sighed instead. Clearly Sherlock’s fame wasn’t only getting Sherlock noticed. He would need a better disguise if this stranger could see right through it.
But then again, Steve was anything but an ordinary stranger. The man grinned at John, his movements sure and confident. Charm rolled off the man in waves, and John could see why people trusted him. Something about those sharp, blue eyes however, told John that the man was great at selling his lies, and twisting them with the truth. And John wouldn’t lie, the man was a good-looking bloke. That probably helped put people at ease.
John had been pointed in his direction by a friend who worked somewhere in law enforcement, and their sources are usually spot on, if not a bit shy of the truth. And John could see that his source was wrong - this man seemed to be better than what they have on record.
“When did you realize who I was?”
“The moment I saw you walk.” Steve stretched his legs on the sofa and put them on the coffee table. “All right, maybe a little after you started talking.”
“Right then. I’ll have to work on changing that. Will I be recognizable to anyone else I don’t know?”
“Look, John, I’m a special case. I do this for a living. Others - not so much.” Steve looked at John, scanning him from head to toe. He gestured at John. “You need to... change everything. The way you talk, the way you think, the way you act. You have to believe in this character you made up.” He frowned. “I don’t know why you’re doing this (probably has something to do with Sherlock) but you need to be less you for this to work. Arthur Dent needs to become more... real.”
Change everything. Combat 35 years of habits, mannerisms...his identity.
No pressure.
It was sound advice. It was going to be hard, pretending to be a different person every day, never letting your guard down even while you sleep. But he could do it - he will do it. Come tomorrow, John Watson would be dead, and Arthur Dent would materialize out of thin air.
His mind ran as it considered possibilities. Arthur Dent. Who would he be? Would he be loud? A cynic? Does have a family? John felt a rush as he remembered what had made Richard Brook so believable to the public. A background. Arthur Dent needed a history. Everything else would build from there.
“You’ve been incredibly helpful. Thank you.”
“I could help you, you know.” Steve said with a grin. “Always for a price, but I can help.”
“How much would it cost me?”
“I’ll send you a bill.”
“Send it here.” John wrote down Henry’s mailing address. “I’m not sure where I’ll be when you bill me.”
“Will do.” Steve grinned, and hid the paper in his pocket. “Tell you what. We fix your back-stories, histories, papers, everything, and me and my driver here will take care of the rest. And then I could be your... consulting criminal for the week.”
John tensed at the title. Relax, John. He’s no Moriarty. “As long as you never call yourself my consulting criminal again. I’ve got a bad history with consulting criminals.”
Steve thought for a moment, and rubbed his forehead in dismay. He shook his head. “Right. Him. The consulting criminal. Moriarty.” He grimaced, and frowned apologetically at John. “Sorry, forgot for a moment there.” He glanced at his driver, who made a disgusted, if not terrified, face. “I never liked him. He always was too creepy, and every ‘favour’ you get has strings attached. Never liked all the killing, either.”
The forger flashed a smile again, as if remembering something. He looked at John pointedly. “You know what, I met him once. Sherlock. Nice enough guy, almost - almost handed me over to the Yard. If only the FBI didn’t get first dibs on me and everything got buried under the bureaucratic red tape we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
John laughed. “You must have made a good impression, if he almost handed you over to the Yard.”
Steve shook his head, laughing too. “Almost - I slipped away before they could get me.”
“And just what was it you were up to? Stealing a Raphael?” John chuckled at the absurdity.
Steve raised his eyebrows suggestively, and ignored the question altogether. “How is Sherlock doing? He couldn’t have just killed himself. I’ve seen people pull that con many times and they still pop up in someone’s radar at some point.” He leaned forward. “Besides, between you and me, I bet Moriarty’s knee deep in whatever happened. His fingers are in everybody’s cookie jars.”
John didn’t want to share his hopes of Sherlock being alive. It wasn’t worth the risk. John kept his face passive. “Sherlock is dead, everybody knows that. I saw it happen.” He paused. “I’ll tell you one thing, I wouldn’t be surprised if Moriarty was at the centre of it. Sherlock was his favourite game.”
Steve shook his head in amusement, as if he knew John wasn’t telling him something. “Okay, that’s okay, I wouldn’t tell you anything either if I was running a con.” He grinned, and waved at one of the drying licenses. “So, Mr ‘Dent’, let’s see how we can bring you to life.”
---
Tabernacle did not disappoint. The papers were perfect; John compared them to his originals and he couldn’t tell the difference.
Next on his list was shopping. Clothes shopping. Honestly. He usually had Clara or Harry help him for this, but now he was on his own. He sighed, missing the ease of army uniforms. Civvys could get a little complicated. But Arthur was a civilian, and he needed clothes that did not consist of jumpers and jeans.
A cab dropped him off at the Debenhams. John browsed the racks, grabbing shirts that weren’t his usual button ups, hoodies that weren’t his knit jumpers, and a couple pairs of jeans that John Watson wouldn't wear. He saw a grey jacket that reminded him of his green one and added it to his growing pile of Arthur clothes. John wasn’t very materialistic, but maybe if he had some pieces that reminded him of who he was, who he’d been, this would be easier. He couldn’t simply dispense of John Watson simply because he was going to ‘die’.
Next came a comfortable pair of black ankle boots that looked good for running and some toiletries. A flat cap and a pair of leather gloves. He moved on to the toy section to find an item of significant importance: a water gun. He felt ridiculous, a grown man scanning through the toy department for water guns, but thank heavens he didn't actually have to browse for one, since there was only one type. It was perfect: different settings for spraying or streaming. It was necessary. How else was he to spray his blood all over the flat? He grabbed a duffle bag and a new wallet for his new ID. He needed to leave his own on the body, and John sighed at the thought. Clara had given it to him for Christmas. It was a nice wallet.
He fought his way through the lines and managed to check out without much fuss (which was, in retrospect, a complete miracle that the machines didn't hate him this time; never mind that someone else was operating the counter.) He caught the tube back to Baker Street. No more cabs for a while. He was running out of money. He needed to save some.
John packed with the ease of a man who has been doing it for years. His position in the army had him move from checkpoint to checkpoint, camp to camp, and he had become efficient at packing his clothes quickly and neatly, managing to fit all of what he needed into his bag. He carefully laid his fake papers at the bottom of the bag, and slipped in his new phone in the bag's pocket.
He placed the packed bag in the middle of the den, and sat in his chair. He stared at it.
There was Arthur Dent's life (along with one Hector Dixon and a Tim Canterbury) in a duffle bag.
John Watson stood up. He glanced around the flat. He was leaving 221b. He had been here for so long… far too many memories. Sherlock, playing the violin on the couch or by the window, composing music or playing Chopin. Himself, eating toast and jam, drinking tea on the table next to a sliced open heart with electrodes stuck in it. Mrs Hudson, coming up the stairs telling the boys they had another client, and asking if they wanted tea. Greg, Donovan - hell, even Anderson, combing through the flat under the pretense of a drug bust.
The animal skull with headphones, the human skull on the mantel, the Cluedo board, the bullet holes and smiley on the wall.
It was his home, and he was leaving it.
John exhaled slowly. He wanted to keep a part of it, a piece of it that wouldn't be missed when he leaves. The skull was too conspicuous. Sherlock's violin? No, John, don't be stupid. What would you do with Sherlock's violin? Too obvious. People would wonder where it went. Sherlock. Maybe just a piece of Sherlock. 221B. He'd always associated it, partly, with his best friend anyway.
Sherlock. His dressing gown? No. Too big, too noticeable. Wouldn't fit in his bag, at that.
His scarf. His scarf, the scarf he used to wear. The one the detective left huddled up in the corner of his closet, partly forgotten after Mrs Hudson presented him with a new one. It still even smelled like the man, not that John ever paid attention to that.
The scarf smelled like Sherlock, and it smelled like the wardrobes in 221B. A box of nicotine patches caught his eye, and a memory flashed across John's mind: Sherlock lying down on the couch, gesturing with three patches on his arm at Mrs Hudson to go away, for Greg to shut up and for John to listen.
He grabbed that too, and stuffed everything into the bag.
He stared at it again.
He was ready. John was ready. John exhaled slowly, and turned around, his feet moving in a familiar military march that conveyed respect. He respected this place. It was home.
He made his way upstairs, climbing up the familiar steps for the last time. He crawled under his covers, relishing each movement, trying to imprint the small, habitual motions into his brain. He was leaving the life he knew, after all. Surely he could be permitted this.
He fell asleep trying to memorize the patterns on his butter yellow ceiling.
----
Morning.
The alarm rang precisely at zero-five-hundred, and John turned it off. He always woke up a few minutes before five, as his practice had been in the army. He sat on his bed, and sighed. He looked up to the ceiling, and whispered to the powers-that-be for luck.
Today was the day he was going to die. John tried saying it. I’m going to die today. It left a weird taste in his mouth, and John swallowed and repeated it out loud.
“I’m going to die today.”
It didn’t make it any easier.
But at least now, he could look for Sherlock. Now, he could look for Sherlock in relative peace, and not worry about his loved ones getting harmed because of this lunacy he was engaging in.
At the end of the day, that was why he was going to ‘kill’ John Watson. So John Watson’s loved ones will be safe.
John sighed. Still didn’t make it any easier.
Well. That’s that, then.
He stood up. He had a long day ahead of him, and he’d better get started.
He was dying today, after all.
-----
The dry grass crunched under his boots as John made his way to the hopefully empty grave of Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing the flat cap he bought, the counterpart to Hat-man’s deerstalker, to cover his hair. John didn’t see many other visitors, not uncommon for a week-day. The black headstone was partly visible now, shadowed by the pine tree.
John had a vague idea of what he was going to say, but when he arrived at the grave, he was silent. This was the last chance to back out.
He wasn’t going to.
“Sherlock, if you can hear me, I came to say goodbye.” John paused, trying to remember the script he wrote for this earlier. He couldn’t. He improvised. “I’ve tried to remember what life was like before you, but all I can remember is how I was so alone. I didn’t care what happened to me, but nothing happened to me. Nothing good, nothing bad. I can’t...I just can’t do that again. So I’m...” He inhaled, a little too sharply for a pretend goodbye. It felt too real. “You were my best friend. Maybe we’ll meet again. Goodbye Sherlock.”
He reached his hand out to touch the top of the marker, like before, before walking away despondently.
John wondered if he would ever get this close to his best friend’s grave again.
Hours later, after reviewing the footage, Mycroft Holmes would be alerted of the message. It would be too late.
---
It was easier than John thought.
Really, it was. Considerably.
With almost the whole of the hospital was on your side, it wasn’t really that much of a stretch that stealing a body wouldn’t be difficult. Also, as John was already a doctor, it wasn’t too hard to act like he knew what was going on and that he actually worked at the hospital. Sort of.
Greg Laurie was supposed to meet him in the office early that morning, talk to him about how to acquire the body, and let him borrow his car. Instead, John found the other doctor bickering with someone in the small room, and John waited outside the office as patiently as he can.
The man stormed out after a few minutes, and Greg emerged from the room with a huge grin.
“Don’t worry about anything Doctor Leonard - I will take care of your patient with extra love and care!”
Doctor Leonard turned around and stopped. He walked back, and glared at Greg. “You still owe me lunch, Laurie.”
“I thought that sandwich was free for all.”
“It had my name on the package!”
“You didn’t have a name on the food itself! You should write it down with a biro.” Greg said. Doctor Leonard rolled his eyes, looking like he didn’t really expect to win, and just walked away, shutting himself in another office.
John looked up at Greg. “Having a little domestic?”
“We’re not together, although we can be in your head if you like.” Greg grinned widely, winking at John.
John rolled his eyes and sighed in impatience. “I don’t have long, Greg, and you know it. I’ve got somewhere I have to be and I need something along with me…”
“Got somewhere important to go? Leaving this plane of existence?”
John glared at him. “Anytime, doctor.”
“Follow me.” Greg said, and he hobbled out of the office. He tossed John a white coat and John shrugged it on. It felt different. He was more used to the uniform of an army doctor.
They walked into the Palliative Care Unit, Greg exuding the arrogant air he always had, and John trying his best not to remember how similar it felt being with him to how it was being with Sherlock.
Greg tapped his cane loudly in the middle of the department. “Listen up. This is Doctor Dolittle. He’s here with me consulting on a case. Whatever he does, just let him do it. Got it?”
Nobody answered. Greg shrugged, and called on two orderlies. “Do whatever he asks. Oh, and, did that man in forty-two die already?”
One of the orderlies nodded, and said that the machines had just been recently disconnected. Greg smiled. He patted John on the back. “Well then, Doctor, he’s all yours.” Greg turned to leave, and then stopped. “Oh, and here.” Greg tossed him some keys. “Take care of my car, it’s the only one I have. Go in peace, Doctor McCoy.”
John exhaled. Yes, he was going to do this. There was no turning back. He had already dyed his hair ginger.
The orderlies had very confused looks on their faces. “Doctor who?” the tall, thin one on the right asked. Why did Greg have to use those fake names? John really hated Greg Laurie sometimes. Most times probably.
“Doctor Smith...Jones. Doctor Smith-Jones.” he said, coughing lightly hoping that would keep them from noticing his hesitation. He stared them down, trying to see if they would call him on it. They seemed to accept his horrible alias. John really watched too much Doctor Who.
He tried his best not to act like a captain, and more like a civilian doctor. “So, ah, mates, forty-two?”
The orderlies shrugged, and showed him in. The man was being covered with a bed sheet, and the tag on the foot told John that it was going to the morgue. John nodded in approval, and peeked behind the bed sheet. Yes, that was the man that he needed.
“I’m going to need a body bag.” John said with a slight grin. The orderly raised an eyebrow. “Ah… Doctor Laurie and I have an understanding that I need these bodies for a… scientific experiment on… tobacco ash.”
John inwardly cringed. Tobacco ash? Really, John?
“Tobacco ash, Doctor?” The orderly repeated sceptically. “This man has been in a coma for six months. How does tobacco ash play into it?”
John didn’t know. So he made something up. “There are as many as 243 types of tobacco ash that I can identify. The experiment to be conducted has something to do with its effects on post-mortem skin and internal organs.” He recited, recalling a little of Sherlock’s deleted post on his blog.
John paused. He needed something to convince these two orderlies to help without breathing a word about it to anyone. Then it hit him.
Sherlock had used this tactic on other people, and it always made them want to keep a secret - after all, they’re part of it now, and that made people want to be part of the circle. John leaned over, and whispered. “Part of a government investigation. Classified.”
One of the orderlies grinned, and the other one looked like he was in awe. “Classified?”
“Yes. Now, will you help me get this to Doctor Laurie’s car?” John smiled at them, and nodded, as if he was affirming that they’re part of the secret now.
John had never seen anyone move that fast before, not even in the war.
[Part Three]
[Part One]