Afterwards (Part 4/7)
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: 1914 (Out of about 15,000 in 7 chapters.)
The next morning dawned early, and John ran off as quickly as he could to the mortuary. He didn’t want to remain in the flat with the empty reminders. Outisde of the flat there was someone who texted him. Someone who helped. He was eager to speak to Molly now that there was something driving him again. His blood was pumping, his tremor was gone. To his dismay he still held the cane in his hand. I’ll leave you behind soon.
Molly Hooper looked no better than the previous day. “Hullo,” John said as cheerfully as he could. She looked at him and gave a soft gasp and a choked “hello.”
“Um, I could really use your help with something, if that’s alright.” He prodded.
She nodded and sniffed. “Y-yes. You’re his friend, aren’t you? J-john Watson.”
“Um, yes.” He replied. “Doctor John Watson,” he said, extending his hand. “And you’re Molly Hooper, right?”
“Yes,” She said softly. “Did he tell you my name?”
“Oh, yes.” John lied quickly. “He’s told me you’re a fantastic mortician.” That wasn’t so far from the truth. Sherlock had in fact approved of Molly, even though it was mostly because she let him do as he pleased with the bodies he was investigating. Molly’s face lit up with a proud flush that overlapped with her obviously puffy red eyes. “H-he did?”
“Oh yeah.” John said, “And actually, I need your help now, too. The man who was wheeled in the other day, Mr. Carting? Could I look at him, please?” Molly nodded and led him to the dead man’s side. “If you could, I’d like to check his leg.” John continued. She was so soft, quiet and compliant that John couldn’t help but pity her. She had, after all, lost her “boyfriend” Jim and the man she had loved for years in the same night. He was tempted even to tell her about the texts he’d gotten, just as a small comfort in her bleak world, but the not safe convinced him otherwise. Besides, even though his hopes were already soaring, it was better not to pull himself in further.
“Ah, yes.” He lifted Carting’s leg to find the small rash. It was no longer red, but it was swollen, unusual, and off-color. “Molly,” He asked. “Would you mind if I were to examine this flesh more closely?”
“Um, yes. Here, let me get you equipment.”
This is what I do. This was Afghanistan, only with better equipment available for analysis. It wasn’t the same Barts from his day, that’s for sure, and occasionally he had to ask Molly which of the new machines he could use, and what for, and where they kept the Pasteur pipettes and how in the world was he supposed to dispose of his gloves if there were twelve different waste containers to choose from.
Molly was helpful and quiet, both of which he approved of. He worked as diligently and as skillfully as he could, hoping to find what he needed so he could get out in the open again where someone was waiting for him. There had to be.
At one point, Molly worked up the courage to ask him a few things about Sherlock. “Did you know him well?” She ventured, looking down at her wringing hands.
“I suppose. I mean, we were flatmates, but there’s only so well anyone can know Sherlock Holmes.” He said as noncommittally as he could. He wasn’t going to let the hole in his chest reopen and steal his breath.
She gave a nervous chuckle. “Well yes. He’s not easy to get close to.” She frowned. “I mean, he wasn’t- cause now, well-”
“It’s alright,” He hushed her, turning the microscope to focus in on the prepared slide. “You don’t have to say it. I understand.” I’m sick of people reminding me. I’m not a child. I don’t want to hear it or your pity.
She nodded, suddenly more alive than she had been in days. John glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw her cheeks were dry and there was just the tiniest shine in her eye. “What was he like?” She burst, startling John away from the microscope and jostling the slide.
“I’m sorry?” He asked, determined not to let the poor girl try his patience. You’re no Sherlock Holmes. You’re not impatient and cruel.
“I mean, you were with him in-” She swallowed. “In the end. What was he like? What did he say?”
John blinked and hesitated, but the mortician was determined. “He was…” Brave? Fantastic? More of a war hero than anyone he had known? No, too sentimental. And idiot? Stubborn? Too harsh. “There wasn’t a lot of time.” He winced, remembering the weakness that had taken him and forced him to the floor. Don’t stop me breathing, don’t open this hole. “But he saved my life. He was brilliant.”
She swallowed and nodded. “I’m still… I still can’t believe Jim…” But she was done talking and returned to pondering things in her head as John continued to search the slide. His heart was pumping from the memory, but it was not the same weakness that had taken him in the hospital. He grounded himself in the seat, in the hospital, in front of a microscope and a slide.
Eventually he found it. There.
A tiny spec of metal, barely the size of a period on a page. “Molly.” He held out his hand. “Forceps, please.”
He carefully lifted the tiny spec and placed it in its own dish with buffering solution. “Tiny pores…”
“Did you find what you needed?” Molly asked.
“Yes.” He handed her the covered dish. “Give this to Lestrade if he shows up, please. He’s busy, so I won’t blame him too much. I’m off, more problems to work out.” I’m Doctor John Watson. Not Sherlock Holmes. But hell if I can’t be fantastic.
-------
“I’m back.”
(Welcome back, said the flat.)
This was normally the part where Sherlock would add up all the facts and make a brilliant deduction and they would track down the criminal. Well, he would have done it much earlier, but I’ve got all the facts I can have right now. It’ll have to do. John sat down at the table once he’d prepared himself a large cup of tea, and began to scribble on a sheet of paper.
(Good luck, cheered the flat.)
These were the facts John Watson had: Carting had been killed by ricin. Carting had been an anti-drug activist. Carting had been in contact with Mycroft. Carting’s death closely resembled Markov’s in 1978. Markov had been stabbed by an umbrella to inject the poison. Carting had fallen ill on a rainy day according to his wife.
John Watson’s conclusion: Carting had also been jabbed by an umbrella.
(Oh, said the flat. That’s logical. Good work.)
So what day had Carting been stabbed? John grabbed the laptop, just has he had seen Sherlock do many times before, and looked up the recent weather reports in the London area. May 28th. Rain showers. He could phone Mrs. Carting. 11:30 am, it wasn’t too early.
He pulled out his phone. The anonymous text was still open on the front of the phone where he hadn’t exited yet. He pushed his fingers over the keys, feeling over the keyboard what letters the sender had pressed when he sent the phone. The pattern was comforting. Sighing, he exited and dialed.
When she answered the phone, Mrs. Carting sounded as sad as she had the first time that they spoke. “Mrs. Carting?” John asked. “Mrs. Carting, I need your help. You were right. It wasn’t an accident.” Mrs. Carting choked and John heard something crash to the floor. “Mrs. Carting? Are you all right?”
“I knew it,” She answered through sobs. “I knew it. Oh, my Geoff. Geoff.”
“Mrs. Carting, I’m sorry, really, I am, but you need your help.” The sobbing subsided. “Mrs. Carting, please, can you remember what your husband was doing the day he fell ill? It was May 28th, if that helps you at all.”
“Of course I remember,” she replied through heaving tears. “Of course. That was the first time he’d met with his sponsor. I remember him coming home so entirely thrilled. I didn’t know then…” She burst into a fresh round of cries.
“Mrs. Carting, I assure you by whatever power I have, I will find who did this. I promise you, I will.”
Her voice came through, harsh and dark. “And when you do, Doctor John Watson, you make them suffer. You make them suffer like my Geoff suffered.”
John Watson was not Sherlock Holmes. John Watson understood the pain of being separated from loved ones, the pain of loss, and the longings of the heart.
He nodded without even thinking, and said into the phone: “I will.”
(You might regret that, said the flat.)
---
These are the facts that John Watson had: Carting was poisoned. Ricin poison was isolated by a difficult and deadly process, not many people were capable of it. Carting was jabbed by an umbrella to inject the poison. Carting had met Mycroft Holmes on the day he was poisoned.
Mycroft Holmes owned a notorious umbrella.
(No, said the flat.)
But it fit. It made sense. Carting had been visiting Mycroft the day he was attacked. Mycroft was sinking money into a rather risky investment. Mycroft would have access to the best laboratories the government could provide. Mycroft was a sort of genius himself. He’s the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet.
(No way, said the flat.)
“Why not…?” John whispered to himself. “What is there in these facts that could protect him? This is the explanation of these facts.”
(It’s one explanation of some of the facts, chimed the flat.)
John Watson puzzled over this in his head. Somehow, Mycroft Holmes didn’t seem the type to stoop to murder. Humiliation, disgrace, and dishonor seemed more likely. (Longer punishment that way, concurred the flat.) So what then? Someone is trying to frame Mycroft Holmes?
(Oh, realized the flat. Who wouldn’t want to do that?)
Mycroft was sure to have enemies. How could he not? Anyone in a ‘minor’ position in the British government could have enemies. And if Mycroft’s title gave him as much power as Sherlock had implied, there were sure to be those who wanted to frame him.
John stood up with sudden determination. Seven o’clock. That was when he was supposed to meet with Mycroft. He couldn’t wait until seven o’clock. This was something that had to be done now. Absolutely right now. The game, John, is ON.
(Good-bye, have fun, called the flat.)
----
Once John Watson walked out the door of the flat, another figure walked in. (Welcome back, called the flat.) The man kneeled at the locked common room door and pressed his ear on the lock. He took out a small wire and twisted it in, delicately feeling for the tumblers. It didn’t take him long to get in. (Oh, it’s not you, said the flat. You should come back later when John’s home.)
The intruder ruffled the surprisingly clean flat. This was one good sign. The target was a known slob. Things were easy to find. It certainly didn’t take him to find the papers with Watson’s scribbles on the table, notably the one with the name Mycroft Holmes circled. The intruder shook his head. Investigating. John Watson wasn’t one to heed warnings. Ah, well. His boss wouldn’t have to worry much longer. Plans were being arranged.
He exited as he had come, with little disturbance.
(Well, that was rude, mused the flat.)
xxxxx
3 more to come!
[Part I] [Part II] [ Part III] [Part IV]
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: 1914 (Out of about 15,000 in 7 chapters.)
The next morning dawned early, and John ran off as quickly as he could to the mortuary. He didn’t want to remain in the flat with the empty reminders. Outisde of the flat there was someone who texted him. Someone who helped. He was eager to speak to Molly now that there was something driving him again. His blood was pumping, his tremor was gone. To his dismay he still held the cane in his hand. I’ll leave you behind soon.
Molly Hooper looked no better than the previous day. “Hullo,” John said as cheerfully as he could. She looked at him and gave a soft gasp and a choked “hello.”
“Um, I could really use your help with something, if that’s alright.” He prodded.
She nodded and sniffed. “Y-yes. You’re his friend, aren’t you? J-john Watson.”
“Um, yes.” He replied. “Doctor John Watson,” he said, extending his hand. “And you’re Molly Hooper, right?”
“Yes,” She said softly. “Did he tell you my name?”
“Oh, yes.” John lied quickly. “He’s told me you’re a fantastic mortician.” That wasn’t so far from the truth. Sherlock had in fact approved of Molly, even though it was mostly because she let him do as he pleased with the bodies he was investigating. Molly’s face lit up with a proud flush that overlapped with her obviously puffy red eyes. “H-he did?”
“Oh yeah.” John said, “And actually, I need your help now, too. The man who was wheeled in the other day, Mr. Carting? Could I look at him, please?” Molly nodded and led him to the dead man’s side. “If you could, I’d like to check his leg.” John continued. She was so soft, quiet and compliant that John couldn’t help but pity her. She had, after all, lost her “boyfriend” Jim and the man she had loved for years in the same night. He was tempted even to tell her about the texts he’d gotten, just as a small comfort in her bleak world, but the not safe convinced him otherwise. Besides, even though his hopes were already soaring, it was better not to pull himself in further.
“Ah, yes.” He lifted Carting’s leg to find the small rash. It was no longer red, but it was swollen, unusual, and off-color. “Molly,” He asked. “Would you mind if I were to examine this flesh more closely?”
“Um, yes. Here, let me get you equipment.”
This is what I do. This was Afghanistan, only with better equipment available for analysis. It wasn’t the same Barts from his day, that’s for sure, and occasionally he had to ask Molly which of the new machines he could use, and what for, and where they kept the Pasteur pipettes and how in the world was he supposed to dispose of his gloves if there were twelve different waste containers to choose from.
Molly was helpful and quiet, both of which he approved of. He worked as diligently and as skillfully as he could, hoping to find what he needed so he could get out in the open again where someone was waiting for him. There had to be.
At one point, Molly worked up the courage to ask him a few things about Sherlock. “Did you know him well?” She ventured, looking down at her wringing hands.
“I suppose. I mean, we were flatmates, but there’s only so well anyone can know Sherlock Holmes.” He said as noncommittally as he could. He wasn’t going to let the hole in his chest reopen and steal his breath.
She gave a nervous chuckle. “Well yes. He’s not easy to get close to.” She frowned. “I mean, he wasn’t- cause now, well-”
“It’s alright,” He hushed her, turning the microscope to focus in on the prepared slide. “You don’t have to say it. I understand.” I’m sick of people reminding me. I’m not a child. I don’t want to hear it or your pity.
She nodded, suddenly more alive than she had been in days. John glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw her cheeks were dry and there was just the tiniest shine in her eye. “What was he like?” She burst, startling John away from the microscope and jostling the slide.
“I’m sorry?” He asked, determined not to let the poor girl try his patience. You’re no Sherlock Holmes. You’re not impatient and cruel.
“I mean, you were with him in-” She swallowed. “In the end. What was he like? What did he say?”
John blinked and hesitated, but the mortician was determined. “He was…” Brave? Fantastic? More of a war hero than anyone he had known? No, too sentimental. And idiot? Stubborn? Too harsh. “There wasn’t a lot of time.” He winced, remembering the weakness that had taken him and forced him to the floor. Don’t stop me breathing, don’t open this hole. “But he saved my life. He was brilliant.”
She swallowed and nodded. “I’m still… I still can’t believe Jim…” But she was done talking and returned to pondering things in her head as John continued to search the slide. His heart was pumping from the memory, but it was not the same weakness that had taken him in the hospital. He grounded himself in the seat, in the hospital, in front of a microscope and a slide.
Eventually he found it. There.
A tiny spec of metal, barely the size of a period on a page. “Molly.” He held out his hand. “Forceps, please.”
He carefully lifted the tiny spec and placed it in its own dish with buffering solution. “Tiny pores…”
“Did you find what you needed?” Molly asked.
“Yes.” He handed her the covered dish. “Give this to Lestrade if he shows up, please. He’s busy, so I won’t blame him too much. I’m off, more problems to work out.” I’m Doctor John Watson. Not Sherlock Holmes. But hell if I can’t be fantastic.
-------
“I’m back.”
(Welcome back, said the flat.)
This was normally the part where Sherlock would add up all the facts and make a brilliant deduction and they would track down the criminal. Well, he would have done it much earlier, but I’ve got all the facts I can have right now. It’ll have to do. John sat down at the table once he’d prepared himself a large cup of tea, and began to scribble on a sheet of paper.
(Good luck, cheered the flat.)
These were the facts John Watson had: Carting had been killed by ricin. Carting had been an anti-drug activist. Carting had been in contact with Mycroft. Carting’s death closely resembled Markov’s in 1978. Markov had been stabbed by an umbrella to inject the poison. Carting had fallen ill on a rainy day according to his wife.
John Watson’s conclusion: Carting had also been jabbed by an umbrella.
(Oh, said the flat. That’s logical. Good work.)
So what day had Carting been stabbed? John grabbed the laptop, just has he had seen Sherlock do many times before, and looked up the recent weather reports in the London area. May 28th. Rain showers. He could phone Mrs. Carting. 11:30 am, it wasn’t too early.
He pulled out his phone. The anonymous text was still open on the front of the phone where he hadn’t exited yet. He pushed his fingers over the keys, feeling over the keyboard what letters the sender had pressed when he sent the phone. The pattern was comforting. Sighing, he exited and dialed.
When she answered the phone, Mrs. Carting sounded as sad as she had the first time that they spoke. “Mrs. Carting?” John asked. “Mrs. Carting, I need your help. You were right. It wasn’t an accident.” Mrs. Carting choked and John heard something crash to the floor. “Mrs. Carting? Are you all right?”
“I knew it,” She answered through sobs. “I knew it. Oh, my Geoff. Geoff.”
“Mrs. Carting, I’m sorry, really, I am, but you need your help.” The sobbing subsided. “Mrs. Carting, please, can you remember what your husband was doing the day he fell ill? It was May 28th, if that helps you at all.”
“Of course I remember,” she replied through heaving tears. “Of course. That was the first time he’d met with his sponsor. I remember him coming home so entirely thrilled. I didn’t know then…” She burst into a fresh round of cries.
“Mrs. Carting, I assure you by whatever power I have, I will find who did this. I promise you, I will.”
Her voice came through, harsh and dark. “And when you do, Doctor John Watson, you make them suffer. You make them suffer like my Geoff suffered.”
John Watson was not Sherlock Holmes. John Watson understood the pain of being separated from loved ones, the pain of loss, and the longings of the heart.
He nodded without even thinking, and said into the phone: “I will.”
(You might regret that, said the flat.)
---
These are the facts that John Watson had: Carting was poisoned. Ricin poison was isolated by a difficult and deadly process, not many people were capable of it. Carting was jabbed by an umbrella to inject the poison. Carting had met Mycroft Holmes on the day he was poisoned.
Mycroft Holmes owned a notorious umbrella.
(No, said the flat.)
But it fit. It made sense. Carting had been visiting Mycroft the day he was attacked. Mycroft was sinking money into a rather risky investment. Mycroft would have access to the best laboratories the government could provide. Mycroft was a sort of genius himself. He’s the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet.
(No way, said the flat.)
“Why not…?” John whispered to himself. “What is there in these facts that could protect him? This is the explanation of these facts.”
(It’s one explanation of some of the facts, chimed the flat.)
John Watson puzzled over this in his head. Somehow, Mycroft Holmes didn’t seem the type to stoop to murder. Humiliation, disgrace, and dishonor seemed more likely. (Longer punishment that way, concurred the flat.) So what then? Someone is trying to frame Mycroft Holmes?
(Oh, realized the flat. Who wouldn’t want to do that?)
Mycroft was sure to have enemies. How could he not? Anyone in a ‘minor’ position in the British government could have enemies. And if Mycroft’s title gave him as much power as Sherlock had implied, there were sure to be those who wanted to frame him.
John stood up with sudden determination. Seven o’clock. That was when he was supposed to meet with Mycroft. He couldn’t wait until seven o’clock. This was something that had to be done now. Absolutely right now. The game, John, is ON.
(Good-bye, have fun, called the flat.)
----
Once John Watson walked out the door of the flat, another figure walked in. (Welcome back, called the flat.) The man kneeled at the locked common room door and pressed his ear on the lock. He took out a small wire and twisted it in, delicately feeling for the tumblers. It didn’t take him long to get in. (Oh, it’s not you, said the flat. You should come back later when John’s home.)
The intruder ruffled the surprisingly clean flat. This was one good sign. The target was a known slob. Things were easy to find. It certainly didn’t take him to find the papers with Watson’s scribbles on the table, notably the one with the name Mycroft Holmes circled. The intruder shook his head. Investigating. John Watson wasn’t one to heed warnings. Ah, well. His boss wouldn’t have to worry much longer. Plans were being arranged.
He exited as he had come, with little disturbance.
(Well, that was rude, mused the flat.)
xxxxx
3 more to come!
[Part I] [Part II] [ Part III] [Part IV]