Authors Note: I'm terribly sorry this is a few days late, it took me a bit to figure out how to go about writing this chapter. hopefully you enjoy it!
Sherlock's P.O.V
He hated cab rides. Hated that they were merely a means to an end, getting from one place to wherever you needed to be next. They weren't truly anything. An in-between stage. Something becoming something else. Necessary, unavoidable, predictable. Hateful. Cab rides were just glorified black holes of waiting to get to the good part in the detective's mind.
And if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes hated almost as much as he hated being bored, it was waiting.
Is he purposely driving slower? Are we even going to the flat? Did John tell him to loop around the block a bit for fun? Are we being kidnapped?
No. Sherlock would know if he were being kidnapped. He would have at least been interested if that were the case.
He decided, tentatively, that it was unlikely any potential kidnappers or his flatmate were trying to genuinely push him into insanity through sheer lack of anything better to do. Tentatively because every second spent in the back of this cab may as well have been another decade ticking past so maybe that remote possibility wasn't so crazy after all. He was dying of boredom. Literally. Sherlock was quite certain. It wasn't the way he had expected to go, but these things rarely worked out the way one plans. The detective was so bored he was absolutely positive his brain was sending the signal to the rest of his transport that this was it. Commence shut down, cease fire, cut the engines. Because if the world was going to be so insistently uninteresting then Sherlock would be rather insistently uninterested right back.
It had been eleven minutes, 47 seconds, 12 milliseconds. The detective was ready to demand that John allow him to begin his new experiment immediately, right where they sat, or Sherlock was prepared to scream bloody murder the rest of the time he was subjected to the hideous leather interior of the vehicle.
Really, John had an unhealthy obsession with the discrete handling of body parts. How could the world become more apt at dealing with the presence of a thumb without the rest of the hand (or body for that matter) if Sherlock wasn't there to repeatedly expose them to it? It was the logical thing to do.
Looking over at the other man, Sherlock was given a glare that may have said that doing the logical thing might end with a certain ex-army doctor re-enacting one of those "bad days".
Why must he live in a world so dead set against progress?
Once his eyes had settled on poor, sweet, looking-a-bit-homicidal John Sherlock decided to play his favourite distraction game. Pin the deduction on the doctor.
Bags under eyes still present, eight hours of sleep not sufficient? Need to run tests on John's sleep patterns.
Still glaring. Upset at me? Or the case? The thumbs, maybe? Perhaps me and the thumbs. Okay yes, definitely me and the thumbs. But he's slouching, hasn't pushed me away or asked to get out of the cab for one of those pointless walks. Not that mad then
Stomach grumbling, typical. Have I made him miss any meals? Oh breakfast, right. I forgot about breakfast. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
In short, John is not a very well kept man and this is not a new revelation. At least Donovan couldn't claim that he must have blackmailed the good doctor into being with him. Sherlock Holmes, as always, had proof that this was not the case.
"You're staring."
"I know."
John heaved a great sigh and Sherlock briefly wished desperately with every single one of his nerve endings for a spirometer. Perhaps the key to unravelling the mystery of John Watson was hidden somewhere in those lungs the doctor seems so insistent on abusing.
"Do you mind?," the detective asked with the tiniest hint of a smirk, echoing John's own words from that morning back at him. Sherlock was always pleased as punch when he managed to do something like that, turning things back on the doctor. Non-existent deity knew John did it often enough to him. Though Sherlock couldn't blame the other man. The more people treated every word he decided to utter as gospel, the better the world would be. It made sense that this appreciation should start with John. It was the way of things.
"Well, you do it so much on purpose, I'm not sure how I feel about you doing it for no reason," John explained.
"Would it make you feel better if there were a reason?"
"No. Worse, maybe."
"Alright then, I'll put a stop to all that looking at you by accident."
"See that you do."
"Only with good reason from now on."
"Good. And Sherlock?,"
"What?"
"Keep those thumbs in that box or I'll be forced to confiscate them as an early Christmas present for Anderson."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't I?"
"Oh John, how can you say things like that and expect people not to look at you by mistake."
John's P.O.V
John thought later that this might be all his fault.
Sherlock's P.O.V
"Tea?"
"Love some, two sugars."
"Yes right, that's what I meant," John said wearily with a small shake of his head but went in search of the kettle regardless.
Sherlock felt a small smile tug at his lips. John was funny. He ought to tell him that sometime. In case it was another one of those things the doctor wasn't aware of, like proper blood splatter patterns or all the sunlight he was constantly leaking over everything he touched.
They were both ignoring the elephant in the room, as it were. Not that Sherlock had actually managed to procure an elephant, Mycroft was still being rather difficult about allowing exotic animals. No, what John was trying to use tea to block out was the dozens of boxes stacked in 221B as if the pair of them were trying to build a fortress of cardboard like Sherlock had done once when he was six after Mummy had told him being a pirate wasn't a practical occupation.
The files for Moran's old cases. Excellent. Perhaps Lestrade was improving with prolonged exposure to people with intelligence levels beyond those necessary for functioning.
"We're going to have to get started on those tonight," he pointed out to the good doctor as Sherlock himself perched at the table in front of his microscope to get just the right mixture of trace minerals to put in a solution for the thumbs. Nickel, zinc, iron. Wonderful. He simply had to know exactly how Moran's hands should have looked, exactly what discolouration should have been present.
"I was hoping you weren't going to say that. Say something else."
"Like what John? I'll set up the thumbs and then we really need to sort through the files for irregularities."
"Anything. Anything else."
"Alright. Did you notice the rain today? I thought it felt particularly wet."
"God, I can see why you don't do small talk,"
"Rather obvious John."
The tea was cold. Disgusting. Not John's best work.
How long has that been sitting there?
Quick glance at the clock. 3:17 in the morning. Ah. Roughly seven hours then.
That would explain the stiffness in his legs, the nagging itchy feeling behind his ears and why John looked even more murderous than he had in the cab. Looking less like manslaughter and closer to first degree Sherlock reckoned.
"John, my hair keeps tickling my ears, could you fix it for me."
"What?"
"My hair, its putting me off."
"Sherlock, no. Absolutely not. You can lift your own arms and fix your own hair. I'm not doing it for you. I might never do anything for you again after this," John grumbled, snapping shut another old manila folder with less care than had been evident all those hours ago before Sherlock had lost himself in the work.
"We need to find the link John, it's here somewhere."
"Yeah well our flat use to be here somewhere too and I'm starting to have my doubts about finding it either. "
"It's not that much paper,"
"Yes it is, actually. And none of Moran's cases were strange. He was just a regular officer. Hell, he dealt with just as many parking tickets as he did criminals."
"I'll admit his professional work leaves something to be desired for the imagination but I hardly picked who the victim was."
Another sigh. Sherlock scowled back at it, hating the air that he was convinced would take John away before Sherlock was finished with him. If ever such a time occurred.
"I know that, it's just… there's nothing Sherlock. No scandals, hardly ever any appeals. The man never deviated from the planned court statements, never slipped up on the stand. He was just a good cop. And I can't read another file about a man denying he killed his son just to find out that Moran did everything by the book again. "
"What was that?"
"Did you hear anything I just said? If you went to your mind palace I sw-,"
"No John, what was that last bit? What man, what son?,"
"Oh, that was the last folder. The guy's lawyers didn't put up much of a defense, just said it was an accidental drowning in the family pool and that the father didn't see anything. Came outside and found his son floating in the pool. Signs of a struggle though, going by the autopsy. Bruising on the wrists, suggestion of clawing at the attacker on the nails, haemorrhaging in the lungs from struggling. Open and shut as far as the police involvement went."
"Are there pictures? Show me the pictures!" Sherlock shouted as he jumped up a bit in his sit, knocking over a stack of read files as he went.
"What are you on about? Moran barely touched this one," the doctor pointed out as he dutifully passed over the stack of photos from the crime scene, which were mostly of the child and the pool itself though a few were taken of the father for the sake of documenting the clothes he was found in.
"Cooper Hallohan. Single father to Oliver age seven, banker, widow hmm no divorcee. Unusal for men to get parental rights in a custody case, so the mother probably gave them up. A kid no one wanted drowns. Are there any pictures of the mother?"
"No, why would there be. They were divorced like you said, she hadn't been living with them anymore. Why's that matter?"
"Because she killed her son. I find I'd like to know why, don't you?" Sherlock announced calmly but one look at his eyes showed all the giddy excitement of finding the puzzle piece that had been stuck under the couch that everyone else had missed when putting the picture together.
"How could you possibly know that? You looked at maybe five picutres of the scene."
"Three pictures, which was more than enough. The bruises on the wrist look a bit small to have been from Cooper's hands. Not to mention he hasn't got any scratch marks on his arms. Seems unlikely he could hold his son under the water by the wrists without getting a scratch, especially if the boy's hands were a mess when they pulled him out," Sherlock explained rather quickly, pulling his phone out to text Lestrade.
"So you're going to get Greg to call the mother in?"
"She's the most likely suspect, probably suffering from depression which ended her marriage but she could have easily picked Oliver as a convenient excuse instead."
"Oh," John replied dumbly. Sherlock remained determined to care for John straight through even moments like that.
"Better get Lestrade to find Cooper's brother too, he's who would have gone after Moran for dropping the case so quickly."
"You know-,"
"Probably."
John scowled.
"What I was trying to say wa-,"
"Yes John, I said it would be someone related to a victim looking for justice. Cooper is the victim, don't you see? He's innocent even if he's been treated as the criminal."
"The criminal's family and the victim's family were the same thing the whole time?"
"Neat."
John's P.O.V
As the sound of sirens grew less and less faint, John was filled with a curious certainty that yes, this was entirely his fault.
Sherlock's P.O.V
"What do you mean you can't find him?" Sherlock snarled, working up his best glare on Greg, if that was even his real name.
"I mean that Calvin Hallohan hasn't been to work in three days, no one was in his apartment when we searched it, and his girlfriend can't reach him. We're assuming he's on the run, for now," the equally frustrated sounding D.I explained, not backing down an inch from the consulting detective looming over him.
God how can he stand it, all the things his tiny mind can't work out. I should look into the possibility of brain tumour when this is done.
"Fine, fine. What do we know?"
"Alicia Harris, former Mrs. Hallohan, confessed to the murder once we got her in an interrogation room. But I don't think anything's going to come from it, she'll plead insanity."
"Of course, and people are usually quick to assume killing kids makes you insane."
"Usually yeah."
"At least we know they weren't working together, Calvin wouldn't have kept in contact if he was questioning his nephew's death, no doubt he suspected the boy's mother. What have your people managed to scrape together on Calvin."
"Assistant manager at a Tesco's, only family is his brother, girlfriend who says they've been going through a rough patch ever since the trial. Apparently all Calvin did was drink in pubs and tell everyone his brother was a saint who wouldn't hurt a fly. Not exactly leading us anywhere, is he."
"Brilliant Lestrade."
"What? Really?,"
"Yes, brilliant impression on an idiot."
"Sherlock, ease off eh?," John interjected wearily, apparently waiting for the moment when he'd be forced to tear the two different detectives apart.
"He's given us plenty John," Sherlock whined, pouting a bit at John for ruining what would have been a perfectly good sulk.
"Well then, feel free to share with the rest of the class," the doctor replied with just a hint of a smile, meaning he was well aware that he'd ruined Sherlock's bad mood.
The world's only consulting detective huffed a great put upon sigh.
"He works a minimum wage job and has a girlfriend stupid enough to think the relationship was just on the rocks for the better part of a year, so he's probably not smart enough to actually run. Just smart enough to hide out for a bit. And we know the only place he likes to hang out is the pub. So, smart enough to hide, won't turn up at his usual watering hole. Not smart enough to avoid pubs all together. We just need to search the area within twenty five kilometres to his apartment for popular establishments," he explained as he paced over to the hooks for both his and John's coats.
"Your plan is to just find him and bring him in then?," John asked, sounding sceptical.
"Of course," the detective told him, trying to hide the confusion he felt at John questioning their usual method of obtaining a new criminal.
"It's just we know the guy's staged one murder already, why don't we let the Yard handle it?"
"Because the Yard can't handle anything on their own!," Sherlock yelled, frustrated with John's lack of focus on the case. It was nothing new, chasing after suspects at a moment's notice.
In fact, this whole conversation was pointless. A waste of time. Sherlock did not hesitate again when putting on his long coat.
"So you're going to ignore everything I say and do it any way?"
"I'm not ignoring it, I'm rather hoping you'll change your mind and come along."
"The case is already solved, you don't need to fetch every lowlife personally."
"The case isn't over until the suspect is in custody. I'll do what I have to in order to ensure that."
"Fine, you don't have to do this, but fine. Have fun crawling through pubs all night."
"You aren't coming then."
"No, they don't need me to catch him. I have a little more faith in Lestrade's team than that. Enjoy yourself by all means," John told him with a bit of an eye roll before sitting on the couch as if to solidify his decision.
"I'll see you later on then," Sherlock told him curtly, wrapping his scarf around his neck before heading for the door.
"I suppose you will."
John's P.O.V
It took half an hour, twenty seven minutes to be more precise, for John to finally admit defeat and text Lestrade to ask where the mad detective was so they could meet up. John kept busying by praying that he wouldn't hate himself forever because of twenty seven minutes. It's what he was thinking about when he thought he might have felt Greg pulling at his arm. He was vaguely aware that someone kept saying that it was their fault. Kept repeating over and over
I did it, I did it, I did it.
John realized some time later that it might have been his voice he was hearing.
Sherlock's P.O.V
It had been easy.
He spilt up the circle radius around Hallohans apartment between the men Lestrade at managed to get to come in in the middle of the night and quickly sent them on their way.
He'd kept the most likely area, closer to the middle of the search area since he figured Calvin wasn't likely to want to go too far out his way but in the complete opposite direction of Hallohan's usual bar. People always did tend to over compensate.
It had only taken three other pubs before Sherlock found him smoking outside the fourth one.
"He didn't smoke, you know," Sherlock said calmly.
"What was that? Do I know you mate?"
"I said he didn't smoke. No yellowing on his fingers, I checked. I wasn't sure if you knew that or not. I find not everyone needs to know everything quite like I do."
"Seriously, what are you on about?"
"There was a cigarette butt, didn't match anyone in the system though. You smoke, he didn't. Moran. He didn't smoke," was the explaination given a moment before Calvin Hallohan's eyes grew wide and he bolted down the alley. Another cigarette forgotten on the pavement.
It had been easy.
Sherlock knew the streets of London better than anybody. Hell, he had dead ends memorized and side streets etched into his mind just as good as a map. He knew the alley they were chasing each other down ended after the next left turn and then there would be no where left to hide.
He should have seen the knife coming. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Switchblade, 4 inches no 101.6 millimetres. Give or take a few millimetres to account for any odd angles the blade might have taken on the way in. Stab wounds are measured to the nearest millimetre, had to be accurate. Lower abdomen, didn't hurt which was probably a bit not good. Bleeding, about a half of a pint so far but it's hard to tell with blurred vision.
Sherlock lost his train of thought on measuring the blood pool when he fell to his knees rather unexpectedly. Which was a shame because he messed up the blood pool and now he would only be able to hazard a guess at the blood loss. He hated not knowing for certain.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he heard from somewhere over top of him, Sherlock couldn't be bother to look around at the moment.
"He never said what to do when they came looking. I didn't mean to, you know. I only meant to go after Moran and he paid me to do it so I figured why not. But he didn't say anything about people snooping around. Fuck," Calvin Hallohan muttered, Sherlock's eyes snapping to the figure above him at the first mention of the other man being paid to take care of Moran.
It was not the first murderer he'd met who had found a way to cash out on killings.
"Who paid you?" he tried to demand, but instantly winced at the pain his usual sharp movements caused. As further proof of the existence of no greater power from up above, Sherlock never got an answer. All Calvin seemed to be able to say after that from the spot against the wall he had curled against was how it had all been for his brother, always for his brother. Which was stupid because Sherlock already knew that. He felt fine about no longer listening at least. Resting his eyes until someone found him was much more appealing. Perhaps John was right about needing to sleep more, he certainly felt tired now.
It was some time later that he heard rapidly approaching footsteps. One set came towards him, the other rushing over to Hallohan. It could have been only a few minutes or a few hours. Sherlock couldn't really remember. But he tried to smile when the familiar feeling of too-warm hands gripped onto his shoulders.
Ah, John, good. I was wondering where you'd gotten to.
"It's alright Sherlock, just stay with me. It's going to be fine, it's all going to be fine."
The world's only consulting detective thought he might have nodded but perhaps he'd only thought about nodding. Of course he'd stay with John, always with John. No place better.
When he felt the strange light-headedness crash over him in another wave, causing his eyelids to begin to flicker shut again, he prayed John wouldn't be too angry with him.
He wanted to explain that he would like very much to stay with John until they were nothing but two piles of dust. He wanted to explain that he hoped someone would have the good sense to mix those piles of dust together when they swept it up so that Sherlock could be made up of half John. He wanted to explain that Hallohan had confessed. He wanted to explain that the young nephew being murdered must be the reason behind the childish poem left at the scene. He wanted to explain that strange gut feeling he had that a cup of tea would have made this go away, would John please go get him one? He wanted to explain that he didn't need John telling him he was fine, he knew his blood pressure was dropping and the increased heart rate made him classify himself as at least a class three haemorrhage. He wanted to explain how wonderful it was that John was there, it was as if the doctor knew Sherlock had always hoped to have the other man right there at the end.
He desperately wanted to explain how this was all his fault but would John please forgive him any way just this once.
Authors Note: I hope you don't hate me forever for that, sincerest apologies. I have been wondering how people would like for me to split this story up, as it is a series. I have been debating between doing the parts following the case (which would mean more, smaller chunks i think) or by following the boys relationship (which would obviously mean the opposite - longer parts with more chapters but less of them). Please let me know what you think, about that and the chapter itself!
