Fic: Monsters, All of Us 4/4
Title: Monsters, All of Us
Part: 4/4 A Stranger’s Obituary and a Friend’s Bullet
Warnings: Graphic description of senseless violence without any empathy.
Prompt Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=5813927#t5813927
Notes: squidwhisk.livejournal.com/1355.html. The Drama Llama runs rampant through this fic. Levity might appear here and there. Length: 6,700 in this part (just over 20,000 in total)
---
September 30, 2009,
Clara told me I missed your call. Sorry! I was at work till late late late. In future, ring my mobile instead of the flat.
October 15, 2009,
What part of “ring my mobile” was beyond your superior intellect? Just stop talking to her; you’re making things worse. Actually, stop talking to me too.
October 16, 2009,
I didn’t mean that. Just write back to me okay?
November 1, 2009,
John, I wish you could come home. Things are so bad, I wish you were back. I even miss the fucking cat. Remember how you beat up those blokes when I was 10 and they were making fun of me? They were twice your size, but there you were, defender of justice and all that. And you stood up to dad about my being gay and I really miss you.
November 3, 2009,
Can we just stop talking about it?! I don’t want to fight about it anymore OK? It wasn’t working out and so I left. I am fine. Everything is fine.
---
September 30, 2010 4:01 Hey is John home? I’m worried. He’s not returning my calls. Can I ring you? ~Harry
September 30, 2010 4:58 You’re probably sleeping. Sorry for wasting your time.
September 30, 2010 5:08 Call me. SH
--
Harriett, who had indulged in at least four, but no more than six, ounces of alcohol (for anyone else Sherlock would have placed her level of intoxication at no more than two ounces, but she was an alcoholic) had called for the sole purpose of weeping at him. Sherlock felt momentarily out of his depth. “I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t.” She was babbling. Disconcerted by the depth of her distress, he grasped for some kind of comforting nonsense to throw at her. “I’ve done everything I can. I rang Clara. I just. You have to take care of him; I can’t even care for myself.”
"Harriett..." He weighed how best to phrase 'get a hold of yourself.'
“He’s just like dad. The spitting image. And dad took a bullet to ease his way.” She took a shuddering breath. “I don’t want to find John like that too.”
It was the first time Sherlock’s suspicions about the fate of the late Mr Watson had been explicitly confirmed. He bit back the thrill of a correct observation in favour of the kind of half-hearted soothing noises that Mycroft had made when Sherlock last overdosed (apparently Sherlock's speed dial had been easier to remember than 999). He stumbled over the same repetitive mouthfuls of comforting noise as he crept up stairs to check on John.
Later, he would blame the pounding of his heart on the hour and Harry’s bizarre behaviour; it had nothing to do with John sprawled on the bed sleeping so deeply that for a heartbeat Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was breathing. He was. Of course he was. John’s ignorance of his sister’s texts was symptomatic of the dead mobile clutched loosely in John's left hand. Doubtless out of battery power. For all that John mocked Sherlock's disinterest in household labour, he rarely credited Sherlock’s exclusive role in keeping John’s mobile charged, self-serving though it was.
Sherlock quietly closed the door. “He’s fine Harry. I can see him sleeping. You can stop crying now. Go sleep it off.” She swallowed an additional sob before wishing him good night.
Sherlock did not follow his own advice; his mind replayed how still John had been. His behaviour was ridiculous, but the moment resonated with the scattering of images that had plagued him at the pool, thinking that he had gotten his colleague…no…his friend killed. The thought of John dead felt strange. A possible future consequence he had difficulty grasping. But at the pool and that night with Harry crying in his ear he had grasped it exceptionally well. Mycroft would be so proud. Sherlock resolved not to tell him.
Later that morning, Sherlock woke from where he had inadvertently passed out on the sofa to find John already sitting at the kitchen table, his untouched breakfast between his elbows as his head rested in his hands. He wasn’t crying (thank God, there had been quite enough of that already) but maybe that was because John cried the same way he grieved. The bandages wrapped around John’s forearm were stained a coppery brown and sitting loosely. Physician, heal thyself, indeed.
“Harry is drinking again.”
John didn’t jump. Instead, he deliberately lowered his arms to the table and turned to face Sherlock. His face was expressionless. “Really? How clever of you to deduce that. What gave it away?” The venom was new. Bit not good then. “Was it from how I came home smelling like every pub in a thirty kilometre radius? Was it because she is an alcoholic and it’s only a matter of time before she falls off the wagon for the fourth time? Was it my shoes? Wow me.”
Right. He might have wanted to provoke John the night before, but having achieved his objective, Sherlock found it unpleasant. He shifted uncomfortably, before realizing in horror that he was fidgeting and aborting the movement. “She rang me from her flat last night. She was mildly drunk and concerned about you. I told her you were well and that she should sleep off the effects. I expect she'll want to visit to make amends.”
“Worried about me?” John snorted but the anger seemed to pull into itself, curl into a small cold ball and vanish within the pleasant façade of John Watson, Doctor. “Me? God, what a mess.” John leaned back over his breakfast rubbing his temples. He looked haggard and sleep deprived, worn in a way Sherlock had not seen since their run in with the Chinese smugglers. “First time I'm to blame for her falling off the wagon then.” His laughter was self-deprecating. “Oh well, first time for everything.” John twisted his hands together. He looked pained.
Sherlock felt mild panic, worse than the discomfort at Harry's tears. This was why emotions weren't allowed to wedge their roots into the gears of his mind. Emotions injured. Why anyone chose to feel this way was beyond him. Illogical. Worst of all, John was in pain and this (ridiculously) hurt Sherlock too.
He was rubbish at providing comfort, possibly a deficiency rooted at a genetic level. However, he was the only one present to provide it and what he had read about the duties of friends appeared to require such sacrifices. Most disturbing was his realization that John would know if he simply took on a comforting persona as he had (albeit poorly) with Harry.
Cautiously, he lowered himself into the seat across from John and proceeded to carefully separate John’s clenched fingers, which looked physically painful. Sherlock had plenty of experience dealing with physical pain. Fingers separated, he laid John’s damaged arm on the table. Breakfast (toast and tea) was cold, which indicated both that John had been contemplating Harry for over an hour and a half and that he was unlikely to consume it now. Sherlock pushed it out of the way.
He could feel the dull thud of John’s pulse beneath his palm as he gently held John’s wrist steady to carefully open the dressing. There were twenty six neat stitches (twenty interrupted and six vertical mattress) running the length of John’s forearm [1]; he knew this already, of course, but his mind insisted on revisiting the known data (because emotions were stupid and redundant). Luckily, John’s dash across London after Harry hadn’t resulted in any tearing. Although the wound was weeping blood. Nothing serious. Sherlock reminded himself to keep calm. This was not the pool. John was not dead. Sherlock was being ridiculous. Maybe he should endure a meeting with Mycroft if only to discover how his brother managed to balance his intellect and his limited emotions without falling embarrassingly to pieces like this.
John remained silent, watching as Sherlock disappeared into his room to find the additional dressing the A&E had provided, before returning to redress the wound. He sat silently through that too, his expression thoughtful. “Thanks.”
Sherlock shrugged and returned to the sofa with his laptop. He estimated that John would be out the door in half an hour; at Harry’s door in two; and reconciled with her by the end of the day. Their interactions the night before had been too well practiced. Only Harry’s comment had crossed a line the siblings had established years ago. Their ritual and his own recent experiences further supported that this caring lark could only worsen with time.
---
On December 13, 1979, Janice Smith of Edinburgh died at age 35, and would (apparently) be missed by family and friends. She was survived by her son (named in the obituary), her daughter (not named) and her ex-husband (not mentioned). The four hundred character death announcement was the only memento John had kept of his mother. If Sherlock were to judge, this was a ‘bit not good.’
The announcement was based on a newspaper template, which indicated an author motivated to pay for such a message but not motivated to compose something original. Either the author had been too grief-stricken to do so, or had merely been fulfilling an obligation. But not knowing Harriett's name was not a mistake a friend or family member would make. So it had likely been an obligation.
The template had also been abbreviated. No service date, time or location was mentioned, further suggesting that no one would be interested in attending. Janice had no friends. The only family she had burdened herself with was her son, who had obviously resented her if this had been the only thing of hers he kept. Considering the tendency of addiction to run in the family, it didn't take much effort to guess what could have bred resentment in a child and killed a relatively young woman.
Furthermore, although she had died in December in Edinburgh, the obituary was from the January 18, 1980 London Telegraph. Considering how little was known of Janice, perhaps this was the last hope someone had of finding the father and sister of eight-year-old John Watson.
---
Left to his own devices, and lacking further data on the murdered military men, Sherlock spent his not inconsiderable intellect in pursuit of anything that would forestall the onslaught of boredom he could feel creeping within his head. So when Mycroft hinted that perhaps Sherlock might find the strength to extract himself from the sofa and meet him for tea, Sherlock surprised them both by accepting the invitation.
They met in one of Mycroft’s more impersonal offices. Mycroft did so appreciate perfection and routine, so Sherlock’s deviation from the norm obviously vexed him (obvious to Sherlock; possibly even mummy could no longer tell). Sherlock slyly enjoyed the slightly nervous glances Mycroft shot him disguised behind teacups or extravagant gestures. The use of a recently renovated office void of Mycroft’s past presence was rather telling.
Obviously, Mycroft was attempting to unravel the mystery of Sherlock’s acquiescence, while protecting himself from whatever his mercurial brother was trying to accomplish. Boring. Also obvious was that he would fail. While Mycroft certainly played better with others, he was only slightly better than Sherlock at dealing with the havoc emotions played on intellect. He was therefore unsuited to decipher what Sherlock was trying to accomplish, which was unsurprising as Sherlock didn't fully understand it either. So they were even.
Instead, they cryptically alluded to the work that Mycroft was doing; the work Sherlock was doing; how John was doing; and, of course, mummy. Common topics of interest exhausted, Mycroft became increasingly twitchy as they sipped tea in silence. Sherlock was surprised to find himself enjoying the unparalleled level of conversation (not that he didn’t properly enjoy their antagonistic conversations). Mycroft even managed to restrain himself from lording his supremacy over Sherlock (and to think that the restraint had taken only 33 years to establish itself).
For a moment, Sherlock felt like his arms had fallen asleep and were prickling. He felt like he should hug Mycroft, which was ridiculous. If the cocaine addiction hadn’t done it, a display of physical affection would certainly get him committed. He ignored the uncomfortable impulse and the concern that briefly showed in Mycroft’s entire posture.
And then, surprisingly, tea was over. Mycroft had appointments and Sherlock, feeling betrayed by his mind for having had a good time, forgot to make a spiteful comment as Mycroft ate half his biscuit and stood to leave. Inadvertently, they had managed to part on amicable terms, which was unprecedented in Sherlock’s adult life. Full of tea, Sherlock was escorted back to Mycroft’s ubiquitous black car. He felt strangely grateful. If this was representative of normal relations, then he could understand the often lauded psychology encouraging its continuation. Perhaps he would someday raise his concerns with and request advice from Mycroft pertaining to the caring lark. Someday far in the future, of course.
His reflections were interrupted by a text message from Lestrade. Sherlock frowned. Obviously the message couldn't pertain to a new case, as the maladroit circus of Scotland Yard would still be mopping up the recent murders. Something had gone wrong. Obviously, they hadn't found the murderer at his home and could find no clues pertaining to his current location (unsurprising considering their prevailing ineptitude), which suggested that the flat had been cleared.
September 30, 2010 14:01 Been trying to contact John, is he with you?
Sherlock felt something cold clutching at his chest. John was with Harry. Obvious. John had said as much when leaving the flat. Then again, John had intended to visit Sarah when he had been kidnapped by Moriarty. The discomfort that had settled on Sherlock early that morning returned.
Kidnapped or not, the murderer’s home was where Sherlock needed to be. If John were with his sister, then there was nothing for Sherlock to do at Baker Street. If he had been kidnapped, Sherlock would be most useful to John at the murderer’s home, where he could collect the greatest volume of data in the interests of retrieving him.
September 30, 2010 14:02 No. I will meet you at the murderer’s flat. Address? SH
September 30, 2010 14:06 Calls to his phone go directly to voice mail.
September 30, 2010 14:06 Address. SH
September 30, 2010 14:08 Kings Wardrobe.
Sherlock paged the driver from the back seat, requesting a change of destination, even as he typed a message to Harry with one hand. Sherlock hadn't recharged John’s mobile prior to him leaving the flat.
September 30, 2010 14:09 Is JW with you? SH
September 30, 2010 14:10 Not yet. He might be running late. I’ll tell him to call when he gets in. ~Harry
September 30, 2010 14:14 Also, thank you/sorry about yesterday. Might come by later to apologize in person.
At the King’s Wardrobe, Sherlock scanned the empty flat with considerable frustration. He shouldn’t have messaged Harry, especially considering the discomfort it was causing him now. Caring would not help John. In fact, caring would only distract Sherlock from vital observations and hinder the retrieval of John (who might or might not require retrieval). Ridiculously, every observation was coupled with the concern that John was somewhere strapped to explosives, with his throat cut, his neck broken, or shot three times. It was distracting, repetitive and stupid. If this were what the constituents of Scotland Yard routinely felt as they examined crime scenes, it was little wonder that they were so incompetent.
According to Lestrade, the murder was David Alexander, a 27 year old veterinary student. His scholarship wasn't enough to pay the rent for a flat in the center of London, but the trust fund he had inherited when his elder brother was killed by friendly fire in Afghanistan would cover the costs for a year. His work visa, however, was on the verge of expiring.
So he had been running out of time.
The flat showed clear signs of being inhabited by a man living only for a mission. Perhaps he had not initially counted on his success, but he had become surer of himself and had been planning to return to America, hence the increased frequency of murders. Despite the self-confidence, David would likely be willing to die in the act of fulfilling his self-appointed task. He appeared to have little else to live for. No signs of personal belongings or accessories not belonging to the landlord. What little was left was rarely used. Food left in the fridge constituted of bread, milk and eggs. No alcohol. No coffee. Not even tea. The toaster had been used but not the stove or oven. Furthermore, there were no indications of anyone other than David entering and leaving the flat; the only scuff marks on the floor were left by a single pair of thick-soled black army boots. David kept as much company as his victims.
The bathroom was more interesting. Although the personal effects were gone, Sherlock could detect the scent of chemical by-products lingering in the air. Faint burns on the counter and a smudge of calcification on top of the tap (due to a prior hook-up to a rubber hose) indicated the past presence of a distillation apparatus. The chemical scent was faint and difficult to identify with absolute certainty; however, considering that the chemist did not pollute himself with even caffeine and he possessed a comfortable income it was unlikely that the chemicals were recreational. Coupled with the apparatus setup, he had been distilling an anaesthetic agent, which could clearly be useful to a murderer.[2]
Possibly, the unsuspecting mugger from the previous night was a ploy to identify whether an individual made a likely victim. A mugger would be tipped off and David would assess the victim’s performance from a distance. On the one hand, John had certainly shown himself capable of self-defence and therefore would be difficult to incapacitate without chemical assistance. On the other hand, anaesthetic agents appear in toxicology scans, thereby destroying the pretence of suicide or manslaughter. However, while David had taken care to avoid detection in the past, perhaps the time constraint had made the need for concealment less pressing. Sherlock’s phone rang.
September 30, 2010 14:35 Should I be worrying about John? I tried to call him but his voice mail cuts in. Do you think he went back to the flat for something?
Sherlock shoved his mobile into his pocket and stalked past the forensic team, currently rooting through the rubbish (they would find nothing there). Lestrade was waiting for him by the door, wearing a displeased expression. Apparently he was still in a strop over Sherlock’s cool acceptance of John’s inability to answer a dead mobile.
“Have forensics swab around the bathroom sink; he was distilling an anaesthetic agent in the bathroom. He has little interest in surviving this endeavour, so expect him to shoot on sight. Text me with anything new.”
“What about John?”
John was either fine or he needed Sherlock to collect more data. Caring would not help. Especially since he didn’t know that something had actually happened to John. Worrying was not only useless but likely to agitate him and therefore moronic. “What about him?”
Sherlock pushed past Lestrade and walked back to the waiting car. The information at the flat was marginally useful but he would need more to find David. He had to get back to Baker Street and see if John had returned and whether he had any more information on the murderer. Sherlock didn’t bother calling Mrs Hudson as she usually spent her Thursday afternoons out. He was going to put a Samsung charger in every room in the flat.
By the time he arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock could almost smell chlorine in the air. Apparently, he had been rather traumatized at the pool. How positively plebian. Caring really did not help. He quickly let himself into the flat and ran up the 17 stairs to their living room.
“Sherlock, up here!” John sounded unusually upset, which only increased Sherlock’s concern. With adrenalin pumping through his veins and the smell of chlorine burning in the back of his throat he could feel his awareness sharpening even as the periphery faded to a fog. Typical human physiological adrenalin response. In Sherlock’s opinion, the response was a stupid one, sacrificing senses to strengthen others. This was, of course, the reason it took him additional seconds to realize that he was not imagining the chemical smell in the flat, just attributing it to the wrong chemical compound.
The blow that caught him on the back of the head sent him sprawling to the floor seeing stars. Sherlock rolled out of the way of a boot that was coming down to crush his neck, but the movement made him momentarily dizzy and his vision faded around the edges. He could vaguely see David, emaciated and furious, before another blow caught him in the solar plexus. Stupid physiological response. Sherlock bent double even as he felt his neck wrenched to one side and a needle slide into his skin. He froze. Really a broken needle in his neck was probably worse than the anaesthetic he was undoubtedly being administered. Hopefully David was a decent chemist. He could feel cool metal against the side of his head as the needle was removed. A gun. Lovely.
Of course, John might have fit the profile of David’s victims, but Sherlock presented the greatest immediate threat to his operations. Obvious. Sherlock would have laughed but by then the world had gone alarmingly black.
---
December 12, 2009,
JoooooOooooohn, where are you?
December 13, 2009,
You were supposed to call yesterday. Call tonight, ok? I don’t have anything planned. Also, you are making me worry. You have given me enough worry lines for a lifetime!
December 14, 2009,
I missed a long distance call, was that you? Call me back or text me (you can use your e-mail to send texts). I have to go into a meeting, but I am setting the phone to buzz in case you call.
December 14, 2009,
You arsehole. I told you to be careful. I told you. Please please please be okay. I don’t even know if you're getting these messages. They're flying you in in a week. I'll be at the airport waiting. I love you, please be okay.
---
Drugged.
“John, is that you? I’m up here.” Sherlock hears his voice call out. His mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. Wait, his mouth is stuffed with cotton. How the hell is he talking? His thoughts are slow and sluggish. He had definitely been drugged and unconscious for the past hour.
“Wakey wakey.” The sound of a slap resonates across the room. Sherlock hears the pounding of John’s footsteps on the stairs and something else. The right side of his face pounds in time with those footsteps in a steady throb that threatens to become an intolerable headache the moment his body can get over the wrongness and become receptive to pain.
Another slap impacts the left side of his face. “Close the door, don’t try anything stupid.”
The voice grates at him. Right, was going to warn John of something. Sherlock tries to stand only to find himself tied securely to a chair. Shit. He opens his eyes through a supreme force of will. The headache takes that second to fully blossom and for a moment his vision goes white.
John’s would-be murderer stands with a gun pointed at Sherlock’s head. John stands backed against the door of his bedroom; his face is grim, his stance balanced, and his hands steady.
Shit.
So, David is an incredibly talented mimic. Sherlock can understand how he had snared his victims, especially if John’s statement about David being amicable was on. Any friendliness that David may have displayed, however, is burned away. The man is waif thin and seems mostly muscle. He is holding the gun easily in his left hand. His face is hard, his eyes sunken in, tired, his skin waxy. If he had been as empathetic as John, perhaps he would feel badly for a man who seemed so obviously tortured.
He isn't, of course. Instead, Sherlock spends his energy working at the knots on his wrists. The attempt is a failure, apparently David doesn't give a damn if they are cutting off circulation. Sherlock can't feel the knots, let alone undo them.
“What are you doing?” John’s voice is flat, steady. He inches slowly away from the door and to the left wall of the room. David’s smirk grows.
“I think it is pretty self-explanatory. How about you John? Don’t like the door at your back?”
“Not particularly.” It’s a plausible ruse. But John does not demonstrate the extreme paranoia found in PTSD nor is he stupid enough to move away from his only means of escape. So John has a plan. Sherlock eyes the door speculatively. The door handle is stuck turned down. The latch hadn't caught. Someone is holding it down. Interesting.
He eyes John, who had obviously just returned from dinner with Harry. His jacket and shoes are off but why stomp up the stairs? Unless he knew something was wrong and had made his steps obvious in order to mask another sound. John looks calmly at the murderer. “So what is this, revenge on me for not having the decency to kick the bucket in Afghanistan?”
“Close enough. You’re not my usual fare but the police cruiser outside my flat suggests I don’t have a lot of time left, thanks to this shithead.” David tilts his head to indicate Sherlock. He doesn’t take his eyes off John’s furious expression. “See, now we get to play a game with you and your boyfriend.” David reaches into the holster at his side and slides a gun across the floor towards John. “Pick up the gun, John. Good. Now, you've used a revolver before, right? Excellent. I take it that I don’t have to explain the game. There are six chambers. One bullet. Yadda yadda, you go first, pass the gun to me and then I go. Twitch wrong and I will blow his head off. I’m a crack shot, although I really don’t need to be a crack shot from here, do I?” He nudges Sherlock’s head with the Browning. Sherlock feels like he had stepped into a very weird drama. He isn't supposed to be the damsel in distress.
“What’s to stop you from killing him if I die? I mean, what’s to keep him safe?” The wording is strange. John puts an emphasis on the word “safe” which makes little sense unless it is a code.
“Oh. Nothing. I suppose you just get to hope that the bullet gets me.” His smile sharpens. The door John’s room silently swings open a centimetre. Then another.
“Now, cute though your agitation is, I would really rather that we begin.”
“This is ridiculously complicated. Why don’t I just aim at you and pull the trigger until something happens?”
David turns his full attention on John and the gun at Sherlock’s head wavers before he moves it to point at John. David never gets the chance to shoot.
Nearly simultaneously John screams “Harry!” and a gunshot pierces the air. David’s Browning clatters to the floor as he grabs his left arm, hissing in pain.
“Move to touch that gun you motherfucking bastard and I’ll blow your fucking ‘ead off. And don’t think I’ll miss ‘cause I’m a girl.” Harry’s chest is heaving and she looks distressed enough to faint but her hands are rock steady. Very comfortable with a gun. Watsons are fantastically interesting; maybe Sherlock should start a collection.
“Put your hands behind your head. Face the wall. Get on your knees.” John voice is calm and steady as he removes the gag from Sherlock’s mouth. “Harry, watch him; if he so much as twitches shoot him.”
Sherlock is about to point out what a stupid idea that is as the man obviously has no care for his own life, when David, predictably, lunges at Harry. She drops the gun (she isn’t a soldier, so it isn’t surprising though it is highly inconvenient). As David turns toward her, she grabs the nearest solid object and swings it at David’s head. The resounding crack of metal against skull is almost as loud as a gunshot. Harry then drops to her knees, bashing the man’s head with the metal case until John pulls her away.
David lies motionless on the ground, his shoulder and head bleeding. Not dead, judging from his breathing, but he will probably wake to regret lunging at Harry. Harry, who is clutching at John as if he is about to disappear. The hug John is returning looks tight enough to be uncomfortable. His head is buried in her hair and he is making soothing noises as she begins to tremble and hiccup. Sherlock (gratefully ungagged if not untied) stares at the ceiling in discomfort. The scene is prickling at him in the insidious way that travel-related nausea careens around until it explodes. Overall, she is handling the whole situation incredibly poorly, Sherlock feels strangely betrayed until he overhears Harry’s whispers.
“…please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, please don’t…”
And for a frozen moment Sherlock completely understands the motivations of David Alexander.
With strained politeness, he gives them to the count of two hundred. “Harry, tell me that wasn’t John’s Browning you used.” It was definitely a Browning. It looked a lot like John’s but, as John said once, hope springs eternal. If it were, they'd have to call Mycroft before they called Lestrade and Sherlock is very much against asking Mycroft for any favours, even in the face of their unspoken peace treaty.
Harry hiccups again and buries her head in John’s sweater. Apparently not all Watsons are worth collecting.
“It was.”
Mycroft it is. He will surely be relieved to have a reason for Sherlock’s overly solicitous behaviour, although, if Sherlock is lucky, Mycroft might forever puzzle over how Sherlock foresaw the outcome and knew to garner favour in advance. “Lovely.”
“Harry, I have to untie Sherlock before he has a seizure. Point this at that bastard and if he so much as twitches, shoot him.” Both of them know it is unlikely that David will move for another few hours. Being knocked unconscious by blunt force trauma is not something one just snaps out of. Sherlock stops fiddling in the chair even as John detangles himself from Harry and hands her the dropped gun.
“Alright?”
Sherlock sighs in relief John cuts through the ropes to free his wrists, rubbing at the raw skin and trying to ignore the itchy sensation of blood returning to his fingers. “Yes fine.” John snorts while trying to saw through the ropes binding Sherlock’s chest and upper arms to the chair with the knife from his keychain.
“I need something sharper to cut you out of these ropes. I’ll be right back.”
“Pass me my phone first.” Sherlock nudges his head to indicate the mobile he spotted abandoned under the bed. With an eye roll, John hands Sherlock the phone, pats Harry affectionately on her shoulder and jogs down the stairs.
September 30, 2010 16:03 Would call but am presently tied to chair. Send aid as per the SiP affair. SH
September 30, 2010 16:04 What would mummy say?
September 30, 2010 16:05 Stop procrastinating. SH
Text message sent; he and Harriett take in the state of the ruined room. The far wall is spattered with blood and the contents of John’s keepsake box are scattered across the floor like shrapnel. Sherlock tries to nudge his chair over to a single bullet that had rolled across the floor.
“Oh. He kept that.” Harry’s eyes dart from the bullet to David. With some hesitation she stands over the murderer’s prone body.
Sherlock lets his eyes rest on the tell-tale scratches on the casing. “A jammed round from a Colt 1911.”
Harry nods slowly, her eyes finally settling on David. Her voice is a hoarse whisper. “It’s from after my dad’s funeral. We were walking home and some arse tried to mug us. He had a gun, aimed at John and pulled the trigger.” Her mouth quirked into a weak smile. “It jammed. John grabbed the gun from him, cleared it, and shot him in the leg. The police caught the mugger a few hours later. That was a pretty bad day.” Her face seems to crumple, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“He was seventeen.” Harry hiccups again. “They tried to send ‘im in for counselling, but he had to take care of the house and me and he was supposed to start university.” Her hand seemed to tremble before she steeled her nerves. “I told ‘im to go, but he wouldn’t said the mugger deserved it. John’s right, the mugger wasn’t a very nice man, after all.”
She’s babbling. With a sigh, she abandons her post over David and instead sits stiffly on the edge of John’s bed, her legs unsteady. Her hands have begun to tremble and her eyes are wide. Shock. Lovely. And the blanket is downstairs.
Sherlock sighs and wishes that John would come back. He really should not be left to comfort Watsons; it was not good for anyone’s mental and emotional health. Perhaps he could distract Harry from being in shock?
John usually kept the Browning in his room. “John went for coffee with you armed?”
“I told ‘im to carry it, maybe it could keep ‘im safe even if it didn’t help with dad and all that.” Her shoulders begin to shake and she stares at the ceiling in an obvious ploy to stop tears. This crying thing is becoming a daily thing. Sherlock’s discomfort inches another level upward. Will crying keep her out of shock?
He is rescued by the arrival of John. After one brief scan of the room, John has Harry in his arms in a brief hug before herding her down to the living room with a brief order to watch for the police, or whatever it is that Mycroft sees fit to send. His worry lines smooth out as he turns to face his trussed-up flatmate. A smile flicks onto his face instead.
Sherlock decides to intervene before the smile turns into a laugh. “How did you know to have Harry follow you upstairs prepared to shoot?”
John grins, “Apparently your ‘methods’ are rubbing off on me. I heard you asking whether it was me downstairs and since you’re you and can identify shoe size, height and occupation from footsteps, either someone had you at gunpoint or you were high as a kite. Either way, I wasn’t coming anywhere near you without backup.” John seems self-conscious in showing off his observations and quickly turns all his attentions to cutting Sherlock free of the ropes. Personally, Sherlock feels immensely proud. There. John is not an idiot. His powers of deduction appear confined to what Sherlock does or does not do, but that is better than most.
“So how’d he get the drop on you? I saw the syringe but most anaesthetics don’t take effect instantly and it was obviously injected.” John shifts his eyes from the last of the ropes and back to Sherlock. Much better. Unconsciously, John’s hands find Sherlock’s arms and he carefully inspects his wrists, poking at the rope burn and the persistent indentation in the flesh. Sherlock shrugs, extracting his wrists from John’s grasp.
“I didn’t fit his victims' profile and assumed he wouldn't be interested in me.”
John rolls his eyes in response. It’s a gesture he adopted from Sherlock, and seeing it on John’s face warms Sherlock immensely for some reason.
“He knocked me unconscious with a cricket bat when I entered the flat.”
“Shit, Sherlock, you could have told me.” John abandons his contemplation of Sherlock's wrists, stands and gingerly inspects his skull with gentle fingertips. “Do you feel dizzy at all? Nauseous?” Sherlock finds his face dragged up as John turns his head left and right, inspecting pupil dilation. Unnecessary. He has been concussed before and this is a mild concussion at worst. Besides, it doesn’t hurt, he isn’t nauseous, and so this bother is unnecessary. He tells John as much only to be ignored.
“So with all those vaunted powers of observation, you didn’t notice a murderer in the flat carrying a bat? Did it ever occur to you that loads of people would be happy to take a stick to that touted head of yours?” ‘Present company included’ is left unsaid as John’s fingers find the lump at the base of Sherlock’s skull. He must have winced because John narrows his eyes and begins prodding the area in earnest.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I hadn’t thought it would happen to me.” He had, in fact, been sure it would happen to John, just as these things tended to.
John snorts in amusement. “If it had to happen to someone, it would be you, and if it didn’t, you’d be thoroughly put out.“
“And yet, which one of us is routinely kidnapped?”
“Will you two please stop fighting over who gets trussed up more often? I really can’t take it right now.” Harry glares at both of them from the doorway to John’s bedroom. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying, her makeup rubbed off and her hair a mess. She looks quite decimated. “In fact, John, if you ever do this to yourself again, I will kill you myself and then I will kill you.” She points her index finger at Sherlock in an over-dramatic threat, but considering her mad appearance and deadly aim, Sherlock decides to play it safe and says nothing.
“Also, there are men downstairs wanting to speak with Sherlock. Men who are not the police. No - no, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know about the government conspiracy you two run.” With this she slams the door and stalks back to the living room. John responds to Harry’s outburst with a bark of laughter and Sherlock finds, unexpectedly, joining in. He decides that an angry Harry is infinitely more pleasant than a repentant or scared Harry.
John eyes Sherlock speculatively. “So. Alright?”
Sherlock feels like he should be the one asking that. For him, these things come and go. He doesn’t think about consequences and once they occur he doesn’t dwell on them (with a couple of notable exceptions).
He’s alive. John’s alive. He has finally puzzled out why John doesn’t flinch at hostage situations, shrugs off having a gun pointed at him and doesn’t care what Sherlock has stored in the fridge (within reason). He has lived through much worse, which means that, colloquially speaking, he is also a freak and is therefore unlikely to reconsider Sherlock’s candidacy for suitable colleague and potential friend. The only other human being similarly entangled is Mycroft and he hasn't seen fit to leave Sherlock alone for more than three hours at a time since Sherlock was five. Consequently, barring extraneous circumstances, John won’t leave in the foreseeable future.
“How do you feel about bees?” He’s probably being ridiculous, but this is the first time that the caring lark has paid off, and Sherlock can't help the grin tugging at the corners of his lips and the lightness in his chest, which has nothing to do with the lack of ropes.
“Bees?” John gently tips Sherlock’s head back towards the light. “I think we’re going to visit the A&E after all.”
---
<< Previous | Notes | End.
Notes:
[1] Technically, he should probably have waited until evening to change the dressing and I should have added that he washed his hands before performing wound care, but the Grand Master Plot rules all.
[2] Would it be faster/cheaper for David to forge the credentials to buy it? Probably. But he was bored and this was his first foray into the seedy world of crime, so he probably had no idea where to buy it under the table. Plus he obviously has a very “can-do” self-made attitude. In another life he might have sold really cool shit on Etsy.
Giant 'thank you's and internets and kittens and everything to my incredible Beta, disassembly_rsn who should be a professional editor (if he/she is not one already!) considering the l33t skills employed to coax this malformed brainchild into a sample of correct British English. The edits made have spanned grammar, wording, clarity and brit-pick and have really made this chapter into something worth reading. I am humbled by the disassembly_rsn's efforts.
Part: 4/4 A Stranger’s Obituary and a Friend’s Bullet
Warnings: Graphic description of senseless violence without any empathy.
Prompt Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=5813927#t5813927
Notes: squidwhisk.livejournal.com/1355.html. The Drama Llama runs rampant through this fic. Levity might appear here and there. Length: 6,700 in this part (just over 20,000 in total)
---
September 30, 2009,
Clara told me I missed your call. Sorry! I was at work till late late late. In future, ring my mobile instead of the flat.
October 15, 2009,
What part of “ring my mobile” was beyond your superior intellect? Just stop talking to her; you’re making things worse. Actually, stop talking to me too.
October 16, 2009,
I didn’t mean that. Just write back to me okay?
November 1, 2009,
John, I wish you could come home. Things are so bad, I wish you were back. I even miss the fucking cat. Remember how you beat up those blokes when I was 10 and they were making fun of me? They were twice your size, but there you were, defender of justice and all that. And you stood up to dad about my being gay and I really miss you.
November 3, 2009,
Can we just stop talking about it?! I don’t want to fight about it anymore OK? It wasn’t working out and so I left. I am fine. Everything is fine.
---
September 30, 2010 4:01 Hey is John home? I’m worried. He’s not returning my calls. Can I ring you? ~Harry
September 30, 2010 4:58 You’re probably sleeping. Sorry for wasting your time.
September 30, 2010 5:08 Call me. SH
--
Harriett, who had indulged in at least four, but no more than six, ounces of alcohol (for anyone else Sherlock would have placed her level of intoxication at no more than two ounces, but she was an alcoholic) had called for the sole purpose of weeping at him. Sherlock felt momentarily out of his depth. “I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t.” She was babbling. Disconcerted by the depth of her distress, he grasped for some kind of comforting nonsense to throw at her. “I’ve done everything I can. I rang Clara. I just. You have to take care of him; I can’t even care for myself.”
"Harriett..." He weighed how best to phrase 'get a hold of yourself.'
“He’s just like dad. The spitting image. And dad took a bullet to ease his way.” She took a shuddering breath. “I don’t want to find John like that too.”
It was the first time Sherlock’s suspicions about the fate of the late Mr Watson had been explicitly confirmed. He bit back the thrill of a correct observation in favour of the kind of half-hearted soothing noises that Mycroft had made when Sherlock last overdosed (apparently Sherlock's speed dial had been easier to remember than 999). He stumbled over the same repetitive mouthfuls of comforting noise as he crept up stairs to check on John.
Later, he would blame the pounding of his heart on the hour and Harry’s bizarre behaviour; it had nothing to do with John sprawled on the bed sleeping so deeply that for a heartbeat Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was breathing. He was. Of course he was. John’s ignorance of his sister’s texts was symptomatic of the dead mobile clutched loosely in John's left hand. Doubtless out of battery power. For all that John mocked Sherlock's disinterest in household labour, he rarely credited Sherlock’s exclusive role in keeping John’s mobile charged, self-serving though it was.
Sherlock quietly closed the door. “He’s fine Harry. I can see him sleeping. You can stop crying now. Go sleep it off.” She swallowed an additional sob before wishing him good night.
Sherlock did not follow his own advice; his mind replayed how still John had been. His behaviour was ridiculous, but the moment resonated with the scattering of images that had plagued him at the pool, thinking that he had gotten his colleague…no…his friend killed. The thought of John dead felt strange. A possible future consequence he had difficulty grasping. But at the pool and that night with Harry crying in his ear he had grasped it exceptionally well. Mycroft would be so proud. Sherlock resolved not to tell him.
Later that morning, Sherlock woke from where he had inadvertently passed out on the sofa to find John already sitting at the kitchen table, his untouched breakfast between his elbows as his head rested in his hands. He wasn’t crying (thank God, there had been quite enough of that already) but maybe that was because John cried the same way he grieved. The bandages wrapped around John’s forearm were stained a coppery brown and sitting loosely. Physician, heal thyself, indeed.
“Harry is drinking again.”
John didn’t jump. Instead, he deliberately lowered his arms to the table and turned to face Sherlock. His face was expressionless. “Really? How clever of you to deduce that. What gave it away?” The venom was new. Bit not good then. “Was it from how I came home smelling like every pub in a thirty kilometre radius? Was it because she is an alcoholic and it’s only a matter of time before she falls off the wagon for the fourth time? Was it my shoes? Wow me.”
Right. He might have wanted to provoke John the night before, but having achieved his objective, Sherlock found it unpleasant. He shifted uncomfortably, before realizing in horror that he was fidgeting and aborting the movement. “She rang me from her flat last night. She was mildly drunk and concerned about you. I told her you were well and that she should sleep off the effects. I expect she'll want to visit to make amends.”
“Worried about me?” John snorted but the anger seemed to pull into itself, curl into a small cold ball and vanish within the pleasant façade of John Watson, Doctor. “Me? God, what a mess.” John leaned back over his breakfast rubbing his temples. He looked haggard and sleep deprived, worn in a way Sherlock had not seen since their run in with the Chinese smugglers. “First time I'm to blame for her falling off the wagon then.” His laughter was self-deprecating. “Oh well, first time for everything.” John twisted his hands together. He looked pained.
Sherlock felt mild panic, worse than the discomfort at Harry's tears. This was why emotions weren't allowed to wedge their roots into the gears of his mind. Emotions injured. Why anyone chose to feel this way was beyond him. Illogical. Worst of all, John was in pain and this (ridiculously) hurt Sherlock too.
He was rubbish at providing comfort, possibly a deficiency rooted at a genetic level. However, he was the only one present to provide it and what he had read about the duties of friends appeared to require such sacrifices. Most disturbing was his realization that John would know if he simply took on a comforting persona as he had (albeit poorly) with Harry.
Cautiously, he lowered himself into the seat across from John and proceeded to carefully separate John’s clenched fingers, which looked physically painful. Sherlock had plenty of experience dealing with physical pain. Fingers separated, he laid John’s damaged arm on the table. Breakfast (toast and tea) was cold, which indicated both that John had been contemplating Harry for over an hour and a half and that he was unlikely to consume it now. Sherlock pushed it out of the way.
He could feel the dull thud of John’s pulse beneath his palm as he gently held John’s wrist steady to carefully open the dressing. There were twenty six neat stitches (twenty interrupted and six vertical mattress) running the length of John’s forearm [1]; he knew this already, of course, but his mind insisted on revisiting the known data (because emotions were stupid and redundant). Luckily, John’s dash across London after Harry hadn’t resulted in any tearing. Although the wound was weeping blood. Nothing serious. Sherlock reminded himself to keep calm. This was not the pool. John was not dead. Sherlock was being ridiculous. Maybe he should endure a meeting with Mycroft if only to discover how his brother managed to balance his intellect and his limited emotions without falling embarrassingly to pieces like this.
John remained silent, watching as Sherlock disappeared into his room to find the additional dressing the A&E had provided, before returning to redress the wound. He sat silently through that too, his expression thoughtful. “Thanks.”
Sherlock shrugged and returned to the sofa with his laptop. He estimated that John would be out the door in half an hour; at Harry’s door in two; and reconciled with her by the end of the day. Their interactions the night before had been too well practiced. Only Harry’s comment had crossed a line the siblings had established years ago. Their ritual and his own recent experiences further supported that this caring lark could only worsen with time.
---
On December 13, 1979, Janice Smith of Edinburgh died at age 35, and would (apparently) be missed by family and friends. She was survived by her son (named in the obituary), her daughter (not named) and her ex-husband (not mentioned). The four hundred character death announcement was the only memento John had kept of his mother. If Sherlock were to judge, this was a ‘bit not good.’
The announcement was based on a newspaper template, which indicated an author motivated to pay for such a message but not motivated to compose something original. Either the author had been too grief-stricken to do so, or had merely been fulfilling an obligation. But not knowing Harriett's name was not a mistake a friend or family member would make. So it had likely been an obligation.
The template had also been abbreviated. No service date, time or location was mentioned, further suggesting that no one would be interested in attending. Janice had no friends. The only family she had burdened herself with was her son, who had obviously resented her if this had been the only thing of hers he kept. Considering the tendency of addiction to run in the family, it didn't take much effort to guess what could have bred resentment in a child and killed a relatively young woman.
Furthermore, although she had died in December in Edinburgh, the obituary was from the January 18, 1980 London Telegraph. Considering how little was known of Janice, perhaps this was the last hope someone had of finding the father and sister of eight-year-old John Watson.
---
Left to his own devices, and lacking further data on the murdered military men, Sherlock spent his not inconsiderable intellect in pursuit of anything that would forestall the onslaught of boredom he could feel creeping within his head. So when Mycroft hinted that perhaps Sherlock might find the strength to extract himself from the sofa and meet him for tea, Sherlock surprised them both by accepting the invitation.
They met in one of Mycroft’s more impersonal offices. Mycroft did so appreciate perfection and routine, so Sherlock’s deviation from the norm obviously vexed him (obvious to Sherlock; possibly even mummy could no longer tell). Sherlock slyly enjoyed the slightly nervous glances Mycroft shot him disguised behind teacups or extravagant gestures. The use of a recently renovated office void of Mycroft’s past presence was rather telling.
Obviously, Mycroft was attempting to unravel the mystery of Sherlock’s acquiescence, while protecting himself from whatever his mercurial brother was trying to accomplish. Boring. Also obvious was that he would fail. While Mycroft certainly played better with others, he was only slightly better than Sherlock at dealing with the havoc emotions played on intellect. He was therefore unsuited to decipher what Sherlock was trying to accomplish, which was unsurprising as Sherlock didn't fully understand it either. So they were even.
Instead, they cryptically alluded to the work that Mycroft was doing; the work Sherlock was doing; how John was doing; and, of course, mummy. Common topics of interest exhausted, Mycroft became increasingly twitchy as they sipped tea in silence. Sherlock was surprised to find himself enjoying the unparalleled level of conversation (not that he didn’t properly enjoy their antagonistic conversations). Mycroft even managed to restrain himself from lording his supremacy over Sherlock (and to think that the restraint had taken only 33 years to establish itself).
For a moment, Sherlock felt like his arms had fallen asleep and were prickling. He felt like he should hug Mycroft, which was ridiculous. If the cocaine addiction hadn’t done it, a display of physical affection would certainly get him committed. He ignored the uncomfortable impulse and the concern that briefly showed in Mycroft’s entire posture.
And then, surprisingly, tea was over. Mycroft had appointments and Sherlock, feeling betrayed by his mind for having had a good time, forgot to make a spiteful comment as Mycroft ate half his biscuit and stood to leave. Inadvertently, they had managed to part on amicable terms, which was unprecedented in Sherlock’s adult life. Full of tea, Sherlock was escorted back to Mycroft’s ubiquitous black car. He felt strangely grateful. If this was representative of normal relations, then he could understand the often lauded psychology encouraging its continuation. Perhaps he would someday raise his concerns with and request advice from Mycroft pertaining to the caring lark. Someday far in the future, of course.
His reflections were interrupted by a text message from Lestrade. Sherlock frowned. Obviously the message couldn't pertain to a new case, as the maladroit circus of Scotland Yard would still be mopping up the recent murders. Something had gone wrong. Obviously, they hadn't found the murderer at his home and could find no clues pertaining to his current location (unsurprising considering their prevailing ineptitude), which suggested that the flat had been cleared.
September 30, 2010 14:01 Been trying to contact John, is he with you?
Sherlock felt something cold clutching at his chest. John was with Harry. Obvious. John had said as much when leaving the flat. Then again, John had intended to visit Sarah when he had been kidnapped by Moriarty. The discomfort that had settled on Sherlock early that morning returned.
Kidnapped or not, the murderer’s home was where Sherlock needed to be. If John were with his sister, then there was nothing for Sherlock to do at Baker Street. If he had been kidnapped, Sherlock would be most useful to John at the murderer’s home, where he could collect the greatest volume of data in the interests of retrieving him.
September 30, 2010 14:02 No. I will meet you at the murderer’s flat. Address? SH
September 30, 2010 14:06 Calls to his phone go directly to voice mail.
September 30, 2010 14:06 Address. SH
September 30, 2010 14:08 Kings Wardrobe.
Sherlock paged the driver from the back seat, requesting a change of destination, even as he typed a message to Harry with one hand. Sherlock hadn't recharged John’s mobile prior to him leaving the flat.
September 30, 2010 14:09 Is JW with you? SH
September 30, 2010 14:10 Not yet. He might be running late. I’ll tell him to call when he gets in. ~Harry
September 30, 2010 14:14 Also, thank you/sorry about yesterday. Might come by later to apologize in person.
At the King’s Wardrobe, Sherlock scanned the empty flat with considerable frustration. He shouldn’t have messaged Harry, especially considering the discomfort it was causing him now. Caring would not help John. In fact, caring would only distract Sherlock from vital observations and hinder the retrieval of John (who might or might not require retrieval). Ridiculously, every observation was coupled with the concern that John was somewhere strapped to explosives, with his throat cut, his neck broken, or shot three times. It was distracting, repetitive and stupid. If this were what the constituents of Scotland Yard routinely felt as they examined crime scenes, it was little wonder that they were so incompetent.
According to Lestrade, the murder was David Alexander, a 27 year old veterinary student. His scholarship wasn't enough to pay the rent for a flat in the center of London, but the trust fund he had inherited when his elder brother was killed by friendly fire in Afghanistan would cover the costs for a year. His work visa, however, was on the verge of expiring.
So he had been running out of time.
The flat showed clear signs of being inhabited by a man living only for a mission. Perhaps he had not initially counted on his success, but he had become surer of himself and had been planning to return to America, hence the increased frequency of murders. Despite the self-confidence, David would likely be willing to die in the act of fulfilling his self-appointed task. He appeared to have little else to live for. No signs of personal belongings or accessories not belonging to the landlord. What little was left was rarely used. Food left in the fridge constituted of bread, milk and eggs. No alcohol. No coffee. Not even tea. The toaster had been used but not the stove or oven. Furthermore, there were no indications of anyone other than David entering and leaving the flat; the only scuff marks on the floor were left by a single pair of thick-soled black army boots. David kept as much company as his victims.
The bathroom was more interesting. Although the personal effects were gone, Sherlock could detect the scent of chemical by-products lingering in the air. Faint burns on the counter and a smudge of calcification on top of the tap (due to a prior hook-up to a rubber hose) indicated the past presence of a distillation apparatus. The chemical scent was faint and difficult to identify with absolute certainty; however, considering that the chemist did not pollute himself with even caffeine and he possessed a comfortable income it was unlikely that the chemicals were recreational. Coupled with the apparatus setup, he had been distilling an anaesthetic agent, which could clearly be useful to a murderer.[2]
Possibly, the unsuspecting mugger from the previous night was a ploy to identify whether an individual made a likely victim. A mugger would be tipped off and David would assess the victim’s performance from a distance. On the one hand, John had certainly shown himself capable of self-defence and therefore would be difficult to incapacitate without chemical assistance. On the other hand, anaesthetic agents appear in toxicology scans, thereby destroying the pretence of suicide or manslaughter. However, while David had taken care to avoid detection in the past, perhaps the time constraint had made the need for concealment less pressing. Sherlock’s phone rang.
September 30, 2010 14:35 Should I be worrying about John? I tried to call him but his voice mail cuts in. Do you think he went back to the flat for something?
Sherlock shoved his mobile into his pocket and stalked past the forensic team, currently rooting through the rubbish (they would find nothing there). Lestrade was waiting for him by the door, wearing a displeased expression. Apparently he was still in a strop over Sherlock’s cool acceptance of John’s inability to answer a dead mobile.
“Have forensics swab around the bathroom sink; he was distilling an anaesthetic agent in the bathroom. He has little interest in surviving this endeavour, so expect him to shoot on sight. Text me with anything new.”
“What about John?”
John was either fine or he needed Sherlock to collect more data. Caring would not help. Especially since he didn’t know that something had actually happened to John. Worrying was not only useless but likely to agitate him and therefore moronic. “What about him?”
Sherlock pushed past Lestrade and walked back to the waiting car. The information at the flat was marginally useful but he would need more to find David. He had to get back to Baker Street and see if John had returned and whether he had any more information on the murderer. Sherlock didn’t bother calling Mrs Hudson as she usually spent her Thursday afternoons out. He was going to put a Samsung charger in every room in the flat.
By the time he arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock could almost smell chlorine in the air. Apparently, he had been rather traumatized at the pool. How positively plebian. Caring really did not help. He quickly let himself into the flat and ran up the 17 stairs to their living room.
“Sherlock, up here!” John sounded unusually upset, which only increased Sherlock’s concern. With adrenalin pumping through his veins and the smell of chlorine burning in the back of his throat he could feel his awareness sharpening even as the periphery faded to a fog. Typical human physiological adrenalin response. In Sherlock’s opinion, the response was a stupid one, sacrificing senses to strengthen others. This was, of course, the reason it took him additional seconds to realize that he was not imagining the chemical smell in the flat, just attributing it to the wrong chemical compound.
The blow that caught him on the back of the head sent him sprawling to the floor seeing stars. Sherlock rolled out of the way of a boot that was coming down to crush his neck, but the movement made him momentarily dizzy and his vision faded around the edges. He could vaguely see David, emaciated and furious, before another blow caught him in the solar plexus. Stupid physiological response. Sherlock bent double even as he felt his neck wrenched to one side and a needle slide into his skin. He froze. Really a broken needle in his neck was probably worse than the anaesthetic he was undoubtedly being administered. Hopefully David was a decent chemist. He could feel cool metal against the side of his head as the needle was removed. A gun. Lovely.
Of course, John might have fit the profile of David’s victims, but Sherlock presented the greatest immediate threat to his operations. Obvious. Sherlock would have laughed but by then the world had gone alarmingly black.
---
December 12, 2009,
JoooooOooooohn, where are you?
December 13, 2009,
You were supposed to call yesterday. Call tonight, ok? I don’t have anything planned. Also, you are making me worry. You have given me enough worry lines for a lifetime!
December 14, 2009,
I missed a long distance call, was that you? Call me back or text me (you can use your e-mail to send texts). I have to go into a meeting, but I am setting the phone to buzz in case you call.
December 14, 2009,
You arsehole. I told you to be careful. I told you. Please please please be okay. I don’t even know if you're getting these messages. They're flying you in in a week. I'll be at the airport waiting. I love you, please be okay.
---
Drugged.
“John, is that you? I’m up here.” Sherlock hears his voice call out. His mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. Wait, his mouth is stuffed with cotton. How the hell is he talking? His thoughts are slow and sluggish. He had definitely been drugged and unconscious for the past hour.
“Wakey wakey.” The sound of a slap resonates across the room. Sherlock hears the pounding of John’s footsteps on the stairs and something else. The right side of his face pounds in time with those footsteps in a steady throb that threatens to become an intolerable headache the moment his body can get over the wrongness and become receptive to pain.
Another slap impacts the left side of his face. “Close the door, don’t try anything stupid.”
The voice grates at him. Right, was going to warn John of something. Sherlock tries to stand only to find himself tied securely to a chair. Shit. He opens his eyes through a supreme force of will. The headache takes that second to fully blossom and for a moment his vision goes white.
John’s would-be murderer stands with a gun pointed at Sherlock’s head. John stands backed against the door of his bedroom; his face is grim, his stance balanced, and his hands steady.
Shit.
So, David is an incredibly talented mimic. Sherlock can understand how he had snared his victims, especially if John’s statement about David being amicable was on. Any friendliness that David may have displayed, however, is burned away. The man is waif thin and seems mostly muscle. He is holding the gun easily in his left hand. His face is hard, his eyes sunken in, tired, his skin waxy. If he had been as empathetic as John, perhaps he would feel badly for a man who seemed so obviously tortured.
He isn't, of course. Instead, Sherlock spends his energy working at the knots on his wrists. The attempt is a failure, apparently David doesn't give a damn if they are cutting off circulation. Sherlock can't feel the knots, let alone undo them.
“What are you doing?” John’s voice is flat, steady. He inches slowly away from the door and to the left wall of the room. David’s smirk grows.
“I think it is pretty self-explanatory. How about you John? Don’t like the door at your back?”
“Not particularly.” It’s a plausible ruse. But John does not demonstrate the extreme paranoia found in PTSD nor is he stupid enough to move away from his only means of escape. So John has a plan. Sherlock eyes the door speculatively. The door handle is stuck turned down. The latch hadn't caught. Someone is holding it down. Interesting.
He eyes John, who had obviously just returned from dinner with Harry. His jacket and shoes are off but why stomp up the stairs? Unless he knew something was wrong and had made his steps obvious in order to mask another sound. John looks calmly at the murderer. “So what is this, revenge on me for not having the decency to kick the bucket in Afghanistan?”
“Close enough. You’re not my usual fare but the police cruiser outside my flat suggests I don’t have a lot of time left, thanks to this shithead.” David tilts his head to indicate Sherlock. He doesn’t take his eyes off John’s furious expression. “See, now we get to play a game with you and your boyfriend.” David reaches into the holster at his side and slides a gun across the floor towards John. “Pick up the gun, John. Good. Now, you've used a revolver before, right? Excellent. I take it that I don’t have to explain the game. There are six chambers. One bullet. Yadda yadda, you go first, pass the gun to me and then I go. Twitch wrong and I will blow his head off. I’m a crack shot, although I really don’t need to be a crack shot from here, do I?” He nudges Sherlock’s head with the Browning. Sherlock feels like he had stepped into a very weird drama. He isn't supposed to be the damsel in distress.
“What’s to stop you from killing him if I die? I mean, what’s to keep him safe?” The wording is strange. John puts an emphasis on the word “safe” which makes little sense unless it is a code.
“Oh. Nothing. I suppose you just get to hope that the bullet gets me.” His smile sharpens. The door John’s room silently swings open a centimetre. Then another.
“Now, cute though your agitation is, I would really rather that we begin.”
“This is ridiculously complicated. Why don’t I just aim at you and pull the trigger until something happens?”
David turns his full attention on John and the gun at Sherlock’s head wavers before he moves it to point at John. David never gets the chance to shoot.
Nearly simultaneously John screams “Harry!” and a gunshot pierces the air. David’s Browning clatters to the floor as he grabs his left arm, hissing in pain.
“Move to touch that gun you motherfucking bastard and I’ll blow your fucking ‘ead off. And don’t think I’ll miss ‘cause I’m a girl.” Harry’s chest is heaving and she looks distressed enough to faint but her hands are rock steady. Very comfortable with a gun. Watsons are fantastically interesting; maybe Sherlock should start a collection.
“Put your hands behind your head. Face the wall. Get on your knees.” John voice is calm and steady as he removes the gag from Sherlock’s mouth. “Harry, watch him; if he so much as twitches shoot him.”
Sherlock is about to point out what a stupid idea that is as the man obviously has no care for his own life, when David, predictably, lunges at Harry. She drops the gun (she isn’t a soldier, so it isn’t surprising though it is highly inconvenient). As David turns toward her, she grabs the nearest solid object and swings it at David’s head. The resounding crack of metal against skull is almost as loud as a gunshot. Harry then drops to her knees, bashing the man’s head with the metal case until John pulls her away.
David lies motionless on the ground, his shoulder and head bleeding. Not dead, judging from his breathing, but he will probably wake to regret lunging at Harry. Harry, who is clutching at John as if he is about to disappear. The hug John is returning looks tight enough to be uncomfortable. His head is buried in her hair and he is making soothing noises as she begins to tremble and hiccup. Sherlock (gratefully ungagged if not untied) stares at the ceiling in discomfort. The scene is prickling at him in the insidious way that travel-related nausea careens around until it explodes. Overall, she is handling the whole situation incredibly poorly, Sherlock feels strangely betrayed until he overhears Harry’s whispers.
“…please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, please don’t…”
And for a frozen moment Sherlock completely understands the motivations of David Alexander.
With strained politeness, he gives them to the count of two hundred. “Harry, tell me that wasn’t John’s Browning you used.” It was definitely a Browning. It looked a lot like John’s but, as John said once, hope springs eternal. If it were, they'd have to call Mycroft before they called Lestrade and Sherlock is very much against asking Mycroft for any favours, even in the face of their unspoken peace treaty.
Harry hiccups again and buries her head in John’s sweater. Apparently not all Watsons are worth collecting.
“It was.”
Mycroft it is. He will surely be relieved to have a reason for Sherlock’s overly solicitous behaviour, although, if Sherlock is lucky, Mycroft might forever puzzle over how Sherlock foresaw the outcome and knew to garner favour in advance. “Lovely.”
“Harry, I have to untie Sherlock before he has a seizure. Point this at that bastard and if he so much as twitches, shoot him.” Both of them know it is unlikely that David will move for another few hours. Being knocked unconscious by blunt force trauma is not something one just snaps out of. Sherlock stops fiddling in the chair even as John detangles himself from Harry and hands her the dropped gun.
“Alright?”
Sherlock sighs in relief John cuts through the ropes to free his wrists, rubbing at the raw skin and trying to ignore the itchy sensation of blood returning to his fingers. “Yes fine.” John snorts while trying to saw through the ropes binding Sherlock’s chest and upper arms to the chair with the knife from his keychain.
“I need something sharper to cut you out of these ropes. I’ll be right back.”
“Pass me my phone first.” Sherlock nudges his head to indicate the mobile he spotted abandoned under the bed. With an eye roll, John hands Sherlock the phone, pats Harry affectionately on her shoulder and jogs down the stairs.
September 30, 2010 16:03 Would call but am presently tied to chair. Send aid as per the SiP affair. SH
September 30, 2010 16:04 What would mummy say?
September 30, 2010 16:05 Stop procrastinating. SH
Text message sent; he and Harriett take in the state of the ruined room. The far wall is spattered with blood and the contents of John’s keepsake box are scattered across the floor like shrapnel. Sherlock tries to nudge his chair over to a single bullet that had rolled across the floor.
“Oh. He kept that.” Harry’s eyes dart from the bullet to David. With some hesitation she stands over the murderer’s prone body.
Sherlock lets his eyes rest on the tell-tale scratches on the casing. “A jammed round from a Colt 1911.”
Harry nods slowly, her eyes finally settling on David. Her voice is a hoarse whisper. “It’s from after my dad’s funeral. We were walking home and some arse tried to mug us. He had a gun, aimed at John and pulled the trigger.” Her mouth quirked into a weak smile. “It jammed. John grabbed the gun from him, cleared it, and shot him in the leg. The police caught the mugger a few hours later. That was a pretty bad day.” Her face seems to crumple, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“He was seventeen.” Harry hiccups again. “They tried to send ‘im in for counselling, but he had to take care of the house and me and he was supposed to start university.” Her hand seemed to tremble before she steeled her nerves. “I told ‘im to go, but he wouldn’t said the mugger deserved it. John’s right, the mugger wasn’t a very nice man, after all.”
She’s babbling. With a sigh, she abandons her post over David and instead sits stiffly on the edge of John’s bed, her legs unsteady. Her hands have begun to tremble and her eyes are wide. Shock. Lovely. And the blanket is downstairs.
Sherlock sighs and wishes that John would come back. He really should not be left to comfort Watsons; it was not good for anyone’s mental and emotional health. Perhaps he could distract Harry from being in shock?
John usually kept the Browning in his room. “John went for coffee with you armed?”
“I told ‘im to carry it, maybe it could keep ‘im safe even if it didn’t help with dad and all that.” Her shoulders begin to shake and she stares at the ceiling in an obvious ploy to stop tears. This crying thing is becoming a daily thing. Sherlock’s discomfort inches another level upward. Will crying keep her out of shock?
He is rescued by the arrival of John. After one brief scan of the room, John has Harry in his arms in a brief hug before herding her down to the living room with a brief order to watch for the police, or whatever it is that Mycroft sees fit to send. His worry lines smooth out as he turns to face his trussed-up flatmate. A smile flicks onto his face instead.
Sherlock decides to intervene before the smile turns into a laugh. “How did you know to have Harry follow you upstairs prepared to shoot?”
John grins, “Apparently your ‘methods’ are rubbing off on me. I heard you asking whether it was me downstairs and since you’re you and can identify shoe size, height and occupation from footsteps, either someone had you at gunpoint or you were high as a kite. Either way, I wasn’t coming anywhere near you without backup.” John seems self-conscious in showing off his observations and quickly turns all his attentions to cutting Sherlock free of the ropes. Personally, Sherlock feels immensely proud. There. John is not an idiot. His powers of deduction appear confined to what Sherlock does or does not do, but that is better than most.
“So how’d he get the drop on you? I saw the syringe but most anaesthetics don’t take effect instantly and it was obviously injected.” John shifts his eyes from the last of the ropes and back to Sherlock. Much better. Unconsciously, John’s hands find Sherlock’s arms and he carefully inspects his wrists, poking at the rope burn and the persistent indentation in the flesh. Sherlock shrugs, extracting his wrists from John’s grasp.
“I didn’t fit his victims' profile and assumed he wouldn't be interested in me.”
John rolls his eyes in response. It’s a gesture he adopted from Sherlock, and seeing it on John’s face warms Sherlock immensely for some reason.
“He knocked me unconscious with a cricket bat when I entered the flat.”
“Shit, Sherlock, you could have told me.” John abandons his contemplation of Sherlock's wrists, stands and gingerly inspects his skull with gentle fingertips. “Do you feel dizzy at all? Nauseous?” Sherlock finds his face dragged up as John turns his head left and right, inspecting pupil dilation. Unnecessary. He has been concussed before and this is a mild concussion at worst. Besides, it doesn’t hurt, he isn’t nauseous, and so this bother is unnecessary. He tells John as much only to be ignored.
“So with all those vaunted powers of observation, you didn’t notice a murderer in the flat carrying a bat? Did it ever occur to you that loads of people would be happy to take a stick to that touted head of yours?” ‘Present company included’ is left unsaid as John’s fingers find the lump at the base of Sherlock’s skull. He must have winced because John narrows his eyes and begins prodding the area in earnest.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I hadn’t thought it would happen to me.” He had, in fact, been sure it would happen to John, just as these things tended to.
John snorts in amusement. “If it had to happen to someone, it would be you, and if it didn’t, you’d be thoroughly put out.“
“And yet, which one of us is routinely kidnapped?”
“Will you two please stop fighting over who gets trussed up more often? I really can’t take it right now.” Harry glares at both of them from the doorway to John’s bedroom. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying, her makeup rubbed off and her hair a mess. She looks quite decimated. “In fact, John, if you ever do this to yourself again, I will kill you myself and then I will kill you.” She points her index finger at Sherlock in an over-dramatic threat, but considering her mad appearance and deadly aim, Sherlock decides to play it safe and says nothing.
“Also, there are men downstairs wanting to speak with Sherlock. Men who are not the police. No - no, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know about the government conspiracy you two run.” With this she slams the door and stalks back to the living room. John responds to Harry’s outburst with a bark of laughter and Sherlock finds, unexpectedly, joining in. He decides that an angry Harry is infinitely more pleasant than a repentant or scared Harry.
John eyes Sherlock speculatively. “So. Alright?”
Sherlock feels like he should be the one asking that. For him, these things come and go. He doesn’t think about consequences and once they occur he doesn’t dwell on them (with a couple of notable exceptions).
He’s alive. John’s alive. He has finally puzzled out why John doesn’t flinch at hostage situations, shrugs off having a gun pointed at him and doesn’t care what Sherlock has stored in the fridge (within reason). He has lived through much worse, which means that, colloquially speaking, he is also a freak and is therefore unlikely to reconsider Sherlock’s candidacy for suitable colleague and potential friend. The only other human being similarly entangled is Mycroft and he hasn't seen fit to leave Sherlock alone for more than three hours at a time since Sherlock was five. Consequently, barring extraneous circumstances, John won’t leave in the foreseeable future.
“How do you feel about bees?” He’s probably being ridiculous, but this is the first time that the caring lark has paid off, and Sherlock can't help the grin tugging at the corners of his lips and the lightness in his chest, which has nothing to do with the lack of ropes.
“Bees?” John gently tips Sherlock’s head back towards the light. “I think we’re going to visit the A&E after all.”
---
<< Previous | Notes | End.
Notes:
[1] Technically, he should probably have waited until evening to change the dressing and I should have added that he washed his hands before performing wound care, but the Grand Master Plot rules all.
[2] Would it be faster/cheaper for David to forge the credentials to buy it? Probably. But he was bored and this was his first foray into the seedy world of crime, so he probably had no idea where to buy it under the table. Plus he obviously has a very “can-do” self-made attitude. In another life he might have sold really cool shit on Etsy.
Giant 'thank you's and internets and kittens and everything to my incredible Beta, disassembly_rsn who should be a professional editor (if he/she is not one already!) considering the l33t skills employed to coax this malformed brainchild into a sample of correct British English. The edits made have spanned grammar, wording, clarity and brit-pick and have really made this chapter into something worth reading. I am humbled by the disassembly_rsn's efforts.