AN: It was commented by my beta that "[I] know how to end a chapter" Well, I hope you all thought that was true! More on that later, anyway.
Enjoy, read and review! I really want to know what's going on in your heads as you read, and what your theories are. One person asked 'Are they mutants?' – that sort of thing. Please, give feedback!
Thanks for reading! - B.
Heaving the case onto his small coffee table that had been burnt with ash and acid in days gone by, Sherlock's hands eagerly slid over the pink canvas it was made of. His eyes were wide, and he couldn't wait to examine it any longer. He knelt at its side, towering over it, his eyes shining bright with the thrill of the chase.
It was a little grimy from the skip he'd found it in: searching the skips nearest to the crime scene, it had taken him under an hour to find the one it had been deposited in by what he liked to think of as his new friend. He was getting careless, now that he'd successfully managed to get his victim-count up to eleven.
Oh yes, Sherlock had thought, as soon as he'd retrieved the silver five pound coin from Jennifer Wilson's coat pocket. Yes, it was a person doing this. And yes, he was getting careless with his success. More likely, he was growing bored, and tired with the lack of recognition.
He'd started using a calling card.
Sherlock had asked Lestrade to check the other victim's possessions, and see if he could find any other strange types of currency on them. There was no real reason for Jennifer Wilson, a modern, city-based woman and a professional, to collect irregular currency, even less for her to carry it with her at all times.
Therefore, it was the perpetrator's, and it wasn't there by mistake. Sherlock was convinced of it. They obviously wanted to speed things up; to be recognised. His friend was growing confident, and more impatient.
Well, 'friend'. . . More like a new curiosity Sherlock wanted to collect. He wondered what was in store for him when they eventually met, which he had no doubt would come soon.
. . . Nothing?
He shut his eyes, and took a deep breath, calming himself down. It had been so long since the last case as interesting and this, so he was having a little trouble focussing. He just had to take his time, that was all. Be thorough. Be himself, be Sherlock Holmes, the infallible consulting detective, who never struggled. Who never slept, or ate, or cared. That was him.
But to be honest, this new problem had scared him a little. There wasn't a lot he could do with an amnesiac. When he'd first heard the case, he'd felt a little redundant. While his deduction and theorising skills – for example, when given data such as he had found in the evidence locker – were second to none, he had nothing to fall back on. No safety net of abnormality: nothing. It scared him, but . . . It thrilled him, too.
There was all the more to play for, and all the more to prove. He would crack this case. He would crack the case, while being nothing more than ordinary – though ordinary, for Sherlock Holmes, was still very extraordinary indeed. He shut his eyes.
He ran his fingers along the top of the case, the rough material creating snagging friction against his soft, pale hands. He felt them tingle, as he thought for a second. Or rather, stopped thinking, and started to feel.
It took him just under a minute before he opened his eyes, looking discontented and slightly panicked. He turned sharply around, and stood up, scanning the highest bookshelf for his ashtray. It was where he kept his lock-pick these days: it wasn't any use to him anymore other than as somewhere to hide suspect items without arousing suspicion.
He reached up – even he had to stand on tiptoes to reach it – and snatched the lock-pick; it took under a minute to get the case open. He rummaged excitedly for a minute, searching for something he may have missed, throwing clothes behind him, and looking through papers and documents. But he was in such a panicked frenzy, didn't find what he was looking for.
Disappointment sobered him up: the perfect antidote to the thrill of finding the case was finding that it didn't contain what he had wanted it to.
Dejected, he turned away from the case, a disgusted expression of frustration contorting his handsome features.
"No phone. Who doesn't have a phone? She's not a Luddite, it's clear from her occupation, so why no phone? Why do people insist on being so inconsistent?"
She probably left it somewhere.
"I highly doubt that," Sherlock growled, throwing himself onto the sofa theatrically, and grabbing handfuls of his hair to pull. "Of course it happens – people leave things in their hotel rooms, or on their bus, or train, or cab, but . . . She was very clever. John will say as much, I know for sure. She would never make such an error," He considered, letting go of his hair after ruffling it about with agitation.
He rubbed his chin with contemplation, his eyes lazily evaluating the flat, glazed over.
Suddenly, his eyes lit up, and he realised: not finding it . . . Not finding it was more of a treat than finding it, because, "Perhaps it was taken from her, by-"
By the perpetrator. Excellent, Sherlock.
"Yes, thank you!" He said, impatiently. "Now go and – I don't know, go and busy yourself with your stamp collection or something. Stop intervening, you're putting me off," He dismissed, making a shooing motion with his hands.
Just checking to see that you're alright. And I don't have a stamp collection.
"Yes, well, I'm fine, so there's no need to stick around. And you keep it in the second draw down of the mahogany chest, the one with the brass lock, the combination to which is my Birthday," Sherlock said flatly.
I rue the days I spent not bothering to shield myself from your prying. There shan't be any repeats of those occasions, rest assured.
"Quite. You should be more careful if you don't want me to burn your stamps. Now, run along,"
What about this John? What did you say earlier?
"Nothing that concerns you. It's to do with the case, never mind," Sherlock muttered, standing up, and physically waving away the question.
Is he your friend?
"Colleague. Colleague, flatmate . . . Friend, yes," Sherlock considered, and decisively finished. "Not that it's any of your business anyway,"
Fair enough . . . Just, be safe.
Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement, and had another look at the case with a suspicious eye.
There was something about it, he wasn't sure what, that screamed at him – and it wasn't just the frankly alarming shade of pink (to match the coat).
Suddenly, he realised: he leapt off the sofa, and snatched up the label at the top, and openly grinned to himself. There was a contact number!
The phone had been taken by the perpetrator, and there was a number for the phone. Perfect.
He was about to compose a text to the perpetrator when he had a sudden negative wave of feeling wash over him. He dropped his BlackBerry, and sunk limply onto the nearest armchair: the one John had sat in, with the Union flag cushion.
He lolled slightly, half-closing his eyes to get a better focus.
Oh, great.
Sighing as dramatically as he could, he reached for the phone he'd just dropped. He composed a text message to John, deciding he'd get on better if he gave him an excuse to leave. He'd send it when he felt John had probably answered enough questions to ensure that they weren't bothered again; he sat for a while in thought, letting his eyelids droop to three-quarters shut, craving a cigarette.
Trust Mycroft not to trust any associate of his little brother's.
Slightly earlier, John was limping along a damp, dark high street in search of a taxi, lost in thought.
He was shot.
It was the only other thing Sherlock had gotten wrong aside from Harry, but it was something he'd hesitated to bring up. It would start a conversation he wouldn't enjoy about his unique 'anatomical structure' (though he had to begrudgingly admit that he hadn't thought of a more succinct way to refer to his skills than those two words) that he'd have to grit his teeth and sit through, stoically saying nothing. So, he wasn't in that big a hurry to correct his friend.
Well, some friend, John thought to himself, checking the street sign. Sherlock had left John at Scotland Yard, having dashed off in the direction of some place or other. Lestrade seemed as perplexed as he was about where Sherlock had actually gone, and they'd shared a jovial chat about his annoying habits.
Lestrade had also commented on John's performance in the interview room, watched by more than a few curious officers from behind a two-way mirror. He'd shaken his head, smiling in barely-disguised delight at the fact he'd been able to do what no one else had: to calm Jennifer Wilson down, and make her more cooperative. He'd said it was like magic.
John didn't like to think that magic existed. He'd had enough of the supernatural for one lifetime or more.
Donovan had had a few choice words for him, of course. She'd tried to convince him, without much success, to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. Yet another one of her many failures, John catalogued. He was beginning to feel like hanging around with Sherlock, who cared little about the feelings of others, was rubbing off on him already. The crucial difference between the doctor and the sleuth was that one kept their mouth shut to preserve the feelings of others, and one most certainly did not.
An interesting thing she'd mentioned was that he didn't get paid for doing his job, but merely enjoyed it. John didn't mind this as a principle: Sherlock appeared a bit of a public-school type, probably with a wealthy family, so why shouldn't he have a hobby - even if it was catching murderers?
Donovan seemed to think there was something perverse about his eagerness to foil criminals, which puzzled John. Surely, wanting to make the streets that bit safer, and wanting to apply oneself to a noble cause, such as fighting crime, wasn't a bad thing to do? It seemed almost gallant to the easily-impressed John.
However, as he shambled up the high street , John was beginning to sense, she hadn't seen him as the noble type. The background noise from the street swam through his head at the same time as his musings about Donovan's opinions on Sherlock, and how they were fairly harsh. Cabs ignoring him as they went past, the sound of puddles from yesterday's rain lapping up against the pavement, raucous shouting from within a kebab shop, a phone booth ringing eerily to his right . . .
He looked behind himself, quizzically staring at the phone booth as he shuffled away. He'd never heard one ringing outside of a movie before: this was the first time. He didn't know if you could even call a phone booth. It was clearly an accident; a wrong number. He turned back. It wasn't the strangest thing that had happened to him today, and it wasn't the first first he'd had today, either.
He'd had more firsts in the past few days than even he knew, and there were more to come.
Donovan had added that one day, solving crimes wouldn't be enough. She'd said that one day, they'd all be standing over a body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the one that put it there. She'd said he was a psychopath, and what's more, she's said to stay away from Sherlock Holmes.
Well, frankly, it was a little melodramatic to John. While he sympathised with those Sherlock despised as adamantly as he did her, it was clear from the way she talked about him that the hatred and insults were mutual, not one-sided.
So what if he enjoyed fighting crime? It was a little worrying to John that perhaps, if he wanted to, Sherlock could commit the perfect crime. However, John considered him a stubborn man. He'd chosen which side of the law he wanted to operate on – well, at least which side he wanted to be in favour of, even if it meant he had to break the law to preserve it. John doubted, now he'd made his mind up, that he would change it.
It was just a very lucky thing that Sherlock Holmes had graced the law with his allegiance.
His thoughts were interrupted by another irritating ringing phone. He shot a glance at the offending contraption, which was whining at him from within an empty kebab shop. The owner had clearly gone out for a fag or something, and there were only one or two employees in the kitchen behind the counter. There were presently no customers.
Why, then, would ring a payphone at the front of the shop? . . . Yet again, John asked himself if it was actually possible to ring a payphone.
He walked a little faster, nervously eyeing each face he passed, every shop left behind, anticipating another phone call with no one to answer. He was starting to suspect, in his usual war-honed paranoia, that they were meant for him.
The next phone box he reached began to ring, and he made a decision: he would answer it. This was too much of a coincidence in his eyes. It was probably nothing, but he had to make sure. He had been so sure this day couldn't get any weirder . . .
He couldn't have been more wrong, as after tentatively plucking the phone from the hook and asking who was there in the strongest voice he could muster, a polite yet firm voice informed him of the location of several security cameras, which all turned to face him.
The voice instructed him afterwards, "Get in the car, Doctor Watson," with a vague sense of seemingly unwarranted authority, as a sleek, shiny black car pulled up smoothly beside the phone box.
Though slightly scared, John sighed, mainly disgruntled. He was fed up, tired, and he wanted to go home. Frankly, the mysterious goings on that he was dealing with at that moment were just a load of bother he could do without. He would have laughed at how incredibly British his attitude was if he hadn't been in such a serious situation.
However, he decided he would get into the car. Whoever was messing around with him obviously expected him to be scared, but they would be disappointed. He would front it out, and let them know firmly that he was not going to tolerate any of this dramatic bullshit.
He opened the car door, and got in. Smooth leather seats, completely black interior, chauffeur-driven . . . Attractive brunette woman sitting on the other side of the car.
They pulled away, the only light in the car filtering dully through its blackout windows, and shining out from the woman's Blackberry. She hadn't so much as looked up at John when he'd entered the car, and was tapping at an alarmingly fast rate on the Smartphone.
"Hi, I'm John," He told the woman, trying to engage her in some sort of conversation, and to gauge her response.
"Yeah, I know," She replied with a snigger; looking embarrassed for him, as if she thought he was adorable, without even looking up from her phone. Her eyes were wide as she answered, and she smirked too. She didn't stop typing.
"What's your name?" He asked her, persevering, though he didn't predict good results. He was beginning to appreciate just how pretty she really was.
"Umm . . . Anthea," She replied, taking her time to think about it: John could tell that wasn't just because she was busy on her phone. She hadn't taken so long to answer before, and John easily drew his own conclusions.
"Is that your real name?" He asked, looking past her and into the street. Through the window, he saw streets he didn't recognise, and cursed himself for being distracted by the woman for long enough to lose track of where he was. He'd never have done that in his days as a soldier. He was getting rusty . . . He felt a small twinge of sadness pinch him on the inside.
She shook her head, pursing her lips, "No . . ." She told him, trailing off, and not volunteering any more information than that to him. He sighed with annoyance at being rejected so openly by such an attractive woman, wondering if the chauffeur had witnessed it too.
Her cocoa-brown eyes shone, and her olive complexion was lit up by the light from her phone. A few delicate strands of sleek hair hung over her face, and she flicked them idiosyncratically out of her eyes in a businesslike manner.
Finally, they arrived, though John couldn't have hazarded a guess as to where. He got out of the car without being prompted, into what looked like a large multi-storey car park. It was dank, and there were puddles of water all over the place.
It was totally deserted, but for a man whose silhouette he could make out. He was leaning on an umbrella, in front of a chair. John sighed, and made his way over to the man, as he supposed he was meant to, his cane making an echoing noise as it hit the ground with every step.
As he approached, the man's features became clearer to him: brown hair, combed; high forehead; prominent nose; peculiar, disingenuous smile gracing his aristocratic face, fairly plainly meant to unnerve him. Well, he would have to do a better job than that, John thought with a sudden internal flourish of confidence.
"Please take a seat, Doctor Watson," The man instructed him, with the same voice he'd heard down the crackling phone line. Slightly superior, posh: it fitted his appearance like a hand in a glove.
It didn't surprise him that the man knew his name: it hadn't surprised him when he'd used it on the phone originally, either, because he seemed to have everything worked out the way he wanted it. It wasn't a shock to John's calm mind that he would be prepared for this situation, even offering him a seat because of his leg.
Though, perhaps the seat was just a way of making John feel inferior by making him become physically lower down than the man. John thought this was mildly pathetic. .
"I'll stand, thanks," John grunted defiantly, not wasting an ounce of politeness on his new acquaintance.
The other man's fake, unpleasant smile intensified momentarily, as he took out a small, battered, leather-bound book. John would have suspected it was a diary, if not for the slightly sinister nature of the man. He wondered if it contained a variety of disagreeable secrets on many people – maybe even himself.
His doubts were brought to the forefront in a few second's time, with a question that set the tone for the whole conversation, starting an assault of personal questions that John wasn't quite sure he'd like to answer. The man had him, for the first time, slightly on the back foot as he asked,
"What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"
