You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me
Recently back from Afghanistan, John Watson receives a special item from his grandfather's will that has always been in the background of his life. Whilst at any other time he would have welcomed this addition, the loss of his only family member left weighs hard on his heart. Is there something - or someone - inside the ancient, antique lamp that can lift his spirits at all?
Chapter 4
"I'm sorry, Mr Watson, but - "
"It's Dr Watson."
"Right. Apologies, Dr Watson. I'm very sorry, but it looks as if that's all that is due into your account this month. If you'd like us to increase your overdraft, we have a few different options for you to look at."
Sighing, John pinched the bridge of his nose between this thumb and forefinger, sitting back in the uncomfortable seat he'd been offered at the bank. He shook his head and suddenly, yet slowly, stood up, "I wouldn't like to increase my overdraft. That's all I needed to know, thanks for your time."
The ex-army doctor didn't give the bank worker time to reply before he was limping off with his cane in tow, silently fuming at how he was expected to survive a whole month with next to nothing left of his army pension. Not that there was much of it at the start of the month to begin with. As he made his way down the street, a police car pulled up to the side of the road and two police officers got out, practically sprinting down a side alley as they shouted into the radios strapped to their protective vests. John perked up a little at the presence of something interesting going on and he peeked down the alleyway just as the two officers disappeared around a corner. About to shrug it off, despite his natural curiosity for anything considered dangerous, John turned to carry on down the road when he felt himself tugged backwards by some invisible force. As he was still not quite used to the life that came with having a genie at your service, it took him some time to realise that it was an invisible Sherlock that wanted him to pay more attention to the crime scene that was forming down the alleyway.
When he did finally remember that he was never really alone anymore, John rolled his eyes and stopped moving, leaning against his cane for a moment. "What is it now, Sherlock?"
"Don't be an idiot, John, I saw that look in your eyes. Go and have a look around that crime scene, we could lend a helping hand." The genie appeared out of thin air wearing his '21st century outfit' again, his hands in his pockets and a peculiar gleam to his gaze.
John had an incredulous look on his face and he leaned forward, holding a hand out in a vaguely confused gesture, "Go and have a look around that crime scene? Lend a helping hand? Do I look like I'm wearing a sergeant's outfit, Sherlock? And what would you know about crime scenes anyway?"
As soon as those words left the blond man's lips, he knew that he shouldn't have even dared to think them. Sherlock straightened up to try and maximise his height, his chest puffing out as he opened his mouth to explain just why he was the only man in London, maybe even the only man in the world, who had the right to inspect that crime scene. "Well, perhaps I'll tell you what I know about crime scenes, John Watson. I know for a fact that there is no real, physical pain in your leg. Your war wound was to your shoulder, and your limp is due to psychological reasons rather than any proper injury. But of course you know that deep down, you've come to realise that despite needing a cane to walk, just during this whole conversation you've not needed it to help you stand whatsoever. In the few days that I've been with you, you've not once complained of needing a seat whenever we've ventured outside of your flat. The only reason that you ever need rest is purely for your shoulder and nothing else. You haven't had any nightmares since I've been here, but I know that you're terrified of having another one because, towards the end of each night, you go about a small routine that you don't realise you've taken up. You'll check that your windows are locked, you'll close the curtains, switch off the lights, have a quick peek onto the streets outside, then mutter to yourself about anything you need to remember to do for the next day. Once all of that's done, since I've been here you've even taken to asking me if there's anything I need before you go to sleep. If I say no, you'll ask if I'm sure at least twice before you finally go to get changed into your pyjamas and resign yourself to the fact that you're going to have to try and sleep again. All the while you're just hoping and praying that those horrific images don't plague your much-needed night's sleep. Oh, and another thing - any normal person would take days to come to terms with the fact that they've acquired a genie in their life. You didn't even need a day and you'd already left me to stay in your flat by myself and hadn't put up much of a fight when I decided to come with you on your little trip to the shops. You like the excitement, John. When you were out in Afghanistan, you liked it. You liked that you didn't know whether you were going to be safe every day, didn't know for certain what was going to be around the corner. And the appearance of me in your life is fairly similar - I present a new aspect of life that you'd never considered before. A genie is interesting, something new. I'm exciting. And that, for your information, is just a little of what I know about crime scenes."
Sherlock watched John for any signs of a reaction and let a satisfied smirk pull at his lips when he saw the stunned, almost disbelieving look that the ex-army doctor had on his face. He revelled in those sorts of reactions to his genius - not that he'd had much chance to show it off lately. He'd been stuck in the elder John Watson's loft for goodness knows how long and the man never once dared to touch his lamp with his bare hands so he'd never revealed himself, let alone had a conversation with the man. "So what do you say to taking a look?" the genie asked, not doing anything to try and hide his pleased smile.
Finally coming back to his senses after pretty much having his current life laid out on an examination table and prodded at with a scalpel, John swallowed hard and he stuck out his chin as he looked Sherlock dead in the eyes. "I say… that was bloody brilliant," he exclaimed, shaking his head. He let out a puff of air, almost unable to believe what he'd heard, and then began grinning at the genie, "I don't know where you learnt to do that, but really… I can't believe you knew all of that just from looking at me. Come on, we can go look at the crime scene for five minutes but I won't have you getting me in trouble, alright?"
"Of course," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as he crossed the road and began jogging off in the same direction that the two police officers had run towards.
Huffing in slight annoyance, John did his best to follow as quick as he could, but with his damned limp, which Sherlock had apparently just deduced to be psychosomatic, things were made a little more difficult. He did the best he could, making sure to keep his gaze on Sherlock as he disappeared around a corner. "I saw you rolling your eyes, don't make me change my mind, Sherlock!"
"Quiet!" Sherlock hissed as he poked his head back around the corner, frowning at John before he once again began running off after the police. John shook his head but remained quiet from then on, not wanting to bring attention to himself since they could easily be thought of as suspects if they were found wandering around the crime scene. When John slowly managed to catch up with the genie, he crept up behind him from where he was pressed up against a wall, watching the scene from around the corner. His eyes seemed to take in every detail, scanning and analysing, as if he was a robot that had been trained to help the police solve a murder just from the most simple of clues.
Thinking it best not to mention that thought to Sherlock himself, he leaned in close to whisper to him, "So? What do you see? Please tell me that you see something."
Tutting at the shorter man, he flapped a hand at John's face to try and stop him from whispering in his ear. He also didn't like someone else being in his personal space so much, it made him feel… uncomfortable, for lack of a better word. "They're not seeing all of the evidence," Sherlock whispered, shaking his head with a frustrated sigh, "It's right in front of their eyes. What are these idiots even working for the police for? To stand around looking like lemons? Honestly…"
Standing up properly now, Sherlock flipped the collar of his coat up and began walking right up to the crime scene, looking as if this was where he belonged, where he fit in. "Can I just ask what's going on here?" he asked a grey-haired man in a long coat who appeared to have authority in the situation. It was obvious what had happened since there was a dead body laid face down in the dirt in this back alley, but he had an act to play out before he could make his point.
Said man turned to the genie and raised an eyebrow at his boldness, "Well, sir, as you can see this is a crime scene so if you could keep back away from the police tape that'd be very helpful."
Sherlock simply smiled a tight-lipped smile and he nodded once, "That much is obvious. I've just been worried about all of this since we have quite a good community here and it wouldn't do to get poor Mrs Warren upset. She's all alone in her house, you see, and we all do our bit to make sure she isn't too lonely. And if she caught wind of this happening practically on her doorstep, she'd never want to be alone again."
Heaving a sigh, the other man came a bit closer and spoke in a low tone of voice, "Not that I should be telling you this, but there's been a murder. So I think you should probably keep your Mrs Warren away from the news as much as you can for a little while. Now, I really need to get back to work, sir."
Sherlock began quietly laughing as the man turned away, and it was this noise that made him turn back to look at the genie. He gave him a questioning stare but didn't get the chance to say anything before Sherlock had cut in. "How do you expect to do your job when you're missing all of the obvious evidence? Don't you see the soil embedded in the man's shoes? Check the soil under a microscope and you'll find where he's been in the past few days. What about the dirt beneath his fingernails and bacteria particles that you might find in his hair? All of this can lead you to the killer, or at least give you a little hint. Give it a try, you might find something interesting, hmm?"
The genie turned to walk away, only to be called back by the other man, "Hey, who are you?"
Sherlock smiled to himself and he carried on walking, but called over his shoulder, "Just a concerned citizen, that's all. Good luck, inspector."
John looked horrified as Sherlock made his way back over to him and he grabbed the genie's elbow, leading him out of the alley the way they'd come, not looking back once as they walked. When they were back on the street, he threw his arms up in the air and sighed, "What the hell was that all about? You're not supposed to draw attention to yourself as it is, but now because of your smart arse comments we're probably going to be under the police's radar as suspects for a murder thanks to you! What were you thinking, Sherlock?"
Looking bored by John's anger, Sherlock shrugged and began walking off in the direction that would lead them to the ex-army doctor's flat. "I was just helping out, that's all." As John reluctantly began to follow along behind him, a little faster than normal, he frowned at the ridiculous statement. But Sherlock felt the need to justify his actions for some reason, even if it was just to put the other man's mind at ease. He spoke up once again, glancing back at John with a smirk, "Think of it as a little help with your bills. Perhaps if we can get you up and walking about more like you are right now, you'll have a full time, well-paying job rather soon. No more of your card being declined. How does that sound?"
John actually stopped to think about the fact that his cane wasn't even touching the ground as he walked now, and indeed he had gained a little speed. Since he was shorter he wasn't as fast as Sherlock, but there was definitely a change there. Had Sherlock used his magic somehow? Or had the events of the day shocked him into getting better? Either way, he couldn't bring himself to be angry at the prospect of having proper money in his bank account for the first time since before Afghanistan. At the back of his mind, however, John got to thinking… why was Sherlock doing all of this for him?