I Need A Doctor - Chapter 2
Sorry for the long wait.
I don't own anything Sherlock-related.
Chapter Two
"It's bizarre," Lestrade commented. The three – Lestrade, Sherlock, and John – stood in the middle of an alley between a gym and an apartment building. In the center of the alley was a corpse. Just by taking a brief look at the body, Sherlock could determine a fair amount of details about. The victim was approximately thirty-two, male, 6'2, 120 kilograms, and happily married judging by the rather worn wedding ring on his left hand. The cause of death was the bizarre part. If Sherlock didn't know any better, he would have said that this was your average, run-of-the-mill suicide – the man's wrists were slit, and he was lying in a puddle of blood.
However, the peculiar thing was: this man had never been in the gym next-door in his life. He had never been known to work out here. He had never shown any interest in the place. And now he was lying there as if he had just left the building via a side door that led into the alley. Even stranger: he lived on the other side of London! He didn't work in this part of the city, nor did he come here for any reason . . . So why was his body here?
Another odd thing Sherlock made note of: the cuts on his wrists. They were . . . very precise and clean . . . Almost as if someone had carefully, almost surgically cut them. If the man had done it himself, the cuts would be uneven, deeper in some places and shallower in others – messy. But these were so clean, as if a doctor had cut them.
John had clearly noticed this as well. "The cuts are too clean," he said immediately. "If they were self-inflicted . . . There's no way . . . I mean, unless this man was a surgeon. Has the VIC been identified yet?"
Lestrade shook his head. "I've got my boys working on it right now – scanning his face, asking around. All we know so far is that no one has seen him before – not the gym owners, not the regulars – no one in this part of the city."
"I could have told you that much," Sherlock muttered. "It was clear from the beginning that he didn't live in his part of the city. I also could have told you he wasn't a gym regular. Look at him – he's got a gut on him . . . Not very physically appealing to the eye. Was there a wallet, or any identification on his person?"
"Negative," Lestrade answered, running a hand through his graying locks. "The killer must've swiped it."
"Don't see how that could be beneficial to the killer, though," John murmured. Sherlock could almost hear the trepidation in his voice, as if he was afraid that his comment would invoke Sherlock to say something smart. Normally, he might've, but not today. He'd done enough damage to his dear doctor already.
"Might be keeping it as a souvenir," Sherlock offered with no sarcasm, and with no condescending tone. "Keep the man's license as a trophy of sorts."
"Or," Lestrade said, sounding almost exasperated. "It could be the obvious: the guy was looking to steal the credit cards, and all the money in the guy's wallet. Call me crazy, but I think that's a more likely explanation."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but felt a small glimmer of affection for the detective. "Lestrade, have you learned nothing from working with me and chasing after criminal masterminds?"
Lestrade produced a grim smile before giving Sherlock a friendly pat on the arm. Sherlock remained still, not used to any kind of physical contact. The only one that Sherlock ever really allowed to touch him was . . .
Sherlock tried to avoid the doctor's gaze as Lestrade headed toward the entrance. Sherlock followed dutifully, keeping his eyes lowered to the ground. Did John really have no idea how important he was?
"So, we'll call you if we have any leads," Lestrade murmured. "We're in the process of dusting the place for fingerprints—"
"Don't bother, you won't find any," Sherlock told him immediately. "Whoever this killer is, it's clear that he took great care killing that man. He went through all the trouble to bring him here."
"Why a gym though?" John wondered aloud.
"Maybe it was meant to be seen as ironic," Sherlock offered with a small smirk. It was clear that the victim never worked out a day in his life. Maybe the killer was trying to make some kind of statement that only he and cynical people like him would find amusing. "I mean . . . a somewhat overweight fellow found dead in a gym?"
"Sherlock," John said in that scolding "don't-be-so-insensitive" tone.
He had to admit: it was wonderful having John back at his side.
"Well, if you two think of who this guy might be . . . or how we're gonna find him—"
"Doctors," Sherlock said. "Look for doctors."
"Why?"
Sherlock sighed. More often than not, Lestrade was a rather intelligent man . . . But sometimes, the things he missed or overlooked was just embarrassing. "It's clear that the man who did this had some kind of surgical experience. We should be on a look out for someone of that nature."
"I'll ask around," John piped up. "I know a few of the doctors and surgeons here in London – I'll talk to them; see what I can find out."
Sherlock again realized how useful it was to have John around. He would be able to speak to potential suspects without being suspicious himself. "Good idea, John," he praised, perhaps stiffly. Sherlock knew that if he wanted to keep John at his side, he needed to show the doctor that he appreciated him. He needed to show John that he . . . cared.
John almost beamed at that. He looked at his shoes, seeming almost sheepish. "Uh, thanks," he murmured. Sherlock could hear the happiness in his voice, and felt his lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile. The things John Watson could do to him.
Sherlock walked John up to the flat he and Mary shared, intending to bid him farewell at the door, and then quietly and furtively head back to 221B and busy himself with an experiment . . . Or perhaps his violin. He hadn't played it in ages, and he had to write a song for John and Mary for their wedding.
Their wedding.
Sherlock still had a hard time wrapping his brain around that. Everything else came so easily too him – it was so easy for him to grasp and understand, but not this. This – this occasion, these feelings he harbored – he knew nothing about, and he was groping around in the dark like a damned fool.
John led the way, climbing the stairs to his flat, and Sherlock followed, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and feeling a little nervous. He hoped that they wouldn't run into Mary again. Their last meeting was more than awkward. Mary seemed like a nice woman – someone that was perfect for John – but there was something about her that Sherlock just couldn't put his finger on. She was so hard to read . . . so hard to see. It made him uneasy.
When they reached the flat, John took out his key and opened the door. Stepping inside, he turned to face Sherlock. His eyes were oddly dull and almost remorseful. "See you tomorrow?"
Sherlock cocked his head to the side slightly. They had nothing planned for tomorrow. They had nothing to do – the case was currently at a standstill until Lestrade and his traveling flea circus could identify the body. "For what, John?"
John's tongue darted out and moistened his lips. Sherlock tried too hard to ignore it. "I was just thinking that maybe we should go talk to Molly," John offered. "See if she has any input on it . . . Or maybe ask her if she knows anyone that could potentially be the killer."
Talking to Molly wasn't exactly high on Sherlock's to-do list. He had yet to visit his former co-worker and wasn't exactly eager to. He knew that Molly liked him in a way that he didn't understand, or approve of. Sherlock had nothing against Molly – she could be a little naïve at times, and that's putting it nicely – but she just wasn't his type . . . And that wasn't her fault . . . Sherlock just wasn't . . . into that kind of thing.
"I suppose it could be potentially beneficial," Sherlock allowed, seeing the hopeful look on John's face. I have to get back into his good graces, he thought determinedly. "After, maybe we could—"
"John? Who are you—oh! Hello, Sherlock."
Sherlock nearly cringed when he heard Mary's voice. He knew that she would invite him in for tea, or something of the like, but he wasn't really interested. Sherlock also knew that if he refused Mary, or was too brusque with her, John would be offended.
Could he ever win?
"Hello, Mary," he replied, a bit stiffly. He didn't miss John's disapproving look.
"Would you like to come in?" she asked, coming to the door. Sherlock watched, a new, alien emotion flaring within him, as John snaked his arm around Mary's waist.
"No thank you," Sherlock answered, trying his best to sound like he truly regretted it. "I should probably be getting home. I promised Mrs. Hudson I would play my violin for her this evening. She's having a couple of old friends over, and she wanted me to provide the entertainment."
John studied Sherlock with uncertainty, but Mary seemed to accept that answer. "Oh, well some other time, then?"
"I'd love to," Sherlock lied through his teeth.
Mary smiled and kissed John's cheek. "Well, I'll leave you two to whatever it was you were talking about," she said.
John smiled and kissed her forehead before letting her flitter off to wherever she'd come from.
Sherlock was doing all he could to keep his lunch down.
"So . . . a concert for Mrs. Hudson?" John asked with narrowed eyes.
Sherlock shook his head. "Don't ask. Anyway, tomorrow; Ten-ish?"
After mulling over the time for a moment, he nodded. "Sounds good. Want me to meet you at your place?"
Sherlock didn't know how he would feel having John in his flat again after all this time . . . It would be bittersweet – that part was practically a given. Straightening up slightly, he did his best to hide whatever it was he was feeling inside. "Sure."