John doesn't even realize that he's been following the case until the dog shows up on the telly.
He is watching the news absentmindedly, listening as Lestrade and Co. give a group of overexcited reporters an update on a serial killer, when he sees it. The screen displays a photo of the latest victim – a pretty young woman, smiling, arm slung around a German shepherd that's been half cropped out of the picture – as a detective's voice is heard. "We are currently looking for something to link these victims," he states. "We ask anyone with any information to ring the tip line." The tip line number flashes, and then it's on to the next news bit.
Inside of a minute, John has dialed the number and is speaking with a tired-sounding woman. "It was the pet sitter," he blurts.
He is immediately shocked by his own words. It's as though the thought has sprung fully formed from the recesses of his mind, like Athena from the head of Zeus. Christ, he hadn't even realized he'd been paying attention to the latest string of murders, but now that he is actively thinking about it, he can recall nearly every detail he's heard. Two men, four women, no obvious links among them, found suffocated in their flats, all within three miles of each other. Apparently his subconscious has been devoting significant space and effort to the matter. Keeping an eye on the latest crime sprees – old habits die hard.
"Sir?" John distantly hears the voice on the other end of the line. "What is your evidence?"
His mind, however, is still reeling. He's fairly certain his accusation is… not incorrect, but when pressed to identify why he knows he's right, he has no explanation.
Sherlock doesn't – didn't believe in intuition. He had scoffed at the idea more than once. "Intuition is simply the word people use when they lack the self-awareness to recognize by which senses they have obtained data. Really, John, I expect better of you."
Well. John is no Sherlock.
Still, he manages to stammer out for the woman a near-nonsensical string of thoughts. "The dog…" and, "access to the flat… paid in cash…"
The woman simply hums and seems to be copying down what he says, though he can tell it's only due to protocol that she's giving him even the slightest credit. When she asks, "Have you witnessed anything at all, sir, or are you just playing detective?" he rings off. The police don't consult with amateurs.
He can't decide whether that thought makes him want to laugh or weep.
Before he can over-think it, John Watson has grabbed his coat and keys and is out the door and in a cab, on his way to New Scotland Yard.
000
"John? John!" Lestrade's face quickly changes from weariness to alarm upon seeing the doctor. John is quickly pulled by the arm into the detective's office. "John, what are you doing? Is it a good idea for you to be here right now? Anderson and Donovan are still here, and what with the controversy… the higher-ups, well, you can imagine… not to mention we're rather in the middle of dealing with a serial killer at the moment."
John can hear too loudly everything the former DI is not saying. Don't the memories here hurt you and the last time you were here you were with a man who admitted to playing us all for fools before committing suicide and you and I were nothing more than collateral damage when it all went to hell. As if John needs reminding.
He peers into Lestrade's eyes briefly – he's not sure whether the man believes that Sherlock was a fraud. He decides he doesn't want to know. "I know, I know, but listen, this case you're working, I just…" He takes a deep breath. "I just need to know something –"
Lestrade cuts in. "John, look, you know I can't say anything, I just did a press conference, there's a tip line and a public safety information line, use those if you need, but John…" Look where letting someone in on my cases got me last time.
John swallows and forges ahead anyway. "Did they all have pets? The victims?"
Lestrade's brow furrows. Whether he answers out of surprise at the seeming randomness of the question or some sense of pity for the doctor is unclear, but answer he does. "Well, yes, I suppose they did. A dog, two dogs, a cat, a dog and a cat, a cat and some fish, a bloody great python in a tank…" He taps a finger for each victim, checking down the list.
John stands as straight as he can and looks Lestrade in the eye before reciting his thoughts as he'd organized them in the cab. "Find the pet sitter. It's not the type of expense you record, if you're going out of town for a few days – you just find the neighborhood kid who offers to look after animals on the cheap. Give him a spare key and a few instructions before you leave, come back and pay him in cash for feeding your fish and walking your dog. He's got knowledge of your flat and had the opportunity to copy your key."
Lestrade is very close to gaping, somewhat unattractively.
"Listen, I know it sounds crazy, the lady on the tip line told me as much, but… I just think it's worth taking a look at. Couldn't hurt. Of course I have no idea why a pet sitter would start killing off his clients, but…" But I'm no Sherlock.
Lestrade eyes John suspiciously for a few long moments. "I will look into it," he says eventually, slowly. "In the meantime… I think you should head home, John."
John nods and turns away. It's all he really could have expected.
000
John returns to his flat and putters about for the remainder of the day, keeping busy and determinedly Not Thinking of what he'd just done. He goes to bed early and sleeps heavily, only waking once from a nightmare he can't recall. In the morning, he wakes up late enough that he has no time for contemplation as he rushes to the clinic, and, once there, he lets himself be swept up in the series of small emergencies that is a shift.
By the time he gets home, he's almost managed to forget about the whole thing. That is, until he flicks the telly on at six o'clock. There, on the evening news, is Lestrade, announcing that the serial killer has been apprehended and is no longer a danger to the public.
It was the pet sitter.
It's all John can do to haul himself to the bathroom, suddenly nauseated, and lean, panting heavily, over the toilet bowl. Nothing happens.
Sherlock. He slumps down to the floor. It was just a lucky guess. I'm sorry. I have no right.
000
A continent away, a prepaid mobile receives a text message.
Well. It would appear that, all that time, you were rubbing off on your doctor after all. Congratulations.
A lip curls at the crude innuendo. A reply is quickly sent off.
It's high time we met, you and I, wouldn't you say, Moran? SH
000
A/N: Welp. Some disclaimers: Not Brit-picked, and I am 87% sure that people in the UK don't use the term "higher-ups," but I was having trouble researching the hierarchy of the Metropolitan Police Service and copped out. Also, yes, I know that people on tip lines are much more accommodating than this rude lady, but that doesn't make for a very good plot device, now, does it? I am also fairly certain that any competent agency would, in fact, be able to link murder victims by their pet sitter, so this weak premise is due solely to my lack of imagination. I apologize for any other inaccuracies here; please feel free to point them out so I can fix them.
Thank you for reading! You beautiful people, you.