Chapter 4
"Do you have a cigarette?" Sherlock asked, breaking the half hour long silence that had filled the cab. She had Jennifer Wilson's pink case lying across her knees and was strumming her fingers on it impatiently. John had been just about to doze off when her question roused him.
"Hmm?" He said, rubbing his eyes. He needed sleep, desperately. And a shower. I can't believe I crawled in a bloody skip full of rubbish for this woman.
"No, you wouldn't, would you? Being a doctor and all." She said, wrinkling her nose a bit.
"I didn't realize that you smoked." John said.
"You've known me for a day and most of the time you've spent with me has been indoors." Sherlock said.
"And in rubbish." John grumbled.
"Oh yes, we can't forget that." She said sarcastically.
"I rather hope I do." John quipped back.
"At any rate, your experience with me hardly qualifies you to make assumptions about my habits, since you're so clearly blind to nearly everything." She said.
"Well, I haven't failed to notice that you don't have any cigarettes on you, and since I've been with you ninety percent of the time since you left the house and haven't seen you smoke, that seems a bit odd." John said. No one had ever called him stupid before. Foolish, perhaps, but his intelligence had never been in question.
"I quit." Sherlock stated as a reward for his deduction. "Impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London, which is bad for brainwork as nicotine helps me think."
"It's good for breathing, though." John said, trying to be funny.
"Ugh, breathing." Sherlock rolled her eyes childishly. "Breathing is boring."
"Well, if I move in I'd like to breathe in the flat, from time to time, so I'd rather you didn't smoke." John said.
"When." Sherlock replied.
"Sorry?" John said.
"When you move in, not if. You've already made up your mind." She said, the corners of her lips turning up in a way that John found both appealing and a little unsettling.
"What, could you tell that from my aftershave or something?" John said, laughing nervously. How could I really resist when climbing in rubbish is the most fun I've had recently?
"You don't wear aftershave. You use an electric shaver, not a razor." She said as the taxi stopped. John's hand rose instinctively to his cheek as he looked out the window to see the flat building he was currently renting in.
John had been so exhausted moments ago but now the idea of leaving her and returning to his depressing little flat was daunting. "So. . . I'll call you, then? About the flat, I mean." He added the last part very quickly, so that he wasn't misinterpreted.
"I prefer to text." Sherlock said, watching him expectantly as she resumed her finger tapping. He got the hint and opened the door, leaning on his cane as he stood.
"Right." He said. "So, that's good night then." John said through the window after closing the door.
"Baker street. 221, please." She said to the cabbie who pulled away, leaving John standing on the sidewalk half amused, half annoyed. By the time John made it up to his flat, he was rethinking the shower in favor of immediate sleep. One thing for certain, with Sherlock around I'm not likely to get bored.
"Good evening, Doctor Watson." A cool voice said from the small chair in front of John's desk. John froze. The impulse to reach for his gun was strong, but he knew that it was in his desk drawer. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not armed either." The man said, as though he'd read John's mind. He was well dressed in a fine three piece suit and tie with his coat draped over the back of the chair and an umbrella resting against his knee. His dark hair was neatly combed and he wore a smug, cold smile. He looked very at ease, his long legs crossed and his fingers steepled in front of him. He didn't look like any sort of burglar that John had ever seen.
"Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my room?" John said, his voice stern and strong. His hand flexed around the handle of his cane, considering how effective a weapon it could be in a pinch.
"I dropped by for a chat." The man said, like they were old friends. "Please, have a seat."
"Offering me a seat in my own room?" John said.
"Yes, of course. . . how silly of me." He stood gracefully, sweeping up his coat. "Have mine."
"I'd rather stand." John said, narrowing his eyes.
"Your leg must be hurting." The man said, smiling like he knew some private joke.
"I'll ask once more, what are you doing here?" John said. The man sighed and examined the handle of his umbrella for a moment.
"What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?" He said.
"Who is asking?" John demanded.
"A concerned party." The man said. "Doctor Watson, I've infiltrated your apartment with little trouble, ensured that we won't be disturbed, and found out everything there is to know about you down to the name of your childhood pet. Bailey, by the way." He paused to smile. "I won't bother threatening you; surely you're clever enough to realize the situation you're in."
"And that's supposed to frighten me?" John said, standing a little straighter.
"It should, yes." He looked John up and down subtly. Handsome enough, but ordinary. She isn't after him for his looks. A doctor, that is a possibility. . . but he isn't practicing, so what could she need from him there? What does Sherlock want from this man?"Bravery is the kindest name for stupidity, don't you think?"
"I barely know her." John said finally. "If you're so connected, you know that."
"And yet in twenty-four hours you've seen a flat together and are out prowling crime scenes." The man said, his smile fading. "What are your intentions?"
"Intentions? Why the hell do you care? I'm guessing you're not friends." John said, raising his voice slightly.
"You've met her. How many friends do you imagine she has?" He asked, seeming amused once more.
"Right, so what does that make you?" John asked, wanting to roll his eyes.
"The closest thing she has to a friend." Family."An enemy." He said.
"An enemy?" John tensed.
"In her mind, certainly." The man said. For a second he looked a million miles away, as though remembering something. "To hear her say it, probably her arch enemy. She does so love to be dramatic." He said wistfully.
"Well thank God you're above all that." John smirked. His mobile beeped and he fished it out of his pocket, mostly to remind the man that he did, in fact, have his phone. Angelo's. Northumberland St. Come at once if convenient. SH the text message read. John's pulse quickened slightly. What could Sherlock want at this hour? We only just left each other.
"As to your intentions, I do hope that they aren't romantic." The man said, his expression looking genuinely concerned.
"I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that isn't any of your bloody business." John said, his patience wearing thin.
"It is, actually." The man said.
"It really isn't." John laughed tensely. "Bit old for her, aren't you?" His phone beeped again. If inconvenient, come anyway. SH said another text. Sherlock, what have you gotten me into?
"A little friendly advice, from someone who has known Sherlock much longer than you have. . . she is as human as your laptop and nearly as likely to return any affections you might be harboring."
"I'm not-we're just flatmates." John said quickly.
"So you are moving in together, then?" The man smiled slowly, pulling a small moleskine notebook from his pocket. "To-221B Baker Street. How nice. Central London. In that case, I am willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to help you out."
"Why?" John asked, taken back.
"Because you aren't a wealthy man." He flipped the page. "Why, your checking account has only-"
"What do you want?" John asked, cutting him off. The man bristled, clearly unaccustomed to not being respected.
"The only thing worth anything: information." The man said. "Nothing sordid. Her comings and goings, that's all. I just want to know what she's getting up to."
"Why do you care?" John desperately wanted to know who this man was. Another text message: It might be dangerous. I need you. SH. I have to get out of here. Is this all a distraction, something to keep me busy while they get to her?
"I worry about her. Constantly." He drew the word out in the same manner as Sherlock often did to prove a point.
"Right, concerned you said. Concerned arch enemy, lovely." John shook his head. "You can keep your sodding money."
"Oh? Wounded pride?" The man's mocking smile was back.
"Just disinterest." John's jaw clenched involuntarily.
"You're very loyal very quickly. Could this be love?" The man asked.
"I don't want anything to do with you or whatever fucking game you're playing. Just stay away from me. And Sherlock." John's voice dropped low and he pointed with his left hand, his right still gripping his cane fiercely. 'Might be dangerous. I need you.' I need to go. She needs me.
"'And Sherlock.' Fascinating." The man smiled. "You should fire your therapist."
"Why is that?" John sighed.
"Because she has you all wrong. The intermittent tremor in your left hand, she thinks it's post traumatic stress disorder. Haunted by memories of violence and death." He said. John immediately dropped his hand and looked at it, flattening out his palm. "Yet here you are, fresh from a crime scene, strange man in your room, under stress and intimidation and your hand is steady as a rock." His smile broadened. "You aren't traumatized by the war, Doctor. You miss it. And Sherlock Holmes is your ticket back into the fray." John said nothing, just stared at his hand. The man pulled on his coat and walked around John to the door, opening it. John took the opportunity and quickly moved to the desk, pulling open the drawer and grabbing his gun. It was comfortable in his hand and he instantly felt more in control of the situation. "You don't need that. You have nothing to fear from me. Unless. . ." The man said, causing John to raise the gun slightly. "You hurt her. Then we will find your bravery's breaking point." The man bowed his head politely before turning his back on John and leaving the room.
"Well, you certainly took your time." Sherlock said when John walked through the door. She had changed into a different curve hugging dress, deep green this time, and was sitting at a booth by the window of the small Italian restaurant.
"I was-I'll explain later. What's the emergency?" John asked, breathing heavy from rushing.
"Emergency?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Yes. The emergency. You texted me, remember? You said that you. . ." John cleared his throat. "You needed me."
"Yes, I did." Sherlock smiled.
"And?!" John said impatiently.
"I hate eating alone." She gestured to the seat adjacent to her own. "Sit." John sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping.
"And the danger is, what, that you may choke on a meatball?" John said. Well, I am hungry. He moved to take the seat.
"Well, you are a doctor. I would assume that you can perform the heimlich maneuver adequately." She said, picking up her menu.
"So there's no danger?" John asked, unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed.
"I said 'might' be dangerous." She said without looking up. "And it may be yet, when the killer gets here."
[Sorry to cut it off there, but the rest of the scene would have made the chapter way too long. Chapter 5 will be up soon. Any input in your reviews will help me shape the story, so by all means let me know what you think. Thank you all for reading!]