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The Case of the Soggy Pedophile

Sharp metal. The overbearing scent digging into my nostrils, gun smoke mixing with a darker, more rancid smell- blood. It flows out onto the sidewalk, staining everything a deep crimson. The gun in my hand, the metal still warm, a puff of smoke still drifting up. The bang still resonating in my ears.

Ringing, so loudly. The pavement blurs and gets lighter, brighter, softer. The sands of Afghanistan. Shouting surrounds me, deep crimson turning the sand into mud, too much blood, an impossible amount. I press my hand against the wound but there's too much, flowing through my fingers, staining the ground with red…

I am falling, my hands are on the solid pavement below it's not real, it's not real but the bullets are whizzing past me, bombs are going off in the distance, throwing sand and shattered bodies into the air.

I lift my hands and they're stained with red, the liquid pooling around me, still warm from him. A sob catches in the back of my throat. I killed him. I can still remember that moment in Afghanistan when I realized I'd be taking lives as much as I saved them- and it didn't bother me anymore.

The panic attack is full-fledged, racing heart, rapid breaths. My mind spinning and of course the flashbacks. Knowing the symptoms does nothing to help me as I crouch in the pool of warm blood, my chest heaving as it struggles to get enough air. This is what the doctor was telling me about PTSD my mind blankly registers.

The blood soaked sand slowly transforms into blood soaked pavement. I stand on unsteady feet, a deafening ringing filling my ears. I retrieve the gun from beside me, hastily wiping the incriminating liquid on it on my trousers. My gaze avoids the body beside me, the body I had just shot.

This thought threatens to overtake me again, so I step away and take some deep steadying breaths of damp London air. I'm suddenly glad for the gloom the approaching storm clouds cast over the city, less chance of people seeing me, at least the small amount of people that are still out at this time of night (now morning?)

My thoughts are flying so fast that I almost leave the scene as is- covered in my finger prints with a bullet from my military-issued gun. The soldier inside me kicks in and I turn back, pushing away any thoughts that do not involve cleaning up the crime scene. The crime scene. I take another deep breath and approach it again.

My shaking fingers close around the shell casing and a few moments later the bullet. Through and through, a clean shot. Not surprising considering the close range. The rain should take care of the rest I think to myself, looking up at the heavy clouds. The weather is fitting for a murder.

I force that thought right out of my head; my next step is to get home. I turn out of the alley, making it to the end before I realize I'm missing something- my cane. My leg starts hurting right on cue- huh maybe it is psychosomatic. Maybe I should have listened to my therapist before I went around killing people.

I limp down the dim streets, my senses heightened, the gun tucked into my waist band. I realize belatedly that I'm probably covered in his blood, but there's not like there's anything I can do about it. Thankfully the few glances I catch of people are movements in the shadows, people who aren't the type to go to the police. People like me now.

Somehow I make it back to my crummy apartment, my leg ready to give out. Where had I left my cane? It must have been in that café before I laid eyes on him. I had just run out of there, I'm not even sure if I had paid my bill.

I can barely get my key into the door my fingers are trembling so badly. I can see in the early morning light that my hands are caked in dried blood. The wound in my shoulders aches more than it had since the day I got it. The key finally slides in and I slam the door shut behind me, dead bolting it for good measure.

It all hits me once I reach safety. I slide to the floor with my back against the door. My entire body shakes. I spend the morning staring at my blood stained hands, frozen to the spot. I miss my therapy session.

"Boring."

"Sherlock please."

"Lestrade, this case is at most a 3. I refuse to leave my house unless it's above a 6."

"Look, we're out of leads, we need for you to come and take a look. It rained last night washing away most of the evidence."

"I am perfectly aware that it rained last night."

"Sherlock… please?"

Deep sigh. "Fine, I'll be there in ten."

Sherlock glares at the crime scene. Of all the boring cases, this could quite possible be the most boring. A single bullet, right through the heart. Clearly a trained arm, military maybe? The scene clear so the bullet casing was either washed away by the rain like the blood or taken by the murderer, the second more likely because it had only been a light drizzle, hardly enough to wash away a metal casing.

Sherlock approaches the body, completely ignoring Lestrade. All of a sudden he shows up.

"Anderson what are you doing here?"

"Investigating the crime scene," Anderson retorts with a sneer as if that is a particularly clever answer, which it probably is for him.

A familiar mass of black hair exits the nearest police car.

"Donovan, you too?" Sherlock says, giving Lestrade a despairing look which he just shrugs off.

"Hello, freak." With a smirk on her face. Sherlock knows just how to wipe off that smirk.

"Did you two enjoy each other's company last night?" He keeps an innocent face, holding in his laughter at Anderson's shocked expression.

"How did you?" he stutters, his face turning red. Donovan rolls her eyes, but Sherlock notes the light flush running up her neck with satisfaction.

"You have two minutes," Lestrade calls out to him, looking ridiculous in the oversized crime scene scrubs. Why must he always time me, Sherlock asks himself. He pulls up his collar and whips out his magnifying glass, searching the body with more enthusiasm than is appropriate, especially for a 3.

"Have anything yet?"

Sherlock magnifies a patch on his shirt, "Right now seven… no eight ideas."

"Eight?"

Sherlock ignores him, lost in his mind palace. The pieces chink into place with a satisfying speed, it has been much too long since he has done this (he finished his last case 2 whole days before, a closed- door murder, always his favorite).

Sherlock straightens up, a smirk on his face. "His name is James Parkings, I believe he is better known as The Child Predator at the yard, having kidnapped, raped, and killed 15 confirmed children in the past 3 years. His killer has military training, probably just returned from Afghanistan or Iraq. He is most likely injured, traumatized by something that happened there, quite likely seeing a therapist who has diagnosed him with PTSD, quite correct I'm afraid. The person we're searching for knew who James Parkings was, but something made him go after him himself instead of calling the police…"

Sherlock slows his rapid deductions, so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn't notice the shocked (if not slightly disbelieving) faces of his peers- really you would think they would have gotten used to it by now. What would make an ex- soldier, a man who has so far upheld and valued the law, go after and kill a serial rapist instead of consulting the police?

"Oh," Sherlock says out loud, his eyes widening, "Oh that's interesting, very interesting!"

"What's interesting?" Lestrade's face is laughably bewildered.

Sherlock shakes his head, Lestrade's question knocking him out of his mind palace. He fixes his intense gaze on him, "What? Oh, just thinking of something from an old case… Now I really must be going, nice to catch up with you, George."

"Greg," Lestrade automatically corrects. Sherlock starts to walk away.

"Wait, Sherlock, you can't leave, you have to tell me all you know about the case!"

Sherlock shouts back at him, not bothering to turn around, "I already did. Just look for a soldier Lestrade, I'm confident you'll find him eventually!"

Lestrade calls his name one more time but the detective is already out of ear shot, letting his long legs carry him rapidly to god knows where. Lestrade sighs, running a hand through his graying hair, that egotistical bastard will be the last of him.

He turns to Donovan, "Report to Jones that we've found James Parkings."

"Sir, you're really going to believe the freak over there? He…"

"Just do it, Donovan."

She closes her mouth, a sour look on her face, but she makes the call anyway. Lestrade looks back down at the body. Now that he knows who it is he can recognize the sharp angles of his thin face, now covered by a thick beard that he must have grown out to keep cover. Whoever this soldier is, he did the world a real favor by taking this guy out.

The last thing John Watson feels he did the world was a favor. He had killed a man, not a particularly nice man, his mind reminds him, but still. He had killed a completely defenseless man that he could have easily taken out through different methods. He is a trained soldier for crying out loud, his limp and bullet wound certainly hadn't stopped him from chasing after the guy, it wouldn't have stopped him from subduing him and contacting the police.

John scrubs his stained trousers for the third time today, the pinkish liquid dripping down the rusted drain. No matter how hard he scrubs, the blood refuses to be removed. The knees have bright red patches from when he kneeled beside the body. The skin on his hand is rubbed raw from trying to remove the blood.

Suddenly there is a knock on the door (the bell had never worked). John drops the pants in the sink, grabbing the sides as panic overtakes him. No one visits him; this has to be the police. How had they found him already? He hastily pushes the pants into his overflowing dirty laundry basket, excuses for the blood running through his mind.

"I'm coming," he calls out, silently cursing himself for the way his voice trembles, betraying his guilt. He pushes the now cleaned gun back into the drawer, shoving a notebook on top. He gives one more glance around the room, checking for any signs of the incident and then goes to the door.

He plasters the biggest smile that he can manage onto his face (which looks more like a grimace), takes a steadying breath, and then opens the door.

"John!" yells a high pitched voice and before he knows it a brown haired woman is throwing herself on him and clutching him like she's afraid he might disappear. Thankfully, Harry is sobbing too hard into John's shirt to notice his shocked (and slightly wild) expression.

It takes a moment for John to recover and realize that he should probably say something.

"What's wrong, Harry?" John peels the sobbing mess out of his arms and closes the door to the overcast London sky behind her.

"It's Clara… She's- she's gone John, she left me." Harry's body shakes with another sob and she blindly makes her way to crumple up on John's beaten up sofa.

John is completely unprepared for this. Between the army, dealing with PTSD, and now the fact that he is a murderer, Clara and Harry's deteriorating relationship somehow hasn't crossed his mind in a while.

"I'm so sorry," John says, approaching his sister as if she is some kind of wild animal liable to strike at any moment, "Can I get you anything?"

"Wine." She is still curled up in a ball so the word comes out muffled but John understands it well enough.

He sighs, "Harry…. You've been sober for 3 months now; don't let this bring you back-"

"I need wine John!" Harry shoots up, looking like she might slap John but decides on different approach. Her shoulders slump, her head lowers and she speaks softly, "Only for today… Please, all I can think about is her."

"Harry, I'm not going to let you go down that road again," John says softly but firmly, watching Harry carefully.

At first he thinks he's won then a flip switches and he sees the other side of Harry, "All I asked you was for some goddamn wine John is that too much to ask? Here I am with my heart breaking coming to you of all people for help and you're turning me away yet again. You think I don't know why you went into the army, don't say some patriotic bullshit I know you went to leave me. You couldn't handle poor alcoholic Harry, ripping her life apart. Well I'll tell you what John, you can stay the hell away from my life and I will stay away from yours!"

"Harry…"

"No John, just stop. Don't pretend you care."

Harry is breathing heavily, staring at John with wild eyes, completely unhinged. John wants to stop her, wants her to believe in him, wants her to know that he cares about her so much that it hurts, but he doesn't know how. He can't help but thinking she is right, he had done this to her, he had failed her.

After a long silence where John fails to find words, Harry shakes her head in disgust. "Well I was going to give this to you as a gift, but I doubt you would accept anything from me, so here you go. Do what you wish with it, burn it, I don't care I just don't want to see it again just like I don't want to see you ever again!"

The end of her rant rises into a yell and more tears spill down her face. She presses something into John's hand and storms out, slamming the door behind her before she can hear John's quiet plea of "Wait".

John lets out a deep sigh and looks down to Harry's gift. It is a smart phone and on the back the words "To Harry, Love Clara" are inscribed.

John considers going after her, in fact one time he makes it out of his apartment before changing his mind and returning to the flat. He paces the cramped room a few times, tidying up anything he can in his already neat apartment, before he returns to the pants. He tells himself he'll wait until Harry cools off, surely then she'll come back to him. He spends the rest of the day scrubbing the pants until his knuckles bleed.

Meanwhile, at flat 221B, Sherlock Holmes is well on his way towards crossing paths with John Watson. He'd contacted his homeless network to look around the area for cafes and other small public places and had even been desperate enough to contact Mycroft and get security footage from the surrounding streets.

Now all the information is stringed up on his wall. He has already found the murderer on the screen, the only problem is that he had kept his face pointed away from the camera and it had already been dark. His features are lost in shadow, but Sherlock can tell he is a shorter than average, maybe 5'5'', with a strong build. He had recently lost some weight, his clothes are slightly baggy.

Sherlock's eyes flick over the photos looking for any clues he could have missed. The tips of his fingers are pressed to his lips as if in prayer and only his eyes move for a number of minutes as he focuses on the evidence.

His eyes widen in recognition. He jumps over to his computer, knocking over a pile of papers and some glass tubes filled with mysterious liquids in his haste. He pulls up the security footage and sure enough there it is- the suspect going in with a cane and leaving in a run without the cane, without even a limp.

"The game is on!" Sherlock exclaims to no one in particular and snags his coat on the way out of his apartment.

John's stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn't eaten all day. He lowers the pants, flipping off the tap. The places on his hands where the skin had rubbed off sting. The pants still have a light stain on them that John considers a lost cause. He shoves them in the garbage, covering them with rubbish from the day before just in case. He cleans his cuts, the warm water washing more blood into his sink.

A few minutes later he is bandaged up and standing in the center of the room, at a loss for what to do. His stomach growls again and he walks over to the fridge to find it empty. Great. He wanders to the answering machine. 3 missed calls from his therapist and one message. He doesn't have the heart to listen to it now. If he faced her he might have a break down and just spill out what he had done, which would definitely be not good. John is going to try to stay out of prison for the longest he can.

John decides that now is as good a time as any to get his cane back. He grabs his wallet to find an alarmingly low amount of money in it. Nearly his entire army pension goes into rent; he needs to find another job. As if anyone would actually hire a PTSD stricken, crippled ex-soldier.

The walk to the café is long, especially because John forces himself to take back streets to avoid the crime scene. He doesn't see any flashing lights in the distance, but that doesn't mean that the police aren't there.

By the time John reaches the café his leg is aching. At least he will have his cane for the way back. John hesitates at the door; he doesn't exactly remember the state he had left the café the night before.

A baritone voice from behind him startles him from his thoughts, "Are you going in?"

John looks up at the stranger, "Oh yes, sorry."

He pushes open the door trying not to stare now that he has laid eyes on him. There is nothing particularly odd about his outward appearance but something throws John off. It has to be his eyes, he decides, the stranger has the most piercing eyes he has ever seen, half blue and half brown- heterochromia if John recalls correctly.

He steps away, forgetting the stranger when he lays eyes on the waiter.

"John!" the waiter exclaims, rushing over to him. Here we go.

The waiter takes a small detour and grabs a familiar brown object. "You left your cane here yesterday!"

"Oh yes thank you, I was looking for that," John says, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. The waiter doesn't suspect anything.

"I'll sit you down in your normal spot."

"Thanks," John replies, leaning heavily on his cane as he follows the young man.

Still standing near the doorway, Sherlock watches this "John" limp over to his booth. The limp is definitely psychosomatic, but John was injured somewhere else in Afghanistan- the left shoulder if Sherlock had to guess.

The waiter comes back and sits him down a few tables away. He sits at the perfect angle to discretely study the target. John seems nervous, fiddling with the menu and glancing out the window every couple of minutes. Feeling guilty then.

Sherlock studies him through dinner, nibbling half- heartedly on his fries just to keep up appearances. John finishes fast and doesn't linger. He pays and stands, limping out of the restaurant and into the darkening street.

After a minute Sherlock throws a few pounds onto the table, mumbles, "Thanks," to the waiter, and follows John out. He sticks far behind, being careful not to underestimate his military training. He notes a candy store a couple of stores down, the perfect place for a pedophile to stalk out his next victim.

Sherlock is already certain he knows the whole story; he just wants to hear it from John. It is always entertaining to hear the criminals tell their versions of the story; maybe John will even put up a fight. Then Sherlock will call Lestrade and hand him his culprit nicely, with a few insults at his intelligence. Really a straight forward case, but the good citizen turned bad always puts an interesting twist on things.

John dodges down an alley a few meters ahead of Sherlock. He pauses, and then follows him in, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. He can no longer see John ahead of him. Sherlock quickens his pace. Just as he's passing a dumpster his neck prickles. Before he can react he is hit from behind.

He goes flying forward and an arm wraps around his neck, restraining him from behind. A small knife is pressed to his neck, nearly breaking the skin, a military knife. Sherlock curses himself for being caught off guard; he is never caught off guard. Maybe he had underestimated this soldier (and doctor, Sherlock deduces from the bandages on his hands and the way he holds the knife).

"Why are you following me?" the man hisses into his ear.

"Hello, John, going to kill me like you killed poor James Parkings?"

The arm holding him loosens slightly in shock, giving Sherlock just the leverage he needs. He knocks the blade out of John's hand, the blade barely nicking his neck and kicks backward. John stumbles back against the brick wall. Sherlock's fist flies towards his face but before it can make contact John ducks and gets a blow into Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock jumps back to give himself time to recover. John's height gives him a small advantage, as well as his military training but Sherlock is quite sure he can overpower him using the strongest muscles in his body (his brain).

Just as expected, John goes for a kick again, launching himself off of his "bad" leg. Sherlock grabs it and pushes him down. John hits the ground hard. It knocks the breath out of him. Before he can recover his follower has him pinned down, his own knife pressed to his neck, his knee pinning down his legs, resting uncomfortably on his bad leg.

John looks up into those intense eyes, anger flaring through him. The stranger's wild black hair is messy from their brief struggle. His pupils are dilated and his eyes have a wild look to them, he is enjoying this.

"Who the hell are you?" John growls out, careful not to move his throat too much.

The stranger ignores him, "Why did you do it, John? Why wouldn't you call the police, surely taking the law into your own hands is not preferable for a soldier like you."

"Why do you want to know?" John struggles beneath him and Sherlock presses the knife harder against his neck (being careful not to put enough pressure to break the skin) and John goes still. His eyes, contrary to looking scared as Sherlock would have suspected, look angry. And maybe… excited?

"I suggest you answer my questions, John," Sherlock growls out in the lowest voice he can manage, sounding intimidating even to his own ears.

John hardly seems intimidated (definitely a new thing for Sherlock- he will have to add that to his Mind Palace and revisit it at a different time), but he answers the question regardless. "I recognized James Parkings, he had just been on the news for a kidnapping only a few hundred miles from London. I wasn't exactly sure it was him; he had grown out a beard. I thought calling the police would spook him if he really was James Parkings, so I decided to follow him."

"He went right to the candy shop and walked up to a little girl, she couldn't have been older than 6 or 7 and her parents weren't around. He looked like he was about to talk to her so I shouted his name. He looked up at me and immediately started running. I chased him into the alley and aimed my gun at him. He reached the end when a car backfired, it sounded like…"

John pauses, his eyes with a faraway look to them, "My brain took it as a bomb going off, like in Afghanistan, and I was brought back to it and by the time I snapped out of it he was dead and my gun was smoking." His voice had dropped to a whisper by the end, trembling nearly imperceptibly from the haunting memory.

His eyes meet Sherlock's again. Sherlock searches for any missing links, watching the evidence match up with the story in his mind palace. Everything fits, just as he had expected. A straightforward case. Now time to call Lestrade…

Suddenly Sherlock hesitates. It is not as if John had meant to kill James Parkings, it had been his PTSD. Motive had never stopped him from making a conviction before, but this time something in Sherlock screams at him to stop.

The silence stretches on. Finally with a deep sigh, Sherlock pulls the knife away. John's eyes widen in surprise. Sherlock eases his weight off of John, taking care not to agitate his leg anymore, even if it is psychosomatic. John just lays there staring at him as he stands up. He offers his hand to John, and he takes it warily, standing and brushing himself off.

"Well then, I wish you a good day John…?"

"Watson," John fills in; still looking like his mind is catching up with events.

"John Watson," Sherlock repeats with a small nod and then turns away, pulling up his collar.

"Wait," John calls out, "Who are you?"

Sherlock turns with a mysterious smile, "Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective."

Then he is gone with the flash of his coat, leaving John standing there with a bewildered look on his face. It is a long while before he starts on his way home, his cane once again forgotten against the wall of the alley, this time for good.