I've been wanting to write something like this for a while, since there are not nearly enough of these fics. A big thanks to harlieford on Tumblr for the prompt!
The scene was just like the others. Victim choked on her own vomit, no signs of struggle, in a place she wasn't likely to be found, a bottle of pills by her side.
All evidence pointed to suicide.
Just like all the others.
"There's no such thing as serial suicides…" Detective Inspector Holmes muttered, rubbing his weary eyes. He held his cell phone to his ear, pacing the area outside the crime scene, "This is the third one…"
On the other end of the line, DI Lestrade sighed, "Yeah, I know Sherlock…"
"We're missing something!" Sherlock hissed, running a hand through his curls, "I just can't see it…"
It wasn't the first time Sherlock called Greg while he was at t a crime scene. When Sherlock had first started at New Scotland Yard, he had been assigned to work under Lestrade. The two eventually became partners before Sherlock was given his own team. But the younger man still called his mentor. The two DIs were usually able to talk each other through their respective crime scenes.
Lestrade was also one of the few people Sherlock trusted with his insecurities. Or think less of Sherlock for his…history.
"You'll find it, Sherlock." There was shuffling on Lestrade's end of the line. Most likely catching up on paperwork before heading home. "You'll find the missing piece."
"I should have found it after the second victim!" Sherlock grit his teeth, "I need your help, Greg."
There was a long pause while Sherlock waited for Greg to respond.
"…I think I know somebody."
"A doctor, Greg?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he followed Lestrade through the halls of Saint Barts.
Greg nodded, "Yeah, I know it's crazy, but trust me, Sherlock. You remember the triple murder last year we thought was the result of Satanists?"
"Yes…" Sherlock answered hesitantly. That case still gave him the creeps, even if he hadn't been the one working it.
Lestrade sighed, hands in the pockets of his jacket, "Yeah, well, this guy helped us close the case."
That caught Sherlock's attention. Greg didn't like letting civilians in on cases. "What's so special about him?"
"In short? He's a genius." He admitted, opening the door to a lab.
Sherlock snorted as followed his old partner into the medical lab. It did seem ludicrous, but it wasn't often that Lestrade admitted the strength of others (especially if it made him look bad).
There were two people in the lab, working quietly. There was a petite brunette woman walking across the lab with two cups of coffee, "Here's your coffee, John." She said quietly, setting a cup on a counter.
The other doctor, John, didn't look up from his work (a human brain, from the looks of things). Instead, he picked up the cup with a (bloody) gloved hand, sipping it while he poked around the brain.
Sherlock looked at Greg, raising an incredulous eyebrow. At Greg's nod that, yes, that was the doctor they would be talking to, he couldn't help but rub the crook of his arm. The whole situation was setting Sherlock on edge, and it made Sherlock long for his old needle and cocaine.
But after being unable to solve the riddle behind three serial suicides, Sherlock was willing to try anything.
"You should get some coffee for our guests, Molly." The doctor spoke again, setting down his scalpel.
The female doctor, Molly, looked over at Greg and Sherlock. "Oh, um…"
Lestrade shook his head, "None for me, thank you."
Sherlock cleared his throat, rubbing his arm again, "Black, two sugars, if you don't mind."
Molly smiled softly, "No problem." She replied before heading to another room.
The remaining doctor finally looked their direction, giving Sherlock the opportunity to take in the other man's appearance. He was the shorter side as far as men were concerned, but his posture commanded authority. His blonde hair was kept short and neatly styled, and underneath the white labcoat, he was just as well put together. Sherlock could see a deep purple dress shirt stretched across the doctor's sturdy frame, tucked into a pair of black slacks. And while Sherlock wasn't much for fine clothes (too much time around Mycroft during their childhood), he could recognize the elegant shoes the doctor wore as he approached them.
"I need your phone, Lestrade. Mine has no service down here." He said smoothly, his voice light and polite.
"What's wrong with the landline?" Lestrade asked, raising his eyebrow.
"I prefer to text." The doctor chuckled, "And you should use more lubricant next time you're intimate with your lover."
Sherlock looked at Lestrade, horrified at the implication. While he was more than aware that Lestrade and his brother had been in a committed relationship for years, he did not need reminding of the things they got up to in their bedroom.
Lestrade grimaced, "And how—"
"Your limp. Now, your phone?"
Greg patted his jacket pockets, sighing, "I think I left it in my car."
Sherlock cleared his throat, "Here, use mine." He said softly, handing over his phone.
Lestrade nodded to Sherlock, "This is an old friend of mine, Sherlock Holmes."
The doctor took Sherlock's phone without acknowledging Greg, tapping out a text message with quick thumbs, "So, how long have you been clean?"
That made the young detective blink, "E-excuse me?"
"I didn't realize I had stuttered." The doctor muttered, "I said 'how long have you been clean?"
Sherlock was briefly saved from answering by Molly returning with coffee. She smiled warmly at him when he muttered his thanks, staring deep into the black liquid. "How did you—?"
John smirked, not looking up from the phone, "You were rubbing the crook of your arm when you first came in. You were agitated and desiring a hit, but it's been a while. And since it was an intravenous drug, that would leave cocaine, heroin, or morphine. And considering the fact you do not have the medical means to obtain morphine, nor do you look strung out enough to have been dependent on heroin, that would leave cocaine. But you've kicked the habit, otherwise you would not still be working at Scotland Yard. So, the question remains, how long have you been clean?"
Lestrade gave Sherlock a look, a reassuring one. Sherlock cleared his throat again, trying to regain his bearings, "Nine months…since I left rehab."
The doctor nodded, "Wonderful, I wouldn't want to room with a junkie."
"Excuse me?" Sherlock blinked. They were here for a case, who said anything about rooming? He looked at Lestrade, "Did you tell him about me?"
Greg shook his head, "Absolutely not."
Doctor John, for want of a better name, was not listening. He was hanging up his lab coat on a hanger by the door, "There's a lovely place in central London we can afford together. Unless of course you want to continue to sleep on your brother's couch."
Sherlock was so stunned, he couldn't think of anything to say while the doctor slipped on a long black coat and adjusted his scarf.
"Leaving so soon John?" Molly asked, breaking Sherlock from his daze.
"Of course, Molly. I left my riding crop in the morgue." He smirked.
It was then Sherlock found his voice, "Hold on! I came here about a case, not to find a flatmate."
"I know that. It's the only reason Lestrade ever contacts me." The doctor chuckled. "Flatmate and a case, it must be my birthday. We'll meet at 7, yes?"
"No!" Sherlock shook his head, "We don't even know each other!"
"Wrong. I know everything about you."
"I don't know you!" Sherlock was getting flustered, "I don't know where we're supposedly meeting, and I don't even know you're name!"
"Yes you do, you heard Molly say it just now." John smirked again, slipping on a pair of black gloves. "But if it puts you at ease, the name is Dr. John H. Watson. And the address is 221b Baker Street. Remember, 7pm and try not to forget the case files."
With that, Doctor Watson left the lab in a whirl of his coat.
Sherlock looked back at Lestrade, who nodded, "Yeah, he's always like that. He likes you."
"Because he asked me to move in with him?"
"He hasn't insulted you yet."
I hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you like to see next!