Just wanted to let you all know I made a music mix dedicated to Marisol and Sherlock. Feel free to give it a listen. Link's on my page. Also, for any of you wondering about how their relationship will be as the story continues, to put it simply, the two have a love-hate one in the beginning and gradually leads to just one of the two.~Lovely
-Clever.
-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC
-Rated: T (currently)for language, some suggested violence, and slight adult situations
-TV-based
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle . I only own the OCs introduced.
Chapter Four:
"Hidden Baggage"
[Main street: Brixton; 8:18pm]
"Taxi! Taxi.." John tried to hail one but none were noticing him. Finally deciding to give up, he continued walking. But when passing by a small restaurant store front, a telephone begun ringing; similar to the payphone earlier. He stopped and watched as a worker went to answer but it abruptly finished. It was starting to seem strange to the man but like before, chose to ignore it and continue on until passing another phone booth which rang. Now, it was absolutely creepy and suspicious. Curiosity getting the better of him, he went inside and answered.
"Hello?"
An unknown male voice responded. "There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"
"Who's this?" No answer but either a dial tone was heard. "Who's speaking?"
"Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?"
He looked then, spying the object. "Yeah, I see it."
"Watch.." The camera moved, turning in the opposite it had been momentarily. "There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"
"..Mm-hm." It moved also.
"And finally, at the top of the building on your right." the voice stated. Deep blue eyes looked and saw that one too do the same as the others previously.
"How are you doing this?" questioned Watson.
But all he was told was, "Get into the car, Dr. Watson." A black painted and dark tinted modern Cadillac pulled up to the curb in front of him. The driver stepped out and opened the back door. "I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." The call was then ended. Knowing he had no choice, John complied calmly but underneath was tensed and cautious as an animal that was usually prey.
[Destination Currently Unidentified; 8:25pm]
He wasn't alone as he thought would be for the strange ride. A beautiful woman sat beside him but was too engrossed with her phone and texting someone. It briefly reminded him of Sherlock on their ride coming to Brixton.
"Hello." he greeted at last.
"Hi." she surprisingly answered back with a kind smile. No more words were exchanged on her end.
"What's your name, then?"
"Er..Anthea."
"Is that your real name?"
She glanced at him with a smirk. "No."
"I'm John." he told her.
"Yes. I know." the woman said matter-of-fact.
"Any point in asking..where I'm going?" She gave him a look that was usually given to a puppy that did something stupid but cute.
"None at all..John."
"Okay." The doctor stopped talking all together afterwards. The drive was exceedingly long and when the car at last stopped and he was allowed to step out, his location didn't really give him answers as to why he was there except something terrible might happen. He had been dropped off at a closed warehouse of some kind and a dapper looking man stood waiting for him with a chair a few steps in front of him.
He pointed at it with an umbrella he had been using like a cane. "Have a seat, John."
"You know, I've got a phone." Watson stated, walking over gradually. "I mean, very clever and all that, but er..you could just phone me. On my phone." He finished his subtle complaint, standing closely but respectably a distance from the suspicious person.
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes," the mysterious man informed, "One learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."
"I don't want to sit down." he rejected the offer crisply.
"..You don't seem very afraid."
"You don't seem very frightening."
The stranger chuckled. "Yes..the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He got to business then, no longer amused. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"
"I don't have one." John replied, "I barely know him. I met him..yesterday."
"Mmm, and since yesterday, you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together." the man noted, "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"
John glared, "Who are you?"
"An interested party." he was told cryptically.
"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."
"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."
"And what's that?"
"An enemy." promptly replied the peculiar stranger.
"An enemy?" repeated the doctor, skeptical.
"In his mind, certainly." he said, "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy..He does love to be dramatic."
"Well, thank God you're above all that." the veteran stated with sarcasm. An unamused look was given then and the sound of a text message alert from John's phone as well. Pulling it from his pocket, he read the text;
Baker Street.
Come at once
if convenient.
SH
"I hope I'm not distracting you."
"Not distracting me at all." drawled John before placing the phone away.
"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked of him.
"I could be wrong..but I think that's none of your business."
"It could be."
"It really couldn't."
"If you do move into, um.." The stranger reached into his coat for a small tan handbook. He flipped a few pages until finding the one he wanted. "..221B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." The book was put away again.
"Why?" queried Watson suspiciously.
"Because you're not a wealthy man." he correctly noted.
"In exchange for what?"
"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel..uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."
"Why?"
"I worry about him." the stranger responded, "Constantly."
John was slightly surprised by the concern. "..That's nice of you."
"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a..difficult relationship." Another text message alert sounded. The next text said;
If inconvenient,
come anyway.
SH
"..No." the doctor refused the offer.
"But I haven't mentioned a figure." the man pressed smoothly.
"Don't bother."
"You're very loyal very quickly."
"No, I'm not, I'm just not interested."
The little tan book was shown again. "'Trust issues', it says here."
Blond brows furrowed at it. "What's that?"
"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" the mysterious stranger pondered.
"Who says I trust him?" denied the veteran, increasingly becoming annoyed.
"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily..especially after the death of your goddaughter, Marisol's father."
He was livid now. "Are we done?"
His steely gaze was met with a calm one. "You tell me." John stared at him for a long moment before turning away, having had quite enough of him to bare any longer. "..I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen." He paused and shook his head, facing the man again.
"My what?"
"Show me." Watson thought about telling him off but chose against it. The quicker he did as the stranger said, the quicker he could leave and put this bizarre event behind him. So his left hand was raised for viewing. The man closed the short distance between them and reached for said extremity.
The doctor drawn it back, saying with warning. "Don't." He was given a hard look to which he obeyed. The hand was gently held and turned to the side slightly before released.
"Remarkable."
"What is?"
"Most people blunder round this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars." the peculiar stranger stated, "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"
"What's wrong with my hand?" the doctor asked composedly.
"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." answered the man, speaking nothing new that John didn't already know. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."
John was becoming defensive now, snapping. "Who the hell are you?" The person raised a brow and he calmed himself once more. "How do you know that?"
"Fire her." he was told instead, "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now, and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson..You miss it." Said person froze.
"You miss it, don't you?..The war, the chaos?" Marisol had said the same the day before..and it was true. He missed the danger, the adventure..whether he admitted it aloud or not.
The stranger leaned forward some, whispering. "Welcome back." He walked away then, leaving John to his thoughts. His cell phone beeped; another text. "..Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson."
"I'm to take you home." Watson looked to find 'Anthea' behind him, still texting. Instead of replying, the new message was checked.
Could be dangerous.
SH
Deep blue eyes peered at his left hand, studying it.
"Address?"
"Er, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street." John finally answered, "..But I need to stop off somewhere first."
[Sherlock's Flat; 8:43pm]
Marisol sat comfortably with her legs tucked under her in the old red arm chair at Sherlock's apartment, listening to music on her iPhone. The two had made it back, after doing some hands-on investigating, almost an hour ago after leaving the crime scene. Holmes had texted John three times earlier to come there and still had no reply. She was trying not to panic, thinking positive thoughts and keeping herself busy with her music. But her brown eyes would shift briefly over to the couch on the other side of the flat. The eccentric laid there with hands steeple under his chin, appearing asleep but was in fact thinking.
"What's the story between you and Anderson?" the young woman asked suddenly, believing he wouldn't hear nor respond.
"It's simple. Anderson is an idiot." the man replied with eyes still closed, "And he annoys me because of it."
She raised a brow, "How exactly does he annoy you?"
Sherlock ranted, "By being an attention hog, always butting in and failing to be intelligent since clearly he has an IQ lower than a squirrel."
"Touchy subject, huh?" Vallas tightly smiled.
"Why did you ask if you knew?" Holmes glanced at her then.
A shrug was given. "Just trying to make small talk, I guess. Heh, I'm not very good at it obviously."
"A common trait of the introverted." he stated matter-of-fact.
"..Yeah.." she murmured, glancing down and fiddling with her phone. Suddenly, Sherlock was standing and over by her before she could blink. His hands rested on the chair's arms, trapping the young woman, and his face leaned slightly in. Their abrupt closeness made her breath held and those piercing blue eyes of his kept her frozen to the spot.
"But the real you is trapped inside," he drawled, sounding oddly alluring. "Gradually clawing its' way out though you desperately keep pushing it back in."
"The-the real me?" she repeated, flabbergasted. "What are you on about? I'm—"
"—Lying to yourself. There's a fierceness to you. A liberated side that cares not what the world thinks from her words or actions."
Vallas strongly denied, "There is no such thing in me."
"You're not only here to look after Watson." the genius informed, "In the beginning, that was your obvious resolve but now, as the night drags on, you're becoming transfixed with what's occurring. The adventure, the risk, the mystery of the case—you like it." His curl dark haired head tilted in a curious fashion. "Your godfather too..For no blood relation, you two are oddly similar."
"You're hiding something too." the young woman countered coolly. The air was growing tense by the second and slowly becoming a need to out best each other. "You aren't the only one to read people well. I can see the madness behind all that smart of yours. You don't know how to switch off and the knowing of everything and needing to be right is making you and has caused it."
"A true introvert would want to be left alone in their world, not accepted by the billions in this reality. You're an extrovert but are afraid to reveal who you are because you believe even then you won't be. You're scared of being called a freak." She said nothing, glaring hotly at him. He slightly smirked; a soft spot had been struck.
The man simply moved away with a shrug, adding a finishing blow. "I don't understand why it matters. Even if you do, you'll still be plain compared to most."
"Shut your bleeding mouth!" Marisol snapped venomously. Dark brown eyes widen and quickly turned away; filled with contrite. No further response was given, so he went and fiddled with his violin then. A taut silence filled the room for several minutes.
"..I can see why most people tell you to piss off."
"Pray tell." the eccentric told softly, plucking random strings.
The writer looked at him. "You speak only truth. People aren't ready for it..I wasn't." She glanced down, smirking humorlessly. "There's only three people I know that could easily read me—my father, my grandmother, and John."
Sherlock raised a brow. "And your point?"
"Now, I can say there's four." Marisol stated before meeting his gaze again with a glare. "But just because I did, doesn't mean I fully trust you to be in my inner circle." She looked away with a chagrined blush, muttering. "Though I have a feeling I'll have a decision by the end of all this."
"I look forward to your choice then, Ms. Vallas." Holmes smirked, having heard.
[John(?)and Marisol's Flat; 9:15pm]
The reason for John coming there was simple—to retrieve his handgun. He neither fired or touched it in months since returning to London. But from Sherlock's texts and the situation the three were all currently involved in, there was no telling how it might possibly end. So if it turned bad, Watson would be at least well prepared. So tucking it in the waistband of his pants behind his back, hidden thanks to his coat, he left to proceed to Baker Street.
[221B Baker Street: 9:39pm]
Arriving back at Baker Street, Watson unbuckled himself but he didn't get out right away.
"Listen, your boss," he said to 'Anthea,' "Any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"
"Sure." she agreed kindly.
"You've told him already, haven't you?" the man deadpanned.
"Yeah." the texting woman admitted.
The doctor opened the door but paused, "Hey, um..do you ever get any free time?"
She chuckled, "Oh, yeah. Lots." A long pause filled the air afterwards until she looked at him. "Bye." John got the point and stepped out finally.
"Smooth, Watson, Real smooth." he thought bitterly as the car drove away.
This was what John walked in and first saw: Sherlock was now found back on the couch with one sleeve rolled up to the elbow and his left arm bent at a right angle; hand clenched in a fist. He was pressing something on his skin. Clear blues opened as a slow exhale escaped him. Marisol, having changed her position in the arm chair, now sat upside down while playing Words with Friends.
He addressed Sherlock first. "What are you doing?"
"Nicotine patch." The eccentric showed his arm, revealing three of them. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."
"It's good news for breathing." noted John.
"Oh, breathing! Breathing's boring." Holmes complained. Watson just then noticed something peculiar about his arm, moving closer to see.
"Is that..three patches?!"
"He said it's a three-patch problem when I asked." informed Marisol blankly, looking away from her game and smiling at her godfather. "Hi, John. Glad to see you made it back in one piece."
"And why are you upside down?" he questioned, bewildered.
"I suggested that she should hang upside down when playing her Words for Friends." stated Sherlock, closing eyes again as he steeple his hands under his chin. "Blood rushing to the head is a good way to assist in quick thinking because of the increased bioavailability of oxygen and glucose, the two most important metabolic substrates for the brain."
"Surprisingly, he was right. I'm on my third win." Watson looked from the other man to her, absolutely baffled. Again, it was unusual the swift understanding between the two misfits.
He peered at the contemplative Holmes. "..Well?" No response. "You asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important."
The genius woke with a small jump, remembering. "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"
"My phone?" the doctor repeated.
"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that my number will be recognized. It's on the website."
"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."
"Yeah, she's downstairs." said Sherlock heedlessly, "I tried shouting, but she didn't hear."
"I was the other side of London." noted John with irritation, "And Marisol's right here with hers."
"There was no hurry." stated the other man, "And she refused incessantly of the use of hers for what I have planned." Watson stared at him blankly before just pulling out his phone.
"Here." Sherlock held out his right hand and the phone was dropped onto it. His hands were steeple and he was back in meditation mode again.
"So what's this about—the case?" the veteran queried, meaning the demand for his phone.
"Her case.." he was corrected.
"Her case?"
"Her suitcase, yes, obviously." Holmes told, slightly snappy. "The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."
"Okay, he took her case. So?"
"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it." the eccentric uttered to himself then addressed John, "On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text." The cell was offered back.
"You've brought me here..to send a text." Watson said slowly.
"Text, yes. The number on my desk." Once his phone was taken, John hesitated, peering around the room briefly before going to the window.
"Something the matter?" asked the young woman slowly, moving wobbly to stand. All that blood rushing to her head made her off-balance.
"Just met a friend of yours, Sherlock." he replied, looking outside.
"A friend?" said man repeated, confused.
"An enemy." John rectified himself.
"Oh." Sherlock calmed down then. Enemies he was used to but friends were a whole different story. "Which one?"
The godfather and child peered at him, thinking for a moment. "He has more than one?"
"Well, your arch-enemy, according to him." Watson declared, "Do people have arch-enemies?"
The genius glanced where he stood, saying softly. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"
"Yes."
"Did you take it?"
"No."
"Pity, we could have split the fee." Holmes noted, disappointed. He then chastised, "Think it through next time."
"Who was he?" Vallas pondered with curiosity.
"The most dangerous man he's ever met and not my problem right now."
She muttered, rolling her dark eyes. "Oh, that's helpful and frightening.."
He narrowed his eyes at her before telling John again, "On my desk, the number!" The doctor went to the messy table, finding the tiny slip of paper at the end on top of a file folder. He read what was written.
"Jennifer Wilson. That was..Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"
The other man was meditating once more. "Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number..Are you doing it?"
"Yes."
"Have you done it?"
"Yeah, hang on!" Watson snapped, not liking to be rushed and ordered around. He shook his head, finishing.
"These words exactly." the eccentric advised, "'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come.'"
The doctor stopped, "You blacked out?"
"What? No..No!" The genius rapidly got up, stepped on and over the coffee table, and headed into the kitchen. "Type and send it. Quickly." He came back with a small pink carry-on suitcase. "Have you sent it?"
"What's the address?"
"22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" Grabbing a chair from his desk, he placed it in front of the leather arm chair and the case on top before taking a seat himself.
What happened at Lauriston Gdns?
I must have blacked out
22 Northumberland St
Please come
The text was finished and sent. The sound of a zipper made John glance over his shoulder. Sherlock had unzipped the case and stared thoughtfully at its' contents full of womanly items.
"That's.." he paused, "That's the pink lady's case, that's Jennifer Wilson's case."
"Yes, obviously." Sherlock said. John just stared, making him sigh with botheration. "Oh, perhaps I should mention—I didn't kill her."
"I never said you did." Watson noted.
"Why not?" Holmes contradicted, "Given that text and the fact I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."
Marisol questioned then, "Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"
He smirked before changing his position in the chair—now squatting. "Now and then, yes."
"..Okay.." the doctor said and went to sit in the unoccupied red chair across the eccentric. "How did you get this?"
"By looking."
"Where?"
"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens." the genius expressed, "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in a car. Nobody could be seen with this without drawing attention—particularly a man, which is statistically more likely."
"Yeah, it's said totaling all the serial killers around the world, the percentage is largely male." the young woman added from her spot by the desk, leaning against the edge with crossed arms. "There are females ones but their numbers are greatly low."
"How do you know this?!" exclaimed her godfather.
She easily replied, "Research. I did a paper on various serial killers for my Psychology class in secondary school."
"So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it." Sherlock continued, "Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. Marisol and I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took us less than ten minutes to find the right skip."
What he didn't go further into details with was that the two had gotten on top of a roof to another abandon building in the area for better viewing point first. Then went to every backstreet with that description and searched separately to cover more ground. Sherlock had been the one to find the case in a dumpster filled with black garage bags and other rubbish. Afterwards, they hurriedly came back to Baker Street.
"Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?" inquired Watson.
"It had to be pink, obviously."
"Why didn't I think of that?"
"Because you're an idiot." the other man stated brusquely. John looked at him in offense. "No, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is."
"He said that same thing to me," reassured the young woman, waving a dismissive hand. "When I asked what we were looking for earlier and replied as you did."
"Yes, but you automatically slapped me when I did and before I could further explain." added Holmes in a dead tone.
Marisol flushed with embarrassment. "I said it was a reflex and apologized! Let it go, man!"
Clear blue eyes rolled and asked the veteran, "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"
"From the case?" John said, "How could I?"
"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone?" Sherlock stressed, "There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one. That's her number there you just texted."
"Maybe she left it at home."
The eccentric sat normal then. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home."
"Er.." Watson paused, peering at his phone on the arm. "Why did I just send that text?"
"Well, the question is where is her phone now?"
"She could have lost it." reasoned the other man.
"Yes, or?" the genius pressed him.
"The murderer..You think the murderer has the phone?" the doctor answered accurately.
"Maybe she..left it when she left her case." he was told, "Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."
"Sorry..what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?" His phone rang then. He peered at the calling screen.
(withheld)
calling
The writer covered her mouth, shocked. "Oh, my god..he's really calling.."
"A few hours after his last victim," Sherlock said in a low tone, "And now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer.." The case was slapped shut then. "..would panic." He stood, grabbing his suit jacket before heading to the door.
"Have you talked to the police?" John asked him.
"Four people are dead, there isn't time to talk to the police."
"Then why are you talking to us?"
"Mrs. Hudson took my skull." Holmes replied, sounding like a child. His ever-present coat and scarf were retrieved next from a door hanger.
"So we're basically filling in for your skull?" Marisol scoffed.
"Relax, you're both doing fine." encouraged the eccentric, "Well?"
"Well, what?" queried Watson.
The genius suggested with a grimace. "Well..you could just sit there and..watch telly—"
The doctor interrupted. "You want us to come with you?"
"You, yes. Ms. Vallas is already onboard." It was true for the young woman already had her coat and satchel back on as well. "Plus, I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so.." He smirked and his two new acquaintances did the same, amused. "Problem?"
"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."
"What about her?"
"She said you get off on this, you enjoy it." he noted.
"And I said 'dangerous', and here you are." the other man countered smoothly, leaving the room.
"He has a point." said his goddaughter, agreeing.
"And you're all for the dangerous lifestyle now?" the veteran questioned, narrowing his deep blue eyes. "Especially after you being protective and wanting nothing bad to happen of me."
She looked at him with a fierce seriousness. "It's what you wanted. Needed, even. You're slowly becoming yourself again. Now, I'm still that and want you safe but to do so, I have to jump on the band wagon as well." A cocky grin formed on her pink lips. "Plus, who else is going to watch your six better than me?" They stared at each other for a moment.
"Damn it!" cursed John, hating to agree and follow along in this madness once more. He stood and the two hurried after Holmes.
-TBC-
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