The Empty Tower Flat.
Setting, about 18 months after the fall
Summary -John is not coping well and things are about to get worse!
Disclaimers -I don`t own Sherlock or any of its characters.
Thanks to Dr Kitten for editing this chapter. I really appreciate your help and suggestions. Thanks also to Libriaranmum for additional beta reading and suggestions ..
There is a song theme in this work , 'our version of events' by Emeli Sande, but I also quote from other songs...
I really value your reviews readers..
Preamble...
London has a district called Tower Hamlets. The skyscraper flats there tower over the smaller buildings. A few of them are old and need repair. Those owned by the city to house the otherwise homeless often sit next to exclusive new developments. In some the council has moved people out while they make necessary repairs. There is not another district where there is such a juxtaposition of rich and poor across the skylines of London.
...
"Next please."
John was sitting in his consulting room in the nearly empty surgery, idly tapping on his computer. Well not exactly idly - he couldn't help flicking on the poker game he'd been following for some time. Not just following, he had placed bets, several bets.
This morning he'd had another argument with the chip and pin machine. He was broke. He was also bound to be in trouble as he had not got his share of the rent this month. Locum doctors are paid well but John just couldn't make himself work every day, or even every other day. In fact he was hardly working at all. He also suspected he had maxed out his credit cards.
There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," he said, and a woman entered timidly. He sighed. Every time he was on duty this woman would book in to see him. How she knew what days he was working when he often never knew himself was a mystery, she must be phoning up to check almost daily! It was getting awkward.
"Miss Tumbler," he sighed. "What can I do for you today?"
"It's this cough, Doctor," she said worriedly.
It was usually the cough. Not six months ago he had undertaken a thorough investigation, including X-rays, and found no abnormalities. He had changed her blood pressure medication, ordered tests, done just about everything he could think of - nothing. He now suspected it was psychosomatic or perhaps even fabricated.
She was unbuttoning her blouse. "No wait, I can't do a chest examination without a female nurse present." He had checked her respiration on each occasion and was not about to do it again without a chaperone. He was beginning to think he may be in danger of inappropriate advances and was not about to put himself in that position.
"You won't examine me then?" she asked.
"There's nothing wrong with you," he said testily.
She stood up. "Then I'll see another doctor." She looked hurt.
He nodded -already back at the computer screen, he waved her away dismissively. There were always odd patients like this and he was aware he was considered one of the most caring, attentive Doctors at the practice. That was why she was pursuing him probably. Acting cold towards her was best. It had otherwise been a tediously slow afternoon and as Sherlock used to say, his mind was rebelling at stagnation. That phrase had stuck in his mind.
He had played poker in the army. He remembered the officers' mess, being shown round and asked to join in a game. The good-looking officer playing fast and furiously had looked up at him and smiled. His blond fringe fell appealingly over his eyes and he flicked it away. He was a real pro. Taught John a lot. Encouraged him to bet more and more until he had bet his month's 'salary. That's when it started.
Now he gambled because it was about the only source of danger and excitement left in his miserable life.
As for the initially charming officer, he turned out to be a sadist. John had let himself be drawn in and there had been worse to come. Much worse.
To his shock, he thought he had recognised his tormentor on the late night poker TV channel last night. He had been following a very promising player he knew from the army, Robin Adair, but had fallen asleep after 2 am. Adair had briefly been in Afgahistan before standing on a land mine just outside Basra. John vaguely recalled seeing him and treating his wound. He had lost a foot. John`s medical skills probably saved his legs, if not his life. Now he was playing poker on TV. As a disabled private on very little allowance with possible psychological scars, his CV was not the most attractive to a potential employer in this time of recession. But he was winning, and John had bet with him. Then he lost spectacularly and so had John. Later the doctor started betting on his opponent who seemed to be a more stable proposition, he too had lost. John reckoned he had lost about £2000 overnight.
Now he felt tired and grumpy - and penniless and pathetic. No, that can't be true, he reasoned. He had a job earning a very good salary, a girlfriend or prospective girlfriend who he lived with, a book recently accepted by a publisher, and some degree of fame. Yes … he closed his eyes, a fond smile playing on his features. He had been the famous companion of Sherlock Holmes.
He snapped open his eyes and sighed as reality invaded. At least he now had a book deal out of it. A Study in Pink was being launched the day after tomorrow and he had already spent the advance. He was due to appear on a TV talk show the following evening. And the book was going to sell well according to the producer. There had even been talk of a film.
Which actors would I choose to play us, he mused. He had to be ready for the show tomorrow; it was time to go. He got up and found his boss, Sarah. "That's it for today, can't stay longer, see you at home hon, I'm off."
She was used to this. The last patient would have to see another Doctor. He stepped out of the clinic quickly.
Sarah had taken him in. It hadn't been out of pity. She was a practical woman and had just moved to a two bedroomed flat and needed help with the rent. With Sherlock gone and his one or two dates in between fizzling out and no-one left to stay with, she had somehow kind-of re-taken him. He wouldn't live at Baker street anymore. He didn`t think he was actually in love with Sarah any more, she was his endearing friend.. with benefits.
John sighed. With his mind engaged on introspection, he found himself automatically walking down the familiar paths to Baker Street again. He didn't know why his feet seemed to lead him here. This was not his home any more, and he didn't want this.
He was immediately aware he was being followed. His instincts kicked in too late. Before he could even turn to look he felt a blow to his head behind him and he fell. Someone was standing above him .
"You are in some debt to us, Watson," a rough voice said. Then there was another blow before he had recovered from the last. John felt his face connect with the flagstones on the pavement. He felt blood dripping from his hairline. There was a sudden pain as one of the men kicked him, the boot connecting with the side of his face.
" I ... I can pay!" he cried desperately. "Just wait a few days and I will have plenty of mon ... ah ... ey"
The last syllable was forced out of him as another kick landed on his back. Then he heard the voice of the another man: soft, insinuating, and hauntingly familiar.
"I know you've been watching me on the poker channel, Watson, so if you say anything about what you saw you will be in trouble. I may kill you, promise or not." He heard the sound of knees creaking as the man bent down and whispered in his ear- "and if the dead decide they are actually alive, the promise is completely void. He knows I will do it. This is a warning -say nothing and stay away."
John lay there for what seemed ages with that strange sentence ringing in his head. He heard a car stop and the sound of a door opening, then he was being bundled up and into the sleek limo. A towel was handed to him and he groggily wiped his bloody face. He looked at the man beside him in the car.
"Mycroft, I don't need your help," he said wearily. "Let me get out and I will see to myself, I don't want to be anywhere near you again, you know that." He tried the door handle but the car took off and it was locked anyway.
"So, John." Mycroft looked at him with a false smile and a severe look in his eyes. "You are-" He looked at a file in his lap. "-sixty thousand in debt so far, even after an advance from your publisher of thirty-five thousand. Have you been gambling, or is it another vice?"
John groaned, "Is it that much already?"
"You took a loan out with-" Mycroft glanced down again."-M and M loan company , at an interest rate, let's see, of over 500 per cent." He raised his eyebrows. "You have other loans and five credit cards all at the maximum which you cannot pay off."
John looked out of the window "Got an aspirin?" he asked.
Mycroft grinned maliciously. "It's a great deal of money, John. Were those bailiffs beating you up just now?"
"Leave me alone, Mycroft, you don't owe me anything."
"But you do, don't you? You owe a lot of money and I am going to pay it, on the condition," He held up his hand at John's protestations, "that you let me help you. I know my brother used to lock away your cards and I suspect you have a problem with something. You always appear sober and there are no signs of addiction to drugs, which or course leaves gambling or …"
It's gambling," cut in John. "Yes I have had a problem … ever since, well, ever since the army."
"You have an appearance on a talk show tomorrow night and the producer is an acquaintance of mine, although not a colleague, I am afraid. Knowing what he is like he may not go easy on you. Still, it's to promote your book about my late brother, which I am greatly looking forward to. We will have to patch you up a bit first, won't we? And get you out of any further temptation. Try not to get too much blood on the seat, will you?"
The car rolled on in silence. Mycroft was looking sideways at him observing him, John thought with a clench in his already sore stomach. He put his hands round to check his kidneys. No doubt he was going to hospital. He had to get away.
He suddenly remembered what he had seen last night on the poker channel: someone was cheating. Had to be -he wouldn't have lost that much money otherwise, he was not an idiot. Well actually he must be an idiot, he thought. How on earth could he have got sixty thousand in debt - and after the advance payment as well? Something was wrong. The cheating must have been going on for a while, he saw that now. Poker was a game he excelled in.
That man on TV, it was him! A late replacement for Adair. That's right! Adair had left the game suddenly, why? Was he the one cheating?
John now understood what was going on, because the person who had replaced Adair late last night was the same one who had taught John to be an ace poker player in the evenings and seen the medic's potential as a sniper after his crack shots in the firing range. He was his sometime mentor and later on, torturer. The man who made his last two years in Afghanistan a nightmare and was responsible for the death of at least five men under his command , not withstanding the shot that nearly killed John and left disfigurement and injury to his shoulder. The man he finally reported for gross acts of violence . The man he helped get drummed out of the army. Colonel Sebastian Moran.
John suddenly noticed that the car had stopped and Mycroft was patiently waiting for the driver to come round and open the door so they could get out. "What … this isn't the hospital, where are we?"
Mycroft leaned over to help the doctor out as he instinctively backed away, almost falling out backwards when driver finally opened the car door. They were in front of an impressive townhouse. The chauffeur gripped his bruised arm tightly to steady him as they approached the steps. Mycroft took the towel in his umbrella hand and supported the doctor's other arm.
"This is my house, John. I can't allow you to leave, I'm afraid. You are staying the night with me."