Chapter One: John Watson, Consulting Detective
A/N: Into the story we go. I'm excited! *blows out huge breath* So, if anyone is confused, John is reacting to Sherlock's return like he treated Mary's death, except opposite, if that makes it any clearer. Thanks to Sophie for the lovely comment that has boosted my confidence quite a bit! :) Enjoy!
Sat on a kitchen chair, cup of hot tea beside him, Mycroft watched the footage of 221B from his laptop once more, listening to the interaction between Dr. Watson and his baby brother with difficulty. When he said that returning to the doctor this suddenly would not end well, he never imagined it would lead to this. He drew back from his thoughts when a sob broke out in the video, and it was then that he shut his laptop, distancing himself from it as much as possible. He and John had, with slight difficulty, become friends in the last two years, so to see the man this broken struck a nerve in his "non-existent heart," as others referred to it as. What affected him more was the look on Sherlock's face when John had made his pain known, the draining away of any hope he might have had regarding his friend.
"Myke, why're you still up?" A gruff voice sounded from behind. Mycroft turned to find Greg Lestrade standing in the kitchen doorway of their shared house, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, pajamas ruffled slightly. "You didn't come to bed last night."
"What time is it?"
"Around six in the morning. I know you got home late, but what's kept you up?" Lestrade's concerned gaze made Mycroft look away and bite his lip as he tried to figure out what to say. He had promised never to lie to him, no matter what the situation, but he couldn't know, not yet. The detective inspector walked over and pulled out the chair next to him, sitting down. Gently, he tipped the elder Holmes' chin up, drawing his attention back to him. He saw the sadness in his lover's eyes, the uncertainty, the conflict. "You don't have to tell me, but you know that you can, right?" Mycroft nodded, hesitantly placing his hand over Lestrade's. He was silent for a few moments.
"I'm concerned about Dr. Watson," he finally answered.
"John? Why, what's happened?" Greg's concern seemed to double, and Mycroft squeezed his hand reassuringly, lowering it to rest on his lap.
"He's been rather… distraught lately, more so than usual." He opened his laptop back up, the video resuming where he'd left off. Greg watched and listened to John break down, sobbing his heart out, before looking away, closing his eyes to block out the image. Mycroft closed out the video and once again closed the laptop. "He hasn't willingly ventured outside the flat for the last few months outside of work and shopping for necessities. I fear for his wellbeing if he doesn't go out and do something." When Greg spoke up, his voice was soft, worried.
"Do you think he would leave Baker Street for a case? I know you usually help out the Yard, and it wouldn't be the same, but…"
"Perhaps. A murder case, if possible?" Greg smiled a little.
"There are never a shortage of those." He glanced at the clock. "Join me for a shower? I have to be down there by seven."
"If that is what you wish."
"It is." With a shy smile, Mycroft stood and followed Greg, not letting go of his hand as he did so.
XxX
John woke up disoriented with his head resting on his arms, seated at the kitchen table. Yawning, he let his eyes adjust to the dark lighting. His memories of the previous day were blurry, and, for once, his dream had changed. He dreamed he'd imagined Sherlock, that he'd finally lost his mind from grief. It was a little unnerving. He tried piecing together yesterday for several minutes. He'd woken up and gone through his morning routine as usual, gotten home, made tea… He… took a shower, a cold shower, warmed up and eaten dinner, brushed his teeth, and went to bed. Nothing too out of the ordinary then. Sitting up, he was pleased to see a plate of biscuits and cup of tea in front of him. He would have to find a way to properly thank Mrs. Hudson for putting up with him. At… He glanced up at the clock he'd bought. It was just turning 6 A.M. Bloody Hell.
"I borrowed Mrs. Hudson's recipe for them. I put it back, don't worry. I just thought they might cheer you up." John's head snapped towards the source of the voice. There, Sherlock stood in front of John's chair in a button down and dark pants, barefoot, curls slightly more messy than usual. Not a dream then. Nevertheless, John turned back towards the plate. He bit into a biscuit, sighing happily at the taste. They seemed fluffier than usual, and just a hint more buttery. Maybe she added something to them? "They're different." John nodded in agreement, quickly finishing off the biscuit before scarfing down another one. Sherlock chuckled at the action, watching him finish the plate and sip his tea, before speaking again, softly. "How did you sleep?" John paused before his lips quirked upward at the corners ever so slightly, so slight that Sherlock wouldn't have seen it unless he was looking for it.
"I slept. I… actually slept. Only around four, but… yeah." 'And only from exhaustion,' he added in his thoughts, but he wouldn't say that aloud. The statement brought a relieved smile to Sherlock's face.
"Feeling up to a stroll around London then? You haven't been out much lately." Mycroft had told him as much when he got back to London. By lately, he was told, he meant months. That had to change. John actually seemed to consider the question. This was good.
"Maybe. I haven't in awhile, have I? Wait, I have work. I can't just-"
"I called in for you, said you were sick, had come down with something awful. You have the rest of the week off." Sherlock had taken every precaution to ensure nothing and no one would disrupt the plan set in store for John this week. Sherlock took a deep breath, his thoughts wandering for a moment. He'd done this: the isolation, the despair and depression, the lack of social interactions as of late. There was nothing he wouldn't do to fix that. Sherlock had texted Mycroft when sleep eluded him, a little after John had gone silent last night, with a request of help; help him get John out of Baker Street, back to some form of normalcy in life. His brother had suggested something the two had done together on the past. A walk through town then.
"What-?" John plucked his phone off the table, looking through the call logs and, sure enough, there was a call to the surgery there. When did he even…? Oh. Last night, when he'd had his little mental breakdown. His memory was a bit fuzzy after all. He must've called then. God, he hoped he wasn't going insane and losing time now and not just his sanity. "Alright then. I'll get dressed then, shall I?" Without another word, he stood, heading towards his room, wincing at the stiffness of his back. When he was out of sight, Sherlock released the breath he didn't know he was holding. He'd agreed. Thank goodness. Hurrying to his own room, he finished dressing, in his usual outing attire, silently making his way back into the middle of the flat just behind John, who made his way downstairs and out the door.
With hesitancy and an attempt at cheer, Sherlock asked, "Doesn't it feel good to be out and about?" Sherlock knew he wasn't being himself, not really, not when he would rather have just dragged John with him to nowhere in particular to straighten things out, whether through discussion or an actual greeting, perhaps involving- This train of thought itself was rather unusual for him, if he thought about it. But then again, was a hug so out of the question? Perhaps John wasn't the only one who thought they were losing their mind.
"I… hadn't realized how much I missed it until now." The early spring brought slightly chilly air, but the budding flowers and sunshine that filtered through the small thicket of clouds up above just right produced a rather beautiful morning. Traffic was light, for now, and the city was quiet, though not completely silent. It never really was. They strolled through the streets together, not needing to worry about being recognized or spotted at the current hour. The silence that had endured through the walk for the past hour or so soon disappeared as Sherlock, and his suddenly overactive conscious, spoke up rather quietly.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, looking straight ahead in the direction they were walking. John turned his head to look at him.
"… What?" He stopped. Sherlock turned to look at him, remorseful.
"I'm. Sorry," Sherlock annunciated. "I never knew I'd drive you to this. I should've told you." John only stared at him for a moment before he continued walking, silence returning for a time. Their surroundings were little more than blurs of color, their only real focus on each other. They stopped every now and then, looking over the city, over the water, over the scenery. They spent hours in companionable silence, just taking in the sights together for the first time in two years. At around noon, they (as in John) picked up some takeout that they ate along the rest of their walk around the edge of the city. After a couple more hours, they headed back through the city into more familiar parts. Eventually, John spoke again, quiet, almost reserved.
"Yeah, you should've," came his reply. "But then, I'll never get the answers I want, will I?" He stopped once more, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize they were coming back around Baker Street, looking around in mild confusion. He hadn't even noticed they'd gone in a circle around the city. Before he could say anything, Lestrade came striding down the sidewalk. Sherlock quickly ducked into an alleyway between buildings, much to John's confusion.
"John! You're out and about for once! Got a minute?" The detective inspector skidded to a stop in front of him, a grin practically splitting his face almost in two. John smoothed down his jacket before replying, curious.
"Um, sure, yeah. Something wrong?" Sherlock observed unobtrusively from the alleyway. Phase two of the plan, though Greg was unaware of his being alive.
"I… I know you don't usually… take cases, but I was wondering if you'd look into something for me." He took a file folder out of his jacket, smile still present on his face. John accepted the item, skimming through it before glancing back at Greg.
"What's got you all smiley today, Greg?" The detective inspector had the nerve to blush, smile turning sheepish. Sherlock took a closer look at him. Jacket, ring, blush, expressions, John, Lestrade, his thoughts supplied. 'His new jacket suggests someone bought it for him as a gift, an expensive gift. Not new, but very well taken care of. A favorite then. Blushing. A gift from a lover then. Knowing Greg, a long term relationship. New girlfriend? Maybe, probably, most likely. Oo. Must be very serious. There's a promise ring hanging around the man's neck on a chain. Why a promise ring? Well, Greg wouldn't be one to hide a marriage or engagement, and by the way John's smiling, he seems to already know why Greg seems so suddenly lovestruck. He had something to do with getting the two together with a knowing expression like that. Who would John go to the trouble of getting together with Lestrade, however? It can't be just any woman; that's not either of their styles. Someone they both know… Not an ex, not a stranger… Mutual friend? Possibly. Mmm… co-worker? Maybe not.'
"He, uh… we… at the station, not in front of people! He…"
"Is it something serious? You live together, he gave you a promise ring… Did he say, "I love you?"" The detective inspector looked away now with a soft chuckle.
"No, nothing overly serious. It's just… you know how he is with affection, words rather than action, isn't one for "trivial conversation" or nonsense. He's not a touchy feely person, but he… kissed me, in my office." Greg would not mention the make out session they'd had in the shower this morning. Sherlock's eyebrows rose. He? He had missed much while he was away, Dear God. But, wait. The two lived together? He filed that away for later reference. He watched John smile and clap the man on the shoulder.
"Well, congrats, mate. Jesus, imagine the look on Sherlock's face if he knew about you two. He'd lose his head. So this case. Murder?" Greg seemed shocked at the mention of his name, Sherlock observed. Why is that? Wait, lose his head if he knew about Greg and whom being together? After an overly long shocked pause, Greg answered.
"Uh, yes. We suspect a serial killer. Same MO, same time of death, same message scrawled across the crime scene, "For the ones we've lost." It's baffling. We know it's a serial killer, but we have zero suspects and plenty of leads that take us nowhere. Myke offered to help, this morning. We, well, I thought you might rather like a case, like old times." John gave him a grim stare.
"We've talked about this, Greg. I told you that I am more than happy to examine a body, but I will not help you solve crimes like some, some." 'God forbid,' he thought. "Consulting detective." Lestrade crossed his arms and sighed as John attempted to hand him back the file.
"Fine, I'm calling in that favor, then." John gave an exasperated groan.
"That's not fair, and you know it," he argued, but let the arm with file file fall to his side.
"Well, it's either that, or Myke can arrange for you to be brought to Scotland Yard. I could, actually." As he said that, a black car rolled to a stop alongside them in the street. John looked incredulous and Sherlock refused to believe his eyes. There was a perfectly good explanation to this, wasn't there? John once again groaned.
"There's no use saying no, is there?" Greg shook his head, motioning for John to get in first. John did so reluctantly, and Greg followed. It was then that Sherlock realized he'd have to follow them another way as they drove off. Great. Glancing around and emerging from the alleyway, Sherlock spotted someone parking a motorbike in front of Speedy's. Briskly walking towards them, he bumped into them, quickly picking the keys out of their pocket with a hasty fake apology. He waited until their back was turned while they were inside before climbing on, starting it up, and speeding off. Reviewing the mental map of London in his head, he went through all the possible routes Mycroft's car could take them. When he narrowed it down to just a few, all relatively within the same ETA, he adjusted his own to get there a little before John and Lestrade.
He zipped down quiet streets, through the normal road traffic, down through the underground, until he came to a halt down the street from a small designer store. Yellow tape blocked off entry to the back as a few squad cars surrounded the building from the street. Sherlock slipped into the shadows, staying out of sight and going around the other way, cutting behind other buildings. He stopped short just a few feet of the crime scene. It looked oddly familiar, and it was almost like he was having an out of body experience as he saw himself lying in place of the victim for a moment. He shook his head. Snap out of it. John had his back to him, leaning down and examining the body while Greg and Mycroft spoke quietly to one another, looking overly fond. Why in the world? Greg leaned down next to John to look over the body, which is when Mycroft motioned furiously to him to get out of sight before either of them noticed. Greg stood after another minute, bidding the other two farewell, and it was then that Sherlock emerged. He strode up behind John and took a look at the victim as well, but not before antagonizing his brother.
"Something you're not telling me, brother? You looked like a teenage girl who just returned home from her first date, not that you'd have any experience in that area. Girls tended to avoid you like the plague." John failed to stifle a giggle, and Mycroft fought extremely hard not to scowl and whack his baby brother upside the head. Doctor Watson is unaware of Sherlock's return being legitimate. Springing it on him now would only be disastrous, for his health and sanity. Besides, Sherlock had made him promise not to say a word, that it was his duty to inform John of his return and his time spent away. He now wondered why he agreed to such a thing.
"Something funny, Doctor Watson? Did you find a joke scrawled across our murder victim?" he snapped, trying to bring attention back to the case. John returned to being serious after another giggle escaped him, going into doctor mode.
"No, though there is a note attached to… Snowdrops?" He held up the stem of a bundle of drooping white flowers with ovular shaped petals ending in a sort of rounded point. Early blooming flowers. It was the beginning of spring, after all.
"The flowers don't matter. What does the note say?" Mycroft questioned.
"For the ones we've lost. Mean anything to you?" Mycroft shook his head. Sherlock seemed perplexed, John noticed.
'Snowdrops, snowdrops… Why do they seem so familiar?' Sherlock asked himself.
"Time of death: three P.M. Cause of death: impact upon hitting the ground, resulting in a crushed skull-"
"Exactly the same as the others. We knew that going in. Anything else?" Mycroft asked impatiently.
"Well, I don't know. You're the one who can do deductions here. Do you see anything else?"
"Look under his jacket," Sherlock told John quietly, only loud enough for him to hear. He stood right over his flatmate's shoulder, staring at the unmoved jacket on the body. Something about it was… off. John analyzed the jacket before he saw burned ends of fabric on the victim's upper left. He told as much to both of them, who hadn't noticed it, before pulling it aside. Where their heart would have been, there was a gaping hole of burnt flesh.
"Dear God," John exclaimed quietly. 'Sherlock would've loved this.' "Well, this just got interesting."
"Interesting indeed," Mycroft whispered in equal measures intrigue and horror. He hated death, murder especially. It was unnerving and made his insides turn. He didn't know why he agreed to take the case. He thinks fondly, however, of the things he does for Greg before returning to the task at hand.
"So, same M.O., same time of death, same message… Do you think the killer's trying to tell us something?" John directed the question at Sherlock, though he faced Mycroft when he asked it.
"This is your forte, Doctor Watson, not mine. After all, you are consulting detective today." John stood, an eyebrow raised.
"Oh yeah? So what does that make you?"
"Emotional support," he deadpanned. He paused for a moment. "It is good to see you out of the flat, John." John, for the first time in over two years, gave a small, but genuine smile.
"It's good to be back in whatever way I can. I can't sulk forever, now can I?"
"No, I suppose not." Leaning down by the body, trying to keep as straight a face as possible, Mycroft rattled off what he could observe.
"Judging by the state of our victim's clothing, they were wealthy, though not in an honest line of work if the tattoo on their neck is any indication. They were part of some sort of crime syndicate, though not one I recognize…" He sighed, quickly looked over the rest of the body. He didn't touch anything longer than necessary, even with the plastic gloves on his hands. "From the position, it seems they fell of their own accord or were pushed from behind, facing away from the building. No other signs of injury or a scuffle prior to their little trip down from the roof. No sign of a phone on their person or any form of identification. British male, late thirties, no family, no relatives, no one to miss his presence should he vanish." Taking off and discarding the gloves, he pulls out his phone to take a few pictures of the neck tattoo for later reference. After that, he stood up again, staring at John, almost daring him to question his deductions.
"Crime syndicate you said?" Turning the victim's head a little, he saw an impossibly small mass of symbols and letters interwoven in a strange pattern, forming some abstract shape. The letters he could make out were an m, two c's, and a j. "What in the world…? I haven't a clue." He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, who shrugged, lost in equal measure. John mentally slapped himself. He's in your head! He knows only what you know. Why would you ask him if he recognized the symbol when you obviously don't? He shook his head as he stood. Sherlock is gone. He's not standing behind you on a case. He's buried six feet under in a cemetery on the other side of the city. "Should we let forensics take it from here?"
"It would be wise," Mycroft answered.
As they began leaving the scene, going to find Lestrade, Sherlock told John softly, "Don't listen to him. The flowers are important. The snowdrops mean something, I just can't remember what." He had a slightly crazed look in his eye, the kind he got when he had an answer on the tip of his tongue, but just couldn't quite put all the pieces together. John nodded nonetheless, not noticing him come back the way he came to avoid being seen. Snowdrops weren't an unusual sight-well, perhaps at a crime scene. Mildly poisonous if eaten, they symbolize hope for the beginning of spring and the end of the current winter. Beyond that and their lovely appearance, there wasn't anything of significance about them that either of them could recall.
"I assume I'll have to find a cab home?" John questioned as he and Mycroft reached Lestrade, who was discussing something that looked important with Anderson.
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not so like my brother that I would leave you without transportation." Lestrade shooed Anderson away a little after that, turning to his partner and friend.
"Well? Find anything?" he inquired.
"Nothing that will lead us anywhere, except perhaps the symbol on his neck, though I've never seen anything like it before. I'll run it through my databases and see what I can find."
"What symbol?" He showed the detective inspector the photographs on his phone. "Could you make any sense of that?"
"I could pick out three different letters," John began explaining, "An m, c, which appears twice, and a j. Haven't the faintest idea what they mean. Maybe they're an acronym, perhaps initials. Other than that, I'm a lost cause."
"Thanks for looking anyway. It's great to have you back, John," Lestrade stated with a small smile. As he and Mycroft were driven back to Baker Street, John couldn't help but feel a huge weight being lifted from his shoulders. Granted, there was still plenty left there, but he could, for some reason, breathe a little easier now that he'd engaged in something that, two years ago, would've been daily routine. As he sat in his chair in 221B, facing Sherlock, he couldn't help but think that it was good to be back.
Closing A/N: Aaaaand there's chapter one. It's weird, because I usually post prologues with the first chapter (as in within five minutes of each other) and epilogues with the last chapter. It took me a while to actually get the story moving. This might be the last update for who knows how long because I have a fic request to finish and a fic chapter set during Thanksgiving to start, but I hope I haven't disappointed. See y'all next chapter!
