*A/N: I'm back again! This is a multi-chaptered fic about a girl who randomly shows up on John and Sherlock's doorstep beaten within an inch of her life. A mystery Sherlock is willing to investigate. This will have eventual Johnlock-ish in it. Not heavy, centered Johnlock more as a light side plot.
Apparently there's something about my stories that makes people not want to review, so if you would that would make me very happy!
Need I say I don't own this?
Chapter One: An Unexpected Visitor
The Wednesday morning for John Watson began just like any other. The doctor drowsily entered the living room and his and Sherlock's flat to find the consulting detective at the kitchen table fiddling with his chemistry equipment at his microscope, performing an experiment that he had no doubt been up examining all night. The flat was still in its typical state of disorder, John hadn't touched any of Sherlock's things since his faked suicide, loathe to disturb any memory or trace of Sherlock's time in the flat the two of them had shared and did again.
"'Lo Sherlock," John slurred, a little sleepily to no one in particular since his flatmate almost never heard him when he talked as he was enthralled with his extensive experiments anyway. He had been more attentive since his return, but his absorption with his scientific enterprises hadn't changed.
John nonetheless walked over to his flatmate to see what he was doing, curious, and stood close enough to be able to smell the faint scent of his shampoo and the permanent remnants of formaldehyde, spearmint, and ink that always lingered on his skin. John always thought it was a bit strange to experience, but it fit Sherlock's personality and the doctor didn't question it. He was just glad to have Sherlock back.
The doctor was going on month three having his best friend, his Sherlock, back to him after the Fall. For the first few days John didn't want to leave Sherlock's side for anything, he didn't even sleep for the longest time. He was afraid that when he woke up the apparition of Sherlock would have disappeared, gone away from this this world, just that, only a figment of John's mind and the suffering doctor would have to go back to the living nightmare that composed his life since the fake suicide and be forced to drag himself through his daily existence without his best friend, the person he loved most in the world. Just… gone…
As the cruelty of Fate would have it, John had eventually drifted off, of course, and when he had been sleeping for a solid six hours, the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes required some form of entertainment, so he returned to his long-missed chemistry equipment to return it to its previous state of 'order' and begin an improvised experiment. The genius misjudged the capacity of the breaker and managed to blow out all the electrical sockets in the kitchen, rendering his precious refrigerator and microwave powerless and thus useless. For the three minutes Sherlock had to leave the main floor of the flat he and John still shared to reset the fuse box the doctor had woken, seeming to sense his absence, and Sherlock returned to a near-catatonic Watson in an arm chair.
Psychology claims that sociopaths cannot feel guilt. Sherlock Holmes would disagree. It was the second highest level of remorse and self-condemnation he had ever felt in his adult life; the first was only a few days prior.
The army doctor had called in sick so he could spend every waking moment with the man he knew he loved. Sherlock had no qualms about this decision, but the time did eventually come when John had to return to work and pretend like there was no earth-shattering change in his life.
"Ah, good. There you are, I've been asking you to hand me my phone for the past five hours John," was the ex-consulting detective's absent reply as his flatmate loomed over his shoulder. John rolled his eyes, a practice he fell back into quickly with Sherlock around again.
"Where is it?" he sighed tiredly, mussing his hair.
"My pocket." Sherlock replied simply, as if it was obvious.
"Which pocket?" John was currently in possession of Sherlock's beloved dressing gown which he had 'borrowed' a long time ago after Sherlock's 'death' and had no intention of returning any time soon (Sherlock didn't seem to have a problem with this) so it wasn't there. The taller man was still wearing the clothes he had been yesterday, so it there somewhere on his person.
"Front left."
"…Of your trousers?"
"What part of the question do you not understand John?" had John known this was Sherlock's uncouth, novice way of making an advance he might of reacted differently, but he did not so he sighed, completing another eye roll and slipped his hand into Sherlock's pocket. His black slacks were loose enough around the dark-haired man's thin frame John could easily retrieve the requested item and held the mobile phone in front of Sherlock's face.
"My hands are currently occupied John," he said, flicking his eyes to his flatmate then back to his specimen. John just figured he was being blatantly troublesome and glared daggers in the back of the detective's head.
"Texts?" Sherlock asked, requesting John to check it for him. The doctor found this slightly odd, considering Sherlock almost never asked him to act secretary. Personal slave and lackey was another story though.
"No," John replied after unlocking the screen. It momentarily occurred to John then how much Sherlock trusted him. Whatever business that had been wrapped up in, even if he had completed it, was most likely still attached to his coattails (the self-proclaimed sociopath had a knack to pick up enemies and dangerous, unwanted predicaments as well.) John also knew that the consulting detective had recently gotten back in touch with the NYC and Lestrade and there was now some serious business between Sherlock and his incorrigible brother, Mycroft, now that he was back. The notion made John feel happy.
"Then what time is it?" Sherlock asked, breaking the doctor's train of thought.
"Erm, 6:49." Sherlock hummed lightly in response, his form of thanks.
John placed the mobile on the overly cluttered kitchen table, near enough so that Sherlock could easily reach it, even though he knew the man wouldn't bother anyway.
The short man went to the refrigerator to look for a salvageable breakfast to sate his hunger pangs. He barely flinched at the explicit bowl of intestines that had been important enough to receive the main shelf in the fridge and John's favorite mixing bowl.
"Sherlock, could you at least put some plastic wrap over this?" John deadpanned, closing the fridge in forfeit and going to the cabinet to look for cereal.
"It needs oxygen." Sherlock replied in an equally flat voice. John, anticipating this answer from his friend, mouthed the words as Sherlock spoke them. The doctor kept calm and carried on looking for food. Cereal, check. Milk, nada. Why is there never any milk in this house? Giving up, John just ate the cereal out of the box, not trusting the dishes, and retrieved the tea kettle from the stove.
"Is this safe?" he asked, holding it up. He had to ask again before he got a reply. Sherlock broke from his concentration and turned to look at the pot in John's possession. The doctor became worried when Sherlock had to stop and think if it was usable.
"I believe so," he replied after a moment, partially squinting his eyes.
"Never mind." John muttered, putting the tea kettle back.
"It's perfectly safe," Sherlock contradicted, "you'll just have to boil the tea a little longer than normal… oh, but if you taste iron you might want to dump it out." He said nonchalantly, like it was no big deal. John rolled his eyes, not even bothering, and planned to buy a new one on the way home from the clinic this evening.
He left the kitchen, heading or the door to go upstairs to get ready for the upcoming day when the doorbell to the flat rang. It's not even seven…! The doctor internally groaned. John considered ignoring the sound and hoping whoever it was would go away when it rang again. He sighed and headed for the downward stairs.
"Don't answer it if it's a journalist!" he heard Sherlock call. Like I need to be reminded! John thought with a bit of sourness. Not being able to have his morning tea had put him off.
The bell rang again and again urgently which didn't matter to Watson, if anything making him walk all the more slower. If it was Mycroft or one of his cronies, he could wait.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he grumbled at the doorbell irately. It rang once more and John quickly unlocked and opened the flat door before it could do so again.
John Watson was a little more than surprised to find a woman, no a girl, hunched over in the doorway, trying to keep her composure and possibly try to go unnoticed, but the failed attempt was rather pointless as she was covered in wounds and had a highly disheveled appearance. She held a hand over her side which seeped blood through the spaces in her fingers as she panted and wheezed heavily. Her eyes, which had been previously trained at the ground flicked up to the doctor's. Her face was covered in grime and tear tracks cut through the grit, and there was a wild look in her eye like a person who had seen the face of Hell. Before either of the two could get a word out a groan escaped her lips and she collapsed.
*A/N: So there you have it! Please let me know what you think!
Oh yes, I didn't know what British people called saran/plastic wrap so I just said plastic. Please forgive me if it's incorrect. Which it probably is.