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Beta: Ancestral Romance
Moments
Chapter 4: Murder
Things really changed for Sherlock and John around their middle years. It was the age when all young boys changed; they started to discover themselves and fancy girls, they started bathing and dressing better and discovered the art of actually talking to girls instead of just picking on them. But things were different for Sherlock and John; it was when they discovered that they weren't just best friends, they were friends for life; because in December, just one week before Christmas, John realized he would do anything for Sherlock. Including hide a murder.
It was a well into the night when Sherlock sent John the text message, as usual, it was simple and straight to the point.
I killed a man.
-SH
Was all it read on the screen. Confused and slightly worried John sat up in bed and rubbed his bleary eyes having been awoken from his sleep. Groaning, he stretched and woke himself up a bit more before checking the text message again. The message hadn't changed in the least.
"Fucking hell, Sherlock!" He hissed and glanced at the time, it read eleven o'seven at night. "This better be some sort of joke." But even as the words left his mouth he knew the truth, Sherlock never joked.
What do you mean?
-JW
John messaged back and climbed out of bed and into a pair of jeans and threw on a clean shirt. Within seconds he had a reply.
What else could that possibly mean?
Come outside.
-SH
Worried about what happened John quickly put on his trainers, threw on a jacket and climbed out of his bedroom window. It was something he did a thousand times before regardless of the weather, but this time he dearly wished it would stop snowing. In his haste, he had forgotten a hat, scarf, and gloves, leaving his skin exposed to the elements. As soon as his feet touched the ground he zipped up his jacket all of the way and looked around the dark, scanning for his best friend.
"You could have taken the time to put on a hat." A voice remarked from his left.
Annoyed, John turned to face Sherlock to see him stepping out of the shadows. He was dressed in his usual trench coat with collar turned up and hands tucked into the pockets. "Well you did say you murdered a man, so forgive me for my haste." John scowled and shoved his hands into his pockets.
"That is true." Sherlock stepped right up close to John, allowing the moonlight to fall on his pale face.
"Sherlock!" John gasped, seeing the red blood splattered on Sherlock's face. It was a stark contrast to his pale skin and dark curls. Nervous, John glanced around to see nothing but the white snow. "What happened?" He asked, trying to be calm but his heart beat rapidly against his chest, almost slamming into his ribcage as all manner of scenarios flashed through his mind. His best friend seriously did just kill a man, what was he suppose to do? Rationally he should run screaming into his mother's arms, but he knew that would never happen.
Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and pulled a hand out of his pocket to show John the gash that was poorly wrapped in a makeshift bandage. "I killed a man, John."
"Yes! So you've said!" He hissed and glanced over his shoulder at his house, wondering if his Mother was still up. "But...but what happened?!"
Absently, Sherlock dabbed that makeshift bandage at his lip, drawing John's eyes to the cut. "He was going to rape a little girl. The constable didn't believe me so I stopped him myself."
John sighed and stomped his feet in the snow to get the blood flowing again. He knew he should probably do something at this point, like call the coppers or immediately wake his mum but this was Sherlock. His best friend and he was injured and cold and they were both obviously tired, so all he did was pull Sherlock into a rough hug.
After a few seconds, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and returned the impromptu hug. "I have to say...this isn't the reaction I was expecting." He muttered into John's hair.
At that John chuckled. "Yeah, I imagine it isn't." He pulled back and gestured to his open window. "How about a hot cuppa and some biscuits and you can explain more?"
"Sounds lovely."
OOO
It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to sneak over at all hours of the night and morning, and it certainly wasn't unusual for him to break into John's room completely unannounced and for John to wake up to find a sleeping Sherlock in his bed. It was a first, however, for John to try and clean up blood without waking the entire house.
When Sherlock shrugged off his coat and threw it over a chair, John realized that there was a lot more blood than he initially thought. "How much of it is yours?" He asked and gestured to Sherlock's shirt as he toed off his wet trainers.
Sherlock absently shrugged as he rummaged through John's chest of drawers for one of his many shirts that he left over. "Just my hand really." He mumbled, selecting a plain grey shirt. "Where have you put my trousers?"
"Mum must have put them in the cupboard." John pressed his ear against his closed bedroom door to listen for any footsteps. Once he was positive everyone was still asleep he glanced over his shoulder. "I'm going to go get some tea and a washcloth. Try not to wake anyone."
Sherlock merely hummed in reply and began to hunt for his sleeping trousers.
Not even ten minutes later, John crept back into his room carrying a tray filled with tea and biscuits. He walked in to find Sherlock slowly folding his bloody shirt and damp trousers. "You should probably just throw the shirt away." He offered quietly and set the tray on his desk.
"Probably." He agreed with a sigh and accepted the damp washcloth John offered. "I don't suppose there is any hope for getting all that blood out."
"Not a chance." John sighed and sat down in his desk chair, sipping his tea. "Are we going to talk about what happened or…" He let the sentence hang as he watched Sherlock clean up the dried blood on his face.
"Of course." Sherlock mumbled, scrubbing at his cheek as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. "Is it all gone?" He modeled his face for John's approval.
John shrugged. "As best as can be. There are still light splotches though." He sipped his tea and held out Sherlock's mug for him to take.
Sherlock sighed and threw the now useless washcloth in the clothes bin before accepting the tea. "Of course there are." He sat on the bed and drank the hot tea, sighing as it warmed him from the inside out. He always found John's tea to be the best, for some reason he always enjoyed it better when he made it. Within seconds he had downed it all. "It was good, thank you John." He held the empty mug out for John to take.
"Yeah, no problem." He blinked and set the empty mug back onto the tray.
"So, do you mind starting from the beginning or is this another one of those-"
"His name was Ted Rooney and I have been keeping an eye on him for months now." Sherlock jumped right in as he threw himself onto John's bed, rolling until his back hit the wall and he lay on his side facing John who still sat at the desk chair, mug in hand. "I figured out he was a pedophile ages ago. But the constables didn't care." Absently, he traced the bandage on his hand with his forefinger and then motioned for a biscuit. "He was following Sophie around for two weeks."
Nodding, John sipped his tea. "Did you tell the coppers?"
Normally at something like that Sherlock would have sneered, but this was John, his best friend so instead he just smirked and bite into the biscuit that was tossed his way. "Of course."
"And?"
"They said no evidence, no case." He sighed and rolled onto his back. "So I followed him home myself."
Downing the remainder of his tea, John grabbed the remainder of the biscuits off the tray and climbed into his bed beside Sherlock. "Here." He handed him the majority of the biscuits then stared up at the white ceiling. "What'd you see?"
"...Child porn." He whispered. "So much child porn it was disgusting." Slowly, he ate another biscuit then continued. "I also saw pictures of Sophie, ones he himself took. Obviously, she never knew of them, not once did she ever look at the camera...today he was planning on kidnapping her." He ate another biscuit. "So I followed him around and waited for the moment...At five pm, right when Sophie was walking down the street he made his move. He started following her. He followed her all the way down to the train station where she met up with some friends, to the ice cream parlor, the shops...I knew what he was waiting for...that one moment when she was going home...when she would be alone." He sighed and fell silent, no longer munching or talking.
Beside him, John shifted to stare at his friend. He took in the pale face, long nose and open eyes. If he didn't know any better he would say Sherlock didn't care, but he knew better. He saw the slight tremor of the lip, the slightly glassy eyes and the subtle change in tone. Sherlock cared so much he didn't know what to do or how to show it. So he lay there, unmoving, eating, and recounting his tale to his best friend.
"At ten o'clock he tried to kidnap her. I ran at him, punched him, then ran into his house. Luckily he chased me." He munched on another biscuit. "He was stronger than I calculated. Apparently anger gave him strength...He didn't like the fact that I head butted him when he tackled me. I ended up having to tie him to a chair even after stabbing him."
"And then?" John coaxed.
Sherlock sighed and burrowed further into the blankets. "Then I left and came here." He mumbled, closing his eyes. "Are you mad?"
John didn't know whether to laugh, cry or punch Sherlock. So he settled for an awkward three second hug before rolling onto his back. His best friend was a socially inept genius, and now most likely even a murderer. But he found he didn't really care. This was Sherlock Holmes-the weird little genius that could piss anyone off in three seconds flat-his best friend. And what Sherlock did may be wrong to some people, but not to him, because he did it for the right reasons.
He saved Sophie from a pedophile.
How could John be mad at Sherlock for that?
"Sherlock?" John whispered to the dark.
"Yeah?"
"Is Sophie okay?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
They lapsed back into silence again, this time John reached over to his bedside table and took off the light before settling back down. They lay in silence for awhile, just listening to each other breathe. Absently Sherlock pulled the blanket up higher to cover his shoulder, dragging it up over John as well. After a few minutes John sighed, wiggled his way further into bed and under the blankets then rolled over onto his side, his back to Sherlock.
"You should probably text Mycroft." John mumbled, his face buried in his pillow.
Beside him Sherlock shifted and pulled out his mobile. "Yeah." He quickly typed out a message, his fingers a blur across the screen.
I killed a rapist. His name was Ted Rooney you'll find the body at his house along with the evidence that he is a pedophile.
-SH
He sent the message then reached over John to slide his mobile onto the bedside table. As soon as he drew his arm back and settled under the blanket, Mycroft texted back. But Sherlock didn't bother to read it he was already comfortable and drifting off to sleep curled on his side, with his back to John and face buried in a pillow.
Brother Mine, can you not get in trouble for one day? Fine. I've informed the necessary people. I believe you are at John Watson's? Very well. I will tell Mother to stop fretting.
-Mycroft Holmes
OOO
"Sherlock snuck over again?" John's Mother asked as she flew about the kitchen making breakfast the following morning. Expertly, she laid out two dishes and doled out two sausages each along with a healthy portion of egg and toast.
Still sleepy, John yawned and nodded as he climbed up onto the stool and laid his cheek against the cool counter top. "Yeah. He came over last night."
Absently she tutted but smiled when she turned her back. It was common, after all, for her to wake John and find both John and Sherlock fast asleep. More often than not she would find her self serving the two sleepy eyed boys breakfast and forcing them to drink their milk. It became a routine over the years and she expected to find Sherlock under her roof at least four times a week.
"Good Morning Mrs. Watson." Sherlock greeted as he entered the kitchen and took his seat beside John.
"Morning,Dear." John's Mother smiled warmly at him as she slid the two dishes in front of them. "Eat up you two. Harriet is still sleeping so let's keep the noise to a minimum, okay?"
"Yes, Mum." John said as he began to dig into his breakfast. Beside him Sherlock glanced as his friend, smiled to himself, then began to eat. The two boys ate in companionable silence, occasionally glancing at one another and offering each other a supportive smile. Before they came down they agreed not to tell John's Mother about the incident and even went as far as to hide Sherlock's bloody clothes in a brown bag.
But the amicable silence was not meant to last because not ten minutes into breakfast, there was knocking on the front door. Curious as to who would be so rude as to come calling at the early hour, Mrs. Watson frowned but scuttled off to open the door. "Finish your breakfast boys." She called over her shoulder.
"Bloody hell...you don't think..." John let the sentence hang as soon as he caught sight of Sherlock's face.
He was completely closed off, his face a mask of impenetrable emotion. "Keep calm, John." Sherlock said quietly and laid a comforting hand on John's arm, through his mask remained in place.
Before John could say anything, his mother came rushing back in with Scotland Yard at her heels. "John Hamish Watson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes what have you boys done?! What is the meaning of all this?!" She shouted, hands on hips, murder in her eyes. Behind her several of Scotland Yard's men stood staring down at the two boys.
"Right." One of them cleared his throat and stepped a forward. "Which one of you lads is Sherlock Holmes?"
Suddenly a tall, imposing young man emerged from the hallway wearing a dark brown suit. "Brother mine, hate to interrupt but I'm afraid you need to be questioned." Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, one hand casually shoved in his pant pocket the other held his mobile phone.
"Mycroft." Was all Sherlock uttered before he slid off the stool and walked up to his brother, a scowl on his pale face.
"Now Sherlock, don't look at me like that. You did," His eyes cut over to Mrs. Watson, caught between fretting over her son and giving him a stern telling to. Without a doubt, poor John would be grounded for a long time. "Find yourself in trouble. More than usual I'm afraid. They are only following protocol." He sighed, clearly tired from the venture of fetching his little brother. "Let's be on the way now, Mother is worried-oh and Mrs. Watson, do go easy on John. This time it wasn't his fault." He smiled at John's Mother then turned on his heel and walked out the door, Scotland Yard following suit with Sherlock between them.
The kitchen was in silence for all of two seconds after everyone left before John's Mother lost it. Enraged, frustrated, and confused she wailed on him, shouting with tears in her eyes. "John Hamish Watson! What in the good Lord's name was that?!" She gestured at the hallway then ran her fingers through her hair. "Bloody Scotland Yard? Why? What have you two done?!"
John opened his mouth then shut it. For once this mess had nothing to do with him, it was all Sherlock but he couldn't bring himself to say that, to sell his best mate out, throw him under the bus; he couldn't do it. So he just sat on the stool and hung his head while his Mother ranted and raved and grounded him till the end of time.
OOO
John didn't hear from Sherlock until the following night, it was around midnight when his mobile blinked to life. Ever since the incident at breakfast the previous morning John's Mother had him under lockdown, no going outside, no television or internet, he was lucky to have hidden away his mobile before she caught sight of it and took that away too. Bored out of his skull, John was laying on his bed in the dark staring up at the ceiling when his mobile winked at him from his bedside table. A burst of worry coursed through him before he picked it up and read the message.
John? Are you awake?
-SH
John gnawed on his lower lip for a second before quickly typing back a reply.
Yeah, I'm awake. You okay?
-JW
Seconds later, Sherlock replied.
I'm fine. It's all been taken care of. How are you holding up? Are you in trouble?
-SH
At that, John chuckled bitterly as his fingers skipped across the screen.
Yeah. I'm grounded. Where are you?
-JW
At home. Mother is a bit upset and Mycroft is cross but everything is fine. Why are you grounded? You didn't do anything.
-SH
Sherlock, Scotland Yard was in the kitchen. Of course I'm grounded.
-JW
I suppose that's true. Does that mean I can't come over tonight?
-SH
Before he responded, John thought for a minute. It's been two whole days since he's been outside and his mother was slowly driving him crazy. He couldn't take much more of lockdown without losing his mind. The decision was made before he even realized it.
How about I come over?
-JW
Are you sure? You'll be in more trouble than if I came over.
-SH
Sherlock I need to get out of here for awhile. She hasn't let me out in two days.
-JW
Then come on over. I'll have the maid put the kettle on.
-SH
OOO
John was used to sneaking over to Sherlock's house, though if he were honest, it wasn't his most favorite thing in the world to do. The Holmes estate was vast and in order to get to Sherlock's window it involved an awful lot of climbing, something that was hard enough to do without snow. In preparation for this John slipped on his snow boots, heavy winter jacket, hat and tucked his gloves into his jacket pocket. He glanced around his bedroom before deciding to write his Mother a quick note for when she checked in on him.
Gone to Sherlock's. Be back later. Don't worry.
Love, John
Satisfied with the note, he left it on his desk, tucked his mobile into his pocket, and carefully climbed out of his window.
It was snowing outside, the only light was the moon shining high in the sky. The stars were out as well, it was a clear cloudless night and that made things easier for John to navigate his way down the streets and over the fences to Sherlock's house. It took him about twenty minutes with his shortcuts to reach and by the time he arrived, he was shivering and covered with snow. The Holmes estate was large, taking up a good portion of land that on a busy day would be bustling with hired help. However, on a calm holiday night, there wasn't a soul out to see John. He rubbed his gloved hands together and stomped his feet on the walkway outside the gates and stared up at the imposing home; he knew from experience that the house wasn't nearly as intimidating as it seemed, the Holmes was a nice couple with warm personalities-not counting Mycroft-and most of the high, arching architect was for show.
Sighing, John jumped a few times to get the blood flowing then grabbed onto the gate and hopped over it, not worried about his footsteps in the least. It was still snowing after all. He trudged through the snow and walked around until he was under Sherlock's bedroom and shook off the snow, then started to climb.
OOO
True to Sherlock's word as soon as John climbed through the open window the first thing he encountered was the tea cart filled with hot tea and cakes. The second thing he encountered was Sherlock sprawled haphazardly on his lounge chair, feet kicked up on the arm rest with his head nestled into a pillow.
"Your change of clothing is in the bath." Was all Sherlock said as John shrugged out of his snow covered jacket and toed off his boots.
It was routine for them at this point, John would go into Sherlock's ensuite bath, clean up and change into one of the many change of clothing he left while Sherlock either tended to the fire and tea himself, or had a maid do it. It usually depended on how much trouble they were in. Sherlock's bath was an off creme colour with a stand alone bathtub, shower stall, toilet and stand alone sink. It was stark, as though he didn't use it much, which was true because Sherlock was rarely home to ever use it himself. John often thought that since he and Sherlock became friends, he used the bathroom more than Sherlock did.
Bones chilled, he quickly hopped into the shower, turned on the hot water and stood in the flow until the feeling returned to his toes, then dressed in sweatpants and a shirt. When he left the bathroom feeling refreshed and warm, he saw that Sherlock had lit the fireplace and had moved two high backed chairs close as possible.
"I've made your tea." Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and held out the steaming tea cup.
"Thanks." John accepted the cup and took his seat in front of the fire.
"Thanks for coming." Sherlock took his seat and sipped his tea. "I imagine your Mum is going to-"
"Freak?" John offered with a chuckle. "Yeah, but its worth it." He sent his friend a grin. "So, what happened?"
Sherlock sighed and settled further into his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him to warm by the fire. "I had to give my statement. Apparently he didn't die exactly. He's in intensive care."
"That's good news."
"I wasn't strong enough to shove the knife deep enough." Sherlock scowled and stretched out his long, piano like hands in front of him. He was only twelve , but felt like he was older. He hated how young his body was, how he was unable to accomplish tasks Mycroft could do with his eyes closed. With a huff of irritation he turned to face John who had tucked his legs up underneath him and pulled the blanket up onto his lap. He sipped at his tea, relishing in the warmth it brought.
"I think it's a good thing. That means you won't be charged or anything right?" John asked.
At that Sherlock scoffed. "Mother would never let that happen." He downed the rest of his tea and set the cup on the table between them. "Mycroft's been on a rampage since yesterday." He offered with a smirk. "He's been talking to Mother about sending me off to boarding school again."
That, of course, caught John's interest. This wasn't the first time Sherlock mentioned boarding school, and it probably won't be the last. All he really knew was that he hated the idea of Sherlock going off to boarding school. He and Sherlock had been through alot together, and honestly, John really couldn't remember life without his best friend. "And?"
"And nothing. He always does this-do you know how long he's wanted to send me to boarding school? Preferably in France or something." He rolled his eyes. "Don't worry it's not going to happen. Mother won't even hear of it, everytime he brings it up she suddenly remembers she has something important to do."
"Yeah, I can't imagine your Mum sending you off somewhere." John chuckled and downed the remainder of his tea. "She dotes on you too much."
Sherlock hummed in agreement and let a comfortable silence build between them. Even though he knew his Mother wouldn't really send him off, the thought alone was enough to send his blood boiling. He hated the very idea of being shipped off somewhere where he would be forced to listen to some fool who got paid more than they deserved for glorified babysitting. But if he was honest, the thing he hated most about boarding school was the fact that he wouldn't be going with his best friend. What would he do without John? Who would he eat lunch with? Go on adventures with? Who would watch his back and save his arse when he did something stupid?
Slowly, his eyes slid over to John to see him absently placing his now empty cup on the table. "So, you're willing to hide murder for me?" Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes refocused on the fire before them, but his lips tugged up in a small smile.
John glanced at his best mate and let a small smile ghost across his lips before snuggling further down into the blanket. "Yeah. I guess I am."
OOO
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