Sherlock hadn't slept in three days. He doubted it would do him much good all the same if he tried. When he closed his eyes he saw the street outside of the Three Garridebs cafe and the cab on the curb and the red. With his eyes open there were bricks and graffiti and stains that might be blood-more likely petrol or other accelerant residue. Open eyes were honest eyes. Sherlock preferred to see what he was facing rather than the shadows of things that never left.
The streets were full of shadows even in the mid-day sun. Sherlock was one of them. He leaned heavily against one of the cement slabs that stretched into Waterloo Bridge, his senses keen on the young he set on patrol-his urchin army-as they did the work few men could do. Few inquisitions were better served by those of authority. Children trusted children and respected friendships over hierarchies. In some ways, it was a great honor to be called childish. Negative connotations aside, they at least had their priorities in check. Not that such likenesses were an advantage. Sherlock was far too old to even pretend to still fit in among the young men harrying within the undercroft of the Southbank Centre. He stood back instead with little else to do but watch and observe and wait. Someone, somewhere, would know or have seen something. No one remained in the shadows forever.
His mobile rang within his pocket, the sound nearly dwarfed by the ambiance of the city. He pulled it forth, expecting to see Lestrade's number waiting for him to ignore. Perhaps Mycroft, though unlikely. Instead it was John's.
It was an automatic response, not in the least bit dulled over time or with thoughts unnecessary. "John?" he called into the receiver. Heartbeat-memory-foolish.
"No, sorry. It's Mary," the woman's voice replied. Sherlock didn't even try not to scowl as he tucked the phone under his hood against his ear. "Had to get on his phone to get your number so I thought, well, easier to just make the call from it."
"More likely for me to pick up."
"That too," she admitted. There was a pause. "John's still asleep," she said at last and while Sherlock could attest to some slight pleasure in being informed on the basics of John's condition, it did not make the conversation any less awkward.
"Alright," he said, and waited for her to get to it or get off the phone.
"He's fine, though. High as a kite, I imagine, and sleeping it off. First thing he's going to ask me when he wakes up is how you are. Thought I'd be a bit proactive while I'm waiting here and make sure I tell him what he wants to hear and not just what he wants to hear. So. How are you, Sherlock? It's been ages."
"Not that long as far as he's concerned. Just tell him I'm making my brother's life a misery for now. Not a scratch on me and no imminent cause for any."
"Alright, I will. And what are you really doing?"
Sherlock's nose scrunched with annoyance. "What makes you think I'm lying?"
"You're Sherlock Holmes. You always lie when you shouldn't and never tell the truth when you should."
"According to John," he said with a hint of displeasure.
"I'd say John's the expert here." There was another annoying pause punctuated at length by a breathy exhale. "Look, ah... John's probably going to be here a few days. Made a mess of his collar bone and, you know, ...inside. If you want to come visit, you can call or just text this number and I'll head out for a bit. Probably need to take a trip back to the house to get some essentials anyway."
"Why?"
"Well, I didn't exactly have the presence of mind to grab the diaper bag."
Sherlock shook his head despite her not being able to see him. "No, I mean why are you offering?" he asked. He turned his body closer to the concrete wall, shielding the phone further.
"John will want to see you. I know how boys are. You can't talk about all those silly boy things when icky girls are around."
He chortled. "You think I don't want you around just because you're a girl?"
"I think this is the part where you're supposed to go with the lie, Sherlock." The tone of her voice put a halt to his ill-humor, not cold or dispassionate but knowing. "Call or text," she said. "You should come visit at least once. For his peace of mind."
"If I can," he lied.
"See there? Told you John was the expert. Bye, Sherlock." There was a smile in her voice. It made Sherlock's stomach cramp. And the call, such as it was, ended.
Sherlock held the phone in his palm for a moment longer than necessary before slipping it back into the pouch of his hooded jumper. He hoped this wasn't the beginning of a trend, of a sort of 'thing' where now Mary thought it was a good idea to contact him. Greeting her on one occasion-a rather critical occasion-did not mean he had any intention of prolonging his awareness of John's life outside of their friendship. He would forget about what he now knew in time. Maybe. With luck.
But he did not like her. Now she had taken up the role of being the 'bigger person', waving a flag of civility, all smiles and favors and kindness unrequited. Oh, she was good-he'd forgotten just how good-and he hated that she was one up on him yet again. It had almost been fun back in the day to have an opponent who was smart enough not to fall into the same ol' traps but he could hardly relish in her continued victory. She made him the fool who continued to stumble over the same petty obstacles. And so what if they were petty? Pettiness was the luxury of the loser and he'd be damned before he gave up the brevity of pleasure it sometimes afforded. Mary could keep her charity and good will and shove them both up whatever imaginative orifice seemed least appealing.
If John had to get married, he could have at least picked a woman who cared that he wanted nothing less than for an enormous seismic rift to tear England apart in such a way as to forever separate the two halves with John on one side and his wife on the other. He could have married someone who agonized over Sherlock's lacking approval, who was desperate to be liked and deemed acceptable by his high authority. Instead he married a woman who considered Sherlock just some bloke her husband was very fond of. Clever, clever, crafty woman. He supposed, had she been anything less, he might have been angry at John instead.
Sherlock let his head fall back on the cement, eyes closed and red veined as they faced the sky. He really didn't need this right now. He needed to remain focused on the case, on the gunner, on the unknown motive that marked him as a dead man. The ridiculous complications that made up John's life, that made John's life separate from his own, were things he'd hoped had been dealt with a long time ago. The phantom pain was just as strong as ever, though, like a limb once there now detached. Not dealt with, just dormant, and no longer satisfied to be so-Had it ever been?
"Hey, you alright?"
Sherlock opened his eyes and adjusted his posture, looking down on Toby and the girl in his company as they crossed the pavement towards him. Tucked away, stone faced, ready for anything. "Not all that impressed with these new shoes," he said, toeing the too-tight trainers against the hard ground. "So, what did the police ask you?" he inquired of the young woman.
Toby smirked, an excited twitch accenting his movements as he gestured to her. "I love it when he does this. Jill, this is the guy. Don't say his name but I told you, didn't I?"
The young woman nodded, demure, timid, scared. There were traces of black ink under her fingernails where she hadn't quite cleaned off the residue from being fingerprinted at the station, a slight purple discoloration to the pads of her fingers as well to rule out bad hygiene. No traces of tissue fibers on her shirt or snot on her sleeve-hadn't cried, soft-ball tactics, not the suspect. "They have the gun, I take it?"
Jill shrugged her ears down into her shoulders. "I don't know. They just wanted to know why I was hanging out on Baker Street."
"Not generally something to be printed over. They were comparing them to something, then, the only likely 'something' being the revolver used in the shooting. They have a weapon I should say-ballistics probably still out on the slug recovered from John-but a ditched weapon in the vicinity of a known shooting doesn't make for a difficult deductive leap even for them. So, prints present but no match in the criminal database or they wouldn't waste their time printing just anyone off the street. Even an idiot knows not to handle a gun bare handed but no crook worth his wages ditches his weapon on the run so either way we're not dealing with a professional." Sherlock grimaced, tapping his toe in anxious agitation. "So the question is now who did I make angry enough to want to kill me who wasn't already on the criminal track?"
"Well, you make lots of people angry," Toby chimed in, his smirk not in the least diminished. "I can probably get some people in on the gun angle, though. If it's not a pro, they had to get a gun from somewhere. Might be I know a guy."
Sherlock nodded. "And if your guy happens to recall someone mentioning a private detective?"
"I'll get what I can from him and call you straight away."
Sherlock nodded again, satisfied for now at the direction of the inquiry. He had enough to cover on his own front, motive still out on a nameless assailant whom perhaps he had wronged but how seemed lost to time. For now. But answers, if they were there to be found, started with procuring an Oyster card.
Sherlock had never been to John's new home nor to his small flat before it. If the train ride was anything to go off of, it would be an uninteresting eyesore. That wasn't fair, perhaps, but then again he hadn't intended it to be. It wasn't his flat on Baker Street and therefore what use was it? Just a place too far away that housed his old case notes-his and John's-which put into detail their accounts of each case. Names, dates, everyone they'd spoken to, everything that might have been dismissed as not pertinent to those cases but were now instrumental to his own. He'd given them to John for the purposes of his writing many months back and much to his delight now. While the Yard kept his own home under surveillance for suspicious loitering or any suspected attempts, the notes he now needed were safely contained elsewhere.
It was about time something worked in his favor.
With any further luck, breaking into the Watson homestead would continue with that trend. He'd waited for nightfall all the same.
Not that he'd been idle. Taking the direct route to John's home wouldn't have worked if somehow someone followed him or Mycroft became tipped off as to which Oyster card he'd stolen. Sherlock had gotten off a stop later and walked back down the streets, learning the new environment, imagining much to his disinterest the walks with a pram the happy family might have taken as he came across several parks, some with fountains, some with ducks. It was a nice town. Safe. Far less noisy than London with a bit fresher a scent to the air. There were small bricked gardens in the fronts of the homes and no shops in-between but set aside on the corner of the wooded road. It was the sort of place where neighbors peeked through their shutters at strangers and phoned each other about this and that. Sherlock was glad for the night as he watched old ladies watch him. He smiled and waved so they knew he knew and would bet with full assurance none would be able to identify him apart from any other Hoody even if they were asked to.
John's home looked like all the others in the cookie-cutter neighborhood. White with brown beams, red brick with red siding between ground and first floor bay windows, beige painted sides along a short stack of front-facing garages with black BMWs parked out front-not John's, a neighbors. John's ground floor windows had white drapes inside but the darkness made seeing through them at a distance impossible. Sherlock counted the houses and walked down to the end of the block, coming back round the back over fences and through gardens as he found the back patio door practically begging to be picked open. Child's play. The world truly owed him a debt of gratitude considering all the evil he could have wrought had he a care to.
The tumblers fell into place with hardly any effort at all, the door pulling open with more time spared climbing their neighbor's oak than in kneeling at the lock. He closed the door carefully behind him, engaging the lock himself just in case, however unlikely, he'd been followed. He'd lost a lot to hubris in his lifetime and surely didn't need to make further habit of it now. Through the somewhat messy kitchen he stepped over colorful blocks and blankets set up like a defensible fort in the center of the main room. He did his best to ignore the photos on the wall-well, not his best since he failed. Dating photos. Wedding photos. Pregnancy and baby. A family lived here. Though he took no hesitation in borrowing from John, it felt like trespassing now. The sooner he got what he needed and left, the better.
The lights were on at the top of the stairs, illuminating for Sherlock the rather treacherous path where laundry seemed to have piled up in a rolling cascade from rooms above to the machine below. Bras, panties, pants, trousers, onesies. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, keeping his eyes down to avoid tripping, and that was perhaps his second mistake.
The first had been to assume the lights off on the ground floor had meant no one was in the house.
It wasn't the impact of the bat, per se, but rather the loss of balance and his presence on the stairs which caused the greater alarm. Clawing for purchase and coming away with air, Sherlock stumbled and fell, hitting his back against the steps as he struck then slid then crumbled at the bottom with deaf ringing in his ears and a whitewash of vision. He only had a second to register either as his eyes blinked closed then suddenly remained. It didn't hurt. It didn't feel at all. Not when he was already back on the street outside of the Three Garridebs cafe with the cab and the curb and the red
