This is inspired by "TURN LEFT", a Doctor Who episode of the season 4. If he/she had not turned left, what would've happened? Enjoy:) Reviews and comments are VERY welcome. It's one-shot for now.

This story follows my Reichenbach story: At the morgue - The Fall - Surprise - and then turn left.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Post Reichenbach, weeks after the fall.

A black taxi was stuck in the traffic: the passenger's face remained tense, though he had plenty of time left before his flight. Yet the driver kept fidgeting and grunting, glancing back from time to time. Her passenger seemed to get impatient every minute due to the delay. This was her first week as a taxi driver and she was disappointing her passenger already. Finally, the cabbie cussed the traffic, punched a new address in the navigator, and suddenly turned right at the next signal. In most of the times, cars turned left to go to the Heathrow Airport. Alarmed, the passenger knocked at the glass panel in question, and the driver smiled back and mouthed, "Faster!"

Ten minutes later, the cab slammed into a big empty tourist double-decker on the road; black smoke billowed and the taxi's front half was unrecognizable. Paramedics and police officers swarmed around the car, trying hard to rescue the driver and the passenger. The driver was dead on the spot. The passenger was transported to the nearest hospital. The seatbelt had saved him from getting seriously hurt though he was knocked unconscious with some bruises on his face. His leg was bleeding with its ankle twisted in a weird angle. Based on the passport found in the man's jacket, the police tried to contact the family.

Sergeant Donovan was having an emergency surgery. She had cornered a suspect alone yet was overpowered by him: he had stabbed her three times, one deep and the others shallow. Though she wasn't in a critical condition, she bled too much and needed medical attention. Lestrade followed her in the ambulance and waited outside the emergency room. He hated hospital: it was rather depressing although the interior was all glossy white and modern.

A trolley was pulled out of the emergency room. He glanced at it to check if it was Sally. His eyes casually fleeted across the person's face and his heart almost stopped. It wasn't possible because the person on the trolley was supposed to be dead: pale skin, height, facial contours. The only difference was his hair color: that man was ginger. He shouted at the hospital staff to stop. He ran towards the trolley and stared at the unconscious man's face. Despite some bruises and swelling, he looked so similar to someone that he knew so well: the man who had jumped from Bart's rooftop a couple of weeks ago. The DI himself had attended the funeral. He tried to rationalize the situation: there might be two people looking similar. It might be from his guilt. However, he couldn't brush off the nagging feeling. Before the staff said anything, he flashed his ID and badge, and followed the trolley, completely forgetting Sally.

Waiting for the elevator, Lestrade leaned towards the man and pulled up the sleeve of his left arm. There they were on his lower arm: a couple of ugly scars from self-inflicted wounds. It was too far-fetched to assume that two men looking alike could have similar scars at the same spot. The man had to be Sherlock Holmes. The DI had found him bleeding in his flat years ago - craving for cocaine, the young Sherlock had brandished a knife on himself. Later Sherlock was sent to a rehabilitation center in Florida for a year.

The DI's face hardened. He called John Watson to come and followed the trolley to the man's room. Arthur Sigerson was the name in the name tag. The staff nodded when he asked if he could stay with the man. He sat next to the bed, studied the man's face for a double-check, and texted John the room number. Then he took a picture of the man's face just in case, called his office, and asked for ID check for Arthur Sigerson.

About half an hour later, someone knocked at the door; Lestrade opened it and found John.

"Stop. You can't get in there."

Someone yelled at the two men. Out of nowhere an armed man dressed like a CIA agent appeared, who didn't look impressed when the DI showed his ID and badge. Lestrade didn't budge; John looked at the two men, totally puzzled; and the agent made a phone call after asking who they were.

"There's no doubt about it. Mycroft Holmes must be behind this."

Lestrade whispered to John, but the doctor wasn't sure what was going on. John whispered back,

"What was that all about?"

The DI didn't answer but pointed at the room. The agent hung up the phone, and gestured the men to enter. They closed the door behind them while the agent guarding the door in the aisle. He breathed out one word to John, pointing at the man on the bed.

"Him"

John's eyes darted at the unconscious man. Lestrade could see the doctor's muscles gettting tense for a second. Then John slouched on the floor with groans. Muttering profanity, he grabbed Lestrade's arms to stand up. Lestrade said,

"It's him. He has scars on his left arm: self-inflicted ones long time ago. I checked them just now."

"How? He died! I saw him fall. I saw his lifeless body on the ground."

John breathed raggedly. Lestrade made the doctor sit down and got water for him. The DI knew he had to check Donovan's condition but he couldn't care less for now. The doctor started to tremble with his fists clenched into tight balls. His face was reddening with his blue eyes turning icy with questions. It was one of the rare moments that John could be very scary. Lestrade flinched without knowing, remembering so well that John Watson was a fighter.

The door opened abruptly. Mycroft Holmes walked in: his face was the usual nonchalance. He closed the door behind him and started to explain in low voice.

Thanks for reading:) Reviews and comments are welcome.

*I always send a thank you PM to signed-in reviewers. I can't to guest reviewers. But like the same, thank you so much, everyone.