Mobile: Chapter 3, Part 3
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 drove back to the flat with a huge, triumphant smile on his face. He shouldn’t really be happy while driving with a corpse in the boot, but he was. Everything was going along better than it should be. He had a body, his plan was all set, and everything was going along just fine. He expected to be back at the flat in a few minutes without any trouble.
But things never really work out the way he wanted them to.
He swore when he saw the lights in the rear view mirror. John frowned at the dashboard, making sure he followed each and every traffic law. He didn’t want to get pulled over with a body in the truck because of something he wasn’t aware he did.
The officer signalled for him to pull over. Just his luck. He took out his mobile and sent a quick text to Anderson, hoping that he could do something.
Marylebone Road and Lisson Grove NOW
JW
John gritted his teeth, and remembered his recent change in identity, so he sent Anderson a quick text before the officer stepped out of the car.
call me arthur dent
The officer walked up to the driver side and John rolled down the window, fumbling with the turn handle. When the window was down all the way, he looked up with a friendly smile. “Afternoon, officer.”
“Good Afternoon, Sir. I'm Officer Burke…" The officer flashed his badge, and rattled off his precinct number and other related information that John didn't catch. He was too busy thinking and trying not to grimace and show his anxiety. The officer's next few words jolted him out of his thoughts. “Do you know why you have been stopped, sir?”
John plastered what he hoped was a confused-but-sincere smile on his face. I thought it might have something to do with the body in the boot, sir. “Sorry, no. Was I driving too fast?”
Burke flashed him a smile, and shook his head. “No, you have been stopped for a search sir. The number of the car you've been driving is on our roster here for suspected drug trafficking and possession under the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971. Do you own this vehicle, Mr?” The officer paused, and held out a hand. “May I see your license and registration please?”
John had never wanted to murder anyone more than he wanted to murder his ‘friend’ right now. He would plan Greg Laurie’s death with an imagination only a soldier could pull up from his mind, but maybe later. He had other things to worry about. Drug trafficking and possession? What the hell has he been doing?
“Dent. Arthur Dent.” John sighed, and gestured at the steering wheel. “No, this belongs to my friend Doctor Laurie.”
John pulled out his new license with mostly feigned confidence - but, no. Steve Tabernacle was good at his job, and he knew it. He had come highly recommended. “I'm not sure where he keeps the registration, if you'll give me a minute to...” He dug through the glove compartment, looking for the registration deliberately slowly. Where the bloody hell is Anderson? “Ah, here it is.”
“Thank you, sir.” Officer Burke accepted the registration and the license, looked it over and gave it back to John. John exhaled. He didn’t expect the license to be put to test so early, but it passed with flying colours. “Mr Dent, I am going to search your car. It would be in your best interest to cooperate. You may or may not be present during the search, although I would advise you to remain for any clarifications.”
The officer shined a light through the windows in the backseat, and John tried not to let his jitters show every time the officer got too close to the compartment. It was just like the time he needed to smuggle medical supplies across enemy lines, he told himself. Only then, the consequence was fairly simple: death. Now… ah, not so simple. He didn't even want to know what would happen if they find him carting along a dead body that looked uncannily like him. “Can you please open the back doors and the compartment, sir?”
John swallowed. This couldn't seriously be happening. It was only a four minute trip from the hospital to the flat. He nodded and slowly got out of the car. Thanking the heavens for older cars, he slowly made his way to the other side of the car to unlock the respective doors, and he took precious time with it. His phone buzzed and beeped, and he grinned at the officer apologetically and checked. Anderson. Thank god.
On my way. What's going on?
Been pulled over for a search. The thing's in the car.
Hang on, I can see you.
John unlocked all the doors to the car first, taking sweet and precious time. He glanced at the officer, who looked calm and patient nonetheless, like he had nothing else better to do.
When he walked back to unlock the boot, he dropped the keys. The officer picked up the keys and handed them over, his patience obviously thinning as John felt the man's hand tense as he gave the keys. John shut his eyes, exhaling through his mouth. He pushed the key into the slot, and was about to turn it when, conveniently, like in every action-comedy movie he has watched, someone arrived to save his arse.
"Officer! Oh, oh it's you! David!" Anderson had arrived. John maintained an impassive face, mostly because if he didn't he would be grinning like an idiot and that would make him look suspicious.
The officer shook hands with Anderson, and John, for the umpteenth time, thanked the heavens for his rather good luck. The two knew each other. Wonderful. "Oh! Anderson! How's the wife - wait, no, sorry, I'm in the middle of a search." Officer Burke said. He looked pointedly at John, and gestured at him to open the boot.
"What, him? Oh, Arthur!" Anderson clapped John on the back, trying to not look too awkward while doing it. John smiled as nicely as he could under the circumstances. "I know him. What are you searching him for?"
"Drugs." Officer Burke said. "Got his vehicle's number on the roster."
"What? This bloke, drugs?" Anderson scoffed, and he shook his head. He grinned at the officer, and leaned in a little closer with a stage whisper. "He doesn't even smoke! He's one of my best mates - and he's been having a trying time lately and I would appreciate it if we just let him be, you know…" Anderson shook his head with a sigh. "Friend just died. Awful mess."
The officer shook his head, whistling in sympathy. "Ah." He stretched a little, and nodded at John apologetically. "I still do have a lot of other vehicles to go through." He turned to Anderson. "Say hi to the wife for me."
"Will do, pint sometime?"
The officer nodded at Anderson, waved and took off into the London traffic.
John watched the officer leave. He inhaled through his teeth, showing his relief as Anderson paced in front of him. "You just saved me from prison. Thank you."
"...That was close. Too close." Anderson said. He gestured at John and the car. "Who the hell did you borrow this car from? I have half a mind to search it myself!"
"Just an old friend from St. Mary's." John almost raised his hands defensively, but opted to cross his arms. "I swear, I wouldn't have taken him up on the offer of the car if I'd known. I have half a mind to use him now instead."
"Be more careful next time. I can't help you every single time, Arthur." Anderson lectured. He shook his head, and went to the car and grabbed a large, brown envelope. "Here are the diagrams."
"I'll try my best." John answered, and he took the envelope. He gingerly pulled out the multiple papers covered with arrows, angles and illustrations, and knotted his forehead as he took everything in. "I don't suppose you could come make sure I do this correctly?"
Anderson looked over his shoulder. "Everything's on that." He glanced at John, and looked into the far distance. "I can't, John. I can't be mixed up with all this. I'm sorry. Least I could do is process your scene."
John nodded in understanding. It was fine, really. He didn't even expect Anderson to come this far, but the man had. Man of his word, indeed. John believed it. "Alright. I'll be off then."
Anderson got into his car, but called out before John could get into his. "Oh, and John…" He paused, as if considering something. "Say hi to Sherlock for me."
John nodded. It was the last time he was ever going to see the other man as himself, and John was far too aware of it. "I'm sure he'll have plenty to say back to you. Goodbye Anderson, and thanks."
---
John grunted with effort. The body bag was heavier than he expected.
I carried Sherlock through the flat the last time he was unconscious. How the hell could this be harder to do?!
The term dead weight was clearly there for a reason.
John groaned, and shouldered the flat’s door open. He looked around, making sure that no one had been paying attention, and shut the door.
He left the body leaning against the stairs and he headed into the living room. He grabbed the pair of leather gloves from his bag of things and put them on.
Everything seemed to be in relative order. As in order as things could be. He was going to kill himself after all and dammit he just couldn’t say that without reacting. Couldn’t say it with a straight, unflinching face, not even to himself.
He took a little breather, and then started to pull the body again, but stopped realizing he didn’t want the body to have weird marks because he was too lazy to carry it. And so John slung it over his shoulder, and dumped it on Sherlock’s sofa.
John took a deep breath and then gingerly removed the body from the body bag. He grimaced. He could see the resemblance between him and the man, and it scared him. It felt surreal, like something out of Doctor Who. John grabbed the clothes he’d set aside and dressed the corpse in them.
He grabbed the bag of blood he set aside and carefully squeezed it into the water gun he bought for the occasion. He sprayed a little in the sink - a little more viscous than water, but it worked. He took his letter, and put it beside the corpse. He stepped back to look at the scene. Something was missing. John took off his newsboy hat and placed it on the body’s head. Perfect.
He placed the suicide note gingerly beside the body, and posed it so that it seemed like he was trying to reach for or place the note beside him. John registered that he actually referred to the body as a he, and John sighed. “Sorry, mate, no hard feelings. You are essential for this working.”
John retrieved his Browning from his room, almost sad that he’d have to leave it behind. He’d saved Sherlock with this gun. He looked at the diagrams Anderson had made and wrapped the corpses’ right hand around the handle of the gun, moving the index finger to the trigger. He pressed the barrel of the gun to the jugular, angling it to destroy most of the face.
His finger pressed down and the gun went off with a loud crack.
John exhaled forcefully. There. He’d done it. Days of planning and now he would be able to search for his best friend. He stared at the destroyed facial features of the corpse for a second before he realized that he needed to finish setting up his death. John grabbed the blood-filled water gun and squirted a fair amount of his blood onto the new bullet holes, watching it drip down the neck from the burst jugular vein. He turned to the wall facing the exit wound and sprayed part of the blood there. There was some of the Joe Bloggs’s on the wall already, giving him an estimate of where to aim. He spattered the remaining blood on his oatmeal jumper, the gun, and a bit on the couch.
Giving everything a final look, he gathered the body bag, the blood bag, and the water gun into a pile
and shoved them into a bin bag. His other things were waiting in the car, but John stood in the middle of the flat, looking around, trying to memorize it all. Remembering when the Cluedo board had been pinned to the wall. Seeing the skull that Sherlock had called his friend before meeting John. Hopefully they’d be able to come back to 221B. Together.
---
"When I heard the shot I thought it was just Sherlock again, bored and... then I remembered he was gone." Mrs Hudson cried and struggled to wipe her tears. Greg wanted to comfort the poor woman, but the whole of Yard was watching and he couldn’t be personal with witnesses. "It was awful when I got up there. He- he-.. there was so much blood! Oh my boys, my boys..."
“Donovan, take her to the kitchen and give her a cup of tea, will you?” Greg said, massaging his temples. He didn’t need this. Why, John? Why of all days would you kill yourself today? On my wedding anniversary?
The morning had started out fine. He had been making dinner reservations over landline when his mobile rang. Greg had decided that this would be the day he would win his wife back. Fitting, on their thirteenth anniversary. Wife had always been superstitious - explained the bad marriage away because Greg broke a mirror on their wedding. It never got better. Today he was going to change all that.
Greg checked the number. He didn’t recognize it.
“Is this Mr Lestrade?”
The woman on the other end sounded like she was about to cry.
“Yes? Who is this?”
The woman did cry at this point, making Greg feel a little more alert. “Hello? Ma’am? This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. May I ask who this is?”
“It’s - “ The woman sniffled - “Mrs Hudson, dear, from Baker Street. John told me to call if there are any problems and I just...” She sobbed, and Greg winced. He didn’t like hearing anyone cry, not even at crime scenes. Hell, not even his own wife.
Greg started a little in surprise, and stood up. “Yes, Mrs Hudson? What can I do for you?”
“I... I found John.” Mrs Hudson said, and she broke down into tears. It didn’t matter what happened next, or what else she would say, Greg sped over to 221B before he even put the landline down.
Greg arrived with Mrs Hudson frantic and crying in front of the flat. “I’m waiting for the police Mr Les -”
“Greg, Mrs Hudson, please.”
“-Greg, and they’re still not here and I can’t go up there. I’m sorry.” The elderly woman gave him a hug and rested her forehead on his shoulder. Greg froze, but shook his head. He was an Inspector at the Scotland Yard, dammit, and he was going to act like one.
“Mrs Hudson, tell me what happened.”
“I found John, Greg.” Greg could hear his pulse in his ears. He knew he wouldn’t like what he would hear next. Mrs Hudson pulled back, and looked at Greg. “I found him dead on the sofa.”
Greg was thankful he had the presence of mind to move Mrs. Hudson aside and to run up the stairs, clutching his mobile in one hand and frantically calling the chief, Anderson, Sally, Dimmock - all of them, anyone he could reach.
The sight that met his eyes made him sick. And he had never been sick in a crime scene before, not even when he was a rookie. He scrambled back down the stairs, and dry-heaved outside.
...No. Not John. No. This... this wasn’t happening. John Watson was one of the strongest people he has ever met. This was the man who shot that damned dog without flinching. He was a good friend, the one who told him to suck it up and make his marriage right again and to actually work at it for a change and -
No he simply cannot be dead.
The next few minutes were a blur. It felt to him like the whole of Yard came, and Greg was grateful that they did so he could just turn off most of his emotions and he could work. He looked at the gore, the blood, deliberately moving his eyes away from John’s body.
Dimmock set him aside and whispered to him that he probably shouldn’t take the case. He was too close. Greg agreed without protest and told Dimmock everything that he can as he was the first to respond, and Greg also pointed out that Mrs Hudson was the one who found John.
Greg volunteered to interview, even if Dimmock protested. Greg told him that they already had rapport. He insisted he would interview.
He felt like he needed to hear it for himself. And so Greg had asked Mrs Hudson, and he heard the story.
Poor woman. Her two tenants had died. Both from suicide.
Poor Greg. Two of his friends have died. Both from suicide.
He detached himself as they processed the crime scene. He insisted upon watching, even if he didn’t have to, even if he was off the case. Dimmock looked like he wanted to send Greg away, but Greg knew Dimmock understood.
Anderson and Sally looked at him mournfully. Even for them, this was too much. Anderson even promised that this will be the cleanest processing he would ever do. Greg nodded in silent agreement. Anderson knew John too. Even if they weren’t friends, at the end of the day, it was still someone he knew. It was different if you knew someone. Always different.
He watched as Anderson gingerly picked up bloodied paper and slide it into the evidence bag. Before Anderson could stop him, Greg already snatched the paper. It was a letter. Suicide note. No doubt in his mind now. Gunshot or not, there’s a note. And Anderson said the patterns were consistent. Everything was consistent. Suicide. God, John. Why?
He read the note, even if he could hear Anderson protest in the background.
I feel alone. I feel so alone.
It’s been four weeks since he died. I’m tired. I’ve had enough.
Funny, I watched a lot of my friends die on the battlefield, so why couldn’t I handle this one?
He told me that people leave a note when they do this. So here’s mine.
Sorry everyone. I’m so sorry.
Bury me next to him.
I quit.
JW
The man had signed it like a text message, the way Sherlock usually did it, with his initials.
Greg exhaled slowly. This was not happening. It wasn’t. No.
John H. Watson killed himself.
Greg watched as they carried the body to the coroner’s van and to the morgue. Dimmock insisted they take the body to St. Mary’s, knowing that Molly knew John and it wasn’t how they should handle it. Greg agreed. Molly had already done Sherlock’s body. It would probably break her to do John’s, too.
He wanted to stay until the end of processing the scene, to see it through, but found that he couldn’t. Greg shook his head, tapped Dimmock on the shoulder, and Dimmock nodded at him. He left.
Greg couldn’t take this. No, not today. It was his anniversary, dammit. It was not fair.
-----
A/N's
We are so sorry that this took over a month to write...but hopefully the 10,474 word count makes up for it, yes?
Thank you for waiting, everyone! We blame timezones, real life, and tumblr for interfering with writing (we love all of that, anyway. except for timezones. bloody, nasty little thing). Anyway, here's our monster. Hope it makes up for the time we took to write it!
Make sure to check out Static, the in-universe companion series to this. Offers other POV's of happenings in the chapters. And emotions.
[Static]
And finally...links to the clothes and items featured in this chapter. This should tell you how much effort goes into this.
One Shirt
Jeans 1
Jeans 2
Boots
Hat
Gloves
Watergun
The grey jacket
The leather jacket
Steve's suit Steve's shirt Steve's tie
[Part Two]
[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 drove back to the flat with a huge, triumphant smile on his face. He shouldn’t really be happy while driving with a corpse in the boot, but he was. Everything was going along better than it should be. He had a body, his plan was all set, and everything was going along just fine. He expected to be back at the flat in a few minutes without any trouble.
But things never really work out the way he wanted them to.
He swore when he saw the lights in the rear view mirror. John frowned at the dashboard, making sure he followed each and every traffic law. He didn’t want to get pulled over with a body in the truck because of something he wasn’t aware he did.
The officer signalled for him to pull over. Just his luck. He took out his mobile and sent a quick text to Anderson, hoping that he could do something.
Marylebone Road and Lisson Grove NOW
JW
John gritted his teeth, and remembered his recent change in identity, so he sent Anderson a quick text before the officer stepped out of the car.
call me arthur dent
The officer walked up to the driver side and John rolled down the window, fumbling with the turn handle. When the window was down all the way, he looked up with a friendly smile. “Afternoon, officer.”
“Good Afternoon, Sir. I'm Officer Burke…" The officer flashed his badge, and rattled off his precinct number and other related information that John didn't catch. He was too busy thinking and trying not to grimace and show his anxiety. The officer's next few words jolted him out of his thoughts. “Do you know why you have been stopped, sir?”
John plastered what he hoped was a confused-but-sincere smile on his face. I thought it might have something to do with the body in the boot, sir. “Sorry, no. Was I driving too fast?”
Burke flashed him a smile, and shook his head. “No, you have been stopped for a search sir. The number of the car you've been driving is on our roster here for suspected drug trafficking and possession under the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971. Do you own this vehicle, Mr?” The officer paused, and held out a hand. “May I see your license and registration please?”
John had never wanted to murder anyone more than he wanted to murder his ‘friend’ right now. He would plan Greg Laurie’s death with an imagination only a soldier could pull up from his mind, but maybe later. He had other things to worry about. Drug trafficking and possession? What the hell has he been doing?
“Dent. Arthur Dent.” John sighed, and gestured at the steering wheel. “No, this belongs to my friend Doctor Laurie.”
John pulled out his new license with mostly feigned confidence - but, no. Steve Tabernacle was good at his job, and he knew it. He had come highly recommended. “I'm not sure where he keeps the registration, if you'll give me a minute to...” He dug through the glove compartment, looking for the registration deliberately slowly. Where the bloody hell is Anderson? “Ah, here it is.”
“Thank you, sir.” Officer Burke accepted the registration and the license, looked it over and gave it back to John. John exhaled. He didn’t expect the license to be put to test so early, but it passed with flying colours. “Mr Dent, I am going to search your car. It would be in your best interest to cooperate. You may or may not be present during the search, although I would advise you to remain for any clarifications.”
The officer shined a light through the windows in the backseat, and John tried not to let his jitters show every time the officer got too close to the compartment. It was just like the time he needed to smuggle medical supplies across enemy lines, he told himself. Only then, the consequence was fairly simple: death. Now… ah, not so simple. He didn't even want to know what would happen if they find him carting along a dead body that looked uncannily like him. “Can you please open the back doors and the compartment, sir?”
John swallowed. This couldn't seriously be happening. It was only a four minute trip from the hospital to the flat. He nodded and slowly got out of the car. Thanking the heavens for older cars, he slowly made his way to the other side of the car to unlock the respective doors, and he took precious time with it. His phone buzzed and beeped, and he grinned at the officer apologetically and checked. Anderson. Thank god.
On my way. What's going on?
Been pulled over for a search. The thing's in the car.
Hang on, I can see you.
John unlocked all the doors to the car first, taking sweet and precious time. He glanced at the officer, who looked calm and patient nonetheless, like he had nothing else better to do.
When he walked back to unlock the boot, he dropped the keys. The officer picked up the keys and handed them over, his patience obviously thinning as John felt the man's hand tense as he gave the keys. John shut his eyes, exhaling through his mouth. He pushed the key into the slot, and was about to turn it when, conveniently, like in every action-comedy movie he has watched, someone arrived to save his arse.
"Officer! Oh, oh it's you! David!" Anderson had arrived. John maintained an impassive face, mostly because if he didn't he would be grinning like an idiot and that would make him look suspicious.
The officer shook hands with Anderson, and John, for the umpteenth time, thanked the heavens for his rather good luck. The two knew each other. Wonderful. "Oh! Anderson! How's the wife - wait, no, sorry, I'm in the middle of a search." Officer Burke said. He looked pointedly at John, and gestured at him to open the boot.
"What, him? Oh, Arthur!" Anderson clapped John on the back, trying to not look too awkward while doing it. John smiled as nicely as he could under the circumstances. "I know him. What are you searching him for?"
"Drugs." Officer Burke said. "Got his vehicle's number on the roster."
"What? This bloke, drugs?" Anderson scoffed, and he shook his head. He grinned at the officer, and leaned in a little closer with a stage whisper. "He doesn't even smoke! He's one of my best mates - and he's been having a trying time lately and I would appreciate it if we just let him be, you know…" Anderson shook his head with a sigh. "Friend just died. Awful mess."
The officer shook his head, whistling in sympathy. "Ah." He stretched a little, and nodded at John apologetically. "I still do have a lot of other vehicles to go through." He turned to Anderson. "Say hi to the wife for me."
"Will do, pint sometime?"
The officer nodded at Anderson, waved and took off into the London traffic.
John watched the officer leave. He inhaled through his teeth, showing his relief as Anderson paced in front of him. "You just saved me from prison. Thank you."
"...That was close. Too close." Anderson said. He gestured at John and the car. "Who the hell did you borrow this car from? I have half a mind to search it myself!"
"Just an old friend from St. Mary's." John almost raised his hands defensively, but opted to cross his arms. "I swear, I wouldn't have taken him up on the offer of the car if I'd known. I have half a mind to use him now instead."
"Be more careful next time. I can't help you every single time, Arthur." Anderson lectured. He shook his head, and went to the car and grabbed a large, brown envelope. "Here are the diagrams."
"I'll try my best." John answered, and he took the envelope. He gingerly pulled out the multiple papers covered with arrows, angles and illustrations, and knotted his forehead as he took everything in. "I don't suppose you could come make sure I do this correctly?"
Anderson looked over his shoulder. "Everything's on that." He glanced at John, and looked into the far distance. "I can't, John. I can't be mixed up with all this. I'm sorry. Least I could do is process your scene."
John nodded in understanding. It was fine, really. He didn't even expect Anderson to come this far, but the man had. Man of his word, indeed. John believed it. "Alright. I'll be off then."
Anderson got into his car, but called out before John could get into his. "Oh, and John…" He paused, as if considering something. "Say hi to Sherlock for me."
John nodded. It was the last time he was ever going to see the other man as himself, and John was far too aware of it. "I'm sure he'll have plenty to say back to you. Goodbye Anderson, and thanks."
---
John grunted with effort. The body bag was heavier than he expected.
I carried Sherlock through the flat the last time he was unconscious. How the hell could this be harder to do?!
The term dead weight was clearly there for a reason.
John groaned, and shouldered the flat’s door open. He looked around, making sure that no one had been paying attention, and shut the door.
He left the body leaning against the stairs and he headed into the living room. He grabbed the pair of leather gloves from his bag of things and put them on.
Everything seemed to be in relative order. As in order as things could be. He was going to kill himself after all and dammit he just couldn’t say that without reacting. Couldn’t say it with a straight, unflinching face, not even to himself.
He took a little breather, and then started to pull the body again, but stopped realizing he didn’t want the body to have weird marks because he was too lazy to carry it. And so John slung it over his shoulder, and dumped it on Sherlock’s sofa.
John took a deep breath and then gingerly removed the body from the body bag. He grimaced. He could see the resemblance between him and the man, and it scared him. It felt surreal, like something out of Doctor Who. John grabbed the clothes he’d set aside and dressed the corpse in them.
He grabbed the bag of blood he set aside and carefully squeezed it into the water gun he bought for the occasion. He sprayed a little in the sink - a little more viscous than water, but it worked. He took his letter, and put it beside the corpse. He stepped back to look at the scene. Something was missing. John took off his newsboy hat and placed it on the body’s head. Perfect.
He placed the suicide note gingerly beside the body, and posed it so that it seemed like he was trying to reach for or place the note beside him. John registered that he actually referred to the body as a he, and John sighed. “Sorry, mate, no hard feelings. You are essential for this working.”
John retrieved his Browning from his room, almost sad that he’d have to leave it behind. He’d saved Sherlock with this gun. He looked at the diagrams Anderson had made and wrapped the corpses’ right hand around the handle of the gun, moving the index finger to the trigger. He pressed the barrel of the gun to the jugular, angling it to destroy most of the face.
His finger pressed down and the gun went off with a loud crack.
John exhaled forcefully. There. He’d done it. Days of planning and now he would be able to search for his best friend. He stared at the destroyed facial features of the corpse for a second before he realized that he needed to finish setting up his death. John grabbed the blood-filled water gun and squirted a fair amount of his blood onto the new bullet holes, watching it drip down the neck from the burst jugular vein. He turned to the wall facing the exit wound and sprayed part of the blood there. There was some of the Joe Bloggs’s on the wall already, giving him an estimate of where to aim. He spattered the remaining blood on his oatmeal jumper, the gun, and a bit on the couch.
Giving everything a final look, he gathered the body bag, the blood bag, and the water gun into a pile
and shoved them into a bin bag. His other things were waiting in the car, but John stood in the middle of the flat, looking around, trying to memorize it all. Remembering when the Cluedo board had been pinned to the wall. Seeing the skull that Sherlock had called his friend before meeting John. Hopefully they’d be able to come back to 221B. Together.
---
"When I heard the shot I thought it was just Sherlock again, bored and... then I remembered he was gone." Mrs Hudson cried and struggled to wipe her tears. Greg wanted to comfort the poor woman, but the whole of Yard was watching and he couldn’t be personal with witnesses. "It was awful when I got up there. He- he-.. there was so much blood! Oh my boys, my boys..."
“Donovan, take her to the kitchen and give her a cup of tea, will you?” Greg said, massaging his temples. He didn’t need this. Why, John? Why of all days would you kill yourself today? On my wedding anniversary?
The morning had started out fine. He had been making dinner reservations over landline when his mobile rang. Greg had decided that this would be the day he would win his wife back. Fitting, on their thirteenth anniversary. Wife had always been superstitious - explained the bad marriage away because Greg broke a mirror on their wedding. It never got better. Today he was going to change all that.
Greg checked the number. He didn’t recognize it.
“Is this Mr Lestrade?”
The woman on the other end sounded like she was about to cry.
“Yes? Who is this?”
The woman did cry at this point, making Greg feel a little more alert. “Hello? Ma’am? This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. May I ask who this is?”
“It’s - “ The woman sniffled - “Mrs Hudson, dear, from Baker Street. John told me to call if there are any problems and I just...” She sobbed, and Greg winced. He didn’t like hearing anyone cry, not even at crime scenes. Hell, not even his own wife.
Greg started a little in surprise, and stood up. “Yes, Mrs Hudson? What can I do for you?”
“I... I found John.” Mrs Hudson said, and she broke down into tears. It didn’t matter what happened next, or what else she would say, Greg sped over to 221B before he even put the landline down.
Greg arrived with Mrs Hudson frantic and crying in front of the flat. “I’m waiting for the police Mr Les -”
“Greg, Mrs Hudson, please.”
“-Greg, and they’re still not here and I can’t go up there. I’m sorry.” The elderly woman gave him a hug and rested her forehead on his shoulder. Greg froze, but shook his head. He was an Inspector at the Scotland Yard, dammit, and he was going to act like one.
“Mrs Hudson, tell me what happened.”
“I found John, Greg.” Greg could hear his pulse in his ears. He knew he wouldn’t like what he would hear next. Mrs Hudson pulled back, and looked at Greg. “I found him dead on the sofa.”
Greg was thankful he had the presence of mind to move Mrs. Hudson aside and to run up the stairs, clutching his mobile in one hand and frantically calling the chief, Anderson, Sally, Dimmock - all of them, anyone he could reach.
The sight that met his eyes made him sick. And he had never been sick in a crime scene before, not even when he was a rookie. He scrambled back down the stairs, and dry-heaved outside.
...No. Not John. No. This... this wasn’t happening. John Watson was one of the strongest people he has ever met. This was the man who shot that damned dog without flinching. He was a good friend, the one who told him to suck it up and make his marriage right again and to actually work at it for a change and -
No he simply cannot be dead.
The next few minutes were a blur. It felt to him like the whole of Yard came, and Greg was grateful that they did so he could just turn off most of his emotions and he could work. He looked at the gore, the blood, deliberately moving his eyes away from John’s body.
Dimmock set him aside and whispered to him that he probably shouldn’t take the case. He was too close. Greg agreed without protest and told Dimmock everything that he can as he was the first to respond, and Greg also pointed out that Mrs Hudson was the one who found John.
Greg volunteered to interview, even if Dimmock protested. Greg told him that they already had rapport. He insisted he would interview.
He felt like he needed to hear it for himself. And so Greg had asked Mrs Hudson, and he heard the story.
Poor woman. Her two tenants had died. Both from suicide.
Poor Greg. Two of his friends have died. Both from suicide.
He detached himself as they processed the crime scene. He insisted upon watching, even if he didn’t have to, even if he was off the case. Dimmock looked like he wanted to send Greg away, but Greg knew Dimmock understood.
Anderson and Sally looked at him mournfully. Even for them, this was too much. Anderson even promised that this will be the cleanest processing he would ever do. Greg nodded in silent agreement. Anderson knew John too. Even if they weren’t friends, at the end of the day, it was still someone he knew. It was different if you knew someone. Always different.
He watched as Anderson gingerly picked up bloodied paper and slide it into the evidence bag. Before Anderson could stop him, Greg already snatched the paper. It was a letter. Suicide note. No doubt in his mind now. Gunshot or not, there’s a note. And Anderson said the patterns were consistent. Everything was consistent. Suicide. God, John. Why?
He read the note, even if he could hear Anderson protest in the background.
I feel alone. I feel so alone.
It’s been four weeks since he died. I’m tired. I’ve had enough.
Funny, I watched a lot of my friends die on the battlefield, so why couldn’t I handle this one?
He told me that people leave a note when they do this. So here’s mine.
Sorry everyone. I’m so sorry.
Bury me next to him.
I quit.
JW
The man had signed it like a text message, the way Sherlock usually did it, with his initials.
Greg exhaled slowly. This was not happening. It wasn’t. No.
John H. Watson killed himself.
Greg watched as they carried the body to the coroner’s van and to the morgue. Dimmock insisted they take the body to St. Mary’s, knowing that Molly knew John and it wasn’t how they should handle it. Greg agreed. Molly had already done Sherlock’s body. It would probably break her to do John’s, too.
He wanted to stay until the end of processing the scene, to see it through, but found that he couldn’t. Greg shook his head, tapped Dimmock on the shoulder, and Dimmock nodded at him. He left.
Greg couldn’t take this. No, not today. It was his anniversary, dammit. It was not fair.
-----
A/N's
We are so sorry that this took over a month to write...but hopefully the 10,474 word count makes up for it, yes?
Thank you for waiting, everyone! We blame timezones, real life, and tumblr for interfering with writing (we love all of that, anyway. except for timezones. bloody, nasty little thing). Anyway, here's our monster. Hope it makes up for the time we took to write it!
Make sure to check out Static, the in-universe companion series to this. Offers other POV's of happenings in the chapters. And emotions.
[Static]
And finally...links to the clothes and items featured in this chapter. This should tell you how much effort goes into this.
One Shirt
Jeans 1
Jeans 2
Boots
Hat
Gloves
Watergun
The grey jacket
The leather jacket
Steve's suit Steve's shirt Steve's tie
[Part Two]
[Part One]