"It could ricochet," Sherlock said panting slightly. The whole scene cut out in black shadow and orange and red light, making everything look mysterious. Shaded like an action film. John stayed crouched in the dark, crouched down with his gun held up at the ready against his shoulder. "It could hit anyone. Including you." Of course Sherlock's focusing on the crazy death machine and the cluster of Chinese gangsters, leaving his back unguarded. This time around there was no John to get bashed over the head and held captive. There were only two swathes of dark, one hiding Sherlock, the other hiding John while the General swung wildly and talked about making a deal.
John grit his teeth. Everything was going well until this point. The man that had appeared behind Sherlock was an easy sharp cut target against the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead of watching his back Sherlock was enjoying the presentation of his reveal, the way his voice echoed. Not a bit good Sherlock. He shifted his feet against the floor of the tunnel, feeling the silent roll of dirt and gravel under the well-used soles of his feet. He kept his eyes up, moving, there was General Shan, and the Spider had crept off to the side toward Sherlock, there were five other men running around, but none of them were a match for the Great Sherlock Holmes. Oh no, certainly not. Not with their guns and their knifes and their years working as gangsters getting mean and learning dirty tricks. John stepped into firing stance, feet set, arms straight, finger ready on the trigger.
"You'd"
Wait.
"have"
Wait.
"to be"
Sherlock. Look behi-
"very good."
Too late.
John fired and the man behind Sherlock shouted and dropped while Sherlock jumped about three inches. Everyone jumped. It all turned out roses of course, the shot was nonlethal. He was pretty sure. He hadn't meant it to be lethal. The man was a murderer anyway, so, not a nice man.
Stupendous amounts of running and shouting and Sherlock was standing and taking big cautious steps toward the shadows where John was hiding. "Did W send you?" One narrow hand is stretched out toward him. John wanted to reach toward it, grasp the hand in both of his and ask, don't you know me? No one else wanted me but you. He knew what the answer would be. It would be no.
Half of Scotland Yard appeared before John can break, with a tall black man John didn't recognize stormed on scene and directing the flow of constables like a conductor, arresting everyone, it's a madhouse. (Wasn't this the first case they had worked with Dimmock? He was pretty sure of that, but maybe time had shifted again.) It was a near thing, getting caught, with the tunnel full of police officers and gangsters, but John was small, and he can be very quiet. As soon as he broke free he texted Sherlock.
He couldn't help it.
He just had to know if Sherlock was alright. If everything was fine.
They always talked after cases.
Be. More. Careful. –W Just a graze in a dark tunnel. Your man was very good. –SH
John felt the mix between pride and distaste he got every time Sherlock complemented his ability to… shoot. At least he was back to his clever prying statements that were questions without being questions.
Just be careful. You're concerned. Why? –SH
That took some thought. But in the end it was ultimately simple. Because you are amazing. Don't patronize me. I'm not. You're perfectly extraordinary.
There was a long pause. It lasted two London blocks trailing close behind a family of four. Looked like he belonged, but he didn't. That was safest at night without having to injure any would be kidnappers. Or to be more honest, it kept the concerned British public from bending down and putting a hand on his shoulder while saying, Are you lost dear? Where's your mum and dad? One politically correct minded gentleman had asked after his parents instead. Never knew these days.
Thank you. –SH
John smiled at that, not sure if it was in earnest or a ploy, probably a ploy, Sherlock didn't thank people. Any people. He had thanked John who lived with him and made a regular occupation of keeping him alive maybe five or six times. It was mostly reserved for shooting people and handing over phones. He had no idea how to answer that with a measure of intelligence and proper secrecy, but he got a call from Bad Davey. So he left the conversation off where it was and walked lighter, splitting off the decoy family to head to Bad Davey's flat.
Well, he liked to think Sherlock was at least a little sincere.
Maybe he was, John did fulfill the shooting criteria.
He was nodded into Bad Davey's bunker office by a girl with a small blue glittery dress, blue glitter shoes and thick blue glittery eye makeup and a sweet little self-deprecating shrug at her blue outfit. She tilted the side of her mouth up, texting lazily with one hand before motioning him through.
Davey looked up at John as he pulled the plastic off a new pack with his teeth, leaning back looking around for a bin. He plucked the flimsy wrapper out with one hand while shaking out a cigarette with the other. "What are you doing here Elsie?"
The girl in blue shot back, "Manny wasn't feeling right, she needed to go shake it off."
"You're supposed to be pushing merc."
"I've got an appointment at a spoiled posh-baby party at one."
"Who starts a party at one?" Davey snarked, plucking his lighter up from the sleek ordered lines of his desk.
"Posh-babies sir," she smiled and let the door to his office drift closed.
"You know second hand smoke is a thing," John told Davey, watching him light and hissing smoke out through his teeth.
"That's what you're worried about killing you. Second hand smoke?"
"It might start to be a concern the way you go at it."
Davey bared his teeth at him. "What are you doing up anyway?"
"I was helping with a case. With Sherlock."
Davey grunted with irritation, "You're meant to have a bedtime, developing bodies and such. Mental acuity and all that." He waved his cigarette around in circles making cloudy grey arabesques.
"I'll sleep in tomorrow," John said as Davey turned in his seat to reach the back board and started banging around with a small kettle over a hot plate. Bad Davey didn't have anything complimentary to say to that.
"What's got what's his face running around so late then?" his hands moved with slick precision, cream, sugar, kettle, opened the sleek wooden box by the kettle and selected tea bags.
"The Black Lotus, the lot that were running around spraying everything, there was a jade pin they were looking for, killed a couple of people to get to it." Bad Davey kept his head tilted inquiringly as he turned around, cup and saucer in hand, the tea smelled intoxicatingly like lavender. No plain black for John. The aggressive planes of Davey's face lifted, slightly, encouraging him to go on. John's small hands went to hold the saucer and cup, Davey had excellent taste in china, "Tonight was the big standoff, and of course Sherlock is allergic to back up, he has to show off how clever he is. Their leader, or one of their leaders, General Shaun was captured, or almost captured at least. I didn't stay long enough to find out. Then I got your text." John watched Davey take a sip, slouched back in his seat. "You know smoking can destroy your sense of taste."
"Oh leave off," he growled if not good naturedly at least not dangerously, setting his cup out of the way. "I don't smoke that much."
John chose not to comment.
After Bad Davey complained for half an hour about being John's 'personal chemist' he finally took payment which involved a complicated list of trades and a little cash. John had become personal physician and familial go between sometime between sticking his gun under Davey's chin and now. It was nice. Davey knew he wasn't a normal child, he never pretended to be, but Davey didn't ask any questions. He just accepted the fact that John was different and if the reason he was different was important he would say so. Once the business portion of their meeting was over John tried to convince him to send Rooster to school.
This was the way John's life works now, he was either deposited from event to event, like being forced to join part in a high risk slide show, or he was running.
"He doesn't do school," Davey growls, fetching his cigarette up and sucking down tobacco smoke like the free world depended on it.
"Roost should go to medical school. He can do it. He'll have to work hard, but I know he can do it," John said earnestly, holding his tea saucer on his knees.
"Medical school?" he barked. He lifted the cigarette again and inhaled sharply. It's a good thing Davey was so crazy. He wore his feelings on his sleeve when he looked at people. He was clearly saying it hurts so much to think about my brother and I've nearly given up hope and it hurts.
"Before he can go to medical school though he needs to go to secondary. With tutoring he can get up to par, and while the thought of Roost with chemicals is deeply concerning I believe with the right teacher proper safety procedure can be impressed on him. Once he's in school it's just A levels and then he's in. I can help him, give advice."
Davey crushed his cigarette fiercely and lit another one, "Roost is mad. He doesn't do school."
"A private school," John said carefully. "One that will prepare him."
John's phone rang, startling him and making him cup and saucer tink together.
"You didn't turn your phone off?" Davey said darkly. "We're meeting here."
"I'm on call. You're not my boss Davey," John sighed his face creasing at the message.
Davey vocabulary of obscenity was as varied as it was creative.
What is your interest in Sherlock Holmes?
John ignored the text for the time. It was a blocked number but he knew who it was. "Think about it. You have money now. Some of which is mine actually."
Smirking, Davey tapped his fingers on the well folded cash John had pushed across the table earlier, "I thought you don't approve of drug money."
Giving Davey a look, John shoved his phone back in his pocket. "He needs to go to medical school. He needs a purpose, a sense of identity. What will happen if he stays on the street? Just letting him run free is not a plan that's sustainable for the long term. His brain will get pulled apart. He needs some structure to apply to his life. He's chosen medicine, let him keep on that strain."
"He's fourteen."
"You of all people should know that's not a good enough dodge. You were already up and running at fourteen."
Sucking in about half his cigarette in one go, Davey glared at him. Like others in his profession, John could look at Davey and almost calculate how long it would be until Davey got lung cancer. Not too many decades if he kept it up.
"I have to go Davey," he set his cup and saucer on Davey's desk. "Thank you for your assistance with my patients."
"I'm not your personal chemist!" Davey yelled after him again, but he didn't sound particularly angry.
He dropped by Scotland Yard to snap a picture of Sherlock speaking awkwardly with Soo Lin Yao. That was something that made his loss easier. Sherlock was able to keep her alive. No one noticed him doing it; John was the man no one sees.
A block later his phone went off again: What is your interest in Sherlock Holmes?
Yawning deeply, John thought about ignoring it again, and then he did ignore it again. Highly gratifying that.
John shut off his phone and staggered back through the tunnels, falling into the abused embrace of an old oversized armchair. Rooster was missing, hopefully not burning anything. He was out in about five seconds.
Science of Deduction: Retrieved, jade hairpin. Other evidence was nearly destroyed by overabundance of the constabulary. New data extracted.
