Regular Universe: Mirror John's Point of View
Two worried faces peered down at him. One was a man named Lestrade, John knew him as one of the Protectors who worked at the London office of New World Investigations, and the other was a twitchy lad with large protruding eyes and an unclean aura about himself.
"Billy, call for an ambulance," Lestrade said.
"No ambulance," John tried to croak out. They were ungodly expensive and often wouldn't come to this part of London anyway. Unless you were very wealthy, you got yourself to the A&E or died trying.
"I'm okay. Where am I?" he finally managed.
"Just lie back, John," Lestrade said. "You've taken a pretty big hit of current. The pub owner said he'd been having electrical problems for a while now. Seems you ran afoul of some faulty wiring. You stepped right on a live wire, mate."
"What?" John tried again. None of this made any sense at all. Unless he'd lost a big chunk of memory, he should be lying on his back in an abandoned pub with a blubbering orphanage manager handcuffed to a chair. Instead, he seemed to be in a much different room with people he didn't know.
He gaped at his surroundings. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought this was still the back room of the Boar's Head Pub. Only now the back room held neatly stacked shelves filled with bottles of larger, paper napkins and the largest containers of mustard and catsup he'd ever seen. Bright lights shone overhead and delicious smells of frying bangers floated over him.
"Where's Jameson?" he asked. His heart had finally slowed down, and he took a few deep breaths. For being electrocuted, he didn't feel that bad. He had a mild headache and his legs hurt, but otherwise, he felt like he could sit up.
"Help me," John said holding out his arms.
Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "All right, no ambulance. You're the doctor."
He heaved John into a sitting position. To his relief, he saw Jameson sitting in a much nicer version of the chair he'd been handcuffed to before and staring at John. Only now, his hands were twisted together in his lap free from restraints. He had no bandage on his head and didn't seem to be in any pain at all.
"I can't believe you survived that," Jameson said with genuine admiration from his perch in the chair. He had no blood on his clothes and seemed unaffected by any wound.
"Cheers for that," John retorted snarkily. "What's happened to that gash on the back of your head?" John asked struggling to stand up. Lestrade moved over to help him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and the room spun. He made out an apron hanging on a peg near him that cheerfully read Boar's Head Pub. How could that be?
"I want you to get checked out anyway, John," Lestrade said. "I think your brains might be a bit scrambled," he said making a twirling motion with his finger.
"I'm fine!" he bit out at the man. He turned around to get a better look at his surroundings. He now stood in the back room of an actual, functioning pub. He could see a bustling kitchen through a window in the door, and all the way into the main dining room. Where there had been only the eerie silence of a dead bar, now noisy customers crowded around ordering drinks, while waitresses carried plates of food on their arms. The Boar's Head Pub had miraculously come back to life in the time it had taken John to suffer a brief electrocution on the floor in the back room. Impossible. They must have moved him while he lay unconscious. But why?
Before he could assess any more of his strange circumstances, Sherlock himself came bursting in through the back door with a whirl of a very attractively tailored, long, black overcoat. John had never seen him wear it before, but he certainly cut quite a figure in it. John wondered if he'd donned it as part of a disguise. He also wondered what had happened to the pea-colored trench coat the detective normally wore.
"What's the matter with your phone, John?" Sherlock asked. "I've texted you three times for an update, and you haven't responded."
"He's been on the floor trying to deal with a bolt of current running through his system, Sherlock," Lestrade admonished. "Give him a moment to recover."
Sherlock took in the room in a glance. He saw the open circuit breaker box and the makeshift repair job the owner had done leaving a live wire to trail down the wall to the floor.
"John accidently stepped on that," Lestrade pointed at the open wire still sending out blue sparks. And caught himself quite a jolt. "It knocked him to the floor…"
The detective turned to look at him, and John could see panic in his eyes as he moved over toward him. "Are you all right?" he asked placing both of his large hands on John's shoulders as he looked him over thoroughly. John didn't know if he were more confused by the odd questions, or by the actual softness he saw in his Dom's eyes. There was genuine concern written all over Sherlock's face. John felt it might be worth getting injured more often if it meant Sherlock would look at him like he was the most important thing in the world to him.
"Yeah, I'm fine," John said, but I'm experiencing some odd effects from the electricity. It might have affected my memory." It was the only explanation he could think of to account for why he couldn't remember how he'd arrived in this place with these people dressed in clothes he could not remember putting on.
"I caught Jameson in the alley and brought him in…here," he said trying to reconcile his memory with his current situation. Perhaps his brains really had been scrambled and what he thought was an abandoned pub was actually this place. He wasn't sure what kind of mental damage that much voltage could cause him, but it had to be why nothing made any sense right now. He'd just cling to what he knew and let the rest work itself out.
"Sherlock, did you find the files?" John asked running a hand across his chin. It struck him he couldn't feel his beard, and it unnerved him. Did electrical current cause hair loss? He did a quick check of the hair on his head and found it all still there.
"What files?" Sherlock questioned. We've caught Jameson trying to leave the country and we're holding him here for the time being, but unless I can find evidence he's been embezzling, we'll have to let him go."
"You didn't find anything, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked with a frown. "You promised me you'd have evidence."
"You do," John insisted. "On the third floor. His accomplice hid files that recorded everything they've been up to."
"Accomplice?" Sherlock asked. He stopped moving, and his eyes got that glazed over look John knew from countless other cases. He was putting puzzle pieces together, and he let out an "Ah ha!" He grasped John by the shoulders again and smiled beatifically at him. "You are a beacon of light, John," he said turned back to Jameson's chair.
"Tell me, Mr. Jameson, you seem quite close the Rhonda Jones, one of the custodians."
Jameson swallowed nervously but remained silent.
"Where would she hide incriminating files," Sherlock wondered out loud ignoring everyone in the room as he usually did when he went into thinking mode.
"Third floor," John said. "You were looking for them on the third floor."
"Was I?" Sherlock said looking at John strangely. "I had thought they might be there, but I found nothing in the offices…Ah," he said interrupting himself. "The cleaning closet. I did a quick search of it, but I didn't open the boxes of cleaning supplies. Billy," he said addressing the unkempt man who'd remained standing quietly in the corner the entire time. "Please go up to the third floor and search the cleaning closet for a set of files." He handed over a set of lock picking tools and the young man left to carry out his task.
"Sherlock," Lestrade said warningly. "We need a warrant."
"Not if we found the files on Jameson's person, you don't," Sherlock said pointedly looking down at the floor.
Lestrade snapped his mouth closed and rolled his eyes.
"John, I didn't think to search the cleaning closet," Sherlock said. "But once you said accomplice, the pieces just clicked together."
"How did you know he had an accomplice?" Lestrade asked John.
John looked from one man to the other and decided he'd just tell the truth. "You told me, Sherlock."
"I most certainly did not," Sherlock said and frowned.
John couldn't fathom why Sherlock would lie about this. But, the detective always had his reasons for doing anything, and there could be something else here he'd missed in his current state, so he just let the whole thing drop.
Sherlock turned to Jameson and said, "You and Ms. Jones worked together to divert money from the Children's home to an offshore bank account. Fundraisers, government funds, and donations all diverted to you and your lover," Sherlock said through clenched teeth as he pressed his face right into Jameson's. "You stole from children who needed it the most. You disgust me."
John thought he would reach out and take Jameson's lapels and shake the man. He'd done worse to other culprits he'd caught. But, in an unprecedented show of self-control, his Dom stepped away from the man and stood up.
Out in the main room, the pub manager made the last call, and John heard the sounds of clinking glasses and cleaning up. So far, no one had come back to the store room disturb them.
Twenty-five minutes later, Billy came back and handed Sherlock a thick folder. The files. Lestrade flipped through ledgers that offered damning evidence against both Jameson and his accomplice. Case solved, John thought with relief. Now, NWI could prosecute, and justice would be served.
Sherlock handed the files over to Lestrade who said, "He was carrying these when you found him trying to sneak out the back door of this pub. Right John? "
"Right," John said feeling more out of his depth than ever before.
"Then, New Scotland Yard thanks you both for your help in this matter. If I need anything more, I'll let you know, but I believe I can take it from here."
What the hell was New Scotland Yard? John wondered. But he didn't have much time to ponder anything more because Sherlock said, "Let's get you home," while draping one long arm over his shoulders to guide him out of the room and back into the alley. Early morning had arrived during the time they'd spent in the Boar's Head. Sherlock helped him walk to the sidewalk where John saw an amazing sight on the street. The dark blight that normally cast a pall over this section of London had been lifted. Functioning shops seemed to flourish under bright streetlights. A twenty-four-hour café and bakery already had some customers queuing up for coffee and muffins. No graffiti or garbage littered the streets, and the quiet, early morning traffic buzzed by without a hitch. This former war zone now looked like one of the remaining "good" sections of London. John let out a little moan and swayed on his feet. He felt drained. The world swirled; he needed to sit down.
"Hang on. I've called a cab, John," Sherlock said. "It's been waiting for us over here." He waved one long arm, and it pulled up right next to them. John was shocked at how clean and well maintained the taxi looked, but was even more amazed that Sherlock could get one to come to this part of London. He slid into the seat and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder gratefully as he did after most cases. Sherlock huffed in a quick breath of surprise when John's head touched him.
"Maybe we could postpone my punishment 'till I feel better, 'kay Sherlock," John mumbled into the strange black coat.
"Why would I punish you, John?" Sherlock asked, and John could hear genuine horror in his voice. It caused him to look up into his Dom's face, and he did see the shocked surprise there. Sherlock's confusion just added to his own sense of disorientation. But, then he smiled because now he knew what was happening. This was often Sherlock's way of showing he cared. He'd remove punishments if he thought John was too injured or too tired to take them.
"Thanks," he said and put his head back on Sherlock's shoulder. He felt the detective wrap a very tentative arm around his shoulders, and he sighed into the half-embrace. Thank God for his Dom. If he closed his eyes, he wouldn't see the clean, bright streets flowing by. He could pretend it all away. At least the solid presence of Sherlock steadied him. They'd be back at Baker St. soon and he could get some sleep, and this would all make sense when he woke up.