Sherlock Fic: The Game is On 2/?
Chapter 2: A new case
The day after John’s return was grey and miserable, rain beat harmoniously on the window pane and London was obscured by a layer of dense, gloomy clouds. Despite the doctor’s instructions to the contrary, John slipped on his jacket and picked up his cane. Sherlock had left earlier that morning, promising to return as soon as he could. Secretly, John was glad he had gone. Sherlock, although he had tried hard to hide it, had shown definite signs of boredom in the past months and John knew what Sherlock was like when bored.
Opening the front door, John was blasted by a freezing blast of winter air. Shivering, he pulled his jacket more tightly around him and limped off up the street, determined to reach the shops, to do something. The weeks in hospital had left him feeling useless, he could just manage a slow walk, and even then it tired him enormously. He hated the feeling of helplessness; it was, he thought, incredibly unfair. Shot once: that was what you got for enlisting, but shot twice? That was just plain unfair.
On the way back from the shops, John contemplated what he would do with the rest of the day. Going out again was out of the question, he was exhausted and he hadn’t even reached Baker Street, no, he would have to stay inside. The thought was thoroughly depressing, there was only so much time he could spend lying about lazily. He turned into Baker Street and walked unhappily up the rain drenched street. His sadness lifted slightly when he saw Sherlock’s silhouette in the window - at least he wouldn’t be alone in his misery. His mood dampened again when he thought of spending the afternoon with Sherlock fussing over him. He hated feeling weak, and although he knew Sherlock was trying to help, he wished he would just leave him alone.
These thoughts buzzed around his head as he reached the steps of 221B and began the slow, painful ascent. By the time he reached the top, he was red in the face and panting. Hating his weakness, a scowl appeared on his face and he grumpily opened the door to the flat.
‘John!’ Sherlock exclaimed, happily. He crossed the room in long strides and planted a kiss on John’s cheek. He then stood back examining him, a slightly disparaging expression on his fine, handsome features, ‘The doctors specifically told you to avoid the cold! You’re a medical man; you know you should be resting!’
‘Sherlock! Enough! Stop molly-coddling me! Ok? I can help myself!’ John replied angrily, glaring at the floor. Almost immediately he regretted his words. The look of rejection on Sherlock’s face made his stomach clench in guilt. But he didn’t apologise, only turned around and flopped into his favourite chair. After a few moments, Sherlock sat, too, keeping his distance and nodded to the newspaper on the table. ‘Read it, it’ll take your mind off things.’
‘New case?’ John asked, politely, picking up the paper and scanning the article, guilt still twisting his insides. The guilt subsided as he read the story, curiosity taking its place. He knew the story well, all of London was buzzing with it.
The Royal Family has been struck by another tragedy, with the mysterious death of Prince Henry. The 28 year old was found outside his London home with a bullet lodged in his head, and his body bearing multiple cuts, bruises and several broken bones. Neighbours say the only person they saw enter the house was an old war friend of Henry’s, Colonel Sebastian Moran. The police are at a loss as to how the murder took place, as Moran, the key suspect in the investigation was found dead last night, with similar injuries inflicted upon him. The Queen has issued a request for privacy and also wished to express her grief and anger at her grandson’s death. London’s top detectives have been called in to help capture the villain behind the attacks.
John read the article twice and shivered involuntarily at the gruesome description of the Prince’s body. The depiction was all too familiar and he was almost convinced that this case was linked with his own brush with death. ‘Have you been called in yet?’
Sherlock smirked, ‘It says London’s top detectives, does it not? But, that’s not the reason I’m going to investigate.’
‘What is?’
‘Moran’ Sherlock said, simply, without further explanation.
John sighed; he really did hate being left behind in his friends deductions, especially when Sherlock offered no hints or clues, ‘Why Moran?’
‘Because,’ Sherlock explained, ‘I have been spending the past weeks following leads Mycroft gave me over the men Moriarty hired to attack you, and one of them, was a certain Colonel Sebastian Moran.’
Next Chapter: http://221bsherlock.livejournal.com/162414.html
The day after John’s return was grey and miserable, rain beat harmoniously on the window pane and London was obscured by a layer of dense, gloomy clouds. Despite the doctor’s instructions to the contrary, John slipped on his jacket and picked up his cane. Sherlock had left earlier that morning, promising to return as soon as he could. Secretly, John was glad he had gone. Sherlock, although he had tried hard to hide it, had shown definite signs of boredom in the past months and John knew what Sherlock was like when bored.
Opening the front door, John was blasted by a freezing blast of winter air. Shivering, he pulled his jacket more tightly around him and limped off up the street, determined to reach the shops, to do something. The weeks in hospital had left him feeling useless, he could just manage a slow walk, and even then it tired him enormously. He hated the feeling of helplessness; it was, he thought, incredibly unfair. Shot once: that was what you got for enlisting, but shot twice? That was just plain unfair.
On the way back from the shops, John contemplated what he would do with the rest of the day. Going out again was out of the question, he was exhausted and he hadn’t even reached Baker Street, no, he would have to stay inside. The thought was thoroughly depressing, there was only so much time he could spend lying about lazily. He turned into Baker Street and walked unhappily up the rain drenched street. His sadness lifted slightly when he saw Sherlock’s silhouette in the window - at least he wouldn’t be alone in his misery. His mood dampened again when he thought of spending the afternoon with Sherlock fussing over him. He hated feeling weak, and although he knew Sherlock was trying to help, he wished he would just leave him alone.
These thoughts buzzed around his head as he reached the steps of 221B and began the slow, painful ascent. By the time he reached the top, he was red in the face and panting. Hating his weakness, a scowl appeared on his face and he grumpily opened the door to the flat.
‘John!’ Sherlock exclaimed, happily. He crossed the room in long strides and planted a kiss on John’s cheek. He then stood back examining him, a slightly disparaging expression on his fine, handsome features, ‘The doctors specifically told you to avoid the cold! You’re a medical man; you know you should be resting!’
‘Sherlock! Enough! Stop molly-coddling me! Ok? I can help myself!’ John replied angrily, glaring at the floor. Almost immediately he regretted his words. The look of rejection on Sherlock’s face made his stomach clench in guilt. But he didn’t apologise, only turned around and flopped into his favourite chair. After a few moments, Sherlock sat, too, keeping his distance and nodded to the newspaper on the table. ‘Read it, it’ll take your mind off things.’
‘New case?’ John asked, politely, picking up the paper and scanning the article, guilt still twisting his insides. The guilt subsided as he read the story, curiosity taking its place. He knew the story well, all of London was buzzing with it.
The Royal Family has been struck by another tragedy, with the mysterious death of Prince Henry. The 28 year old was found outside his London home with a bullet lodged in his head, and his body bearing multiple cuts, bruises and several broken bones. Neighbours say the only person they saw enter the house was an old war friend of Henry’s, Colonel Sebastian Moran. The police are at a loss as to how the murder took place, as Moran, the key suspect in the investigation was found dead last night, with similar injuries inflicted upon him. The Queen has issued a request for privacy and also wished to express her grief and anger at her grandson’s death. London’s top detectives have been called in to help capture the villain behind the attacks.
John read the article twice and shivered involuntarily at the gruesome description of the Prince’s body. The depiction was all too familiar and he was almost convinced that this case was linked with his own brush with death. ‘Have you been called in yet?’
Sherlock smirked, ‘It says London’s top detectives, does it not? But, that’s not the reason I’m going to investigate.’
‘What is?’
‘Moran’ Sherlock said, simply, without further explanation.
John sighed; he really did hate being left behind in his friends deductions, especially when Sherlock offered no hints or clues, ‘Why Moran?’
‘Because,’ Sherlock explained, ‘I have been spending the past weeks following leads Mycroft gave me over the men Moriarty hired to attack you, and one of them, was a certain Colonel Sebastian Moran.’
Next Chapter: http://221bsherlock.livejournal.com/162414.html