Specimen
…
Sherlock Holmes has a fixation. Or rather, a fascination, with one Doctor John Watson.
John stumbles upon one of Sherlock's older blog posts completely by accident.
October 17, 2007
The Cataloging and Collection of Specimens –
Observe.
Deduce.
Impress.
Prepare.
Collect.
Catalogue.
Label.
It's simple.
Vague, slightly creepy, and pretentious. Just a normal blog post, from John's point of view. That is, until John glances at the comments.
JM: What do we do if the specimen doesn't want to be collected?
'JM?' John thinks, 'That can't be –'
John's train of thought it brought to a sudden and abruptly alarming halt when he reads Sherlock's response to the comment.
SH: Make it.
John slams his laptop shut. His mind is whirling. JM? Jim Moriarty? Moriarty contacted Sherlock? Does Sherlock know? Of course Sherlock knows, John chastises himself.Sherlock always knows.
Sherlock always knows.
Sherlock alwaysknows.
And when Sherlock knows, Sherlock tells.
So why hasn't he told me?
John finds it odd that his flatmate would keep such a strange occurrence from him. John considers asking Sherlock, but he knows he'll only get a cryptic response and the detective's cold-shoulder in response.
John thinks nothing of it. He leaves his room and goes back to the kitchen where he knows Sherlock – his Sherlock – is waiting for him.
And so begins the biggest mistake of John Watson's life.
…
2010
OBSERVE
Sherlock Holmes is very good at what he does.
The specimen crosses the street slowly. Cars honk at him because they want him to move faster, but he can't because of his limp. Clearly psychosomatic, and frankly: a major turnoff.
His limp will need to be corrected, of course. Sherlock can't have a damaged specimen.
The specimen goes into the café at approximately 8:13 am. Inside, the specimen sits in the corner booth and orders a straight black coffee. The specimen weakly attempts to flirt with the waitress. He fails utterly. The specimen sips his coffee quietly. His mind is clearly somewhere else. Possibly having a waking nightmare. Slight tremor in the hand. His eyes occasionally glance at the knife on the table as though he might need it any second. Shell-shocked, traumatized, broken, damaged, and delusional. Quite the project. He should be fun.
Sherlock watches and waits.
10:28, the specimen starts to get impatient at the café. He's clearly waiting for someone who will never show up.
10:35, seems my observation was incorrect. The specimen is meeting with a woman, red hair, short stature, drinking habits – clearly of some relation. Not a date; she's a lesbian, he's (deleted), and the family resemblance is too keen. Tensions are high between the two relatives.
10:39, interesting. The trembling of the specimen's hand has stopped. It seems tension and stress actually provide the cure for his affliction. Further research is required.
12:44, popped by Ella Thompson's, the specimen's therapist's, office today. Told her I needed urgent help and she let me in without question. People astound me sometimes. 'Trust issues,' she writes about the specimen. Perhaps she needs to evaluate how easily she trusts someone?
14:02, paid a visit to the relative's house. I was right about everything (lesbian, heavy drinker, specimen's sister). This is going to be more fun than I originally anticipated.
16:25, followed the specimen around for a few hours. He did a series of increasingly mundane things, never uttering a word. He walks about like he's in a waking dream, or perhaps, a waking nightmare. He flinches at the slightest movement, and any loud sound draws a visibly devastating reaction. The specimen needs help, for sure, but he's not going to get it from anything trusting therapist. No. I can help him far better than she can.
18:19, specimen sat on is bed all night in the dark, balancing his loaded gun in his hand. Obviously he intended to use it on himself. It would be a shame if he did, and certainly a waste of effort on my part. Perhaps I should rekindle my efforts on a more profitable investment.
20:56, I withdraw my previous observation. The specimen is far, far too interesting to reconsider.
Prediction: John Watson is perfect. He'll make an excellent addition to the collection.
…
DEDUCE
I met the specimen in person today. Mike brought him 'round like a good little dog. He was so impressed when I told him his whole life story that he didn't even notice I bugged his phone. He's coming around again tomorrow, and I expect I'll snare him then. He seems infatuated with me. It's quite silly, really. Why does he trust me so easily? Why me, when I'm the worst person he could trust?
Further observation required.
The specimen is by no means stupid. Oh, no. He's actually above average intelligence, I would say. He produces above the below the acceptable limit of stupid remarks, and for that I'm grateful. The last thing I need is another Yard Dog sniffing around.
The specimen is different. I'm not entirely sure how yet. There's something about him, something weird and strange and twisted, something that reminds me of myself. Something familiar.
Got that limp fixed. Wasn't that hard. Have to work on the nightmares next. Can't have the specimen's nocturnal screaming disrupting the few precious hours of sleep I get.
He shot someone for me. The specimen bloody shot someone for me. Why? I have no fucking idea. Sentiment? Duty? Impulse? Whatever it was, it was bitterly human. Disgusting, brave, and wonderful.
…
IMPRESS
Mycroft is trying to warn him.
"So, John…" Mycroft crosses his legs with a pleased smile, trying not to scream. "How're you settling in with my little brother?"
The man grins, and Mycroft feels his stomach turn. "Great. He's incredible and brilliant. I've never met anyone like him before. It's absolutely –"
"Wonderful, I'm sure." Mycroft cuts him off, and his smile fades. He doesn't have much time before his brother figures out he's kidnapped his flatmate again. He leans forward, suddenly serious. "John, you have to listen to me –"
"Look, I know what you're going to say. I'm not moving out. I'm not. I won't. I can't." John stands up out of his antique chair, and in a second Mycroft has his hand on John's shoulder.
"John, please, listen to me."
John rips his shoulder away from Mycroft's grasp. Suddenly, his tone of voice is angry and decisive. "Why can't you just give your brother a chance? He deserves it."
If Mycroft can just get a word in edgewise, maybe he can persuade John to change his mind. "John –"
"No!" John yells, and Mycroft goes silent. "I need him."
Mycroft bites his lip, unsure of what he can say. His voice is quiet and grave and pleading. "John, I assure you, it's quite the opposite. It's my brother that needs you."
"Well, then that's all the more reason for me to stay." John turns around and storms out. Mycroft collapses, exhausted, back into his chair. His phone beeps, and he answers it wearily.
Mine. SH
…
PREPARE
John notices when Sherlock starts making tea.
"Why have you started making tea?" He asks one day, while drinking Sherlock's tea.
Sherlock shrugs and stifles a smile. "Trying to do something nice."
John chuckles. "For who?"
Sherlock can barely suppress a grin. Myself. I deserve this. I deserve you. "For you, of course."
John smiles and drinks happily.
John gets sick the next day. He chalks it up to a bad case of the flu and stays in the bathroom all day. The next few days, the queasiness in his stomach decreases. Sherlock, however, seems unaffected by the flu even though he never washes his hands. John thinks it's odd, that's all. Odd, and nothing more.
John doesn't really get curious until Sherlock starts making their meals as well. Breakfast. Brunch. Lunch. Snacks. Dinner. Desert. Sherlock also does the shopping. On the bright side, the flat is never out of milk. On the downside, John's illnesses increase in frequency.
One morning, John is really not feeling up to stuff. He has a pounding headache and absolutely abhorrent sore throat. He feels as if he's been drinking battery acid. He gets up out of bed and immediately sits back down because the world is blurry and blending together like a chalk painting being doused with a hose.
"Sherlock!" John yells, setting his head down on the bed and covering his eyes from the blinding light. He hears the sound of his flatmate running up the stairs like canon-fire.
"What?"
John vaguely gestures to the curtains, and Sherlock crosses the room to close them. Every step he makes sounds like a gunshot, and John has to tether himself to the bed to remind himself that he's not in Afghanistan anymore.
No, he's somewhere far, far worse.
Sherlock kneels down next to him and places an ice cold hand on his forehead. John grunts and slaps his flatmate's hand away. Sherlock looks shocked. "What did I do?"
"Hurts," John grumbles as a fresh wave of nausea sweeps over him. He feels his throat constrict and his eyes shoot open to make sure he isn't being strangled.
"Where does it hurt?"
John finds this question incredibly difficult, for some reason. He can't really place the pain, it's just kind of everywhere. Asking him where the pain is is like asking Sherlock where the Sun is. "Everywhere."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "That's helpful."
Sherlock helps John to the bathroom, despite John's protestations.
After John's done being sick, he comes downstairs to find Sherlock tapping happily away on his laptop.
John isn't sure what to do. So he just gives Sherlock a friendly pat on the shoulder "That was good – helping me, I mean. Thank you for helping me."
Sherlock musters the happiest face he possibly can without saying what's really on his mind. Oh no, John. Thanks for helping me.
…
COLLECT
Sherlock and Jim have an agreement.
Sherlock preps, Jim collects.
But really…
Jim Moriarty does all the work.
Jim has always done all the work.
Sherlock remembers in science class, when Jim used to do all the world.
Sherlock remembers their first victim. (Hint: Jim did all the work.)
Jim always does all of the work.
At least, that's what Jim thinks.
Sherlock, in turn, thinks he does all the work.
The actual effort is split about 67% Sherlock and 33% Jim.
But never mind that.
When Jim collects John Watson, he was not expecting Sherlock specimen to be so downright adorable.
"You're quaint," Jim smirks, taking another bite into his apple. John struggles against his bonds and Jim loves it. "No wonder he picked you."
John isn't gagged. That was a demand on Sherlock's part. Jim would rather he be silenced, because really: what the hell does John have to say? John spits at Moriarty. (He misses). "Sherlock's going to find me."
A dark, deep, familiar voice comes out of nowhere. "Yes he is."
John's brain stops processing. He's conscience, but not lucid, and frankly he doesn't know what the hell to think. The resulting proverbial pile-up of information smashes into him all at once. "Sherlock!" He screams, somewhat relieved and somewhat terrified to see his friend.
John's face falls when he sees Sherlock, cool as can be, stroll out of the shadows with a lab coat on. "Well, well, isn't this a surprise?" His voice is taunting, much like Moriarty's.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, please –"
Sherlock shushed him. "Shut up, John."
For some reason, John goes silent.
Moriarty strides confidently towards Sherlock, hands in his pockets and a gleeful look on his face. "Did you bring everything?"
"Of course." Sherlock stares at John, his eyes unmoving, piercing through what feels like John's very soul. "Wouldn't be a party without cakes and gifts, would it?"
To John's horror, Sherlock reaches out and takes Moriarty's apple, biting into it. Moriarty smirks and turns towards John. "Shall we get started, then?"
…
Mycroft is looking for him.
John doesn't know this, of course. John doesn't know a lot of things, actually.
John doesn't know about the security cameras in Baker Street. John also doesn't know about the low-ranking government official paid to watch those cameras 24/7. John certainly didn't know about the two agents stalking his every movement.
John doesn't know. If he did, he might not be so terrified right now.
"Find him," Mycroft orders, and his agents oblige. He has an entire government at his disposal, thousands of operatives, millions of pounds, and yet he can't stop his little brother.
Remember what happened to the other one.
Mycroft never forgets.
…
CATALOGUE
John goes in a room with all the others.
Jeff Hope, Carl Powers, Soo Lin Yao, Connie Prince, Sebastian Wilkes, and dozens of others line the walls.
"I think we should put him next to this one, don't you, Sherly?" Moriarty gestures to the farthest away of the bodies, suspended in a different liquid than all the others.
"No." Sherlock glances over the bodies with an apathetic eye. "John gets his own place."
Moriarty shrugs. "Whatever you say."
John has thousands of questions. Mostly, he just wants to get the hell out. He wants to get the hell out now.
Moriarty senses John's obvious terror. "Oh," he croons. "It's not all that bad. You'll get used to it eventually. No place like home."
This isn't home. This is not home. Baker Street is home. Harry is home. Mrs. Hudson is home. A room filled with floating corpses is not home. -
Corpses? No. Bodies.
They're still alive.
The realization hits John like a bullet. All John knows is that he has to get the fuck out of here before he becomes the sick exhibits latest addition.
"Don't look so surprised, John. You always knew Sally was right. I am a freak." Sherlock smiles, and John feels him heart move up into his throat. "We all were."
Moriarty rolls his eyes, "Sherlock, don't give an exhibition."
John speaks, pretending to be curious, but it's more of a bid for time. "Sherlock, I need to know why."
"Why?" Sherlock says, and John's not sure if he's questioning or answering. "They were all freaks. Jeff Hope, smartest man North of the Thames, but he never got any recognition for it." Sherlock gestured at the grotesque, freshly preserved body of the man John thought he killed. "Soo Lin, she was clever too. A memory like no one I've ever met before. Connie Prince was just odd to begin with, so we had to have her. And –"
"Me. Why me?" John needs to know. He also needs to get the fuck out of here, but he really needs to know.
Sherlock is about to speak, but Moriarty cuts him off. "Because you're perfect, John." Moriarty runs a gloved finger down the soldier's cheek. "You're a bigger freak than us all."
And with that, they begin.
…
LABELS
Sherlock isn't entirely sure what to label his newest specimen.
Specimen 27?
Male, 36?
Doctor?
Colleague?
Blogger?
Friend?
He settles on a word that covers them all:
John.
Some notes:
I'm not even a bit sorry.
I am probably going to hell for writing this.
I accept my fate gladly, hoping you got some twisted entertainment from this fic.
This fic was brought to you in part by my complete lack of social life, procrastinating over my psych201 test, a Florence and the Machine album, and LWS Trope Bingo Card 3 prompt 'For Science!'
Kids, don't use science this way.
This is not how you science.
Science the right way.
Back to the point:
Obviously not entirely canon. Soo Lin Yao, Jeff Hope, and Connie Prince are pretty fucking dead.
This was amazing to write.
Again, sorry not sorry.
Please tell me what you think of this insanity.
Hope you enjoyed.