Disclaimer: I don't own anything so please don't sue :P
Warnings: T but may go to M later - maybe not, not sure yet :P Mostly for creepy surgical stuff... possibly... shouldn't get too bad though. There may not be warnings beforehand though.
No spoilers! I guess it's an AU role-reversal.. so yeah enjoy :) And if you did - review, rate, all that jazz. Hey, if you hated it, do the same, then I'll be able to improve. :)
The Inspector ducked under the tape and peeled off the white forensic suit, now bloodstained, and handed it to a lackey who was milling around in the rain drinking coffee. A reporter bustled up to him, ushering over a cameraman and boom operator.
"Detective, what can you tell us about this most recent killing? Can you confirm it's the same killer as the past four?"
Lestrade waved them away irritably, muttering about being unable to comment. He rubbed a hand over his face, wearily, as he walked to his car and got in. They had no leads. He was meticulous in his crime, but unlike anything Lestrade had seen before. The scenes were always horrific. Blood everywhere, soaking everything – Lestrade winced as he started the engine, the amount of damage one would have to cause to empty out that amount of blood occurring to him. However horrific the crime scene, however, the killer left no trace of himself. He obliterated everything, wiped everything, noticed everything. Lestrade sighed in frustration, and pulled out of the square.
Turning on the radio, he put his mobile on the dash, glancing at the screen as he did. No new calls – unsurprising, really – Jim was ignoring him because he wasn't letting him anywhere near these new cases. He had probably been working on them nonetheless – which could prove useful if the killer remained stubbornly untraceable. He wondered how far he had got – the police computers hadn't found any data on the name that had been left on a business card at the first crime scene – the only white spot in the room. Lestrade pursed his lips, sighing as he pulled away from the lights.
"Who are you," he muttered to himself, "Sherlock Holmes?"
John scowled as he pressed himself into a doorway, the rain getting worse. Shivering, he crouched, his ratty jumper not doing much to keep him warm. He had been thrown out of the old squat a week ago, and still hadn't found a place to live. On a whim, he reached up and tried the handle of the large, semi-boarded over door. To his surprise, it opened.
There were no lights inside, but he could see it was a big place. He shut the door behind him, and then felt to his right and left in the sudden blackness – a coat stand and some kind of umbrella bucket? Both of them were covered in cobwebs, and he shook his hand, grimacing.
As his eyes adjusted, he could see a massive staircase directly in front of him, and a large skylight which let some moonlight in. It looked like it had once been a grand house, and as he looked around more he could make out a chandelier hanging above him. Now, however, it was abandoned, and dusty – but it was dry and warm – for the night at least.
He opened his bag and pulled his mat and blanket out, unrolling them to the left of the door – just in case anyone came in. Using his bag as a pillow, he lay down, his shivering subsiding a little.
Considering his options, he looked around himself as he lay there. This place had been more or less unnoticeable from the street – innocuous – abandoned, but not so much to seem derelict or dangerous. Maybe he would stay for a while. Maybe even use it permanently – there must be loads of places to hide things in an old house like this.
He would have to look around some more in the morning. Now, however – he yawned, listening to the rain on the window above him – he would sleep.
He drifted, shifting slightly in his sleep, completely unaware of any movement or sound around him. If any eyes watched his breathing slow, his hands clench, his eyelids flicker, he did not know it, lost in his own subconscious, until the day.
When the day came, he was no longer alone. He opened his eyes, waking slowly, feeling automatically for the bag under his head.
A small black rat watched him from the bottom step, her eyes glistening intelligently. HE stood, groaning at the stiffness in his leg, and looked around.
In the daylight, the house looked even more abandoned. The rat squeaked and turned, bounding up the stairs, disappearing into a small hole half way up. He followed it with his eyes, wrinkling his nose and stretching, and then shrugged, walking over to the door of the room on his right.
He walked room to room, checking each briefly. The further he went, the more it amazed him. There were drawing rooms with lavish furnishings, beautiful curtains and expensive rugs, everything covered with a coating of grey, giving it an odd look, as if it was an old film. In one room he found a grand piano, in another, a gramophone. Upstairs revealed even more – four poster beds, with thick covers, intricately decorated, enormous wardrobes full of clothes – all looking as if they had come straight out of a period drama.
He shook his head in amazement, making his way back down the huge staircase. He reached down to roll his mat up, and the rat shot out of his bag, squeaking in alarm.
"Hey!" He jumped back, and then went to kick it, but it vanished into a side room. Frowning, he checked his bag – a loaf of bread had been nibbled, but apart from that it seemed mostly untouched.
Grumbling, he pushed his things back into the bag. If he was going to stay, he would have to sort that problem out. Carefully opening the door, he made his way outside. The narrow alley seemed a strange place to build such a massive house. Then again, who cared?
Head down, he started walking, heading to the soup kitchen. Pausing at the end of the alley, he looked behind him, to mark the place so he could find it again. He saw a semi-obscured street sign, in case he lost his way.
"Baker Street." He muttered to himself. Easy enough to remember. He took a right, looking back again, realising why he hadn't found that place before. The end of the alley was almost completely hidden from view by the tall buildings surrounding him, and overhanging bushes. Perfect.
As he entered the soup kitchen, a fish crow landed on a bench opposite. She fluttered her wings, and then folded them, settling them down on the back of the bench, watching people on their early morning commute. A pigeon strayed near the bench, aimlessly pecking at the ground, shuffling along in the puddles. The crow eyed it suspiciously, then crouched, sprang off the bench, claws slicing into the feathers on its back, hooked beak snapping at the greasy grey feathers. A scuffle ensued, and after a while the pigeon hopped slowly away.
The crow gave her muffled caw again, and flapped back up onto the bench, continuing to watch the street. The wind blew through her feathers and she huddled down, but a commuter, possibly weary after a night shift, came to sit on the bench, shooing her off. She hopped down onto the floor, just as John came out of the soup kitchen. She gave a soft caw again, and leapt into the air, narrowly missing the man who had shooed her. A few remaining grey feathers blew around under the bench, and John pulled his collar up, putting his hands in his pockets. It was much colder than it had been in past years, he thought. Or maybe he was just getting old.
As he continued down the street, a young boy ran up to him, tapping him on the arm. He took a step away, eyeing him up, analysing his stance.
"'Scuse me, sir, but, are you Mister Wats- I mean, Doctor Watson?"
The boy, watched him hopefully. He could only have been seven or eight.
"What is it?"
"I – could you – could you help me mam? Only.. she's not well, and I heard-"
"What's the problem?"
The lad glanced over his shoulder and then back. "She's real sick – she canna get out of bed.. I think she's dyin'. Please.. could ye just have a look?"
"I'm sorry, but unless you can pay-"John hated doing this, dealing with kids. That was probably why she'd sent him.
The boy's face fell, and he opened his mouth to protest, but John stopped him.
"I can't help you. I've got to eat too, and I can't do that if I go around giving out freebies, now, can I?"
The boy dropped his head and stopped walking. John continued down the road, eager to weigh up the new prospects of the new house he had found.
He had been keeping himself alive – just – on the money he got from people needing a doctor, but not wanting to go anywhere that could take records of their existence. He took what he could from them. It was his job, after all. But now he could do with premises – a permanent place for his "business". The old house would work perfectly. Just needed cleaning up, electricity and – he realised that he didn't even know if it had running water.
He turned left into the alley, jumping up onto the doorstop and pushing the door open, the plyboard covering still soaked under his hand.
A rat ran across his feet and he jumped back, swearing. Yet another thing to be sorted. Skirting the staircase to the right, brushing away low-hanging cobwebs, he opened the door to a room he hadn't checked that morning.
And stopped dead.
The bathroom was spotless. Black and white tiles gleamed, and the roll-top bath shone. He could smell soap, and as he reached out to steady himself, his hand fell on a fluffy black towel hanging on a heated chrome rail.
He swallowed, stepping back. He looked back over his shoulder – the house still stood, grey and silent. His mind just – stopped. He stared silently into the impossible room, so at odds with the rest of the house. Something scratched his neck, and he turned, and the towel was still in his hand and the feel of the fibres was too much and everything was black and white and then just black.
Lestrade stirred as his phone buzzed on the table beside him, grating on his ears. He fumbled for it in the dark, and, squinting, read the display which glared out at him, hurting his eyes.
[Incoming call – Jim]
He sighed, and answered.
"What is it?"
"I just thought you might want to know my latest findings, Inspector." The faint sarcasm in the Irish tones was lost on Lestrade, who was too tired to care.
"You woke me at.. four in the morning.. to brag?"
"Oh, come on, you know me better than that."
Lestrade closed his eyes, sighing.
"Then what is it?"
"Well," Jim continued "I happen to have stumbled across a lovely little London property. 221B Bsker Street. Only one previous owner, no back chain, and comes complete with one mass murderer"
Lestrade opened his eyes.
"What?"
An hour later, Greg was knocking on Jim's door. Sebastian opened it, wordlessly ushering him in, motioning to his shoes. Lestrade bit back a sigh. They needed Jim now. Slipping his shoes off, he made his way down the hall and into the living room where Jim was standing, nursing a coffee and staring at the wall.
"Morning, Inspector," he murmured, without moving.
Greg looked to Sebastian, entering behind him, who remained impassive, and back to Jim.
"Well?"
There was almost a minute of silence as no-one moved. Lestrade began to fidget, Jist as Jim inhaled, turning to look at him.
"Well, like I said, 221B Baker Street. It's been abandoned for a while, but recently a new tenant has been found."
As he talked, the fingers of his left hand, no longer grasping the mug, moved in mid-air as if conducting an imaginary orchestra. "This has led to the discovery that it isn't quite as abandoned as one might think. I mean, it's obvious!"
His voice rose to a shout at this, fingers spasming, and Seb quietly cleared his throat behind Greg. Jim's eyes found his over the Inspector's shoulder, and he focused again.
"Obvious. Yes. It's a large house, massive, in fact, it's a wonder no-one's noticed it before. But then again, why would you notice it. You never notice anything, you're all so.. dull.." He trailed off, his fingers coming to a rest, and he lifted the mug to his lips, inhaling.
"How do you know Holmes is there?"
Jim's eyes snapped back to him.
"Isn't it obvious?"
Greg realised the man genuinely didn't understand.
"Er.. talk me through it"
"Well.." Jim frowned, obviously working out how to slow his mind down enough to go through the process that was evidently so easy for him. "If no-one has noticed it before, then why now?" When Lestrade still made no sign he understood, Jim's frown deepened, his hand shaking, fingers twitching. Seb appeared silently behind him, gently taking the coffee off him and placing it on the counter behind him, placing his other hand gently on Jim's shaking arm until it subsided.
"The rain cover," he continued, his frustration barely masked in his voice. He began to flicker his fingers about again as he spoke. "There's new rain cover for people by that door. And why? Because the doorway is stepped back. Why wasn't there any before? Because there was a leaky window frame directly above it, which let the damp permeate through the wall, inside it, which meant that entire-" He gestured, pawing at the air, "The entire doorway, and the step, would be permanently wet. But now it's not, and that's because it's been re-done. It's been waterproofed because it needed to be soundproofed. Big Victorian house, coming in all hours of the night, they weren't exactly built for subtlety. And now-"
He broke off, looking Lestrade in the eye. "Now, he needs that silence, because it's so /noisy/, this city!" He crossed to the window, spreading his arms, trying to convey something – Greg wasn't sure what. "There's so much shouting, and the cars, and the clubs, and pubs, and cinemas and bowling alleys and casinos. And he can't cope."
Jim span around, his eyes shining with a mad glee. "He doesn't like the noise, and the traffic, and the /people/.
"So, Holmes is living in this house?"
Jim lowered his arms, the light fading from his eyes, and he slid over a chair arm, slumping back into it, shrugging.
"Perhaps. Perhaps he spends his days roaming the streets for victims. Perhaps he takes day trips to Paris. It's not my job to know his every move."
"But, you do." Greg stated. Jim had been curiously attached to this case ever since Greg had heard about it.
Jim gave him a sideways look.
"It's not my job to, Inspector. Run along and play now." He made a dismissive gesture, turning his attention to the nails of his left hand. Seb stepped towards the Inspector. It was clear that there would be no more information.
In the car, he called Anderson with the address, and told him to meet him there. As much as the comment had been intended as derogatory, Jim had a point. If Holmes wasn't in, they didn't want to scare him off by destroying his home base. If they could just recon the place, that would be enough for now.
The net was closing.