SO THIS IS WHAT I'VE BEEN DOING. It sucks and I know it does, but I wanted to have some sort of entry for the Case Fic contest for .com girls, so I did this. I will be working on Soulless a LOT more now! Anyways, here's this for you!
John pulled the zipper on his coat up a bit. It was awful, as spring was deciding to dish out bitter winds and random downpours. It was far too cold for this time of year. His nose felt like if touched it, it would break off, shattering and sending a horrid stinging sensation into the center of his brain. He hated days like today. The cold wouldn't stop, the rain wouldn't cease, taxis wouldn't slow for him —it was just making the evening seem so bleak and dull.
He found himself appreciating the moment when he opened to the door to his flat and the warm engulfed him immediately. He hung his coat and scarf up on the wall hook and walked towards the kitchen. No sooner did he take in a breath then he heard it.
Running. Running towards him at top speed. Heavy panting. He smiled.
"Yes, yes, all right, I'm home," he crouched down and let his dog lap affectionately at him. He ruffled the top of Tony's head and made the ridiculous noises one does with their dog when they are alone in their home. He chuckled and stood back up.
A shower sounded nice. A hot, long shower. However, his stomach turned and he realized he hadn't stopped for a lunch break during work.
Food first, then.
His leg twitched slightly as he sat down at the kitchen table, but he wasn't worried about it. All that concerned him was his buttered toast and the paper. Tony was quick to jump in the chair next to John and howl until John reached out to pet him with his free hand. He took a bit of his toast and then unfolded the paper in front of him.
The first thing that caught his eye was the phrase "Explosion Obliterates Baker Street" and for the first time in over a year, John thinks of Sherlock Holmes.
John suspects it's sort of like the feeling of diving headfirst into water and it's freezing cold. One might have expected it to be a bit warmer, maybe, or at least told themselves that. But it's utterly glacial and it engulfs John, starting from the top of his head and rapidly moving to his toes. Death was not new to him. He still remembered his friends from his Army days that had been talking to him one minute and then lying lifeless in front of him the next. But they hadn't done it on their own. Someone had taken that choice from them.
Sherlock had jumped of his own accord, and it was like a solid punch to John's gut as he remembered it all again.
But his eyes went back to the paper and he tried to figure out the details of what had gone on. He skimmed over the page:
"An explosion left a good portion of the flats on Baker Street destroyed last night…Scotland Yard was called in after the source of the explosion was found…ruled out as a threat…caused by an apparent gas leak…explosion originated in 221…" John shot up, "Mrs. Hudson!"
He was running to his phone before he could even think. In the process, he knocked the table and sent his toast flying. It landed on the ground and Tony was quick to attack it, but John didn't care. He went through his contacts to find Mrs. Hudson's land line and dialed the number. In that second, he realized that she probably wouldn't be able to answer it, what with it being blown up and all. Sure enough, a voice on the other end of the phone indicated the number he was dialing was currently not in service.
Now what? He thought desperately.
John put a hand on his head and it came to him. Scotland Yard had been there. Surely Lestrade would have paid attention to an explosion on that street.
"Come on," John groaned, "pick up, pick up, pick—"
"Lestrade."
John went to say Greg, but it'd been a while, "Hey! Lestrade! It's John."
"John! Gosh, nice to hear your voice. Didn't expect you to call."
In the back of his mind, John would bet Lestrade had expected it. An explosion on Baker Street? Last night? If John hadn't come up in Lestrade's mind in the last twenty four hours, John would break his copy of the Princess Bride.
"Yeah, it's great to be calling," John said, and he meant it, "but I have to know if Mrs. Hudson is all right."
"Yes. Luckily, she was out of the flat at the time of the explosion. She's staying with a friend of hers at the moment.
John let out a huge sigh of relief and collapsed in the opposite chair, running his hand over his forehead, "Well that's good."
"Yeah, sorry that you got panicked."
"Eh, you know," John blew it off and then there were a few horrid moments of silence. John hadn't spoken to Lestrade in at least six months. This conversation was what would be found on the audio examples of 'awkward silence' for years to come, because that was exactly what this was:
Awkward and painfully so.
"It was a gas leak?" John finally managed to say.
"That's what they say, isn't it?"
John heard the disapproval even over the phone.
"You don't agree."
"No. No I do not."
There was an edge to Greg's voice John had never heard before.
"Why not?"
"Look, John, I really can't talk about—"
"No, no, it's okay," John stopped him, "you just seemed irritated."
"That's one word you could use." Greg sighed and he laughed bitterly.
"Sorry, mate."
"S'alright. I'll tell Mrs. Hudson to give you a call."
John's face drained of color.
"No, that's okay. I just wanted to make sure she's all right."
"Well, she misses you, you know. First thing she said was that you'd be cross that the flat got blown up. Said you always hated it when it was a mess and was worried you'd clean it up yourself."
There were parts of that missing, John realized. Parts where Sherlock's name fit in. John always hated it when Sherlock made a mess in the flat. Greg could have said that, but he suspected that Greg didn't want to bring Sherlock up to spare him. He should have known better; an explosion at 221B Baker Street wasn't going to simply pass by John. Remembering Sherlock was unavoidable.
"She's right, too," he joked, "Should I head over there and hoover it now or later?"
Greg let himself chuckle a bit, "Probably later. Don't think the police would be too happy with you spraying Windex on a blast site."
"Damn, I'll wait it out."
"It's really good to hear from you, John."
"Yeah, it's nice."
"Listen, don't be a stranger, okay?"
"I'll try not to be. Just been…working."
"I understand."
"I'll talk to you later."
"Yeah, cheers mate."
The phone clicked and John leaned back in his seat. There was so much he should do. Work was done and he didn't have to go in tomorrow until ten. He could read. There were always books to read, movies he hadn't watched, and shows he'd always wanted to get into. But suddenly, he did not want to do anything.
He hadn't felt like this in a long time. He hated it. He hated it so much. It was weak and stupid and pathetic. John Watson, army doctor, did not act like this. He didn't feel like this. He was strong. He was brave.
He should be able to STOP.
But his mind was shutting down and trying to dismiss all intelligent thought. It was telling him that he needed to call it a day.
It was so early in the evening that his idea was clearly idiotic, but the mind was a powerful thing, and it had now suggested this idiotic idea and was working hard to go through with it. John felt instantly fatigued.
Tony suddenly nudged his leg and looked up at him with those big Springer Spaniel eyes. It was consistently amazing how his dog could hold more emotions and portray a wider range of feelings than most humans John interacted with on a daily basis. He assumed this was because dogs, unlike people, were unashamed of how they felt. No one judged a dog for being sad that their owner had left them for so long or mocked a dog getting overexcited due to a piece of cheese.
"What do you think, Tony? Should we turn in?"
Predictably, Tony just barked softly and wagged his tail, trying to climb up his leg for John to pet him. John obliged, leaning over slightly to nuzzle the top of his head.
"Yeah, okay," he resigned, and made his way to his room.
There would be books and movies and shows tomorrow. Tonight, he just really wanted to sleep.
John prayed he didn't dream.
The next morning, John exited his room he knew someone had been in his flat.
He ran back into his room and grabbed the gun from his bedside drawer. He assessed the situation. Someone had been in his flat and left without harming John. Nothing appeared to be taken or even moved. As far as he could tell, the only difference was that there were now multiple pages from the newspaper resting on the table. There was highlighted text.
On top of the artfully askew paper was today's, John saw, and the headline was highlighted.
Police Baffled By Anonymous Message
John looked around his flat, double-checking and triple-checking before returning to his kitchen table. Tony was awake by then and had joined him in the kitchen. He started yipping for his food, but John didn't pay attention to him. There was something else getting his attention; the sub-heading said the words five beeps left on DI Dimmock's answering machine.
Five beeps.
Five pips.
There was an echo of Sherlock's voice in his head and John groaned. It was going to be that kind of day. He hadn't had a day like that in over a year and he thought that by going to sleep he could avoid it. Why did this have to happen now?
The paper didn't give anything away, really. All it said was that five pips had been left on the answering machine of Detective Inspector Dimmock. A wave of sympathy passed over him for Lestrade. After the whole scandal, it was no real mystery as to why Greg had been demoted. Scotland Yard was not too fond of him bringing Sherlock in for cases that were supposed to be confidential. Now he was doing grunt work to earn his place back in his rightful spot as detective inspector.
But it was just another tragic result of Sherlock's suicide.
John winced and then tried to pass it off as flexing his neck. He didn't know why, because obviously no one could see him, but he did not want this absurdity to be bothering him again.
He moved on to the highlighted text, briefly checking his watch. He had a bit of time before work, as he'd showered last night, so he risked a look at the selected print, starting with the bottom one.
Woman Found in Abandoned Home
"On February 7th, an anonymous call was placed to the police saying a body had been found in an abandoned home just outside Lauriston Gardens. When the police arrived, they found the body of Kelly Foster, local news anchor and aspiring journalist. A missing persons report had been filed for her only two days earlier. However, the clothes she was found in did not match the description of what she had been last seen in. The body had been altered post-mortem and was wearing an outfit that was predominantly pink, from her shoes to her lipstick…"
John's heart sputtered. He pushed the paper from him. No, he really did not feel like having that kind of day. He looked at the next paper.
Three Dead: Murders Linked, Police Confirm
"The bodies of three men have been found over the past week: stock broker Daniel Fleming, courier Fred Higson, and museum worker Lisa Walloway. The connection to these three people remains unknown. However, the police have confirmed that they suspect it is the work of a serial killer, as there is a mark left at the crime scene (pictured below) and each victim had a black origami lotus flower somewhere on their body..."
Again, John threw the paper down. Deadman. He remembered.
No, no, no, no! He sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. Why had someone sent him the police reports of the old cases?
But then it hit him like a two-by-four to the head. Kelly Foster hadn't been the pink lady's name. Her name had been Jennifer Wilson (and God help him if he ever figured out how he could recall that so easily after three years). Nevertheless, he was certain that the museum worker's name had been Soo Lin Yao. He simply couldn't forget that. The beautiful woman had been a wonder to him because of how deceptive her sweet and fragile appearance had been, and yet she had already been a drug smuggler. It was astounding.
He remembered that seeing her dead had put him a state in which even Sherlock left him alone for a while.
He checked the discarded papers again and looked up the dates. February 7th, but not of 2010. It said 2013 right at the top. This crime had happened only last month. They'd found the body of a woman in pink in Lauriston Gardens, and John would bet he knew exactly which abandoned house it was.
John pulled the other paper to him. It was the same thing. The crimes were recorded on March 28th. Christ, that was only a few days ago. How had he missed that?
His third alarm went off in his bedroom. It was beeping obnoxiously loud, and John thanked God he didn't usually sleep to that point. Regardless, it was giving him an early morning headache.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
"Yeah, all right, I'm coming!" John yelled, not giving a care that it was an inanimate object simply trying to do its job.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
"I heard you!"
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
"Would you just—"
Five beeps. That had happened today. Or maybe yesterday.
An explosion on Baker Street the day before.
"Oh God."
Someone was recreating the crimes that Sherlock had solved. They'd already done A Study in Pink and the Blind Banker, and now they were at the Great Game.
Which meant-
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP- He slammed his hand on the button and his mind raced.
Someone out there could be strapped to a bomb right now. Or perhaps the bomb would just go off. It's not like Sherlock would be able to stop it this time.
The reality of the situation sunk in. He had to. It was John's turn to save the lives of the innocent. If there was ever a time to seize the day, now was that time.
James Moriarty was undoubtedly dead. John had been present during the autopsy (holding tightly to Molly; she, like him, had to see it). He was dead and gone, so this couldn't have been him.
But Moriarty had a web. He had a legion of clients and for sure had at least one assistant.
Then again, this could be anyone. Anyone with the papers, an obsessive personality, and a touch of insanity would be inclined to do something like this.
Either way, John could not blow it off as coincidence. He felt guilty, all of the sudden, that it took something like divine intervention to alert him to the present danger.
Speaking of which, who had sent him these papers? And not just sent him them; they'd broken into his flat and left them neatly on the table. His paper from yesterday was there too, barely moved.
Something was eerily familiar, but he could quite get it.
He went to take his sleep shirt off, but he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and for the second time, the sensation of being watched came over him.
It was at that moment that John knew exactly who had been in his flat and exactly why he had been in his flat. He sighed.
"Okay. I get it. There is something going on and it has to do with me. Now what?"
Three seconds later, his phone buzzed. John picked it up from its charger and read it:
It's time to go back to the front lines, John. –MH
So that's how it was.
He'd have to call into work. He had to go to Scotland Yard with the papers. Of course, he wished he had a copy of the papers from three years ago. That would have helped him.
His phone pinged.
The earlier records are on the living area table. –MH
John shook his head and walked into his living room. Sure enough.
Next up was work. He tried to think of a proper excuse. Maybe he'd fallen ill. Luckily, unlike his first job when he'd come back home, John was rarely ever absent from this one.
"Mitchell Medical. This is Julie speaking. How can I help you?"
"Hey, Julie, it's John."
"Oh! I didn't think you'd be calling! Don't worry; it's all taken care of. We have taking care of your patients for the next week. It's all settled."
"Er…what?"
"Your friend called and told me about your poor aunt. I think it's admirable of you to take care of her like that. I hope a week will be long enough to help her."
"Um, yeah, me too. Thanks, Julie."
"No problem, John. We'll see you next Tuesday!"
"See you," he said and hung up.
Bastard, he thought, but it didn't stop him from smirking.
Speak of the devil:
Your dog will be regularly fed and walked. –MH
As usual, Mycroft thought of everything.
John went towards his room and looked into his closet. He was going to Scotland Yard and he had to be taken seriously. He had a job to do. Obviously, no one else had realized this pattern. No doubt it was because they probably had long since forgotten about Sherlock Holmes, and even if they remembered, they thought he was a fraud.
By turn, they might look at him the same way. Or with pity.
Because he was about to walk in and start talking about cases during his days with Sherlock. This was the first time he'd been in Scotland Yard since he came in for questioning after Sherlock's suicide and he was going back, only to have it be about Sherlock again.
It'd been almost two years since Sherlock had died and about a year since John had even thought of him except in passing. Yet suddenly, Sherlock was abruptly interrupting the normality of John's life and whisking him off on some ridiculous adventure.
All while his body rotted away in a grave.
John caught himself shaking his head. He couldn't think about that now.
He was on the battlefield once more.
John went to the table to look at the papers given. It suddenly occurred to him that all of the crimes listed were the cases after John had come into the picture, which immediately made it very personal. There was someone out there who wasn't just reinventing the crimes, but the crimes John had been there to witness.
He grabbed his black coat, the old one from what he now considered his glory days, and threw it on the bed. He pulled out his old red and white shirt and good pants before throwing the jacket over himself.
Uniform on. Gun hidden away. He really did feel like he was going into war.
Maybe he was.
Well, Sherlock, it looks like I'm not done with you after all.
John continued to ignore the ache in his heart as well as the fact that his leg didn't bother him in the slightest for the first time in a year.