Sequel to "The Trial of Sherlock Holmes."
Chapter 1
January 2015
Dr. John Watson sat inside the speeding cab, bouncing his leg as he watched London race past the windows. Finally. After days and days of nothing. A case.
Before the cab had even come to a full halt, the expectant father had one foot on the pavement. He pulled out his money so hastily that he practically dropped it into the street drain. There's nothing like a case; patching together evidence, finding a suspect, the thrill of the chase. Oh, the chase. John hated to admit it, but he had become almost as addicted to solving cases as Sherlock. Plus, a case would be a much welcome change right now. Just a few moments when he didn't have to think about choosing the right pram, what color to paint the nursery, which brand of nappy was the best…
In his excitement, John found himself practically skipping to the police barricade only to find a tall, thin figure in a long charcoal coat striding toward him. John's step slowed and his face fell as his friend and colleague passed the police line and headed for the street without breaking stride. "John! You were a long time."
"Where are you… You can't possibly have solved it already!"
Consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, hailed the cabbie John had just paid, opening the door, pausing to turn back to his blogger. "Mugging gone wrong. The victim's body positioning was merely a consequence of the combination of her severe lumbar hyperlordosis and use of krav maga in self-defense. Sad, really. Grade G-4 like her. She put up a tremendous fight, but five gang members, three with a military background, would be too much for anyone."
John sputtered, crest fallen, frantically looking around as though searching the air for a reason for Sherlock to stay. "What… Why not… If we don't catch them, they may do it again…"
"I've given Lestrade all the information he needs to find them. They weren't exactly shy about leaving evidence. Shouldn't take long, even with the Yard's inferior task force."
John continued to scan the air for help, open mouthed, as Sherlock seated himself in the cab. Before closing the door, Sherlock looked up at the distracted doctor.
"Don't worry, John. Given Mary's increased cravings for salt and her decreased desire to remain still for long periods of time, it shouldn't be long now. Then you'll never be bored again."
With a quick wink, smile and click of the tongue, Sherlock closed the door and the cab sped away, leaving John standing on the curb, wondering what exactly had just happened.
When John had regained his ability to keep a single thought in his head for more than three seconds, he was overcome with the singular desire to punch something. With a renewed sense of purpose, he made a 180 degree turn. He strode toward the police line with such ferocity as to frighten the rookies guarding it. Bursting past the barrier, John approached a silver haired man whose back was to the street.
"Greg Lestrade, you bastard!"
The man so named jumped at the sound of the sharp tone in which his moniker was uttered. John secretly relished the small sign of fear exhibited by the Detective Inspector. Greg turned slowly, smiling with as little guilt as he could muster. "I'm sorry, John, I did try…"
"You promised! 'This is it, John. There's no way he'll solve this one in less than a week!'"
"Yes, well, I may have overestimated the timeline, slightly…"
"Fifteen bloody minutes!"
"Actually, he only arrived about six minutes before you did," a small voice near Lestrade's knee uttered.
"Yes, thank you very much, Anderson!"
John began sputtering and looking about the night sky again. A comforting hand braced John's shoulder, bringing his focus back to the planet Earth. "You need to relax, John. Take some time. Find something to distract yourself between now and when the baby's born."
"How bloody thick… That's what I'm trying to do!"
With a deep sigh, Greg frowned, releasing John's shoulder. "Go home, John. Have a cold beer and enjoy the silence of a child free home while you still can. You don't need any more excitement than you already have. Alright?"
With a pat on the back and a small smile, Greg turned back to his colleagues, leaving the good doctor to silently fume at the back of the detective's head.
As John turned back reluctantly, wondering exactly how long it would take to hail another cab, he became mildly aware that his vision had blurred with disappointment. It wasn't about being distracted from what was coming. He had made peace with that long ago. In truth, he was genuinely excited about becoming a father. It's something he had secretly wanted for a long time, convinced he could do the job better than his father. No, it was about having one more big case, one last hurrah. Before everything changed, forever. Before he became responsible for more than just the lives of a beautifully mysterious ex-CIA operative and a slender high-functioning sociopath. As if that wasn't difficult enough.
As he stood on the curb, lost in thought, he caught sight of something sitting in the alley across the street. For a second, John saw the person and the motorbike as being a single, black figure. It was the briefest of moments, as a lorry chose that instant to illegally park along the road, blocking the alley from view. Later, John would recall the black leather clad rider as being much taller and more threatening. For now, however, he almost immediately dismissed the incident, counting his good fortune that a cab had just slowed to a halt in front of him.
…
Over the next several days, John's mood continued to spiral downward. No cases, no clients, not one single murder. His faith in the inevitable foulness of the human race was beginning to wane. Where was the scum of the Earth when he needed them most?
He found any opportunity to leave the increasingly small flat, making multiple runs to different shops in opposite parts of town. John also seemed to have lost all concept of how to get around London. Frequently, he missed his stops on the tube leaving him blocks from his destinations, or chose to take a cab in bad traffic when walking would have been quicker, or decide to walk blocks out of his way rather than taking the hundreds of short-cuts he now knew by heart (thanks to Sherlock).
This absent mindedness wasn't out of malice or discourtesy. Hell, it wasn't even intentional. It was John's thoughts taking complete control of his brain, causing him to lose all concept of time and space. His mind never seemed to stop and settle on a single thought for more than a few seconds. Everything from names to child-care to health concerns. Bouncing from one subject to another like the worst pinball game in history. How does Sherlock do this without going stark raving mad? On second thought…
More often than not, John found himself in front of the consulting detective's door on Baker Street. For what could have been hours, he did nothing but just stare at the door, never entering. That wonderful, familiar door. There was something very comforting about the dark wood stain, the friendly bronze 221B, the welcoming heavy knocker. Perfect in all its imperfections. Every knick, every splinter, a badge of honor. It had endured countless angry banging fists, a couple of police raids, several break-ins and one explosion. Yet, here it stood. Steadfast and unchanging. It was here, and only here, that John's mind would quiet to a low hum.
It was here that he saw the leather-clad motorbike rider for the second time. What caught his interest most was the fact that, as the rider sped away, the helmet turned. He couldn't be sure with the tinted guard, but John could have sworn he was the focus of the attention.
John only looked away when a small buzz emitted from his pocket. "Did you get lost again? Your tea is getting cold."
...
John ran almost the entire way to the crime scene. He stood so close to the doors of the tube train that they almost closed on his nose. When he reached his final stop, he took the stairs 3 at a time. Please, please, please let this be it! She could be any day now. Just one more!
John nearly screamed when he saw Sherlock walking towards him once more.
"No, not again! There has to be something you missed!"
"John..."
"A hair, a fiber, an ash burn!"
"John..."
"Do the thing where you figure out that the victim has been in Peru and had mob ties, putting the very fate of Britain at risk!"
"John! Relax! We have a case!"
With those words, a weight that had not left John's shoulders for over 3 weeks, lifted. He suddenly felt his spine straighten, bringing him to his full, albeit short, height. He didn't hear a word said to him all the way back to the street. He was so elated that he started to follow Sherlock into the waiting cab, before a friendly voice caused him to look up.
"Opposite sides of town, John."
John stared blankly at his friend, slowly comprehending what had just been said. "Oh, yes, of course. Silly me."
"Go home, John. Kiss Mary and get some sleep. I have some experiments tonight and then we'll start first thing in the morning. Don't be late!"
"Not on your life!" With no small amount of glee, he shut the cab door, giving the top a louder than necessary pat. John's smile lingered long after the cab had disappeared from sight.
As he looked away, trying to spy another cab, a now familiar sight caught John's attention. In a matter of milliseconds, every hair on the back of John's neck was raised.
This time, however, there was no mistaking the piercing eyes behind a tinted visor, taking in every inch of John. That steadfast, hidden, menacing gaze. It was a threat. It was unnerving. It was an invitation. An invitation which John accepted.
With a deep breath, John suddenly felt every fiber of his being shift. Every muscle became tense, every nerve aware, every sense heightened. Suddenly, it was Afghanistan all over again. That sense of impending danger and the unparalleled desire for survival. With a final deep breath to solidify this warrior state, John bellowed into the dark.
"Oi, you! What are you gawking at?"
Before waiting for a reply, John bolted across the street toward the alley, narrowly avoiding being struck twice by passing cars. As the driver of a Fiat hurled abuse, the rider remounted the motorbike, sped down the alley and turned a corner.
Fueled by adrenaline, John raced into the alley, nearly tripping over rubbish that hadn't quite made it to the bins. He was overcome with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Who was this ghost? Why did they keep following him? Why, on Earth, did it excite him so bloody much?
John skidded to a halt as he rounded the corner, only to find that the specter had stopped halfway down the service road and turned to face him. Driven by the rush of a half block sprint and the fear of the unknown, John found himself breathing heavily and with great volume. Before he was able to find his voice, which was brimming with questions, the figure dismounted the bike, causing John to tense with anticipation.
With a mighty flourish, the black-clad rider removed the matching helmet, revealing a cascade of chocolate locks.
"So, you must be the famous John Watson. We meet at last."