Vorare, chapter 3
Title: Vorare
Rating: 15
Characters: Sherlock, John, the Reaper, Lestrade, Harry
Summary: The only way to Sherlock is through John. Enter the Reaper, a serial killer willing and able to exploit that to the full.
Notes: Yep, still on a review-induced high. Thanks guys. ^^
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
“I thought I had made it clear that there was no deal, George.”
Foyet chuckled. “Clever you. John wins though, I think- he worked it out hours ago. But I’m getting sidetracked.”
“There is no deal.” Sherlock repeated.
“Oh,” and the man almost sounded disappointed. “Well, that is a shame. Have fun keeping this one covered up, then- you’ve got 8 days to work it out.”
A beep.
Call duration: 42 seconds.
-
They were halfway to Oxford Street when Lestrade’s walkie-talkie went off. By the time they arrived, the press had converged on the street; in particular the number 13 bus outside Selfridges.
To be fair, a bus with blood-splattered windows probably wasn’t something they saw every day.
The inside was carnage, as was to be expected. There had been 11 people on board, each of them shot. John’s gun, presumably. Had it been left behind?
“Jesus Christ...”
Lestrade’s reactions were ignorable for now. Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves and set about examining the driver. Sure enough, the gun was in his pocket, and Sherlock withdrew it gingerly. Now, what had been taken? Foyet wouldn’t have had time to go through the passengers in the seats towards the back- despite the time, there were plenty of people on the streets, the alarm would have been raised whilst he was firing. The driver wasn’t missing anything obvious, but there was a student in the seat beside his cabin who didn’t have a bag.
But why her? It would have been a great deal easier to take something from the driver, since Foyet would have been standing between the cabin and the doors when he fired on the others.
That would go towards explaining the wording of the phone call. Eight days... there had been eight days between Foyet’s self-injury and his attack on John. If this was a puzzle, what had he been meant to-
Of course. Foyet’s identity. The stabbing wasn’t just a way to gain power over the investigation as a supposed witness, it was a clue, a test. And now there was another.
A bus shooting, a student’s bag, eight days. Either the student was important- doubtful- or the bus route itself was. The route passed Baker Street, but that had already been attacked. It was doubtful Foyet would go back there; he’d never revisited his crime scenes before, as far as they were aware.
One of the other stops, then. Golders Green, Childs Hill, Finchley Road, Swiss Cottage...
Finchley Road.
John’s sister lived in Finchley. The student was female. It was a long shot, but...
“Lestrade!”
-
“So what, are we putting everyone that’s got anything to do with the Freak into custody now?”
“Actually, no,” Sherlock told her. “She’s related to John, not me, and I wouldn’t dare use the Force in such a flagrant manner to appease paranoia, should I ever have it.”
Sally opened her mouth to say something, but Lestrade got there first. “Donovan. You have your orders, go.”
Oddly enough, she smiled at Sherlock in a way that generally implied that the smiler knew something you didn’t. Raised her hands, too. “Alright, alright, I’m on it.” As she walked off, Sherlock was fairly certain she snickered.
He turned a quizzical glance on Lestrade, but the DI just smiled in exactly the same way Sally had- in much the same way, he realised, as he’d done when he’d told Sherlock he trusted him.
Really, what was all that about? Neither of them ever normally-
Oh. John.
Sherlock scoffed internally. The idea that the attack on John made the case any more pertinent was ridiculous; all the focus on John had done was to make Foyet’s actions more centred and thus more predictable.
But there was a part of him- a tiny part- that told him to look at the evidence properly. At his panic at Mrs Hudson’s phone call, however short-lived it had been, at his edginess at the hospital. As usual, he shut that part off. It was a distraction, and at present, that was something he could not afford.
Later, perhaps. No, definitely. When he’d caught Foyet, he’d get to the bottom of it.
-
Apparently, alcohol made Harry Watson decidedly intolerant of uniformed men turning up at her door at 2am. Granted, most people would likely have been a little put out by being taken into custody at any time, but after Harry managed to deliver solid punches to both men, they decided it would be better to post guards outside until the morning.
At 9am, she still wasn’t quite sober, but Sally’s appearance made her decidedly more agreeable; within the hour, she had a bag packed and was off to a safe house. Lestrade phoned Sherlock with the news just as he arrived at the hospital to pass it on to John. Apparently nobody had told her about his hospitalisation- if she found out, she would likely be rather angry, but John would be happier until then.
Well, perhaps ‘happy’ was the wrong word. Relieved, at least.
He found John propped into something like a sitting position, pale from blood loss and what pain wasn’t dulled by the morphine but otherwise recovering well, all things considered. He was safe, he was going to be well, and Sherlock was pleased by that, not merely because he made dealing with idiots at crime scenes so much easier.
Again, emotions. He filed the internal monologue away and leant in the doorway. John waggled his fingers at him- his arms were still heavily bandaged- and gestured towards the TV. “He struck again, then?”
His voice was strained. Understandable. “Yes. A bus shooting. He also called.” He waved the mobile for emphasis.
“What did he say?”
“He offered me the deal again. I refused, he said I had eight days to solve his puzzle.”
“And what was that?”
“The bus route. It went past Baker Street, and one of the other stops was Finchley Road.”
John blanched. “Harry?”
“She’s with the police,” Sherlock assured him. “In protective custody. Donovan is apparently overseeing it personally.”
That elicited a smile, though John still looked a little worried. “That’ll cheer her up. She has a thing for curly hair.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing, instead electing to take the bedside chair. “I believe the discussion we’re supposed to be having right now is one on how your condition is progressing.”
“Oh, come on,” John scoffed. “Since when did you go in for social conventions?”
"Only very recently. Though I will admit, I find it difficult to use them appropriately.” John gave him an odd look, then blinked a few times. Then smiled again.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
And Sherlock found himself smiling back.
-
John was released from hospital a week later, laden with medication and strict instructions on how to take it. The cab ride back to Baker Street was silent, but comfortable; the awkwardness only began on their arrival. The carpet in the hallway had been removed, but the gunshot in the wall was still there and John froze on seeing it. Sherlock, who had reached the doorway, turned.
“Are you alright?” He asked after a moment.
“Me? Fine, yeah. I’m fine.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Your face is pale, your body stance is rigid and your speech is even less coherent than usual. You are anything but ‘fine’.” John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock got there first. “He cannot hurt you here.”
John blinked. “Of course he can’t.”
“Your body language says that you believe otherwise, however subconsciously. Would different accommodation be more... reassuring?”
There was silence for a moment. The fact that John was having to consider it shouldn’t have been unnerving- he’d been attacked here, after all, the associated memories would still be fresh in his mind- but somehow, it was.
“No,” John said eventually. “No, I’ll be alright.” He tore his eyes away from the wall and walked determinedly past Sherlock. “D’you want a cup of tea?”
“Love one,” Sherlock told him, noting that it felt rather like a weight had been lifted from his chest with the action. Odd, he’d always thought that was a cliché- a turn of phrase, nothing more, although he remembered something similar from the pool, when he’d found John after the explosion.
Was this what caring felt like?
-
The relief didn’t last long; in fact, its duration was a little under 24 hours. Because Foyet hadn’t been caught, and the night after John returned to Baker Street, his deadline expired. Sally Donovan went to check on Harry Watson the morning after John was released. On arrival, she found the door locked and George Sanderson, Harry’s minder, dead in the hallway, the missing bag at his side. Of Harry herself there was no sign.
Lestrade called a few minutes after that, and Sherlock arrived at the crime scene less than half an hour later.
“How’s John?”
“Asleep. Between the sedatives and the rather strident warnings from the hospital, I considered it best to leave him like that. And no, I don’t think Foyet’s likely to go back for him,” he continued before the DI could interrupt. “I also don’t think this is entirely pertinent to the case at hand.”
Lestrade shook his head slightly and gestured for him to follow. As he turned, Sherlock was quite certain he heard him muttering something about attempts to be polite, which elicited nothing more than a smirk.
-
“Single stab wound to the torso. Likely died... I’d say six hours ago, judging by body temperature.” He stood, glancing at the footprints leading upstairs. “Foyet killed him, woke Harry up and told her that he had been sent as a replacement in order to ensure her complacency. They left together in Sanderson’s car.”
“Any idea where they went?”
“Not yet. It would be somewhere personal though- Harry’s home, maybe. Send officers there, and...” Wait. “Where is Mrs Hudson?”
“Your landlady?” Sally looked puzzled, then alarmed. “She’s with Hassanzadeh, I meant to check on them afterwards...”
“But you didn’t. Lestrade, I need a car, now,” Sherlock ordered as he ran out the door. “And send someone to Baker Street too!”
“I thought you said John was safe?”
“I assumed Mrs Hudson was as well, now send them!”
They arrived at the house within minutes. Sherlock ignored the police as they whispered from radio to radio and broke in through the kitchen window round the back.
Mrs Hudson ran into the room just in time to stop Hassanzadeh from shooting him in the face. “Sherlock?” She demanded. Sherlock blinked back at her, and the police kicked the front door in.
-
John woke up to sunshine streaming in through his bedroom window. There was no movement in the flat, and he lay there for close to a minute before his wounds began to twinge with pain again. The painkillers were in the lounge, and after a brief mental debate he decided that, while moving hurt, it was only going to get worse if he didn’t get them; with a sigh, he eased himself out of bed and padded slowly down the stairs.
The boxes of pills were on the living room mantelpiece. He picked up the ones that were needed and went to get a drink to wash them down. Reaching into the cupboards hurt only a little, and he grabbed a glass. As he put it on the counter, a photo fluttered down beside it.
Odd. He picked it up and examined it for a moment. It showed two small children- a boy and a girl- at Trent Park, grinning toothily in the sunshine. Him and Harry, back when they'd been tiny.
There was a bloody fingerprint on Harry's hair.
-
The call came through at 10:32, this time from a disposable mobile phone. There was the sound of trees rustling in the background, children in the distance, but that didn’t help much; he needed to narrow it down.
“You didn’t work it out, Sherlock. I’m disappointed.”
“Where are you?”
There was a chuckle. “I already told you. Obviously you didn’t find my note.”
Of course. They’d never found what it was Foyet had left at the flat, after all. “And I suppose that means you’re not going to tell me again.”
“Exactly. I mean, Harry worked it out, despite the tinted glass. Not that she’ll be much help to you, of course- she got a bit... feisty. Had to restrain her. Oh, don’t worry, she’s not dead,” he assured him, though Sherlock had guessed as much- ‘restrain’ would have been an odd word choice otherwise, “just... sleeping. For now.”
This was revealing little to nothing. Sherlock closed his eyes in annoyance. “What do you want?”
“Want? It’s quite simple, Sherlock. I want John’s world. And I want to watch it burn.” Another breathy laugh. “Because when that happens, I will have you.” Apparently everyone had worked out the situation before he had. Sherlock’s frustration was increasing. “Where is the good doctor, by the way?”
“Away from you.”
“But of course. Give him my best, won’t you?” There was a gasp of pain in the background. “Ah, Harry’s woken up. I hate to cut this short, but I really have to go. Just one quick thing though- is there anything you’d like to say to her before she dies?”
Sherlock was silent, and before he could speak-
“NOT MY SISTER, YOU BASTARD!”
-there was a gunshot. Two. And the line went dead.
Rating: 15
Characters: Sherlock, John, the Reaper, Lestrade, Harry
Summary: The only way to Sherlock is through John. Enter the Reaper, a serial killer willing and able to exploit that to the full.
Notes: Yep, still on a review-induced high. Thanks guys. ^^
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
“I thought I had made it clear that there was no deal, George.”
Foyet chuckled. “Clever you. John wins though, I think- he worked it out hours ago. But I’m getting sidetracked.”
“There is no deal.” Sherlock repeated.
“Oh,” and the man almost sounded disappointed. “Well, that is a shame. Have fun keeping this one covered up, then- you’ve got 8 days to work it out.”
A beep.
Call duration: 42 seconds.
-
They were halfway to Oxford Street when Lestrade’s walkie-talkie went off. By the time they arrived, the press had converged on the street; in particular the number 13 bus outside Selfridges.
To be fair, a bus with blood-splattered windows probably wasn’t something they saw every day.
The inside was carnage, as was to be expected. There had been 11 people on board, each of them shot. John’s gun, presumably. Had it been left behind?
“Jesus Christ...”
Lestrade’s reactions were ignorable for now. Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves and set about examining the driver. Sure enough, the gun was in his pocket, and Sherlock withdrew it gingerly. Now, what had been taken? Foyet wouldn’t have had time to go through the passengers in the seats towards the back- despite the time, there were plenty of people on the streets, the alarm would have been raised whilst he was firing. The driver wasn’t missing anything obvious, but there was a student in the seat beside his cabin who didn’t have a bag.
But why her? It would have been a great deal easier to take something from the driver, since Foyet would have been standing between the cabin and the doors when he fired on the others.
That would go towards explaining the wording of the phone call. Eight days... there had been eight days between Foyet’s self-injury and his attack on John. If this was a puzzle, what had he been meant to-
Of course. Foyet’s identity. The stabbing wasn’t just a way to gain power over the investigation as a supposed witness, it was a clue, a test. And now there was another.
A bus shooting, a student’s bag, eight days. Either the student was important- doubtful- or the bus route itself was. The route passed Baker Street, but that had already been attacked. It was doubtful Foyet would go back there; he’d never revisited his crime scenes before, as far as they were aware.
One of the other stops, then. Golders Green, Childs Hill, Finchley Road, Swiss Cottage...
Finchley Road.
John’s sister lived in Finchley. The student was female. It was a long shot, but...
“Lestrade!”
-
“So what, are we putting everyone that’s got anything to do with the Freak into custody now?”
“Actually, no,” Sherlock told her. “She’s related to John, not me, and I wouldn’t dare use the Force in such a flagrant manner to appease paranoia, should I ever have it.”
Sally opened her mouth to say something, but Lestrade got there first. “Donovan. You have your orders, go.”
Oddly enough, she smiled at Sherlock in a way that generally implied that the smiler knew something you didn’t. Raised her hands, too. “Alright, alright, I’m on it.” As she walked off, Sherlock was fairly certain she snickered.
He turned a quizzical glance on Lestrade, but the DI just smiled in exactly the same way Sally had- in much the same way, he realised, as he’d done when he’d told Sherlock he trusted him.
Really, what was all that about? Neither of them ever normally-
Oh. John.
Sherlock scoffed internally. The idea that the attack on John made the case any more pertinent was ridiculous; all the focus on John had done was to make Foyet’s actions more centred and thus more predictable.
But there was a part of him- a tiny part- that told him to look at the evidence properly. At his panic at Mrs Hudson’s phone call, however short-lived it had been, at his edginess at the hospital. As usual, he shut that part off. It was a distraction, and at present, that was something he could not afford.
Later, perhaps. No, definitely. When he’d caught Foyet, he’d get to the bottom of it.
-
Apparently, alcohol made Harry Watson decidedly intolerant of uniformed men turning up at her door at 2am. Granted, most people would likely have been a little put out by being taken into custody at any time, but after Harry managed to deliver solid punches to both men, they decided it would be better to post guards outside until the morning.
At 9am, she still wasn’t quite sober, but Sally’s appearance made her decidedly more agreeable; within the hour, she had a bag packed and was off to a safe house. Lestrade phoned Sherlock with the news just as he arrived at the hospital to pass it on to John. Apparently nobody had told her about his hospitalisation- if she found out, she would likely be rather angry, but John would be happier until then.
Well, perhaps ‘happy’ was the wrong word. Relieved, at least.
He found John propped into something like a sitting position, pale from blood loss and what pain wasn’t dulled by the morphine but otherwise recovering well, all things considered. He was safe, he was going to be well, and Sherlock was pleased by that, not merely because he made dealing with idiots at crime scenes so much easier.
Again, emotions. He filed the internal monologue away and leant in the doorway. John waggled his fingers at him- his arms were still heavily bandaged- and gestured towards the TV. “He struck again, then?”
His voice was strained. Understandable. “Yes. A bus shooting. He also called.” He waved the mobile for emphasis.
“What did he say?”
“He offered me the deal again. I refused, he said I had eight days to solve his puzzle.”
“And what was that?”
“The bus route. It went past Baker Street, and one of the other stops was Finchley Road.”
John blanched. “Harry?”
“She’s with the police,” Sherlock assured him. “In protective custody. Donovan is apparently overseeing it personally.”
That elicited a smile, though John still looked a little worried. “That’ll cheer her up. She has a thing for curly hair.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing, instead electing to take the bedside chair. “I believe the discussion we’re supposed to be having right now is one on how your condition is progressing.”
“Oh, come on,” John scoffed. “Since when did you go in for social conventions?”
"Only very recently. Though I will admit, I find it difficult to use them appropriately.” John gave him an odd look, then blinked a few times. Then smiled again.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
And Sherlock found himself smiling back.
-
John was released from hospital a week later, laden with medication and strict instructions on how to take it. The cab ride back to Baker Street was silent, but comfortable; the awkwardness only began on their arrival. The carpet in the hallway had been removed, but the gunshot in the wall was still there and John froze on seeing it. Sherlock, who had reached the doorway, turned.
“Are you alright?” He asked after a moment.
“Me? Fine, yeah. I’m fine.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Your face is pale, your body stance is rigid and your speech is even less coherent than usual. You are anything but ‘fine’.” John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock got there first. “He cannot hurt you here.”
John blinked. “Of course he can’t.”
“Your body language says that you believe otherwise, however subconsciously. Would different accommodation be more... reassuring?”
There was silence for a moment. The fact that John was having to consider it shouldn’t have been unnerving- he’d been attacked here, after all, the associated memories would still be fresh in his mind- but somehow, it was.
“No,” John said eventually. “No, I’ll be alright.” He tore his eyes away from the wall and walked determinedly past Sherlock. “D’you want a cup of tea?”
“Love one,” Sherlock told him, noting that it felt rather like a weight had been lifted from his chest with the action. Odd, he’d always thought that was a cliché- a turn of phrase, nothing more, although he remembered something similar from the pool, when he’d found John after the explosion.
Was this what caring felt like?
-
The relief didn’t last long; in fact, its duration was a little under 24 hours. Because Foyet hadn’t been caught, and the night after John returned to Baker Street, his deadline expired. Sally Donovan went to check on Harry Watson the morning after John was released. On arrival, she found the door locked and George Sanderson, Harry’s minder, dead in the hallway, the missing bag at his side. Of Harry herself there was no sign.
Lestrade called a few minutes after that, and Sherlock arrived at the crime scene less than half an hour later.
“How’s John?”
“Asleep. Between the sedatives and the rather strident warnings from the hospital, I considered it best to leave him like that. And no, I don’t think Foyet’s likely to go back for him,” he continued before the DI could interrupt. “I also don’t think this is entirely pertinent to the case at hand.”
Lestrade shook his head slightly and gestured for him to follow. As he turned, Sherlock was quite certain he heard him muttering something about attempts to be polite, which elicited nothing more than a smirk.
-
“Single stab wound to the torso. Likely died... I’d say six hours ago, judging by body temperature.” He stood, glancing at the footprints leading upstairs. “Foyet killed him, woke Harry up and told her that he had been sent as a replacement in order to ensure her complacency. They left together in Sanderson’s car.”
“Any idea where they went?”
“Not yet. It would be somewhere personal though- Harry’s home, maybe. Send officers there, and...” Wait. “Where is Mrs Hudson?”
“Your landlady?” Sally looked puzzled, then alarmed. “She’s with Hassanzadeh, I meant to check on them afterwards...”
“But you didn’t. Lestrade, I need a car, now,” Sherlock ordered as he ran out the door. “And send someone to Baker Street too!”
“I thought you said John was safe?”
“I assumed Mrs Hudson was as well, now send them!”
They arrived at the house within minutes. Sherlock ignored the police as they whispered from radio to radio and broke in through the kitchen window round the back.
Mrs Hudson ran into the room just in time to stop Hassanzadeh from shooting him in the face. “Sherlock?” She demanded. Sherlock blinked back at her, and the police kicked the front door in.
-
John woke up to sunshine streaming in through his bedroom window. There was no movement in the flat, and he lay there for close to a minute before his wounds began to twinge with pain again. The painkillers were in the lounge, and after a brief mental debate he decided that, while moving hurt, it was only going to get worse if he didn’t get them; with a sigh, he eased himself out of bed and padded slowly down the stairs.
The boxes of pills were on the living room mantelpiece. He picked up the ones that were needed and went to get a drink to wash them down. Reaching into the cupboards hurt only a little, and he grabbed a glass. As he put it on the counter, a photo fluttered down beside it.
Odd. He picked it up and examined it for a moment. It showed two small children- a boy and a girl- at Trent Park, grinning toothily in the sunshine. Him and Harry, back when they'd been tiny.
There was a bloody fingerprint on Harry's hair.
-
The call came through at 10:32, this time from a disposable mobile phone. There was the sound of trees rustling in the background, children in the distance, but that didn’t help much; he needed to narrow it down.
“You didn’t work it out, Sherlock. I’m disappointed.”
“Where are you?”
There was a chuckle. “I already told you. Obviously you didn’t find my note.”
Of course. They’d never found what it was Foyet had left at the flat, after all. “And I suppose that means you’re not going to tell me again.”
“Exactly. I mean, Harry worked it out, despite the tinted glass. Not that she’ll be much help to you, of course- she got a bit... feisty. Had to restrain her. Oh, don’t worry, she’s not dead,” he assured him, though Sherlock had guessed as much- ‘restrain’ would have been an odd word choice otherwise, “just... sleeping. For now.”
This was revealing little to nothing. Sherlock closed his eyes in annoyance. “What do you want?”
“Want? It’s quite simple, Sherlock. I want John’s world. And I want to watch it burn.” Another breathy laugh. “Because when that happens, I will have you.” Apparently everyone had worked out the situation before he had. Sherlock’s frustration was increasing. “Where is the good doctor, by the way?”
“Away from you.”
“But of course. Give him my best, won’t you?” There was a gasp of pain in the background. “Ah, Harry’s woken up. I hate to cut this short, but I really have to go. Just one quick thing though- is there anything you’d like to say to her before she dies?”
Sherlock was silent, and before he could speak-
“NOT MY SISTER, YOU BASTARD!”
-there was a gunshot. Two. And the line went dead.