The first thing John registered after the- whatever it was, was denial. This couldn't be real. He'd been drugged; Sherlock had experimented on the tea again. The takeaway had gone bad. 'I'm hallucinating, I have to be'. There was no other logic John could devise to explain why, exactly, he was standing in a totally different - alien - environment, wearing nothing but a pair of red pants.
"Take me back. Dear God, take me back home."
"God!"
Sherlock rifled noisily through the pages of the Tuesday paper. Nothing. He slammed it down onto the dining table in an unnecessarily dramatic fashion. John paused in bringing a spoonful of bland cereal to his lips to flash him a bemused look.
"Nothing in the advertisements, then?"
Sherlock responded with a glare that could kill. "Astute observation, as always." Fingers drummed loudly on the table; he leaned forward. "But you don't need me to tell you about your nightmare last night, or that your sister is back on the bottle and you've recently had a row over it, or that you blame yourself for the death of one of your terminally ill patients, do you? No, these things are so blindingly transparent that they don't even need to be said. Yes, John. There was nothing in the paper. Stop being stupid."
Momentarily stunned, John held Sherlock's gaze and let loose a bark of bitter laughter. Truthfully, he was far too used to Sherlock's candour to feel anything more than a fleeting prickle of annoyance. But no way was he going to let Sherlock completely off the hook for that. He broke eye contact to poke at his cereal. "Right. Sorry. My mistake, thinking I could talk to you in any normal capacity, since that's stupid. I'll just stick to offering my medical expertise, which you don't really need anyways."
Sherlock rose from the chair, practically looming. He seemed to want to say something, but instead turned and stormed into the kitchen - checking on an experiment, no doubt.
John took up a section of the paper with a slow sigh, and damn, he'd already forgiven that git. He reminded himself to give Lestrade another call, and had begun to settle into an article about a local primary school when he heard an exclamation. Sherlock reappeared, eyes alight.
"Client?"
"Client!"
Three curt knocks at the door and their argument was hastily stuffed into the file for 'ongoing investigations'. The guest was received, impatiently by Sherlock and amiably by John. The man looked to be about John's age; his features were stocky, squarish, his short hair a mottled blonde. An offering of refreshments on the tip of John's tongue was interrupted with "Why are you here?" from Sherlock. John cleared his throat, a grimace accompanying the implied threat, and then his social mask slid back onto his face. He invited the client to sit. "Sorry about him, he gets like this when he hasn't had a case-" He ignored Sherlock's affronted scoff- "Do you want tea or anything?"
The visitor smiled and politely declined. "Oh, no, no. I'm here strictly on business, and I'd really like to get to the point as soon as possible."
"I like him," Sherlock said, sending a meaningful smirk John's way. "Doesn't waste my time with formality." He stalked about the living area, his gaze dancing wildly over the stranger before him, seeking, gathering information. These idle days had made him a live wire, whether he cared to admit it openly or not. "Talk."
A curt nod from the man.
"My name is Jay Wilson. A few weeks ago, I saw an ad in the paper for- Well, I have it here, so you can read it yourselves." He pulled from his coat pocket a newspaper cutting and held it out. Sherlock received it; he read it through, his expression hungrier as he moved through the words, and passed it on to John.
"THE RED PANTS LEAGUE: Requesting a man in his 30s or 40s, sturdy build, no taller than 183 cm, blonde hair, blue/grey eyes. Must match this criteria, in addition to having no qualms doing menial labor in nothing but pants as per the request of our clients. The pay is 30￡ for three hours of work a day. If interested, please apply in person as soon as possible at the offices of the League: 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street. Only a few positions remain open."
After reading it twice over, John at last said: "Well. This is... I have no idea, actually. I- There are no words." He shook his head in disbelief. Was this a joke?
"Oh, there's a word for it, several in fact," Sherlock replied. "And you're already thinking a few of them. But let's hear the rest of your story first, if you will."
"Right. I own a little pawn shop at Coburg Square. It don't earn me much, but it's enough to live by- though recently I've fallen behind on paying the bills, see. So I saw this ad in the paper, and immediately wrote it off as a scam of- of course. But then I had a chat with this customer, who had seen the ad as well, and we got to talking about my recent bit of bad luck. He convinced me to at least go to the interview, to see for myself if it was really a scam or not."
"Do you recall the man's name?" Sherlock cut in.
"Er, I think it was Vince something. I- I wasn't too concerned with his name at that moment, sorry. One thing I do remember is that he said he was studying photography at uni, and wanted a shot of me working in the shop for his project."
Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Interesting. Go on, then."
"As soon as I could close shop, I hurried to the interview place and found the most ungodly mess of people I had ever seen. I figured I had no chance to even get into the building, and I was leaving when I ran into that customer from the shop. He helped me up to the front of the crowd, where I was seen by one of the members of the League and invited in. There were even more men inside the place, in lines that wrapped-"
"Yes, alright, there were a lot of candidates. Skip to your interview."
Mr. Wilson face turned red, though John had a feeling it wasn't at Sherlock's manners. The visitor fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt as he continued. "I... I was made to strip to my pants - actually, pants which were given to me, red ones. And they took some photos of me lifting heavy boxes."
"'Menial labor in nothing but pants'. Certainly wasn't a euphemism, was it?" John remarked.
Mr. Wilson looked embarrassed beyond measure, but Sherlock was pressing him to finish the story. "I was accepted for whatever reason, and told to show up at the same location the next day at 3:00 in the afternoon. So every day for three hours at that exact time, I went to Room 202, put on the, er, uniform, and performed chores. Watering plants, folding laundry. Always in front of a camera. At the end of the three hours, I went home thirty pounds richer. I really needed the extra money, so I didn't feel too hung up about the type of work I was doing. Anyways, two weeks later I go to the office and no one's there, nor any of the equipment. I went back to my shop to find an email waiting for me, saying that the League had been dissolved. Well, I wanted to know more, naturally. Who wouldn't? I tried asking around, even called the tenant of that building, and no one knew a thing. It's as if the League never existed."
"Were you robbed in that time period?"
"No."
"Is there a basement or a hidden area in your shop? Anything remotely suspicious?"
"No sir- at least, not as far as I know. I've never seen or been involved in anything out of the ordinary."
"Until now," Sherlock had stilled in his incessant movements. The narrative, though he thought it bland in its delivery, caught his interest nonetheless. "And now you've come to me for closure, because you aren't sure this could be construed as a scam since you've been left richer by it. If it is a scam it's got to be the most bizarrely executed one I've ever encountered. Fantastic!" He disappeared into his room.
"What- What is he doing?" Mr. Wilson asked, mystified.
John smiled reassuringly. "Taking your case."
Sherlock returned moments later with black socks in his hand. "Get your things, John," he commanded, the client forgotten.
"I haven't finished my breakfast."
Sherlock yanked his socks over his feet with urgency, leaning against the couch to support himself. "It's soggy. We'll stop by a cafe on the way back. Hurry up!"
Neither of them noticed when Mr. Wilson dismissed himself from the flat with a quiet "Thank you".
They were at the Underground for no longer than ten minutes, long enough for Sherlock to meet with his homeless detectives and request the information he needed. They scattered into different tunnels, and the two residents of 221B returned the way they had come.
John soon found himself staring into a breakfast menu at Angelo's. He hadn't done breakfast at this restaurant before; his hunger-addled brain had difficulty choosing any one thing. So he didn't complain when Sherlock picked for him out of exasperation. After a beat, John spoke.
"So."
Sherlock's eyes, which had taken to observing the city life beyond the window, flitted over to him.
"Should I bother asking what you've figured out so far, or does that count as stupid?"
Sherlock made no attempt to hide his surprise at this statement. He paused, as if unsure what to say next. "John, I'm-"
"I know you are. You don't have to say it. 'Blindingly transparent' and all."
"Is it?" the other asked, his surprise growing. John only grinned before changing the subject.
"Jay Wilson's case. What do you make of it?"
Sherlock turned his gaze back to the window. "Intriguing, but annoying. There's something missing, something larger at play here. There's the question of motive: why would anyone go to the trouble of setting up a fake, very exclusive organisation to pay strangers thirty pounds a day to do trivial things in front of a camera? It's a fair assumption that this organisation, the people behind it, are searching for someone. But they're using a rather contrived method of seeking him out, and judging by the vague details in their advertisement, they don't actually know what he looks like, only general facts. So the target was possibly a child when they last saw him, and they have nothing to go on but the genetics he was most likely to inherit. Then there's the nature of the organisation itself. The Red Pants League. Why pants? The search would've been equally as sufficient if they called themselves the Red Shirt League. The pants factor in somehow, but I don't have enough data to develop a working theory. That's what my contacts in the homeless network are currently doing."
He paused in his commentary to let John take a few bites of his freshly arrived meal.
"Okay," said the doctor. "What about the customer Wilson had that chat with, Vince? It can't be a coincidence that he happened to read the same ad in the paper and then happened to meet a man fitting those exact descriptions, who also just happened to be short on money."
"You noticed that, did you?" Sherlock's lips curved upward for a second. "Impressive. You're finally starting to pay attention. Vince's sudden appearance is no coincidence, I agree. His actions suggest that he's part of this Red Pants League, working behind the scenes as the recruiter."
"Right, because no one suspects a photography student. He takes his pictures, and the other - or others - pick the ones they think are a match and bring them in for an interview. Then what? If he's not the right guy, they string him along for a few weeks, then 'dissolve'?"
The detective made a noise of affirmation and continued looking out the window, deep in thought. John finished his breakfast in the silence.
Back at the flat, John resigned to update his blog, leaving Sherlock stretched on the couch to ponder his three-patch-problem. An hour later, John was nearly done reading the paper and Sherlock had not moved once. Another twenty minutes of sitting quietly, and the doctor decided to go out, maybe to the park. He didn't want to wait around all day - but he wouldn't have to. His jacket fastened and wallet tucked away, he glanced at Sherlock to try a telepathic goodbye, and that's when Sherlock's cell rang.
The phone's owner opened his eyes. "Lestrade," he grumbled. "Tell him I already have a case."
John sighed and picked up the cell. "Sherlock's phone, John speaking. Sherlock can't be arsed to answer his own phone at the moment, care to leave a message?"
"John," came Lestrade's gruff voice. "There's been a homicide."
"A homicide, you say? It's too bad: Sherlock is busy with another case."
Lestrade chuckled. "Doesn't want to come, huh? He'll change his mind, just tell him that the victim was found in an abandoned warehouse in nothing but his pants. That ought to be interesting enough for him."
Something in John stopped working for a full second. "Nothing but pants? Red ones?"
"Yeah, actually. How did you know?"
"John." Sherlock was sitting upright now, his features intense. His arm stretched out; dazed, John passed the phone over to him.
"Tell me detective, is the victim in his late 30s, no taller than 183 cm, sturdily built with blonde hair and pale blue eyes?"
A deafening pause as he received the answer, then:
"Where?"
Outside the warehouse - the crime scene, crawling with police, and thankfully lacking any Anderson to dampen Sherlock's disturbingly upbeat mood - Lestrade met and debriefed them.
"The victim's name is J-"
"Jay Wilson, I know."
"How-"
"He was my client."
Well, he tried to debrief them, anyways.
The pocket magnifier snapped open, Sherlock working his way along the path of evidence he saw before descending upon the body of the late Jay Wilson. John knelt beside him.
"Two distinct footprints: the victim's, obviously, and the murderer's. The other is a man slightly shorter than the victim, about the same in weight. No sign of a struggle. Massive burn wound on the abdomen, explaining how little blood there is. Taser, maybe? The force of it caused him to fall heavily onto his back- though he didn't die immediately." Sherlock pointed out the scabs on the victim's arms and knees, the trail he left behind in the dust of the warehouse floor. "He dragged himself over to this crate after the other man was gone. Apparently his attacker didn't bother to check that he was dead before leaving. Amateur."
"He probably thought he didn't have any reason to," John offered, his gloved hands carefully inspecting the wound. "Whatever made this is powerful. It's a wonder the poor man lasted as long as he did. What could've caused this?"
Lestrade at last spoke up. "Jury's still out on the cause of death. Now, you said that he dragged himself to this spot. Seems like it would've been painful with that wound of his. Why would he do that?"
Sherlock moved his attention to the crate. He swept his fingers into the areas underneath the crate that he could reach, the areas not directly in contact with the pallet upon which it rested. His hand brushed over a small, rectangular object, decidedly plastic. To account for why his hand had stilled, he allowed a defeated scowl to cross his face; the plastic object slipped neatly underneath his sleeve.
"I assume the victim would've tried to hide the data stick here before he died, but it's no longer there."
"Whoa, whoa: data stick? How do you know he hid something in the first place?" Lestrade enquired. Of course he'd be sceptical.
"Here I thought it was perfectly obvious to all - or haven't you been listening? The victim didn't die immediately, but rather than using his precious last moments to find help, he drags himself all the way over here. You yourself said that it would've been painful, given the severity of his wound. He had a purpose: he was hiding something, in case the killer came back to gather his corpse. He was willing to forfeit his life for it. Must be something of great importance. Information, then, likely in the form of a small data stick. Information meant for me, as he was my client. The idiot went off on his own investigation and got killed for it.
"But as interesting as all of this is, it matters very little since the data stick is now missing. Satisfied?"
Lestrade pursed his lips at the detective, but nodded regardless. He'd been the one to call Sherlock, he should've known better than to question him, especially not when the man's gone a week without a case.
"And the fact that he's in nothing but pants? That seemed to be important when I spoke to John on the phone."
Sherlock surveyed Jay's body again, deciding. "It's possible the victim was lured here, and then made to shed his clothing before the murder. He was caught by surprise. Explains why he didn't try to fight back."
"Why in the bloody hell would the murderer want him to undress? And why would he actually do it?"
Sherlock grinned at him, in that way that said 'I know the answer but I'm not going to tell you'. Lestrade hated that grin.
"No need to worry, Inspector. All of this is very relevant to my former client's case."
"A case that has technically been voided by the man's death."
Sherlock said nothing.
"... Alright, fine. Have your secrets, I don't care so long as it gets me the killer in the end. Plus, you'll have to tell me eventually, you can't help yourself. One more thing. This was found in- er, it was in the victim's… pants." He pulled an evidence bag from his pocket; it contained a slip of paper upon which, written in bold, capital letters, was the singular word STOP. Stapled to it was a photo of Sherlock and John, taken discreetly.
John gaped. "A warning to us?"
Sherlock actually began to cackle. The doctor wasn't sure whether to check his temperature or to join in. "Oh, this is getting better by the minute. Let's go, John. I've seen all I need to."
John said a rushed goodbye to Lestrade and they hailed a cab for home. Sherlock took out his cell to text someone; John wanted to ask who, but didn't. He'd probably just get some infuriatingly vague response. Still, he stole glances at his friend, wondering what he thought of Jay Wilson's sudden death. John was left even more baffled with the whole affair. The facts didn't make sense to him, yet he'd seen them with his own eyes. It was absurd, all of it. But despite 'absurd' being in his very job description as Sherlock Holmes' right-hand man, he had less than 24 hours before his definition of 'absurd' would be forever shattered.
The rest of the evening was spent as usual: the telly at a low volume, John paying more attention to Sherlock's violin playing than to the screen, Sherlock complaining that the drivel was infecting his intelligence and then increasing the volume of his music in retaliation - and John didn't mind a bit. They were interrupted twice, right before John went upstairs. Homeless detectives, who reported nothing Sherlock hadn't already known. Package for Sherlock. John was too tired to feel inquisitive.
Sherlock waited until after the other man was asleep to read the contents of Wilson's data stick and examine the red pants.
John was stirred awake by the sound of his own name, and there was Sherlock, looming again, still in the same clothes as yesterday.
"You didn't sleep." His voice crackled; he tried clearing it with a cough.
"An hour. I need your assistance with an experiment."
"What- What time is it?"
"Not yet six. I waited as long as I could."
Despite John's weary sighs and his protests of "Sherlock," he relented. He most always did.
He stood slowly, massaging his temples to get his brain going. "Okay. Okay. What is it you need me to do?"
It was then that he noticed the thing in Sherlock's hand, which was held out to him. Red fabric. Oh, John's brain was certainly wide awake now.
"Put these on."
"No." He was dead serious. Sherlock pouted slightly. "I am not putting on a dead person's pants, no!"
"This is important to the case, John."
"How? How is me wearing- I don't- You know what? No. If it's so bleeding important, why don't you put them on?"
John made for his bedroom door, but was swiftly intercepted by his roommate's figure. "I already have."
"Then what do you need me for?"
"I've just told you. John-" An inhale; an exhale. A step towards John, a hand urging him to take the pants. His words came firmly, confidently. "Just trust me. Please." And John does, because he most always does. Because he has no choice.
The pants changed ownership. Sherlock turned around- at least the lectures on privacy were having an effect- and John hastily exchanged his own plain, grey boxers for the snug red pants. He can't believe he didn't think to ask how Sherlock knew they would fit him, but they fit. John felt... ridiculous. Exposed. He didn't like how they conformed to his shape.
"Now what?"
Sherlock faced him again, the edges of his lips twitched ever so slightly, but other than that his self control in this situation was astounding. Now his eyes narrowed. "I don't know."
"You don't- you don't know?"
"Well, that's the purpose of an experiment: to gather information. What are you thinking right now?"
John was beside himself, growing more furious by the second. He squeezed his eyes shut in mock-concentration. "Hmm, I dunno, I suppose right now I'm thinking that I'd much rather be in another galaxy than-"
Whatever came next, Sherlock never got to hear. His friend was gone. Vanished. The only evidence that John had been standing in that spot was his shirt laying in a heap on the carpet. He wouldn't have to wait for long, though: roughly 17 seconds later, John reappeared, nothing amiss about his appearance except that he wasn't wearing his shirt. Immediately the doctor's knees gave in; Sherlock caught him before he crumpled to the floor. John was shaking violently; Sherlock attempted to rectify this by holding John's arms still in a half-embrace.
"Poor choice of words," was Sherlock's next mocking yet quiet declaration.
"Piss off," came the wavered reply.
"...Did it hurt?"
"No. But I- I need a moment."
Sherlock didn't let go. He sat properly beside John and allowed the other to lean against his shoulder.
"Sherlock."
"Yes?"
"That was real."
He laughed softly. "Yes, it was."
"What was that?"
A brief silence. Deciding. "Intergalactic travel."
"Inter-" John faltered. "But... How?"
More silence. "Superior technology, which I can't pretend to understand. I studied the fabric of the pants, but..." He shook his head. "It's incredible."
"If you can't understand it, it must be pretty damn incredible."
"Piss off."
They fell into a fit of giggles - known as hysteria to any medical professional worth his salt - which at last subsided some ten minutes later. But they couldn't remain like that. There was work to be done, and Sherlock had the perfect plan.
The sound of John's footsteps echoed in the hallway. The place was deserted, except for the murderer waiting for him in Room 202. 'Try not to think about that'. Instead he focused on what Sherlock had told him.
"Sorry- what is it you're asking me to do?" John had said.
"Face the killer. He'll be waiting for you. 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street. Room 202."
"Why would he be?"
"STOP. The message left with the victim. It's an acronym, not a warning. Send Target Of Photo: the photo featuring the both of us. But I'm not the one he meant. Surely
you must've noticed how accurately you fit the description in the ad."
"I didn't think much of it, honestly."
"And now the entire case rests upon this point."
"So I'm bait."
"More or less."
And that was when Sherlock had snapped open his cell to make a special call.
John pushed open the door to Room 202 once he'd found it. He quickly established that there were two people in the room, not one, and grimly muttered "Wonderful."
"Hello, John," greeted the shorter of the two, with a unpleasantly friendly voice. "Come for an interview?"
"Just a chat, actually. Vince, I'm guessing?"
Vince smiled. "Come doctor, have a seat." He gestured to the wooden chair in front of the camera setup. Seeing no other alternative, John complied. The camera was on and already running.
"What am I being filmed for? I didn't sign a consent form."
This time, Vince laughed outright. "You don't know what this piece of equipment is," he observed. "It isn't filming you, dear doctor, it's scanning you. I presume Mr. Holmes sent you here as bait?"
John glared scathingly, dangerously, at him. Vince wasn't impressed. "Of course he did." he continued. "Those presents we left him at the warehouse would lead him to do little else."
"Presents?"
"The note; the pants; the data stick which so conveniently contained our entire plan."
Sherlock hadn't mentioned a data stick; John would admonish him for it later. His thoughts were interrupted by a loud chiming noise coming from the 'camera'. And Vince smiled again, wider than before. "I must remember to thank Sherlock Holmes if I ever meet him. He's done me a great favour."
"What do you mean?"
A hand, not Vince's, clamped onto John's shoulder painfully. "He's given us what we came for."
What happened next was over in a matter of seconds: John twisted round to grab the arm of the man holding him down, leapt from the chair - causing it to tumble aside - and decked the thug square in the jaw. The other was hardly fazed by it, and in fact had somehow secured John in a chokehold. Outside of the buzzing in his ears, John could hear Vince barking orders in a voice that sounded not like a voice at all. He couldn't breathe properly. His only thought then was Sherlock.
And then he was back at the flat, the thug apparently having come along for the ride. They both toppled over in front of several government agents and a triumphant Sherlock. John pulled himself up of his own accord this time, winded and panting heavily for it. He was practically naked again, except for those pants; he really couldn't be arsed to care right then. Vince's partner in crime was apprehended immediately - though not without a commendable struggle. Before he was taken away, however, Sherlock couldn't help but make a comment.
"I suspect that odd firearm in your coat is the weapon which killed Jay Wilson? Sloppy, using your own technology."
The thug held his chin up high. "You can arrest me, but you won't find my associate. He's long gone by now, and all the evidence gone with him. And he'll come back. He'll take on a new identity, and come back for you." This last statement was directed at John.
Sherlock leered. "Sacrificing yourself for the cause, how noble. But you underestimate the British government. I would never send John alone into so obvious a trap. In three seconds my phone will beep, and the person on the other end will inform me that 'Vince' is in custody." Sherlock's phone went off the instant he finished talking, bearing the good news. "Five seconds. There's always something."
That set John off into another bout of ragged laughter as he collapsed into his armchair. Vince's accomplice was dragged away by the government officials; all was quiet once more at 221B Baker Street. After he managed to get himself together again, John looked up and met Sherlock's almost sympathetic gaze.
"I'm... I'm one of them, aren't I?"
"I don't know what you-"
"Sherlock." John's face melted into a frown. "I've lived with you long enough to know when you're not being entirely truthful, at least some of the time. I could make the pants work, when you and Jay Wilson couldn't. Vince… told me that I was who he'd come for after- after using some device on me. He wasn't just saying it, he believed himself. I'm an alien. From another galaxy."
The detective felt his facade of calm composure slipping; he drew in a breath. "Mycroft will be sending a car for you, to tell you to put all this behind you. But if you wish to know, he can't deny you. As for me, I only know what I've learned from this case. That's the truth."
John fell quiet. Then, in a whisper:
"No, I don't think I want to know. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
The detective knelt beside John's chair to lightly touch his arm. "I was right. You're anything but ordinary."
"That's-" John felt locked into that gaze. He bristled at the contact. Oh. "I'm nearly naked."
Sherlock's eyes on him, seeking. Finding? Deciding.
"I've noticed."
John realized in that moment that he had decided as well.