A/N: Just a quick one-shot I whipped up this morning. Nothing long or fancy, but I was having Reichenfeelz again, so I decided to write. Not sure if that helped, or just fueled the feelz. :P
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. None of them. They're all the property of BBC. So yeah.
John hit 'send' on the text message, then slipped the mobile inside his coat pocket. He picked up Sher- the scarf up from where it was draped across the chair next to the table. He tied it around his neck and headed for the door. "Mrs. Hudson," he called. "Lestrade has asked me to come to a crime scene. Don't know when I'll be back, so I won't be needing that tea, but thanks."
Mrs. Hudson looked around the corner. "Alright, dear. But don't be expecting another offer later. I'm not your housekeeper."
John smiled as he walked down the stairs. She might as well be his mother the way that she doted on him and... just him now.
Shaking off memories, John hailed a taxi and gave the address. He stared out the window, watching the other traffic go by.
The taxi stopped outside an old warehouse. John paid and thanked the driver, and got out.
He ducked underneath the police tape. No one stopped him; all of the officers knew him from... when he'd been to other crime scenes. One of the officers pointed towards a back room, where he found Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan kneeling around a dead body.
The body on the ground belonged to a man with dark hair. Instead of a flashback to his war days that usually followed, John for a split second saw him lying on the pavement, blood streaming down his face.
"John." Lestrade stood up, bringing John back to the present. "Glad you can make it."
"Something I can help with?" John asked, looking to Lestrade.
Anderson and Donovan also stood up. Donovan crossed her arms.
Lestrade shot a glare in their direction, then looked back to John. "We're hoping so." He gestured to the body. "We're hoping you can tell us something, anything really, about him. Found 'im here a few hours ago. No identification." He motioned to Anderson, who glared but got John a pair of plastic gloves.
John knelt down next to the body. He could tell the face wasn't... him, but he still couldn't get the image of the blood on the pavement out of his head. He shook his head. Focus, Watson, he ordered himself.
The doctor in him noticed the medical side of things first. "I'd say he's been dead for at least five hours." He brushed aside some of the blood-matted hair near the neck. "Looks like he was hit over the head, but not with a blunt object. There's a sharp cut on his head."
"Anything else?" Lestrade asked.
What would he do? What would he notice? John took a deep breath and began examining the body further.
"What is he doing here?" Donovan hissed to Lestrade in what was probably supposed to be a whisper she didn't care if John overheard. "We don't need him here."
John tried to ignore them and focus on looking for clues that would tell them who the man was.
"It was bad enough having to put up with the freak," Anderson grumbled. "Thought we'd gotten rid of him."
John leapt to his feet and whirled around, punching Anderson soundly in the jaw. "Sherlock was not a freak!" He yelled.
"John, calm down." Lestrade put an arm on his shoulder. "Anderson, shut up."
John found himself trembling with anger. Donovan glared at him and helped Anderson to his feet. "You're right," she said bitterly. "He wasn't a freak- he was a fake."
John surged forward, Lestrade grabbing him from behind, keeping him back. "Donovan, shut up! John, come here." Lestrade pulled him out of the room and into the hall, past the other officers into an unoccupied room. He let John lean against the wall, keeping his hands on his arms. "John."
"He wasn't a fake," John whispered, his voice breaking. Lestrade let go of his arms. John covered his face with his hands, trying to keep the stinging tears in.
"John, I'm sorry," Lestrade said.
John looked up. Lestrade's eyes were filled with sadness and sympathy.
"I'm not Sherlock Holmes," John whispered. "And... I can't be. I'm sorry."
Lestrade shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to be."
John took in a shuddering breath.
Lestrade smiled grimly at him. "Though as Detective Inspector, I can't endorse what you did, I've certainly wanted to do that to Anderson quite a few times."
John tried a laugh that came out more like a bitter cough. Without saying anything else, he turned and walked out of the warehouse.
The sun had started to set, the chill of night starting to settle in. John tightened his scarf. He caught his reflection in a puddle and started.
Here he was, claiming he wasn't Sherlock Holmes. And yet he wore his friend's blue scarf with his black coat. He had an irritated scowl on his face that looked so much like the one Sherlock wore when someone had just said something remarkably stupid.
And then he realized, he wasn't trying to be Sherlock Holmes.
John turned and walked back inside the building, going straight towards the room where Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan stood. The latter two glared at him when he walked in, and the former looked surprised.
"I may not be Sherlock Holmes," John said. "And I don't want to be." He walked over to the body. "But I can keep his memory alive."