Sherlock: The Invisible Killer
Chapter One: A Reunion of Sorts
A year, a whole sodding YEAR, and he just waltzes in like he popped out to the shops. To say the least, John Watson wasn't impressed.
"What the HELL do you think you're doing?" he asked his former, or perhaps late, flat mate. He didn't get a response however as said flat mate was currently knocked to the floor clutching his rapidly blackening eye.
"John. Let me explain..."
"NO DAMN YOU! Do you have any idea what it was... Did you even think about... You didn't care about any of us did you?" He could see the hurt in his friend's face, but he continued regardless, "It took me months, MONTHS to even bother leaving the damn FLAT because of you, so don't you dare expect me to just forgive and forget, I'm not a bloody robot like YOU!" He sighed, his piece said, and deflated into his, or rather Sherlock's, favourite chair.
He stared, unblinking, and the floor as Sherlock slowly raised himself up and sat opposite him.
"There are numerous reasons why I did what I did, why I couldn't come back sooner, and why I am back now," he held up his hand, knowing John would have something to say about that, but he pushed on. "I cannot tell you ALL of these reasons at the present, some of them are not mine to tell, but what I can say is this, if I hadn't jumped, then I doubt either of us would be sitting here today." He looked over at the only real friend he'd ever had, his signature, calculating look. The scruffy, unkept beard, the dirt under the nails, tell-tale signs of malnourishment and sleep deprivation, John was in a bad way, and it was all his, Sherlock's, fault.
"I know I can't just say 'sorry' about all this, I know I can't," he paused at the irony, "wave a magic wand and fix things. But I am willing to try. Please John, let me at least do that."
John frowned, he looked up when Sherlock mentioned 'waving a magic wand' never having heard the man refer to such things before. To Sherlock, anything illogical was boring, valueless, and magic was DEFINITELY illogical. John had never been a big fan of magic acts himself anyway, so to hear Sherlock mention them so flippantly was cause for concern, even if his friend had, for all intense and purposes, just risen from the grave.
"That's not like you." he half questioned, reaching for his tea, which was annoyingly closer to Sherlock then himself.
"What isn't?" Sherlock replied, he peered into John's mug and frowned as he passed it over.
"Mentioning something like magic, that's very, un-you." he drained his mug and, placing it down said, "Okay then, you might as well start at the beginning, what happened with Moriarty? What could he have possibly said that made you want to jump, even after he shot himself?" John wasn't stupid, he made sure to check in with Molly and examine the body. He'd have done the same with Sherlock, but he was unsure that he'd have been able to restrain his anger, or his depression, at seeing his friend's corpse.
Knowing that he'd have to answer, Sherlock sat up in his seat and sighed, even though he knew that his answer would undoubtingly bring forth even more questions.
"It was you. You, and Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade. If I hadn't jumped, he'd have killed you all." He pinched the bridge of his nose, mentally counting down to John's next question as his friend digested this new piece of information. 'Three, tw-'
"But how could he have-Oh, OH! The hitmen, I'd forgotten about that. What with everything that happened..." he took a steadying breath then said, the shadow of a smile on his lips, "by the way, I thought you'd have asked me how I was able to afford to keep this place. Then again, maybe you've worked it out already."
It was only then that Sherlock looked, truly looked, at what used to be his home. 221B had certainly changed during his absence.
Strangely, there were still a number of odd contraptions laying here or there, as well as a small pile of what appeared to be partly fixed, or more likely, mostly damaged, mobile phones.
"It seems that you have a new flat mate, someone else who isn't a conformist, appears to be inept at using a mobile phone and," he paused, feigning a second look at the room, "they are apparently on the verge of alcoholism, I thought you kept better company than that." He sat back, wondering if John would admit that the subtle alcoholic smell was actually *his* doing.
"Says the man who used to smoke 20 a day, or at least would have if it wasn't for me and Mrs. Hudson." John frowned, "and the booze is mine, Harry hates the stuff."
"Harry?" Sherlock questioned, "Isn't that your-" but he didn't have a chance to finish, as the person in question had just walked through the door.
"What an awful bloody night," the figure stated, hanging up his jacket. "Four missing persons, two drunk and disorderlys, and to cap it all off, another unexplainable murder. It's a nightmare! A total, sodding, nightmare." Sherlock looked over this man, black boots, well worn. Black uniform trousers, black waistcoat, both seemingly immaculate, white shirt, and a black tie, the former having the top button undone, the later already lose and being removed. He didn't seem to be with the met, but there was a definite law enforcement feel about him. "Finally seeking some help then, John?" the man asked, nodding his head in Sherlock's direction.
He saw John rubbing his temples, undoubtingly in an attempt to sooth the migraine that was threatening to over take him.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said carefully, "I was John's previous flat mate, though I do agree he could use a bit of help of late." He looked down at John, watching as he buried his face in hands and sighed, and in doing so nearly missed the brief flicker of, was that alarm? On Harry's face. It was quickly replaced by a calculating, almost guarded look, one Sherlock had come to know quite well as it was one of his featured looks.
"Mr. Holmes, it seems you have rather a lot to answer for," Harry addressed him coolly, he folded his arms and leaned against the door frame, awaiting Sherlock's reply. He smiled, it appeared that Harry wasn't as incompetent as most people he'd dealt with.
"I dare say I do, Lieutenant." He slightly emphasised the last word, watching out for Harry's reaction. He was disappointed however, when he only got the smallest of smiles in return.
"You're a clever man Mr. Holmes, I've heard a lot about you," Harry said, moving forward and offering to shake his hand, "More so than you might think."
John's head snapped up and he looked at his flat mates, both former and current, "You know about Sherlock? You've never... I thought you didn't read the papers?" He was, of course, referring to the tabloid trash that had made Sherlock appear to be a fake shortly before his death, or rather his disappearance.
"Yes, well," Harry started, "I guess I need to come clean. John, I was never in the Army, but I was a soldier of war."
Sherlock grabbed two glasses, filled them both with what appeared to be gin, and passed them to both Harry and John, it seems that this was going to be an interesting night after all...