A few hours later, John found himself walking down a busy street in the dark, attempting without success to hail a taxi. His leg hurt, and he was tired, and with every step he mentally cursed Sherlock for getting him into this. Donovan's right, he thought, He really is a psychopath. I mean, to leave someone with a bad leg without a way home is horribly inconsiderate by itself, but when that person is your soulmate? Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the tattoo wouldn't be there if he checked again. As he started to roll up his sleeve, a courtesy phone started going off next to him. That's strange, John thought. He passed it by, and the incident was nearly forgotten until it happened again. John shook his head, confused, but brushed it off as coincidence until a third phone rang. This time, he ducked inside the booth and picked up the receiver. 'Hello?' he said. A haughty voice answered him, making a few vague threats regarding Sherlock and then ordering John to get into the car. 'What car?' John asked, but the man on the other end had already hung up and a sleek black car had pulled up next to the phone booth. John sighed, hung up the phone, and walked to the car. The door was opened for him as he approached, and he slid inside. There was a woman in the seat next to him. She was wearing official looking clothes and he assumed she would know something about the caller or where he was being taken, but she didn't answer when he tried to ask her. He was driven to an empty warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Inside, a tall, sharp- featured man was waiting for him. Partway through another series of vague threats about Sherlock, his phone beeped. He checked it.
Baker St. Come now if convenient.
-SH
A few seconds later, as second text:
If inconvenient, come anyway.
-SH
And a third:
Could be dangerous.
-SH
'Was that him?' The man, who had introduced himself as Sherlock's archenemy, asked.
'None of your business,' John said.
'So loyal already. Makes one wonder if there's something else going on here,' the man said, smirking.
'That's none of your business either,' John said, defensive man's controlled expression faltered for a moment, clearly he had been expecting a flat denial. He quickly regained his composure and began dangling large sums of money in front of John in exchange for information about Sherlock. When John refused his expression soured and he explained, rather unpleasantly, that the car would take John home, or 'Wherever he wished to go.' Hurriedly, John got back into the car and asked to be taken to Baker St. Sherlock could be in danger. He had to help him, and fast.
'I would be in jail without this man!' Sherlock and John were sitting in a small Italian restaurant with a view of the corner where they hoped the killer would show up. A large, jolly man named Angelo had seated them, and now he was fluttering around their table singing Sherlock's praises. Apparently Sherlock had gotten him off a murder charge a few years ago. 'You went to prison anyway,' Sherlock reminded him, 'I got you off by proving you were across London breaking and entering!' Angelo just laughed and said, 'Here, I'll bring you a candle. More romantic!'
'Yes, thank you!' John said without thinking. Angelo bustled off, returning a few moments later with a tealight in a glass votive. Sherlock had been staring at John since Angelo left for the candle and seemed relieved that the man had left. 'John, I don't want to give you a wrong impression,' Sherlock said.
'What?' John asked.
'John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work…' Sherlock said slowly.
'But-' John said, 'But we're…' He trailed off, seeing the look on Sherlock's face. 'Never mind.'
Sherlock studied John's face. He appeared to be thinking hard about something. 'There's something… No, not that… No… Maybe… No… Hmmm… I wonder…' Sherlock reached across the table and grabbed John's wrist. Before he could pull away, Sherlock had pushed up his sleeve, revealing the tattoo. 'John,' he said, 'Is this… real?'
'What?' John asked.
'Is it real? You haven't faked it?'
'No, of course I haven't!' John said, 'What do you take me for?'
'I'm sorry,' Sherlock said, 'It's just… I haven't got one.'
'What?' John asked, 'How can you not have got one?'
'I don't know, but look,' Sherlock said. He held out his arm and pushed up his sleeve. 'There's nothing there, see?'
John stared at Sherlock's arm, at the pale skin that continued unmarred into the rolled up sleeve of his shirt. There was no tattoo, not even a faint line. 'That can't be right,' John said, 'Let me see the other one.' Sherlock nodded and rolled up his other sleeve. That arm was umarked as well. 'What does this mean?' John asked.
'I don't know,' Sherlock answered, 'I've never seen a record of this happening before.'
'Well what are we going to do? I mean, where do we go from here?'
'I don't know,' Sherlock replied, his voice somewhere between flustered and frustrated, 'I don't- Wait. Look!' John followed his eyes to the street corner. A cab had stopped there but no one was getting in or out. 'Is that him?' John asked, 'Is that the killer?'
'Let's find out,' Sherlock said, 'Come along, John!' And with that, he was out of his chair and on his way to the door, John full of excitement and following eagerly.