Hello! :D I've decided to start my own Sherlock/John story, but I don't know how I did at being Sherlock. His mind is more intricate than mine is, so it was difficult to write. I don't think I did it justice. I hope writing John will be easier. That reminds me, I'll be switching point of view a lot through this story, and not with a pattern. I could switch in the middle of a chapter, and I could have Sherlock tell his share for four chapters then John has one. It depends on who needs to speak.
Anyway, here we go!
Sherlock's P.O.V
"You can't see the body yet." Lestrade grabbed my shoulder, his hand holding me in place. If it had been anyone else I probably would have continued into the crime scene.
Or broken their arm.
But Lestrade's lucky, because I like him, well tolerate him. "And why not? I thought I was called so I could do what you so-called 'police officers' can't?"
"Hold your horses; we're just waiting for a doctor." He let go of my shoulder, but I knew he didn't want me to move. I hated being told what to do, even if it wasn't verbally, so I shuffled around, almost pacing, but more of a rocking with how little space I was moving in.
"Why do I have to wait? Anderson's here." I indicated the rat-like man with my eyes.
"We're waiting for Anderson's brother actually." From the obvious excitement on his face and the way he kept rubbing his hands on his trousers, I could tell that he was happy about this doctor's visit. I couldn't see why. Not only did I have to wait for him, but the thought of being in the room with another Anderson was sickening. The only thing that stopped me for voicing my complaints was the nasally voice of Sally Donovan.
"I don't think we even need the freak." Sally hissed, using that 'freak' insult as if it wasn't completely unoriginal. I've either heard them all before, or have thought of them before her.
"Is your wife away for long?" I inquired my attention on Anderson, ignoring Donovan completely. She never liked it when I did that. I could practically feel her fuming next to me.
"Don't pretend like you worked that out yourself. Somebody told you." Oh, Anderson, as if I ever really need to ask anyone about anything. I thought he would have figured it out already… I'm a genius.
"Your deodorant told me." I saw the confused expression on his face, but didn't elaborate yet. It was fun to watch the boring squirm. It was a break from their dreariness.
"It's for men." I lifted by eyebrow in a challenge. I knew that wouldn't help them, but it was still entertaining to watch them try.
"Of course it's for men. I'm wearing it." Anderson scoffed, acting like he was in control of the situation.
"So is Sergeant Donovan. Ooh... I think it just vaporised." They stood, frozen, gaping at me like two fish out of water. It took them a minute but Anderson eventually attempted to compose himself.
"Now look, whatever you're implying…"
"I'm not implying anything." I interjected as innocently as possible. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floor, going by the state of her knees." I glanced down at the Sally's rug burned knees. It was not a good day to wear a skirt.
Neither could even try to defend themselves before a new voice chimed in from behind me. "She scrubbed the floors all night. In the kitchen, living room, bathroom, really everywhere except my room and Dim and Marie's room. He had her in the guest room… Scrubbing." The owner of the voice was a shorter, blonde man with a cane, though while he stood there, just outside the group, he favoured neither leg. As if his leg didn't trouble him.
Psychosomatic obviously.
"Fag." Sally murmured under her breath, loud enough for all of us to hear her, except Lestrade, who wandered off to speak with another officer. I couldn't deduce if this John was really gay, or Sally was just being her usual self. It shouldn't have matter to me, but for some reason I was curious.
"Sally, your amazingly witting insults do cut me deeply." I couldn't help but smirk.
I continued to take him in, determine what I could about him, which was a lot. This man was a lot like an open book. He should learn to hide something.
"John!" Lestrade exclaimed from beside me, walking towards the man, John, with open arms. This, apparently, was the doctor… And Anderson brother. Their hug was the typical 'man' hug, filled with back smacking, chuckles and hips pointed away from each other.
Even though there were no obvious romantic feelings between the two, it didn't stop Anderson from pretending to gag…
"Sherlock," Lestrade spoke, once John and he had broken away from each other, bringing my attention back to the doctor. "This is Anderson's older brother." I could see no physical resemblance between the two, which was a plus on John's side since Anderson was a very unattractive man, and I didn't feel like throwing John off the side of a bridge yet, so another point in his favour.
"I prefer not to be introduced as Dim's brother." Dim, a nickname of sorts.
Dim: Lacking in brightness or slang for dull. It was a very accurate nickname.
Obviously there was no love lost between the brothers.
Sticking out his hand, he continued to introduce himself. "I'm John, John Watson." Different last name, so either half-brothers or stepbrother, I was leaning towards half-brother because of the hostility between the two. One of them would have pointed out the 'step' part.
I took his hand gingerly in my own, feeling the rough skin, from handling a gun from what I have seen. "Sherlock Holmes." Was my simply reply.
"Oh, I know!" He seemed very excited, even though Lestrade had probably told him about me. "Lestrade told me about you." I was right. Of course, I was. "So I looked you up, and found your website. Is it true you know 140 different types of tobacco ash?"
People were usually shocked when I mention what I do, not because they believe it's outstanding, which it is, they're more shocked that I took time to learn all the different types. Because of that, I replied curtly, "Yes."
"That's bloody amazing!" John cried, startling me. This man, that barely knows me but I know many things about, startled me. Me, the Sherlock Holmes.
"Thank you." I answered politely, not sure how to reply besides the normal expression of gratitude that people used. I wasn't use to praise. I looked towards Lestrade, wanting to move onto something else. "Lestrade, can I borrow your phone?" He wouldn't have his personal phone on his at the moment.
"Sorry mate, other jacket."
"You can use mine." John chimed in, handing me his phone. Taking it, I analysed it the best I could without turning it over in my hands. It told me even more about this John. I shot off a quick text and handed it back to John without a word to him.
It was time to get on with business "Can we go see the body now?"
"Oh, yes, let's." John grinned, clapping his hands together, his cane leaning against his hip. When he was distracted he didn't even need the cane. I stored that away in my recently made John folder. A folder that would be erased if he ended up being anything like his brother.
"We really should go up before John starts humping Sherlock's leg." Everyone ignored Anderson.
"Sorry about the wait, this prat," John motioned to Lestrade with his free hand as we made our way towards the building. "Decided to call after Sally and Dim left so I had to find my own way here."
"That's because no one told me you were around." Lestrade chuckled, holding the door open for John and me. They seemed to be good friends, which was a good sign for John. Lestrade was a good sort of fellow, the type I can stand and if he liked John, maybe he was alright. Then again, Lestrade was very trusting of most people.
I needed to investigate further before making up my mind about John.
"Iraq or Afghanistan?" I asked, wanting to show off just a bit more.
John stopped, looking at me from the stair below. We were moving slowly, and as much I wished to just run up these stairs, I knew it was the social protocol to wait for the other two, even if one hobbled along slowly. "Afghanistan. How did you know that?" He had the look on his face that people got when I dissected their lives piece by piece.
"I also know you're an army doctor, recently invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother, not Anderson but one that you're fully related to, who's concerned about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. You're still closer to him than you are with Anderson though. And I know your therapist thinks your limp is at least partially psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid. Now, we have a dead woman to examine!" It was always the best idea to leave them wondering, then stay there and be forced to explain how I know what I know.
"Yeah, he's really like that." I heard Lestrade tell John before they continued up the stairs.
I waited in the doorway, rocking on my heels as I peered in at the woman, making deductions even at such a distance. It took John a couple more minutes to catch up to me and by the time he finally reached me, I was ready to pounce on the corpse.
What he said about her death was nothing I didn't already know. It was a poisoning, supposed to seem like a suicide, but then, why was she in this place? Why did she leave a note? A note that only consisted of scratches on the floor.
"That's the difference from the other deaths." Lestrade told me, very unhelpfully I might add.
Rache. My mind began to look through itself, looking for an explanation for rache. I knew it was German for revenge, but why would this woman write that? There was no reason, so maybe she didn't finish the word. The way her nail dug into the wood implied that there was still more.
"It's rache, German word for revenge." Anderson's irritating vove grated through the air towards me.
I opened my mouth to insult his intelligence, but John beat me to it. "Shut it, Dim." He hobbled over to the door. "Why would she write 'revenge' with the last of her strength? It's obviously Rachel or something unfinished." And with that he shut it in his face, before turning back to the astonished me. "It is Rachel right? I didn't just make a fool of myself?"
"I believe so. How did you know?" I had figured it out, but I was slightly impressed that John also did. This man was nothing like his brother.
"I'll tell you that, if you tell me how you knew so much about me," He compromised, grimacing as he got himself into a kneeling position by the body, and across from me. My eyes took him in again, but instead of making anymore deductions, I thought about how he was an attractive man. I didn't usually notice appearances, unless important to the case. So why would I notice the way John look?
I just disregarded it as being tired. I hadn't slept in the last couple days, too busy with my experiments. "I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Lestrade said a doctor was coming, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair, or favour either leg when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."
"You mentioned a therapist?" He wanted me to continue, many would want me to stop by now. Many were scared I would reveal their darkest secret, and sometimes I did.
"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course, you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone - it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But see, like a simple man, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches - not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."
"The engraving?" He was grinning at me. Very strange man.
"Harry Watson - clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero whose only place to live is with Anderson. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so another brother it is. Now, Clara - who's Clara? Three kisses say romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then - six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do 'sentiment'. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, which says he wants you to stay in touch."
He hasn't told me to stop so I continued. "You're living with Anderson and you're not going to your other brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."
"The drinking?" He still wanted me to go on.
"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them."
"How did you know about Dim?"
"The half-brothers part was easy, different last names and not physical resemblance. I could have said step siblings, but one of you would have pointed that out. You call him Dim, which, with the way you talk to him, means you're not very close. Also, he's Anderson, why would anyone really want to be close to him?" And that was it.
He stared at me over the dead woman's body. I was frozen under his gaze, awaiting his reaction to my deductions.
"That was brilliant! Bloody brilliant!" He exclaimed, laughing.
"You think so?" I asked, once again surprised by this man.
"Of course, it was incredible."
"That's not what people usually say."
"What do they usually say?"
"Piss-off." And with that we bother broke out in laughter. I like this man. He was someone I could be around with for a length of time without wanting to throttle. He was clever, amusing and understood my greatness.
Lestrade took that moment to enter the room. "So what do you know?"
I took my time explaining to him about her marriage that was in rough shape, which led to her many lovers. I told him everything I could with what I had. I talk about her clothing, hair, skin and the word carved into the floor, but there was something missing.
"So that's it?"
"No, there's also mud splattered on her legs…"
I hoped he'd catch on. "So?" He didn't.
"So!" I cried, my hand flying out in front of me, as if proving how important that one fact was.
"Where's her case?" I spoke, the same moment John did, who said the same thing as me. I whipped around to face him, once more baffled.
"Whoa, that was weird."
We both ignored Lestrade. "How did you know about her case?" I knew how I knew, but how did he know?
"You mentioned the mud on the back of her legs and it all clicked. Her coat is wet, meaning she's been in rain lately, but it didn't rain here, so she's from out of town. I watched the weather channel this morning with full volume for over an hour to drown out the sound of Sally's 'scrubbing', so I know that the only place that had rain and was close enough that she wouldn't have dried was Cardiff. If she's a serial adulteress like you said, she was probably here to meet one, or a couple of her lovers, meaning weekend trip. So… Where's her suitcase?"
I couldn't speak. This man… This John…
"I think you've met your match Sherlock." Lestrade laughed, smacking me on the back in a playful sort of way. "And you thought he'd be like Anderson." I was completely wrong there, and I was, for once, relieved to admit it.
"I see." I turned away from John, who looked at me, almost begging for some sort of praise. I don't think he knew that he was giving me those bloody puppy dog eyes, but they were almost unbearable to look directly at. "Very good." I had to throw him over my shoulder to stop his stare from digging into my back anymore. "Now, where's her suitcase?" I poised the question again.
"There's no case." Lestrade shook his head, moving to help John up off the ground. I had the urge to smack myself for not doing that, which was strange. Since when do I want to help people?
"There has to be a case!" I hissed through my teeth.
"And I'm telling you, my men searched this place from top to bottom, and there's no case."
"Well then I have to go find it, don't I?" I huffed, leaving the room in a hurry. I was halfway down the stairs when a thought hit me making me rush back up. I was met with John, who was beginning his careful descent down the steps. "I'm going to look for the case, the killer had to have dumped it somewhere close by when he noticed he still had it. Want to come?" I can't believe I was offering.
"Oh god yes, anything to get away from Sally's floor scrubbing. She's been over every night since Marie left." John's smile was so large it was almost blinding. He was a very happy man, even at a crime scene.
"It will be faster if we split up. You'll have to check every dumpster you see." He just nodded, unfazed by the thought of dumpster diving. John was already on my good side. Anderson had found his way into my 'Dislike' folder after five minutes, and John had done the exact opposite. "Give me your phone, I'll enter my number, and you take mine. If either of us finds anything we contact the other and we can meet up at my flat, alright?"
"Perfect." He eagerly gave me his phone, and I gave him my own. My fingers brushed his hands, touching that calloused skin again, enjoying the slight touch much more than I should have, and it scared me.
"Alright," We nodded to each other once we bother had our respective phones. Instead of dashing down to the street, I slowed down and made my way down with John.
I really had no idea why I was doing that either. A lot seemed to confuse me that night, and it was all the fault of John Watson.
Please tell me what you think! I'm going crazy! I hope it was well like, because I've already started the next two chapters, but I need some feedback!