Thank you for choosing to read this story. This chapter has been unbetta-ed, so its a little rough. It follows most of the BBC Sherlock with key changes. Disclaimer: I do not own anything of Sherlock...and I got the idea from a manga called Shinkuu I will change this up as the story progresses. Please Read and review!
The hot dessert sun beat down on the unit of soldiers. One group of soldiers manned the machine gun to provide cover for the rest of the units rushing in. One of the soldiers went down from a shot in the leg and a medic rushed over covered by the others in the unit. An insurgent popped up behind a wall to take a quick shot at the troops. He then ducked down hiding his body among the debris. The soldiers checked to see if everyone in their unit was whole. One man noticed the medic went down clutching his shoulder as he crumpled to the dirt. "God, Oh God!" the medic cried from the pain. Meanwhile, the others in the unit rushed to cover him as they dragged him and the other wounded under cover.
Eyes snapped open, shooting forward, the man's eyes rapidly blinked from the throws of his nightmare. Looking around, his eyes took in the dimly lit utilitarian hotel room. Trying to calm his breathing, he scanned the hotel room searching for, in his mind, enemies. Seeing none of the enemies he saw in his dream, the man laid back down with one arm behind his head and the other on his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut trying to control his breathing even more by taking deep breaths. The soldier grimaced as the memories from his nightmare still boiled at the surface and he eventually rolled over to sit on the side of his bed.
When morning came, he limped over to his cane which sat against the desk and made his way over to the kitchen. The soldier made himself a cup of tea and grabbed himself from one of the shelves in a kitchenette. He made his way back to the room with his cane and set the mug, then the apple on the desk. After, he took a seat as he put the cane to the side. He opened the one of the drawers and extracted a red laptop. Quietly, he turned it on as he sipped from his mug. He clicked through the programs to open his web browser. It opened to a pre-home paged blog entitled 'The personal blog of John H. Watson' and a cursor blinked, waiting for someone to type a post. After what seemed like ages, the man sighed for he could not find it in himself to type about his day. His mind wandered towards a small calendar sitting to the side with a small appointment marked on that day. He saw that it was almost time to go so he quickly shoved the laptop closed and into the desk again.
When John got to the office for his appointment, he signed in with the secretary and sat in one of the plastic chairs lining the walls of the small waiting room. He felt annoyed that he had to come here for something he already knew about, but he also knew he needed to go to these appointments to get a receiver assigned to him as a permanent partner. The only way an ex-soldier could get one is to go through the cheap charade induced for the ease of mind of the masses for no one would want a broken person as their permanent supplier. Sighing, he eventually shook his head to get rid of such thoughts and to clear his mind of being able to get a permanent supplier.
The receptionist eventually called him in to meet his therapist. The soldier, irritated by the pain in his leg grabbed harshly at his cane to get up. He, then, seemed to have realized what he did and gave a hesitant smile to the receptionist. John hoped she would forget his previous action and she would not report it back to his therapist as a sign of the therapy not working. After, he limped slowly into the therapist's room trying to keep the conflicting emotions off his face and not be a wonderland for his therapist. John spotted a chair on the other side of the room facing the chair his therapist already sat. She watched as John sat down heavily in the chair.
"How's your blog going?" she asked.
"Ya, good," answered John looking uncomfortable just as he said it. He cleared his throat, "Very good."
The therapist paused looking at him, "You haven't written a word. Have you?" She said this in more of the form of a statement than a question like she heard all this before.
John by that time was feeling even less genial than he did before. "You just wrote, 'still has trust issues'"
"And you read my handwriting upside down," she said pointing at him with her pen 'Well she didn't become a therapist being a pushover' John thought a little put out she had a ready answer. Mean while, the therapist went on, "See what I mean?" John didn't answer. 'Shit,' the thought, 'there goes my chance.'
"John," the therapist said earnestly, "You're a soldier. It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."
John stared at her as she said this, knowing now his therapist had no intention of getting him the go ahead to a permanent receiver. "Nothing ever happens to me, "he answered her softly closing himself off. His therapist noticed this. She eventually after a few tries to get him to open up gave him informed him she had already made appointments at Barts for him to have temporary receivers under supervision.
A secretary talked on the phone, while she walked the length of the office, "Get a cab," she said exasperated to the man over the phone.
"I never get a cab," he explained clearly irritated by how their conversation had been going.
"I love you," she said softly into the receiver.
"When?" the man asked still irritated. The woman insisted, "Get a cab!" The man shut off his phone as he walked out the station.
Minutes later the man looked at a small bottle filled with a pill. Then, he looked up as he chose a pill and put it between his teeth. He swallowed the pill and slid forward out of the office chair twitching and gasping for breath. Finally he stopped and his empty eyes stared out at London through the huge office windows.
The woman read off her paper sobbing as she gave a press conference about the man's death. "My husband, my supplier, was a happy man. Who lived life to the full. Who loved his family and his work and that he should have taken his life this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him." The woman that was on the phone with the man earlier quietly cried as she sat to the side.
Two men ran to try to get out of the rain that just started. One spotted a taxi coming up behind them so he tried to hail it by running out into the road towards it. The taxi, however, drove by leaving the man in the rain. The man fed up with the cold rain soaking his clothes told his friend he would go back and get himself an umbrella.
"You can share mine," the friend yelled back.
"Two bits alright?" the man insisted as he ran a few blocks then slowed to a walk. His friend rose up his umbrella to check the time and decided to go after him.
The man who had forgotten his umbrella had a small bottle with two pills in it. Grimacing he unscrewed the top and took the pill only to die in a center.
Party lights flared as a dance beat vibrated through the rooms. The woman glowered as she stalked towards her co-worker.
"Still dancing?" he asked as more of statement of exasperation.
"Ya, if you want to call it that," she bit back in the same tone.
"Did you get the car keys?" She dangled them in front of him. "Got them out of her bag," she answered back. He strained out a smile and looked towards the dance floor.
"Where is she?" he asked looking around.
Meanwhile, the woman they were talking about ruffled through her purse trying to find her keys outside the building. When she couldn't find them, she sighed and looked over her parked car towards the road. She thought that maybe she could get a cab since she couldn't find them. After she got to her next destination, she sobbed as she reached for a bottle with two pills on the desk.
"The body of Beth Davenport was found late last night in a building site inside greater London." The female officer informed the press. "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide." The officer on her right flickered his eyes in discontent with the suggestion, but he did not say anything. "We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffery Patterson and James Philamor. In the light of this, these instances are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now." The news reporters shouted and raised their hands in a frenzy to get a word from the DI.
One reporter finally got through the rabble. "Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" he asked in a reedy voice.
"Well, they all took the same poison. Ahm. They were all found in places they had no reason to be." Lestrade took a deep breath and then went on, "None of them has shown any prior indication."
The reporter interrupted before he could finish, "You can't have serial suicides!"
Lestrade still uncomfortable snapped back, "Well apparently you can."
A new reporter asked, "These three people, is there nothing that links them?"
"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one," As he finished all the phones started to go off in the room. All the texts came up as one word, 'Wrong'. The female officer panicked as she read hers and tried to start damage control.
"If you all got texts, please ignore them," she shouted out.
The reporter that first questioned Lestrade said puzzled, " Just says wrong." He wondered why she would panic over a small text.
"Yeah, well just ignore that. If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring the session to an end."
The second reporter spoke up again, "If they're suicides, what are you investigating?"
Lestrade spoke as if it was obvious, "as I say these suicides are clearly linked….. Um…. It's an unusual situation. You got our best people investigating." All the phones in the room went off with the same text as the first.
"Says 'wrong' again"
"One more question!" The officer yelled out ignoring the reporter.
A woman piped up, "Is there any chance these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"
Lestrade was getting more nervous, "I know that you'd like writing about this, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The...Um…the poison was clearly self administered."
"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" the woman insisted.
Lestrade was a little fed up at the questioning at this point, "Well don't commit suicide." As he said it he thought 'well you're spending too much time around him…' The officer next to Lestrade muttered to him reminding him who the reporter is working for. He tried to cover his mess-up, "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." The phones for a third time went off again with the same text to everyone but one. Lestrade's phone read 'You know where to find me- SH'. He sighed as he read it and swung it into his pocket and out of sight so no one could catch a glimpse. Lestrade then proceeded to thank the conference and got up leaving. The officer that sat next to him followed.
"You got to stop him from doing that. Its making us all look like idiots," she said waspishly.
He ruffled his hair as he irritatedly walked on answering back to her, "If you tell me how he does it. I'll stop it." He then proceeded on by himself as she looked huffingly after him.
John had finally gotten out of his therapy session and decided to go for a walk frustrated at his inability. Despite the limp though, his walk still held a soldier's march left over from drilling. Just as he passed a man looking up from the paper, the man called out to him.
"John," the man exclaimed as he got up from the bench, "John Watson." John, finally, turned around. "Stamford," The man said placing his hand on his chest, "Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together." John slightly hesitantly agreed and exchanged pleasantries with the man. Mike knowingly said, "I know I gone fat."
"No," John lied as he didn't look him in the eye.
"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"
John paused for a minute glowering over the question.
"I got shot," he flippantly answered. Stamford sensed there was more to it but he decided not to question further.
"Right, well want to get some coffee? There is a café not far from here. We can get something there and sit back here," Stamford asked.
John thought for a minute and hesitantly agreed he could go for a cuppa. Together, they ordered, received their coffees, and made their way back to the park benches where John first met Stamford. Stamford looked nervously at John slightly afraid to step on anymore landmines that seemed to riddle this new John. John took a long drag of his coffee.
"Still at Barts then?" John asked after he embraced the warmness of his coffee.
"Teaching now," Stamford answered back jovely, "Yeah, bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them." John politely laughed with him thinking that his friend had no idea. "What about you? Just staying in town? Getting yourself sorted?"
Can't afford London on an army pension."
"Ah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know"
"I'm not the John Watson you know, "John snapped.
Stamford said nothing as it seemed to be another landmine. He took a long sip of his cup while John tightened his left hand to still the tremors that were shaking his cup. Stamford then had another thought.
"Couldn't Harry help?"he asked hesitantly because he knew their relationship. John almost gave a snort. "Yeah, like that ever going to happen," John scoffolded.
"I dunno get a flat share or something?" Stamford tried again.
"And what? Who'd want me as a flat mate?" Stamford gave a laugh and started to grin.
"What?" John asked glaring a little.
Stamford unrepentantly replied, "You're the second person to say that to me today."
John decided to bite onto this new information as if it was a treat, "Whose the first?"
Stamford just grinned and sad, "Come on!" He jumped up and started to walk into the direction of Barts. John limped behind him keeping up with his walk. 'Well,' thought John, 'If this doesn't work out I can just donate as a supplier today since we are going there.'
As both the men walks, John inquired about Mike's supplier Elaina.
"Did you meet with Elaina, today?" asked John politely.
"That old girl?" Stamford grinned," I meet her earlier this morning before one of my classes. She's doing well… Thinking about moving closer of course to make everything easier. Complains about the distance a lot."
"Oh?" asked John trying to make small talk while wondering where they were going.
John knew partners, suppliers and receivers are generally paired up as kids. Whole scientific branches were dedicated to this quirk of biology. In older days, partners had a hard time pairing up as kids so there used to be a lot of problems with power rejection among others. Finally it was refined into a database now to pair up kids with the same wavelength for a smooth energy flow. John himself thought this quirk was a nuisance. Kids around the ages 3-5 either lost or generated too much energy and the only way this could be fixed is if the two opposing factors exchange between themselves. If a partnership did not do a power transfer, the people would eventually fall into a painful coma and in some cases if not saved, die. Suppliers was the official name for people who had too much energy and Receivers are those that have no energy. People joking the suppliers 'chargers' and the receivers 'batteries' in slang terms.
Stamford had his supplier before John knew him. John suspected they were together since the transition too. John's own receiver separated with him before he went to war. She found another supplier to fit her so the transitions was very smooth.
Mike went on with no knowledge of John's thoughts, "You know how hard it is to find time now a days. She just got a job near here too t make charging times easier. Her apartment is still an a- ah here we are," waving John into the door next to him. John looked around. The door they went through led to more of the researching part of the hospital.
"This person of yours, is here? Not some intern is it?" John inquired.
"No, no," Stamford shook his head and gave a chuckle. "But he is up your alley. Come on, he is in one of the labs." Stamford then led the way to the elevators. John followed him in a companionable silence. When they stopped before a lab door, Stamford knocked on the door before opening it. John gave himself a nod as he followed him in. He limped to the middle of the front of the room taking in the lab and what used to be its sole occupant. He ignored the person at the moment as he addressed Stamford.
"Bit different from my day," he commented swinging around to address Stamford.
"Oh, you have no idea," answered back Stamford.
At this time the occupant had moved to a different instrument and addressed Stamford, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There is no signal on mine." Mike took a step towards him and like an old conversation that's been done many times before asked him, "And what's wrong with the landline?"
"I prefer to text," came the short answer.
Mike didn't even feel his jacket before saying, "Sorry, it's in my coat."
John at this time remembered he had a mobile and dug for it. "Ah here use mine."
"Ah, Thank you," the dark haired man said glancing over to Stamford as if he was not used to giving thanks. He walked over to John to grab the mobile as John steadily held it out.
"Old friend of mine, John Watson," said Stamford pointing to John. By this time, the man had already reached John. He grabbed the phone and started punching in numbers. John glanced at Stamford and thought, 'Really, Mike?'
Just then, the man asked a he was still texting, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John was shocked for a minute. He did not know where this question came from. He minutely turned his head to regard the dark man again, "Sorry?" he asked.
"Which one is it?" The dark haired man emphasized, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John glanced at Mike who gave a smug smirk. Seeing that John hesitantly decided to answer, "Afghanistan." He shifted his weight, "But how did you-?"
"Ah! Molly," the man exclaimed looking at the door behind John, "coffee! Thank you. What happened to your lipstick?" The woman paused and in a flighty sort of voice replied it wasn't working for her. John frowned slightly s he listened to the two of them converse over him. "Really? I thought it was a big improvement. You're mouths too small now," the man said turning around and gesturing as he went back towards his seat. John locked a face of disbelief at the man's back. While Molly, John thought, having heard the girl's name grin came to a stop. She hastily squeaked out a goodbye and headed out the door. 'Poor girl,' John thought as he looked towards where she used to stand.
"How do you feel about the violin?" the man asked as John followed the girl's progress out the door. John startled back realizing something was asked to him, "Sorry, what?"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes, I don't talk for days on end. Does that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worse about each other."
'What? Stamford….' Thought John as he glared at Stamford and barked, "You told him about me?"
Stamford was looking at a vial in an effort to appear like he wasn't enjoying this. "Not a word."
"Then who said anything about flat mates?" asked John focusing back to the man.
"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for, and now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend barely home from military service from Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap," The man explained as he threw on his coat and threaded his scarf.
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked again to which the man went on with his information.
"I have a nice place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow at 7 o'clock. Sorry got to dash. Forgot my riding crop in the mortuary." The man whirled towards the door.
John stopped him, "Is that it?" He had raised his voice slightly. The man turned around with a confused look. "Is that what?"
"We only just met going to look for a flat."
The man glanced back at Stamford before acquiring at John, "Problem?"
John grinned slightly as if amused by the misunderstanding and glanced at Stamford who seemed just as amused as he was. John took a deep breath and expelled out, "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."
"I know you're an army doctor and you been delivered home from Afghanistan. I know you got a brother who's worried about you. You don't go for help because you don't approve of him possibly because he is an alcoholic. More likely he recently walked out on his wife. I also know your therapist thinks you're psychosomatic. Quiet correctly I'm afraid. So I'll just be going don't you think?" He wheeled back out the door but not before popping his head back in to give more information," The name's Sherlock Holmes. And the address is 2-2-1 B Baker Street." With that, he winked and turned out with an afternoon back to Stamford.
'Well that just served me right,' thought John looking at Stamford who said, "Ya he's always like that." John felt the intense desire to grill Stamford for information of what he just walked into. John, however, knew Stamford would not say a word so he bid him good bye and headed to the main part of the hospital. As he headed down the stairs he pulled out a paper handed to him by his therapist's secretary. On the paper, it stated where he could go for a temporary partner along with a note from his therapist for the clinic. It was located on the ground floor of the hospital so he got on the elevator near to where he needed to go.
As the elevator slowly descended, he allowed the thoughts of the man he just met to overwhelm his mind. 'How, how did he know that? Should I meet him? Should I not? What will happen if I don't?' were just some of the thoughts getting through the confusion. Eventually, through the chaos of people getting on and off the same lift, it dinged open for the floor he wanted. He edged out and then hobbled through the maze of hallways till he came to a small office.
The office was built like most reception rooms in the hospital, the frontal walls being nothing but glass. A young secretary, who younger than most medical professionals so John thought he might be a student worker, was moving around behind the desk, taking applications from people going in and out of the room, and filing them in rapid succession. John slowly slid up to the desk embarrassed he was there. He handed over the paper once he noticed that he had the secretary's full attention. The secretary read over it quietly and looked back up.
"Ah, Dr. Watson?" he asked as he bent down to look through what looked like a clutter of papers that littered the desk. He pulled out one file from seemingly nowhere, "It says you have been approved in here. Let me look in the computer and see if we have a match." He paused and tapped lightly on the keys of a desktop next to him. "You are in luck now. There is actually someone that matches close enough to your wavelength to be a full temporary as long as you need it." John knew what he meant. Full temporaries where people who would be a partner for someone or a group of people as long as they did not find a different partner because their partner was unavailable long term. Whereas, the usual temporaries filled in for people when their partner is temporarily unavailable due to sickness of a minute injury. The secretary printed out a piece of file and handed to John, "Here is your receiver and the circumstances as of why." John knew this was just a small statement that you could find in any place and not anything that would break the confidentiality agreements. "Also fill out the bottom with your signature as agreement. I'll call up to the nurses' desk to alert them that you will be there soon. Here is your button to say you are there to be a temporary. Wear it when you go up there and hand it into the nurses when you are done. They will place it in a box for you the next time you need to come too. "
John, by that time, was reading up on his temporary receiver and filling the bottom in. The secretary seemed to not be phased by this and he waved John off with an evening. John heard the dismissal and stopped what he was doing. He then walked out reading the signs to find the ward his new temporary was located. On the way there, he fiddled with the button so it stayed on his lapel but not before he shoved the paper into his jacket pocket. Eventually, he approached the right nurses' station having passed many wards with one on the way. He pulled out the paperwork as he approached and tried to flatten it as the nurse looked him over taking in the button and the papers now in his hand. She saw on the button his name and knew where he should go, for they had not many visitor that day, so she directed him to the correct room and then went back to her work behind the desk.
John eased open the door and looked over his new temporary as she laid across the bed. Her hand was swathed in bandages from the needles forced into her arm for care and the machines attached to her beeped as they blinked out heart rate and dosage control. According to what little information the paper actually said, it said she was in an accident with her supplier and so both were unavailable to each other. John was glad for the small mercy that she was able to regulate her breathing without a pump even though she was in a coma.
He remembered those who had to exchange around the tubes that kept their partner breathing. John grimaced a little at the memory because it was also coupled with his stent in Afghanistan. He felt a twinge, though, that did not belong to his limp. Apparently, he had left it too long with his returning and the excess energy he made had reached a his limit. John pulled his professional mask and leaned over the patient putting his lips to hers. He felt the energy leave in variations of bursts for she was not awake to regulate her gathering of energy. Eventually, he felt empty enough to turn away.
He thanked the person even though she couldn't hear him and headed out the door. The nurse saw him come out she just waved him on after taking the button he had handed her for she was on the phone. John continued on to his hotel room still feeling what he knew would now be the grayness of civilian life, but then he remembered the man in the hospital lab and hoped he would lend color. However John was still apprehensive, so when he got to where he was staying, he sat on the bed and pulled out his phone. John scrolled through the message box to look for the text Sherlock, John remembered he said, sent.
'If brother has green ladder arrest brother. –SH' it said. John saw this and was now intrigued he looked up to see the laptop he was on earlier and did not put away. He logged on the net and went to a search site. There he typed in 'Sherlock Holmes'.
Well that is all I have now: Reminder Read and Review! Sorry for formatting errors in the document. I'm not used to having to reformat from my programs...well it is my first fanfic too but never that mind.