Summary:
When Sherlock Holmes barges into their living room at 221B Baker Street covered in blood and wielding a harpoon, John Watson dismisses the incident as just another demonstration of his flatmate's gift for dramatic entrances. But after their return from Dartmoor, he quickly learns that the case of the dead pig is still waiting to be solved. And not even Sherlock knows yet how just high a price they will both pay for trying.
An extra episode, set between "The Hounds of Baskerville" and "The Reichenbach Fall".
Casefic, Drama, Angst, Friendship and Hurt/Comfort.
Gen; no pairings.
Author's note:
I've been told to label these longish casefics "extra episodes", and if they work like that, and help to tide you over the wait for season 4, that's all I'm asking. Enjoy! Your feedback is much appreciated.
This story starts on the afternoon of the day when Sherlock and John return from Dartmoor after "The Hounds of Baskerville".
Rated T for violence.
Warning: The story contains a reference to sexual violence against children resulting in death, but it is not the focus of the story. It also contains references to cruelty against animals.
I have already finished writing the story, except for some minor final editing. So there is no danger of it being abandoned. Expect an update every couple of days.
St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London. Molly Hooper's lab, on a grey afternoon in March. The lights are on, and Molly, in her lab coat, is sitting at a computer, transferring data from some handwritten notes on a clipboard into a form. There is a knock on the door. Molly swivels round in her chair. The door opens, and there stands John Watson in his black jacket. He is alone, and he seems rather ill-at-ease, as if unsure whether he should be there at all. Molly's eyes go from John to the glaringly empty space at his shoulder, and the smile threatens to slide from her face. But she catches it just in time and pushes it back into place.
MOLLY: John, hi! (She gets up from her seat and takes a few steps towards him. Warmly) Good to see you. Are you back in town then?(With an embarrassed little laugh) Oh, of course you are, what a silly question. Isn't Sherlock here with you?
John makes an effort to return her smile, but doesn't quite manage it.
JOHN: No, he's… busy.(Rather indifferently) I suppose.
MOLLY (taken aback at John's tone, with a frown): Is everything alright?
JOHN (automatically): Yeah, of course.
Molly searches John's face, but then deliberately refrains from calling him on the obvious lie. He steps into the room and quietly closes the door behind him.
JOHN: How d'you know we've been out of town?
He takes care to make it sound like a casual question, but Molly blushes all the same.
MOLLY: Sorry. Was it a secret? I had it from Greg Lestrade.
JOHN: How's that? We've all only just got back.
MOLLY (flustered): Oh no, no. I'm explaining this badly. He didn't tell me. (Speaking fast, in a rush to clarify things) But he came in here early yesterday morning with some stuff for me to sign. Then his phone rang. I didn't mean to listen in, of course, and he didn't actually say much, but I couldn't help overhearing. He ended with "Right, I'm on my way". Then he hung up, cursed, muttered (Molly's voice drops an octave, to an uncanny imitation of Greg Lestrade rumbling with irritation) "Not your bloody nanny, am I?", and then marched out of here with barely a word of good-bye. (In spite of himself, John smiles. Molly responds in kind, visibly relaxing.) And when I came back from lunch, I noticed he'd left his papers on the workbench, so I called his office to ask would he come back here soon or should I mail them to him, and Sally Donovan told me to mail them, because he'd gone out of town and she didn't know for how long. So it was quite obvious, really. (With a little laugh) Not a difficult deduction. (John nods absently. A pause.) So, anything I can do for you? (Half hopeful, half apprehensive) Sherlock need anything?
JOHN: Actually, I – (Hesitantly) You could do something for me, Molly.
MOLLY: Oh. (Smiling again) Right. What is it?
JOHN: If it isn't too much trouble, could you - could you run a test for me? Just a standard blood screening.
MOLLY (readily): I think I could fit that in, yeah. Have you got the sample with you?
JOHN: If you've got a needle for me, you'll have it in a minute.
MOLLY: What? Oh. Right, of course.
She rummages in a drawer for the necessary equipment – needle, tube, tourniquet. Then she walks over to the washbasin to collect an antiseptic spray. When she returns, John has already taken off his jacket, and is rolling up the right sleeve of his chequered shirt.
MOLLY (in a worried tone): Nothing serious, is it?
JOHN (evasively): No, I don't think so. I'd just like to know that I'm not - imagining things.
MOLLY: Imagining things?
JOHN: Yeah, it's - (He gestures at his leg.) It's happened to me before, you know.
He smiles a wry smile, but his eyes are on a spot above Molly's left shoulder, avoiding hers.
MOLLY (with a sympathetic nod): Yes. Yes, I remember.
John sits on a stool, slings the tourniquet around his arm and pulls it tight, then takes the needle out of its package.
MOLLY(pulling up her desk chair): Here, let me. It's so awkward, one-handed.
JOHN: Um - right. Thanks.
He hands her the needle. Splitting the necessary preparations between them, it's barely a moment until the needle goes into the crook of John's right arm.
MOLLY (her eyes on the little tube that is filling steadily with John's blood): So, what exactly do you want me to look for?
JOHN (matter-of-factly): Hallucinogenic drugs. Any kind.
MOLLY (looking up at him, shocked): What? (With an incredulous little laugh) Just what exactly have you two been up to?
JOHN: That's what I'd like to know, too.
MOLLY: Oh.
JOHN (awkwardly, actually blushing a little): But if you don't mind, I'm not -
MOLLY: Whoopsie. (She hurries to withdraw the needle and detach the tube. Apologetically) Sorry. It comes so quickly when the heart's still beating. (She picks up a piece of gauze and presses it onto the injection mark.) You were saying -
JOHN (hurrying to get the words out): Just that I'm not keen on Sherlock hearing about this.
He looks slightly guilty, and at any rate decidedly unhappy.
MOLLY (after a moment): You're angry with him.
John heaves a sigh.
JOHN: A bit, yes.
He takes the gauze from Molly and continues pressing it onto his arm, while she carefully disposes of the used needle.
MOLLY: A bit quite a lot?
When John doesn't answer straight away, Molly pushes the tube aside on the workbench and slides her chair around so she sits facing John directly.
MOLLY (quietly): What happened, John?
A little later, still in Molly's lab, John - with his sleeve rolled back down – has evidently just finished his account of the Baskerville case, while Molly has been listening attentively, one elbow propped on the workbench she's sitting at, and her head in her hand.
MOLLY: You know, I'd agree he was a bit of a sod for that, if I weren't completely sure that if the case had required it, he'd just as willingly have tried that stuff out on himself.
JOHN (in a sudden outburst of frustration): Except funnily, our cases never seem to work like that. It always happens to be me.
MOLLY: Oh, now you're being unjust, John. I've seen him do it, you know. Touch things, taste things, that no sane person would even want to come close to. You know, when Sherlock was doing his PhD, his professor had a bit of a reputation that way, so that's probably -
JOHN (his anger momentarily forgotten, completely dumbstruck): Sherlock's got a PhD?
MOLLY (matter-of-factly): As good as, yeah. Are you -
JOHN (in a tone of utter disbelief): Doctor Holmes?
MOLLY (with a giggle): I know.
JOHN: And what do you mean, as good as?
MOLLY: He didn't really finish it. Or he did, but lost interest before the formalities were completed, and dropped out. (With a smile) Mycroft told me, ages ago, that their parents have the certificate framed on their living room wall, but they take it down every time Sherlock comes to visit. I think it must have been his professor who saw his thesis published in the end.
JOHN (under his breath): The things I don't know. (Aloud, to Molly) Chemistry, was it?
MOLLY: Yes. His professor was a world class toxicologist. A future Nobel laureate, by all accounts.
JOHN: "Was"?
MOLLY (sadly): Yes, he - (She hesitates, as if unsure whether she's already said too much.) He's dead now.
John nods slowly.
MOLLY: And anyway -
JOHN: Do you happen to know why he dropped out? Sherlock, I mean? He'd've easily -
MOLLY: - made his way in science? Of course, yes. It wasn't that, can't have been. He never talks about it, but I'd say - (She breaks off again, and shakes her head.) I'd say it was something personal. I think he and the professor fell out, or something. I'm not sure, but -
JOHN: - but you have a theory?
MOLLY: Well, from the few hints that Mycroft ever dropped, I got the impression that his professor may have disapproved of, you know - experimenting on oneself for recreational purposes.
John sighs.
MOLLY: Sorry. I actually hate that expression. It's just so wrong.
JOHN (sincerely): I hate it, too.
There is a silence. Then John squares his shoulders.
JOHN: Well, that brings us back to business, doesn't it? (He nods at the blood sample.) When will you get round to it, d'you think?
MOLLY: Day after tomorrow? (John's face falls.) I'm sorry, John, I can sneak you in, but I can't make you jump the queue as well, or there'll be questions. Come back Saturday night. I'll be working late shift then, and we'll have time to look over the results. (In a reassuring tone) But seriously, if all four of you were exposed to it, and you were all fine again this morning, it's very unlikely that there's still a residue of whatever it was in your system now. Let alone a quantity that could cause actual bodily harm. (She smiles a little sadly.) The other kind, you have to sort out yourself, I'm afraid.
JOHN (resigned): Yeah, I know. It's – (In a warmer tone) It's actually better already, Molly. (He clears his throat.) Thanks for that.
MOLLY (with equal warmth): You're welcome.
Outside Bart's. It has started to rain, and the street outside the main entrance of the hospital building is completely congested with cars, cabs and busses that forge ahead laboriously through the early evening rush hour. The large automatic glass doors open, and John comes walking out. Without stopping, he pops up the collar of his jacket and pulls up his shoulders against the rain, then continues along the pavement in the direction of the nearest tube station with his hands buried in his pockets. He passes a large black car stationed at the kerb and walks on for a few yards, when someone behind his back calls his name.
MAN'S VOICE (off-screen): Doctor Watson?
John turns, frowning. A man in a black suit has got out of the car John has just walked past, and is now holding the rear door open.
MAN (stiffly, but politely): If you please, Doctor Watson - just for a few moments.
John sighs and retraces his steps.
We cut to the inside of the car. In the back seat, in the far corner, Mycroft Holmes is sitting, dressed - as usual - in a crisp three-piece suit, his hands resting on the handle of his furled umbrella, which he has propped up between his feet. John has settled down in the other corner, looking resigned rather than intrigued at having been plucked off the street. Mycroft speaks up in the same meticulously polite tone that his aide or bodyguard addressed John in outside the car, but it leaves as little doubt whether John has a choice to comply with the speaker's request or not.
MYCROFT: May I relieve you of the necessity of making your way home in an overcrowded tube carriage full of wet commuters, John?
JOHN (in a rather tired voice): I was going to say it depends on what you want in return, but I don't suppose I've got much of a choice.
Mycroft smiles smoothly, then leans forward to give instructions to his driver.
MYCROFT: Baker Street. But just around the corner today, please.
The driver nods, and the car surges out into the traffic. Mycroft settles back into his seat.
MYCROFT (to John, in a conversational tone): So, you're back from ghost hunting in Dartmoor then, are you?
JOHN (a little wearily): Can you please come straight to the point, Mycroft?
MYCROFT: That is precisely my point.
JOHN: I beg your pardon?
MYCROFT: You have been ghost hunting.
JOHN (with a frown): Yes. But the ghost turned out to be a very real and rather aggressive dog, and a just as real and even more dangerous man. Both ended up dead, so that's that.
There is a silence. The car drives on.
MYCROFT (in a different tone, reluctantly, as if unsure how to word the question): But before you knew that, you weren't - how shall I say? You saw no reason to believe that Sherlock was simply - seeing things?
John grimaces as if at a memory, but he doesn't answer straight away. He searches Mycroft's face, but there appears to be only genuine concern in Sherlock's brother's expression, and no hint of ridicule.
JOHN (unsettled): Are you – are you saying you're doubting your brother's sanity?
MYCROFT (defensively): No, no, I'm not. (With a sardonic smile) Not at the moment, at any rate. (Serious again) No, but I am concerned.
There is another pause. Mycroft seems to be collecting his thoughts and searching for the right words again. The car is speeding up perceptibly. They have probably hijacked a taxi lane.
MYCROFT (looking out of the window, as if to avoid John's eyes): I'm concerned that he may have started to let things stand in his way.
He turns his face back towards his guest. John frowns again.
JOHN: I don't know what you mean.
MYCROFT: In the way of his work. That he may let his acuity and his judgement be clouded by -
JOHN (sarcastically): - oh, feelings? Or (aping Mycroft's polished way of speaking) other equally unacceptable factors?
MYCROFT: You do know what I mean, don't you?
JOHN (coolly): I do, but I don't see what it's got to do with our latest case.
MYCROFT: I wouldn't like to see him make a habit of going off on wild goose chases like that, on the whim of a moment. This one may have turned out to be justified by the result, but you must agree with me that my brother - you both - may equally well have made utter fools of yourselves in the process. (In a rather condescending tone) Supernatural phenomena. Conspiracy theories. I ask you.
JOHN (bluntly): You're just angry at us for sneaking into Baskerville.
MYCROFT: I admit that I wasn't exactly amused at that little stunt, no. But that isn't my point. My point is that it pains me to see my brother running around and staking his good name on -
JOHN (with an incredulous laugh): Oh, now you're worried about his public image, are you? I can tell you, there's no one who could care less about that than he does, and it won't help in the least if you try and -
MYCROFT: No, John, you continue to misunderstand me. (He sighs.) All that I care about is that he doesn't waste his time and his energy and his resources on chasing …phantasmagoria. (He squares his shoulders.) You're one of the most grounded men I know, John. If you feel that in any of your upcoming cases, Sherlock seems to be going down a rather fantastical road again - do try and steer him back onto the rails of his accustomed rationality, will you?(With a significant look at John) I'm relying on you to get through to him, if necessary. You have a better chance to than anyone else. (He meets John's eyes directly, and waits until John nods. A moment later, the car they are in stops. Mycroft peers outside. In a business-like tone) Right then, here we are. This is Melcombe Street. I hope you won't take it amiss that I'm sending you on a short walk through the rain, instead of taking you right to your front door, but -
JOHN (impatient to end the conversation, curtly): Yes, of course.
He opens the door and gets out.
MYCROFT (calling after him, gravely): Keep it in mind, John.
John merely nods again, then the car door closes with a thud.
No. 221 Baker Street. The hall, lit but deserted. There is the sound of a key in the lock, and of the front door opening and closing. John, running his hand through his damp hair, enters the house. Immediately, Mrs Hudson comes hurrying out of her flat, looking scared.
MRS HUDSON (gesturing up the stairs, breathlessly): John, please, someone's just gone up there, I thought a client, but now he's shouting all the time, I don't –
There is a loud thumping noise from upstairs, as of a man stomping furiously on the floor.
MAN'S VOICE (bellowing with rage, off-screen): No! You listen to me! You say –
It is a deep, guttural voice with a heavy Slavic accent. In the blink of an eye, John has shaken off his weariness, and is taking the stairs three steps at a time. When he rushes through the open door of the living room of No. 221B and stops dead to get his bearings, he is met with a ludicrous sight. Sherlock, in his customary dark suit, is sitting comfortably in his armchair, with his hands on the armrests and his legs crossed, his fingers tapping against the black leather, not looking intimidated or put out in the least. In front of him, a man of undefinable age, rather short but with a chest like a barrel and a neck like a bull, is bouncing up and down with agitation, gesticulating wildly. He wears a workman's overalls, sturdy rubber boots, and a cap with the Manchester United logo on his shaved head. Since he has his back to the door, he does not see John entering.
MAN (to Sherlock, blustering): You have no idea, you! You have three children in Moldova pay for school? Your father fight in Great Patriotic War? Your mother have weak heart and no money for doctor? You say, Igor take care of pig, you take care of money, but who take care of Igor's job, eh?
Sherlock, now looking decidedly amused, spots John standing in the door, ready to pounce.
SHERLOCK (to the man): Can you be quiet for a moment? (Over the man's head, to John) Hello, John. Nothing to worry about. (He jerks his head at his unpleasant visitor.) This is Igor. He's trying to articulate what ails him, not very successfully so far, but I'm sure that in the end, it'll all be fine.
IGOR (to Sherlock): Fine, ha! (He fumbles in his breast pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper and waves it agitatedly before Sherlock's eyes.) Fine, yes! This is fine! Five thousand pound! You fine man, you pay fine! (In a tone of desperation) But I lose job!
Completely unimpressed, Sherlock takes the paper out of Igor's hand, unfolds it and glances over it.
SHERLOCK (his eyes on the document): Did you lose your job?
IGOR (indignantly): No! But they say next time it happen, they kick me out!
SHERLOCK (dismissively): Oh, it won't happen again. I've gathered everything I wanted to know from our experiment, there'll be no need to repeat it. (He folds the paper again and hands it back to Igor.) So calm down, please. This isn't good for your blood pressure.
IGOR (shouting again, beet red in the face as if to prove the point): But five thousand pound!(In a menacing tone) You pay, eh? Or I come back with harpoon?
JOHN (to Sherlock, in a tone of disbelief): Are you being blackmailed by Russian gangsters or something?
SHERLOCK: Oh, nothing of the sort. (He shakes his head disapprovingly at Igor, then stands up, walks over to the desk and pulls his cheque book out of a drawer. Over his shoulder, to John) Just settling a bill.
JOHN(not reassured at all): A bill for what exactly?
SHERLOCK (while writing): For expenses incurred in the course of an investigation.
JOHN (glancing at Igor, still seriously worried): Listen, if he's trying to–
SHERLOCK (still writing, rather impatiently): John, please don't get worked up as well. One man in this room making an utter fool of himself is quite enough.
IGOR (to Sherlock, shaking a fist at him): Oi, you careful, you! You make no fun with Igor!
SHERLOCK (raising his eyebrows at the man, in a mocking tone): I wouldn't dream of it.
IGOR (even louder than before): You want bacon for breakfast, you treat Igor and friends like man, right, not like dog! You learn, eh, or we teach!
JOHN (puzzled): Bacon? What's all this –
Sherlock, who has finished writing the cheque, straightens up and hands it to Igor, who snatches it out of Sherlock's hand so vehemently that he crushes the paper between his fingers.
SHERLOCK (to John): Igor here has just been fined five thousand pounds by the Borough of Newham for harpooning a pig.
JOHN: Oh. (He looks from Sherlock to Igor and back again.) But in fact it was you?
SHERLOCK: No, no, it's quite accurate. I held it down, but he was the one who actually ran it through.
JOHN (shaking his head): There's a law against harpooning dead pigs?
SHERLOCK (casually): No, it seems it was the live one they took exception to.
JOHN (aghast): You two harpooned a living pig?
SHERLOCK: Don't look so scandalised, John. Igor and his colleagues at the abattoir are experts, so it didn't suffer longer than absolutely necessary. It happens all the time when the anaesthetics don't kick in quickly enough, you know. It just rarely gets reported.
John grimaces. Igor, who has pocketed his cheque and fallen into a grumpy silence, is now in the process of lighting a cigarette.
SHERLOCK: Igor, outside, please. (With a lopsided grin in John's direction) This is a strictly non-smoking household.
Igor gives Sherlock a look of utter contempt that he seems to reserve for people who are not real men, then turns on his heel, marches out of the room and stomps down the stairs, his still unlit cigarette between his fingers. Sherlock sighs and returns to his armchair.
JOHN (relaxing): Right, so – at least that accounts for the mess, I suppose.
SHERLOCK (glancing around the room, which is in no greater disorder than usual): What mess?
JOHN: The other day, I mean. When you went on the tube covered in gore, like something out of a horror movie.
SHERLOCK: I didn't go on the tube.
JOHN (irritated): You said so.
SHERLOCK(pedantically): No, I didn't. You merely inferred that I must have done.
JOHN (sternly): You said so. You texted me, you said "Not home before nine, have to take the tube."
SHERLOCK (impatiently): I intended to, yes. But you don't seriously think that I even got through the ticket barriers like that?
JOHN: What happened then?
SHERLOCK (reaching for his laptop, already losing interest again): Oh, boring. Tedious discussions, threats of arrest, phone calls to Scotland Yard, great amusement on the part of a certain Detective Inspector known to us both, and a free lift home in a police car.
He places the computer on his knees, opens and starts it. John shakes his head, then shrugs out of his wet jacket, drops it on the arm of his chair, and walks over into the kitchen.
JOHN (over his shoulder): But at least you solved that case, whatever it was.
SHERLOCK (not looking up): Mmh. Maybe. (He starts typing.)
John, in the kitchen, switches the kettle on and starts busying himself with a mug and a tea bag, then after a few minutes of silence returns to the living room with his tea, and sits down in his chair. Just as he is about to pick up a newspaper, Sherlock closes his laptop again with a snap.
SHERLOCK: Have you unpacked your bag yet?
JOHN (in a tone of surprise): What? No. Why?
SHERLOCK: Don't bother. We're about to take another trip to the countryside.
JOHN (rather unenthusiastically): Oh, are we? Where to, this time?
SHERLOCK: North.