A/N: Oh, my. Why am I doing this to myself? Memory loss and time travel fanfics are the best for angst, and I like fucking around with them, but I seriously should know better than to make myself hurt in this way. And through posting, making my readers hurt in this way. I apologise.
Anyway, this is a canon-divergence. Essentially, everything except Reichenbach happened. It will be briefly explained.
Chapter 1: Gnarled Garments
Bored.
Papers are stacked against the legs of the desk, the chairs; strewn about the top of the table; folders opened, mostly read; the unread files tucked elsewhere, like under my arm, or covered by other sheets of paper.
Boring, all of it.
John stirs awake upstairs. Can hear him clearly: shifts in bed, light squeaking from the mattress springs, thud of headboard as he stretches and accidentally smacks it with the back of his hand, the groan he makes as he yawns like a lion, the shuffle of bedclothes being kicked off, the sound of clammy toes touching the wood floor first, then the soft thump of his heels touching second, and the padding of his feet across the floor. Water running, splashing cool liquid on his face to clear the night sweat and oils on his face, as well as clear the gritty gum from his eyes. Metallic screech of the old loop hung on the wall for the hand-towel to hang from; hear it as John yanks it down, dabs his face. Water runs again, fills a cup halfway; he drinks, rinses out his stale, dry mouth. Then, softly, hear him clamber downstairs to come see me, make coffee, wake up enough to shower and dress later.
"Mornin'," John voices as he comes into view in the edge of my vision. Not as gruff from sleep as it would be had he not cleansed his mouth with water. But still groggy, still a little rough for his natural tones. John has a calm, soothing voice; lilted a little, higher than mine, meant to comfort others. A doctor's voice. His profession suits him so well, it's almost laughable at times.
"Hmn." My response is a hum.
I toss the papers aside. All of it is rubbish. Should toss it in the bin, all of it. Useless now. Files that no longer hold relevance, and if they were necessary for anything in the future, their copies can be found in both Lestrade's records and my brother's, so it hardly matters if they are kept.
The papers consist of: cold cases I've figured out; recent cases I've been on, and experiment results.
None of this is needed anymore. Don't know why I bothered to pick them up and read them; don't know why I have so many. Suddenly came into the living room this morning and saw them all lying here, and felt a wave of claustrophobia, the clutter junking up my head. Thought I might see if any of them are important, and otherwise put them into a box and be rid of them to help clear my thinking space.
So bored. Things have been terribly dry in the criminal department now that Moriarty is behind bars. My brother captured him, aiming for information; he didn't get much. But what he did get as collective evidence was enough to put James Moriarty away for life imprisonment. He could break out at one point, I suppose, but not so soon. Which leaves me rather tired and jaded. Aren't there any good cases to be had?
"You haven't eaten yet, have you?" John inquires as the coffee brews, and he comes into the living room to see what I'm doing. It's relatively early in the morning, and already I'm up and about. Not news to him, because I do it often. But sometimes I eat (toast, usually; sometimes biscuits or muffins if we have them, always courtesy of Mrs. Hudson). And sometimes I lie and say I have eaten. He is asking me first, before he assumes, before he makes breakfast for himself (and me, if I allude that I wish to be fed). Always the same old routine.
"No," I decide to answer truthfully. "But I am hungry." No cases. No excitement. These are the times when I deem it safe to indulge my stomach by filling it on a semi-regular basis. My body appreciates the nutrition. John appreciates that I am giving it sustenance, am not resigning myself to waste away just yet.
"Good," John says with a smile. "Because I was going to make eggs benedict today. Bought the stuff for it the other day. I feel like a hearty breakfast, for once. Today's a nice day; I want to have energy for it."
Oh, he means to go to the pool for a swim today. He has been doing that, as of late: keeping up his moderately tone physique by swimming in the local pool. It maintains decent health for his cardiovascular system, and prevents his body from getting sore during the times when we must run or struggle. It's in good practice.
"Don't forget your towel this time. Who knows how sanitary the ones they offer are, considering all the people who use them, and how cheap of soap they use when they wash them," I remind him.
John chuckles as he gets down our favourite mugs. He sets them on the countertop and pours coffee into them. Milk for him, sugar for me. Opposites. He makes them accordingly, knowing by now how I like mine prepared. He brings it to me, setting it down by my right hand, on the other side of it, my fingers leafing pages in a manila folder.
"Don't knock it over," he warns, and I nod. I take it in my hand – hot, nearly too much so to grasp – and steaming. I sip at it. Perfectly done, not too little or too much sugar. John knows me so well. I almost smile.
John cooks breakfast and calls me into the kitchen to eat it. I grumble that I can eat it here, but he argues that it will get cold if he leaves it to me to eat between reading and filing (filing under: 'dustbin' or 'file cabinet,' according to usefulness of the document). It's just something to do to stave off the boredom. It isn't working much, so I agree. I take my seat near John at the kitchen table, cleared half of the way, the other half filled with my scientific equipment.
"So, are you just going to spend the day going through that jumble of paper?" John asks, amused. He cuts into his food and brings a bite to his lips, chewing. There is a drop of Hollandaise sauce on his chin. I itch to remove it; it's distracting. But I force my eyes to peer down at my own meal and lift my fork to appease the chef.
"Might as well," I murmur around a bite. "Need a task, any task, to idle me. And it is beginning to pile up to levels that distract from my thinking."
John just laughs as he dabs his mouth, finally clearing that drop of pesky sauce. "And to think you normally function so well in organised chaos…"
"Not when the chaos is too great," I correct. "It is reaching levels unsuited for even the likes of me. Can't imagine how you or Mrs. Hudson haven't began tossing some of it out."
"She was tempted to, I promise you," John says with a shake of his head, "But then I told her that we can't be sure which parts of it you actually might need, and I didn't want to throw out the wrong things."
"A wise, considerate decision," I nod curtly as a means of patting him on the back for thinking correctly. "Because a few things I will need, and do want; like recorded trials of my experiments. But most of it is, in fact, rubbish."
"Well, I'll leave you to sort it all out, then," he replies. He finishes eating; I have hardly touched mine. John stands. "Eat at least half of that, all right? And a little orange juice wouldn't hurt. You need the vitamin C."
"Yes, Doctor," I mock in good humour. John smiles faintly, pushes in his chair.
"I'm off to the pool, now; I'll shower when I get back. See you later, then, Sherlock," he informs me, and I am just barely listening. I focus my attention on myself, internally, my hands and mouth working on autopilot to feed me. My mind is elsewhere; on documents, on lack of hands-on work.
What a tedious day.
#
Lestrade calls me around half past ten. I pick up my mobile device from its place on the coffee table before the sofa and answer it, desperate for a case. A majority of the flat is clean; only a few documents remain on the desk. The rest have been taken out or put away. I hold a little pride in myself for accomplishing as much, actually bothering to do it.
"What's the situation?" I say in place of 'hello.' Lestrade sighs, but deep down I'm sure he likes that I cut to the chase; it makes things easier for him. He's a lazy sod. Worse than I am, in some respects.
"Drug ring. The leader is a menace; he kills people who can't pay for their stash, or who steal drugs from the main hoard. A lot of thugs involved; the ring has multiple setups and selling points, and a lot of muscle to back it up. We've been on it for months now, since we discovered it, and we've had some of our own go undercover to try and exploit it, but –"
"But you've recently lost one of your own. They killed the officer they found in their midst, and that is the final straw for you. You want me to find them, their leader, and shut them down," I finish for him with a roll of my eyes. "Really, Lestrade, can't you give me anything more interesting, more of a challenge?"
"Look, there's murder involved here, more than just a cop's life, and I should think that would be enough for you! And besides, the leader is craftier than I'm making him sound. Should be right up your alley, this," the detective inspector reprimands me.
I sigh, but I take the case. It's not like I have anything better to do.
#
I watch John finish a lap across the length of the pool, his arm stretching out to grasp the ledge nearest my feet. His body is a well-oiled machine; works smoothly, muscles trained perfectly for the common power stroke. He glides up along the side of the pool and peers up at me, bringing his free hand up to wipe water from his face. I find myself staring.
John grips the ledge and blinks with wet eyelashes up at me. "Sherlock? What're you doing here? I was just about to –"
"I know. Your schedule dictates that you would have swam for approximately fifteen minutes more. But we're needed now."
"Ah." He bobs his head. He understands. "Case?"
I nod to confirm. "Case. So come on."
"What sort?" he wants to know as he rubs water from the tip of his nose, huffs a few breaths to calm his racing heart.
"Drug ring. Deceased body of undercover officer to inspect, killed for knowing too much. Others are being killed if they can't pay for their drugs, or if they try to leave or steal from the ring," I explain, stepping back as he hauls himself up out of the water, getting to his feet, body soaked and dripping, smelling of chlorine. I have to train my eyes on his face; his legs and arms and torso and scar all a bit of a sensory overload for my eyes, all with trickling lines of water and droplets clinging to skin. John wouldn't like it if I stared. I don't even know why I want to.
"All right, then," he says, walking over to his towel. He dries inside his ears, ruffles his hair, wipes his face and along his arms and chest, squeezes out the bottoms of his shorts, brings the cloth up behind his back. Then he wraps it around his waist and heads for a changing room. "Be right out."
I nod. I use the sound of other people swimming, splashing about, to help clear my mind.
There is a splatter of pool water on my shoes. I shake it off and clasp my hands behind my back. I have an odd sensation in my lower abdomen: a jolt of heat, a slight lurch. –Arousal? I haven't felt that in ages, not since University, if memory serves (can't be sure. I've deleted most of it). Carnal urges matter for not, and are easily stifled. But they have arisen just now. Why? Because of John, wet and nearly nude?
…Oh. Did not realise I am attracted to him that way. Never thought of him like that. Didn't think it would be appealing, another's body, but it is. My body is reacting to it, to him; slight increase in heart rate, the spark I felt in my groin. Not enough to make anything visible, not even enough to dilate my pupils, by record, but nonetheless: facts I can't entirely ignore.
John emerges, hair spiked and wet, but no longer dripping, his clothes on, his trunks wrung out and rolled up in his towel, stuffed into his gym bag. "Can we at least stop at home first? I don't want to be carting this around to a crime scene."
"Not a crime scene. Body is already at Bart's," I inform him. "So yes, you may stop at home first. But I am going ahead to the hospital."
"Yeah, all right. Seems fair," John shrugs, adjusting the straps in his hand. He walks past me, headed out into the sunshine, most likely seconds from hailing a cab. I head out in another direction to hail my own.
Somehow, the image of John fresh out of the pool lingers, and I have to bat it away, clear my head for more pressing matters than my newfound physical attraction to my closest acquaintance.
#
I inspect the body. John joins me after twenty minutes. Molly hovers like a fruit fly, and I ignore her. I ask John for his opinion. Lestrade enters the room before John gives it. Says, "He was a buddy of mine. We played poker together in a group of six on Fridays."
"I'm sorry for your loss," I say flatly. I say it because John has told me to, in the past, and I have learned to just do it and get it over with. Lestrade sends me a look, but thanks me. With that done, I stand up straight and gesture at John. "Now, then, John: your opinion."
"He fought hard," John remarks. "Like a true policeman. He even lost a tooth in the process. Bruises everywhere; he was grabbed, shoved, kicked, punched. Some of it by a handgun; the shape here, on his shoulder, and here, on his ribs. Looking at it, I'd say it was his; looks like the standard issue. It was taken from him, used against him."
I deduced this with hardly a glance, but I appreciate that John doesn't need much time to come to this conclusion either. Lestrade looks blank. Most people – ones who haven't treated wounds, haven't used firearms on a regular basis – wouldn't understand. Lestrade doesn't. But John can see it, read it on the body. He knows.
"His jaw's dislocated this way. A hard punch, probably. The force of it sent him to the floor, knocked him out. Then, the cause of death is simple: bullet to the brain," John ends, pointing to the side of the face, then the opposite temple. His jaw broke toward his right; he fell that way, head turned to the side in unconsciousness, and so the gun was aimed at the left side of his head, and the shot was taken at close range. Bits of skull and brain blasted out from the right side, leaving a jagged red hole. I can imagine the crimson wings spread out from that contact point.
"Well done, John, well done," I say. "But wrong on one account: not a punch to the jaw; a roundhouse kick. Small circle in his lower cheek where the plastic-covered tip of a shoelace dug into the skin on impact. Plus, the force of it. Had to have been more than a punch. A kick is more likely."
"Oh," he says, understanding, looking at the indicated, and picturing it in his head. "Yeah, that makes more sense. Brilliant." His compliments never cease to warm me. I smile with my eyes, not my mouth, at him.
I pace around the slab and inspect the man's feet. His shoes are slightly too small for him; they would be well worn, and able to tell me a lot; where he's been, what he's done. "Where are this officer's shoes? I need to know what's on them, to see where he went, where the drug ring must have been meeting, since he clearly didn't die where he was found. He died elsewhere." I state.
"Yeah, we'd like to know where, too," Lestrade answers. "Since he was dumped on the side of a road, and we lost contact with him before he wound up dead. So we don't know where he went."
"Explains the post-mortem bruising on his rear and back," John mutters. "I wondered what could have caused those particularly dark ones that looked like more than mere livor mortis. They were from when he was tossed down shortly after death." Very good, John. I saw that, too. Thought of it the moment I saw it. He didn't know what to make of it, but at least he was thinking about possible causes of the non-livor bruising.
Need to focus. I'm thinking too much of John right now; not usual. Not preferred. Bit confusing, because I think it has been there, in the background, for some time coming. I just hadn't stopped to think about it or bother to dwell on it until today. Until chlorine and H2O and the majority of John's epidermis exposed to me. – No, not again. Focus.
I'm handed a bag; the shoes. I plan to take them with me upstairs, to the lab, to trace the source of soil and other particles I will surely find on the soles.
"I'll help you, if you like," Molly offers in her mousy voice.
"That would be opportune," I tell her. She makes for a decent chemist.
John follows; Lestrade says that he's returning to Scotland Yard, and that I should text him when I find something, as per usual. I agree hastily and make my exit from the morgue.
"We're going to have to go deep on this one, aren't we?" John surmises as he tags along at my heels. "Face a few thugs, maybe catch the drug ring's leader ourselves. You'll want to go after him, I imagine, once you know where he might be, or where a lead might be of someone who can take us to him. You'll disguise yourself as an addict – not far from the past truth, is it? – and get what you need."
"Astute as always, John," I retort at length, taking the lift to the lab. "Pattern recognition and not at all off-base assumptions."
"I hear a 'but' in there," John sighs.
"But," I reveal, "Not true of this case; not entirely, anyhow. This one is a bit boring to me, especially knowing that Moriarty isn't involved; oh, I presume he helped this drug lord rise to the top somewhere along the way, but he's in prison now and this man is working on his own, and making a mess of things, his main mistake being these murders. So I'm not that interested. I'll give Lestrade the information he needs, send you out on a lead or two, and then I'll leave the rest to the authorities."
"Mm. I see," John says. "So drugs and murder are not interesting enough for you unless Moriarty is involved?"
"Not unless it becomes more intricate will I care very much," I say. "I am so accustomed to the complexities and cleverness of Moriarty's organised crime that everything else is beginning to look so predictably pedestrian." I complain with a slight whine.
"You're spoiled," John chuckles. "Spoiled from having an intelligent rival, and then having him taken from you. I'd sympathise, but frankly, I'm relieved he's behind bars, especially with that bomb trick he pulled. I prefer this sort of crime; the less complicated the crime, the easier it is to bring the bad guys to justice."
"Oh, John. Always the idealist. The inside of your head must be such a sunny place," I remark acerbically.
John makes a sort of grunting huff. "If only that were true." He's probably thinking of Afghanistan. I don't blame him for being a little sour. Still, he is an optimist, whether he likes it or not. I am, however, a realist, and occasionally a bit of a pessimist, so I can't find it in me to agree with him. But as long as I'm proven right every time, I suppose I can't be too disappointed in the lack of intrigue in a case. This, at least, will uphold my reputation and earn me future cases that hopefully will hold more promise.
In the lab, I go through my usual processes until I have a final result. I text Lestrade the location where his friend from the force had been killed, narrowed down to a warehouse, currently not in use other than for construction storage, in the shadier parts of London, on the outskirts. Tucking my phone away, I inform John, "Our business is done here. Let's see if we can't pick up any further clues where our undercover cop was murdered."
#
In the warehouse, it's like being in a toy store for giants. Machines loom over Lestrade, Donovan, John, and I, along with one or two forensic officers, thankfully none of them being Anderson. Some of the machines are for street construction, others are for laying foundation and other building necessities. No cranes; only bulldozers and the like. Human industry and progress displayed under dusty sheets and rusting in the open.
Off in a corner on the bottom floor, we find it: scrubbed mostly away, but still highly visible in its orange-red-brown outline: the pool of blood, some droplets untouched, from where our victim died. I crouch down and examine it; it was attempted to be bleached and washed with a stiff-haired floor brush, but the texture of the cement is too uneven, and the person was in a hurry to clean it, and thus, missed a great deal, but was also careless, because they thought no one would know to look here, would find it, and if they did, they would come across it during a time when the killing wouldn't be connected, and the blood would be yellowed enough to be a stain of nearly any sort on the warehouse floor.
"Here," I instruct. There is a footprint; not the officer's, because a pair of trainers, not the loafers of the dead officer, made this print. It's only a partial print, but enough to gage foot size and shoe type; a recognisable trainer, relatively new in style, sold in general shoe stores; a quick web search on my phone, and I show Lestrade the shoe the print came from.
"Yeah, all right, but how does this help us?" he argues.
I roll my eyes. "It doesn't help us now, but once we have the thugs in custody, you can use this to pin a murder charge on at least one of them, the right one, to help serve justice for that friend of yours. Thought you would want something like that."
"Oh. I do, yeah. Uh, thanks, Sherlock," Lestrade mutters, turning away to inspect elsewhere.
I climb around machinery and look for any details I can gather. Find a hair; useless unless it has the follicle at the base. Oh! It does. Perfect. Have an officer in forensic gear take a photo of where it's sitting before I pick it up. Slip it into an evidence bag and hand it off to the same officer. Other pictures are snapped; some more evidence found, the pieces coming together at a snail's pace.
Hair doesn't belong to the victim. It's gray, and the victim's hair hadn't started to gray yet. So we're looking for a middle-aged fellow, most likely. Someone with premature gray hairs like John, or possibly a whole head of it, like Lestrade. Either way, our murderer. The follicle is still fresh, from the past day or two; not dry and old or gone, therefore not leftover from a construction worker who might come in here to take out a machine.
A tooth is found, but it's the missing one from the victim. An upper left molar. Useless. Need something else to help track the thug. The hair should be enough, but possibly not. Depends if his DNA is in the system. But it will be; he's a thug. He's done crime before. It's very rare that a muscled hand, most likely a dealer, has never before been involved with drugs until recently.
"John," I call out. "We're done here." I walk toward him. Stop when something catches my eye. Another hair; also gray. Two hairs at one crime scene from the same head? Must have been some fight. That, or our man is balding. Tempted to pick it up, but my own DNA tests would take just as long as theirs – forced to use the same database, after all – so I leave it be. John stands from his crouched position over the bloodstain. He's frowning. I quirk a brow. "Something on your mind?"
"Yeah," John admits. He looks up at me. "Why kill him here? I keep asking myself that. How did they wind up here? Why fight here, of all places?"
I gesture around. "This was easy to get into, wasn't it? Wasn't well protected; it's only for storage, and no one would steal a bulldozer or cement truck when they are too large, difficult to operate, and obvious to steal. So that makes for this to be a fantastic meeting place. Secluded, graffiti on the walls; clearly a place the young and the restless can meet up, have bonfires – see the scorch marks, charred black, on some spots on the floor? Rings of rust from metal barrels? – and get their fix."
"This is one of the selling points for the drugs?" John clarifies. "You know that because of graffiti and char marks?"
I smile a little. "And the fact that the police officer went here, and was killed here. Makes it plain to see that this has to be one of the places this ring sells their goods."
"Oh. Well, yeah, I guess I can see that pretty clearly, now," he says at length. "How come it always takes you pointing it out to me first?" and he sends me a grin.
I smile again, slightly bigger this time. "Because you're unobservant, John. Everyone is. That, or they see, but they don't make connections."
"I saw the graffiti, but I didn't make the connection," John admits. He sighs, defeated. "That must be it."
I pat him on the head. "You will learn sooner or later." And then I turn on my heel and head for the exit. "Come along, John."
#
They get the identity of the thug, track him down, pin him for possession and distribution of an illegal substance, as well as the murder of a police officer. They know for sure he's the right guy because of his shoes and graying, balding head, as I suspected. They question him for information on the drug ring, offering a deal: 'tell us, and we can ensure your safety against any gang-related repercussions.'
"And we have a lead," I announce in the flat, John looking up from his laptop to study me.
"So soon?"
"Yes. It's supposedly where the drug lord resides, says our cop-killer. More thugs, of course, heavily guard it, but it's the second-main base of operations for the drug ring. It's in the basement of a grungy pub. It's a meth lab, among other things; a club for drugs and sex. Multiple rooms. Spacious. Perfect for hiding out, it seems. But there are no promises it's the right place; the thug they caught could be leading them on. So Lestrade is sending scouts. And I want you to go with them for me," I inform him.
John rubs between his eyes. He flips out his hand, gesturing carelessly. "Why aren't you coming?"
"Because I don't care to get involved unless the leader is there. And because it could prove to be pointless, a false lead. And I hate going places that are meaningless. –That's why you are the one who shops for food and the like," I add, smirking. John rolls his eyes, shakes his head, but relents.
"Yeah, fine. I'll get my gun." He stands and closes his computer, leaving it on the coffee table. I pick up an experiment and move on to the next phase for it. I hear him check to make sure the safety is on, slip his gun in his trousers, and grab his coat. "I'll text you if anything important happens, or if we need you. So stay by your phone, all right?"
"Mhmm," I reply, signifying that I understand. I wave him off as I measure exactly two milliliters of a biological poison leftover from a previous case (I loved that case; it was so strange and unique to milk a snake of its venom and use it as poison. It made finding the killer a little easy, because who owns venomous snakes in London? But I appreciated the difference in poisons. Most people use arsenic or something else tragically plain). All that paperwork taken care of, I thought I might as well tie a loose end or two in other matters.
I don't hear from John until two hours later.
Pub checked out. No one was there, though; evacuated, I think. Someone tipped them off about the thug's arrest. The police are going to clean this place out, shut it down.
I sigh aloud. How disappointing. Well, at least I didn't go. I would have wasted my time. I start composing a message.
Before I can reply with anything, another text pings. I exit out of the message to check it. John again.
Wait! Think I see someone who could be part of it; they came to the pub, but turned away sharply when they saw the cop car in the alley. Other officers too busy; I'm going to follow them. See if they know anything, can lead me somewhere else related to the ring. If not, honest mistake, right? But if so, I'll tell you what I find.
Smile at the screen. Good thinking, John. -SH
I set aside my phone and pick up my laptop. Type in the last of my poison experiment results, then print it out. I tuck it into the folder that pertains to the case and put it away in the file cabinet.
This takes about twenty minutes in total. It's just a second or so after I finish that my phone goes off again.
My hunch was right; followed the guy to another meeting spot, some lackeys with coats full of drugs. Heard them talking about their other base of op. The big one. I'm going there now to stake it out.
I nearly want to tell him to be careful, but that seems moot. John is more careful than I am. Instead, I ask him for the address. The drug lord could be there, and I want to be there for that. This case is getting dangerous. I like it more this way.
He answers with a place a bit far from here. Even in a cab it will take me roughly forty minutes to arrive, given the traffic of this time of night. Nevertheless, I don my scarf and coat. I head out the door with a flip of my collar.
Better not waste any time.
#
When I reach the facility, it is another basement dwelling. Must everything scandalous and secretive be in a basement? How cliché. But it works, for the most part, which I suppose could be why.
I act like a junkie looking for a hit, and they let me in. I search the location with my eyes; Where's John?
The club itself is messy, a sad excuse for a club; but then, that could be because half of the people in the place are sluggish, high, grinding in a sexual manner, and some remind me too much of my former self, back when cigarettes weren't enough, and I needed something stronger to keep me sane.
I spot a door guarded by two thugs. I turn and lean against a wall, whip out my phone, text Lestrade of the location so they can storm it. It's so easy, finding these places, once you have the right lead; I'm ashamed that London has such an incompetent police force that can't find something so simple.
I suppose I will have to wait for John's entrance. Or wait to see if he finds me on his own. Or see if he's behind this guarded door (John is brave. He wouldn't be too intimidated to face this head-on).
I put on another face: someone looking to be hired. I ask the men guarding the door if the head honcho is inside.
"What's it to you?" the burly man of the two grunts. The other is smaller, leaner, but tall. Built a bit like me, but he clearly goes to a gym to add bulk on his frame.
"I wanna be a dealer," I retort with the modified slur of a rotten, slightly uneducated man. "Every other drug ring I've been in is lackin'. They say your boss is the best there is this side of London."
The guy grins. "Yeah, he's the best, all right, and more than this side of London, pal. Fine; you have five minutes. If he hears you out, that is."
Easy as cake. Manipulating people is pathetically effortless. Everyone is so small-minded.
I enter a room littered with packaged drugs read for the sell, as well as equipment to make it. A man is in the hub of it, surrounded by a few others bustling about.
"Who let you in here?" he barks. He's dressed like a pimp. If I didn't see the drugs, I would stereotype him as one who handles a chain of prostitutes instead. He's American, Northeast accent, most likely from New York or Pennsylvania. Interesting.
"I want to be a dealer," I say straight away, this time with a witted, sober voice. This man appreciates more clever people. He's like a lesser version of Moriarty and I; I can tell by his posture, his ability to plan and manage as much as he does. I go on, "And I want a cut of the profit of my sell, nothing below sixty percent. If you don't hire me, I'll simply expose your ring to the authorities." I don't beat it around the bush. I stand my ground, even as I near him.
He laughs. He likes that. "Well, aren't you the ambitious one? You'd do well in this business," he grins. "You're hired. Would you like to start tonight? We have a shipment over there set for Scotland, if you don't mind the drive."
"You extend further than London, or England in general?" I inquire, prodding for more.
"Oh yeah, sure. Why be so small? There's plenty of money in the U.K., plenty of people who want their fixes," the drug lord says with a sharp laugh. "And I have plenty to go around, because I've roped a lot of the smaller dealers and drug businesses to working with me." He sighs contentedly. "I love the U.K. So much easier to smuggle and deal drugs here than in the States, if you can believe it! I thought it'd be the opposite, but it's perfect."
Yes, perfect. Just like all the information you're giving me. Keep talking, American. I step forward and smile. "It's nice to be working with you, then. Mister…?"
"In this business, they call me Pyre. Or Mr. Pyre. Or just 'boss,'" he replies with a cocky grin. Ah, so he's the egotistical type, wants a codename instead of a real name, like a stage name; like a mask. A quick pickpocket and I will have his credit cards and ID, his true identity. Lestrade will love to have that.
I come up to him, shake his hand. I walk around him, pretending to ask how he makes the drugs, how strong they are. I snatch his wallet, tuck it into my coat. He doesn't notice.
We're interrupted as I'm gathering the last of the information I need: locations that I will sell the drugs at, giving the police more places to bust and close down. Two men burst into the door.
"Pyre, sir," one of them says. "We've found a spy. He was snooping around out front. Think he might be a cop! Stevie got the jump on him, but this guy's a fighter!"
"Bring him in to join the party!" Pyre grins. I feel something cold drop in my stomach. Please, not John. I'm stricken internally, feeling a wash of white and a flash of ill green by the thought that it could be John. But it has to be John. Who else would it be?
I have to remain calm, like this doesn't bother me, like I'm one of them. It's a simple enough façade. I don't falter, even for a second. The lackeys bring in a nearly unconscious man; living, though. He's breathing raggedly, groaning in pain.
Oh, no. No.
John. It is John. Couldn't be anyone else, like I suspected. I can't see his face from how he hangs, limp and dazed, but I am not mistaken. With that hair colour, that build, those clothes. It's John, through and through.
They toss him down onto the floor; he hits his head, starts to bleed, rendered fully unconscious. I flinch, jerk forward a partial step. No, no, no. Blood is not good. What if he dies?
"Oh, you clumsy idiots! Now look! His blood could contaminate things!" Pyre exclaims furiously. He sighs agitatedly. "Get him out of here, you shit-heads."
Can't waste a second longer. I break my disguise. I burst into action, bolting forward in a sprint.
Everything is a spiral of motion. Charging, dodging, throwing punches, kicking people's legs out from underneath them, watching the scramble of bodies to get out of my way. Shouting voices all around me. Breaking equipment. All noise; I centre myself, keeping only the physical blows and attacks in perspective.
Pyre flees. I hear sirens out front; the Yard has arrived, thanks to my earlier text. Available units in the area are here first. An ambulance will soon follow, then Lestrade's own car.
I flip a man to the ground, and hear him scream when he lands wrong on his arm, and it breaks. People lie groaning in pain on the floor around me, or have already fled out the back. Then, all a blur, I turn and make my way across the basement, over to the first body that fell. There are drugs scattered in powder form around him like snow, thankfully far away enough not to enter his wounds and worsen his condition.
John.
Officers storm in, arrest everyone in sight, for the most part. I hear an ambulance. I need to get John to it. He is bleeding profusely from a wound on the side of his skull. Split skin; possibly cracked bone. Can't tell from here. Need to move faster. My eyes won't leave his form.
He's a mass of gnarled garments and blood on the floor. A heap of flesh and cloth, scarcely much more to be seen, aside form his bloody hair.
I've seen him when he's asleep: tucked, neat, curled up in his sheets, his clothing minimal, his breathing deep and even, his face relaxed, nothing wrong with him.
This is like a macabre reinterpretation of his sleeping state: arm underneath him, clothing twisted, legs awkwardly apart, one foot turned in. He's on his stomach, not his back like when he sleeps; and blood is the only thing I see, and normally it doesn't bother me, but this is John's blood I'm seeing, and somehow, that perturbs me more than anything ever has, close to disturbing me as much as seeing John littered with explosives, Moriarty speaking through him.
I rush to his side and roll him off his wounded side. I check for other damage: his lip is busted, one eye is blackening. One arm seems broken or fractured; definitely his wrist is broken, and the ankle is sprained where his foot is turned in. I'm sure there are scattered bruises on his body from bad points of contact, hidden under his mused clothes where I can't see them.
John's gun is still in place, thankfully. The safety is off, but all his bullets are present in the clip.
John is a doctor, John is a good shot; but hand-to-hand combat is something he lacks a bit in. He didn't fire; wouldn't, because it would attract too much attention. So he fought with the thug instead; there were certainly a few bruises visible on the thug who brought him in (Stevie, I recall), and the man's nose had been broken (good for you, John; he was much taller than you, but you were still able to ruin his face. His nose will never be the same).
Unwise, John. You should have snuck in like I had. But then, blending in has never been your strong suit, despite the fact that you are the "normal" one between us. You can play along well enough when I set a disguise for us, or tell you who to be, but you can't determine as much on your own. Dammit. This is your fault.
I take his pulse, his wrist cradled in my fingers. It's faint, but lasting. I sigh.
No, it's my fault; you should have been by my side, John. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so lazy, so blasé; I should have come with you.
Officers come in. They take John away from me, and I let him go. He will recover. He's strong. He'll pull through anything. I have to believe that, or else my head won't be sound enough to carry on what I need to do next.
In the meantime, while John is carried off on a gurney to the ambulance, I have a man called "Stevie" to wrought my vengeance on. And I have a drug lord to chase down, because only I will be able to find him, now. He is cleverer than I anticipated. I could read it on him: his expensive taste, his body too clean to have as many tells as a normal person.
#
The thug who fought with John, the one who also tossed him carelessly onto the floor like a rag doll, Stevie by name, is someone I stalk to one of the meeting spots. He aims to warn others that the cops are coming. It's an old building, long since abandoned.
I have John's gun with me; slipped it off him when I checked the rounds in the clip, and to secure it from confiscation by the medics. I point it at Stevie and walk him backward. I smirk. There's an empty elevator shaft behind him. A few more steps…
He touches the edge with one foot, looks behind him. Blubbers something to me, begs me to spare his life. Now, the decision: shoot him in the shoulder to send him careening downward, or have him arrested? I'm no murderer, but John. This man hurt John worse than either of us has been wounded in all our adventures thus far. Who knows how horribly he's harmed John with that blow to the head? I sure don't know; I didn't have an MRI on hand to see the insides. He could have hemorrhaging. He could be fine. I don't know.
It's still the same night, only an hour or so since John was wounded. I can't see what damage has or has not been done, and not knowing panics me inside, makes me want to burn up with rage. I'll have to settle for getting even with this sad excuse for a human being.
I decide to call for the police. Even if his body won't be discovered until they demolish this place, they might be able to trace the bullet to John's handgun, and circumstantial evidence would point to John having killed this man. And I can't have that.
So I let him live; but not until I beat him unconscious with handle of the gun. I don't have handcuffs to keep him here until they arrive, and threatening to shoot sometimes doesn't work. And he needs some added punishment anyhow; a few years in prison for him isn't enough for me.
#
Giving Lestrade Pyre's wallet (real name: Jason Peterson) and all the information I could gather about him upon first and only meeting, I leave it to them to capture the scum. They have everything that they need. I have him figured out now; it's been two days. I have collected enough for them to track him within a week. "Pyre" with have nowhere left to go. And I can't care less about him any longer.
My attention is now on John.