It was the sort of case that John thought Sherlock would find interesting (well, not as dulldulldull as the rest of them) and thus the slight pull towards the scene had been easier to give into he felt closer to Sherlock as he edged around the fringes of the crime scene, never getting too close to the police tape in case someone recognised him.
Ronald Adair had, it seemed, been a perfectly amiable man. His father headed up some large company which meant that he was very wealthy, but appeared to have steered away from the usual wealthy-young-man stereotype. He had no enemies, as far as anyone could work out. His only vice was gambling and even then he didn't appear to be addicted heading to Casino's with a marginal sum of money (for someone as rich as him, anyway), playing for a few hours and returning without particularly caring with he'd earned or lost money. A strong moral compass, it had been said. Nothing untoward.
Yet the man had been found shot in his house: alone in a locked room of his penthouse suite.
It had been difficult for John to shed the love of crime and these days, when he had a grip of his grief and was more or less functioning, he thought that allowing his brain to start trying to dissect them was a bit of a guilty pleasure. He could imagine what Sherlock would say, think, in his natural setting. It was nice. It no longer broke his heart. Instead it was just a dull ache of missing him but he was okay. He could cope.
Of course, John didn't exactly have the same luxuries and liberties as he did back in the glory days (entering the crime scenes, for example, was a lot less socially acceptable without Sherlock on hand), and it wasn't like he was remotely helpful towards the cases. Whether he tried to deduce the case or not was a moot point, because he had no influence and no real proof anyway, but he still liked to not quite feel so distant from it all. Once or twice he'd quizzed Lestrade abut a case over a pint and Lestrade would give him a half hearted knowing look and offer him slightly more information than he was strictly at liberty to say. John didn't ask too much, though, given the acute awareness of how much strain they Sherlock and him had put on Lestrade's Job, marriage and general welfare.
The Ronald Adair case had been featured heavily in the papers. Sensationalised and capitalised upon, no doubt, but something about the whole thing had peeked John's interest. He wanted to know why such a seemingly nice man had been murdered. The locked-door-no-way-of-getting-in-thing reminded him of the Blind Banker case and, well, it was so very attractive in its peculiarities.
He might ask Lestrade about this one. If it hadn't been solved in a week or two.
For now he loitered outside the building trying not to appear perversely interested. John expected that even a human spider wouldn't be able to scale the side of that building one of those luxury, sky rise apartment blocks. And Adair had lived in the penthouse.
A list of Sherlockian thoughts were running through his brain and, although he was sure that Sherlock would find his attempts lacking, John always found himself slightly surprise by how much of Sherlock had diffused into him: Penthouse... could have afforded a house, chosen not to love of glamour? Bachelor pad? String of girlfriends? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...? Obviously not scared of heights.
John rolled his eyes at himself for that one.
John looked up at the sky rise building next to Adair's. He thought of a Study in Pink, with the two buildings... shooting through the window. It was a long shot, John had to admit, but perhaps... if you had the right marksman, John supposed shooting from one building to the other wouldn't be impossible... if you ignored the fact that no one heard a bullet (silencer?) and that there was no motive.
Still, maybe he'd suggest it to Lestrade. Admittedly it was farfetched, but it seemed like the only explanation at this point and Sherlock had always been coming up with mad theories which always seemed to come true. He wouldn't tell Lestrade he'd been to the crime scene, obviously, as the man didn't need anything else to worry about and letting slip to people that he still visited crimes scenes was usually the sort of thing that induced people suggesting he should return to therapy (bullocks, this was his way of dealing and it was fine). But he'd mention reading about the Adair case in the paper and see if he'd gotten anywhere with it, subtly mentioning the neighbouring apartment block as a potential source for the bullet?
He pulled out his phone. Pub tonight, Greg? It's been awhile. He sent the text without deliberating, knowing that if he thought about it too much he'd talk himself out of it. It had been awhile and he'd always considered Gregory Lestrade as a friend (before, even, he'd really started considering Sherlock as a friend). Lestrade had offered up his sofa wordlessly when John had muttered something about how he just couldn't return to Baker Street right now. The explosive reaction from Mrs Lestrade had meant the stay had lasted an entire night (apparently, inviting part of the duo who'd caused the inquest and temporary suspension of Lestrade's job for a sleep over was a tad ridiculous in her view), but he'd appreciated it all the same.
He stood in front of the second apartment block, his eyes still fixed on what he imagined was Adair's window until he felt his phone buzz with a reply.
Can't tonight, sorry. Big case. Lots of paperwork. Soon though, John
The brush off wasn't entirely unexpected. John wondered if the Adair case was the big case (and, if it was, things must be picking up for Lestrade again after the inquiry had finished he was given suspiciously low profile, uncomplicated and downright depressing murders to investigate) and wondered if he should ask. He didn't, instead shoving his phone back in his pocket and deciding to walk back to the tube. He didn't exactly have anyone to go home too, but the day at the surgery hadn't exactly been relaxing and he could do with sitting down and having a cup of tea, instead of staring up crimes scenes hundreds of floors up. His quota for living in the past was now officially over for today.
After being stationary for such a lengthy period of time, John's movement started up suddenly meaning John didn't register the old man emerging from the apartment block he was standing in front of until he barrelled straight into him. The man didn't fall, but staged backwards as though John had hit him in the face.
John's apology was met by a strange hissing noise from the man, which led to John holding out one of his hands and taking another step backwards. The man he'd almost knocked down was virtually bent double with age, tufts of white-grey hair, a walking stick and, apparently, was very rude.
"Sorry." John said again, feeling more irritated than he cared to admit. Yes, he'd nearly knocked the poor man over, but he hadn't meant to and he had apologised. There was no need for the stream of swearwords protruding from the man's lips (his voice was strangely croaky too, as though any second now he was going to burst into tears or spontaneously die. An accent too. Thick... Yorkshire?). Behind the man's thick glasses, his strangely bright eyes were boring into John.
John didn't know what else the man was expecting him to do (get down on his knees and grovel?) so he shrugged at him, wished him a nice day, apologised again before beginning the walk back to the tube station rolling his eyes at himself. Went to a crime scene and ended up nearly committing a crime myself. Mowed down a pensioner with an attitude problem. Not exciting enough for the blog, really.
John made a resolution he didn't really mean about not thinking about the Adair case anymore and not visiting anymore crime scenes, full stop, but he made these sorts of internal claims all the time without any real conviction. John Watson wasn't still mourning. Not exactly, but he liked the nostalgia, reminiscing, pretending that it wasn't all over just yet. He didn't like to think of Sherlock as dead and as long as the criminal world continued to produce the sort of things that he'd find interesting, then... well... he seemed more absent than gone. Because who else was anyone going to turn to? Sherlock was the world's only consulting detective. John wasn't in denial, exactly, but these moments of self indulgence... he needed them. He was neither ashamed nor proud of that fact, it was just that Sherlock was always and would always be a part of his life and some sense of the words.
He was, however, slightly alarmed when he thought he saw the same old man twice on the journey home (a stupidly long journey home, given Adair's apartment had been a hell of a commute away), maybe he was paranoid or maybe he'd just had the misfortunate to nearly injure the most unforgiving pensioner in London.
And John thought that was bloody typical. And, secretly, he was thrilled.
I was so amazed by the six reviews on the last chapter. Thank you so much everyone! Especially MusicWritesMyLife and MerryK who've reviewed more than one chapter. Hopefully there's going to be another update for this on Sunday (exams, apparently, mean I'm all inspired and stuff to write...) and in the next chapter... well, it's an interesting one. How do you think I did with John? Your reviews have been making my day, so thank you very much)
And thanks for reading)
