Afterwards (Part 3/7)
I'm back with more writing. Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews I've gotten! This is such a delightful community.
Title: Afterwards
Pairing: John/Sherlock friendship, maybe squinty if you prefer it that way.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, some others
Rating: PG for language and some violence. Very mild.
Warnings: Spoilers for the Great Game
Summary: Sherlock is presumed dead after the events at Reichenbach Pool, and John Watson is the sole resident in 221b Baker St. A murder case falls into his hands, and he receives help from an anonymous texter.
Words: 2813 (Out of about 15,000 in 7 chapters.)
So John Watson (and his missing colleague) went to the Carting house. His first impulse was to interrogate the wife. Lestrade had said that she was the one who brought the suspicious death to their attention.
Carol Carting was a small, mousy woman. She seemed very frightened of him when he opened the door and backed away with a whimper. “You’re with the police.” She said. “You’re coming here to question me, too.”
“Well, um, actually,” John began. “I’m actually not with the police.” He held out his hand. “I’m John Watson, and I believe you.” She relaxed considerably, held the door wider and burst into tears.
“Come in,” She managed to choke out. “It’s just- Oh, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
He followed her in, nearly tripping on a pile of children’s toys in front of the door. She sat him down in the kitchen and joined him, looking anxious. “You say you believe me.” There was an obvious tremor in her voice. “Why?”
John smiled sadly. “I’d love to tell you everything, Mrs. Carting.” She choked. “But first,” he continued quickly, “I think I’d better put some tea on. Make everything better, don’t you think?” She sniffled. “Trust me,” John continued. “I’m a doctor.”
She nodded and gestured to the kettle on the stovetop. John nodded, got up, and went about the business of putting on the water.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Mrs. Carting started as he sat back down. “He- he was everything. My life. With him gone the house is so empty. And Henry’s lost his dad. Have you ever had a whole blown in your life that is so huge and irreparable that staying in life feels like a hollow tunnel?”
Yes.
“Mrs. Carting, everyone has suffered. I was a soldier, stationed in Afghanistan. I’ve lost friends there-” and I’m not sure how to call what I’m feeling now “- and I know what it is to suffer. I’m here because I want to help in any way that I can. Please, can you tell me why you believe that your husband’s death was not an accident?”
She looked as if she were about to begin sobbing again, but thankfully the cheery whistle of the teakettle interrupted. Once reseated and with a warm cup of Earl Grey in her hand, Mrs. Carting seemed to be much more confident.
“He was never sick, my Geoff. He was a huge fan of exercise and healthy eating, all part of the anti-drug campaign, you know. And then, he suddenly fell ill. Of course, it was a rainy day he came home, so at first I thought it was just a cold. But then the next day he was so much worse, and he could barely speak to me. I took him to the hospital, but no one knew anything. They couldn’t tell me what was wrong or why he died. He wasn’t sick. Nothing worked. None of their treatments.” She inhaled deeply. “He died less than a week later.
“Dr. Watson, I’m sure you could tell me a thousand ways something like that could happen to a man. But he wasn’t sick before. It wasn’t like those immuno-deficiency diseases you hear about where he’s suddenly sick and dies. He didn’t have a tumor or anything. My healthy Geoff just died. The thing is, it was right as he was preparing to go to one of his contacts to talk about a harder crackdown on the illegal drug laws.”
“Was it a breakthrough? Something major?”
“Oh yes,” She said, eyes wide. “He’d manage to arrange a meeting with a very influential individual. He wouldn’t talk about anything else. See, my Geoff had a brother. When they were younger, the brother fell in with the wrong group, and it ended terribly. He stopped going to school, never talked to anyone, and he lost so much weight, my Geoff said. One day, he left the house and came back later so out of his mind and trembling that their mother wanted to rush him to the hospital. Mike wouldn’t have it, and locked himself in his room. It wasn’t ten minutes later that the police came knocking. There was a man killed, they said. A drug dealer. Turns out Mike had killed him when he couldn’t afford to buy more of what was keeping him going. Killed him and stolen it. They carted him off to jail, and gave him life. Mike couldn’t make it. He died six months later. Geoff swore it was the drugs. It’s what got him so caught up in this. He was determined. And now… he had his chance to redeem his brother and free the rest of them, as he called it.
“I can’t tell you any more than that, Doctor. But I know in my heart that he was killed. Even if he were to get sick, my Geoff wouldn’t just up and die. Not like that. Not when he was so close.”
John sighed. He had heard similar stories of course, and he wasn’t unfamiliar with an addiction breaking up a family. “I believe you,” He sighed. “It’s just going to be very hard to prove. There has to be evidence somewhere. Can you give me the name of the official he was going to be meeting?”
“I’ll give you the number.” She returned a minute later with a piece of paper. “Just say you’re calling on behalf of Geoff. They should put you through to the right man.”
“Thanks very much.” He nodded and headed out to the street to hail a cab.
“Thank you, Doctor Watson.”
He doesn’t notice the man watching him from the opposite corner.
--------
“Well,” John announced when he got back to the flat. “I’m back. I don’t suppose anyone bought the milk.” (No, the flat answered.)
He cast aside his cane and flung himself on the couch, feeling much livelier than he had the past few days. “Well, at least I’ve gotten somewhere.”
(What did you find? Asked the flat.)
“I’ve got a number, but not much else. Everything points to natural causes. It could have been blood poisoning, but the tests were negative, and the biopsies and necropsies simply showed rapid cell death. Nothing present.”
(How unfortunate, said the flat. You do have the number though. Perhaps you should call.)
John glanced over the card. It was definitely professional looking, although extremely non-descript. No real names, mostly promises, and a suggestion the government was involved. “Hopefully a better lead than it looks.”
(You won’t know until you try, the flat said cheerily.)
John threw his head back. “My God, first my leg and now my mind. I’m talking to an empty flat.”
(At least I’m not a skull, the flat said defensively, but then fell silent.)
He pulled out his phone and entered the number. The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice, very smooth.
“Um, yes, hi.” John babbled. “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Geoff Carting.”
There was a sigh on the other end. “I’m sorry, sir, but people have been calling for Mr. Carting all day, and Mr. Holmes is incredibly busy and doesn't have time for all the journalists.”
Mr. Holmes? John’s breath sped up. “M-Mr. Holmes?” He repeated after the voice. “Please- don’t hang up. Tell him it’s John calling. John Watson.”
“Ugh, one moment, Mr. Watson.”
“Doctor.” John corrected, but he guessed the other voice had already set down the phone. The hold music came on, a wearily classical tune, with fuzzes and cackles every other second.
“They’ve put me on hold,” He sighed to the flat.
(It figures, said the flat. That’s what you get when you call anywhere official.)
Mr. Holmes. John knew it couldn’t be him. “As if he’d work for a corporation like this. Far to dull for him, especially after dying.”
(Definitely, agreed the flat.)
But this was definitely something. A mysterious murder and an unknown contact named Holmes.“But whoever this ‘Holmes’ is, it could be a lead.”
(Or it could just be one of the many people with the last name “Holmes” that live in the London area, the flat concluded.)
“Yes, well, let’s hope it’s not one of those.”
The music continued for another four and a half minutes before a wearied “Hello?” picked up the phone.
“Um, yes, hi. This is John Watson, I’m calling for Mr. Geoff Carting. Is this Mr. Holmes?”
“So you’re John Watson, then?”
“Um, yes, Dr. John Watson.”
“I’ve had seven ‘Dr. John Watson’s call me in the past twelve hours, and none of them were him. If you’re looking for information on
Sherlock Holmes, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Wait, is this Mycroft Holmes?” John exclaimed, recognizing the weary drawl.
“To whom did you think you were speaking, Dr. Watson? If you are he.”
“Of course it’s me. Don’t you recognize my voice?”
“Voices are difficult to recognize over the phone, and I’ve had far to many fake Watsons call me today to ask about my brother. If you are John Watson, then tell me this: What is Sherlock Holmes’ middle name?”
John paused. (I have absolutely no idea, said the flat. And I think I knew him better than you, too.) “How should I know that? I’ve no idea.”
“Excellent. He wouldn’t have told anyone.” Mycroft said. “Next question. When you first met me, Mr. Watson, what did I offer you?”
John rolled his eyes.
“That’s Dr. Watson, and you offered me a seat and money to spy on Sherlock Holmes. Is that good enough for you?”
“Excellent!” Squealed Mycroft. “Passed on all points. Very well, John. What were you calling about? Did you need to talk, perhaps?”
“What? No, I-I was calling about someone. Mr. Geoff Carting. He was a client of yours, apparently.”
“Oh,” Mycroft said, sounding slightly disappointed. “Oh, yes, Mr. Carting. I heard he passed away, poor fellow. Just about as I was supposed to be pouring aid into one of his proposals.”
“Yes, that’s him. But, I’m actually investigating his death.”
“You?” Said Mycroft, sounding halfway between pleasant and nervous. “John, please tell me this isn’t-” He paused, feeling around for the right words apparently. “-- isn’t your way of trying to bring him back.”
“No, no it isn’t. I’m just helping out Lestrade. He asked for a favor.” I need this. My leg needs this. My mind needs this. If not him, than this.
“Hmm. Well, if that’s all… I could try to help you, but you’ll have to come to me. Terribly busy, you know. Tomorrow, seven o’clock in the evening? I’ll email you the address. But for now I must go. The government and such.”
----
“That was… helpful.”
(So, you’re not any farther than you were, the flat summarized.)
“Well, I know that Carting was hoping to meet with Mycroft. That’s gotta be something. I can start for clues there.”
(But you still have no idea how he died.)
John Watson sat on the chair with his head in his hands. “You’re right, no idea.” He pulled over the medical charts he had brought home from the mortuary and re-examined them. Premature cell death throughout the body. Where was the origin? He flipped through the charts and figures, eager to see if the hospital had noticed an area of more widespread decay. Might be blood poisoning. Maybe. Nothing. He sighed.
“I can’t do this on my own.”
(You’ve got me, said the flat.)
“No. No, I can’t do this. I need Sherlock.”
His phone vibrated. John jumped about a foot in the air and out of his seat before fumbling in his pocket for the cell phone. Anonymous. Another text message. Georgi Markov, 1978.
John looked around. “Hello?” He called. This wasn’t a coincidence. Thrice in one day. (Hello, replied the flat.)
“Sherlock?”
Knock, knock.
Buzz, buzz.
John wasn’t usually jumpy, but this was as close as he got. “One minute,” He called to the someone at the door. The phone gave him two words of advice. Not safe.
John inhaled deeply. His limbs felt loose and his heartbeat was slightly elevated. Adrenaline. Good. His mind was suddenly clear, only as clear as wartime could make it. It’s been a while. He strode quickly to the desk, pulled the drawer open, and pulled out the spare revolver. Placing it into his pocket with the phone, he strode down the stairs and opened the door.
“Doctor Watson.” Not a question.
A man, late forties, presumably, with brown hair, dark eyes, and an entirely average look stood at the door. He had an earpiece, John noted. (Moriarty, the flat said. Watch out, be safe, remember last time? Run, run, run, John.) “That’s me,” John ignored the flat and offered his hand. The man didn’t take it.
“A concerned party sent me to check on you. You have friends in high places, whether you believe it or not. You’ve been coping well, but you should be careful. There are people out there who would prefer to have you alive and well, but if you start, well, interfering, there’s trouble in it for you. It’s best you left Sherlock Holmes behind.”
John looked the man over carefully. Entirely unremarkable. He had a brown hat on brown hair, an earpiece, a gray jacket, and some scruff for facial hair. Sherlock would know his watch brand, shoe size, and his favorite brew of beer by now.
(You’re not Sherlock, said the flat.)
There was no tremble on the man’s voice, no shaking, no bulk under the jacket. Not a living bomb. Well, that’s good. “Well then,” John replied. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’d prefer it if you didn’t interfere.” He went to shut the door, but the man stuck out his hand. “You aren’t difficult to follow, Dr. Watson. Keep that in mind. Your safety is important- but only to an extent. Forget about Sherlock Holmes. You’re lucky he’s the one who died.” And he turned and left.
John turned and ran upstairs, locking the door behind him. A good threat. Good. He was alive now. This was more like it. Threats, a potential murder, and three texts. Three. And they could only be from one person in the world.
This was how it should’ve been before he’d lost Sherlock Holmes.
-----
He sat down at the desk and pulled out his laptop. Typing in “Georgi Markov, 1978” got him 14,000 results. Apparently, Markov was a Bulgarian journalist who had been murdered. He had already had two attempts on his life but the third one succeeded. On his way to the BBC, Georgi Markov was jabbed in the leg with an umbrella. He died four days later. He first developed a high fever and went into delirium. The doctors had thought it maybe to be some undetermined type of blood poisoning. Upon research, it was discovered that a small metal pinhead had been injected into the wound, and it contained the substance ricin.
John rubbed his head. “Ricin.” It was slightly familiar. (Come on, John, you went to medical school, the flat encouraged him.) It was a poison, that much was obvious. Doing a search, he quickly discovered why. One molecule of the stuff was enough to kill multitudes of cells. There was no antidote. “Ricin. So this killed Carting?”
He pulled out his phone, half expecting to get a Congratulations, John, you got it. I would have had it figured out five minutes after I walked into the mortuary text. But there was nothing. He phoned Lestrade, praying that the detective would have the information needed with him. He pulled over the medical chart as he waited for the phone to be answered. Small rash on left leg. Thought to be exzema.
“Hullo?”
“Lestrade,” John panted into the phone. “It’s ricin. Carting died of ricin poisoning. It’s virtually undetectable, but the small dose would have been enough to kill him.”
“Watson? Oh, it’s you. What are you saying, you found what killed him?”
“Yes, it wasn’t natural causes. It was poison. You’ll just need to have Ms. Hooper confirm. There’s a wound in the back of his leg. A rash. They thought it was exzema, but it must have been how he was injected. It’s just like the Bulgarian reporter for the BBC in 1978.”
He could just see Lestrade rubbing his hand over his face. “Right, John. I believe you. It’ll have to wait till tomorrow. It’s late. Get some sleep. Don’t get to ahead of yourself.” John hung up. (How can you sleep when there’s such fun going on? And we still have to find the murderer, the flat reminded him.)
“You are the skull to my Sherlock.”
(Well thank you, said the flat. I was jealous of that skull. Although, quite frankly, Sherlock would be insulted by that comment.)
“Without a doubt."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
More to come.
[Part I] [Part II] [Part III] [ Part IV]
A side note: The love I have for Martin Freeman is illogical. I want to give this man a hug and go on adventures around London. Dude. <3
Title: Afterwards
Pairing: John/Sherlock friendship, maybe squinty if you prefer it that way.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, some others
Rating: PG for language and some violence. Very mild.
Warnings: Spoilers for the Great Game
Summary: Sherlock is presumed dead after the events at Reichenbach Pool, and John Watson is the sole resident in 221b Baker St. A murder case falls into his hands, and he receives help from an anonymous texter.
Words: 2813 (Out of about 15,000 in 7 chapters.)
So John Watson (and his missing colleague) went to the Carting house. His first impulse was to interrogate the wife. Lestrade had said that she was the one who brought the suspicious death to their attention.
Carol Carting was a small, mousy woman. She seemed very frightened of him when he opened the door and backed away with a whimper. “You’re with the police.” She said. “You’re coming here to question me, too.”
“Well, um, actually,” John began. “I’m actually not with the police.” He held out his hand. “I’m John Watson, and I believe you.” She relaxed considerably, held the door wider and burst into tears.
“Come in,” She managed to choke out. “It’s just- Oh, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
He followed her in, nearly tripping on a pile of children’s toys in front of the door. She sat him down in the kitchen and joined him, looking anxious. “You say you believe me.” There was an obvious tremor in her voice. “Why?”
John smiled sadly. “I’d love to tell you everything, Mrs. Carting.” She choked. “But first,” he continued quickly, “I think I’d better put some tea on. Make everything better, don’t you think?” She sniffled. “Trust me,” John continued. “I’m a doctor.”
She nodded and gestured to the kettle on the stovetop. John nodded, got up, and went about the business of putting on the water.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Mrs. Carting started as he sat back down. “He- he was everything. My life. With him gone the house is so empty. And Henry’s lost his dad. Have you ever had a whole blown in your life that is so huge and irreparable that staying in life feels like a hollow tunnel?”
Yes.
“Mrs. Carting, everyone has suffered. I was a soldier, stationed in Afghanistan. I’ve lost friends there-” and I’m not sure how to call what I’m feeling now “- and I know what it is to suffer. I’m here because I want to help in any way that I can. Please, can you tell me why you believe that your husband’s death was not an accident?”
She looked as if she were about to begin sobbing again, but thankfully the cheery whistle of the teakettle interrupted. Once reseated and with a warm cup of Earl Grey in her hand, Mrs. Carting seemed to be much more confident.
“He was never sick, my Geoff. He was a huge fan of exercise and healthy eating, all part of the anti-drug campaign, you know. And then, he suddenly fell ill. Of course, it was a rainy day he came home, so at first I thought it was just a cold. But then the next day he was so much worse, and he could barely speak to me. I took him to the hospital, but no one knew anything. They couldn’t tell me what was wrong or why he died. He wasn’t sick. Nothing worked. None of their treatments.” She inhaled deeply. “He died less than a week later.
“Dr. Watson, I’m sure you could tell me a thousand ways something like that could happen to a man. But he wasn’t sick before. It wasn’t like those immuno-deficiency diseases you hear about where he’s suddenly sick and dies. He didn’t have a tumor or anything. My healthy Geoff just died. The thing is, it was right as he was preparing to go to one of his contacts to talk about a harder crackdown on the illegal drug laws.”
“Was it a breakthrough? Something major?”
“Oh yes,” She said, eyes wide. “He’d manage to arrange a meeting with a very influential individual. He wouldn’t talk about anything else. See, my Geoff had a brother. When they were younger, the brother fell in with the wrong group, and it ended terribly. He stopped going to school, never talked to anyone, and he lost so much weight, my Geoff said. One day, he left the house and came back later so out of his mind and trembling that their mother wanted to rush him to the hospital. Mike wouldn’t have it, and locked himself in his room. It wasn’t ten minutes later that the police came knocking. There was a man killed, they said. A drug dealer. Turns out Mike had killed him when he couldn’t afford to buy more of what was keeping him going. Killed him and stolen it. They carted him off to jail, and gave him life. Mike couldn’t make it. He died six months later. Geoff swore it was the drugs. It’s what got him so caught up in this. He was determined. And now… he had his chance to redeem his brother and free the rest of them, as he called it.
“I can’t tell you any more than that, Doctor. But I know in my heart that he was killed. Even if he were to get sick, my Geoff wouldn’t just up and die. Not like that. Not when he was so close.”
John sighed. He had heard similar stories of course, and he wasn’t unfamiliar with an addiction breaking up a family. “I believe you,” He sighed. “It’s just going to be very hard to prove. There has to be evidence somewhere. Can you give me the name of the official he was going to be meeting?”
“I’ll give you the number.” She returned a minute later with a piece of paper. “Just say you’re calling on behalf of Geoff. They should put you through to the right man.”
“Thanks very much.” He nodded and headed out to the street to hail a cab.
“Thank you, Doctor Watson.”
He doesn’t notice the man watching him from the opposite corner.
--------
“Well,” John announced when he got back to the flat. “I’m back. I don’t suppose anyone bought the milk.” (No, the flat answered.)
He cast aside his cane and flung himself on the couch, feeling much livelier than he had the past few days. “Well, at least I’ve gotten somewhere.”
(What did you find? Asked the flat.)
“I’ve got a number, but not much else. Everything points to natural causes. It could have been blood poisoning, but the tests were negative, and the biopsies and necropsies simply showed rapid cell death. Nothing present.”
(How unfortunate, said the flat. You do have the number though. Perhaps you should call.)
John glanced over the card. It was definitely professional looking, although extremely non-descript. No real names, mostly promises, and a suggestion the government was involved. “Hopefully a better lead than it looks.”
(You won’t know until you try, the flat said cheerily.)
John threw his head back. “My God, first my leg and now my mind. I’m talking to an empty flat.”
(At least I’m not a skull, the flat said defensively, but then fell silent.)
He pulled out his phone and entered the number. The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice, very smooth.
“Um, yes, hi.” John babbled. “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Geoff Carting.”
There was a sigh on the other end. “I’m sorry, sir, but people have been calling for Mr. Carting all day, and Mr. Holmes is incredibly busy and doesn't have time for all the journalists.”
Mr. Holmes? John’s breath sped up. “M-Mr. Holmes?” He repeated after the voice. “Please- don’t hang up. Tell him it’s John calling. John Watson.”
“Ugh, one moment, Mr. Watson.”
“Doctor.” John corrected, but he guessed the other voice had already set down the phone. The hold music came on, a wearily classical tune, with fuzzes and cackles every other second.
“They’ve put me on hold,” He sighed to the flat.
(It figures, said the flat. That’s what you get when you call anywhere official.)
Mr. Holmes. John knew it couldn’t be him. “As if he’d work for a corporation like this. Far to dull for him, especially after dying.”
(Definitely, agreed the flat.)
But this was definitely something. A mysterious murder and an unknown contact named Holmes.“But whoever this ‘Holmes’ is, it could be a lead.”
(Or it could just be one of the many people with the last name “Holmes” that live in the London area, the flat concluded.)
“Yes, well, let’s hope it’s not one of those.”
The music continued for another four and a half minutes before a wearied “Hello?” picked up the phone.
“Um, yes, hi. This is John Watson, I’m calling for Mr. Geoff Carting. Is this Mr. Holmes?”
“So you’re John Watson, then?”
“Um, yes, Dr. John Watson.”
“I’ve had seven ‘Dr. John Watson’s call me in the past twelve hours, and none of them were him. If you’re looking for information on
Sherlock Holmes, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Wait, is this Mycroft Holmes?” John exclaimed, recognizing the weary drawl.
“To whom did you think you were speaking, Dr. Watson? If you are he.”
“Of course it’s me. Don’t you recognize my voice?”
“Voices are difficult to recognize over the phone, and I’ve had far to many fake Watsons call me today to ask about my brother. If you are John Watson, then tell me this: What is Sherlock Holmes’ middle name?”
John paused. (I have absolutely no idea, said the flat. And I think I knew him better than you, too.) “How should I know that? I’ve no idea.”
“Excellent. He wouldn’t have told anyone.” Mycroft said. “Next question. When you first met me, Mr. Watson, what did I offer you?”
John rolled his eyes.
“That’s Dr. Watson, and you offered me a seat and money to spy on Sherlock Holmes. Is that good enough for you?”
“Excellent!” Squealed Mycroft. “Passed on all points. Very well, John. What were you calling about? Did you need to talk, perhaps?”
“What? No, I-I was calling about someone. Mr. Geoff Carting. He was a client of yours, apparently.”
“Oh,” Mycroft said, sounding slightly disappointed. “Oh, yes, Mr. Carting. I heard he passed away, poor fellow. Just about as I was supposed to be pouring aid into one of his proposals.”
“Yes, that’s him. But, I’m actually investigating his death.”
“You?” Said Mycroft, sounding halfway between pleasant and nervous. “John, please tell me this isn’t-” He paused, feeling around for the right words apparently. “-- isn’t your way of trying to bring him back.”
“No, no it isn’t. I’m just helping out Lestrade. He asked for a favor.” I need this. My leg needs this. My mind needs this. If not him, than this.
“Hmm. Well, if that’s all… I could try to help you, but you’ll have to come to me. Terribly busy, you know. Tomorrow, seven o’clock in the evening? I’ll email you the address. But for now I must go. The government and such.”
----
“That was… helpful.”
(So, you’re not any farther than you were, the flat summarized.)
“Well, I know that Carting was hoping to meet with Mycroft. That’s gotta be something. I can start for clues there.”
(But you still have no idea how he died.)
John Watson sat on the chair with his head in his hands. “You’re right, no idea.” He pulled over the medical charts he had brought home from the mortuary and re-examined them. Premature cell death throughout the body. Where was the origin? He flipped through the charts and figures, eager to see if the hospital had noticed an area of more widespread decay. Might be blood poisoning. Maybe. Nothing. He sighed.
“I can’t do this on my own.”
(You’ve got me, said the flat.)
“No. No, I can’t do this. I need Sherlock.”
His phone vibrated. John jumped about a foot in the air and out of his seat before fumbling in his pocket for the cell phone. Anonymous. Another text message. Georgi Markov, 1978.
John looked around. “Hello?” He called. This wasn’t a coincidence. Thrice in one day. (Hello, replied the flat.)
“Sherlock?”
Knock, knock.
Buzz, buzz.
John wasn’t usually jumpy, but this was as close as he got. “One minute,” He called to the someone at the door. The phone gave him two words of advice. Not safe.
John inhaled deeply. His limbs felt loose and his heartbeat was slightly elevated. Adrenaline. Good. His mind was suddenly clear, only as clear as wartime could make it. It’s been a while. He strode quickly to the desk, pulled the drawer open, and pulled out the spare revolver. Placing it into his pocket with the phone, he strode down the stairs and opened the door.
“Doctor Watson.” Not a question.
A man, late forties, presumably, with brown hair, dark eyes, and an entirely average look stood at the door. He had an earpiece, John noted. (Moriarty, the flat said. Watch out, be safe, remember last time? Run, run, run, John.) “That’s me,” John ignored the flat and offered his hand. The man didn’t take it.
“A concerned party sent me to check on you. You have friends in high places, whether you believe it or not. You’ve been coping well, but you should be careful. There are people out there who would prefer to have you alive and well, but if you start, well, interfering, there’s trouble in it for you. It’s best you left Sherlock Holmes behind.”
John looked the man over carefully. Entirely unremarkable. He had a brown hat on brown hair, an earpiece, a gray jacket, and some scruff for facial hair. Sherlock would know his watch brand, shoe size, and his favorite brew of beer by now.
(You’re not Sherlock, said the flat.)
There was no tremble on the man’s voice, no shaking, no bulk under the jacket. Not a living bomb. Well, that’s good. “Well then,” John replied. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’d prefer it if you didn’t interfere.” He went to shut the door, but the man stuck out his hand. “You aren’t difficult to follow, Dr. Watson. Keep that in mind. Your safety is important- but only to an extent. Forget about Sherlock Holmes. You’re lucky he’s the one who died.” And he turned and left.
John turned and ran upstairs, locking the door behind him. A good threat. Good. He was alive now. This was more like it. Threats, a potential murder, and three texts. Three. And they could only be from one person in the world.
This was how it should’ve been before he’d lost Sherlock Holmes.
-----
He sat down at the desk and pulled out his laptop. Typing in “Georgi Markov, 1978” got him 14,000 results. Apparently, Markov was a Bulgarian journalist who had been murdered. He had already had two attempts on his life but the third one succeeded. On his way to the BBC, Georgi Markov was jabbed in the leg with an umbrella. He died four days later. He first developed a high fever and went into delirium. The doctors had thought it maybe to be some undetermined type of blood poisoning. Upon research, it was discovered that a small metal pinhead had been injected into the wound, and it contained the substance ricin.
John rubbed his head. “Ricin.” It was slightly familiar. (Come on, John, you went to medical school, the flat encouraged him.) It was a poison, that much was obvious. Doing a search, he quickly discovered why. One molecule of the stuff was enough to kill multitudes of cells. There was no antidote. “Ricin. So this killed Carting?”
He pulled out his phone, half expecting to get a Congratulations, John, you got it. I would have had it figured out five minutes after I walked into the mortuary text. But there was nothing. He phoned Lestrade, praying that the detective would have the information needed with him. He pulled over the medical chart as he waited for the phone to be answered. Small rash on left leg. Thought to be exzema.
“Hullo?”
“Lestrade,” John panted into the phone. “It’s ricin. Carting died of ricin poisoning. It’s virtually undetectable, but the small dose would have been enough to kill him.”
“Watson? Oh, it’s you. What are you saying, you found what killed him?”
“Yes, it wasn’t natural causes. It was poison. You’ll just need to have Ms. Hooper confirm. There’s a wound in the back of his leg. A rash. They thought it was exzema, but it must have been how he was injected. It’s just like the Bulgarian reporter for the BBC in 1978.”
He could just see Lestrade rubbing his hand over his face. “Right, John. I believe you. It’ll have to wait till tomorrow. It’s late. Get some sleep. Don’t get to ahead of yourself.” John hung up. (How can you sleep when there’s such fun going on? And we still have to find the murderer, the flat reminded him.)
“You are the skull to my Sherlock.”
(Well thank you, said the flat. I was jealous of that skull. Although, quite frankly, Sherlock would be insulted by that comment.)
“Without a doubt."
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More to come.
[Part I] [Part II] [Part III] [ Part IV]
A side note: The love I have for Martin Freeman is illogical. I want to give this man a hug and go on adventures around London. Dude. <3