TITLE: Stop the Rain
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter One/ Coming Down
RATING: T (language, content)
A/N: It was storming today and suddenly I was struck with a ton of rainy/stormy weather fic ideas! It was actually difficult to decide which to choose! I may have to do some alternate versions and write some of my other scenarios. We shall see.
There is a line in here John says that is from the unaired pilot. I loved it so much and was sad it wasn't kept in A Study in Pink.
This is a first meeting AU. I'm not quite sure I got the characterization exactly right in this story...let me know
Please read and review. Many thanks.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
Chapter One: Coming Down
Long as I remember The rain been coming down.
Clouds of myst'ry pouring Confusion on the ground.
Good men through the ages, Trying to find the sun;
And I wonder, Still I wonder, Who'll stop the rain.
Who'll Stop the Rain - CCR
John Watson never really liked the rain.
It was raining when his father had left him as a child.
Pouring buckets when the cancer finally succeeded in stealing his mother from him.
Depressingly drizzling when he woke up in hospital after being shot.
Storming the day he was released.
The first time he considered ending his life there had been a flood.
And now, here he was, face first in a pile of mud and Lord knows what else, and it was sodding raining.
Oh, and there was a knife in his back.
No, not figuratively. Quite literally, actually.
It was a very different feeling than being shot. The former soldier had honestly not noticed it at first. He assumed the assailant had only nicked him.
A year earlier and Captain John Watson would have been able to take the man down without breaking a single sweat. Now, though civilian John Watson had only been out of hospital one week. His shoulder was still healing and his limp – which was not psychosomatic or whatever his therapist called it, thank you very much – constantly cried out "target". It certainly didn't help matters that the coward had attacked from behind.
John had been out walking. Just walking. No reason, if only to escape his lifeless flat and the nightmares – which he would never admit to having or avoiding. John had never been wary strolling the streets of London after dusk before. He had just returned from a war zone. An evening in the city should have been calm, even dull, in comparison.
And yet, as his cliched fate would have it, halfway home, the darkened skies had somehow blackened further. There was a single crack of thunder, and within seconds, sheets of water were upon him. There had been no rain in the forecast and John was almost convinced that the weather only turned because he had sit foot outside.
His clothes were already soaked through when the man approached him. If not for the curtains of rain and his internal grumblings, John might have seen or heard his attacker. What he heard instead was his own groaning as something pierced the skin of his back. Instincts flaring to the surface, John spun on his heel and readily sent a fist into the stranger's face.
He wasn't really sure why he was stumbling sideways, but before John could think on it further, his attacker landed a punch of his own. John felt his lip split open and and then another solid force against the side of his skull. Whether it was a first or a weapon, John didn't have time to check. With practiced maneuvers, the former military man swooped a leg underneath the stranger while seizing the man's swinging arm.
The attacker was still flailing even while on his back. Rolling his eyes, John promptly aimed for the man's head, successfully rendering him unconscious.
John's breathing was far too labored from such a simple scrap and his vision kept skewing. He wondered vaguely if this was some new symptom of his PTSD. But then he thought again. His head had been remarkably clear during the brawl. With the adrenaline ripping through his veins, John hadn't felt that alive since the battlefield. This wasn't PTSD. This was something else entirely.
Something definitely not good.
But before the doctor could make a proper diagnosis, John's world tilted, and then so did he.
"Lestrade - yes - right where I told you he'd be tonight, of course. Yes - I am alone. No, I didn't need the help of your idiot - hm, victim? Same as the others. Stab wound - male - oh - oh. Breathing. Hm. Alive. Interesting. Yes, Lestrade. An ambulance, unless you really have that much faith in me to keep a fatally injured man from dying."
Fatally injured.
Dying.
Someone was hurt.
John needed to tell the voice. He was a doctor. He could help. He could save him.
And yet, when he tried to speak, what instead came out was something that sounded like a strangled moan.
"Good. Finally." The voice seemed more annoyed than relieved. "I believe this is the part where I ask you if you know your name.
"Wha -"
"Your name. Quickly, now."
"Uh - John. John Watson."
"Alright. You're a doctor. Tell me what to do."
"Mmm?"
It wasn't John's most intellligent response, but apparently it was all he could currently muster.
"Oh, come now. Former Army man. Previously wounded in action. I do hope your stronger and smarter than what your presently showing."
If John had been confused before, well, he was absolutely clueless now.
"Who - how - how do you know - what happ -"
"Honestly, you're merely wasting time. Yours, in fact. But, if you insist. You were attacked by one of London's most boring and cowardly serial killers. Stabs his victims in the back, steals their wallet or purse. Always chooses targets that appear weak. Your appearances, though, are certainly deceiving, aren't they? I deduced he was homeless, stealing to survive, not to take trophies of his kills. He has been mugging for a long time, but it was only recently that he started stabbing and killing his victims. First one was two weeks ago. Very sloppy. His first kill. An accident, probably. Someone fought back. Except, he found that he liked it. He was still a coward, though, hence stabbing in the back. He could've just knocked them unconscious first, but people don't tend to think."
The speed at which the stranger spouted his sentences made it difficult for John's sluggish mind to keep up.
"You, though, apparently are at least minimally above the average mind, as you fought the attacker, even in your current state, what after the injury in Afghanistan or Iraq."
"You keep saying - how do you know -"
"No more questions until you instruct me on what to do to save your life," the man spoke almost conversationally. "If he used the same knife as with the other victims, which, by judging bu the handle and his intelligence, is quite probable, the blade is four inches long. I'd guess you've lost about one liter of blood so far. No reason for your previous unconscious state until further blood loss, so I'd wager that blow to your head was fairly decent. So, doctor, are you going to start shouting orders like most doctors do, or are you doing to lay here and die?"
"Right, right," John cleared his throat. "Keep pressure around the knife. Do not take it out. I'll just bleed to death faster."
"That's it?" John's ego dented a bit at the skepticism.
"Unless you're a surgeon or I can somehow see out of the back of my skull, then, yes, that's it. Until the medics get here. Sorry to disappoint you." John paused and cringed. "How did you know about me?"
"I didn't know, I observed." The man rolled his eyes. "When I first came upon the scene, I noticed how you had taken down the murderer. Efficient, and yet minimal damage to opponent. So, trained in combat, but still cares enough not to do any real damage. Your haircut and tan line say military. Your care says doctor. Surgeon, apparently, by your previous comment."
John's jaw was probably unhinging just a bit, but the man pressed forward.
"The cane was a dead give away for the injured bit, but your leg is actually perfectly fine. How else would you have executed such a take down maneuver on our unconscious friend over there? Not to mention how you have winced in pain upon movement of your upper body, but you have moved your leg several times without so much as a flinch. Besides, when you first came to, you grabbed for your shoulder, not your leg or back. Just been attacked, disoriented, probably flashing back momentarily to the injury you sustained overseas."
"That - That is amazing." John shook his head.
"It - what? Really?"
"Yes. Of course. It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
"That's not what people normally say."
"What do you people normally say?"
"Piss off."
John chuckled but then cringed, instinctively reached toward the origin of the pain. His fingertips just grazed the handle of the knife before he pulled his arm back.
"Welcome home," The man jested.
"Yeah," John sighed. "Been a real bloody good time back. Rather be at war."
"Indeed," the man smiled. "And not just because of this incident. Your leg. Your therapy. Your career. Your brother."
"Brother?" John blinked.
"Used your mobile to phone the ambulance. Mine was dead. Engraved to a Harry Watson from Clara. Brother just finishing up a divorce I assume. This model is not even six months old and he just gave it to you? If she had broken up with him, he would've kept it. People do. Sentiment. No. He wanted rid of it. Now, how do I know that you're not Harry? Well, just look at the state of it, really. Nicks and scratches. Man before me would'nt treat a luxury item like that when he has so few, or none. That indicated a previous owner. So, your brother."
"That's - incredible," John sputtered.
"Did I get anything wrong?"
"Harry and Clara are splitting up," John nodded, though his face momentarily twisted in pain. "But Harry is short for Harriet."
"Ah," the man grunted. "Sister. There's always something."
Again, John's face contorted.
"Damn it," he ground out. "Where's the bloody ambulance?"
"Average response time is eight minutes, but, with this storm, I'd say they're delayed."
"The storm, right," John said bitterly. "If being stabbed isn't brilliant enough, it has to happen in the middle of a freezing rain storm."
The stranger suddenly began removing his large dark coat, draping it over John. It wasn't until that moment that John realized he was shivering, and that the man was half cradling him in his arms.
"So - what were you doing, anyway? Are you with the police?"
"More like they're with me," he smirked smugly. "I'm a consulting detective. The first and only. I invented the job."
"Well, I can certainly see why," John mused.
Before either could continue the conversation, a dark shape formed over the taller man's kneeling body. John saw the sudden movement quickly made one of his own. Bending his arm back, he seized the handle of the knife and ripped the blade from his flesh. With a shout of both anger and agony, John leaned closer, as if in an awkward embrace with the detective and thrust the knife into the shadow.
The darkened figure cried out just before crumpling to the ground. The consulting detective snapped his head around just in time to see the murderer's grip slacken on a small blade.
"Guess he wasn't so stupid," John gasped. "Had a second knife. Was about to stick you with it."
"I see you went for the kill strike this time," the curly haired man replied, with only the faintest tremor in his voice, though the flicker of fear was also accompanied by a spark of what John was almost sure was surprised pride.
John didn't respond though, save for a small hiss, followed by a profound groan. He slowly fell back on his side, still in the stranger's arms.
"Speaking of stupid," the detective continued, now turning his attention to the sudden flow of crimson liquid pouring from John's back.
"Better than both of us lying here dying," the doctor managed to shrug halfheartedly.
"You mean, better you, than me," the observant man furrowed his brow, the clicking together of gears in his brain reflecting his his penetrating gaze. "You want to die."
"Not exactly," John shook his head. "Well, not anymore. Just not that, I don't know, against it, I guess. What the bloody hell good am I now anyway? Army doctor who can't be in Army or be a doctor. Don't fancy desk work for the rest of my life. And I don't care to sit in therapy once a week for some stranger to tell me what I already know."
"And you have no one," the man added, nodding.
"Well, yeah," John snorted, one part pathetic, one part sarcastic. "Thanks for that. Should I ask how you knew that one?"
"We already discussed your sister. You're dying, and yet you haven't once asked me to or tried to phone anyone. Not to mention your living situation. One bedroom flat, this part of the city? All you can afford on an Army pension these days. But you're a soldier. A war hero. Surely someone would take you in. So, either you have no family or friends close by physically, or none that you are close enough with to ask or that would offer. You don't want to be a burden and don't want to admit you need help, but there's more to it than that. Doctor tells me you lost someone close, probably a parent, considering your sister's obvious alcoholism. Army says you wanted to help people, but also get away from London for a time. You love the city, otherwise you'd have left for somewhere cheaper by now. So it was a tragedy that drove you away."
"I'm beginning to think you know more about me than my therapist." John chuckled through a cough.
"Oh, probably. And more I haven't said." The man smirked.
"Like what?" John questioned but then grimaced.
A silence settled over the two for a long moment.
"Are you alright?"
"I thought you were clever," John winced. "I'm dying, remember?"
"I didn't mean - you have just killed a man."
John met the stranger's serious gaze and then bowed his head.
"I've seen men die before - and good men, friends of mine. I thought I'd never sleep again." He paused and brought his eyes up to lock with the other man's. "I'll sleep fine tonight." John nodded and then smiled crookedly. "If I don't die first. Besides, he wasn't a very good man, was he?"
The detective was about to respond when John shifted and swore. He pressed his eyes closed in pain and suddenly fought it difficult to reopen them. His eyelids had been growing heavier and now all his mind could do was imagine how nice it would be just to rest for a moment. Just a moment.
"John? John? Stay awake. You're a doctor. You know not to fall asleep now."
John didn't reply. In fact, he didn't even move.