A/N: This work has some influences from ACD's canon (and Moffat and Gatiss's too, of course), and other things may trickle in subconsciously, but I am using extensive creative license.
"John Watson," he answered the phone without checking the caller ID, focusing on the water he was pouring into the kettle.
"John? It's Greg." Lestrade. Why was Lestrade calling him now? They hadn't talked for weeks.
"What's up?" John asked, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder and reaching up for a mug. His fingers wrapped around two handles automatically, and he had to pause to make sure he only brought one down. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and focused on Lestrade's words.
"We were wondering if you could come down here."
"Did I do something wrong?" John couldn't imagine what use they would have for him, now that he was a consulting detective's assistant without the consulting detective.
"Not at all. But we – well, I'd – like you to take a look at something." John's expression narrowed.
"Don't pity me, Greg."
"No, this isn't pity. I'm requesting assistance from a friend, that's all."
John debated that for a moment. There was no doubt in his mind this was more than just an "I need help" kind of call, but it had been a while since he'd gotten out of the flat other than to go to the surgery.
They had given him a couple of weeks off (which he didn't even realize because he hadn't contacted them) during which he distracted himself. He spent a lot of time walking around London, learning roads he'd never seen before because he avoided all the ones he had. Then one day Sarah called and said his leave was almost up, and he decided that continuing his work there would be the healthy way to go about things. He'd been back the next Monday morning.
Greg was still waiting on the other end of the call. John wasn't sure he was ready to talk to anyone, and he didn't want the familiar place to bring back memories, but maybe this would be another healing step. Maybe he needed to stop teasing at the edges and just rip the band-aid off.
"Okay, I'll come. Right now?"
"Soon as you can." John started dissembling his tea preparations. "We found this woman dead in a locked room."
"What was the cause?" John asked, pulling his jacket off the hook and slipping in his arms.
"Bullet wound. But it was locked from the inside, and we can't find any weapon." Lestrade sounded honestly frustrated.
"Hmmm…" John found himself more distracted that he thought he'd be, unintentionally interested. "Alright. I'm on my way."
"Great. Thank you."
"See you soon." They hung up and John flagged down a cab.
…
When he arrived at Scotland Yard Lestrade was waiting to walk him in. Surprisingly, John felt grateful. It was a childish dependency, and one he could do without, but it gave him something to focus on and made him feel like he wasn't being stared at quite so much.
"John." Lestrade held out his hand and John took it with a nod, the two of them then turning and walking to the DI's office.
"Do we have a motive?" John asked.
Lestrade shook his head. "Not yet. We're interviewing the family members. The only person we haven't been able to get a hold of is her boyfriend."
"Is that weird?" John thought it was, but he felt better phrasing it as a question.
"Usually, yes. In this instance, apparently he's on holiday."
"Without her?"
Lestrade shrugged. "Okay, so, a bit weird, yeah. But his ticket was scanned and his flight left on time. It looks like his phone doesn't have service in the States."
John nodded and looked at the folder Lestrade handed him. The victim's name was Emily Morstan. The pictures were thorough, getting the body from all angles as well as several shots of the room, which appeared to be a bedroom. They even had some with the doors of the wardrobe open.
John squinted, looking closer. Something seemed…off. Lestrade watched him curiously.
"What do you see?"
John shook his head mutely. Then he paused. "Why was she shot twice?"
"We're not sure. Do you want to see the body?"
John bit his lip. His patience was already wearing thin, and he could hear the whispers outside Lestrade's door.
But this was interesting. John felt more alert than he had in days, and it was a nice break in the monotony that had consumed his life.
"Sure."
Lestrade nodded and the two of them headed to the morgue.
…
Molly pulled out the body, sadness is in her eyes. She avoided looking at John, which bothered him a bit but at the same time he understood. They hadn't actually talked since…well.
John shook his head and focused on the newly revealed body. She was young, probably in her early twenties. The bullet wound to the head was definitely what killed her, but there was another wound in her pelvis that, based on the coagulation of blood and lack of swelling, John deduced to have been made postmortem. Why would the murderer shoot her again, in that area, after she was already dead?
He shook his head; he didn't know.
Well, that was all well and good. The doctor stuff had always been pretty easy. But it didn't give him any more of an idea how she was killed in a locked room or who the murderer had been.
"She was alone when she died." Lestrade said, going to stand next to John. "But she didn't shoot herself because there's no gun."
"And it would be difficult to shoot your own pelvis after shooting yourself in the head." John added offhandedly, his eyes tightening as he took in the marks of self-harm on her arms and wrists.
When he looked up he noticed Lestrade's surprised expression.
"What?" John asked.
"How do you know that shot was second? We figured, it if was suicide, it could have been a form of personal punishment."
John nodded, understanding their thinking. "I see what you're saying, but no, she didn't kill herself. The body doesn't heal properly after death," he paused for the "obviously," but it didn't come. John blinked. "…which causes a slight change in the way blood clots and skin swells. That's I know that shot was second."
"Fantastic." Lestrade said, causing an ache in John's gut.
"Do you know you do that out loud?"
John closed his eyes briefly. "I don't see anything else here."
Lestrade nodded. "Would you like to go to the crime scene?"
John had made it this far. He may as well. "If you like."
Molly watched them leave, her eyes tearing a bit as she watched John's defeated tread, lacking the vigor and steadiness that used to define him.
…
Several policemen were still at the crime scene, the room roped off and the family members being questioned in other areas of the house.
John noticed Anderson when they walked in, but the man stayed uncharacteristically silent. He looked at John with interest, no annoyance or disregard in his expression. John met his gaze for a brief moment, but when he saw the pity he looked away. He wished he could wash himself of these feelings – it was hard enough making himself numb. When other people felt for him, it became impossible.
A young woman (John estimated about five years younger than himself, if the blond in her hair was natural) stood outside the tape across the doorway. Her eyes were puffy around the edges, indicating she'd been crying, but her face was calm. She smiled a bit when she saw him, which John found a little strange. He nodded his head toward her and then ducked under the tape, looking around.
The room looked just like it had in the photographs, minus the body. John glanced back, slightly concerned at this woman seeing the evidence of (her sister's?) the victim's death. She wasn't looking in the room, though, distracted by her phone. She seemed to sense his gaze and she looked up, meeting it. Her mouth twitched, and she wasn't smiling exactly, but it reminded John so much of his absent companion that he had to turn away and force himself to focus on the crime scene.
"Your men checked the room, right?" John asked Lestrade.
"Every inch. There's no way he could have gotten out. The window is still locked, which is also only possible from the inside. The glass hasn't been removed. And the walls are all uniform, there aren't any hollow spots. We even checked the floor," he gestured to where some boards had been lifted and then replaced.
"Hmmm…" John continued examining, his survey stopping when he reached the wardrobe. His eyes narrowed and he went into it, pushing aside the clothes and running his hand over the back. The wood was the same. He knocked, but it seemed thick all the way through.
He stepped out and to the side, and that was when he was able to put name to what had bothered him earlier.
"There's a hidden area in here." John said matter-of-factly, turning back to Lestrade. He looked at John in confusion. From the corner of his eye, John noticed the blonde woman watching them in fascination.
"How can you tell?" Lestrade asked, stepping in and knocking on the wood as John had done. John shook his head – it was well done, manipulating the acoustics so it wasn't immediately detectable.
"Look at the dimensions." Surely this was obvious? They better not be pulling his leg, letting him solve this to make him feel better. "The dresser goes all the way to the wall, yes? But when we go inside, there's not nearly enough space. It's like a sort of reverse-Narnia."
Lestrade nodded, getting the reference, and John felt unbalanced. Before he had time to dwell on it, though, he thought he heard something. A slight…shuffling, of sorts, like fabric against wood.
Not completely soundproof, then, he thought, reaching for the gun at the small of his back.
It wasn't there.
He hadn't brought the gun – in fact, it was still locked up in his safe, as he still didn't trust himself against the temptation.
Reacting quickly, he grabbed Lestrade's arm and pulled him out from in front of the wardrobe, quickly shutting its doors.
"He's still here," he said quietly, watching for any movement. "Get your men."
Lestrade made a motion with his hand and two men appeared, their expressions serious. Lestrade put a finger to his lips and pointed at the wardrobe. The four of them surrounded it, two on each side, and waited.
"He has a gun." Lestrade informed them quietly. Immediately the tension level in the room rose.
They waited, but nothing happened for long minutes.
John glanced back and saw the woman was still there, watching. He motioned for her to move and she did, stepping behind the wall. Then she poked her head around so she could see.
John rolled his eyes, but he found it just a little amusing. It was nice to see a woman fascinated by what was going on, instead of traumatized or crying. He knew he was making a generalization, of course, and he didn't want to imagine Harry's reaction to the assumption, but his time in the surgery exposed him to the heavier side of the average female's emotional spectrum.
They all remained quiet, waiting. Then John got bored and he reached across Lestrade to bang against the side of the wardrobe.
Lestrade gave him a "what the hell are you doing?" look, but John paid him no mind. He continued banging until he heard the inside door open and then he stopped, ready.
The doors to the wardrobe flew open and a young man stepped out, brandishing a gun. John ignored the apparent danger and lunged, wrestling the man to the ground.
The murderer wasn't expecting it. Wrongdoers with guns often assume it gives them uncontested power, but when someone stands up to them that power can change sides very quickly.
The man struggled, of course, but John had adrenaline coursing through his veins and the thrill of a fight like he hadn't felt in months. He knocked the gun from the man's hands and straddled him, holding down his hands. The other cops helped, grabbing his legs and handcuffing him, and soon enough they had the man restrained.
Once he was secure John got up, lacing his fingers behind his head to help him breathe after the exertion. Lestrade came back next to him, watching as the other two forced the man to sit on the edge of the bed.
" 'Every inch,' huh?" John quoted, still working on catching his breath. He chuckled slightly, just once, but the lack of a deep baritone joining him stole the laughter from his throat.
Lestrade looked at him oddly and then disregarded it. "I need to talk with him, but I'll need your statement."
"I'll wait over there," John motioned vaguely out of the room and Lestrade nodded, noting how he didn't fight it, didn't try to put it off.
John rolled his shoulders, stretching as he made his way over and ducked under the tape. The blonde woman was still there.
A little annoyed at himself by referring to her as just the "blonde woman," he walked over and held out his hand.
"I'm John Watson."
She took his hand. "Mary Morstan."
"I'm sorry about your sister." John tilted his head back for a moment.
"Cousin, actually." Mary replied, a bit of humor breaking through the sadness in her eyes.
"There's always something."
John didn't have time to dwell; Mary continued speaking. "You were amazing back there, though."
"I had a good teacher." John looked away.
Recognition lit up Mary's face. "Wait, John Watson? I read your blog. You worked with Sherlock Holmes!"
John had to reach for the wall to hold himself steady as his leg suddenly became unable to hold his weight. He felt lightheaded and his hand was trembling.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Mary's voice was immediately contrite. She reached out as if to comfort him, but then she hesitated.
John barely heard her. He slid down the wall and put his head in his hands, trying to force the memories out of his head.
"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."
"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"
"And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man."
"Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on."
"Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!"
"It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me…"
"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."
Black, smooth marble: "Sherlock Holmes"
John took several slow breaths, trying to control his heart rate. Mary sat down next to him, but he didn't acknowledge her. He opened his eyes and forced himself to examine the fabric of the carpet, to really see what it was doing. He had to get rid of the images flashing through his mind, of blue-green eyes and turned-up collars and barely-contained smirks…
The closer he looked at the carpet, the more he could see. Little pieces of fuzz and dirt, marking years of use. A tiny bug crawled through the strands.
Tentatively, Mary laid her hand on John's shoulder.
John didn't react, didn't lean closer or pull away. Her fingers were warm, he noted. Her thumb started rubbing softly, and a flicker of something akin to comfort passed through John.
For that brief, brief moment, he didn't feel quite so hollow.
It took John several more minutes to feel like he was in control, but once he did he looked up and gave Mary an approximation of a smile. It turned out closer to a grimace.
"Thank you," he said quietly. She was pretty, he supposed. He had stopped thinking about things like that since the fall, seeing them as unimportant. It was so hard for him to stop blaming people for just being alive that he didn't imagine he'd ever be able to have a normal relationship with anyone again.
But she had a nice smile. And her eyes were a bright blue, which he liked.
"Don't be sorry. I understand."
From anyone else, those words would have been meaningless. But she had just lost her cousin. She did understand. And here she was, comforting him.
This should be the other way round, John thought to himself. He had had time to get over it, time to feel better. This had just happened to her.
And, damn it, he had lost people before! Why was this one so much worse?
John welcomed the anger, the way it made him feel alive almost as much as the fight. And John used that to feel something else. He took that anger and remembered the momentary comfort and he forced it to spread, using it to rationalize his next words. He had to take further steps to move on, keep this from happening again.
"Would you like to go out sometime? Coffee, perhaps?"
Mary smiled, and the hand on his shoulder squeezed gently.
"Yes, John, I would."
John intended to get her details, but Lestrade came back.
"I need to talk with you, John," he said. John nodded and, with an apologetic look to Mary, stood up to follow Lestrade.
"I'll be back," he told her before walking away, out of earshot.
Lestrade looked at him, his expression serious.
"Do you want a job, John? I can't offer you one officially, unless you want to go through all the training, but you can do what Sh – " he noticed John's flinch and adjusted. " – what he did. And we can pay you for it."
"I don't need money." John said, remembering the last time he looked at his bank statement. He hadn't seen a will, but apparently he had been left everything. That or Mycroft was cushioning his account. The independence within John rebelled at being taken care of, but he figured it wasn't awful to let the money sit and accrue interest.
"However…" he really had enjoyed taking this case. Using the clues, figuring it out. It wasn't as spectacular a job as he had seen in the past, and he still wasn't 100% sure Lestrade hadn't just pretended to get John out of his funk, but it had felt good.
It had been so long since he'd felt anything resembling good.
"If you send me some stuff, I might look at it. I can't guarantee anything."
"Of course not. But thank you."
John nodded, and then Lestrade showed him the person who would take his account of what happened.
John got through it as quickly as he could, hoping Mary wouldn't leave before he could get her mobile. He needed a new distraction, and she was nice, and she seemed interested.
I'm not leading her on, he convinced himself, explaining to the officer how he knew where to look. It's just one date, it's not a proposal.
When he managed to get free Mary was still there, waiting.
"Hi, John," she said with a smile.
"Hello," he nodded at the phone in her hand. "Can I have your number, then?"
"Of course." They exchanged information and John promised to call her to set up the details of their date. She walked him to get a taxi, sharing stories about her cousin's life.
She's naturally happy, John realized as a funny memory made her smile. She was able to celebrate her cousin's life in death, instead of mourn the loss.
"How are you so happy?" he asked her before getting in the cab, his hand on the door.
Mary shrugged. "My cousin was not. She was depressed; I'm sure you saw what she did to herself. She had attempted suicide before. We weren't that close, but when that happened I decided I would be happy for her, because she couldn't be." Mary looked him straight in the eye. "I'm sad she's gone, and I miss her. But if I don't share the good memories, then no one else will."
John nodded, trying to see it from her point of view. He wished he could emulate that emotion toward death.
John lifted his phone. "I'll call you."
Mary nodded and smiled again, waving as the cab drove away.
John rested his head against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. He felt as if he could go home and sleep for days.
But first, he decided, I'll call Mary.