Note: Set on season 2, some time before The Reichenbach Fall, but in this story Sherlock was already warned to not interfere on Scontland Yard's investigations. And John Watson works as a doctor at Bart Hospital, besides helping Sherlock on his investigations.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, nor Stephen King's works, since I may have included some reference to one of his books.
Warnings: Violence.
Prologue
The lights were off in 221B Baker Street that night. The two weird guys that lived there were probably fast asleep. The man in the corner lit another cigarette with the butt of the previous one and waited, standing in the shadows, looking up to the windows on the second floor of the building across the street. He checked his watch again – it was quarter past two in the morning.
A car turned the corner and sped down the otherwise deserted street, probably going home from one of the many pubs in the neighborhoods. The man stepped deeper into the shadows, hiding from the car. "Fifteen more minutes", he thought.
He stuffed his gloved hands into his Armani new collection black jacket and took a gun from one pocket and a silencer from the other. He checked the gun's load and, with slightly trembling hands, he attached the silencer to the gun. He threw the cigarette on the pavement, stepping into it with the sole of his loafers, and took one last look on his surroundings, checking for any prying eyes.
"It's time," he thought and took a few steps from the shadows heading to the building across the street, but then he hesitated. He looked back to the spot where he was the last couple of hours and saw the number of cigarette butts lying on the floor. He kneeled on the dirty floor and collected all the cigarette butts, sticking them into his pocket. Satisfied with himself, he quickly crossed the street, stopping in front of the door. He checked the lock and tried to open the door. It was locked.
He pointed the gun to the lock preparing to shoot, when suddenly he felt an excruciating pain in the back of his head. His vision blurred and he fell to the ground. His instincts kicked in and he rolled on his back facing a man in a hood hovering above him with some kind of self defense weapon in his hand. He begun to raise his gun but the man kicked his hand hard, sending his gun into the street and totally out of reach. He tried to stand, but was kicked in his ribs, all air being expulsed from his lungs. He turned into his stomach and tried to crawl to his gun, but it was too far. The man in the hood grabbed him by his black curly hair pulling him to a kneeling position and whispering into his ear "I think it's time for you to regret all your sins."
He received a knee to the gut and his hair was released. He bent over from the pain, his eyes watering, but forced himself to maintain the man on his line of vision. He saw the man heading for the gun, with deliberately slow paces. He had to act quickly. With his arms around his stomach, he stood and run to the opposite direction as fast as he could. He threw himself behind a car that was parked on the street and waited, hearing footsteps slowly getting closer. He started to round the car trying to guess what side the man would appear, looking for something he could use to defend himself. He saw a trash can next to the post nearby, where what seemed to be a beer bottle was showing its neck amongst other garbage. With all his willpower he run the few steps to the trash can and grabbed the bottle, throwing himself back to the protection of the car as fast as he could, but he wasn't fast enough. A gun shot hit him on his left leg. The surprise of being shot was so unexpected, that he didn't even felt the pain for some time. But when he tried to get up he couldn't. He saw the blood pouring through his black slacks, and with his left hand he tried to put pressure to the wound, the other hand holding tightly to the bottle. The man in the hood was rounding the car. He laid down on the ground and rolled over under the car, crawling to the other side, on the street. If he hadn't been shot he could try to run or to fight, using the glass as a weapon. But hurt, he knew he couldn't stand a chance, so he tried to beg and bargain.
"Please can we talk? We can solve this. I have money. Tell me your price." He tried hard to think of something that could buy him some time.
The man moved in his slowly annoyingly pace until he was in front of him, pointing the gun to his head. "I'm sorry, buddy," he said with a smirk, "but that's not an option. Do you have any last words or something? Maybe you want to say a pray?"
"The only thing I have to say is that you are going to regret killing me here. You don't know the big mistake you would be doing."
"Is that supposed to scare me? Nice try." Then he shot the kneeling man to the head, threw the gun next to the body, and started walking down the street, in his slow slightly dancing pace, like he didn't have a care in the world.
Chapter 1
Dr. John Watson woke up early that Sunday morning. He was a man very diligent and zealous with his morning routine. Maybe it was the influence of his years as a doctor in the army. Everything had to be perfectly done in the proper time. It doesn't matter if it was weekday or a weekend. He got up from his bed at half past six, took a quick shower, shaved, brushed his teeth and changed his clothes into a button up white shirt, black pants and a thick jacquard sweater, since it was very cold. He made his bed military style and put on his perfectly polished shoes. Then he took a look at himself in his bathroom mirror. A middle aged blond guy in need of a haircut looked back to him. He tried to comb his hair the best as he could, then he checked his watch. It was seven o'clock. Perfect!
He headed to the kitchen to make coffee and saw that Sherlock had yet to get up. He started the coffee machine, and tried to ignore all the laboratory flasks and equipments that were all over their kitchen, some of them with weird substances that smelled very funny. He opened the fridge looking for some milk, but the milk carton was empty. "Well, that's Sherlock. He always forgets to buy groceries when it's his time to do it." He said to himself.
When he first moved to 221B Baker Street, John used to get really mad with all the eccentricities of his friend. Now, after some years living with him, he has learned to ignore them, on behalf of his own mental sanity. So he pushed some flasks to the side, clearing a spot on the table where he could have his cup of coffee, and maybe some milkless cereal. He grabbed yesterday's newspaper from the counter and started reading, sipping his steaming hot coffee. He was halfway through the police report when he felt his cell phone vibrating. He picked it up from his pocket and saw he'd got a text from Sherlock. "Sherlock is not home?" He thought to himself.
Sherlock: John, are you home?
John: Yes. Where are you?
Sherlock: John, I need you to do me a favor. It's urgent.
John: What favor?
Sherlock: Go to the kitchen. Open the first drawer in the cabinet and see if you find a blue box with a golden label on it.
John: OK, but where are you? You didn't come home last night? Or did you leave early this morning?
Sherlock: John, the box! It's urgent!
John: OK! OK!
He opened the drawer where they used to keep the cutlery. After some searching, messing all the items inside the drawer, he finally found a little blue box.
John: OK, I've found it. Now what?
Sherlock: Open it.
John: That's a red marker...
Sherlock: Bring it to me here in my bedroom. Quick!
John: What? Are you in your bedroom this whole time? Why didn't you came here and got it yourself?
"John, hurry up!" Sherlock screamed from his bedroom.
"You are unbelievable!" He screamed back, heading to Sherlock's bedroom.
"And what the marker was doing in the cutlery drawer?" He asked as he opened Sherlock's bedroom door. Sherlock was in his robe, pacing in front of a London map hanging from his wall, with several colored pins on it, pointing various locations of the city.
"What are you doing?" John asked curiously.
"What do you think I'm doing? I'm working on a case. And I'm out of red pins. I thought I could use a red marker instead." Sherlock said grabbing the marker from his hand and immediately marking points to the map.
"Do you have a client? I thought you didn't have a client for weeks. Especially after Lestrad was forbidden to ask for your help with the Scotland Yard cases."
"The janitor in Bart Hospital asked me to help him solve a mystery. These drawings have been appearing in various locations of the city. One of them was painted on his front door." He showed John a photo of a graffitied wall. The drawing was some kind of a logo with a skull on it. "This is the same drawing a group of American criminals from Chicago used to paint in their enemies' houses, to warn them that they were next in their murder list, in the late seventies."
"Maybe it's just some kid playing around." John said, giving him back the photo and turning to leave the room.
"Where are you going? You are not going to discuss this case with me?" Sherlock asked.
"It's not a case, Sherlock. Besides I need to go out for a walk." He said, grabbing the handle and opening the door.
"Maybe it's not a case yet. But it's very interesting." Sherlock murmured to himself. "Ah, John?" He said louder.
"Yes?"
"Can you buy us some groceries in your way back home? We are out of milk."
He didn't bother to answer that. John took his coat from its hanger, went down the stairs and out to the cool morning breeze. He turned left and started walking, heading to the park on Paddington Street, when he noticed a police car parked a couple of houses ahead, blocking the street. There were police officers near a black car and some people around, prevented to getting closer by a tape where could be read the words "Police – Do not cross".
John approached the restricted area to take a look, and saw a body on the street near to the car. Blood could be seen on the ground and a gun was lying on the street, next to the body.
"Hey," he screamed to one of the police officers. "I'm a doctor. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Hey!" said one of the officers approaching him. "You are Dr. Walsh, aren't you? Sherlock's roommate?"
"Yeah, that's me. But it's Dr. Watson, actually." John said.
"Hi! My name is Paul." The officer said, shaking John's hand. "That's nothing you can do. The man is dead. We're waiting for the forensics and Detective Inspector Lestrad to come over."
"It was a murder?" John asked trying to take a look to the body.
"Looks like it. A shot to the head, as you can see. The gun is still there. What kind of killer leaves a gun behind?"
"The kind that doesn't fear being caught." John said looking at the gun, noticing the silencer attached to it.
"Or maybe he did it himself? A suicide?" The officer asked.
John looked to the body that was lying down on his back, slightly turned on his right side. He saw a gunshot wound in the middle of his forehead.
"I don't believe it, since the wound is in the center of his forehead. It would be difficult for someone to shot himself in that place. Besides, that silencer would make it much more difficult. If someone is going to shoot himself, is more likely the wound to be on his right temple, if he is right-handed, or on his left temple, if he is left-handed."
"Well, you seem to know a lot about crimes and stuff." The officer said impressed.
"I live with Sherlock. What would you expect?" John said, picking up his cell phone from his pocket.
"Excuse me." He said to the officer and dialed Sherlock's number, but before pressing call, he thought better. Sherlock was really entertained with his new "case". So he would probably just ignore the call. But if John sent a text, he might answer, since he said himself that he preferred to text.
John: Sherlock are you home?
Sherlock: Obviously.
John: Can you do me a favor?
Sherlock: What?
John: Go to the living room and look through the window.
Sherlock: Very funny…
John: I'm serious! Go now. You're not going to regret.
Sherlock: John, I'm busy right now. Stop texting me.
John: And if I tell you that there was a murder in our street? Right under your nose?
John: Sherlock?
John looked up to the windows of their apartment and saw Sherlock looking down. He saw him withdrawing from the window, texting something on his cell phone. Then John's felt his cell phone vibrating.
Sherlock: I'm coming down.
