The Phantom of St. Bartholomew 3/?
Title: The Phantom of St. Bartholomew
Author: tipsy_armadillo
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, non/dub-con
Summary: John has spent his whole life hiding
Written in response to velvet-mace's fic Chameleon which was in turn inspired by this Prompt. It's a fic within a fic. We need to go deeper.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Mycroft had a nagging suspicion in his head. He had left St Bart’s a few hours ago and couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was a small thing, easy to dismiss, just the impression that he had forgotten something. Except Mycroft Holmes didn’t forget anything.
He had talked to a rather pleasant Nurse who was happily married with two children, both girls, and gotten the assurance of the Hospital that the reputation of the DTS was a priority and that he could rely on this incident not making it to print. It was all very standard, nothing out of the ordinary so why did he feel like he had just missed something very important.
Mycroft took a step back and looked at the facts.
He had arrived at the Hospital at approximately 6:13PM and had made his way immediately to the injured Guide and the disgraced Tracker, from there he had talked to Nurse O’Connor and that’s where the feeling of wrongness began. He had talked to her for perhaps fifteen minutes and had spent perhaps forty minutes talking to the administrative staff before leaving. When he arrived back in his car he had checked his text messages at which point it was 7:30. Something about that didn’t add up.
He went over every conversation in his head, every minor detail. It took him all of about thirty seconds to realize exactly what was wrong.
Nurse O’Connor had never told Mycroft her name.
Mycroft had no recollection of seeing a name tag or any other indications of her name. Even if there had been a name tag or something similar Mycroft was not one to simply start using a person’s name without having been properly introduced first, his breeding and education simply wouldn’t allow for it.
There was also the small matter of time. Mycroft was not an obsessive clock watcher but there was something about the timing that didn’t add up.
This was becoming troubling.
Mycroft called Anthea.
“Hello, my dear. No, nothing is wrong; I simply have a task for you. I need you to get the video recording of my visit to the Hospital. Yes. Thank you, my dear.”
***
Sherlock woke to the annoying sound of his phone ringing. He was on the floor. How did he get on the floor? Oh right, he had been bored and had perhaps overindulged in nicotine patches earlier. He had a fuzzy memory of watching a Ghost Hunter program. He must have been more bored than he had realized to subject himself to that tripe. Or perhaps he had lapsed into a momentary bit of insanity. That had been known to happen from time to time.
Was that damn phone still ringing?
He let the phone ring. And keep ringing. And ringing some more.
After about five minutes Sherlock stirred, crawling across the floor with all the apathetic energy of a sloth and picked up the phone.
The name calling read “The Queen”.
Mycroft.
What could his dear brother be calling about so late at night? Or early in the morning. It was all rather irrelevant.
Sherlock answered the call.
“What do you want?”
“A little respect would be lovely. Five minutes Sherlock, really?”
“I was sleeping.”
“I wasn’t aware you slept.”
“You’re being tedious Mycroft, why are you calling me?”
There was a slight hesitation. Interesting.
“I have something you may be interested in.”
Sherlock sat up. “A case?”
Mycroft hesitated again. “Of sorts. More of a conundrum.”
Sherlock perked up further. Conundrum. That was a word he didn’t think was in Mycrofts vocabulary. “Tell me.”
“Something happened today that made me doubt my senses.” Mycrofts tone was disturbed. Sherlock mouth thinned. As much as he hated to admit it Mycroft was second to none but himself in terms of observation and the power of his senses. For Mycroft to even admit his sense were in doubt, this was unprecedented. “I was visiting St Bartholomew’s Hospital today, an incident had occurred with one of my Trackers, no need to get into details in that regard. The details you need are that from the time I entered the Hospital until the time I left I estimate I lost roughly ten minutes of time.”
“Going senile?”
“Funny. That isn’t everything. The next odd detail I noticed was that I was speaking to a Nurse O’Connor while at the Hospital and yet I have no recollection of being introduced to her, seeing a name tag or anything that might lead me to calling her by name.”
“You haven’t convinced me you aren’t going senile. Have you seen a Doctor?”
“Yes, in fact. This is the part you will be interested in. Alone the two details I mentioned might not have been important to anyone but myself but it was enough for me to retrieve the recordings from the Hospital.”
Sherlocks hair was standing on end. He didn’t know where the story was leading but he had an idea or two and they all pointed to a mystery. He so loved mysteries. “What did you see?”
“A man. Specifically a Doctor. I entered the room approximately two minutes before he did, he stayed in the room for no more than ten minutes and left very shortly after and yet I have no recollection of him ever being there. Video evidence clearly proves me wrong but, regardless of the facts, my memories of this Doctor are non-existent.” Mycroft sounded truly troubled. “I can’t explain it. All my senses tell me it is ridiculous but the facts tell me otherwise. A man came and went as though he were a ghost.”
Sherlock’s face broke out into a grin. Yes. A case. “The Phantom.”
“Phantom? Really Sherlock, let’s not bring romanticism into this. Will you take this on or not?”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“I have bigger things to worry about at the moment.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course you do. I’ll take the case. I expect it won’t take me more than a week, I’ll send you a text when I catch your disappearing Doctor.”
“Excellent. The recordings are waiting for you, I took the liberty of sending them by e-mail before I called you.”
Sherlock frowned.
“Don’t make ugly faces, Sherlock. You and I both know you couldn’t pass up a case like this to save your life. I merely saved you the trouble of asking. You’re welcome.”
Sherlock hung up. For a brief moment he wished death and all manner of unpleasantness upon his brother before practically flying to his laptop, feeling more energized and awake than he had in weeks. His senses seemed heightened and he felt wonderfully aware in a way he only felt when he was onto a particularly interesting case.
The file Mycroft sent was useful to a point. The recording did indeed show a man that appeared to be a Doctor entering the room Mycroft was in and exiting soon after; the video feed followed the man through several hallways until he disappeared. Presumably into an area not equipped with video cameras.
Sherlock watched the videos several times, taking in as much detail as the grainy, stilted footage could give him. Security camera footage was distressingly low quality, barely enough to recognize the shapes moving about as being human. He needed more information than the recordings could give him.
He knew exactly where to look.
The Phantom of St Bart’s.
Sherlock was very confident the Ghost Hunters Phantom and his brother’s ghost were one in the same, despite their tenuous connection at a glance. How many ‘ghosts’ could possibly be lingering around one hospital, really?
A quick internet search revealed a depressing amount of information available on the subject of the Phantom, most of it fanciful nonsense that he dismissed outright. Further research, however, revealed some promising trends. Among all the garbage there were kernels of truth, certain patterns that repeated themselves to the organized mind that was willing to completely disregard all hype and romanticism. And wasn’t that always the case with ghost stories, a whole lot of lie mixed with just a grain of truth, just enough to get the average, slow minded consumer to suspend their rational disbelief.
The truth within the lies seemed to hinge on one compelling reoccurrence.
Sentinel ‘sightings’. The smell of a Guide was very distinctive and several Sentinels over the past few years had reported smelling an unbonded Guide in the halls of St Bart’s. Sentinels were not the sort to lie about something like that; most Sentinels took the idea of an unbonded Guide very seriously since the shortage began and most would take it as a personal affront to be suspected of lying when a potential bondmate was on the line. Added to that, almost every sighting had prompted the Sentinel who had originally discovered the scent to formally request the right to undertake a full search. Predictably these requests were always denied but it spoke volumes as to how serious the Sentinels took their sightings. Seemingly this had become such a problem the St Bart’s website had a page dedicated to informing unbonded Sentinels that the Hospital took patient care very seriously and to remind unbonded Sentinels, both looking for the Phantom or not, that a potential bonding in the middle of the Hospital could endanger lives.
Sherlock had to admire their hypocrisy. Apparently Hospital policies on patient care were flexible when it came to Ghost Hunters. He suspected it was simply a matter of PR that some idiot in a suit thought up, though what possible benefit a Ghost Hunter show could be to public relations Sherlock had no idea.
The sightings were compelling but hardly evidence by themselves. The other solidifying piece of evidence was the apparent timeline of these sightings .This ghost was relatively new and though nobody could seem to trace the origin of the Phantom legend most people seemed to agree that the sightings had started roughly ten years ago. The stories about the Phantom would have the avid ghost hunter believing the Phantom was an ancient apparition, victim of a tragic romance but the facts only supported the ten year timeline as the not a single sighting had been reported before 2002.
Oh this was good. This was very good.
The Phantom was real, of that Sherlock was absolutely certain.
Already his mind had come to several theories about Mycrofts missing memories but none that he felt confident in accepting before he had all the facts. The disappearing Doctor was almost certainly a Guide or a Sentinel, Guide being more likely due to the legend of the Phantom having the common trend of Sentinels scenting a Phantom Guide. And that was where the mystery ended. This was no Phantom, no ghost or apparition. This was nothing more than a rogue Guide. Sherlock was almost disappointed. It took no more than thirty minutes of real research to unravel the truth of the Phantom of St Bart’s.
How disappointing.
He supposed he should round up the poor bugger just to show up Mycroft, as much as he hated getting in the middle of the DTS’s tedious affairs.
Sherlock looked at the paused footage of the short, light haired Doctor and couldn’t help but feel a little empty now that the excitement of the mystery was gone.
***
John was feeling better than ever today. After that bad night with the DTS official he had gone home shortly after and had an excellent sleep, waking up refreshed and ready to face the day.
Predictably this all came crashing down around his ears at about the exact moment he walked through the doors at Bart’s.
“Doctor Watson you have to stop him! He’s been creating a disaster since he came in and none of the nurses or orderlies can stop him,” cried Martha, a lovely old woman, if a bit prone to theatrics.
Johns brain sort of stopped working for a second, trying to recall if he had just missed something but no, he hadn’t. “Er, what?”
“That man, that government type fellow. Sherlock I think his name was, though he doesn’t look like any sort of Government type I’ve ever seen.”
“Government? Again? Is it the DTS?”
“Not sure, we just got a call saying he were to treat him like royalty. Who knows, he could even be related to real royalty, my goodness but you should see those cheekbones.”
“Right, thank you Martha,” John said. It was best to cut Martha off when she began talking about men. John had learned from long experience that Martha didn’t care about propriety, she would talk his ear off about anything that came to mind, be it sex or politics, but men was her favorite topic. John didn’t care to hear about any other mans cheekbones, much less the cheekbones of a man that was more than likely from the DTS. “Where is he?”
“ER.”
“Great,” John muttered, already feeling a deep urge to leave and pretend he hadn’t even come in today. Two Government officials in two days. He didn’t think it was due to him but one couldn’t be too careful. All he needed was a Tracker getting a good scent on him, it was harder throwing off the trained ones, he had done it before but it was easier to simply avoid detection completely. He fell back on his tried and true method. “Martha, could I see your body spray for a moment. I’m afraid I forgot to shower last night and, well, you know how it is.”
“Of course, John! Chrysanthemum Dream or Vampire Desire?”
“Er, whichever one smells best.”
“Vampire Desire it is.”
John took the bottle and eyed it dubiously before spraying liberal amounts of it on himself. It smelled absolutely ghastly. Perfect.
He followed it up with a trip to the vending machine, purchasing sugar free cinnamon spice gum. He hated the taste but it was strong. The two scents should be enough to mask what little of his natural scent remained after his usual ritual of scent neutralizing.
John walked into the ER. Beds lined the walls, most full of quiet patients sleeping or murmuring softly to family members. It didn’t look so bad on first glance. Then John saw him.
A tall, pale man in a long black coat was striding towards him like a man on a mission.
John was momentarily frozen by the sheer force of presence this man exuded. He could see why Martha thought the man might be related to royalty, he had a very regal look about him, though royal might have been a bit of a stretch. Whatever he was he was intimidating. Pale blue eyes roamed the room like a cat, seeing everything, analyzing. The fluorescent light played off the man’s pale skin and his head of curly black hair, the contrast of ultra pale and ultra dark making him into less of a man and more like a creature in the shape of a man. It was unnerving to say the least but also striking.
Everything from this man’s walk to his appearance said ‘look at me’. He seemed to embody everything John actively tried not to be.
“Doctor John Watson I presume.”
John stared. Even his voice was intriguing. It’s like someone carved a charisma statue and painted him to embody every cheap vampire novel trait they could think of including a deep, commanding voice.
“You are John Watson, your nametags says so.”
“Huh? Oh, sorry, of course. Yes, I’m John Watson.”
The man gave a bland smile and held out his hand in greeting. John shook the offered hand, feeling a bit overwhelmed. He tightened his camouflage around himself as a reflex.
“Sherlock Holmes.”
Holmes. That name again. John didn’t know if this man was any relation to that Mycroft character but he wasn’t taking any chances.
“I heard you were causing a bit of a stir around the ER,” John said.
Sherlock grinned. “Hypochondriacs don’t like to hear the truth about themselves.” John gave him a questioning look to which the man elaborated. “The patient in the far bed there, he’s in the emergency room for, and I quote, ‘unknown illness’. Vomiting, nausea, diarrhea, and a general unwell feeling. Could be anything from the common cold to a brain tumour. The man, Barty Rockwell, absolutely insisted it was brain cancer. Clearly nobody agreed with him as they have seemingly given him every broad spectrum pill known to man and have yet to take him in or even schedule him for any real tests. Strangely, since coming into the ER his symptoms have only gotten worse. Curious. Couldn’t have anything to do with the single serving of milk and yogurt or the very noticeable ice cream stain on his hospital gown. The man is bloated and his stomach is rumbling constantly, a funny symptom for brain cancer and yet he insists he is feeling fatigued and gets dizzy when standing, which naturally couldn’t have anything to do with his clear obesity and sedentary lifestyle. I explained to the man he has lactose intolerance and a steady diet of less ice cream and a regime of not being a lazy slob could clear his symptoms up. Mr. Rockwell doesn’t like to hear that his symptoms are a result of lifestyle and diet, no, but then they never do. Do they? Are you following me, Doctor?”
“Y- yes,” John stammered.
“So I asked him why he was here. Why is this man sitting in an emergency room bed when his symptoms are so obvious? It’s clear the Doctor treating him doesn’t think he had brain cancer and simply gave him pills to keep him happy; irresponsible, perhaps, but the staff here is overworked and there’s something to be said about poor patient care in an emergency room. Maybe your Barty just wants a quick fix for his symptoms. Perhaps he’s here for a more sinister reason, a pill of some sort but he doesn’t have the likely indicators of a drug addict. More likely he enjoys the attention of being sick as his skin tone and the rather alarming amount of food stuck under his neck indicates that he doesn’t get out of the house much, if ever, except for when he makes his usual trip to the emergency room for this week’s medical scare. Judging by the fact that you keep a rather large file on the man and yet seem to know nothing is wrong with him that would point to hypochondriac with some loneliness issues, wouldn’t you agree? Tell me, John Watson, are you wearing women’s perfume?”
John blinked. “That was … absolutely incredible.” Of course he knew all about Barty and his hypochondria but to hear it described so vividly by a man who hadn’t been in the ER more than a few minutes. That was amazing.
Sherlock smiled, looking somewhat flattered. “A man who appreciates genius. I think I can work with that. The rest of your staff didn’t seem quite so appreciative.” He eyed John up and down. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Question?”
“Are you wearing women’s perfume,” Sherlock repeated, taking a step closer until it felt like Sherlock was practically on top of him.
John’s brain was slowing to a crawl, his mind growing sluggish and his body heating. It was only through years of experience and his sharp wits that he managed to catch what was happening before he made a fool of himself, or worse, outed himself. Sherlock was putting the whammy on him.
“Oh, er, yes. I am.”
“Interesting. Such a unique smell.”
“No it isn’t. Not really.” John said, putting as much suggestion behind the words as he dared in plain sight.
Sherlocks eyes momentarily glazed. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
“Too right. Now, what brings you to Bart’s? We already had one of your type here yesterday.”
“My type?” Sherlock looked amused. “And what type would that be?”
“Government.”
“Oh, god no. Do I look like I work in an office?”
John looked the man over. To be honest he couldn’t think of anyone less likely to be working in an office. The man, Sherlock, seemed to be a strange mix of expensive clothing with the overall air of someone who spent their time digging around in garbage bins for lost treasures. Sherlocks half smile grew bigger and John had the strange sensation that Sherlock knew exactly what he was thinking.
John needed to get away from this man, quickly. He concentrated, wrapping himself in camouflage. “No, you don’t. Look, Mr. Holmes, I’m quite busy, one of the other staff will see to you.”
You don’t see me. I was never here.
The man froze, his mouth half open as if he was just about to say something as John quickly implanting his suggestion, instinctively soothing the raw edges of the Sentinels mind while he worked. It was uncomfortable work; Sherlock’s mind was beginning to show signs of fraying around the edges. This man had been too long without a Guide to steady him, to relieve the burden of his over heightened senses. A hint of madness was present among the tangled knot of his thoughts and memories. It was only with great force of will that John managed to deny his instincts and leave Sherlock’s mind without even trying to sooth the madness. If he went that far he might as well just turn himself into the DTS. The best he could do was to give the man a momentary peace as he implanted the suggestion into Sherlock’s mind that there had never been a John Watson.
“One of the other staff. Of course,” Sherlock murmured in a heavy, sluggish tone.
John gently extracted himself from Sherlocks mind and beat a hasty retreat. It was only when he was leaving that he realized he still had no idea who Sherlock Holmes was or what he wanted.
Next Chapter
Author: tipsy_armadillo
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, non/dub-con
Summary: John has spent his whole life hiding
Written in response to velvet-mace's fic Chameleon which was in turn inspired by this Prompt. It's a fic within a fic. We need to go deeper.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Mycroft had a nagging suspicion in his head. He had left St Bart’s a few hours ago and couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was a small thing, easy to dismiss, just the impression that he had forgotten something. Except Mycroft Holmes didn’t forget anything.
He had talked to a rather pleasant Nurse who was happily married with two children, both girls, and gotten the assurance of the Hospital that the reputation of the DTS was a priority and that he could rely on this incident not making it to print. It was all very standard, nothing out of the ordinary so why did he feel like he had just missed something very important.
Mycroft took a step back and looked at the facts.
He had arrived at the Hospital at approximately 6:13PM and had made his way immediately to the injured Guide and the disgraced Tracker, from there he had talked to Nurse O’Connor and that’s where the feeling of wrongness began. He had talked to her for perhaps fifteen minutes and had spent perhaps forty minutes talking to the administrative staff before leaving. When he arrived back in his car he had checked his text messages at which point it was 7:30. Something about that didn’t add up.
He went over every conversation in his head, every minor detail. It took him all of about thirty seconds to realize exactly what was wrong.
Nurse O’Connor had never told Mycroft her name.
Mycroft had no recollection of seeing a name tag or any other indications of her name. Even if there had been a name tag or something similar Mycroft was not one to simply start using a person’s name without having been properly introduced first, his breeding and education simply wouldn’t allow for it.
There was also the small matter of time. Mycroft was not an obsessive clock watcher but there was something about the timing that didn’t add up.
This was becoming troubling.
Mycroft called Anthea.
“Hello, my dear. No, nothing is wrong; I simply have a task for you. I need you to get the video recording of my visit to the Hospital. Yes. Thank you, my dear.”
***
Sherlock woke to the annoying sound of his phone ringing. He was on the floor. How did he get on the floor? Oh right, he had been bored and had perhaps overindulged in nicotine patches earlier. He had a fuzzy memory of watching a Ghost Hunter program. He must have been more bored than he had realized to subject himself to that tripe. Or perhaps he had lapsed into a momentary bit of insanity. That had been known to happen from time to time.
Was that damn phone still ringing?
He let the phone ring. And keep ringing. And ringing some more.
After about five minutes Sherlock stirred, crawling across the floor with all the apathetic energy of a sloth and picked up the phone.
The name calling read “The Queen”.
Mycroft.
What could his dear brother be calling about so late at night? Or early in the morning. It was all rather irrelevant.
Sherlock answered the call.
“What do you want?”
“A little respect would be lovely. Five minutes Sherlock, really?”
“I was sleeping.”
“I wasn’t aware you slept.”
“You’re being tedious Mycroft, why are you calling me?”
There was a slight hesitation. Interesting.
“I have something you may be interested in.”
Sherlock sat up. “A case?”
Mycroft hesitated again. “Of sorts. More of a conundrum.”
Sherlock perked up further. Conundrum. That was a word he didn’t think was in Mycrofts vocabulary. “Tell me.”
“Something happened today that made me doubt my senses.” Mycrofts tone was disturbed. Sherlock mouth thinned. As much as he hated to admit it Mycroft was second to none but himself in terms of observation and the power of his senses. For Mycroft to even admit his sense were in doubt, this was unprecedented. “I was visiting St Bartholomew’s Hospital today, an incident had occurred with one of my Trackers, no need to get into details in that regard. The details you need are that from the time I entered the Hospital until the time I left I estimate I lost roughly ten minutes of time.”
“Going senile?”
“Funny. That isn’t everything. The next odd detail I noticed was that I was speaking to a Nurse O’Connor while at the Hospital and yet I have no recollection of being introduced to her, seeing a name tag or anything that might lead me to calling her by name.”
“You haven’t convinced me you aren’t going senile. Have you seen a Doctor?”
“Yes, in fact. This is the part you will be interested in. Alone the two details I mentioned might not have been important to anyone but myself but it was enough for me to retrieve the recordings from the Hospital.”
Sherlocks hair was standing on end. He didn’t know where the story was leading but he had an idea or two and they all pointed to a mystery. He so loved mysteries. “What did you see?”
“A man. Specifically a Doctor. I entered the room approximately two minutes before he did, he stayed in the room for no more than ten minutes and left very shortly after and yet I have no recollection of him ever being there. Video evidence clearly proves me wrong but, regardless of the facts, my memories of this Doctor are non-existent.” Mycroft sounded truly troubled. “I can’t explain it. All my senses tell me it is ridiculous but the facts tell me otherwise. A man came and went as though he were a ghost.”
Sherlock’s face broke out into a grin. Yes. A case. “The Phantom.”
“Phantom? Really Sherlock, let’s not bring romanticism into this. Will you take this on or not?”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“I have bigger things to worry about at the moment.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course you do. I’ll take the case. I expect it won’t take me more than a week, I’ll send you a text when I catch your disappearing Doctor.”
“Excellent. The recordings are waiting for you, I took the liberty of sending them by e-mail before I called you.”
Sherlock frowned.
“Don’t make ugly faces, Sherlock. You and I both know you couldn’t pass up a case like this to save your life. I merely saved you the trouble of asking. You’re welcome.”
Sherlock hung up. For a brief moment he wished death and all manner of unpleasantness upon his brother before practically flying to his laptop, feeling more energized and awake than he had in weeks. His senses seemed heightened and he felt wonderfully aware in a way he only felt when he was onto a particularly interesting case.
The file Mycroft sent was useful to a point. The recording did indeed show a man that appeared to be a Doctor entering the room Mycroft was in and exiting soon after; the video feed followed the man through several hallways until he disappeared. Presumably into an area not equipped with video cameras.
Sherlock watched the videos several times, taking in as much detail as the grainy, stilted footage could give him. Security camera footage was distressingly low quality, barely enough to recognize the shapes moving about as being human. He needed more information than the recordings could give him.
He knew exactly where to look.
The Phantom of St Bart’s.
Sherlock was very confident the Ghost Hunters Phantom and his brother’s ghost were one in the same, despite their tenuous connection at a glance. How many ‘ghosts’ could possibly be lingering around one hospital, really?
A quick internet search revealed a depressing amount of information available on the subject of the Phantom, most of it fanciful nonsense that he dismissed outright. Further research, however, revealed some promising trends. Among all the garbage there were kernels of truth, certain patterns that repeated themselves to the organized mind that was willing to completely disregard all hype and romanticism. And wasn’t that always the case with ghost stories, a whole lot of lie mixed with just a grain of truth, just enough to get the average, slow minded consumer to suspend their rational disbelief.
The truth within the lies seemed to hinge on one compelling reoccurrence.
Sentinel ‘sightings’. The smell of a Guide was very distinctive and several Sentinels over the past few years had reported smelling an unbonded Guide in the halls of St Bart’s. Sentinels were not the sort to lie about something like that; most Sentinels took the idea of an unbonded Guide very seriously since the shortage began and most would take it as a personal affront to be suspected of lying when a potential bondmate was on the line. Added to that, almost every sighting had prompted the Sentinel who had originally discovered the scent to formally request the right to undertake a full search. Predictably these requests were always denied but it spoke volumes as to how serious the Sentinels took their sightings. Seemingly this had become such a problem the St Bart’s website had a page dedicated to informing unbonded Sentinels that the Hospital took patient care very seriously and to remind unbonded Sentinels, both looking for the Phantom or not, that a potential bonding in the middle of the Hospital could endanger lives.
Sherlock had to admire their hypocrisy. Apparently Hospital policies on patient care were flexible when it came to Ghost Hunters. He suspected it was simply a matter of PR that some idiot in a suit thought up, though what possible benefit a Ghost Hunter show could be to public relations Sherlock had no idea.
The sightings were compelling but hardly evidence by themselves. The other solidifying piece of evidence was the apparent timeline of these sightings .This ghost was relatively new and though nobody could seem to trace the origin of the Phantom legend most people seemed to agree that the sightings had started roughly ten years ago. The stories about the Phantom would have the avid ghost hunter believing the Phantom was an ancient apparition, victim of a tragic romance but the facts only supported the ten year timeline as the not a single sighting had been reported before 2002.
Oh this was good. This was very good.
The Phantom was real, of that Sherlock was absolutely certain.
Already his mind had come to several theories about Mycrofts missing memories but none that he felt confident in accepting before he had all the facts. The disappearing Doctor was almost certainly a Guide or a Sentinel, Guide being more likely due to the legend of the Phantom having the common trend of Sentinels scenting a Phantom Guide. And that was where the mystery ended. This was no Phantom, no ghost or apparition. This was nothing more than a rogue Guide. Sherlock was almost disappointed. It took no more than thirty minutes of real research to unravel the truth of the Phantom of St Bart’s.
How disappointing.
He supposed he should round up the poor bugger just to show up Mycroft, as much as he hated getting in the middle of the DTS’s tedious affairs.
Sherlock looked at the paused footage of the short, light haired Doctor and couldn’t help but feel a little empty now that the excitement of the mystery was gone.
***
John was feeling better than ever today. After that bad night with the DTS official he had gone home shortly after and had an excellent sleep, waking up refreshed and ready to face the day.
Predictably this all came crashing down around his ears at about the exact moment he walked through the doors at Bart’s.
“Doctor Watson you have to stop him! He’s been creating a disaster since he came in and none of the nurses or orderlies can stop him,” cried Martha, a lovely old woman, if a bit prone to theatrics.
Johns brain sort of stopped working for a second, trying to recall if he had just missed something but no, he hadn’t. “Er, what?”
“That man, that government type fellow. Sherlock I think his name was, though he doesn’t look like any sort of Government type I’ve ever seen.”
“Government? Again? Is it the DTS?”
“Not sure, we just got a call saying he were to treat him like royalty. Who knows, he could even be related to real royalty, my goodness but you should see those cheekbones.”
“Right, thank you Martha,” John said. It was best to cut Martha off when she began talking about men. John had learned from long experience that Martha didn’t care about propriety, she would talk his ear off about anything that came to mind, be it sex or politics, but men was her favorite topic. John didn’t care to hear about any other mans cheekbones, much less the cheekbones of a man that was more than likely from the DTS. “Where is he?”
“ER.”
“Great,” John muttered, already feeling a deep urge to leave and pretend he hadn’t even come in today. Two Government officials in two days. He didn’t think it was due to him but one couldn’t be too careful. All he needed was a Tracker getting a good scent on him, it was harder throwing off the trained ones, he had done it before but it was easier to simply avoid detection completely. He fell back on his tried and true method. “Martha, could I see your body spray for a moment. I’m afraid I forgot to shower last night and, well, you know how it is.”
“Of course, John! Chrysanthemum Dream or Vampire Desire?”
“Er, whichever one smells best.”
“Vampire Desire it is.”
John took the bottle and eyed it dubiously before spraying liberal amounts of it on himself. It smelled absolutely ghastly. Perfect.
He followed it up with a trip to the vending machine, purchasing sugar free cinnamon spice gum. He hated the taste but it was strong. The two scents should be enough to mask what little of his natural scent remained after his usual ritual of scent neutralizing.
John walked into the ER. Beds lined the walls, most full of quiet patients sleeping or murmuring softly to family members. It didn’t look so bad on first glance. Then John saw him.
A tall, pale man in a long black coat was striding towards him like a man on a mission.
John was momentarily frozen by the sheer force of presence this man exuded. He could see why Martha thought the man might be related to royalty, he had a very regal look about him, though royal might have been a bit of a stretch. Whatever he was he was intimidating. Pale blue eyes roamed the room like a cat, seeing everything, analyzing. The fluorescent light played off the man’s pale skin and his head of curly black hair, the contrast of ultra pale and ultra dark making him into less of a man and more like a creature in the shape of a man. It was unnerving to say the least but also striking.
Everything from this man’s walk to his appearance said ‘look at me’. He seemed to embody everything John actively tried not to be.
“Doctor John Watson I presume.”
John stared. Even his voice was intriguing. It’s like someone carved a charisma statue and painted him to embody every cheap vampire novel trait they could think of including a deep, commanding voice.
“You are John Watson, your nametags says so.”
“Huh? Oh, sorry, of course. Yes, I’m John Watson.”
The man gave a bland smile and held out his hand in greeting. John shook the offered hand, feeling a bit overwhelmed. He tightened his camouflage around himself as a reflex.
“Sherlock Holmes.”
Holmes. That name again. John didn’t know if this man was any relation to that Mycroft character but he wasn’t taking any chances.
“I heard you were causing a bit of a stir around the ER,” John said.
Sherlock grinned. “Hypochondriacs don’t like to hear the truth about themselves.” John gave him a questioning look to which the man elaborated. “The patient in the far bed there, he’s in the emergency room for, and I quote, ‘unknown illness’. Vomiting, nausea, diarrhea, and a general unwell feeling. Could be anything from the common cold to a brain tumour. The man, Barty Rockwell, absolutely insisted it was brain cancer. Clearly nobody agreed with him as they have seemingly given him every broad spectrum pill known to man and have yet to take him in or even schedule him for any real tests. Strangely, since coming into the ER his symptoms have only gotten worse. Curious. Couldn’t have anything to do with the single serving of milk and yogurt or the very noticeable ice cream stain on his hospital gown. The man is bloated and his stomach is rumbling constantly, a funny symptom for brain cancer and yet he insists he is feeling fatigued and gets dizzy when standing, which naturally couldn’t have anything to do with his clear obesity and sedentary lifestyle. I explained to the man he has lactose intolerance and a steady diet of less ice cream and a regime of not being a lazy slob could clear his symptoms up. Mr. Rockwell doesn’t like to hear that his symptoms are a result of lifestyle and diet, no, but then they never do. Do they? Are you following me, Doctor?”
“Y- yes,” John stammered.
“So I asked him why he was here. Why is this man sitting in an emergency room bed when his symptoms are so obvious? It’s clear the Doctor treating him doesn’t think he had brain cancer and simply gave him pills to keep him happy; irresponsible, perhaps, but the staff here is overworked and there’s something to be said about poor patient care in an emergency room. Maybe your Barty just wants a quick fix for his symptoms. Perhaps he’s here for a more sinister reason, a pill of some sort but he doesn’t have the likely indicators of a drug addict. More likely he enjoys the attention of being sick as his skin tone and the rather alarming amount of food stuck under his neck indicates that he doesn’t get out of the house much, if ever, except for when he makes his usual trip to the emergency room for this week’s medical scare. Judging by the fact that you keep a rather large file on the man and yet seem to know nothing is wrong with him that would point to hypochondriac with some loneliness issues, wouldn’t you agree? Tell me, John Watson, are you wearing women’s perfume?”
John blinked. “That was … absolutely incredible.” Of course he knew all about Barty and his hypochondria but to hear it described so vividly by a man who hadn’t been in the ER more than a few minutes. That was amazing.
Sherlock smiled, looking somewhat flattered. “A man who appreciates genius. I think I can work with that. The rest of your staff didn’t seem quite so appreciative.” He eyed John up and down. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Question?”
“Are you wearing women’s perfume,” Sherlock repeated, taking a step closer until it felt like Sherlock was practically on top of him.
John’s brain was slowing to a crawl, his mind growing sluggish and his body heating. It was only through years of experience and his sharp wits that he managed to catch what was happening before he made a fool of himself, or worse, outed himself. Sherlock was putting the whammy on him.
“Oh, er, yes. I am.”
“Interesting. Such a unique smell.”
“No it isn’t. Not really.” John said, putting as much suggestion behind the words as he dared in plain sight.
Sherlocks eyes momentarily glazed. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
“Too right. Now, what brings you to Bart’s? We already had one of your type here yesterday.”
“My type?” Sherlock looked amused. “And what type would that be?”
“Government.”
“Oh, god no. Do I look like I work in an office?”
John looked the man over. To be honest he couldn’t think of anyone less likely to be working in an office. The man, Sherlock, seemed to be a strange mix of expensive clothing with the overall air of someone who spent their time digging around in garbage bins for lost treasures. Sherlocks half smile grew bigger and John had the strange sensation that Sherlock knew exactly what he was thinking.
John needed to get away from this man, quickly. He concentrated, wrapping himself in camouflage. “No, you don’t. Look, Mr. Holmes, I’m quite busy, one of the other staff will see to you.”
You don’t see me. I was never here.
The man froze, his mouth half open as if he was just about to say something as John quickly implanting his suggestion, instinctively soothing the raw edges of the Sentinels mind while he worked. It was uncomfortable work; Sherlock’s mind was beginning to show signs of fraying around the edges. This man had been too long without a Guide to steady him, to relieve the burden of his over heightened senses. A hint of madness was present among the tangled knot of his thoughts and memories. It was only with great force of will that John managed to deny his instincts and leave Sherlock’s mind without even trying to sooth the madness. If he went that far he might as well just turn himself into the DTS. The best he could do was to give the man a momentary peace as he implanted the suggestion into Sherlock’s mind that there had never been a John Watson.
“One of the other staff. Of course,” Sherlock murmured in a heavy, sluggish tone.
John gently extracted himself from Sherlocks mind and beat a hasty retreat. It was only when he was leaving that he realized he still had no idea who Sherlock Holmes was or what he wanted.
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