Fic: Monsters, All of Us 2/4

Oct 14, 2010 11:30

Title: Monsters, All of Us
Part: 2/4 A Pedestrian Photograph
Warnings: The Drama Llama is running rampant through this fic.  Levity might appear here and there. Graphic description of senseless violence without any empathy.

Prompt Link: sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html
Notes:  squidwhisk.livejournal.com/1355.html
Length: 3,400 in this part (approximately 7,000 in total)

---

March 25, 2009,
Stop preaching to me about crap you don’t understand. Because OBVIOUSLY you are ace at relationships and personal health. You don’t know anything about escapism. St. John the martyr. Well fuck you, we are the same. Every time you had any issues, you just left. Must have inherited it from mom. Don’t like dad’s rules? go sleep on the street. Don’t like a haircut? shave it off. Don’t like your fiancée? Break it off. Don’t like my friends? Abandon me at the restaurant. Don’t like me? Go to war. GROW THE FUCK UP.

---

John barely looked up from his laptop as Sherlock stepped through the doors of 221b. “I see you have met my sister.”

Sherlock felt a moment of intense surprise before it was overshadowed by an intense feeling of pride. “How did you deduce that? Tell me!” In four strides he was across the room and sitting on the coffee table facing John.

“From your hair.” The skin around John’s eyes crinkled as he tried to suppress a laugh. He was lying. Sherlock sighed in exasperation, John was an observant individual and certainly above average in intelligence, he sincerely wished he would just apply his methods.

“My hair? Preposterous. She texted you.”

John’s bark of laughter split the air. “Well, at least I had you going for thirty seconds.”

“Eight, actually.” Still, he couldn’t keep the smile from his face. Especially when he spotted John’s position on what Sherlock insisted was -his- couch and the laptop.

“I take it you have prepared another night of time wasted courtesy of Mr Bond?” He would never admit to truly enjoying these fairly mundane evenings to anyone. He rarely admitted it to himself. Somehow John’s company had become an indispensable part of his life. It was disturbing to find a need for emotional contact outside of himself; all other attachments had proven redundant: If he wanted companionship he had his work; if he wanted love, he had mummy; if he wanted someone to worry about him he could limp theatrically under a CCTV camera. He had never needed anyone to fill the quiet moments in-between until he met John. He had not even considered the need until Moriarty threatened to sever the attachment. Sherlock pulled his mind from his unpleasant thoughts.

He threw himself onto the couch as John strolled into the kitchen and tossed a package of microwave popcorn (left by Mrs Hudson “for your film nights, boys.”) into the microwave. He joined Sherlock on the couch a moment later.

“So, what did she tell you?’ John inquired teasingly.

“You jumped off the roof of your home when you were seven. Isn’t that a bit early to take your life into your hands?”

John snorted in amusement. He looked content, the tight lines around his eyes relaxing. “I forgot about that. I was fine, it was just something I had seen on the telly and thought it was a good idea at the time.”

“You thought something on the telly was a good idea?” That was far less excusable than the roof jumping business. Sherlock relaxed into the couch watching an indulgent grin overtake John’s face. It took years off.

“Oh please, as if you bounding around like a demented vulture in that coat of yours isn’t based on s…” From the position they were sitting Sherlock could see the adrenalin response kick in: John’s pupils dilated, his breath caught and colour sprang to his cheeks. Within seconds he had leaped over Sherlock and the coffee table, dashed into the kitchen, wrenched the microwave door open and threw its contents into the bin. He then stood bent over the sink, breathing harshly and clenching the counter until his knuckles turned white.

A moment later, Sherlock found himself beside his flatmate and at a loss of words. He could deduce what had set him off (the sound of popping popcorn.) Last time a fireworks display was staged, John had turned white and excused himself to take an hour long bath. Sherlock had no doubt that he had spent the entire time with his ears submerged. He felt like a bloody idiot. How could he have not foreseen this? How could he be so smugly egotistical over his observation skills and not see something this fucking obvious? Frustrated at his ineptitude Sherlock hovered for a moment before grabbing John’s right wrist and wrenching his hand under the cold spray from the tap.

Grabbing a bag full of hot oil was unpleasant at the best of times. Furthermore, this way he could unobtrusively track John’s pulse and provide him with something cold enough to help him focus.

“What the fuck are you doing?” John snapped. His voice ragged. He tried to wrench his hand away with considerable power, but Sherlock had a stubborn wiry strength that had felled more determined foes.

“Do you remember when you disinfected the microwave last month and I threw both it and the bleach into the bin outside. Through the window?” Sherlock realized his voice sounded rough. He smoothed it with effort. “I hate the smell of chlorinated water. Cannot abide by it.” This ‘empathy’ thing was supposed to be Mycroft’s shtick. Sherlock briefly considered texting him ‘Flatmate has issues. Need someone capable of naturally exuding empathy. Send help. SH.’ That would undoubtedly bring more trouble than it would solve. After all, it would likely intrigue Mycroft enough to come in the flesh.

John’s struggles ceased and his grip on the sink relaxed. Sherlock could feel the frantic beat of the doctor’s pulse slow. “Thank you.” His voice still seemed coarse and a tremor had returned to his hand but he was calmer.  Sherlock tugged John’s wrist towards him, inspecting the damage to the palm (minimal, first degree, will stop paining him within the hour).

“You should have told me about the chlorine.” John’s pupils were rapidly returning to an acceptable size.  Give the good doctor a patient and his own suffering would be rapidly forgotten.

“You should have told me that sound sets you off.”

John ripped his hand away. “Look, let’s not talk about this alright? Let’s just watch the damn film.”

Sherlock ground his teeth together. Every fibre of his body demanded that he pursue this, but John’s steely gaze shut him up. The man was tense, waiting for an excuse to snap again. Sherlock who let nothing go, let this drop. He named himself all kinds of bloody coward. Bloody emotions. Bloody friendship. This time he was letting them both down.

---
April 31, 2009,
I’m fine, thanks for asking! I got a new contract, it’s got me flying all over the place, but you know how that is. I’m off to New York next week for a couple of months. Should be fun! Also, Clara and I got you a jacket last week, it’s a shooting jacket but not in the hideous camouflage you like to wear. You will wear it. I had to bin the woolly monstrosity you’ve been "togged up" in for the last three years. The cat puked on it (I may or may not have encouraged the cat) and there is nothing you can do about it >:P

May 15, 2009,
Sorry for not writing back! Write to me at my work e-mail, or better yet call me, the host server is walking the messages across the Atlantic, I swear. Also, New Yorkers are nutters!!! I thought you were exaggerating when you told me about the Americans you serve with, but it’s all true. I love it here! I'm never coming home! Also, everyone keeps saying I have a nice accent. Your baby sister is exotic. LOL!
---

They spent the rest of the evening in uncomfortable silence. The tension continued well into the next day and Sherlock found himself ecstatic to be alone, out of the flat, and inspecting the scenes of the “muggings” for stale evidence. Any evidence or tracks that may have been left were long gone under the boots of the incompetent brain dead who Londoners referred to as Scotland Yard. At least the photos of the crime scene were -decent- if hardly illuminating.

The alley was narrow, which was suspicious. The killing would have required extremely close proximity. The dead man was of average height and solid build: tall enough to catch his arms on the mouth of the alley if someone tried to pull him in; strong enough to resist physical coercion; and trained well enough to resist an attack or coercion with a knife or gun. He had been drinking but the toxicology scan showed a minimal amount of alcohol in his bloodstream. He was insufficiently incapacitated to be pulled into the alley against his will. Obviously he walked into the alley on his own.

The arterial spray of a cut throat had sprayed towards the interior of the alley suggesting that the victim had walked in and his murderer had crept in at his back. But the victim was a sniper and the alley floor was filthy, you couldn’t take a step without landing on sodden squishy paper or kicking a can or scraping your foot on something. The body had shown no middle or inner ear trauma. So he had heard his assailant. It was unlikely a soldier would trust someone at his back without knowing who it was. So he knew his murderer. Trusted him to watch his back.

Sherlock took another step and tripped when his foot encountered a drop in the pavement. He steadied himself against a wall. He scanned the location for CCTV cameras. None. Thank God.

Ah. Well, this was exactly where the sniper was standing when his throat was slit. Maybe a CCTV camera would not have been amiss.

Murderer at his back. Victim stepped downward. Stumbled. His murder steadied him with his dominant hand (left) and took the opportunity to slash his throat with his right? Possibly (would explain why the man had his throat cut out by a knife held in the right hand). But why the hell would the murderer be holding a knife in his right hand to begin with? To hide it? Not enough evidence. No more theories until he had more facts.

He spent another ten minutes in the alley sorting through the garbage, but it was a lost cause, the trail was long cold.

The second murder scene was no more enlightening. Another alley. Another victim whose toxicology scan came out clean. The murder had been straightforward: some bruising of the neck (obviously due to having his neck grabbed and then broken); no other cuts or bruises; torn fingernails from where he had grabbed at his assailant’s arms. The man was an engineer, perhaps not as used to combat and had a weaker right (dominant) arm due to burns. No DNA was gathered from under the victim’s fingernails.

The fact that the murderer must have stood on a chair just to reach the victim’s neck was also initially incongruent (Sherlock had considered himself incredibly tall before this). But the alley clearly showed where the man had stood. For once, the police proved they were not sufficiently devolved to miss the crate the murderer had stood on. What they failed to notice is that it did not belong in that alley, but an alley three blocks down based on the residual debris along its base. Planning on the murderer's part. Also, trust on the part of the engineer. The victim had to give his killer time to get on the crate, after all. Furthermore, the bruising indicated that he had not struggled initially. Potentially the right handed knife and the box were intended to misdirect the evidence. Create the appearance of multiple killers. Granted, the diversions were not brilliant, but the murderer was obviously not completely brain dead. He tried to cover his tracks, but killed too many at once.

Why?

Maybe the success went to his head? Maybe the murderer was running out of time? Maybe he had found a more efficient way to identify victims?

Sherlock wondered if they would let him exhume John’s Late MOH apartment acquaintance.

---

September 28, 2010 16:03  Lestrade. Need names of all ex-military dead in last six months in London. SH

September 28, 2010 16:04  Need it immediately. SH.

September 28, 2010 16:29  Definition. Immediately (adv): without delay or intervention; at once; instantly.

--

“No. Absolutely not, we are not digging up dead war heroes on a hunch Sherlock. No. Do I look like an idiot to you?”

“Yes. Absolutely. This is not a hunch. The statistics clearly show that the number of suicides in the past five months is a significant outlier. Oh and look, there is a murderer on the loose who specializes in killing those belonging in the outlying group.” He adopted a tone of voice like speaking to a very small very stupid child. “They didn’t kill themselves; they were murdered!” Sherlock paced back and forth in an agitated manner in front of the DI, his face white with frustration.  In contrast, Lestrade’s was red with rage.

“No.” It wasn't that he was unwilling to exhume bodies, it is just that the deaths really did look like suicides: there were notes; there was no forced entry; and the men had all been treated for depression. Statistics were not enough reason. He would never get permission.

“Oh come on! They’re corpses.” Sherlock implored. “It’s not like they have feelings!”

“Really? And what about their families?” His voice had risen. Unacceptable. Lestrade took a deep calming breath and dropped his head into his hands. He rubbed his temples in soothing circles. Soon this would be over. He promised himself. Soon. That said, past experience told him he would be having this conversation with Sherlock again before the year was out, Lestrade was willing to bet his career on it.

“Why would they care? It’s not like we can do much worse to them than dead!” Suddenly John Watson’s lack of attendance at the meeting felt like a deep stab to Lestrade’s gut. John Watson who would commiserate. John Watson who would sigh with disapproval. John Watson who would grab hold of Sherlock’s arm with a tight grip and stare at him until Sherlock realized that he was being an arsehole.

“No.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” As predicted, Sherlock threw his scarf around his neck and stormed (or stomped or, most accurately, tantrum-ed) out of the office. If a fraction of this resembled the “terrible twos,” Lestrade was glad he had no children.

That’s when he noticed half his files on the dead military men were missing. “For the love of God!”

---

June 16, 2009,
I missed your call! I am so sorry, my mobile is spazzing out and Clara won’t let me buy a new one until next month, just in time for my birthday (not obvious at all!!). Call me at home tonight; I have to share what I went through with customs. Your last e-mail sounds like you could use a laugh.

June 17, 2009,
Call meeeeeeee! Use Skype so I can see your ugly mug!

---

Sherlock was in the process of reviewing Scotland Yard’s take on the cases - which is to say he was pacing the living room, ripping through the files, and throwing reports that were clearly WRONG all over the carpet - when John came down the stairs adjusting the cuffs of his dress uniform jacket. “I’ll be out for a bit.”

John gave the sleeves a final tug and the red lapels a final pat. Despite the fiddling he looked at ease. The uniform sat loosely around his chest, but tightly across the shoulders, a symptom of muscles sleek from rooftop chases.  The metamorphosis from a stocky body to a compact one was not something that John seemed uncomfortable with.

“Did you know him?” Sherlock did not stop his angry pacing.

“Who?”

“The deceased. If it were a wedding you would be bringing a gift. Not Remembrance Day, no special event and not a wedding, where else would you wear a dress uniform? A funeral.” It was too bad. Even a bit big, the uniform fit John well, and although less comfortable than fatigues or jumpers, he seemed to move with greater ease.

“Huh. I served with her. We’ll talk about it later.” Liar. John looked pained for a moment before the expression was smoothed away and he headed out the door.

Sherlock was sorely tempted to ask if he could come, but even John could deduce such obvious motivations: Sherlock wanted to see John's newly-deceased friend just to satisfy his curiosity about a case, this would hurt John. Yes, his conscience -definitely- sounded like John now. Sherlock was grateful it no longer sounded like Mycroft. In celebration of his new-found humanity he gave John a head start before grabbing his coat and stealthily following him to the ceremony. What John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Besides, plan B involved a shovel and mind numbing tedium.

Attending the funeral was the second waste of time in as many days. The woman had died, yes, but she had died in Afghanistan. Friendly fire. Sherlock leaned back against the tree he had been hiding behind and watched the mourners instead. Although there were thirty ex-military, five wounded, there were no Americans. Pity. He wondered if the other victims’ families photographed the funeral for later analysis. Not likely. Sentimentality is stupid.

The crowd was boring. The cemetery was boring. The case was actually pretty boring; Sherlock could acknowledge that he was being stubborn about the whole ‘did he kill three or did he kill seven?’ But the families would want to know. He would want to know. He did want to know. For example, if Mycroft had been murdered but it looked like he died due to dieting (something Mycroft was convinced would happen when he was younger) then Sherlock would want to know. Sherlock would want to know so he would know exactly who he should find, kill, burn and then whose ashes he would sprinkle over Mycroft’s grave. Not that he would ever tell Mycroft that. Or anyone. In fact, he was erasing the thought from his mind immediately. The families of the deceased needed to know that the death was not their fault, that there was nothing they could have said or done. Basic psychology. Was he the only person who had access to scientific literature anymore?

Sherlock watched the plebeians as they shuffled around. Someone signalled. A bunch of people fired guns. Sherlock wished he had not given up smoking. Sherlock then wished he had not given up cocaine. Sherlock decided to study John instead. John was not boring (maybe a bit boring, but he should have been much much more boring). John was watching a friend lowered into the ground. His eyes were dry, but his hands did not shake. He held himself stiffly, uncomfortably. This was John Watson in mourning. It was different. Sherlock wondered if something of his friend’s (Hendriks) would make its way into the metal case. He had deduced the pattern in its contents.

---

At one time (1976, if he estimated the ages correctly) John and Harriett fell within the parameters of social acceptability. A picture in the case served as evidence to the fact. In it, a five year old John held the hand of his little sister. He stood staggeringly tall beside her chubby two-year-old frame, which was turned entirely to him. He was her light, her world. She was his anchor. He grinned at something to the left of the camera but all she could see was him. Thirty five years later, she was still trying to grasp a piece of a man who dedicated himself to serving his profession, his country and now Sherlock’s puzzles and mysteries.

It seems strangely unfair.

---

John returned eight hours later smelling of gunpowder, alcohol, and cigarette smoke. He was mildly inebriated. He chuckled as he walked into the living room before throwing himself into his customary chair. John was in the mood to talk and Sherlock was in the mood to not expend energy so he got to hear the story.

“…Hendriks was so sure the world would end in a zombie apocalypse. She played those stupid video games all the time. Anyway, one day she shoots a guy in the head...well ‘shoots’ isn’t right is it? His head explodes. It’s awful. Everyone freezes. I mean everyone: the guys trying to circle in on us, my unit, the arsehole who was sniping at us, everyone. We are all just staring as this body takes one step, then another and then another. Before collapsing. Hendriks couldn’t stop screaming and threw all her game consoles out the next day. The whole thing got named Operation Dawn of the Dead.” John chuckles, the sound as warm as when he laughs over bad telly with Mrs Hudson. Sherlock wonders if that’s weird. No. He knows it’s weird, but wonders if it is OK since it doesn’t feel weird. “Hendriks had the worst luck.”

“Part of the brain must have been left intact for the motor neurons to keep firing.”

“Hmmm?” John looked hazily up from his chair. “huh? oh yeah, yeah probably.” John’s head lolled a bit and he stared at the ceiling for an abnormally long period of time. He then pushed himself up from his seat and made his way to his room to sober up.

Later in the evening he apologized for the story.

Sherlock thought that if this story made John chuckle he wasn't interested in hearing the stories that made him scream at night.

<< Previous | Notes | Next >>

---
Notes:
October 14, 2010 - Posted in private Journal then in public journal
October 15, 2010 - Fixed more poor English choices, removed words that were not actually words.
October 24, 2010 - Fixed wording as per recommendations from disassembly_rsn, Thank you! Deducted and deduced are indeed not the same things. To any accountants that read this, I apologize, I’m sure you winced each time “deducted” showed up.
December 12, 2010 - disassembly_rsn is fighting a courageous battle against my poor use of English:P Thank you again so much for being an incredible beta reader and a really exceptional user of the English language!

ツ Harry Watson, ∫ic | MAOU, ツ John Watson, ∫ic, ツ Sherlock Holmes, sherlock bbc (2010), ツ DI Lestrade

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