John hadn't gone far — two meters max — when the public phone box started to ring. He didn't pay attention to it. A look at his watch made him sight. He wasn't going to sleep a lot tonight. As soon as he walked past it, the phone stopped ringing.
The main street was crowded with many young people. Despite the few taxis he had seen and made a sign to, none of them has stopped. Another phone started to ring. Looking around, John saw it in a fast-food. It stopped when one of the servers made an attempt to answer the call. The public phone box John walked before two meters further rang as well. John stopped again. Coincidences don't exist, they say. He was curious. And after all, the people who were trying to contact him — if some people were trying to contact him — had made it clear that they were powerful and could follow him, so why run? With those thoughts in mind, John entered the cabine.
"Hello?" he said in the handset.
"There is a security camera on the building to your left," a man said. "Do you see it?" John frowned.
"Who is this?" he asked. "Who's speaking?"
"Do you see the camera, doctor Watson?" John rose his eyes. The white cuve was moving under his eyes.
"Yeah, I see it."
"Watch." The camera swivelled away from the phone box. "Now there's another camera on the building opposite to you. Do you see it?" The camera swivelled as well. "And finally, at the top of the building, on your right." The same thing happened.
"How are you doing this?" John asked nervously. A black car stopped right before him. A man in a suit exited from the passenger seat an opened the back door.
"Get into the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." The man hang up, leaving John with no choice but to do what he was told.
The woman John was sitting next to was more than attractive. At least, by his standards. She was in her early thirties, had long black hair and was wearing a dress that was perfectly drawing her forms. She was holding a Blackberry in her hand, and didn't look like she was planing on letting it out of her sight anytime soon.
"Hello," John said after a couple of silent minutes.
"Hi," she said, looking at him. Her red glowing lips separated into a smile, revealing white teeth under them. She went back to her phone just a second later, ignoring John again.
"What's your name, then?" John tried.
"Er… Anthea." She kept looking at the phone this time.
"Is that your real name?" John asked. She smiled at him.
"No." John looked around them. He couldn't recognise the building.
"I'm John."
"Yes. I know."
"Any point in asking where I'm going?" It was worth a try.
"Not at all, John."
"Okay." He didn't insist.
A while later, the car arrived in an abandoned warehouse. There were pounds here and there, and the shelves were rare and empty. A man was standing in the middle of it, leaning on his umbrella in a relaxed pose. He was wearing a suit — it seemed that everybody was wearing a suit in those days — and a red tie, all perfectly put in place.
"Have a sit, John," he told the doctor and pointed, with his umbrella, at the chair before him. It was the same voice as the one who had talked to him on the phone.
"You know, I've got a phone," John said, ignoring the chair. "I mean, very clever, and all that, bur er… you could have just phone me. On my phone." John stopped before the man. Like Sherlock, he was taller than him.
"When one's avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place," the man said, showing the warehouse with his umbrella. "The leg must be hurting you," he continued with a fake smile. "Sit down." The order was barely hidden under a fake amiable tone.
"I don't wanna sit down," John replied.
"You don't seem very afraid," the man observed without loosing his smile.
"You don't seem very frightening." If he thought John was going to be afraid because of the warehouse, the black car and the suit, he didn't know who was before him. This was nothing.
The man chuckled. "Yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest world for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?" In three sentences, the man had lost is smile and went directly to the reason of the kidnapping.
"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him… yesterday." It was the second time John had to answer this question tonight. What was it saying about the man that was Sherlock Holmes? Was it so unusual for him to meet people? Donovan's words came back to his mind. Did Sherlock Holmes really didn't have friends?
"Mmm, and since yesterday, you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" John didn't react.
"Who are you?" he asked instead. The only explanation for the man knowing all this was if he tracked Sherlock's every move. Which was pretty disturbing.
"An interested party."
"Interested in… Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."
"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has." Donovan might have been right then. Maybe Sherlock Holmes really didn't have friends. "I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having," the man stated looking down. Was he… embarrassed?
"And what's that?" John asked.
"An enemy."
"An enemy?"
"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." The last statement was said almost absent-mindedly, like when you realise something that you somehow always knew about someone close to you.
John looked around him. "Well, thank god, you're above all that." Drama Queen. The man tilted his head and made a face. John's phone beeped. He took it out.
Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient.
SH
"I hope I'm not… distracting you."
"You're not distracting me at all," John responded and took his time to put his phone back in his pocket.
"Do you plan to continue you association with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, playing with umbrella.
"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."
"It could be."
"It really couldn't," John affirmed, shaking his head softly.
"If you do move into, hum…" the man said, taking a small notebook out of his inside pocket, "… 221B Baker Street," he read, "I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to… ease your way." He clasped the notebook and put it back in its place.
"Why?"
"Because you're not a wealthy man."
"In exchange for… What?" John had his idea about it.
"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable with. Just… Tell what he's up to."
"Why?"
"I worry about him. Constantly."
"It's nice of you."
"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern goes unmentioned," the man continued, playing with his umbrella and not looking at John. "We have what you might call a… difficult relation ship." John's phone beeped again.
If inconvenient, come anyway.
SH
"No," John answered.
"But I haven't mentioned a figure."
"Don't bother."
The man chuckled again. "You're very loyal, very quickly," he said mockingly.
"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."
The man lost his smile, as if to show he wasn't playing, and took his notebook out again."Trust issues, it says here." He opened it and look at the scribble.
John gulped and frowned at the notebook. His throat tightened in fear. "What's that?" he managed to say normally safe for the slight worry in his voice.
"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, out of all people?"
"Who says I trust him?"
"You don't seem the king to make friends easily," the man continued, still reading the notebook.
"Are we done?" John asked. There was no point in staying if it was to be insulted.
"You tell me…" John tilted his head and gauged the man before him. He turned around. He hadn't made more than three step when the man's voice stopped him.
"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 shook his head. How could he possibly— He turned around and walked back to the man.
"My what?"
"Show me." John took his time to take his decision. A few seconds and he held out his hand before him. But if the other man wanted see, he'll be the one to come closer. And he did, putting the end of his umbrella around his arm and making a move to take John's hand. However, when his fingers were about to brush John's, the army doctor pulled back.
"Don't," John said. The man raised an eyebrow. There was the trust issues. Very slowly, John lowered his hand and let it be examined, as if to show him wrong.
"Remarkable," the man concluded.
"What is?" asked John, taking back his limb.
The man turned and starts to walk slowly. He was in control. "Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield," he said. " You've seen it already, haven't you?"
"What's wrong with my hand?"
"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. She thinks you're haunted by the memories of your military service."
John gulped. He was good. Maybe even as good as Sherlock. And it was… terrifying. In this moment, John thanked his military training. He might be terrified but he could choose to control it and keep thinking. "Who the hell are you? How do you know that?"
"Fire her," the man told him. "She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it." John's jaw was firmly clenched. "Welcome back," the man whispered. He walked away, playing once more with his umbrella but happily this time. "Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson."
At the very same time, John's phone beeped for the third time. John didn't move. He kept looking before him, taking in what had just happened. Behind him, he could hear the heels of not-Anthea on the pavement.
"I'm supposed to take you home," she said, eyes on her phone. John looked at the text he had just received.
Could be dangerous.
SH
His hand wasn't trembling. He smiled wryly.
"Address?" Not-Anthea asked.
"Er, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street," John answered, walking to the car. "But I need to stop off somewhere first."
John couldn't believe he was still sleeping in this room this very morning. It seemed like days ago. And far too ordinary. He walked to his desk and took out his gun. He tucked it in the waistband of his jean.
Obviously, Sherlock Holmes could help him and he could help Sherlock Holmes. But it won't be without danger, if what had just happened was anything to go by. Plus, Sherlock Holmes was a mystery in himself. A mystery John Watson was decided to resolve.
When the car stopped before 221B, not-Anthea was still typing away on her phone. "Listen, your boss, any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?" John asked.
"Sure," not-Anthea nodded.
"You've told him already, haven't you?" John deduced.
"Yeah." Of course. John opened the door and was about to leave when he changed his mind. He looked back at not-Anthea.
"Hey, hum… do you get any… free-time?" She laughed.
"Oh, yes. Lots." John fixed her for long seconds before she looked up from her phone. "Bye," she dismissed him.
"Okey," he said, resigned. He got out and knocked three times on the door of 221B.