FIC: Dance in the Dark - Chapter 2/?
Title: Dance in the Dark - Chapter 2/?
Rating: PG-13 (for now)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Disclaimer: Sherlock BBC belongs to a bunch of people that are not me. Holmes and Co. were created by ACD, who is not me. Got it? Ownership= NOT ME!
Summary: John meets a mysterious man that works for Sherlock, and gets dragged along to a crime scene. John also learns that Sherlock is a giganict arse.
Notes: For a prompt at the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme:
"Sherlock is Lady fucking Gaga. I mean, not literally (what a twist that would be!) but he's a crazy, aloof, avantgarde pop diva who wears bizarre get ups - many of which involve really big coats - and when he's not putting coke cans in his hair for science he also happens to fight crime.
John is the ex-army doctor who decided to have a complete career change and pursue his interests in writing by turning to showbiz journalism (perhaps Harry has Connections.) His latest assignment is, of course, to follow this cray cray pop star/detective around for an indepth editorial."
Elementary (2008)
1. A Study in Scarlet 2. Valley of Fear 3. The Empty House 4. Scandal in Bohemia
5. Crooked Man 6. The Final Problem 7. Case of Identity 8. Dancing Men
9. Devil’s Foot 10. His Last Bow
Sherlock (2009)
1. The Great Game 2. Hell Hounds 3. Satan’s Umbrella 4. Good
5. The Woman 6. Blind 7. The Edge of Falling 8. Piss Off
9. A Study in Pink (A Study in Scarlet Remix ft. DJ Marky G and S-Moffie)
***
John was surprised to find Baker Street was home to a number of modest flats, peppered with small shops and restaurants. It was hardly what one expected for someone of Sherlock's success. He rang the bell for 221, and after a minute had passed, a woman answered the door.
“Hello, there. Are you looking for someone?” she asked, smiling kindly.
“I’m John Watson, but I think I might have the wrong address,” he admitted, looking around.
“Oh!” the woman exclaimed, pointing to the press badge John was wearing. “You’re from Gladstone! Sherlock’s people mentioned someone would be interviewing him. I just love your magazine. The article you did on the Beatles right before they made it big was fantastic! I still have a copy of it from when I was a girl.”
“Well, I wasn’t working there or, er, born yet, but…thank you? Is Sherlock here, then?” John asked, peering behind her into the moderately lit hall.
“Oh, no. I don’t think he came back last night. He does that, sometimes. Well, most of the time. He's always dashing about, just like my late husband,” she sighed.
“I'm sorry,” John said, making a sympathetic face.
“Oh, I'm not,” she said reassuringly. She smiled at him. “Sherlock might show up eventually, do you want to come in for some tea and wait?”
“What are the chances that he’ll turn up soon?” John inquired.
“Very low. I can have his people call you? I’m sure he’ll be most upset that he missed you. Oh, but he does hate journalists,” she admitted. “So maybe he won’t be that upset.”
“Thank you, I’ll just be going for now, Mrs…”
“Hudson, dear. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. We can sit down and I can tell you about Sherlock!”
“I look forward to it,” John said, smiling tightly before walking away.
He had already spent too much money on the cab ride over, and had to make it back to his flat on foot. He flipped on the telly, and stared at it blankly while he fumed. His foul mood was worsened when he got a consolatory text from Sherlock’s assistant, giving vague apologies, and informed him that they would reschedule. He finally turned off the telly that afternoon, giving a brief sympathetic thought for the DI who seemed to be floundering badly through a press conference about suicides, before grabbing his phone and trying to find someone to go to a pub with him.
Two days later, Sherlock still hadn’t rescheduled.
It was bollocks! John wasn’t a famous journalist, but he was still owed some respect. It would seem that Sherlock had forgotten that, and he, John decided as he grabbed his coat and stormed out of the flat, needed to be reminded.
It was starting to get dark when John finally made it to Baker Street, and the walk over had burned off most of his anger. He stood pathetically in front of the sandwich shop next to 221, trying to decide if he should take Mrs. Hudson up on some tea or simply go back home and wait for Sherlock to contact him. He looked up when the door to 221 opened suddenly, jarring him out of his thoughts. A man walked out, and John's breath caught.
His dark hair was a startling contrast to his pale skin, and he was covering long, clever fingers in designer gloves. In fact, all of his clothing was impeccable and tailored, and likely to cost more than John could fathom. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but John felt a hot blush rise up involuntarily on his face and stood a little straighter. Attraction was just like that sometimes, instantaneous and unexplainable.
The man looked over at him after finishing with his gloves, and quirked his eyebrow. John walked over determinedly, fighting down the deeper flush that came from meeting his eyes.
“John Watson,” the man drawled, in a deep voice. “I don’t believe anyone summoned you.”
If he knew John’s name, he must be one of Sherlock’s entourage, unless Sherlock was gossiping about him with random strangers.
“Look, I know Sherlock must be a very busy man,” John started in a brusque tone, “but in order to conduct an interview, he actually needs to communicate with me. Directly. Not through text. So, I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, but you’re going to take me to him, now.”
The man stared at him, studying his face, and suddenly broke into a wicked smile. “Yes, I’ll take you to Sherlock. I would hate to disappoint you after such a determined speech.” He turned to the street and whistled sharply, holding up his hand, and a cab pulled up to the curb quickly. He motioned John in.
They sat quietly for a few minutes before the man finally caught John staring at him.
“You have questions,” he stated, not asked.
John smiled sheepishly. “I was just wondering what you do for Sherlock, work wise.”
“One could say I do everything for Sherlock,” he replied. “He couldn’t exist without me. But, in my free time, I’m a consulting detective.”
“A consulting detective? I’ve never heard of that,” John admitted.
“I invented it, and I’m the only one in the world. When the police are out of their depths, which is always, I sort them out.”
“You’re a bit amazing, aren’t you?” John teased. He smiled wider when the man angled himself so he was staring at John and not out the cab window. Their knees bumped, and John felt like a school girl flushing over her first crush. The man noticed, but only smirked.
“I never did find out if it was Afghanistan or Iraq,” he murmured.
“You were texting for him!” John accused, pointing a finger, but he seemed unperturbed. “It was Afghanistan, but you could have just read about it. You must have researched my background before agreeing to let me interview Sherlock.”
The man waved his hand. “I can tell everything about you just by looking at you.”
John snorted. “Try me.”
The man raised his eyebrow. “After the press conference, you were stopped by security guards, but were not intimidated, so you must be used to environments with men and danger. Short hair, military stance. Tan lines at the wrist mean you weren‘t tanning for vanity, so you lived somewhere with strong sunlight and a strict dress code that was followed everyday. So, Afghanistan or Iraq.”
John was impressed, but it seemed just as likely that the man had read up on him and was making all this up.
“Go further,” John pressed.
“You were in Afghanistan, but not as an infantry man. You don’t have the calluses from continuous weapon handling, so you were otherwise engaged while over there, but still were part of some skirmishes, and that is how you were injured. Shoulder wound. You used to have a limp, but have worked through it, but it tends to reappear when you are under stress.
“Now, you have a sibling, most likely a sister, that you do not get on with. She tends to patronize you, so she must be older. She gave you your phone. It is a newer model, and an expensive one. She’s showing off her wealth. It was her old phone, too, worn enough that it is obvious that it’s had a previous owner. She gave you her expensive cast off, in a subliminal passive-aggressive attack to make sure you are constantly feeling inferior to her success. She must be a journalist, and is feeling threatened by your return.
“In conclusion, you have a sister who gave you a job and phone in order to reestablish dominance over you, and you were in Afghanistan, but not a soldier, so you were a journalist covering the war and were injured and sent back home to recover,” he finished, and stared out the window.
John was speechless. His instinct was to blow it off, but surely if he had researched John, he would know John had been a doctor and not a journalist in Afghanistan. It was funny how his one mistake made the entire statement believable.
“That,” John told him, shaking his head, “was amazing.”
He looked shocked. “That’s not what people usually say.”
“What do they usually say?”
“Piss off.”
They both laughed. John realized suddenly that this man knew almost everything about him, but John didn’t even know his name. Before John could ask, the cab pulled over and the man leapt out. John was about to follow, but the cabbie cleared his throat pointedly. John scowled, realizing he had just been left with the cab fare, and passed over a few notes before climbing out.
When he finally caught up, it took him a second to realize that they were at a crime scene. He walked up to the man, who was exchanging heated words with a female officer. She glared at John when he walked up.
“Who's this?” She asked.
“He's...my colleague.”
She looked skeptical. “How does a freak like you even get a colleague?” She turned to John. “Did he follow you home? I can arrest him for stalking, you know.”
John blinked, nonplussed. “Actually, I'm sort of following him,” he admitted.
The man smiled mockingly and ducked under the police tape, and motioned John under as well.
John turned to apologize, only to find her studying him.
“You do know that he's-” She started to say, only to be cut off quickly.
“What we do know is that you didn't make it home last night, Donovan, no need to draw attention to it,” the man hissed, grabbing John's arm and hauling him towards the building in front of them.
“I'm sorry, this might seem like an idiotic question,” John whispered once they had gotten out of hearing range, “but why are we here? At a crime scene?”
“This is where I was going before you invited yourself along. I'm sure you've seen worse, no need to worry. We'll need to finish up here, and then you can have your interview with Sherlock.” He had not released John's arm, and continued to pull him into the building, past a cross looking man and several other confused officers.
They finally stopped just inside the doorway, where a vaguely familar man was waiting expectantly, all ready suited up for the crime scene.
"Who's this?" The man asked, looking at John in confusion.
"John Watson."
"Why is he here?"
"He's with me. I told you I needed an assistant, and I found one," the man drawled, discarding his leather gloves for a pair of rubber ones.
"Yes, you did mention that, but how did you find someone in half hour it took you to get here?" The officer asked. "You didn't pull a random bloke off the streets, did you?
"He's hardly random, and I didn't have to do any pulling, he demanded to come." The man turned to John. "John, this is DI Lestrade. Suit up and we can start."
"Aren't you going to put one one?" John asked, but the man gave him a haughty stare and started up the stairs.
John followed as quickly as possible, and soon found himself in a room with a dead woman in a bright pink coat. He waited by the door, feeling useless as the man examined the body closely and murmured to himself. John took the time to study Lestrade, and suddenly realized why he seemed familiar.
"You had the press conference about the suicides yesterday," John exclaimed. "Don't tell me this is another one? Bit odd, all these serial suicides.”
“That's probably because they're homicides,” the man declared, rising up from his position near the body and firing off a long list of observations, starting with the state of her marriage and ending with her choice in luggage.
“Fantastic!” John breathed.
The man smiled smugly.
Lestrade still looked skeptical. “Why do you keep mentioning her case, Sherlock? There-”
He stopped suddenly, looking askance at John, who had made a startled sound.
It was probably his brain breaking.
Sherlock had frozen at his name, but turned to Lestrade suddenly, glowering.
“Didn't you read the text I sent explaining not to use my name?” he hissed.
“No, I blocked your number after the press conference fiasco yesterday.” He turned to John, who was still staring blankly at Sherlock. “Did you really not know he's Sherlock?”
John finally collected himself, and frowned. “No, I didn't. The one time I met him previously, he was wearing a mask and didn't speak to me. I thought he just worked for Sherlock. You,” he added, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock, “are an arse and liar!”
The dour man they had passed on their way into the building leaned through the doorway. “I happened to overhear, are we taking turns having a go at the Freak? I have a few good ones lined up.”
“Shut it, Anderson,” Sherlock shot back, and turned to John. “And I am not a liar. Everything I told you is the truth, you just made a bad deduction that colored everything else you heard. If I'm guilty of anything, it's not correcting you. It's alright, you did well considering. We can't all be right all the time. Well, you can't.”
“Well, I stand corrected, then, and that just makes you an arse. A giant one at that!” John snapped.
“My God, you really did pull a random bloke off the streets, didn't you?” Lestrade said, looking aghast.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly. He's my journalist, and was serving as a perfectly fine assistant until you ruined it.”
“You can't bring bloody journalists into my crime scenes, Sherlock! What if he publishes something that ruins our case? I already bend enough rules getting you in here-” Lestrade started heatedly.
“I'm a little more concerned that he's bringing people to dead bodies to impress them. Does no one else find this disturbing?” Anderson cut in.
“Enough!” Sherlock snapped, and they both fell silent. “John is working as an entertainment journalist for Gladstone, not the daily press. This case will be solved long before he could publish anything, even if he was inclined to include your shabby police work in a story about me. Also, Anderson, he was a journalist in Afghanistan, where he doubtless saw more gruesome deaths than this, I don't think you need to worry about him having a sensitive constitution. Now, if we can get back to the victim's case-”
“Actually,” John interrupted, completely unappeased by Sherlock's explanations and feeling vindictive, “I was a doctor, not a journalist.”
Sherlock frowned. “What?”
“This is my first assignment ever as a journalist, I started writing as therapy for my hand tremors. I decided it might be the perfect time for a career change. Oh, it's fine, Sherlock. You just made a bad deduction that colored everything else you heard. It's alright, you did well considering. We can't all be right all the time.”
Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, as still as the woman on the floor, his face a perfect study of shock. Lestrade looked just as thrown. Anderson took a picture, the flash blinding everyone in the room.
“Anderson, you know you can't sell photos of him, we all signed that agreement,” Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes.
“Sell it? No, I'm going to wallpaper my entire house with it. This is something to savor.”
“It would give Mrs. Anderson and Donovan something pleasant to look at in the bedroom for a change,” Sherlock sneered. “Now, about the case-”
“There is no case!” Lestrade shouted.
Sherlock looked like his birthday had arrived early, and started yelling out deductions while running down the stairs before finally disappearing.
John realized suddenly that he had been abandoned at crime scene, with no money for a cab and no useful information for his article.
“You ever have days that turn out nothing like you were expecting?” John asked Lestrade, who was leaning over the banister next to him.
“I work with Sherlock, so yes, constantly. But God help me, I need him,” Lestrade admitted. He clapped John on the shoulder and called the forensic team into the room.
As John made his way down the stairs, he spared a thought for all the journalists that had tried to interview Sherlock before him, and now understood why one might be prone to a mental breakdown afterward.
He had to pass Donovan on the way out, and would have elected not to speak to her, especially now that he knew she was sleeping with Anderson, of all people, but he had no idea where he was.
She pointed out where he could find a cab, which was no help since he didn't have any money, but now at least he knew there was a long walk ahead of him. He ducked under the crime tape, and was about to walk away when Donovan called after him.
“You're not his friend,” she informed him.
“Thanks, but I had that one worked out on my own,” John assured her.
“Everyone thinks they know him, that the man that sings on stage and wears odd costumes is the real Sherlock. But it's not. You know why he comes here, to crime scenes? He gets off on it. The real Sherlock is a psychopath. And he's going to get bored, and then we're going to be standing around his victims. If you had any sense at all, you'd tell the world about that.”
“Donovan!” Lestrade called.
She gave him a grave look as John started walking away.
“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!” she warned one last time.
Oh, no. He wasn't going to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. He was going to find him and not leave him alone until he got the fucking story of the year out of the prat.
Determination renewed, John started the long walk home.
Rating: PG-13 (for now)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Disclaimer: Sherlock BBC belongs to a bunch of people that are not me. Holmes and Co. were created by ACD, who is not me. Got it? Ownership= NOT ME!
Summary: John meets a mysterious man that works for Sherlock, and gets dragged along to a crime scene. John also learns that Sherlock is a giganict arse.
Notes: For a prompt at the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme:
"Sherlock is Lady fucking Gaga. I mean, not literally (what a twist that would be!) but he's a crazy, aloof, avantgarde pop diva who wears bizarre get ups - many of which involve really big coats - and when he's not putting coke cans in his hair for science he also happens to fight crime.
John is the ex-army doctor who decided to have a complete career change and pursue his interests in writing by turning to showbiz journalism (perhaps Harry has Connections.) His latest assignment is, of course, to follow this cray cray pop star/detective around for an indepth editorial."
Elementary (2008)
1. A Study in Scarlet 2. Valley of Fear 3. The Empty House 4. Scandal in Bohemia
5. Crooked Man 6. The Final Problem 7. Case of Identity 8. Dancing Men
9. Devil’s Foot 10. His Last Bow
Sherlock (2009)
1. The Great Game 2. Hell Hounds 3. Satan’s Umbrella 4. Good
5. The Woman 6. Blind 7. The Edge of Falling 8. Piss Off
9. A Study in Pink (A Study in Scarlet Remix ft. DJ Marky G and S-Moffie)
***
John was surprised to find Baker Street was home to a number of modest flats, peppered with small shops and restaurants. It was hardly what one expected for someone of Sherlock's success. He rang the bell for 221, and after a minute had passed, a woman answered the door.
“Hello, there. Are you looking for someone?” she asked, smiling kindly.
“I’m John Watson, but I think I might have the wrong address,” he admitted, looking around.
“Oh!” the woman exclaimed, pointing to the press badge John was wearing. “You’re from Gladstone! Sherlock’s people mentioned someone would be interviewing him. I just love your magazine. The article you did on the Beatles right before they made it big was fantastic! I still have a copy of it from when I was a girl.”
“Well, I wasn’t working there or, er, born yet, but…thank you? Is Sherlock here, then?” John asked, peering behind her into the moderately lit hall.
“Oh, no. I don’t think he came back last night. He does that, sometimes. Well, most of the time. He's always dashing about, just like my late husband,” she sighed.
“I'm sorry,” John said, making a sympathetic face.
“Oh, I'm not,” she said reassuringly. She smiled at him. “Sherlock might show up eventually, do you want to come in for some tea and wait?”
“What are the chances that he’ll turn up soon?” John inquired.
“Very low. I can have his people call you? I’m sure he’ll be most upset that he missed you. Oh, but he does hate journalists,” she admitted. “So maybe he won’t be that upset.”
“Thank you, I’ll just be going for now, Mrs…”
“Hudson, dear. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. We can sit down and I can tell you about Sherlock!”
“I look forward to it,” John said, smiling tightly before walking away.
He had already spent too much money on the cab ride over, and had to make it back to his flat on foot. He flipped on the telly, and stared at it blankly while he fumed. His foul mood was worsened when he got a consolatory text from Sherlock’s assistant, giving vague apologies, and informed him that they would reschedule. He finally turned off the telly that afternoon, giving a brief sympathetic thought for the DI who seemed to be floundering badly through a press conference about suicides, before grabbing his phone and trying to find someone to go to a pub with him.
Two days later, Sherlock still hadn’t rescheduled.
It was bollocks! John wasn’t a famous journalist, but he was still owed some respect. It would seem that Sherlock had forgotten that, and he, John decided as he grabbed his coat and stormed out of the flat, needed to be reminded.
It was starting to get dark when John finally made it to Baker Street, and the walk over had burned off most of his anger. He stood pathetically in front of the sandwich shop next to 221, trying to decide if he should take Mrs. Hudson up on some tea or simply go back home and wait for Sherlock to contact him. He looked up when the door to 221 opened suddenly, jarring him out of his thoughts. A man walked out, and John's breath caught.
His dark hair was a startling contrast to his pale skin, and he was covering long, clever fingers in designer gloves. In fact, all of his clothing was impeccable and tailored, and likely to cost more than John could fathom. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but John felt a hot blush rise up involuntarily on his face and stood a little straighter. Attraction was just like that sometimes, instantaneous and unexplainable.
The man looked over at him after finishing with his gloves, and quirked his eyebrow. John walked over determinedly, fighting down the deeper flush that came from meeting his eyes.
“John Watson,” the man drawled, in a deep voice. “I don’t believe anyone summoned you.”
If he knew John’s name, he must be one of Sherlock’s entourage, unless Sherlock was gossiping about him with random strangers.
“Look, I know Sherlock must be a very busy man,” John started in a brusque tone, “but in order to conduct an interview, he actually needs to communicate with me. Directly. Not through text. So, I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, but you’re going to take me to him, now.”
The man stared at him, studying his face, and suddenly broke into a wicked smile. “Yes, I’ll take you to Sherlock. I would hate to disappoint you after such a determined speech.” He turned to the street and whistled sharply, holding up his hand, and a cab pulled up to the curb quickly. He motioned John in.
They sat quietly for a few minutes before the man finally caught John staring at him.
“You have questions,” he stated, not asked.
John smiled sheepishly. “I was just wondering what you do for Sherlock, work wise.”
“One could say I do everything for Sherlock,” he replied. “He couldn’t exist without me. But, in my free time, I’m a consulting detective.”
“A consulting detective? I’ve never heard of that,” John admitted.
“I invented it, and I’m the only one in the world. When the police are out of their depths, which is always, I sort them out.”
“You’re a bit amazing, aren’t you?” John teased. He smiled wider when the man angled himself so he was staring at John and not out the cab window. Their knees bumped, and John felt like a school girl flushing over her first crush. The man noticed, but only smirked.
“I never did find out if it was Afghanistan or Iraq,” he murmured.
“You were texting for him!” John accused, pointing a finger, but he seemed unperturbed. “It was Afghanistan, but you could have just read about it. You must have researched my background before agreeing to let me interview Sherlock.”
The man waved his hand. “I can tell everything about you just by looking at you.”
John snorted. “Try me.”
The man raised his eyebrow. “After the press conference, you were stopped by security guards, but were not intimidated, so you must be used to environments with men and danger. Short hair, military stance. Tan lines at the wrist mean you weren‘t tanning for vanity, so you lived somewhere with strong sunlight and a strict dress code that was followed everyday. So, Afghanistan or Iraq.”
John was impressed, but it seemed just as likely that the man had read up on him and was making all this up.
“Go further,” John pressed.
“You were in Afghanistan, but not as an infantry man. You don’t have the calluses from continuous weapon handling, so you were otherwise engaged while over there, but still were part of some skirmishes, and that is how you were injured. Shoulder wound. You used to have a limp, but have worked through it, but it tends to reappear when you are under stress.
“Now, you have a sibling, most likely a sister, that you do not get on with. She tends to patronize you, so she must be older. She gave you your phone. It is a newer model, and an expensive one. She’s showing off her wealth. It was her old phone, too, worn enough that it is obvious that it’s had a previous owner. She gave you her expensive cast off, in a subliminal passive-aggressive attack to make sure you are constantly feeling inferior to her success. She must be a journalist, and is feeling threatened by your return.
“In conclusion, you have a sister who gave you a job and phone in order to reestablish dominance over you, and you were in Afghanistan, but not a soldier, so you were a journalist covering the war and were injured and sent back home to recover,” he finished, and stared out the window.
John was speechless. His instinct was to blow it off, but surely if he had researched John, he would know John had been a doctor and not a journalist in Afghanistan. It was funny how his one mistake made the entire statement believable.
“That,” John told him, shaking his head, “was amazing.”
He looked shocked. “That’s not what people usually say.”
“What do they usually say?”
“Piss off.”
They both laughed. John realized suddenly that this man knew almost everything about him, but John didn’t even know his name. Before John could ask, the cab pulled over and the man leapt out. John was about to follow, but the cabbie cleared his throat pointedly. John scowled, realizing he had just been left with the cab fare, and passed over a few notes before climbing out.
When he finally caught up, it took him a second to realize that they were at a crime scene. He walked up to the man, who was exchanging heated words with a female officer. She glared at John when he walked up.
“Who's this?” She asked.
“He's...my colleague.”
She looked skeptical. “How does a freak like you even get a colleague?” She turned to John. “Did he follow you home? I can arrest him for stalking, you know.”
John blinked, nonplussed. “Actually, I'm sort of following him,” he admitted.
The man smiled mockingly and ducked under the police tape, and motioned John under as well.
John turned to apologize, only to find her studying him.
“You do know that he's-” She started to say, only to be cut off quickly.
“What we do know is that you didn't make it home last night, Donovan, no need to draw attention to it,” the man hissed, grabbing John's arm and hauling him towards the building in front of them.
“I'm sorry, this might seem like an idiotic question,” John whispered once they had gotten out of hearing range, “but why are we here? At a crime scene?”
“This is where I was going before you invited yourself along. I'm sure you've seen worse, no need to worry. We'll need to finish up here, and then you can have your interview with Sherlock.” He had not released John's arm, and continued to pull him into the building, past a cross looking man and several other confused officers.
They finally stopped just inside the doorway, where a vaguely familar man was waiting expectantly, all ready suited up for the crime scene.
"Who's this?" The man asked, looking at John in confusion.
"John Watson."
"Why is he here?"
"He's with me. I told you I needed an assistant, and I found one," the man drawled, discarding his leather gloves for a pair of rubber ones.
"Yes, you did mention that, but how did you find someone in half hour it took you to get here?" The officer asked. "You didn't pull a random bloke off the streets, did you?
"He's hardly random, and I didn't have to do any pulling, he demanded to come." The man turned to John. "John, this is DI Lestrade. Suit up and we can start."
"Aren't you going to put one one?" John asked, but the man gave him a haughty stare and started up the stairs.
John followed as quickly as possible, and soon found himself in a room with a dead woman in a bright pink coat. He waited by the door, feeling useless as the man examined the body closely and murmured to himself. John took the time to study Lestrade, and suddenly realized why he seemed familiar.
"You had the press conference about the suicides yesterday," John exclaimed. "Don't tell me this is another one? Bit odd, all these serial suicides.”
“That's probably because they're homicides,” the man declared, rising up from his position near the body and firing off a long list of observations, starting with the state of her marriage and ending with her choice in luggage.
“Fantastic!” John breathed.
The man smiled smugly.
Lestrade still looked skeptical. “Why do you keep mentioning her case, Sherlock? There-”
He stopped suddenly, looking askance at John, who had made a startled sound.
It was probably his brain breaking.
Sherlock had frozen at his name, but turned to Lestrade suddenly, glowering.
“Didn't you read the text I sent explaining not to use my name?” he hissed.
“No, I blocked your number after the press conference fiasco yesterday.” He turned to John, who was still staring blankly at Sherlock. “Did you really not know he's Sherlock?”
John finally collected himself, and frowned. “No, I didn't. The one time I met him previously, he was wearing a mask and didn't speak to me. I thought he just worked for Sherlock. You,” he added, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock, “are an arse and liar!”
The dour man they had passed on their way into the building leaned through the doorway. “I happened to overhear, are we taking turns having a go at the Freak? I have a few good ones lined up.”
“Shut it, Anderson,” Sherlock shot back, and turned to John. “And I am not a liar. Everything I told you is the truth, you just made a bad deduction that colored everything else you heard. If I'm guilty of anything, it's not correcting you. It's alright, you did well considering. We can't all be right all the time. Well, you can't.”
“Well, I stand corrected, then, and that just makes you an arse. A giant one at that!” John snapped.
“My God, you really did pull a random bloke off the streets, didn't you?” Lestrade said, looking aghast.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly. He's my journalist, and was serving as a perfectly fine assistant until you ruined it.”
“You can't bring bloody journalists into my crime scenes, Sherlock! What if he publishes something that ruins our case? I already bend enough rules getting you in here-” Lestrade started heatedly.
“I'm a little more concerned that he's bringing people to dead bodies to impress them. Does no one else find this disturbing?” Anderson cut in.
“Enough!” Sherlock snapped, and they both fell silent. “John is working as an entertainment journalist for Gladstone, not the daily press. This case will be solved long before he could publish anything, even if he was inclined to include your shabby police work in a story about me. Also, Anderson, he was a journalist in Afghanistan, where he doubtless saw more gruesome deaths than this, I don't think you need to worry about him having a sensitive constitution. Now, if we can get back to the victim's case-”
“Actually,” John interrupted, completely unappeased by Sherlock's explanations and feeling vindictive, “I was a doctor, not a journalist.”
Sherlock frowned. “What?”
“This is my first assignment ever as a journalist, I started writing as therapy for my hand tremors. I decided it might be the perfect time for a career change. Oh, it's fine, Sherlock. You just made a bad deduction that colored everything else you heard. It's alright, you did well considering. We can't all be right all the time.”
Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, as still as the woman on the floor, his face a perfect study of shock. Lestrade looked just as thrown. Anderson took a picture, the flash blinding everyone in the room.
“Anderson, you know you can't sell photos of him, we all signed that agreement,” Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes.
“Sell it? No, I'm going to wallpaper my entire house with it. This is something to savor.”
“It would give Mrs. Anderson and Donovan something pleasant to look at in the bedroom for a change,” Sherlock sneered. “Now, about the case-”
“There is no case!” Lestrade shouted.
Sherlock looked like his birthday had arrived early, and started yelling out deductions while running down the stairs before finally disappearing.
John realized suddenly that he had been abandoned at crime scene, with no money for a cab and no useful information for his article.
“You ever have days that turn out nothing like you were expecting?” John asked Lestrade, who was leaning over the banister next to him.
“I work with Sherlock, so yes, constantly. But God help me, I need him,” Lestrade admitted. He clapped John on the shoulder and called the forensic team into the room.
As John made his way down the stairs, he spared a thought for all the journalists that had tried to interview Sherlock before him, and now understood why one might be prone to a mental breakdown afterward.
He had to pass Donovan on the way out, and would have elected not to speak to her, especially now that he knew she was sleeping with Anderson, of all people, but he had no idea where he was.
She pointed out where he could find a cab, which was no help since he didn't have any money, but now at least he knew there was a long walk ahead of him. He ducked under the crime tape, and was about to walk away when Donovan called after him.
“You're not his friend,” she informed him.
“Thanks, but I had that one worked out on my own,” John assured her.
“Everyone thinks they know him, that the man that sings on stage and wears odd costumes is the real Sherlock. But it's not. You know why he comes here, to crime scenes? He gets off on it. The real Sherlock is a psychopath. And he's going to get bored, and then we're going to be standing around his victims. If you had any sense at all, you'd tell the world about that.”
“Donovan!” Lestrade called.
She gave him a grave look as John started walking away.
“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!” she warned one last time.
Oh, no. He wasn't going to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. He was going to find him and not leave him alone until he got the fucking story of the year out of the prat.
Determination renewed, John started the long walk home.