A/N: Ok so I've already written a lot of this story - like about 55 consecutive word document pages, which is pretty unusual for me seeing as usually I have to jump around in the plot when writing; this story just comes really naturally to me, and I absolutely love writing it. Anyway, that basically means I'll be able to update it pretty regularly for a while, so no long delays between posts! Yay! Now go read the story and enjoy (if you even bothered to read this little note anyway; I hardly ever do).
Laura flashed the cabbie a strained smile as he hefted her luggage from the boot and onto the curb. Glancing up at the familiar house with another barely repressed twinge of resentment, she knew the ravenous pack of butterflies that had plagued her stomach for the duration of the cab ride wouldn't be surrendering anytime soon. She fought hard to control the flood of memories that came along with returning to the house where she'd lived during her last two years of secondary school; the numerous ups and downside she'd experienced here were now suddenly just as real to her as they'd been the day she'd run away.
Laura shivered involuntarily, pushing her memories aside to instead focus on counting cab fare into the expectant hand of the driver. As she watched the taxi make its way down the street a few moments later, she forced down the desire to call him back and ask him to take her as far away from this place as possible. But she forced down all feelings of cowardice and turned away from the street to clamber up the small flight of steps with her bags. She ignored the newly installed intercom system to instead fumble with her key in the worn lock until she heard the familiar click.
The moment Laura stepped into the spacious atrium, she knew something wasn't quite right. The house was abnormally quiet, the atmosphere cold and stilted in the absence of the smooth jazz that usually drifted through the air. She left her belongings by the door, but was only able to take a few steps towards the living room before an unfamiliar man came trotting down the stairs. She had just enough time to take in his short stature and sandy brown hair before he became aware of her presence as well. He scanned her form shamelessly, and she fought the urge to wrap her arms close around her body in a futile attempt to ward off his gaze. He walked over to her with a nearly indistinct limp, his stare far from leering but not entirely decent either.
"Hello," he said with a faint smile, his lips quirking up ever so slightly to one side. He offered her his hand before adding what was clearly meant to be a suave introduction: "John Watson."
"Hello," Laura replied politely, taking his warm hand in hers as she glanced over his shoulder towards the staircase. "You aren't one of Irene's clients, are you?"
The man, John, gave her a curious look. No, he was trying far too hard to catch her interest for him to have been one of Irene's. A client would have stepped far too close to her, touched far too much of her, and smiled far too eagerly at her with empty eyes and bared teeth. A client would have invaded her space and degraded her dignity without a second thought, assuming that everything in this house was here for their express pleasure. And, when Laura had lived here all those years ago, she supposed that had actually been true.
Remembering that John was in fact still standing in front of her, she decided to rephrase her question and ask directly who he was and why he was here. What business did he have with Irene if not negotiations in the bedroom? But before Laura got the chance, she was interrupted by the creak of another pair of footsteps on the staircase.
Glancing over John's shoulder, she caught sight of a man whom she immediately pegged as another one of Irene's recruits from her girlfriend's modeling company. Irene had spent months scouring Abigail's employees for a new business partner— and judging by this man's halo of dark curls, long and clearly agile body, and alien-like face made up of a conglomeration of sharp and sloping features, Laura was sure he'd been her final pick.
"Sherlock," John huffed in frustration, giving Laura a glance of longing regret as if he'd been called away from a Christmas feast to coax his wayward cat down from a frozen tree. He hurried over to support the stumbling model dressed, unsurprisingly enough to Laura, in a priest's cassock. Sherlock, the man with a name just as unique as his appearance, pushed John away to instead stagger towards Laura.
"The sister!" Sherlock slurred, his pale blue eyes spinning unsettlingly in their sockets as he approached. Laura backed away quickly. The blanket of intrigue that had draped all the oddities of this situation as she'd spoken with John was now ripped away to reveal the clear and present strageness of the situation.
"Sister!" Sherlock repeated forcefully, but Laura ignored him in favor of taking another step back.
"Sorry, who did you say you were again?" She asked John, trying to sound calm and unsuspecting so as not to set off the possibly raving lunatic.
"Where is she?" Sherlock demanded before John could answer, and Laura felt her stomach drop as she finally took heed of his inebriated words.
"Irene? You mean she isn't here?" Laura felt a sudden surge of panic as she realized exactly what was going on here. These men weren't Irene's guests-she never allowed anyone through the door if she wasn't home. Clearly they'd broken into the house in search of Irene. But what would they do now that they'd been unsuccessful in locating her?
"Sherlock calm down, you're scaring her," John growled, gripping the taller man's arm and pulling him back towards the staircase. "Just sit down and try to relax," Laura heard John mutter soothingly, and she was momentarily distracted by his gentle tone. But she was quickly reminded of the potential danger of the situation when she heard the wail of sirens in the distance.
"Where's Abigail," she demanded, her voice rising in pitch and volume. Perhaps her sister's girlfriend had let these men in to her their house, breaking Irene's strict protocol because of some sort of special circumstance? It had been over a decade since Laura had wanted so desperately to believe her own blatant lies.
"Sorry, who?" John asked distractedly, attempting to keep a nearly unconscious Sherlock from sliding completely from the steps and onto the tiled floor. Fear tightened its grip on her stomach as John tossed her only feeble explanation out the window. Who were these men, what did they want, and what were they willing to do to get it?
Laura was so high-strung and immersed in her own agitated thoughts that she nearly let out a startled shout when a pounding sounded on the door.
"Police—open up!" a gruff voice shouted, and Laura immediately looked to John. She expected him to run, to drag Sherlock into the coat closet nearby, or even to pull out a gun and force her to call out that everything was fine. But John did none of these things. Instead, he stood at his full height and looked totally at ease as he gestured calmly towards the door.
"Go on—open it." Laura stared at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend his simple instructions.
"You want me to...to open the door for the police? You, the man who's obviously broken into my sister's house, want me to just...let them inside?"
"Yes," he told her, his tone firm albeit a bit distracted as he tried to more comfortably position the unconscious man stretched out on the floor beside him.
She was about to demand that he explain what was going on, why he and Sherlock were here and what was wrong with the taller man, but a second knock on the door robbed her of the opportunity.
"Open up or we're breaking the door down!" the same voice thundered, and she tossed John one more quick glance, giving him a chance to change his mind. It of course made no sense for her to give a burglar a second chance, but something about a robber wanting the police to arrive just seemed so wrong to her. But when John caught her eye, he merely waved her towards the door with an expression of mild impatience.
Fine, Laura thought as she more or less stomped over to the door. If John wanted the police, he would have them.
A pack of men swarmed past her and into the house the moment she twisted the knob, and John pointed casually to the living room, as if teams of armed men rushed at him every day of the week.
"Call Inspector Lestrade," he instructed one of the heavily padded men passing by, and the officer nodded dutifully. Laura looked on in incredulity as the men rushed through her sister's house, boldly bursting into rooms she'd never dared set foot into when she'd lived there as a teen. She was so absorbed in the spectacle and trying to decipher what sort of authority John held over these men that she jumped in surprise when a middle-aged officer touched her arm.
"Hullo Miss, I'm officer Rooney. I'm supposed to take you back to the station, just so we can ask you a few questions. If you'll please come with me…" he sounded friendly enough, and he wore an easy smile spread across his pudgy face. Finally, an average, completely mundane human being to bring a bit of normalcy back into her life.
"Yes, of course," she replied without thinking, and she turned away from the scene just as a voice shouted, "Boss, we've got four bodies in here!" Laura stopped dead in her tracks, a bullet of fear shooting through her as she realized the two men she'd just been alone with for five minutes had murdered four people. Perhaps even...no, they'd been looking for Irene, which meant she had to have still been alive. But Abigail...
Laura's eyes scanned the room in search of the two intruders she'd found in her sister's house, but there was no sign of them. She gripped the officer's arm, and could tell by his startled expression that her eyes were as wild as her pulse.
"Those two men—Sherlock and John, John Watson—where are they? You've got to find them! They're the ones who did this!" The man's face softened in concern, and he let out a slight chuckle.
"They've just left with Inspector Lestrade," he said calmly, taking her by the elbow and leading her towards the door.
"So they've been arrested," she clarified, her breathing rate lowering back down towards normal as the panic began to fade a little. "Then I'd like to see the...the bodies. To make sure a friend of mine is still alright, she might've been here when they..."
"The victims are all male, no need to worry dear," the officer told her as he accepted a slip of paper passed to him by a policeman as he jogged by. Laura's head felt light with relief.
"And of course Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson haven't been arrested," the man added with a laugh as he and Laura approached the car. All feelings of relief vanished as Laura pulled away from him in shock, as infuriated by his patronizing tone as she was horrified by his words.
"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded, and he frowned at her curiously.
"Well we can't very well take them into custody if they're going to help us with the case!"
Laura stared at him in disbelief; surely no one, not even an officer of Scotland Yard, could be that dense.
"But they did it!" she cried, struggling to find a way to make this imbecile see sense. "They're the ones who committed the crime!"
"Of course they didn't! Sherlock Holmes is a consultant of the Yard for goodness sakes! He's solved dozens of cases for us; of course he didn't do this," the man told her.
Laura gaped at him. Then, pushing past him, she climbed into the back of the police car and gestured for him to take his place behind the wheel.
"Take me to Scotland Yard," she demanded. "I want someone with more than half a brain made of jelly doughnuts to explain what the hell just happened here."
A/N: So there you have it! I absolutely loved writing this scene, especially drugged!Sherlock and just John in general (writing John is officially my favorite part of this story). I have so many feels for every character in this story, particularly Laura and John and Sherlock and ok just all of them! Anyway, the next chapter will be up soon!