Fanfiction: Sherlock, BBC
Title: Fire Storm
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 3,900
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. Just in case I don’t post again in time; Merry Christmas everyone! (And if you don’t celebrate it, have a great time anyway).
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
‘This wasn’t an accident.’
At first all John can feel is disbelief. Of course it was an accident, how could it be otherwise? It just...it just can’t have been...he speaks before even trying to consider it any further.
‘You’re not serious?’ he says weakly, after a long pause. It’s meant to be a statement rather than a question, but it doesn’t come out that way. Sherlock gives him a look which suggests he thinks John’s words are far stranger than his own. As always he seems genuinely shocked at being the only one to come to a particular conclusion.
‘Of course I am,’ he says, ‘it’s -’
‘Don’t say obvious,’ John hisses through gritted teeth, rubbing a hand over his face and trying to gather his thoughts. ‘It was an accident. The police said it was an accident. They checked. They investigated. They aren’t as stupid as you think they are Sherlock. You’ve barely had that file five minutes - they had it for over a month. You’re just inventing a mystery because you’re bored -’ the words, unplanned, come out in a rush and sound much harsher than he intends.
‘Well, it didn’t exackly go as planned, if that’s any cons - cons - for crying out loud, consolation to you,’ Sherlock replies indifferently, ‘but it was clearly deliberate.’ John opens his mouth to argue, but then sighs, resigning himself to hearing the explanation whether he wants to or not.
‘Go on, then,’ he says exasperatedly, ‘how do you know?’
Sherlock flips one of the pages over clumsily so that John can see it. It’s a photograph of the scene. Though taken from a short distance away, John can still see exactly what’s happening - can remember. The paramedics are there. So are the fire crew, trying to cut Sherlock out of the car.
John’s chest tightens at the memory; he’s no longer sat by Sherlock’s hospital bed, he’s sat in a half crushed car, a mess of broken, sharp edged metal and shattered glass. Sherlock is not awake and well in front of him; Sherlock is unconscious and bleeding while John desperately tries to keep his heart beating. He can smell the blood, the burning, heated metal and rubber. Sirens wail and whine around him, shouts, creaks - blue flashing lights, red, and white skin as pale as death. Sherlock is cold - John can’t breathe -
‘John!’ Sherlock calls urgently, breaking him out of his reverie. John gasps and sucks in a huge lungful of air as though he has just surfaced from underwater. His eyes are wide and wild for a moment before he manages to bring himself back to the present and level his breathing and heart rate again.
‘I’m fine,’ he tells the detective shortly. Sherlock looks doubtful. ‘It just - it reminded me, that’s all. I’m fine.’
‘You’re a terrible liar,’ Sherlock’s voice in uncharacteristically quiet as he says it, but to John’s relief he carries on as though nothing has happened, pointing to various areas of apparent interest in the photograph. John forces himself to focus, to see it as any other crime scene - since when did he start thinking of it as a crime, rather than an accident, scene? He shakes his head, trying to clear it.
‘Do you see those - the - them, there...do you see them?’ He huffs impatiently at himself for not being able to think of the word and gestures towards the part of photograph he is referring to.
‘The skid marks, from the tyres,’ John murmurs, casting a concerned glance towards Sherlock’s face before focusing his attention on the thick black lines that swerve across the surface of the road. He stops himself short of reassuring Sherlock once more about the aphasia, knowing that he does not need attention drawn to it, though it’s clearly aggravating him. Sherlock nods curtly. ‘Where the other car braked, yeah,’ John confirms dubiously, eyeing the image with great suspicion.
‘Well?’ demands Sherlock,
‘Well what?’
‘Look! Don’t you see?’
‘No, Sherlock, I don’t. How about you just tell me?’ Sherlock tuts loudly, but obliges.
‘Look at where they start,’ he says, pointing. John squints at the photograph, swallowing back the rising memories it causes.
‘So?’
‘You aren’t looking!’
‘Yes I am! I just don’t see anything strange about them, that’s all! He - or she - or whoever it was, realised they were going to hit us, and tried to brake. Obviously it didn’t work. They scarpered. You nearly died. What the Hell else do I need to know?’
‘Don’t you think they start a bit late?’
‘What are you -? Give me that,’ John snatches the paper away and begins inspecting it closely. Confusion and denial battle with the trust he has always held in Sherlock’s reasoning. He isn’t sure which is less comforting. Either Sherlock’s recovery is rapid enough for his deductions to be correct, which would mean someone did this deliberately, or Sherlock is mistaken.
‘They were probably drunk,’ John says eventually, though even to his own ears he doesn’t sound convinced. ‘They didn’t notice soon enough, or they noticed but their reaction times were off...and it was icy. They might have been moving faster than they meant to, or lost control of the car -’
‘Or they intended to force us off the - off the - the - oh for God’s SAKE!’ The last word is shouted in frustration and Sherlock puts his head in his hands, gripping his hair in his fists so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His fingernails dig into his scalp and he grits his teeth furiously. He screws his face up with a combination of anger and pain at the sudden movement of his injured arm.
‘Sherlock,’ John says gently, leaning forwards and letting the paper fall to the floor, putting his hands over Sherlock’s and lowering them gently. He hesitates before speaking, ‘stop it. You’re being too hard on yourself. You haven’t been awake two days yet; you need to give yourself time. Try just...describing it, if you can’t find the word. And talk slowly.’
Sherlock doesn’t seem to have a reply and scowls at his knees ferociously, but he doesn’t try and move away from John or give any sign of wanting him to let go. John waits until at least some of the tension has left Sherlock’s body before he releases the detective’s hands and retrieves the page from the floor.
‘The road,’ he prompts quietly. The sound seems to startle Sherlock back into his train of thought,
‘They tried to force us off the road, realised too late that they were going the same way, attempted to stop, and failed,’ he explains grudgingly,
‘But - Sherlock, seriously, you can’t think - this can’t have been deliberate,’ John implores desperately. Sherlock takes the photograph from John’s limp hand and slides it back between the pages of the report.
‘Why not?’ he asks, ‘I - and therefore, we - have more than a few enemies scatt - ered around. I’m sure you can think of at least five people just at the mo - moment that would benefit if I was out of the way. And that’s not counting the dozens who would probably not say no to a little revenge.’ John struggles for a moment at the ease with which Sherlock admits the number of criminals who could carry such a grudge. He feels cold at the thought.
‘If they were targeting us, or you, or whatever; what about the taxi driver?’
‘Collateral damage.’
‘Surely there are easier ways to...?’
‘Yes, but this way they could make it look like an ac - acci - a mistake. Had they got their wish, no one would ever have known. I was hardly supposed to survive.’ John winces at Sherlock’s last statement, casting around for any evidence that might disprove his theory, and finding none.
Suddenly, a burning mixture of anger and fear bubbles in his chest, so much that he is momentarily dizzy. They can’t, they can’t - how dare they - oh, please let it only have been a drunk, please...anything - please -
‘You do realise,’ says John slowly, when he finally finds his voice once more, ‘that if they tried once, and failed...’
‘Then they are likely to try again,’ Sherlock finishes for him, ‘yes.’
There is a long pause now, as John tries in vain to think of another argument, each new protestation weaker than the last as he quickly runs out of ideas. Hope and desperation race ahead of impartial logic. Surely this can’t be true...? Surely - it just - it was an accident. An accident, it was icy, of course the car’s brakes appeared to be applied too late. It doesn’t have to have been deliberate - and yet what is there to say it wasn’t? As much as he tries to tell himself that there is no evidence to support Sherlock’s theory, there is none to debunk it either.
‘Why haven’t they already?’ John asks at length, though he thinks he knows the answer.
‘They didn’t want to draw attention to themselves,’ Sherlock replies calmly, ‘I wasn’t a danger to them unconscious and they obviously don’t see you as a threat. If the motive was revenge they’d have finished the job, so that at least narrows it down to current cases...’
‘And now you’re awake, you’re a threat again,’ John makes no attempt to mask the trepidation in his voice.
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It really shouldn’t come as a surprise to Lestrade that barely three hours after leaving the hospital, Sherlock has summoned him back. Actually, he thinks, it isn’t so much the being summoned back that does surprise him - it’s the fact that he doesn’t mind. He has no doubt that exasperation will make a full return sooner or later, but for now it seems that news of Sherlock’s recovery is enough to allow some patience with him.
He doesn’t know why he gave Sherlock the file in the first place other than because he knew that Sherlock would be interested in it. Even if it presents no particular challenge and all the information he gleans from the report is deleted afterwards, Lestrade knows that the younger man will make it his business to know every detail of the accident anyway, simply because he can. No part of him really expected anything new to turn up when he gave over the file...or did it? Something about this makes him uneasy. He doesn’t see any solid evidence himself of foul play - but then, Sherlock Holmes always does see things that no one else quite manages to.
He still doesn’t know now what Sherlock has found. All he knows is that John sounded worryingly sombre on the phone, and advised the Detective Inspector come and listen to what Sherlock has to say.
Lestrade’s mouth twists into a small smile now, despite the doubts that have begun to niggle at the edge of his mind over his conclusions regarding the ‘accident’. Of his ideas in another matter, he is more than confident.
He doesn’t entirely know whether he ought to feel insulted or amused that the pair of them take him for such a fool. He supposes offence at the assumption has long ago worn away, or he wouldn’t be able to work with Sherlock as often as he does. But he would like to think that John, at least, holds him in higher regard than that...
Not the case. Oh, he’s far too used to be overridden on cases to let that truly bother him anymore; but really, do they think he doesn’t know? Do they really think him so unobservant as not to have noticed? John did not move his hand quite as fast as he had hoped, and Lestrade isn’t blind, and nor, despite Sherlock’s regular announcements to the contrary, is he stupid.
Not so very long ago, had someone suggested to him the very idea of Sherlock Holmes even coming to regard another human being as a friend, he would have dismissed the thought in an instant.
But...well, then there was John.
He should have known something was different right from the start. In hindsight it was always so painfully obvious - and the voice that tells Lestrade so sounds suspiciously like Sherlock himself - there has always been something different about John Watson.
He’s just glad Sherlock finally seems to have caught up.
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‘What about her?’ Asks John; it’s fifteen minutes since his phone call to Lestrade, and already Sherlock is restless with boredom. John has raised the blinds on the window looking into the corridor so that Sherlock can see out, and the two are entertaining themselves by studying passers-by. Or rather, Sherlock is studying, and John is listening.
The girl John points to is in her late teens, and sat with a group of other people John assumes are her family, on a row of white plastic chairs against the wall. Sherlock peers at them for over a minute before he speaks.
‘She’s nervous -’ he begins, and John scoffs.
‘She’s in a hospital; of course she’s nervous!’
‘Habitually,’ Sherlock clarifies, pointing, ‘see her - on her arms, clothes -’ he struggles for a moment to find the word. John remains silent, giving him a chance to figure it out himself. ‘Her sleeves, the cuffs? They’re torn from where she’s picked at them so many times - look, she’s doing it now. And she keeps tucking her hair behind her ears, even when it’s already there.’
‘Okay,’ John concedes, ‘what else?’
Sherlock thinks for a moment. John frowns, wondering if the hesitation is down to his difficulty forming the words or the conclusions. ‘Not much jewellery, no rings or anything too delicate...practical...she keeps fidgeting with that wristband though...probably a gift from the person she’s waiting for - a friend.’
‘Why not a family member?’
‘The rest of her family would be here with her - they’re not related to her, but she’s close to them, probably the friend’s family -’
‘How can you possibly know she’s not related to them? Just because she doesn’t look like them - I barely look anything like my parents, and you and Mycroft -’
‘The way she’s sitting, John!’ Sherlock exclaims, frustrated, as though it’s obvious - which to him, it probably is. ‘Her sleeves, the hair-tucking, indicate she’s shy. But she’s perfectly at ease with them, so she must have known them a long time. But, she keeps glancing at the older couple, friend’s parents I presume, as if she’s not sure she belongs. Ergo, she’s not related.’
John waits, watching the group and trying to apply the same techniques to the rest of them, but finds he can tell very little beyond what Sherlock has already stated. He can see nothing - but as soon as this thought enters his mind, so does another.
You see, you just don’t observe!
He shakes his head, dismissing Sherlock’s question as to the reason, and points to another person in the corridor; a middle aged man, pacing back and forth and glancing continually at his watch.
‘Him?’
‘Why don’t you try?’ Sherlock suggests, raising his eyebrows. John shakes his head,
‘No way, I’m not getting sucked into that. Every time I try and deduce something, you shoot it down in flames,’
‘You just don’t look hard enough -’
‘I’m not doing it, Sherlock -’
‘Oh, don’t be so childish, why not? I thought you admired my methods,’
‘I do, but I can’t do it, I’m not going to set myself up for being ridiculed again -’
‘Since when you I ever ridi - cule you?’
‘Seriously?’
‘Try it,’
‘I can’t,’
‘Well, now’s your time to learn, isn’t it?’ John sighs and runs his hands through his hair, staring at the man for several long seconds. He can practically feel Sherlock’s eyes burning into the side of his head but he refuses to look around, struggling to concentrate on the stranger outside the window. He can’t think of anything - he just can’t focus with Sherlock tapping his fingers like that! He slaps his palm over Sherlock’s hand to stop them (ignoring the look that tells him this is precisely the reaction Sherlock was waiting for), screwing up his eyes with the effort of keeping his attention on the man.
‘Well?’ Sherlock prompts,
‘I don’t know. I can’t do it, you know I can’t,’ John gives up, ‘so go on, what can you tell? What should I be able to see?’
‘You’re not going to try?’ Sherlock asks, sounding almost disappointed.
‘I have tried, and I can’t do it,’
‘Just say what you see,’
‘No.’
‘Just describe him. Go on.’
John sighs again and looks at the ceiling as though praying for patience, then turns his eyes back on the corridor.
‘He’s pacing,’
‘Very astute, John,’ Sherlock replies sarcastically. John glares at him.
‘So, obviously he’s worried. Impatient. Probably whoever it is has been here a while, he keeps checking his watch...’
‘Go on,’
John shrugs and spreads his hands, ‘I don’t know! He’s just some guy in a hospital, he looks the same as every other bloke here!’
‘No he doesn’t, try again.’
‘I’m not a child!’
‘You’re acting like one,’ Sherlock smirks and nods to the window, ‘don’t be so dull; just tell me what you see.’
‘Suit,’ John replies resentfully, his embarrassment growing every moment; why can’t he just see these things and know, like Sherlock? Why is this so difficult? ‘Smartly dressed, but ruffled - he keeps running his hands through his hair.’
‘And what does that suggest?’
‘That he’s worried, just like everyone else here.’
‘And?’
John takes a deep breath, trying very hard to control his temper. ‘He probably got called out of work. Maybe some sort of business meeting. He’s tired, looks like he’s been awake for at least a day, but he’s clean shaven, so...so he can’t have been here the whole time. Extra work recently, or he’s stressed and lost sleep...’ He trails away, suddenly unsure of himself; it seemed to be going well, but the smile on Sherlock’s face is making him uneasy, doubting his conclusions.
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Sherlock gestures towards the window, ‘you’re doing fine.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know how you manage, functioning that slowly, but yes, I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.’
‘Go on then, you do it,’ John instructs, folding his arms petulantly and nodding towards the man.
‘Wedding ring,’ Sherlock replies immediately, ‘he’s twisting it constantly, so probably his wife here. He’s been called out of work, so it’s something sudden, rather than a long term illness or anything like that, but he looks more impatient than truly afraid, so I doubt she’s seriously injured. It must be something big though, or he wouldn’t have left the meeting. The - the - babies, the...the maternity ward...is just down that corridor - she’s probably in labour, and - Lestrade!’
The final exclamation startles John, and he sits bolt upright, spotting the Detective Inspector a moment later, just before he pushes open the door to Sherlock’s room.
‘Something amusing?’ asks Sherlock as Lestrade walks in, all deductions regarding the strangers outside quickly forgotten; Lestrade quickly shakes his head and arranges his face into what he hopes is a suitably serious expression.
‘Not at all,’ he replies. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and studies Lestrade for a long moment.
‘Are you going to explain, then?’ John prompts Sherlock, who moves his attention slowly away from Lestrade with an unreadable look on his face. He pauses, seeming to debate something with himself, then replies,
‘You do it.’
John hopes he manages to mask the surprise he feels at the instruction enough to hide it at least from Lestrade, his previous irritation melting away into nothing. He knows why Sherlock has asked - or rather, told - him to do it instead. He doesn’t want to be caught struggling with the words in front of Lestrade...John feels a pang of sympathy, but pushes it away, knowing it is the last thing Sherlock wants.
Lestrade makes much the same objections as John, but despite his initial half-hearted arguments, he seems resigned to the truth of what Sherlock is suggesting. Somehow, where Sherlock Holmes is concerned, foul play always seems more likely than near-tragic accident.
‘Well...’ Lestrade begins uncertainly after a pause, ‘have you any idea - any definite idea who might be behind it? If it was deliberate,’
‘It was,’ Sherlock replies sharply, ‘all the evidence points that way. And by definition if I have only an idea, it’s hardly definite, is it?’
Lestrade sighs and John shakes his head exasperatedly, ‘you know what I meant,’ the former says, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
‘Epps is clearly a possibility,’ Sherlock replies. ‘Though I had already identified him, perhaps he thought that with me out of the way you would be unable to track him down - he would seem to have been right, at any rate -’
‘Sherlock,’ John warns.
‘Any criminals recently released from prison whose cases I was involved in - get a list of those - and there was the...the robbery, high profile case, unsolved...’ he trails away in frustration and glances towards John,
‘The stolen emerald,’ John supplies quietly, ‘you suspected Ryder; not enough evidence though.’
‘Quite,’ Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment, and another name hangs between the three men without any of them speaking it. John’s chest tightens at the mere thought, knowing he should have suspected it sooner and hating himself for being so blind. He quickly tries, fruitlessly, to assure himself that it’s not possible anyway. No; he would make more of a statement than this, surely. He would have finished the job. This shouldn’t be a comfort to John, but anything, anything that could mean that the possibility of him being involved is less...
‘Moriarty,’ mutters Lestrade eventually, breaking the heavy silence. Sherlock nods. John swallows, hearing an echo of eerie laughter reverberating around the cold walls of an empty swimming pool not so very long ago...
‘Or one of his agents at least,’ Sherlock nods slowly, ‘especially if he has any connection to either Epps or Ryder, which is entirely possible.’
‘So we can pretty much narrow down the suspect list to practically everyone in London?’
‘Don’t be absurd, John,’ Sherlock scolds impatiently,
‘All of the criminals, either recently released or yet to be caught, plus anyone Moriarty can coerce into working for him. I’d say that accounts for most of the population of London, if Moriarty’s influence is anywhere near as far reached as he claims it is,’ John is undeterred, barely even attempting to keep his voice level. He knows there is no point, that Sherlock would see past it in seconds anyway, even if Lestrade wouldn’t. Sherlock’s own face is caught somewhere between contempt, concern and exhilaration, all held on a tight leash so that his expression is a frozen caricature of all three which only John can read.
‘If Moriarty has the power he claims to have, London is barely a pinprick on the map for him,’ Sherlock replies matter-of-factly. ‘Though I have reason to believe he is not as influential as he likes to think he is; or at least, as he wants us to think he is.’
‘And why’s that then?’ Lestrade asks,
‘Because I happen to have my own connections,’ Sherlock replies, then, though it pains him to admit it, ‘and Mycroft has his.’
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 3,900
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. Just in case I don’t post again in time; Merry Christmas everyone! (And if you don’t celebrate it, have a great time anyway).
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
‘This wasn’t an accident.’
At first all John can feel is disbelief. Of course it was an accident, how could it be otherwise? It just...it just can’t have been...he speaks before even trying to consider it any further.
‘You’re not serious?’ he says weakly, after a long pause. It’s meant to be a statement rather than a question, but it doesn’t come out that way. Sherlock gives him a look which suggests he thinks John’s words are far stranger than his own. As always he seems genuinely shocked at being the only one to come to a particular conclusion.
‘Of course I am,’ he says, ‘it’s -’
‘Don’t say obvious,’ John hisses through gritted teeth, rubbing a hand over his face and trying to gather his thoughts. ‘It was an accident. The police said it was an accident. They checked. They investigated. They aren’t as stupid as you think they are Sherlock. You’ve barely had that file five minutes - they had it for over a month. You’re just inventing a mystery because you’re bored -’ the words, unplanned, come out in a rush and sound much harsher than he intends.
‘Well, it didn’t exackly go as planned, if that’s any cons - cons - for crying out loud, consolation to you,’ Sherlock replies indifferently, ‘but it was clearly deliberate.’ John opens his mouth to argue, but then sighs, resigning himself to hearing the explanation whether he wants to or not.
‘Go on, then,’ he says exasperatedly, ‘how do you know?’
Sherlock flips one of the pages over clumsily so that John can see it. It’s a photograph of the scene. Though taken from a short distance away, John can still see exactly what’s happening - can remember. The paramedics are there. So are the fire crew, trying to cut Sherlock out of the car.
John’s chest tightens at the memory; he’s no longer sat by Sherlock’s hospital bed, he’s sat in a half crushed car, a mess of broken, sharp edged metal and shattered glass. Sherlock is not awake and well in front of him; Sherlock is unconscious and bleeding while John desperately tries to keep his heart beating. He can smell the blood, the burning, heated metal and rubber. Sirens wail and whine around him, shouts, creaks - blue flashing lights, red, and white skin as pale as death. Sherlock is cold - John can’t breathe -
‘John!’ Sherlock calls urgently, breaking him out of his reverie. John gasps and sucks in a huge lungful of air as though he has just surfaced from underwater. His eyes are wide and wild for a moment before he manages to bring himself back to the present and level his breathing and heart rate again.
‘I’m fine,’ he tells the detective shortly. Sherlock looks doubtful. ‘It just - it reminded me, that’s all. I’m fine.’
‘You’re a terrible liar,’ Sherlock’s voice in uncharacteristically quiet as he says it, but to John’s relief he carries on as though nothing has happened, pointing to various areas of apparent interest in the photograph. John forces himself to focus, to see it as any other crime scene - since when did he start thinking of it as a crime, rather than an accident, scene? He shakes his head, trying to clear it.
‘Do you see those - the - them, there...do you see them?’ He huffs impatiently at himself for not being able to think of the word and gestures towards the part of photograph he is referring to.
‘The skid marks, from the tyres,’ John murmurs, casting a concerned glance towards Sherlock’s face before focusing his attention on the thick black lines that swerve across the surface of the road. He stops himself short of reassuring Sherlock once more about the aphasia, knowing that he does not need attention drawn to it, though it’s clearly aggravating him. Sherlock nods curtly. ‘Where the other car braked, yeah,’ John confirms dubiously, eyeing the image with great suspicion.
‘Well?’ demands Sherlock,
‘Well what?’
‘Look! Don’t you see?’
‘No, Sherlock, I don’t. How about you just tell me?’ Sherlock tuts loudly, but obliges.
‘Look at where they start,’ he says, pointing. John squints at the photograph, swallowing back the rising memories it causes.
‘So?’
‘You aren’t looking!’
‘Yes I am! I just don’t see anything strange about them, that’s all! He - or she - or whoever it was, realised they were going to hit us, and tried to brake. Obviously it didn’t work. They scarpered. You nearly died. What the Hell else do I need to know?’
‘Don’t you think they start a bit late?’
‘What are you -? Give me that,’ John snatches the paper away and begins inspecting it closely. Confusion and denial battle with the trust he has always held in Sherlock’s reasoning. He isn’t sure which is less comforting. Either Sherlock’s recovery is rapid enough for his deductions to be correct, which would mean someone did this deliberately, or Sherlock is mistaken.
‘They were probably drunk,’ John says eventually, though even to his own ears he doesn’t sound convinced. ‘They didn’t notice soon enough, or they noticed but their reaction times were off...and it was icy. They might have been moving faster than they meant to, or lost control of the car -’
‘Or they intended to force us off the - off the - the - oh for God’s SAKE!’ The last word is shouted in frustration and Sherlock puts his head in his hands, gripping his hair in his fists so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His fingernails dig into his scalp and he grits his teeth furiously. He screws his face up with a combination of anger and pain at the sudden movement of his injured arm.
‘Sherlock,’ John says gently, leaning forwards and letting the paper fall to the floor, putting his hands over Sherlock’s and lowering them gently. He hesitates before speaking, ‘stop it. You’re being too hard on yourself. You haven’t been awake two days yet; you need to give yourself time. Try just...describing it, if you can’t find the word. And talk slowly.’
Sherlock doesn’t seem to have a reply and scowls at his knees ferociously, but he doesn’t try and move away from John or give any sign of wanting him to let go. John waits until at least some of the tension has left Sherlock’s body before he releases the detective’s hands and retrieves the page from the floor.
‘The road,’ he prompts quietly. The sound seems to startle Sherlock back into his train of thought,
‘They tried to force us off the road, realised too late that they were going the same way, attempted to stop, and failed,’ he explains grudgingly,
‘But - Sherlock, seriously, you can’t think - this can’t have been deliberate,’ John implores desperately. Sherlock takes the photograph from John’s limp hand and slides it back between the pages of the report.
‘Why not?’ he asks, ‘I - and therefore, we - have more than a few enemies scatt - ered around. I’m sure you can think of at least five people just at the mo - moment that would benefit if I was out of the way. And that’s not counting the dozens who would probably not say no to a little revenge.’ John struggles for a moment at the ease with which Sherlock admits the number of criminals who could carry such a grudge. He feels cold at the thought.
‘If they were targeting us, or you, or whatever; what about the taxi driver?’
‘Collateral damage.’
‘Surely there are easier ways to...?’
‘Yes, but this way they could make it look like an ac - acci - a mistake. Had they got their wish, no one would ever have known. I was hardly supposed to survive.’ John winces at Sherlock’s last statement, casting around for any evidence that might disprove his theory, and finding none.
Suddenly, a burning mixture of anger and fear bubbles in his chest, so much that he is momentarily dizzy. They can’t, they can’t - how dare they - oh, please let it only have been a drunk, please...anything - please -
‘You do realise,’ says John slowly, when he finally finds his voice once more, ‘that if they tried once, and failed...’
‘Then they are likely to try again,’ Sherlock finishes for him, ‘yes.’
There is a long pause now, as John tries in vain to think of another argument, each new protestation weaker than the last as he quickly runs out of ideas. Hope and desperation race ahead of impartial logic. Surely this can’t be true...? Surely - it just - it was an accident. An accident, it was icy, of course the car’s brakes appeared to be applied too late. It doesn’t have to have been deliberate - and yet what is there to say it wasn’t? As much as he tries to tell himself that there is no evidence to support Sherlock’s theory, there is none to debunk it either.
‘Why haven’t they already?’ John asks at length, though he thinks he knows the answer.
‘They didn’t want to draw attention to themselves,’ Sherlock replies calmly, ‘I wasn’t a danger to them unconscious and they obviously don’t see you as a threat. If the motive was revenge they’d have finished the job, so that at least narrows it down to current cases...’
‘And now you’re awake, you’re a threat again,’ John makes no attempt to mask the trepidation in his voice.
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It really shouldn’t come as a surprise to Lestrade that barely three hours after leaving the hospital, Sherlock has summoned him back. Actually, he thinks, it isn’t so much the being summoned back that does surprise him - it’s the fact that he doesn’t mind. He has no doubt that exasperation will make a full return sooner or later, but for now it seems that news of Sherlock’s recovery is enough to allow some patience with him.
He doesn’t know why he gave Sherlock the file in the first place other than because he knew that Sherlock would be interested in it. Even if it presents no particular challenge and all the information he gleans from the report is deleted afterwards, Lestrade knows that the younger man will make it his business to know every detail of the accident anyway, simply because he can. No part of him really expected anything new to turn up when he gave over the file...or did it? Something about this makes him uneasy. He doesn’t see any solid evidence himself of foul play - but then, Sherlock Holmes always does see things that no one else quite manages to.
He still doesn’t know now what Sherlock has found. All he knows is that John sounded worryingly sombre on the phone, and advised the Detective Inspector come and listen to what Sherlock has to say.
Lestrade’s mouth twists into a small smile now, despite the doubts that have begun to niggle at the edge of his mind over his conclusions regarding the ‘accident’. Of his ideas in another matter, he is more than confident.
He doesn’t entirely know whether he ought to feel insulted or amused that the pair of them take him for such a fool. He supposes offence at the assumption has long ago worn away, or he wouldn’t be able to work with Sherlock as often as he does. But he would like to think that John, at least, holds him in higher regard than that...
Not the case. Oh, he’s far too used to be overridden on cases to let that truly bother him anymore; but really, do they think he doesn’t know? Do they really think him so unobservant as not to have noticed? John did not move his hand quite as fast as he had hoped, and Lestrade isn’t blind, and nor, despite Sherlock’s regular announcements to the contrary, is he stupid.
Not so very long ago, had someone suggested to him the very idea of Sherlock Holmes even coming to regard another human being as a friend, he would have dismissed the thought in an instant.
But...well, then there was John.
He should have known something was different right from the start. In hindsight it was always so painfully obvious - and the voice that tells Lestrade so sounds suspiciously like Sherlock himself - there has always been something different about John Watson.
He’s just glad Sherlock finally seems to have caught up.
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‘What about her?’ Asks John; it’s fifteen minutes since his phone call to Lestrade, and already Sherlock is restless with boredom. John has raised the blinds on the window looking into the corridor so that Sherlock can see out, and the two are entertaining themselves by studying passers-by. Or rather, Sherlock is studying, and John is listening.
The girl John points to is in her late teens, and sat with a group of other people John assumes are her family, on a row of white plastic chairs against the wall. Sherlock peers at them for over a minute before he speaks.
‘She’s nervous -’ he begins, and John scoffs.
‘She’s in a hospital; of course she’s nervous!’
‘Habitually,’ Sherlock clarifies, pointing, ‘see her - on her arms, clothes -’ he struggles for a moment to find the word. John remains silent, giving him a chance to figure it out himself. ‘Her sleeves, the cuffs? They’re torn from where she’s picked at them so many times - look, she’s doing it now. And she keeps tucking her hair behind her ears, even when it’s already there.’
‘Okay,’ John concedes, ‘what else?’
Sherlock thinks for a moment. John frowns, wondering if the hesitation is down to his difficulty forming the words or the conclusions. ‘Not much jewellery, no rings or anything too delicate...practical...she keeps fidgeting with that wristband though...probably a gift from the person she’s waiting for - a friend.’
‘Why not a family member?’
‘The rest of her family would be here with her - they’re not related to her, but she’s close to them, probably the friend’s family -’
‘How can you possibly know she’s not related to them? Just because she doesn’t look like them - I barely look anything like my parents, and you and Mycroft -’
‘The way she’s sitting, John!’ Sherlock exclaims, frustrated, as though it’s obvious - which to him, it probably is. ‘Her sleeves, the hair-tucking, indicate she’s shy. But she’s perfectly at ease with them, so she must have known them a long time. But, she keeps glancing at the older couple, friend’s parents I presume, as if she’s not sure she belongs. Ergo, she’s not related.’
John waits, watching the group and trying to apply the same techniques to the rest of them, but finds he can tell very little beyond what Sherlock has already stated. He can see nothing - but as soon as this thought enters his mind, so does another.
You see, you just don’t observe!
He shakes his head, dismissing Sherlock’s question as to the reason, and points to another person in the corridor; a middle aged man, pacing back and forth and glancing continually at his watch.
‘Him?’
‘Why don’t you try?’ Sherlock suggests, raising his eyebrows. John shakes his head,
‘No way, I’m not getting sucked into that. Every time I try and deduce something, you shoot it down in flames,’
‘You just don’t look hard enough -’
‘I’m not doing it, Sherlock -’
‘Oh, don’t be so childish, why not? I thought you admired my methods,’
‘I do, but I can’t do it, I’m not going to set myself up for being ridiculed again -’
‘Since when you I ever ridi - cule you?’
‘Seriously?’
‘Try it,’
‘I can’t,’
‘Well, now’s your time to learn, isn’t it?’ John sighs and runs his hands through his hair, staring at the man for several long seconds. He can practically feel Sherlock’s eyes burning into the side of his head but he refuses to look around, struggling to concentrate on the stranger outside the window. He can’t think of anything - he just can’t focus with Sherlock tapping his fingers like that! He slaps his palm over Sherlock’s hand to stop them (ignoring the look that tells him this is precisely the reaction Sherlock was waiting for), screwing up his eyes with the effort of keeping his attention on the man.
‘Well?’ Sherlock prompts,
‘I don’t know. I can’t do it, you know I can’t,’ John gives up, ‘so go on, what can you tell? What should I be able to see?’
‘You’re not going to try?’ Sherlock asks, sounding almost disappointed.
‘I have tried, and I can’t do it,’
‘Just say what you see,’
‘No.’
‘Just describe him. Go on.’
John sighs again and looks at the ceiling as though praying for patience, then turns his eyes back on the corridor.
‘He’s pacing,’
‘Very astute, John,’ Sherlock replies sarcastically. John glares at him.
‘So, obviously he’s worried. Impatient. Probably whoever it is has been here a while, he keeps checking his watch...’
‘Go on,’
John shrugs and spreads his hands, ‘I don’t know! He’s just some guy in a hospital, he looks the same as every other bloke here!’
‘No he doesn’t, try again.’
‘I’m not a child!’
‘You’re acting like one,’ Sherlock smirks and nods to the window, ‘don’t be so dull; just tell me what you see.’
‘Suit,’ John replies resentfully, his embarrassment growing every moment; why can’t he just see these things and know, like Sherlock? Why is this so difficult? ‘Smartly dressed, but ruffled - he keeps running his hands through his hair.’
‘And what does that suggest?’
‘That he’s worried, just like everyone else here.’
‘And?’
John takes a deep breath, trying very hard to control his temper. ‘He probably got called out of work. Maybe some sort of business meeting. He’s tired, looks like he’s been awake for at least a day, but he’s clean shaven, so...so he can’t have been here the whole time. Extra work recently, or he’s stressed and lost sleep...’ He trails away, suddenly unsure of himself; it seemed to be going well, but the smile on Sherlock’s face is making him uneasy, doubting his conclusions.
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Sherlock gestures towards the window, ‘you’re doing fine.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know how you manage, functioning that slowly, but yes, I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.’
‘Go on then, you do it,’ John instructs, folding his arms petulantly and nodding towards the man.
‘Wedding ring,’ Sherlock replies immediately, ‘he’s twisting it constantly, so probably his wife here. He’s been called out of work, so it’s something sudden, rather than a long term illness or anything like that, but he looks more impatient than truly afraid, so I doubt she’s seriously injured. It must be something big though, or he wouldn’t have left the meeting. The - the - babies, the...the maternity ward...is just down that corridor - she’s probably in labour, and - Lestrade!’
The final exclamation startles John, and he sits bolt upright, spotting the Detective Inspector a moment later, just before he pushes open the door to Sherlock’s room.
‘Something amusing?’ asks Sherlock as Lestrade walks in, all deductions regarding the strangers outside quickly forgotten; Lestrade quickly shakes his head and arranges his face into what he hopes is a suitably serious expression.
‘Not at all,’ he replies. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and studies Lestrade for a long moment.
‘Are you going to explain, then?’ John prompts Sherlock, who moves his attention slowly away from Lestrade with an unreadable look on his face. He pauses, seeming to debate something with himself, then replies,
‘You do it.’
John hopes he manages to mask the surprise he feels at the instruction enough to hide it at least from Lestrade, his previous irritation melting away into nothing. He knows why Sherlock has asked - or rather, told - him to do it instead. He doesn’t want to be caught struggling with the words in front of Lestrade...John feels a pang of sympathy, but pushes it away, knowing it is the last thing Sherlock wants.
Lestrade makes much the same objections as John, but despite his initial half-hearted arguments, he seems resigned to the truth of what Sherlock is suggesting. Somehow, where Sherlock Holmes is concerned, foul play always seems more likely than near-tragic accident.
‘Well...’ Lestrade begins uncertainly after a pause, ‘have you any idea - any definite idea who might be behind it? If it was deliberate,’
‘It was,’ Sherlock replies sharply, ‘all the evidence points that way. And by definition if I have only an idea, it’s hardly definite, is it?’
Lestrade sighs and John shakes his head exasperatedly, ‘you know what I meant,’ the former says, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
‘Epps is clearly a possibility,’ Sherlock replies. ‘Though I had already identified him, perhaps he thought that with me out of the way you would be unable to track him down - he would seem to have been right, at any rate -’
‘Sherlock,’ John warns.
‘Any criminals recently released from prison whose cases I was involved in - get a list of those - and there was the...the robbery, high profile case, unsolved...’ he trails away in frustration and glances towards John,
‘The stolen emerald,’ John supplies quietly, ‘you suspected Ryder; not enough evidence though.’
‘Quite,’ Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment, and another name hangs between the three men without any of them speaking it. John’s chest tightens at the mere thought, knowing he should have suspected it sooner and hating himself for being so blind. He quickly tries, fruitlessly, to assure himself that it’s not possible anyway. No; he would make more of a statement than this, surely. He would have finished the job. This shouldn’t be a comfort to John, but anything, anything that could mean that the possibility of him being involved is less...
‘Moriarty,’ mutters Lestrade eventually, breaking the heavy silence. Sherlock nods. John swallows, hearing an echo of eerie laughter reverberating around the cold walls of an empty swimming pool not so very long ago...
‘Or one of his agents at least,’ Sherlock nods slowly, ‘especially if he has any connection to either Epps or Ryder, which is entirely possible.’
‘So we can pretty much narrow down the suspect list to practically everyone in London?’
‘Don’t be absurd, John,’ Sherlock scolds impatiently,
‘All of the criminals, either recently released or yet to be caught, plus anyone Moriarty can coerce into working for him. I’d say that accounts for most of the population of London, if Moriarty’s influence is anywhere near as far reached as he claims it is,’ John is undeterred, barely even attempting to keep his voice level. He knows there is no point, that Sherlock would see past it in seconds anyway, even if Lestrade wouldn’t. Sherlock’s own face is caught somewhere between contempt, concern and exhilaration, all held on a tight leash so that his expression is a frozen caricature of all three which only John can read.
‘If Moriarty has the power he claims to have, London is barely a pinprick on the map for him,’ Sherlock replies matter-of-factly. ‘Though I have reason to believe he is not as influential as he likes to think he is; or at least, as he wants us to think he is.’
‘And why’s that then?’ Lestrade asks,
‘Because I happen to have my own connections,’ Sherlock replies, then, though it pains him to admit it, ‘and Mycroft has his.’