I needed more attempts to write a disclaimer then I did writing this story. But eventually I completed it. And here it is:
I don't own anything.
It was sergeant Sally Donovan who first noticed the unwanted presence at the most recent crime scene. He was back again and that annoyed the woman. If it was for her he would have already been arrested for obstruction of justice or perhaps tempering with evidence. But her superior, detective inspector Greg Lestrade, was obviously far more tolerable towards the stinking junkie.
She forgot the man's name, he only mentioned it once when he showed up inside the police line few weeks ago and was promptly escorted away by a constable. The fool was high that night and claimed he could solve the crime faster then anyone at the Yard.
Obviously he was wrong cause he claimed it was a murder when it was by all means an accident.
She noticed the man observing her closely and sighed. Time to inform the boss he's back.
Greg Lestrade was inside the flat of a young woman that was found dead in her bathroom with her wrists cut.
The sight scared her best friend, who found the deceased woman, and she still had a hard time describing the events that led to her coming to flat.
She was in a process of describing the dead woman's schedule when Donovan appeared on the doorway, "Sir, I hate to disturb you, but he's back."
Lestrade sighed, "I'll deal with him in a moment."
"I don't understand…" the distressed woman opposite of him wept, "She was finally over him, she was moving on…"
"Thank you for your help." Lestrade said, squeezing her hand a bit in comfort, "I'll have someone drive you home."
"Thank you." She muttered.
Greg stood up and turned towards his right hand woman, "Where is he?"
"Outside." She responded with a frown, "Outside of the police line this time." she then lowered her voice and asked, "And this? Suicide?"
The detective inspector nodded, "It appears that way. From what the friend told me Miss Julie Sawyer just went through a bad breakup with her fiancé and was depressed. Obviously she wasn't doing better like the friend thought. The guys are still gathering evidence but it seems to be an open and shut case."
When they stepped out into the cold evening both were forced to button up their coats to shield themselves from the strong wind. A wind that didn't seem to bother the figure in tracksuit that stood alone right outside the yellow line, with a constable few feet away from him.
"Ah, detective. Came to seek my assistance? Good, you are learning." Sherlock said and tried to go under the plastic tape but was stopped by the uniformed man on his right.
"The case is closed. Go home." Lestrade said.
Sherlock snorted, "You? Closing the case so fast. What did you rule it to be? An accident like the last time you refused my help and messed out? Don't you see you need my help?!"
"What I need is you not showing up on crime scenes anymore." Greg Lestrade said with a frown, "You are high and I don't want you anywhere near the evidence. I'm not having a junkie compromising my case just so he could play detective."
"Playing… playing detective!" Sherlock instantly protested and started to wave his hands around, "I am offering you my help and this is how you repay me? No wonder your wife is cheating on you again!"
Greg gaped at him, "What…? My wife is not-"
"Oh please… even you can't be that blind not to notice. Shirt not ironed properly, a clear sigh you've been doing it yourself, since she suddenly doesn't have the time anymore. Grease stain on the shoe, preparing your own food. Flirting with a constable when you arrived, so sexually frustrated."
"Alright! That's enough!" Greg suddenly snapped, "We are done here and we are done without your help! So go away! And don't show up on any more crime scenes. People will start to suspect you are showing up to enjoy your own work."
Sherlock snorted, "Of please… if I ever offed anyone you would never even find the body."
"Freak." Donovan, who stood behind her superior the whole time, muttered.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the woman he didn't even notice until then. She simply wasn't important enough in his eyes. But now he made sure to remember every single detail about Sergeant Sally Donovan.
Right down to the perfume she used.
Detective inspector Lestrade gave a sigh of relief when Sherlock Holmes turned around and walked away. But he had to give the junkie credit.
Looking down on his own shoes Greg noticed the stain from last night when he poured still moist potatoes in hot oil. Seconds later there was oil everywhere, including his suit that was still waiting to be washed because his wife didn't have the time.
Looking back Greg wondered how he never connected all the dots into a conclusion his wife was having an affair.
Sherlock was fuming. Here he was offering in assisting that detective so he would finally solve a case correctly and it gets thrown back in his face. And all just cause he used a bit heroin. He could solve a case high much faster and much more efficiently then the entire New Scotland Yard.
Idiots, all of them.
Wondering away from the scene of a crime, and it was a crime no matter what that detective claimed, he noticed he wasn't all that far away from where his preferred dealer was usually hanging.
Since he was now bored Sherlock took a left turn and found himself fact to face with a man in a young leather jacket.
"Just the man I was looking for." Sherlock said.
The man smiled, "Back so soon?"
"The idiots wouldn't listen to me. I've seen the body as it was wheeled out, the wind took the sheet away. It was definitely murder." Sherlock started to rant, ignoring a disgusted look on the dealer's face. For someone who sold illegal substance he was rather squeamish.
"So you came to me." the dealer placed a hand in his inner pocket to get the merchandise.
Sherlock shrugged and ran a hand thought his matted curls, "They wouldn't give me what I need so I had to get it elsewhere."
It took Sherlock good ten minutes to find a perfect spot where he wouldn't be disturbed, behind the deceiving facade of the house in Leinster Gardens. Not many people knew that the front is all there was, and it's been that way since 1860's when the original steam engine-hauled underground railway that had a short section exposed to the surface.
He had everything he need in the deep inner pocket of his tracksuit jacket. A spoon, lighter and still packed syringes and needles.
If someone asked Sherlock Holmes if he was addicted he would have said 'no', he was only using to slow down his ever racing mind. But that evening his mind failed to register he was still under influence of the previous hit. And then he added more drugs in his already drugged system.
And the system shut down.
That was how a homeless man found him. Slumped on the ground, a bag with powder residue next to him with an old spoon keeping it company. And a syringe still embedded in the crook of his elbow.
Instantly the homeless man ran out where his companion was waiting while he checked if the coast was clear.
"Doc! Doc! There is a guy in there! He overdosed!"
The homeless that was known as Doc by others that shared that fate rushed in through the door into the house that wasn't one. And there, just few feet away from the entrance, was a lifeless body of a man.
As any physician would, Doc instantly checked the symptoms. And they were all there.
Sherlock's breathing was slow, barely even noticeable, and his pulse was weak. In the faint light Doc, who opened the eyes of the unknown man in front, could also see his pupils are extremely small. And when his skin slowly started to turn blue Doc knew if he didn't get help soon he would die.
"Where is the nearest telephone box?" Doc asked the homeless man standing in the background.
"Too far away." was the answer he gave. When Doc sighed and started to dig through the unconscious man's pockets he was confused, "What are you doing?"
"Looking for something. I can't help him."
"To steal?" it made no sense, Doc was always helping them when they needed assistance with smaller things that didn't require them going to one of free clinics.
"No." Doc answered and pulled out a phone from Sherlock's sock and right away checked the contacts, "He has only one number stored. Call the paramedics and then call this Mycroft."
"And you?"
"I can't be here. I can't be mentioned in any records. I'm sorry but I have to go."
Mycroft Holmes, the man that was British Government, was just leaving his office when the cell phone in his pocket started to ring. It was a melody he never heard before, a melody he assigned to his brother's contact number. The fact Sherlock was calling instead of texting made him highly suspicious, and a bit apprehensive.
"Yes, Sherlock?" he said as a greeting.
"Hallo?" an unknown voice said on the other side of the line and Mycroft almost groaned. He suspected some fool stole his brother's phone and then actually called the number in the address book. Really, criminals these days were getting dumber and dumber.
"Yes?" he asked.
"I'm in 23 Leinster Gardens, behind the façade. There is a man here, unconscious, he overdosed." At the word 'overdosed' a cold feeling rushed through Mycroft and he started to walk faster towards the car that waited for him, "This phone was in his pocket."
"Have you called the paramedics?" Mycroft instantly asked, mentally hoping the unknown man had a brain in his head, as he sat in the back seat and informed his driver about their destination.
"Yes, right away."
"Good." The older Holmes brother said, "Do not move. I am on my way."
Mycroft disconnected the call and sighed. He warned Sherlock it will happen if he starts using again, but his brother wasn't listening to him. Yes, he went to rehab after mommy caught wind of his addiction but Mycroft always had his suspicion about Sherlock's ability to remain clean.
And now his fears have come true.
Paramedic's vehicle was already on the scene, red and blue lights flashing in the night. As he got out of the car he saw them placing a stretcher at the back of the van, his brother's body lying motionlessly on top.
One of the paramedics noticed him approaching and went to meet him, "The homeless man that reported the case said someone was coming. I'm presuming that's you."
"Yes." Mycroft answered, "Mycroft Holmes. Your new patient is my brother Sherlock."
"Alright, that will help us a lot. We will need his general information, he will be transported to Saint Bartholomew."
Mycroft nodded, "Of course. Is the homeless man still present? I would like to talk to him."
The paramedic pointed at the thin man standing next to the open doors of the house where Sherlock overdosed, "He's right over there. I had no idea that house was just front walls."
Mycroft muttered a, "Thank you." And walked past him. He wasn't in the mood of listen to someone describing his awe about something that should be taught in a history class.
When Mycroft came close enough to the homeless man he did quick deductions about him based on his appearance. Wasn't anything suspicious… or impressive.
"The phone." The man said and offered Sherlock's cell phone.
"What were you doing in the house?" he asked suspiciously.
The homeless man shrugged, "Looking for a sheltered place to stay overnight. It's starting to get really cold outside and we didn't want to stay in the park or someplace like that."
"We?" Mycroft continued his course of interrogation.
"Doc and I."
"And who is this Doc and where is he?"
"Doc is like me… you know… homeless. Stayed to check on the guy that overdosed, found the phone in his pocket and told me to call for help and the contact in the address book and then left." He said honestly. He had nothing to hide.
But it seemed to Mycroft this Doc had something he wanted to remain hidden, "What is Doc's name?"
"No idea, Doc is new. Doesn't really hand out with anyone but helps us all in case of smaller injury." The homeless man suddenly stood a bit straighter, he understood what Mycroft was suspicious about, "Doc isn't a junkie or a criminal. Just doesn't want to show up on some official record."
"Sounds like someone who has something to hide." Mycroft muttered before turning away and walking towards the black car that waited for him. He needed to go to the hospital and check on his younger brother. The questions about this 'Doc' will have to wait.
Anthea, Mycroft Holmes' personal assistant, did an amazing job rearranging his meetings and canceling his appearance on less important events, she even managed to ensure some meetings happened over the phone and not face to face. She was a miracle worker. And all that to enable her employer more time he could spend on his brother's side. Not that the said brother, in her personal opinion, deserved so much attention.
Two days later what Mycroft was patiently awaiting happened. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.
And instantly shut them again seeing his brother sitting next to his bed.
"I know you are awake, Sherlock. No use of pretending." He said calmly.
Sherlock, being as childish as possible while in his brother's company, muttered, "If I knew you were here I would have stayed unconscious."
"If you weren't found on time you would have died, Sherlock!" Mycroft lost his cool, something that happened in extremely rare situations. But strangely always in his brother's presence.
"No, I wouldn't." Sherlock argued back.
The older Holmes shook his head, he knew his younger sibling and knew he would argue him just for the sake of arguing. It didn't matter if they both knew Mycroft was right, Sherlock would never admit such a thing. Especially if it meant he was wrong.
"You were unconscious for two days."
"And you've been by my side this whole time? Mycroft, I had no idea you care." Sherlock mocked. For someone who was lost to the world for 48 hours he was recovering surprisingly well despite only being awake for few minutes.
"Well, I do. Which is why I'm giving you an option. Either rehab-"
"No." Sherlock interrupted his brother mid-sentence.
"Or I will inform mommy her younger son flat lined on his way to the hospital after overdosing on heroin." Mycroft completed what he had to say and watched with a satisfying smirk as his words finally reached his sibling.
"You won't."
"I will."
"Fine!" Sherlock snapped after few minutes of silence.
"Fine." Mycroft repeated calmly and started to type a message to Anthea. He trusted she would find a rehabilitation clinic suitable for a grown child that is Sherlock Holmes.
3 months later Sherlock was on his way to a flat he now lived in, in Baker Street. He met Martha Hudson, his new landlady, several years ago in America while he went to university there.
It was an attempt to get always from Mycroft and his meddling and supervision. An attempt that didn't work as planed. It was there that he first started using heroin, a habit that followed him back to England. A habit that he was now free of.
But he was smart enough to know he would never be free of the temptation.
"You look better." A man said, causing Sherlock to stop in his track and turn around.
There, a homeless man stood, observing Sherlock from head to toe and nodding with a small smile, like he was pleased with what he saw.
Since Mycroft told him the details of the night he overdosed Sherlock was aware it was a homeless man that called for help.
"You were the one that found me in Leinster Gardens." He concluded.
And despite it wasn't a question the unknown man answered, "Yep. You looked dead at first."
"I was told I would have been if you had found me only few minutes later."
"Yeah, Doc suspected too that might have been the case."
"Doc?" Sherlock asked.
"Doc was with me, checked you out."
"And you are?" Sherlock suddenly found himself asking, without knowing exactly why.
"They call me the Wiggy." The homeless man responded with a small grin.
"Nope."
"Bill Wiggins. At your service."
Blue eyes watched the younger man dressed in dirty jeans and a jumper that seen better days closely as Sherlock tried to understand why he didn't even noticed this Billy Wiggins until the man spoke. He was always aware of his surroundings. It made no sense.
So why did he oversee this homeless man?
"Well, thank you Billy… but I doubt I would be in need of your service."
Sally Donovan had no idea how the freak learned about the case but he did. He was right there, outside of the police line, watching them with a small smile. Figures a psycho like him would consider a woman committing suicide to be amusing.
She missed the last few months when he wasn't showing up uninvited and most definitely unwanted.
So she shook her head and went in the building. She didn't want to deal with the freak, her boss who kept claiming they have no reason to arrest him can do it.
"Donovan, I was just-" detective inspector Lestrade started to speak but was interrupted with words he hoped never to hear again.
"He's back."
"Who is?" the victim's husband asked, "Who's back?"
"Just someone who is willing to assist me with cases." Lestrade right away tried to calm the man down before doing downstairs to deal with Sherlock.
"Like a consulting detective?" the man asked.
Donovan instantly snorted in amusement but flinched when Lestrade sent her a glare. That was very unprofessional from her and she knew it.
"Something like that, yes." The DI confirmed before standing up to leave, "I'll be in touch if I have more questions."
"Yes, of course."
The two police officers left the flat and walked out only to see Sherlock not on his place where he supposed to be, namely behind the police line that was there to keep the civilians like him away. Instead he was next to the van that would transport the dead woman's body to the morgue.
And to their horror he was peeking into the body bag.
"Oi, Sherlock! What the hell do you think you are doing?!" Lestrade right away snapped at him and rushed to zip the black bag again.
"You obviously need my help. You still haven't caught the guy." Sherlock said arrogantly.
"What guy?" Donovan snapped, "You just saw the body, it was clearly a suicide."
She was pissed when the curly haired man rolled his eyes on her words and turn towards Lestrade, completely ignoring her, "The marks on her neck are not consistent with a suicide. If she did in fact hanged herself the rope mark wouldn't be horizontal, it would be more diagonal with the mark from the knot at the back on her head really close to her hairline." Sherlock started to fire out deductions, "The marks match the case of strangulation. She was hanged afterwards to cover up the crime. And no, her husband didn't do it. The same man that killed the previous four women did it. And each time you ruled it out as a suicide. Really Gareth, and I thought you were one of the smart ones in Scotland Yard."
"I didn't role anything, the pathologist that did the post-mortems did." Lestrade pointed out and then added as an aftermath, "And my name is Greg."
Sherlock merely waived his hand, "I've met that pathologist and I'm quite shocked someone so incompetent could finish medical school. So… I will need the files of-"
"Now hold on just a minute! I am not giving you any files!" the detective inspector started to really lose his patience with the younger man. He could see the logic in some of the things he said but he wasn't willing to break protocol, "You would need to be part of the Yard to have access to them."
"So I'll just be a consultant." Sherlock suggested like that would solve all the problems.
Donovan snorted, remembering what the victim's husband said, "What, a consulting detective?"
Sherlock instantly stood straighter, "Yes, I believe that is exactly what I would be… what I am. A consulting detective."
"There is no such job position." The sergeant pointed out.
"So I'll just be the only one in the world. Not a surprise really, considering how stupid the rest of the population is."
"Okay, that's it." Lestrade snapped, "No case files and no more looking through your fingers. Next time you cross a line, any line, and I will have you arrested. Are we clear?"
Sherlock frowned, "Fine, I will solve it without you."
"Yes, do that and I just might ask for your help with other cases." The DI said sarcastically, "Mr. Consulting detective."
Greg Lestrade sighed as he watched Sherlock stomp away from the scene. He had a feeling dealing with Sherlock Holmes will cause him to go gray far sooner then he expected.
While in the cab, on his way to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock noticed the same homeless man he met before. Wiggins. The one who offered him help.
Seeing how homeless people tend to go unnoticed he wondered if perhaps one of several of them saw something, someone, suspicious near the scene of the crime.
"Stop the car." He told the cabbie and paid before exiting the black vehicle and approaching the man dressed in the same garb as yesterday.
Bill Wiggins watched his come closer and stood up, "What can I do for you, mate?"
Sherlock handed him a 20 pound note and said, "I need information."
And it was money well spend. Because it took Wiggins less then 24 hours to come knocking on the front door of 221B Baker Street.
It was Mrs. Hudson who opened the door for him; Sherlock was kind enough to bellow to inform her there was someone at the door. Instantly she frowned. When Sherlock told her early that morning that he expected someone to bring him information regarding a case he expected anything but the homeless man she sometimes saw on the street.
"Ma'am, I am here to see Sherlock Holmes. Is he home?" Bill used every bit of his manners after coming face to face with an older lady.
"Yes." She answered shortly and opened the door wider for him to enter, "He's upstairs. You can't miss it; the door is open as always."
"Are you his housekeeper?" he asked curiously.
Mrs. Hudson huffed, "I'm his landlady. Although he sometimes mixes those two things."
She watched with a frown as the homeless man nodded before heading upstairs. She couldn't help but wonder what kind of information Sherlock could possibly need that would come from someone who lived on the street.
"Mr. Holmes?" Wiggins called as he approached the wide opened door of the upper flat.
"Hm…" came from the prone figure on the couch. He looked like he was sleeping except his palms were connected under the chin, giving the impression he was praying. For what, Wiggins had no idea.
"You requested that I get you information." He clarified and was startled when the man on the couch suddenly jumped.
"Yes, what do you have? Witnesses, evidence… what?"
Wiggins knew what he was to say would probably be met with a lot of skepticism but it came from a reliable source, at least in his opinion, "Well… I have the name…"
"Of the witness. What is it?" Sherlock was impatient.
"No. Of the killer."
"What?" it was rarely Sherlock Holmes was left baffled but today was the day when just three words threw him off.
"I asked around just like you wanted. I got information that she was last of five victims." Hearing that Sherlock instantly pushed Wiggins away from the doorway and into a worn red armchair before sitting opposite of him and holding a finger up, signaling he should wait just a bit before saying what he came to say.
Quickly he dialed a number that the owner didn't even know Sherlock had.
"Hello, detective inspector Lestrade." He greeted after a 'hello' from the other side.
"How in the world did you get my number?" Greg Lestrade asked, rather irritated that he doesn't seem to get a break.
"I have my ways. And I also have information that you might be interested in."
"And what is that?"
"I have a name of the man you are looking for, a man responsible for five murders."
"Those were suicides." Lestrade rolled his eyes, and although Sherlock couldn't see it he had a pretty good guess he did just that.
"Wiggins, what is his name?" Sherlock asked his guest.
"Now wait a moment!" Greg protested, "Who is Wiggins?"
"My informant." Sherlock responded before focusing on the man opposite of him, "Well?"
"You are looking a man named Andrew Moriarty."
"According to whom?" Lestrade asked.
"Doc."
They could hear a groan coming from the cell phone, "Alright, fine. I'll check the name. But… I want to meet this Doc."
Sherlock looked at Wiggins who shrugged, "I'll ask. But there is no way Doc would be willing to go to Scotland Yard. Probably won't even be willing to do anything on the record."
"Then I can't do anything." Lestrade said.
"I'm presuming that's the same Doc as the one who was with you when you found me." Sherlock said.
"Yep."
"In that case send him here to Baker Street. Will that work for you Lestrade?"
A grumbling voice on the other side of the line responded, "Fine. Which number?"
"221B. " Sherlock responded smugly. He always liked it when he managed to get people to do what he wanted, what was right.
"Let me know when the guy comes over and I'll get there." Lestrade finalized the conversation and disconnected the call.
"Today?" Wiggins asked Sherlock after he placed his cell phone on the small round side table next to the armchair.
"Today."
It was late in the evening when a knock made Sherlock shout for Mrs. Hudson to open the door and let his guest, who finally arrived hours later then he expected him to, inside the building. When no one responded, probably doe to his landlady taking her herbals soothers, and another knock was heard he sighed.
He had to do everything by himself.
So like a child Sherlock stomped down the sleight of stairs and wrenched the door open.
A homeless person in front of him flinched slightly at the sudden movement and he rolled his eyes. This would be a long evening.
"Get inside." Sherlock instructed, "Up the stairs."
The homeless known as Doc followed instruction and climbed the stairs and stopped at the entrance of the large sitting room. Sherlock once more rolled his eyes and pushed past, this time not noticing the flinch as he pushed his guest aside slightly.
But he did notice the odor.
So instead of ordering the man to sit down and tell him everything he knew about the killings and this Andrew Moriarty he went to his bedroom and dug out some old tracksuit bottoms and a washed out shirt with a hole at the side. It wasn't something he would mind parting with and it would be put to a good use.
Namely getting that stench out of his flat.
"You." He pointed at the homeless man that was still frozen at the same spot, "There are some spare clothes in the bathroom and a plastic bag. Go and take a shower, you are welcome to use my products, do not come out until you stopped smelling like a sewage system. The bag is for your current clothes, particularly that abomination you seem to use as a hat. Tie it up as tightly as you can."
Doc nodded silently and rushed past him. Instantly Sherlock made a face of pure disgust as a whiff of the unwashed clothes combined with living on the streets reached him. It was truly disgusting.
But something he was willing to endure to catch a serial killer that was so far smart enough to elude the police. Not that that was such a hard thing to do.
They were idiots, every single one of them.
After he texted detective inspector Lestrade Sherlock spent the next half an hour listening to the shower going on and off as his guest was attempting to remove the revolting smell from his very pores. At least someone was following his orders.
"Sherlock?" he heard Lestrade's voice calling him as he was coming up the stairs, "You said I should just come up. Do you even lock those doors?"
"Sometimes."
Lestrade shook his head. He knew lecture any about the safely would go to deaf ears.
"So, where is this Doc?" he asked instead, "Hopefully he'll be able to explain to me why I was doing a background check on someone that doesn't exist anywhere."
"He is… oh…" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and stared open-mouthed at the individual standing behind the detective inspector.
"What?" Lestrade asked, not noticing Sherlock's gaze was no longer on him.
"There is always something." He heard Sherlock mutter.
"What now?" the DI already started to suspect it was all a waste of time.
"My deductions are usually correct, but from time to time a small error… happens." He suddenly moved past Lestrade, confusing the older man, "Hallo, Doc."
"He's already here?" Lestrade asked, "Why haven't you… said… so?"
Sherlock moved so he no longer stood between the homeless man and Greg Lestrade giving the detective inspector a clear view of the man he came to talk to.
Only it wasn't a man.
In the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, looking rather small in oversized clothes and shaking slightly, stood a woman with long brown, currently wet and tangled, hair and warm brown eyes.
If you find any mistakes please let me know so I can correct them.
Thank you for reading.