S3E1 - The Silver Blaze Revival - Part Nine: Unwilling Allies
Title: The Silver Blaze Revival
Subtitle: Unwilling Allies
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 1,962
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, violence
John tossed and turned in bed. When he worked on a case with Sherlock, there was so much activity. They chased down taxis and tracked down cyphers. They raced from one case to another, and when there weren't any cases, Sherlock ran ridiculous experiments and shot at the walls.
John was a smart man; more than that, he had an intelligent disposition. But he wasn't clever like Sherlock was. His first instinct was to stand his ground, not climb to the tallest building and leap from roof to roof. This whole case, John felt as if he'd been so very near the answers, like they were laid out for him, but they kept being scrubbed out before he read them.
After his encounter with Elena at the Yard, he tried to get Lestrade to help him, but the mobile phone couldn't be tracked. And Elena Wilhelm-Glass, as per her job's paperwork, was a forty-six year old woman who moved to Featherstone from London four years ago. Clearly the woman in question stole her identity; without her mobile connected, John had no way to find her.
So he dragged himself back to 221 B Baker Street, confused and annoyed and missing Sherlock more than he believed possible. He inspected the umbrella she handed off to him and found a note jammed under one of the metal arms.
"Dear JW: My apologies for the mess. I suggest taking a bird's eye view. It can be very enlightening. - Engineer"
She'd named herself "Engineer," because apparently it wasn't enough to pull a disappearing act. But as much as John knew he wasn't Sherlock Holmes, his suspicions didn't fall on her. His anger and impatience did, but something inside of himself believed that she had told him the truth. Most of it, anyway. There still remained the question of why she bothered with any of this...
So John Watson fell asleep, very late at night, dreaming of women moving guns and men without faces. He woke up in the very early morning to the sounds of movement. Mrs. Hudson was up far too early for her own good. Giving up on sleep, John went downstairs for some breakfast.
The skull was out on the mantle.
No, that's not right. He almost took it out the other day, but he stopped himself. He was sure of that.
"Mrs. Hudson?" John prompted. There was no response.
Nothing else looked disturbed. If Mrs. Hudson had been up, she would have stowed the skull, not left it out. Hope sparked in John's chest -
No, he thought to himself. Sherlock is dead. You saw him die.
With that sobering thought, he began to tidy up. His hands found the napkin that Sherlock had written DELIVERY on. John flipped it over to tuck it into his old journal, and something else caught his eye: DAGGERS, PLUMBING. It was also in Sherlock's handwriting. John couldn't imagine how he missed it before.
Daggers. That sounded familiar to him.
"Damn it, Sherlock," John whispered to himself. "Would it have killed you, just for once, to write something down?"
"You all right dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"Uh, yes, thank you," he muttered back.
"Sherlock used to talk to that skull, too, you know," she said.
"Oh, I'm not - " John began.
"It's okay, dear," she said. "I miss him, too." She gave him a quick hug before placing the skull back into its box. "But let's let the skull lie, shall we?"
John smiled. "Yes, of course."
Molly Hooper's heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she saw the article on page ten: DE-FRAUDED, SHERLOCK HOLMES CLEARED. The article was thorough, and it covered the investigation into allegations made by Richard Book (deceased) against Sherlock Holmes. It even went on to praise some of his casework.
Of course, that didn't make the front page. It wasn't a splashy story with lots of catchwords and scandal. A tiny part of Molly hoped, however, that Sherlock would return to London, to Bart's, to Molly.
"Ah, Miss Hooper," Mycroft Holmes said as he entered the room.
"Hello," she replied.
"I see you've read the news."
"It's not news to me," Molly replied.
"Yes, you are one of the few that believed in my brother," Mycroft said.
"I worked with him," she said. "Or saw him work, if you like. It's easy to believe something when you've seen so much of it."
"Still, it can't have been easy," he continued.
"Nothing worthwhile is."
"Miss Hooper, you performed my brother's autopsy."
"I did, yes."
"Which means you not only saw his lifeless body, but you cut a Y-incision into it to examine his internal organs at length."
"Yes, sir, I did."
"What would you say, then, to reports that a man matching his description has been seen near 221 B Baker Street?"
"I would say that I miss him, too," Molly lied seamlessly. She never was a good liar, but she had practiced it endlessly in the mirror.
"Ah," Mycroft said. "Well Miss Hooper, I stopped by because I can imagine that any reports of my brother, or someone who looked like him, might cause you some distress, perhaps even bring you under unwanted scrutiny. I know that Sherlock was never willing to do it, but should you feel uneasy or unsafe, please call me."
Mycroft held out a small card with his contact information, and Molly tentatively took it.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I will."
He waited a moment before his next question. "I know it's not really my place to ask, but... were you and my brother...?"
"Yes," Molly said. Then she realized what Mycroft was asking her, and she corrected herself. "Oh, no, I mean. Yes, we worked together. But, that's all. He kissed me on the cheek one time."
"Ah," Mycroft said softly. "I never liked the idea of him being alone."
"He had John," Molly said. "And Mrs. Hudson. And me. And Lestrade. He wasn't alone. Not really."
"Of course. Thank you, as ever, for your time."
John walked into the pub named Daggers. There were only two people on staff in the morning.
"We're closed," a woman said shortly.
"Actually, I was hoping to check your plumbing," John said.
"What?" the barkeeper asked.
"I, uh, would like to see your pluming," John repeated.
"What for?"
John should've thought up a lie in the cab ride over, but he didn't. So he went with the truth. "You remember the murder that happened here? Almost five months ago?"
"Yeah, sure. Thomas Fulmer, good man."
"I believe there may be evidence related to his murder hidden here."
"In our plumbing?" the barkeep asked.
"Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous," John said. "And chances are, there's nothing here anymore. But the man who stands accused of the murder - "
"Was our plumber, right," the barkeep said. "You think he might've stored something here?"
"I'd like to check, if that's okay."
"You're police?"
"No, not really."
"Okay, well, I guess it won't hurt for you to look," the barkeep replied. "No funny business."
"None at all," John confirmed.
They walked to the back and down a creepy flight of stairs to an old workman's closet opposite a very old basement, the kind horror films use for inspiration.
"We had another bloke come in and fix up the plumbing, after Clyde was arrested," the barkeep continued. "We had to order some parts for the refurbishing. What I mean is, people've been through here, so I'm not sure what you're looking for."
"Honestly, neither am I," John said.
He took a flashlight and ran it over the workman's closet. Of course, if one were to hide anything related to murder, it wouldn't be in the corners of the clean, well-lit closet. No, it would be in some ungodly corner of the damp, eerie sublevel. The place was even rank with limestone...
Wait, that couldn't be right. John followed his nose to a pillar and looked up. The limestone powder was trickling out of a duffel bag.
He could, of course, rifle through the suspicious bag and identify its exact contents. There was always the possibility that the contents of the bag were wrapped in limestone because of preference. Of course, the most obvious reason was to cover up the scent of something rotting.
"You find anything?" the barkeep called.
"I need to make a call."
Tolbert assigned Lestrade the task of releasing Clyde Burkhart. It was his screw up that gave the damn lawyers the ability to question the arrest to begin with, smoking gun and all.
Clyde Burkhart smiled like it was his wedding day. As he walked out of custody, he said, "Say thank you to Sergeant Donovan for me."
"I will," Lestrade said. "You rat."
He watched as a murderer walked free. Lestrade cursed Sherlock's name, even though he knew that Sherlock alone was not to blame. He and John just couldn't do what Sherlock did.
All he could hope for was to prevent it from happening again, which meant he couldn't ignore the mountain of paper work on his desk.
Donovan didn't do stupid things. She followed procedure. She was an excellent officer. Yet here she was, sitting next to John Watson in a surveillance car.
Thanks to the cooperation of the pub owner, they were able to set up on the place very quickly. Tolbert seemed very keen on the idea, but Donovan had her doubts. She never liked waiting.
Luckily, it was just a few hours after Clyde Burkhart's release from prison that he stopped by Daggers. He sat with a pint for about an hour, then ducked into the basement.
"Shouldn't we be, you know, moving in?" John Watson asked.
"First off, we won't be doing anything. You'll be staying in the car," Donovan said. "And we can't arrest someone for going into a basement."
"Right, of course."
But it was only a matter of time before Clyde tried to leave through the side door, carrying a rather distinctive duffel bag. Anderson palmed through the contents for a quick overview and reported that the limestone-powdered bag contained another bag that had bloody garments, a facemask, and an odd contraption that Anderson summed up as a "useless, overly-wide pipe."
"That's where he hid it," John said.
"What're you doing here?" Anderson asked.
"Not touching anything," John replied.
"What do you mean, hid it?"
"He hid the gun and suppressor in the apartment before the murder. In this pipe. Afterwards, all he had to do was plop it in his bag."
Donovan waved him away from Anderson as she called a taxi for John. "You know, I didn't think you'd be calling me," Donovan said. "You normally call Lestrade."
"Yes, I do," John said. "But with everything going on, it was best to keep him out of this. This way you have your man red-handed. I doubt he could concoct a story wild enough to explain how he found all the evidence it takes to incriminate himself..."
"Don't worry about it," Donovan said. "You look sad."
The taxi pulled up.
"I am sad."
"We just got the guy because of you," she said. "That's not nothing."
"I know you didn't like Sherlock," John said. "But he was my best friend. I figured this out with scraps of notes and... well, I'm not him."
"I'd say that's a good thing," Donovan replied.
"Goodbye Sergeant," John said as he plopped into his taxi.
The car pulled away, and he sank into his seat. He wanted to like Donovan, he really did, but she never let up. The man was dead, and she couldn't say a nice thing about him.
John realized that he hadn't given the cabbie the address. "Where are we going?" he asked.
<<< Previous Part:
Part Eight: The Frame Job, A Ship in a Bottle
Next Part: >>>
Part Ten: Boxed Bet
The Silver Blaze Revival - Series 3, Episode 1 - Primary Post
Subtitle: Unwilling Allies
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 1,962
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, violence
John tossed and turned in bed. When he worked on a case with Sherlock, there was so much activity. They chased down taxis and tracked down cyphers. They raced from one case to another, and when there weren't any cases, Sherlock ran ridiculous experiments and shot at the walls.
John was a smart man; more than that, he had an intelligent disposition. But he wasn't clever like Sherlock was. His first instinct was to stand his ground, not climb to the tallest building and leap from roof to roof. This whole case, John felt as if he'd been so very near the answers, like they were laid out for him, but they kept being scrubbed out before he read them.
After his encounter with Elena at the Yard, he tried to get Lestrade to help him, but the mobile phone couldn't be tracked. And Elena Wilhelm-Glass, as per her job's paperwork, was a forty-six year old woman who moved to Featherstone from London four years ago. Clearly the woman in question stole her identity; without her mobile connected, John had no way to find her.
So he dragged himself back to 221 B Baker Street, confused and annoyed and missing Sherlock more than he believed possible. He inspected the umbrella she handed off to him and found a note jammed under one of the metal arms.
"Dear JW: My apologies for the mess. I suggest taking a bird's eye view. It can be very enlightening. - Engineer"
She'd named herself "Engineer," because apparently it wasn't enough to pull a disappearing act. But as much as John knew he wasn't Sherlock Holmes, his suspicions didn't fall on her. His anger and impatience did, but something inside of himself believed that she had told him the truth. Most of it, anyway. There still remained the question of why she bothered with any of this...
So John Watson fell asleep, very late at night, dreaming of women moving guns and men without faces. He woke up in the very early morning to the sounds of movement. Mrs. Hudson was up far too early for her own good. Giving up on sleep, John went downstairs for some breakfast.
The skull was out on the mantle.
No, that's not right. He almost took it out the other day, but he stopped himself. He was sure of that.
"Mrs. Hudson?" John prompted. There was no response.
Nothing else looked disturbed. If Mrs. Hudson had been up, she would have stowed the skull, not left it out. Hope sparked in John's chest -
No, he thought to himself. Sherlock is dead. You saw him die.
With that sobering thought, he began to tidy up. His hands found the napkin that Sherlock had written DELIVERY on. John flipped it over to tuck it into his old journal, and something else caught his eye: DAGGERS, PLUMBING. It was also in Sherlock's handwriting. John couldn't imagine how he missed it before.
Daggers. That sounded familiar to him.
"Damn it, Sherlock," John whispered to himself. "Would it have killed you, just for once, to write something down?"
"You all right dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"Uh, yes, thank you," he muttered back.
"Sherlock used to talk to that skull, too, you know," she said.
"Oh, I'm not - " John began.
"It's okay, dear," she said. "I miss him, too." She gave him a quick hug before placing the skull back into its box. "But let's let the skull lie, shall we?"
John smiled. "Yes, of course."
Molly Hooper's heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she saw the article on page ten: DE-FRAUDED, SHERLOCK HOLMES CLEARED. The article was thorough, and it covered the investigation into allegations made by Richard Book (deceased) against Sherlock Holmes. It even went on to praise some of his casework.
Of course, that didn't make the front page. It wasn't a splashy story with lots of catchwords and scandal. A tiny part of Molly hoped, however, that Sherlock would return to London, to Bart's, to Molly.
"Ah, Miss Hooper," Mycroft Holmes said as he entered the room.
"Hello," she replied.
"I see you've read the news."
"It's not news to me," Molly replied.
"Yes, you are one of the few that believed in my brother," Mycroft said.
"I worked with him," she said. "Or saw him work, if you like. It's easy to believe something when you've seen so much of it."
"Still, it can't have been easy," he continued.
"Nothing worthwhile is."
"Miss Hooper, you performed my brother's autopsy."
"I did, yes."
"Which means you not only saw his lifeless body, but you cut a Y-incision into it to examine his internal organs at length."
"Yes, sir, I did."
"What would you say, then, to reports that a man matching his description has been seen near 221 B Baker Street?"
"I would say that I miss him, too," Molly lied seamlessly. She never was a good liar, but she had practiced it endlessly in the mirror.
"Ah," Mycroft said. "Well Miss Hooper, I stopped by because I can imagine that any reports of my brother, or someone who looked like him, might cause you some distress, perhaps even bring you under unwanted scrutiny. I know that Sherlock was never willing to do it, but should you feel uneasy or unsafe, please call me."
Mycroft held out a small card with his contact information, and Molly tentatively took it.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I will."
He waited a moment before his next question. "I know it's not really my place to ask, but... were you and my brother...?"
"Yes," Molly said. Then she realized what Mycroft was asking her, and she corrected herself. "Oh, no, I mean. Yes, we worked together. But, that's all. He kissed me on the cheek one time."
"Ah," Mycroft said softly. "I never liked the idea of him being alone."
"He had John," Molly said. "And Mrs. Hudson. And me. And Lestrade. He wasn't alone. Not really."
"Of course. Thank you, as ever, for your time."
John walked into the pub named Daggers. There were only two people on staff in the morning.
"We're closed," a woman said shortly.
"Actually, I was hoping to check your plumbing," John said.
"What?" the barkeeper asked.
"I, uh, would like to see your pluming," John repeated.
"What for?"
John should've thought up a lie in the cab ride over, but he didn't. So he went with the truth. "You remember the murder that happened here? Almost five months ago?"
"Yeah, sure. Thomas Fulmer, good man."
"I believe there may be evidence related to his murder hidden here."
"In our plumbing?" the barkeep asked.
"Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous," John said. "And chances are, there's nothing here anymore. But the man who stands accused of the murder - "
"Was our plumber, right," the barkeep said. "You think he might've stored something here?"
"I'd like to check, if that's okay."
"You're police?"
"No, not really."
"Okay, well, I guess it won't hurt for you to look," the barkeep replied. "No funny business."
"None at all," John confirmed.
They walked to the back and down a creepy flight of stairs to an old workman's closet opposite a very old basement, the kind horror films use for inspiration.
"We had another bloke come in and fix up the plumbing, after Clyde was arrested," the barkeep continued. "We had to order some parts for the refurbishing. What I mean is, people've been through here, so I'm not sure what you're looking for."
"Honestly, neither am I," John said.
He took a flashlight and ran it over the workman's closet. Of course, if one were to hide anything related to murder, it wouldn't be in the corners of the clean, well-lit closet. No, it would be in some ungodly corner of the damp, eerie sublevel. The place was even rank with limestone...
Wait, that couldn't be right. John followed his nose to a pillar and looked up. The limestone powder was trickling out of a duffel bag.
He could, of course, rifle through the suspicious bag and identify its exact contents. There was always the possibility that the contents of the bag were wrapped in limestone because of preference. Of course, the most obvious reason was to cover up the scent of something rotting.
"You find anything?" the barkeep called.
"I need to make a call."
Tolbert assigned Lestrade the task of releasing Clyde Burkhart. It was his screw up that gave the damn lawyers the ability to question the arrest to begin with, smoking gun and all.
Clyde Burkhart smiled like it was his wedding day. As he walked out of custody, he said, "Say thank you to Sergeant Donovan for me."
"I will," Lestrade said. "You rat."
He watched as a murderer walked free. Lestrade cursed Sherlock's name, even though he knew that Sherlock alone was not to blame. He and John just couldn't do what Sherlock did.
All he could hope for was to prevent it from happening again, which meant he couldn't ignore the mountain of paper work on his desk.
Donovan didn't do stupid things. She followed procedure. She was an excellent officer. Yet here she was, sitting next to John Watson in a surveillance car.
Thanks to the cooperation of the pub owner, they were able to set up on the place very quickly. Tolbert seemed very keen on the idea, but Donovan had her doubts. She never liked waiting.
Luckily, it was just a few hours after Clyde Burkhart's release from prison that he stopped by Daggers. He sat with a pint for about an hour, then ducked into the basement.
"Shouldn't we be, you know, moving in?" John Watson asked.
"First off, we won't be doing anything. You'll be staying in the car," Donovan said. "And we can't arrest someone for going into a basement."
"Right, of course."
But it was only a matter of time before Clyde tried to leave through the side door, carrying a rather distinctive duffel bag. Anderson palmed through the contents for a quick overview and reported that the limestone-powdered bag contained another bag that had bloody garments, a facemask, and an odd contraption that Anderson summed up as a "useless, overly-wide pipe."
"That's where he hid it," John said.
"What're you doing here?" Anderson asked.
"Not touching anything," John replied.
"What do you mean, hid it?"
"He hid the gun and suppressor in the apartment before the murder. In this pipe. Afterwards, all he had to do was plop it in his bag."
Donovan waved him away from Anderson as she called a taxi for John. "You know, I didn't think you'd be calling me," Donovan said. "You normally call Lestrade."
"Yes, I do," John said. "But with everything going on, it was best to keep him out of this. This way you have your man red-handed. I doubt he could concoct a story wild enough to explain how he found all the evidence it takes to incriminate himself..."
"Don't worry about it," Donovan said. "You look sad."
The taxi pulled up.
"I am sad."
"We just got the guy because of you," she said. "That's not nothing."
"I know you didn't like Sherlock," John said. "But he was my best friend. I figured this out with scraps of notes and... well, I'm not him."
"I'd say that's a good thing," Donovan replied.
"Goodbye Sergeant," John said as he plopped into his taxi.
The car pulled away, and he sank into his seat. He wanted to like Donovan, he really did, but she never let up. The man was dead, and she couldn't say a nice thing about him.
John realized that he hadn't given the cabbie the address. "Where are we going?" he asked.
<<< Previous Part:
Part Eight: The Frame Job, A Ship in a Bottle
Next Part: >>>
Part Ten: Boxed Bet
The Silver Blaze Revival - Series 3, Episode 1 - Primary Post