John Watson Versus the World: Chapter 2
Second chapter of my Sherlock/Scott Pilgrim fic! I kind of rewrite half of The Blind Banker in this, twisting the events to both fit the AU and my Endgame. Enjoy!
Title: John Watson Versus The World
Rating: G (so far)
Words: 4346
Pairing: Sherlock/John, mentions of past relationships
Spoilers: Some for The Blind Banker in this chapter
Summary: It's been a quiet month since John and Sherlock got together, which really should have given John a clue that something was going to happen.
Chapter Two: It Might Be Cypher To Stay Inside
John awoke slowly, his mind enveloped in fog and his body enveloped by Sherlock. It was rather comfortable. He wanted nothing more than to stay there, nuzzling into the other man's chest, but he had a job interview to go to. After a month spent dashing around for zero pay and a series of rather humiliating rows with an automated shopkeeper, it seemed necessary to get a more stable means of employment. He spent a few minutes working out exactly how to extract himself from the tangled mess that was Sherlock's limbs, a task John suspected was difficult because Sherlock was only pretending to be asleep. Finally free, he slipped on a dressing gown and plodded in the general direction of the kitchen, intending to make a cup of tea.
As soon as he reached the living room, he froze.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, John retreated back to the bedroom, where Sherlock was now getting dressed. John was momentarily distracted by his partner's collarbones. They were begging to be licked. Sherlock definitely noticed his attention, smirking as he left the top three buttons of his shirt undone.
“Was there something you wanted, John, or did you come back purely to ogle me?”
“I didn't - oh, it's not even worth denying, is it?” He collected himself, finally remembering why he was there.
“I was wondering why the hell Lestrade is passed out on our sofa.”
If Sherlock was surprised by this, he didn't show it. “I would suspect that he has been kicked out by his wife for coming home drunk again.”
“Is that 'again' for coming home drunk or for being kicked out?”
“Both, obviously.”
“Right. So why is he on our sofa?”
“I have housed him before. Frankly, in the state he would have been in, I'm amazed he remembered I'd moved. I suppose Mrs Hudson would have let him in; he hasn't got a key for this flat.”
John paused, overwhelmed by the stupid number of questions those statements raised. Eventually, he asked the most pressing one. “Sherlock... Lestrade isn't... you and him didn't...?”
“Date? Goodness, no. His wife is far too terrifying."
John laughed. The idea of Sherlock being scared of anyone was absurd. He was, however, relieved to know that he wouldn't have to take down Sherlock's sort-of boss any time soon. Sure, he hadn't encountered any exes after the first one, but there was no need to tempt fate. “Alright then. I suppose I'd better check on that crazy lump.”
Lestrade hadn't moved an inch, so John went into the kitchen to make him some toast. Years of being Harry's late-night chauffeur had taught him some rather effective hangover cures. After checking the fridge (Contents: 1 x jar of jam, 3 x mouldy tomatoes, 1 x human arm) he found a Remedy at the back of a cupboard, hidden inside a box of coffee creamers. He didn't want to know where the coffee creamers were.
By the time the toast popped up and the kettle boiled, Sherlock had come in and resumed work on an experiment. He poured random liquids and chemicals into a beaker above a Bunsen burner, the colour shifting from blue to red to orange. For all John could tell, Sherlock could be creating a deadly poison. Or making breakfast. Sighing, he grabbed a tray of toast, tea and Remedy and made his way towards the unconscious Lestrade.
Something occurred to him, and he paused. “Sherlock...”
“Mm?”
“Since we seem to be housing Lestrade, and it's a bit formal to call him by his surname all the time, what's his first name?”
“Nobody knows.” Sherlock added a splash of lemon juice to his concoction, making it fizz. “Even his wife calls him Lestrade.”
“What?! That's absurd! Can't you, I don't know, look up his character sheet or something?”
“People have tried. The most anyone can glean is that it begins with G. He thinks it might be Gary. Personally, I see him as more of a Gregory.”
“...Right. I'll just call him Lestrade, then.” John put the tray on the table and shook the inspector's shoulder. “Come on, up you get.”
Lestrade groaned and attempted to burrow underneath the arm of the sofa. John sighed and waved the toast near Lestrade's face, hoping that the smell would rouse him, even if it did make him sick.
The older man stirred, blearily staring up at him. “John? Oh yeah, you live with Sherlock.” John couldn't help a small smile at that, something Lestrade didn't miss. “Wait, you and him? Sherlock, you're ruthless! How long?”
“Erm, since just after that whole thing with the serial suicides. I'm surprised you hadn't worked it out already, actually.”
“Oh please, John,” Sherlock called from the kitchen. “Don't give him too much credit.”
“Oi!” Lestrade protested. “In my defence, we're all usually much more focussed on bodies and murder when I see you.” He patted John limply on the arm. “Nah, seriously, good for you. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd rather like to die now.” He tried to go back to sleep, but John stopped him.
“Ah, none of that. You can sleep if you want, but you have to drink this first.” John thrust the Remedy at Lestrade, who grumbled but took it.
“Thanks, mum.”
“I think you'll find this is my 'medic' role.” John waited until Lestrade had drained the drink before heading back to the bathroom. “Right, I've got to get ready. Try not to be sick all over the carpet.”
Lestrade saluted him with his mug of tea.
From the kitchen, there came a startled POOF. Concerned, John cautiously peered in to see Sherlock, unharmed but his face blackened with soot, blinking dazedly. He was still holding the smoking remains of a conical flask. “I may have made a slight miscalculation,” he admitted.
John had the strangest feeling that it was going to be one of those days.
-x-
The interview was going well, all things considered. Sarah seemed rather impressed by John's stats, and likely by John himself, if the little love-hearts were any clue. However, John's phone had been vibrating against his leg for the last five minutes, and he didn't know how long Sherlock's patience would hold out.
“Well, John,” Sarah said, smiling warmly. “As long as you think you can cope with the tedium of working here after Afghanistan, I see no reason why you can't start on Monday.”
“Thank you very much.”
“No problem at all.” She hesitated for a second. “Since you're going to be working with me and everything, I was thinking, maybe we should get to know each other. Go for a coffee or something.”
“Um...”
A muffled “You can't go in there, sir!” was all the warning John got before Sherlock burst into the room, his long coat flaring dramatically behind him.
“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, a little louder than necessary. “We have a case! Come on, you must be done with this now. I need you!”
John tried to protest, but Sherlock grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out of the room. He just had time to say “See you on Monday!” to a now rather forlorn-looking Sarah before he was whisked away onto the streets of London. They were in a taxi before he could even catch his breath.
-x-
Talking to Sebastian, John found it very difficult not to bring up the old joke about the collective noun for bankers. The man practically oozed sleaze.
“So, Sherlock, I see you've got yourself another lackey.”
“Boyfriend, actually,” John corrected, noting how Sebastian faltered.
“Right, yes, good for you and all that.”
“I think congratulations are in order for you, as well, Sebastian,” Sherlock said. “You've levelled up twice in the past month, and to quite a respectable position, too.”
Sebastian pointed a finger at him, his smile clearly fake. “You're doing that thing again. We used to hate him. He could tell if you'd been on power-ups just by looking at your shoes. Go on then, what gave it away?”
Sherlock fidgeted slightly, something that most people wouldn't notice but John knew was a sign of his anger. He gently took the detective's hand, calming him.
“The windows,” Sherlock explained. “They've been replaced recently, likely because the last ones gave an inferior view. The plant in the corner is also a new addition, brought in between six and nine days after the windows were replaced, if the tilting of the flowers is to be believed.”
“Ah, very good... I see you are on top form. Perhaps you'd be able to solve this little mystery of mine, then?”
“I'm certain of it.”
“One of my men, a Mr Edward Van Coon, has vanished off the face of the earth. He came to work on Tuesday, then left halfway through his shift and hasn't been seen since. We've tried contacting him, but can't get through.”
“I will need to see his workplace.”
“Sure, sure. My secretary will show you around; I'd do it myself, but you know how it is.”
They left the office, John resolving that he would punch Sebastian in the face if the opportunity ever presented itself.
Van Coon's desk was innocuous, just a few personal effects to distinguish it from the hundred other desks in the sea of cubicles. Sherlock quickly rifled through all the drawers, searching for clues. Suddenly, he ducked under the desk, grabbing the bin and up-ending it on the table. A few mouldy sandwiches, three tissues and a crumpled piece of paper fell out.
“Honestly,” Sherlock said, more to himself than anyone else. “If they're going to leave evidence just lying around then I don't know why I bother.” He smoothed out the paper.
It was a series of lines and circles. John thought it looked like someone had just written 'lol' over and over for no real reason other than to make his head hurt. “What is it?”
“It's binary. Someone has written a code in binary.”
“Can you read it?”
“I can tell what the numbers are, yes, but not what they reference. They're in pairs, and one of the pairs is repeated, which could mean the same letter but is more likely the same word. It's a very old cypher method. Possibly... Bible verses? No, too obvious. Page references, then. The number of the page, and then the second number denotes a word on that page. We'd need to know what book they were using before we can decipher this.”
“And Van Coon would have this book?”
“Yes. We'll have to look around his house. I'm sure Sebastian will be able to give us the address.”
-x-
John could now add breaking-and-entering to the list of Things I Didn't Think I'd Be Doing Today. He wandered around the flat, waiting for Sherlock to make another brilliant deduction based on a piece of toast or something. After randomly opening and closing kitchen cabinets for a bit, John went over to the bookshelf. “So this code, it's based on a book?”
“Yes,” Sherlock called from the bathroom.
“Shouldn't we, I don't know, start going through all his books?”
“I had considered that. I called a removal company on the way here who will pick them up and take them back to our flat. I will leave the door unlocked when we leave. I do not plan on staying here any longer than necessary.”
“...Right.”
There was silence for a while, and then, “Aha!” Sherlock came back from the bathroom, brandishing a slightly singed piece of paper. “It's another code. This time, he tried to get rid of it, but I can still make out the numbers.” He stopped as his mobile rang.
“Hello? I'm sorry, what? Well, that's frankly ludicrous. If you plan on hiring me again, at least ensure that there is a genuine mystery, please.” He hung up.
“Well?”
“That was Sebastian. That idiot Van Coon just turned up at work. Apparently, there'd been a family emergency, which I do not believe in the slightest. No, the reason for his disappearance lies somewhere in these... John, look out!”
John wasn't fast enough. Whoever Sherlock had seen had grabbed him from behind and was violently twisting his arms. John deliberately buckled his knees, trying to gain leverage, but his attacker changed tactics and began to choke him. He grabbed at the hands around his neck, his vision sparking from lack of oxygen, but Sherlock was there first, snarling and throwing himself bodily at the man. Dislodged, the attacker fled, jumping out of the open window. Sherlock locked the window before going to check on John.
“Sherlock, what just happened?” he asked, coughing.
“I think that might have been my second ex.”
“Oh.”
And if they had desperate, fumbling, I'm-so-glad-you're-not-dead sex right there, on the carpet - well, that was their prerogative.
They did make sure to be gone before the removal people arrived, though.
-x-
They had found another message on the way home. John took a photo with his phone and they printed it out as soon as they could. If the code was appearing after Van Coon's return, there were still developments in the case.
Lestrade had still been recovering on their sofa, and was quite alarmed to find himself nearly buried under boxes and boxes of books. He agreed to help out; his hangover had dissipated and he was just wasting time anyway. For once, Sherlock didn't complain - they needed to get the books back to Van Coon's flat as soon as possible, and any extra help was welcome.
Sherlock stared at the pages before him, as if he could gain their meaning through sheer force of will. He knew that they were numbers, and that these numbers referenced pages in a book that the victim had, but which book? It was driving him insane, but at the same time the challenge of it all excited him, drove him on.
Ah. Of course. That was what this was. A challenge. From a concerned individual.
Sherlock knew which book to look for. He also knew that it wasn't in Van Coon's possession; he would have noticed. Perhaps the man had taken it with him when he left.
Without a second thought, Sherlock swept the papers up in his arms and ran out of the door.
John blinked, stunned by the sudden departure, and turned to Lestrade. “So. Takeaway?”
-x-
Sherlock burst into the building, thanking the Heavens for twenty-four hour libraries. He dashed up the stairs, ignoring the rather heated looks from the staff, and quickly located the book he needed. He sat down at a table, Mass Killers in front of him.
Jay had given it to him as an anniversary present, before things went...unsavoury. Sherlock's own copy had been damaged beyond repair in a fire-related experiment, along with all the other gifts he had received from Jay over the years. Most people would consider a book detailing the methods of the world's most notorious serial killers to be a rather inappropriate present, but then Sherlock wasn't most people. He opened the book and began his translation.
First, the message left at Van Coon's desk. Sherlock flipped through the pages at lightning speed, writing down the words as he found them.
You owe me. Need your house to hide a man. Five days, maximum. You will be moved.
Then, the half-charred message found in his house. This one appeared to be directed at their assailant.
When they come snooping, attack. If met with resistance, run. Follow the rules.
Finally, the message they'd seen on the wall of a train station. This one was very long.
Hello sexy, it began. If Sherlock was a fearful man, those two words would have made his blood run cold. This message was for him.
Like the code? Should hold off the boredom. Does your new man do that? Keep you entertained? He won't for long. Leave him. Come back. You know you need it. Could kill him if I wanted. But you would be upset. Honest duels are legal. Doesn't matter if they kill him. Isn't that exciting?
Sherlock frowned. Jay had always been the one person he could never figure out. He said he wouldn't kill John, but was willing to allow other murders to happen through those he sponsored. Why? Unless - oh, of course! Jay always did like his little power plays. He didn't see John as important; he was just a pawn to be pushed around. Jay was vain enough to think that John wasn't even worth the effort it would take to kill him illegally. And as long as they stuck to the rules, so would Jay. He'd set up crimes for Sherlock and battles for John.
He put the book away and left the library, refusing to acknowledge the one last thought niggling at the back of his mind.
What if he changes the rules?
-x-
When he opened the front door, John expected to be greeted with tasty food. Instead, he got a face full of orange glitter.
Sleeping powder, he thought. Bollocks. He passed out.
-x-
Someone was shaking him, trying to wake him up. This was unacceptable.
“John? John!” He knew that voice all too well.
“Piss off,” he mumbled. “I don't care if you've blown up the kitchen.”
“John.” Something wet and foul tasting was thrown on his face, snapping him back into consciousness.
“Oh. Oh dear.”
He was in what could only be described as a fighting ring, the dusty wooden walls rising far above his head. He was tied to a chair, and Sherlock was standing over him, holding a towel. If John didn't know any better, he would swear the man looked concerned. To his right was an equally tied up and still asleep Lestrade. The bruises decorating his face suggested he had put up a slightly better fight than John.
“What happened?”
Sherlock straightened up, apparently satisfied now that John was awake. “The last piece of graffiti was a message about you. By the time I had decoded it and come back to the flat, you had already been abducted. I deduced that this was the most likely place where you would be taken and made my way here. The guards let me in.”
John rolled his eyes. “I'm guessing this is something to do with Jay?”
Lestrade suddenly sputtered, his whole body tensing as his eyes flew open. “Where is he?! I'll kill him!”
“Calm yourself, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “Jay is not here, obviously.” ('Obviously' count: 17) “No, he's set up a rather unusual little game to try and get John out of the picture.”
“Right. And this would be?”
“He's getting all my ex-partners to challenge John to duels, whilst also creating interesting cases to distract me.”
“And you're not worried that he'll try to-”
“Not if we keep playing the game. As long as he doesn't get bored, we should be reasonably safe.”
“Sherlock, I don't even get why he's bothering with the game. If he wants to get rid of John, or get you back, all he-”
“Yes, I am aware of that, thank you,” Sherlock snapped. That was the second time he'd interrupted Lestrade. Clearly, there was something he didn't want John to know. “He wants me to choose him over John,” the detective continued. “Either from grief or boredom, he plans for me to go back to him. This will not happen.”
“I hope you're right, Sherlock.”
“I always am.”
John was about to ask something along the lines of what the hell are you on about when a side panel of the ring swung open, revealing a tall, muscular man dressed in black. He looked a bit like a ninja.
“He's Chinese, John, not Japanese,” Sherlock pointed out. “And the stereotypical ninja garb is actually based on the clothing of stage hands. A real ninja would look like a normal person.”
“Thanks for the cultural lesson. How do you know that and not know who James Bond is?”
Sherlock started to reply, but was cut off by the newcomer. “John Watson!”
“Oh, here we go again... look, if we're going to do this, can you at least untie me?”
The man considered this for a second, before nodding. Sherlock loosened the rope and freed John.
Lestrade bucked a little in his chair. “What about me?”
Confused, Sherlock turned to him. “You're not in the fight.”
“Neither are you!”
“Yes, but I'm far less likely to join in."
The challenger tapped his foot. “Are you done? I'm supposed to kill John now.”
John stood, rubbing his wrists and sighing. “Of course you are. Can I at least get your name?”
“My name,” the man said, striking a ridiculous pose, “is Fai Ting, of the Yu family.”
John raised an eyebrow. “OK then. I suppose we should get this over with.” He rolled up the sleeves of his jumper and assumed a fighting stance. Behind him, Sherlock sat down on the chair, watching with detached amusement. Lestrade was still tied up, but he'd stopped struggling.
The fight was on.
John was fairly sure Fai literally flew across the ring, his arm outstretched in what appeared to be a telegraph punch but was actually a cunning feint. John tried to deflect it, only to be met with a steely kick to the abdomen. Winded, he swung at his opponent, who dodged deftly under the jab, catching John with a nasty uppercut. John might have military combat training, but Fai was clearly a martial arts expert.
“So what's the - oof - the story behind this guy?” John asked Sherlock, taking a flying kick to the ribs in the process. He tried tripping Fai as he stepped back, but found himself tripped instead, barely keeping his footing.
Sherlock was texting again. Who could he be talking to? “Fai was hired to be my sparring partner. He ended up becoming my partner in other areas as well.” John ducked as a foot flew over his head. “I ended it because Mummy disapproved of fraternising with the help.”
“I see.” John bobbed and weaved, trying to find an opening. “Oh, would you just stand still?”
“Have you tried actually hitting him, John?” Lestrade called.
Annoyed, John turned to the inspector. “Why don't you-”
In hindsight, it was a mistake to turn his back on Fai. John realised this as he sailed ungracefully through the air, landing with a THUMP and skidding along the dusty ground until he was at Sherlock's feet. “Ow.”
Sherlock poked him with his shoe. “Hurry up, John. I'm bored.”
John twisted so that he was staring up at his partner. “Seriously? Me getting my arse handed to me isn't entertaining enough for you? Maybe if you gave me a hand...”
“You know how it is. I'm not supposed to interfere.”
“There's a difference between 'not interfering' and 'letting me get pasted'.”
“Kick him in the balls!”
“Yes, thank you, Lestrade. I hadn't thought of that one.”
Making it quite clear that he felt this was beneath him, Sherlock bent down and hoisted John back up, giving him a little shove back into the combat zone. John stumbled a bit before he realised what had happened.
Sherlock had slipped his phone into John's pocket.
John held a hand up to halt Fai, leaning against the wall like his legs couldn't support him (which required less acting than he'd admit) and subtly palmed the phone. As if wiping his forehead, he brought his hand up and read the display.
He becomes erratic when offended. Compare him to another martial artist. When he rushes you, sidestep and take him down. SH.
Easier typed than done, John thought. Still, worth a try. He cleared his throat and pushed away from the wall. “Hey, it's Fai, right?”
The man hesitated, wary. “Yes...”
“You're quite good at this kung fu stuff. Makes me feel like I'm fighting Jackie Chan. Well, Jackie Chan would be much better, but still-”
John wasn't quite prepared for the ferocity with which Fai came running at him. His eyes were aflame, his mouth frothing with venom and his hands reaching out to strangle John as he pelted across the arena. John waited carefully, making sure he got the timing just right, and then-
MISS
Fai went straight past him and collided painfully with the wall, actually going through the wooden planks and leaving a Fai-shaped hole. Fai himself lay twitching on the other side, out for the count.
“I think we're done here,” John said, dusting himself off and going to untie Lestrade. “Sherlock, lead the way.”
The three of them walked - or, in John's case, hobbled - out of the warehouse. Once outside, John hailed a taxi and they bundled in. “We never did get that dinner, did we? What do you guys say to a restaurant?”
They spent a few minutes arguing over locations before finally picking a new Italian place Lestrade had read about in the papers.
As the taxi drove off, its occupants did not notice the plainly dressed, rather unassuming man enter the warehouse. Nor did they hear the single shot that rang out, echoing through the building long after the man had left.
-x-
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Title: John Watson Versus The World
Rating: G (so far)
Words: 4346
Pairing: Sherlock/John, mentions of past relationships
Spoilers: Some for The Blind Banker in this chapter
Summary: It's been a quiet month since John and Sherlock got together, which really should have given John a clue that something was going to happen.
Chapter Two: It Might Be Cypher To Stay Inside
John awoke slowly, his mind enveloped in fog and his body enveloped by Sherlock. It was rather comfortable. He wanted nothing more than to stay there, nuzzling into the other man's chest, but he had a job interview to go to. After a month spent dashing around for zero pay and a series of rather humiliating rows with an automated shopkeeper, it seemed necessary to get a more stable means of employment. He spent a few minutes working out exactly how to extract himself from the tangled mess that was Sherlock's limbs, a task John suspected was difficult because Sherlock was only pretending to be asleep. Finally free, he slipped on a dressing gown and plodded in the general direction of the kitchen, intending to make a cup of tea.
As soon as he reached the living room, he froze.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, John retreated back to the bedroom, where Sherlock was now getting dressed. John was momentarily distracted by his partner's collarbones. They were begging to be licked. Sherlock definitely noticed his attention, smirking as he left the top three buttons of his shirt undone.
“Was there something you wanted, John, or did you come back purely to ogle me?”
“I didn't - oh, it's not even worth denying, is it?” He collected himself, finally remembering why he was there.
“I was wondering why the hell Lestrade is passed out on our sofa.”
If Sherlock was surprised by this, he didn't show it. “I would suspect that he has been kicked out by his wife for coming home drunk again.”
“Is that 'again' for coming home drunk or for being kicked out?”
“Both, obviously.”
“Right. So why is he on our sofa?”
“I have housed him before. Frankly, in the state he would have been in, I'm amazed he remembered I'd moved. I suppose Mrs Hudson would have let him in; he hasn't got a key for this flat.”
John paused, overwhelmed by the stupid number of questions those statements raised. Eventually, he asked the most pressing one. “Sherlock... Lestrade isn't... you and him didn't...?”
“Date? Goodness, no. His wife is far too terrifying."
John laughed. The idea of Sherlock being scared of anyone was absurd. He was, however, relieved to know that he wouldn't have to take down Sherlock's sort-of boss any time soon. Sure, he hadn't encountered any exes after the first one, but there was no need to tempt fate. “Alright then. I suppose I'd better check on that crazy lump.”
Lestrade hadn't moved an inch, so John went into the kitchen to make him some toast. Years of being Harry's late-night chauffeur had taught him some rather effective hangover cures. After checking the fridge (Contents: 1 x jar of jam, 3 x mouldy tomatoes, 1 x human arm) he found a Remedy at the back of a cupboard, hidden inside a box of coffee creamers. He didn't want to know where the coffee creamers were.
By the time the toast popped up and the kettle boiled, Sherlock had come in and resumed work on an experiment. He poured random liquids and chemicals into a beaker above a Bunsen burner, the colour shifting from blue to red to orange. For all John could tell, Sherlock could be creating a deadly poison. Or making breakfast. Sighing, he grabbed a tray of toast, tea and Remedy and made his way towards the unconscious Lestrade.
Something occurred to him, and he paused. “Sherlock...”
“Mm?”
“Since we seem to be housing Lestrade, and it's a bit formal to call him by his surname all the time, what's his first name?”
“Nobody knows.” Sherlock added a splash of lemon juice to his concoction, making it fizz. “Even his wife calls him Lestrade.”
“What?! That's absurd! Can't you, I don't know, look up his character sheet or something?”
“People have tried. The most anyone can glean is that it begins with G. He thinks it might be Gary. Personally, I see him as more of a Gregory.”
“...Right. I'll just call him Lestrade, then.” John put the tray on the table and shook the inspector's shoulder. “Come on, up you get.”
Lestrade groaned and attempted to burrow underneath the arm of the sofa. John sighed and waved the toast near Lestrade's face, hoping that the smell would rouse him, even if it did make him sick.
The older man stirred, blearily staring up at him. “John? Oh yeah, you live with Sherlock.” John couldn't help a small smile at that, something Lestrade didn't miss. “Wait, you and him? Sherlock, you're ruthless! How long?”
“Erm, since just after that whole thing with the serial suicides. I'm surprised you hadn't worked it out already, actually.”
“Oh please, John,” Sherlock called from the kitchen. “Don't give him too much credit.”
“Oi!” Lestrade protested. “In my defence, we're all usually much more focussed on bodies and murder when I see you.” He patted John limply on the arm. “Nah, seriously, good for you. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd rather like to die now.” He tried to go back to sleep, but John stopped him.
“Ah, none of that. You can sleep if you want, but you have to drink this first.” John thrust the Remedy at Lestrade, who grumbled but took it.
“Thanks, mum.”
“I think you'll find this is my 'medic' role.” John waited until Lestrade had drained the drink before heading back to the bathroom. “Right, I've got to get ready. Try not to be sick all over the carpet.”
Lestrade saluted him with his mug of tea.
From the kitchen, there came a startled POOF. Concerned, John cautiously peered in to see Sherlock, unharmed but his face blackened with soot, blinking dazedly. He was still holding the smoking remains of a conical flask. “I may have made a slight miscalculation,” he admitted.
John had the strangest feeling that it was going to be one of those days.
-x-
The interview was going well, all things considered. Sarah seemed rather impressed by John's stats, and likely by John himself, if the little love-hearts were any clue. However, John's phone had been vibrating against his leg for the last five minutes, and he didn't know how long Sherlock's patience would hold out.
“Well, John,” Sarah said, smiling warmly. “As long as you think you can cope with the tedium of working here after Afghanistan, I see no reason why you can't start on Monday.”
“Thank you very much.”
“No problem at all.” She hesitated for a second. “Since you're going to be working with me and everything, I was thinking, maybe we should get to know each other. Go for a coffee or something.”
“Um...”
A muffled “You can't go in there, sir!” was all the warning John got before Sherlock burst into the room, his long coat flaring dramatically behind him.
“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, a little louder than necessary. “We have a case! Come on, you must be done with this now. I need you!”
John tried to protest, but Sherlock grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out of the room. He just had time to say “See you on Monday!” to a now rather forlorn-looking Sarah before he was whisked away onto the streets of London. They were in a taxi before he could even catch his breath.
-x-
Talking to Sebastian, John found it very difficult not to bring up the old joke about the collective noun for bankers. The man practically oozed sleaze.
“So, Sherlock, I see you've got yourself another lackey.”
“Boyfriend, actually,” John corrected, noting how Sebastian faltered.
“Right, yes, good for you and all that.”
“I think congratulations are in order for you, as well, Sebastian,” Sherlock said. “You've levelled up twice in the past month, and to quite a respectable position, too.”
Sebastian pointed a finger at him, his smile clearly fake. “You're doing that thing again. We used to hate him. He could tell if you'd been on power-ups just by looking at your shoes. Go on then, what gave it away?”
Sherlock fidgeted slightly, something that most people wouldn't notice but John knew was a sign of his anger. He gently took the detective's hand, calming him.
“The windows,” Sherlock explained. “They've been replaced recently, likely because the last ones gave an inferior view. The plant in the corner is also a new addition, brought in between six and nine days after the windows were replaced, if the tilting of the flowers is to be believed.”
“Ah, very good... I see you are on top form. Perhaps you'd be able to solve this little mystery of mine, then?”
“I'm certain of it.”
“One of my men, a Mr Edward Van Coon, has vanished off the face of the earth. He came to work on Tuesday, then left halfway through his shift and hasn't been seen since. We've tried contacting him, but can't get through.”
“I will need to see his workplace.”
“Sure, sure. My secretary will show you around; I'd do it myself, but you know how it is.”
They left the office, John resolving that he would punch Sebastian in the face if the opportunity ever presented itself.
Van Coon's desk was innocuous, just a few personal effects to distinguish it from the hundred other desks in the sea of cubicles. Sherlock quickly rifled through all the drawers, searching for clues. Suddenly, he ducked under the desk, grabbing the bin and up-ending it on the table. A few mouldy sandwiches, three tissues and a crumpled piece of paper fell out.
“Honestly,” Sherlock said, more to himself than anyone else. “If they're going to leave evidence just lying around then I don't know why I bother.” He smoothed out the paper.
It was a series of lines and circles. John thought it looked like someone had just written 'lol' over and over for no real reason other than to make his head hurt. “What is it?”
“It's binary. Someone has written a code in binary.”
“Can you read it?”
“I can tell what the numbers are, yes, but not what they reference. They're in pairs, and one of the pairs is repeated, which could mean the same letter but is more likely the same word. It's a very old cypher method. Possibly... Bible verses? No, too obvious. Page references, then. The number of the page, and then the second number denotes a word on that page. We'd need to know what book they were using before we can decipher this.”
“And Van Coon would have this book?”
“Yes. We'll have to look around his house. I'm sure Sebastian will be able to give us the address.”
-x-
John could now add breaking-and-entering to the list of Things I Didn't Think I'd Be Doing Today. He wandered around the flat, waiting for Sherlock to make another brilliant deduction based on a piece of toast or something. After randomly opening and closing kitchen cabinets for a bit, John went over to the bookshelf. “So this code, it's based on a book?”
“Yes,” Sherlock called from the bathroom.
“Shouldn't we, I don't know, start going through all his books?”
“I had considered that. I called a removal company on the way here who will pick them up and take them back to our flat. I will leave the door unlocked when we leave. I do not plan on staying here any longer than necessary.”
“...Right.”
There was silence for a while, and then, “Aha!” Sherlock came back from the bathroom, brandishing a slightly singed piece of paper. “It's another code. This time, he tried to get rid of it, but I can still make out the numbers.” He stopped as his mobile rang.
“Hello? I'm sorry, what? Well, that's frankly ludicrous. If you plan on hiring me again, at least ensure that there is a genuine mystery, please.” He hung up.
“Well?”
“That was Sebastian. That idiot Van Coon just turned up at work. Apparently, there'd been a family emergency, which I do not believe in the slightest. No, the reason for his disappearance lies somewhere in these... John, look out!”
John wasn't fast enough. Whoever Sherlock had seen had grabbed him from behind and was violently twisting his arms. John deliberately buckled his knees, trying to gain leverage, but his attacker changed tactics and began to choke him. He grabbed at the hands around his neck, his vision sparking from lack of oxygen, but Sherlock was there first, snarling and throwing himself bodily at the man. Dislodged, the attacker fled, jumping out of the open window. Sherlock locked the window before going to check on John.
“Sherlock, what just happened?” he asked, coughing.
“I think that might have been my second ex.”
“Oh.”
And if they had desperate, fumbling, I'm-so-glad-you're-not-dead sex right there, on the carpet - well, that was their prerogative.
They did make sure to be gone before the removal people arrived, though.
-x-
They had found another message on the way home. John took a photo with his phone and they printed it out as soon as they could. If the code was appearing after Van Coon's return, there were still developments in the case.
Lestrade had still been recovering on their sofa, and was quite alarmed to find himself nearly buried under boxes and boxes of books. He agreed to help out; his hangover had dissipated and he was just wasting time anyway. For once, Sherlock didn't complain - they needed to get the books back to Van Coon's flat as soon as possible, and any extra help was welcome.
Sherlock stared at the pages before him, as if he could gain their meaning through sheer force of will. He knew that they were numbers, and that these numbers referenced pages in a book that the victim had, but which book? It was driving him insane, but at the same time the challenge of it all excited him, drove him on.
Ah. Of course. That was what this was. A challenge. From a concerned individual.
Sherlock knew which book to look for. He also knew that it wasn't in Van Coon's possession; he would have noticed. Perhaps the man had taken it with him when he left.
Without a second thought, Sherlock swept the papers up in his arms and ran out of the door.
John blinked, stunned by the sudden departure, and turned to Lestrade. “So. Takeaway?”
-x-
Sherlock burst into the building, thanking the Heavens for twenty-four hour libraries. He dashed up the stairs, ignoring the rather heated looks from the staff, and quickly located the book he needed. He sat down at a table, Mass Killers in front of him.
Jay had given it to him as an anniversary present, before things went...unsavoury. Sherlock's own copy had been damaged beyond repair in a fire-related experiment, along with all the other gifts he had received from Jay over the years. Most people would consider a book detailing the methods of the world's most notorious serial killers to be a rather inappropriate present, but then Sherlock wasn't most people. He opened the book and began his translation.
First, the message left at Van Coon's desk. Sherlock flipped through the pages at lightning speed, writing down the words as he found them.
You owe me. Need your house to hide a man. Five days, maximum. You will be moved.
Then, the half-charred message found in his house. This one appeared to be directed at their assailant.
When they come snooping, attack. If met with resistance, run. Follow the rules.
Finally, the message they'd seen on the wall of a train station. This one was very long.
Hello sexy, it began. If Sherlock was a fearful man, those two words would have made his blood run cold. This message was for him.
Like the code? Should hold off the boredom. Does your new man do that? Keep you entertained? He won't for long. Leave him. Come back. You know you need it. Could kill him if I wanted. But you would be upset. Honest duels are legal. Doesn't matter if they kill him. Isn't that exciting?
Sherlock frowned. Jay had always been the one person he could never figure out. He said he wouldn't kill John, but was willing to allow other murders to happen through those he sponsored. Why? Unless - oh, of course! Jay always did like his little power plays. He didn't see John as important; he was just a pawn to be pushed around. Jay was vain enough to think that John wasn't even worth the effort it would take to kill him illegally. And as long as they stuck to the rules, so would Jay. He'd set up crimes for Sherlock and battles for John.
He put the book away and left the library, refusing to acknowledge the one last thought niggling at the back of his mind.
What if he changes the rules?
-x-
When he opened the front door, John expected to be greeted with tasty food. Instead, he got a face full of orange glitter.
Sleeping powder, he thought. Bollocks. He passed out.
-x-
Someone was shaking him, trying to wake him up. This was unacceptable.
“John? John!” He knew that voice all too well.
“Piss off,” he mumbled. “I don't care if you've blown up the kitchen.”
“John.” Something wet and foul tasting was thrown on his face, snapping him back into consciousness.
“Oh. Oh dear.”
He was in what could only be described as a fighting ring, the dusty wooden walls rising far above his head. He was tied to a chair, and Sherlock was standing over him, holding a towel. If John didn't know any better, he would swear the man looked concerned. To his right was an equally tied up and still asleep Lestrade. The bruises decorating his face suggested he had put up a slightly better fight than John.
“What happened?”
Sherlock straightened up, apparently satisfied now that John was awake. “The last piece of graffiti was a message about you. By the time I had decoded it and come back to the flat, you had already been abducted. I deduced that this was the most likely place where you would be taken and made my way here. The guards let me in.”
John rolled his eyes. “I'm guessing this is something to do with Jay?”
Lestrade suddenly sputtered, his whole body tensing as his eyes flew open. “Where is he?! I'll kill him!”
“Calm yourself, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “Jay is not here, obviously.” ('Obviously' count: 17) “No, he's set up a rather unusual little game to try and get John out of the picture.”
“Right. And this would be?”
“He's getting all my ex-partners to challenge John to duels, whilst also creating interesting cases to distract me.”
“And you're not worried that he'll try to-”
“Not if we keep playing the game. As long as he doesn't get bored, we should be reasonably safe.”
“Sherlock, I don't even get why he's bothering with the game. If he wants to get rid of John, or get you back, all he-”
“Yes, I am aware of that, thank you,” Sherlock snapped. That was the second time he'd interrupted Lestrade. Clearly, there was something he didn't want John to know. “He wants me to choose him over John,” the detective continued. “Either from grief or boredom, he plans for me to go back to him. This will not happen.”
“I hope you're right, Sherlock.”
“I always am.”
John was about to ask something along the lines of what the hell are you on about when a side panel of the ring swung open, revealing a tall, muscular man dressed in black. He looked a bit like a ninja.
“He's Chinese, John, not Japanese,” Sherlock pointed out. “And the stereotypical ninja garb is actually based on the clothing of stage hands. A real ninja would look like a normal person.”
“Thanks for the cultural lesson. How do you know that and not know who James Bond is?”
Sherlock started to reply, but was cut off by the newcomer. “John Watson!”
“Oh, here we go again... look, if we're going to do this, can you at least untie me?”
The man considered this for a second, before nodding. Sherlock loosened the rope and freed John.
Lestrade bucked a little in his chair. “What about me?”
Confused, Sherlock turned to him. “You're not in the fight.”
“Neither are you!”
“Yes, but I'm far less likely to join in."
The challenger tapped his foot. “Are you done? I'm supposed to kill John now.”
John stood, rubbing his wrists and sighing. “Of course you are. Can I at least get your name?”
“My name,” the man said, striking a ridiculous pose, “is Fai Ting, of the Yu family.”
John raised an eyebrow. “OK then. I suppose we should get this over with.” He rolled up the sleeves of his jumper and assumed a fighting stance. Behind him, Sherlock sat down on the chair, watching with detached amusement. Lestrade was still tied up, but he'd stopped struggling.
The fight was on.
John was fairly sure Fai literally flew across the ring, his arm outstretched in what appeared to be a telegraph punch but was actually a cunning feint. John tried to deflect it, only to be met with a steely kick to the abdomen. Winded, he swung at his opponent, who dodged deftly under the jab, catching John with a nasty uppercut. John might have military combat training, but Fai was clearly a martial arts expert.
“So what's the - oof - the story behind this guy?” John asked Sherlock, taking a flying kick to the ribs in the process. He tried tripping Fai as he stepped back, but found himself tripped instead, barely keeping his footing.
Sherlock was texting again. Who could he be talking to? “Fai was hired to be my sparring partner. He ended up becoming my partner in other areas as well.” John ducked as a foot flew over his head. “I ended it because Mummy disapproved of fraternising with the help.”
“I see.” John bobbed and weaved, trying to find an opening. “Oh, would you just stand still?”
“Have you tried actually hitting him, John?” Lestrade called.
Annoyed, John turned to the inspector. “Why don't you-”
In hindsight, it was a mistake to turn his back on Fai. John realised this as he sailed ungracefully through the air, landing with a THUMP and skidding along the dusty ground until he was at Sherlock's feet. “Ow.”
Sherlock poked him with his shoe. “Hurry up, John. I'm bored.”
John twisted so that he was staring up at his partner. “Seriously? Me getting my arse handed to me isn't entertaining enough for you? Maybe if you gave me a hand...”
“You know how it is. I'm not supposed to interfere.”
“There's a difference between 'not interfering' and 'letting me get pasted'.”
“Kick him in the balls!”
“Yes, thank you, Lestrade. I hadn't thought of that one.”
Making it quite clear that he felt this was beneath him, Sherlock bent down and hoisted John back up, giving him a little shove back into the combat zone. John stumbled a bit before he realised what had happened.
Sherlock had slipped his phone into John's pocket.
John held a hand up to halt Fai, leaning against the wall like his legs couldn't support him (which required less acting than he'd admit) and subtly palmed the phone. As if wiping his forehead, he brought his hand up and read the display.
He becomes erratic when offended. Compare him to another martial artist. When he rushes you, sidestep and take him down. SH.
Easier typed than done, John thought. Still, worth a try. He cleared his throat and pushed away from the wall. “Hey, it's Fai, right?”
The man hesitated, wary. “Yes...”
“You're quite good at this kung fu stuff. Makes me feel like I'm fighting Jackie Chan. Well, Jackie Chan would be much better, but still-”
John wasn't quite prepared for the ferocity with which Fai came running at him. His eyes were aflame, his mouth frothing with venom and his hands reaching out to strangle John as he pelted across the arena. John waited carefully, making sure he got the timing just right, and then-
MISS
Fai went straight past him and collided painfully with the wall, actually going through the wooden planks and leaving a Fai-shaped hole. Fai himself lay twitching on the other side, out for the count.
“I think we're done here,” John said, dusting himself off and going to untie Lestrade. “Sherlock, lead the way.”
The three of them walked - or, in John's case, hobbled - out of the warehouse. Once outside, John hailed a taxi and they bundled in. “We never did get that dinner, did we? What do you guys say to a restaurant?”
They spent a few minutes arguing over locations before finally picking a new Italian place Lestrade had read about in the papers.
As the taxi drove off, its occupants did not notice the plainly dressed, rather unassuming man enter the warehouse. Nor did they hear the single shot that rang out, echoing through the building long after the man had left.
-x-
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