A/N: By popular demand, here's the next chapter :p
You'd have to be blind not to notice Molly Hooper was happy to see Sherlock. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree and she was flustered to the point she dropped her clipboard. Twice. It was a bit embarrassing to witness, to be honest, and John was still at a loss as to why she was so taken with Sherlock when the man was so blatantly oblivious about her interest. And by oblivious, John meant oblivious on purpose. He even suspected Sherlock used her feelings to weasel favours out of her without ever having to give anything in return, except for an occasional smile or prolonged eye-contact. Poor Molly never stood a chance.
"Sure, I can run their names in the database if you want, Sherlock. Is it for a case you're working on?" she asked out of habit but John had no doubt she would look into it for him regardless.
"Lestrade mentioned something about a serial killer," Sherlock replied, making John wince.
It was not a lie, of course, but it was so very far from the truth, it physically pained him. Sherlock could really be an insensitive prick when he wanted to.
"The case I'm looking into might be quite old. Search for the last ten years. A couple by the last name of Granger. I don't have their first names, but you might want to look into the very boring sort: John, James, Emma, Molly… you get my drift."
John shot him a look. The sort of look with big round eyes that promised a sound scolding to come. John didn't mind the slight to his own given name, he was immune to it by now, especially coming from Sherlock, but Molly, who already had low self-esteem issues, wasn't faring so well at being so directly insulted. Her eyes looked distinctly moist under the harsh neon lights. However, Sherlock completely missed all the signs of impending tears and droned on:
"Only people with the most common of names would give such an original name to their child. Trust me, I know."
John gave up. Apparently, it was no use trying to get the logic-driven genius to act civilly towards the lesser human beings around him, simply because he didn't do feelings.
"Thank you, Molly," John said to change the subject. "We wouldn't ask if it was not important."
However, Molly was already too dazzled by one of Sherlock's insincere smiles to pay him any mind and she typed the search into her computer. She showed the list to Sherlock who went through it quickly, muttering "Too old… too young… too foreign… Silly name. Who names their offspring Norbert? Ah, now this is interesting. Print me these two Molly, if you please," the detective demanded pointing at two rows in the middle of the screen that had the same dates of death recorded in 2006.
They crowded around the reports and even Molly, who was probably used to this kind of thing, turned white as a sheet and excused herself. To be honest, John was losing his composure too and the coffee Sherlock had mercifully grabbed for him that morning soured in the pit of his stomach. He glanced at Sherlock's face, having expected one of his unfeeling comments to erupt by now but he, too, was stone-faced. The detective secreted the papers in his inside pocket and lead the way out. Molly was still nowhere to be seen though, so John quickly closed the tabs on her computer in the hopes she wouldn't get in any trouble the way Greg had, then he caught up with Sherlock, wondering what was going on in that bloody great mind of his...
°\_(°~°)_/°
They had gone right back to staring out their living room window at the empty flat across the street, the two autopsy reports lying on the table between them.
"What do you suppose really happened to them?" John asked, not sure if he really wanted to know or not, but 'molested by a pack of wild dogs" was not an acceptable cause of death given they lived in a quiet suburban neighbourhood, with uneventful jobs as dentists, and no known enemies, debts, or disgruntled patients. However, they had both been found in several pieces at home, while it was locked and in the middle of winter to boot, so that not even a window had been found cracked open. So did a pack of dogs ring the doorbell, make an open buffet of their hosts and politely close everything behind them? Not bloody likely. It's like the police didn't even try to solve the case and had found any excuse, not even a good one, rather than bother to solve the case and slap that onto the report so it could be closed and filed away. John looked at his friend who usually loved locked-door mysteries, but there was none of his childish glee to be found at the prospect. In fact, the more they worked on this 'case', the more Sherlock seemed quiet and pensieve.
"I wish we had pictures of the autopsy," Sherlock finally rumbled in a low voice, crossing his fingers in front of his face as he usually did when he was reflecting on something.
"I don't," John admitted. "It sounds as if it was a bloody carnage in there. I'm not sure even you would have made much sense of the bits and pieces. I know I wouldn't have. I don't think I could even try to, there's only so much you can take… Anyway, it's been... what? Almost four years since it happened and there were no photos attached in the file, I checked, so the point is moot."
"Yes, another oddity, that, but at least, we have an idea of what she's running from."
"Do you think she saw…"
"Given how scared she still is, I should think so. She was their only child. She probably discovered them and has been running ever since, which makes me think she was the actual target and her parents were just a message, or collateral damage."
John felt sick again although he hadn't been able to eat a bite since reading the report. No wonder the young woman was so suspicious and scared, not to mention angry at them for poking their noses into her life.
"So what should we do now?" he asked, hoping Sherlock had a solution, because he usually did and no one deserved to live in that much fear. Sherlock stared intently at the outside world and the dark flat across the street.
"We could start by joining the Neighbourhood and Home Watch Network," Sherlock said, which made John smile despite himself and eased a little of the tension that had been lingering since their discovery of their neighbour's violent past.
°\_(°~°)_/°
Miss Granger was back. She had turned the lights on and John noticed for the first time that they all turned on at the same time instead of having to switch them on one by one. She petted her cat, who appeared out of nowhere and she was about to sit on the couch like she had done the previous evening when she glanced up and stared right at them. She didn't look as crossed as she had the previous night, but she nonetheless purposefully walked to her window and slid the curtains shut with a flourish. He was certain she would have liked to slam them shut if that had been possible.
Sherlock chuckled.
"She's feisty, I'll give her that," Sherlock said with an alien tone of fondness in his voice. "You know, most people would have succumbed to madness, living with such fear everyday for years."
"Yes. Yes, I know," John replied, and he too felt oddly proud of the petite, yet strong woman who hid across the street with only an old, grumpy cat for company.
They were having cold sandwiches in front of their window when the curtains across the street were suddenly pulled back. Not by Miss Granger, who was sitting on her couch, arms crossed with a decidedly mulish expression on her face, but by a young man with messy black hair and round glasses. He glared in their general direction while they both held their sandwiches halfway to their open mouths, then he turned on his heels and strode out of view. A minute later he was out the front door and crossing the street with resolute steps. They listened to the doorbell ring shrilly, pushed forcefully and for far too long, then Mrs Hudson's light footsteps hurrying to open and a short exchange before he was let in and walking up the steps. His footfalls light but quick.
"Boyfriend?" John asked, wondering if Sherlock had been wrong about that after all. He was, sometimes, even if he didn't like to admit it.
"I doubt it, or he would have come by yesterday after we left," Sherlock answered before there was a sharp double-knock at their door.
"You take it, John. You look less threatening," Sherlock decided.
"Gee, thanks," he muttered, although he could see the sense in that.
If it was indeed an overprotective or jealous boyfriend, it better be the smaller, less good-looking of the two who opened the door and confronted him. John turned the handle and peeked out with his heart beating fast but he affected a calm manner. It wouldn't help him if he looked guilty before he even got a chance to explain himself.
"Yes?" he asked, looking into startling green eyes that flashed angrily.
"Don't you 'yes' me, Mister," the young man shot back, pushing his way in. "Aha! She said there were two of you," he said accusingly although he stood a good head and a half shorter than Sherlock.
Hell, their visitor was even shorter than him, which was a rarity in itself. But he didn't seem the least bit bothered that he was physically outmatched, outnumbered and in enemy territory, so to speak. Maybe Miss Granger's friend wasn't really spoiling for a fight, despite all the indicators pointing to the contrary, and the point was moot anyway because they were interrupted before John could try his hand at diplomacy.
"Harry!" a feminine voice snapped like the crack of a whip, and there was their neighbour, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. Her hair was untied today and she had an impressive mane of dark curls cascading around her face which John found quite fetching.
"Please, come in and join us, Miss Granger. The more, the merrier, isn't that how the saying goes?" Sherlock asked over the stranger's head.
John wasn't sure if Sherlock was doing that to be rude on purpose or if he'd just taken the habit having a short friend at his side. The stranger seemed to find it as offensive as John did at first and he felt like patting his shoulder in sympathy.
"Thank you," she answered flatly and entered before turning on her companion again. "Harry, you know you can't just go barging off like that, biting people's heads off. That temper of yours is going to get you killed one day."
"But… but they-" the young man, Harry, stuttered, pointing an accusing finger at him and Sherlock in turn.
"I told you: they didn't do anything wrong. They're just two nosy buggers who are too smart for their own good. If you'd left my curtains well enough alone like I'd asked you to, you wouldn't even know about them. Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson, if you could please stop spying on me, though, that would be greatly appreciated."
John shuffled nervously. He knew what they were doing was wrong, even if it was done with the best intentions in mind, and that anyone would assume they were a couple of peeping-toms preying on a pretty, isolated woman. He was hoping Sherlock would say something unexpected so they could avoid speaking of it, and Sherlock, bless him, never failed to provide.
"If you're hiding from someone, Miss Granger, why even display your initials on your doorbell for everyone to see?"
Harry snickered nastily.
"Because I don't think that monster even knows his alphabet."
"Harry!" Hermione cried out, punching him in the arm with surprising force going by her friend's wince. "I can't believe you just said that!"
"What? It's not as if I divulged anything," the young man whined, but, strangely enough, he kept glancing out of the window as if he expected to be struck by lightning at any moment.
"I told you," she said, tight-lipped. "Those two are way too smart, more so than me."
"I highly doubt that," he answered easily, glancing at them with a dismissive look.
And yes, John did feel insulted by that, but he only had to bite back a retort about the young man's manners. Sherlock, however, was not as forgiving, and proceeded to deduce him to death as he usually did when someone annoyed him.
"You're married and have two, no, three children and as many pets, one of which is a cat and another a very large bird. You have a highly stressful job, something to do with policing or... sword combat judging by your scars and calluses, with very little free time on your hands. Yet, you still took it upon yourself to visit your distressed friend in the middle of the week after work-hours which shows you place loyalty way above the good manners you so obviously lack. I'd say your wife is either very tolerant or...she knows Miss Granger herself and is also a close friend of hers, because your wife clearly loves you, and yet, she doesn't mind you leaving her home alone with a house full of screeching children and animals while you're here cheering up your lady-friend."
Sherlock paused, savouring the man's gobsmacked expression and continued.
"I could go on, but I think I've made my point."
"Wow, you were right Hermione. I never thought I'd see the day. You should marry the bloke," Harry said, looking at her with a teasing grin, while Sherlock looked torn between smug satisfaction at someone admitting he was brilliant and horror at the mere mention of marriage.
"I bloody well don't think so!" the woman exclaimed.
"Yeah, I guess you'd have to get over the creepy stalking act," Harry agreed.
John groaned. They were back to square one then.
"Do you want me to...?" Harry asked her, waving his hand airily in front of them both.
What was he hinting at? Getting rid of them? He didn't seem armed and John could easily take him in a fight, even without Sherlock's help.
"No," their neighbour mumbled, blushing, which set Harry off to a merry chuckle.
"Oh, you bad, bad girl. I should report you," he teased, making her blush more. "Both of them?"
"No, just the tall one," she said, gesturing at Sherlock who wore a puzzled expression. John had to admit that despite their two guests speaking English, he didn't understand half of what they were implying. "But he's kind of stubborn."
John snorted at the understatement.
"I can help you," Sherlock interrupted, looking straight at the woman.
"No, you can't. No one can," she muttered without the slightest hint of hesitation or hope.
"I'm a consulting detective for Scotland Yard," Sherlock insisted with a touch of pride. "I get called on the more complex, strange cases. I know I can help you. I have never failed yet."
Harry bit his lip and locked eyes with Sherlock, looking like he was actually considering the offer. Then, he glanced at his friend and they seemed to be having a silent conversation until she shook her head, her wild curls bouncing every which way.
"No, Harry. You know they can't. They're just mu- It's just too dangerous, okay? Have you forgotten people died because of me?"
She'd hissed those last words, probably hoping not to be heard, but they did, and he could see Sherlock already adding that piece of information to his mind palace. "People" she'd said, so more than just her parents. She wouldn't have used such a generic word if it had been just her parents. Her lower lip trembled and John could see she was trying very hard not to cry, but she eventually lost the battle and left in a hurry, mumbling an apology and a goodbye on her way out. He looked out the window, seeing her cross the street at a run and a minute later she was back in her flat, closing the curtains once more. The friend she had left behind cleared his throat.
"Well, you two don't look like such a threat after all. Just… Don't bother Hermione. She's had a hard enough life as it is."
The young man took his leave after that, the flat suddenly still and quiet after all the excitement. John thought this ranked amongst the strangest evening he had ever experienced. Sherlock looked quite confused too and he sat down, rubbing his temples, something he often did in preparation of entering his mind palace, so John kept quiet.
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock interrupted his crossword puzzle, which didn't really bother John since he doubted he would ever find five-down: 'nonsensical refusal', in eight letters.
"What I don't understand," Sherlock huffed. "Is that they know exactly who the culprit is. Yet, instead of alerting the authorities and having him arrested, she hides. She can't prefer living caged in fear rather than free in the open."
"Maybe they did," John argued. "Maybe her pursuer is just very good at hiding."
"And that's why she needs me," Sherlock replied, oozing confidence and, let's be honest, arrogance.
