The tall elm trees lining Baker Street were bare, arranged in neat, evenly spaced rows, like soldiers in their winter uniform. The sky above was a pale whitish grey, covered in cloud and signaling the snow that was soon to come. In the pale light of the afternoon the world seemed almost to glow with an eerie light.
It was a posh neighborhood, way too expensive for someone like him to afford even with the significantly large salary his work provided. Even if he could afford it, he doubted he would want to live here, to many wealthy tosspots for his taste.
A haunting melody drifted down to the deserted street corner where John Watson stood in the early winter chill, muscular arms pulled to his chest in a vain attempt to warm himself against the icy onslaught of the wind. The sound of the rich violin resonated, rising and falling with the wind, but surely no windows were open on a day like this.
He had his back to what looked like a cozy café, but all of the blinds were down and none of the lights on. Owners must be on holiday, or maybe they just could bear to set a foot out of their door, not that he blamed them of course. Today was one of those days when even the bravest of London's citizens dared not set a foot outside their cozy parlors where the comforts of hot tea and gran's old crocheted blankets were close at hand, and yet the music seemed to grow louder, rising into a shattering crescendo, before fading back to its original level.
It was beautiful in a sad, bordering on extremely depressing way, John thought, and wondered for a moment what kind of a person could produce such a piece so lovely and ethereal, but cold and uncaring. He laughed in spite of himself, his deep voice ringing out. Here he was standing around daydreaming about what was probably some skinny sixth-former scarping out the second piece in a Suzuki book, when he had a job to do. Idiot.
"Focus Watson, they are not paying us to sit around twiddling our thumbs" the tinny voice reprimanded through the tiny earpiece.
" Shut it. We both know that the chances of the agent even showing up are slim, and I'm freezing my arse off out here, while your sat at your comfy little desk at HQ, so sod off."
" Ok, ok, but M wants you to hurry it up, the last two missions have been a total waste of time and we need results, now. Apparently one of those higher up MP assholes is causing trouble."
John groaned. Politics. No matter what happened, be it flood, massacre, or genocide, no matter what you had been through or how many lives you had taken for queen and country, it all came down to politics in the end. The men in three piece tweed suits who spent their days in dim gentlemen's clubs, the walls painted deep burgundies and brown, with snifters of brandy or bourbon and the stench of tobacco and old leather were the players of the game, the chess masters. Moving their marble pieces from square to square. After all what was John Watson but a loyal knight, a piece to be moved?
He fought in their wars and when a bullet wound to the shoulder sent him back to England, he threw himself into rehabilitation until John Watson was almost the same, if not better, than he had been when he enlisted at the age of 20.
His body was a weapon, skills perfectly honed, and when he took a shot, he never missed. That was why after a year out of the corps. While he was in the gym wearing nothing but a pair of old greys sweats and a sheen of glistening sweat he was approached mid pull-up by a gorgeous man in an immaculate suit and tie whose only question was this:
"Dr. John Hamish Watson, former Army doctor and Captain in her majesties royal marine corps. How would you like a chance to kill some more bad guys?"
John had smiled, and gracefully dropped to the ground, flexing the muscles under his bare golden skin. He smiled.
"Hell yes, sir"
Ever since then he had been on missions all around the world, retrieving information, rescuing politicians and British nationals, and eliminating targets. He slipped a hand into his pocket running a calloused hand over the reassuring form of the walther ppk. He enjoyed the feel of the cold metal against his skin and the tingles it sent rocketing through his whole body.
They had been playing this game of cat and mouse for months now. A group of terrorists that seemed to target anything and everything at random, never leaving any clue or trace had been wreaking havoc on the UK. Their first attack had been on the underground, the second an old restaurant in China town, the most recent had been the abandoned wing of a hospital. No one knew what they wanted, if they wanted anything at all, for they never left any demands or notes. Barely anyone had been hurt in these attacks; in fact the only people injured were just suffering from shock. It was this, which made the government unsettled. What kind of terrorist want's nothing, hurts no one and acts completely randomly? It made the parliament very nervous, and M was constantly dragged into meetings where a bunch of highly educated idiots made speculations and accusations about things of which they knew nothing. They were scared more than anything else.
John didn't blame them at all.
This tip off had seemed like a blessing. They had received an anonymous call, untraceable, telling them that on this street, at this date, an agent would be assassinated, but even that was not much to go on. They did not know if the tipper had meant an agent of the group or of the British government. They knew nothing, but then again they couldn't afford to dismiss it. Beggars can't be choosers after all.
For a long time there was nothing, and then a shot, the sound of shattering glass, and John snapped into action. He did not even have to think; his mind had already subconsciously run through all of the possibilities and scenarios through which he might be put.
No use chasing after the shooter, if he was a professional (which of course he was) he was long gone from the scene. That would be a waste of time. Only reasonable choice was to find the target.
He ran to the door of the town house, 221A, only sparing a second to catch his breath before kicking it down. The entrance way was empty, but John could hear the sounds of someone crying travelling down from the second floor landing. It was quietly though, so soft in fact that most would have missed it. John walked up the stairs which lead to the living space slowly, gun held out in front, the safety off.
The apartment was empty.
Every room he passed had no furniture or pictures, and the walls were covered in old and peeling victorian-esque wallpaper that had seen better days.
The house for the most part was dim, none of the lights turned on. At long last after what felt like hours of tense silence, he finally reached the source of the noise.
A young woman was kneeling on he ground her arms holding a man in a tight embrace. Her white silk shirt was stained with the scarlet of his blood, but she did not seemed to notice. John stood there in the doorway for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. There was no protocol for situations like this. You killed the mark and got the hell out of there before anyone showed up to witness you. You never had to see the wives or girlfriends of the men you killed. You never had to see the pain in their eyes as they looked at the lifeless bodies of their loved ones.
"003! Report immediately. What is your situation?" John did not respond, in fact he didn't think he even breathed. He just stood there staring and waiting for something, anything to happen.
After another moment the woman looked up, finally seeming to realize that she was no longer alone with her sadness.
As she turned to face him, John finally got a good look at her in the dim light of the room. She was beautiful, like a portrait of Esmeralda or Carmen incarnate with thick dark hair, almond shaped brown eyes accented by heavy brows, and skin the color or milky coffee. The trails of half dried tears stained her roundish face, making her long eyelashes clump together.
There was no emotion on her face as she looked at him levelly, just a mask of perfect calm, but her eyes flashed with some emotion, which John could not name.
And frankly, he didn't want to.
He turned slowly on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving the woman alone.
As he stepped out again into the crisp winter air he spoke at last.
"003 reporting in, mark is dead, but there seems to be a bit of a complication. Target was with an unknown woman, she is still alive, but I don't know her status yet. I will hang around and find out. Shooter struck camp, so the guy must have been the intended target, she is most likely unimportant but it doesn't hurt to double check.
It was a perfect shot. The bullet had hit the man directly between the eyes, piercing through his skull.
The cops had showed up almost immediately, called in by some worried neighbor who had heard the shot, their presence only serving to complicate, matters even more difficult for John. It was practically mandatory for every member of MI6 to hate the police. You practically had to agree to it when you applied for a job there. The reason for this ardent dislike was fairly straightforward. They had no idea what the hell they were doing and more often then naught, made it more difficult for the people who did to do their jobs.
"003! Are you there?" He grimaced, pulling the tiny earpiece out and crushing it under the heel of his boot. Trying not to relish the sound of it cracking too much. The guys up at Q branch would give him so much crap for that when he came into work tomorrow. They always were so particular about getting their toys back in one piece.
Headquarters had been clamoring away at him through his earpiece for the better part of an hour since the shooting. What hey thought he could do with half of the met standing around with lukewarm cups of Starbucks, he had no idea.
It had gotten dark quickly, what with the winter weather and now the only lights came from the street lamps and the ridiculous amount of police cars with their lights flashing red and blue.
It didn't matter though, because for now all he could focus on was the woman. She was sitting on the steps leading up to 221B, covered in a thin yellow blanket and surrounded by police officers and a few detectives.
They were firing questions at her and seemed to be ignoring the fact that she had just gone through an extremely traumatic experience.
The wind had picked up, a few fat flakes of snow begging to fall around them, and John was sure she must be freezing, and yet no one offered to give her a jacket or even let her go inside. She was wearing nothing but the same bloodstained silk shirt from before, a black pencil skirt and thin nylon stockings. Her feet were clad in black high heels. God she must be cold. The doctor side of him was appalled, and suddenly he found himself walking over to the huddle of officers, ignoring their protests and pushing his own jacket into her elegant hands.
She looked up at him, eyes steely, but with a bit of a smile on her face.
"Thank you, sir." He voice was sweet, and melodic but there was a sharp wildness to it. It was…commanding.
"No problem-" he began to say but was cut off by the sound of someone reprimanding another person very loudly in a voice that was such a low, seductive purr, that it was almost obscene.
"Listen Lestrade, I don't know how many times I need to tell you this, for it to penetrate your thick skull, but if anyone should be worried about anyone else contaminating a crime scene it should be the other way around."
"Sherlock-"
"Anderson is an idiot, and I will not have him fucking about with the evidence, he already spends enough time accomplishing that with agent Donovan."
"Listen, I just-"
" It was you who asked for my help detective inspector, so I will repeat myself once more. Get. Them. Off. Of. My. Crime. Scene. And I want Anderson an extra two hundred meters away from the site at all times. I don't want him bringing down the IQ of the whole street. Is that understood?"
This was followed by a long pause as if the whole world ha paused to let the man speak, and then finally, a begrudging "Ok. Alright, have it your way…" The sea of police parted, allowing John to see the two speakers. The first man looked to be in his late forties, with graying hair and a kind face, worn down by frown lines. John recognized him at once as Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and overall nice bloke who had proved very useful to MI6 in his younger days. He was well liked by almost all of the double 0 agents, because he never gave them a hard time if they got caught at the scene of a crime or disturbance (which is where they practically lived). Even 007 was reported to occasionally go out for a drink or two with Greg.
His companion however, looked like some pagan god, who demanded a sacrifice of the hearts of virgins. Well maybe that was a bit much, but John had occasionally been known to be a bit of a romantic. Harry had always mocked him for it, but he had always loved to read the romantics. The agent found them charming even when hey were entirely wrong, and beautiful when grotesque.
The man, who must be Sherlock, was tall, thin and unbelievably pale. He had cheekbones so defined that they looked almost sharp and piercing ice-blue eyes, all framed by a mop of unruly black curls. He was swathed in a thick blackish-blue coat, with the collar pulled up to protect him from the wind. The overall effect was striking to say the least.
'Sherlock' just stood their, looking slightly irritated as the legion of police cleared out at what could only be described as a glacial pace, until the only ones remaining on the street were John, the woman, Sherlock, and Lestrade.
"You'll have to leave to Lestrade."
"Sherlock, you can't kick me off of my own crime scene."
Sherlock gave him a withering look, which could have turned anyone into stone, and the detective backed off.
"Whatever just don't… oh forget it you never listen to me anyway." He trailed off as he made his way to the squad car on the other side of the street.
"I'll text you what I find in the morning."
"Yeah yeah, just attempt not to traumatize the witness even more." was the only response, and then the sound of the inspector's car driving off into the night.
"So tell me, what is an MI6 operative doing at my crime scene?" The man said the words slowly as if savoring the taste of them upon his tongue. John froze, muscles tensing automatically, relaxing quickly, but not fast enough for someone like Sherlock to miss.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." John said, smiling his easy smile and making his voice as warm and slightly confused sounding as he could. "I was just in the neighbor hood for a walk, and stopped to see what all the ruckus was about. I noticed that no one had given this young woman anything to stay warm so I offered her my coat." He put on a slightly scandalized expression at the police's incompetence, before looking back at Sherlock another small smile on his face.
Only to have it vanish as he saw the look of absolute disbelief in the man's ice blue eyes, accompanied by a smirk and the slight quirk of one perfect eyebrow. However, the man did not respond, instead turning to face the woman who was staring intently at her shoes as if the black patent leather heels held the secrets of the universe. John could see the slight tremors running through her body and wondered for a moment whether this was because of the cold, or the sadness.
Sherlock seemed about to speak, but was cut off by the opening of the door to 221B. In the doorway stood an old lady, dressed very comfortably in a mauve skirt and a hideous jumper, with crocheted teddy bears on the pockets. An old pearl necklace was wound loosely around her thin neck, and her mousy brown hair was cut short and sensibly. John thought she looked like a character out of some 1920s movie.
"Sherlock!" she chided, "You'd better invite the poor girl in! You can't interrogate her out here, shell catch her death of cold!" and then she said in a softer voice to the woman. "It's alright dearie, he's just a bit forgetful sometimes. Why don't you come up and ill make you a nice cup of tea… and maybe some biscuits too, you look starved. "
"Thank you very much… Mrs.…?"
"Hudson, darling. I'm his landlady, but he seems to think that I also function as a housekeeper." She sounded slightly annoyed, but only slightly. There was a certain fondness there, john thought, making a note of it for later.
The woman laughed and took the land-lady-not-housekeeper's outstretched hand and followed her into the bright warmth of 221B Baker Street.
" I was intending to invite her in Mrs. Hudson" he began, but they had already disappeared into the house, so the only one to hear the remark was John.
Sherlock sighed and turned to once again look John up and down. He turned and walked up the short flight of stairs which lead to the door, he paused and turned again. The warm light streaming from the open door surrounded him with a golden glow.
"Well aren't you coming?"
John let out a short laugh in spite of himself and ran to follow, consigning himself to fall into the rabbit hole.
A/N: Well! I have always loved this fandom and really wanted to write a fic for it, and damn this thing practically wrote itself. Please review and let me know if you like it. The title is the first part of a poem by victor hugo. I chose this because i think it describes a lot of the dynamic between John and Sherlock. love you all,
wobuzhidao