John stood in front of New Scotland Yard gathering the courage to go inside. Lestrade had offered to come by Baker Street or send a car round for him after John refused the first offer before it was even all the way out of the Detective's mouth. John knew that it made more sense for the police to come to him; he was the one who had been attacked but he couldn't bring himself to let other people into their home. It was silly perhaps, and more than a little sad, but letting other people into the flat seemed to make Sherlock's absence all the more real. As long as it was just John sitting in the flat then he could hold on to those last threads of Sherlock.
It was only as he was getting dressed that he realized that limping down to Scotland Yard as fast he could hobble may not have been the best of plans. As he had already established in front of the bathroom mirror he looked exactly like a man who had escaped death by a narrow margin. Thank god it was springtime. A careful selection of wardrobe, including a light scarf nicked from Sherlock's wardrobe, covered his injured ribs and most of the bruising at his neck. He couldn't do anything about the mark on his face though and it certainly sparked a frank stare from his cabbie.
"Bit of a rough night?"He asked as John slid into the backseat.
John forced a smile. "You could say that," he responded, careful to keep his tone and volume moderated. It was the best he could do to mask the unmistakable hoarseness that issued from his throat otherwise. He gave the address for the Yard and then sat back, staring pointedly out of the window and ignoring the curious glances that the cabbie threw his way.
Now that he was here he was having a hard time forcing himself to walk through the doors even though every second he spent standing outside earned him another shocked look. The last time he had actually stepped foot in Scotland Yard had been in the days immediately following Sherlock's death.
"C'mon, John," he whispered to himself as he stared to the great expanse of shined glass. "You're the one that made the phone call and got yourself into this mess. Now you've got to live with the consequences." His hand flexed, unconsciously seeking the comfort of his cane. It was gone, or at least lying in an alleyway somewhere. It would have to be replaced. "Bloody hell." John squared his shoulders and went inside.
"John!" Lestrade's voice, raised in greeting, echoed down the hall and brought the doctor's slow progress to a halt. Despite himself John felt a small thrill of delight at the other man's voice. They had not spoken in months and all of their communications since Sherlock's death had been strained, to say the least, but Gregory Lestrade was still the closest thing that John had to a friend. "John!"
Slowly, the movement made all the more difficult by the lack of cane and the broken ribs, John turned to face Lestrade, unable to keep a smile from ghosting at the corner of his lips. "Greg," John replied softly.
"You look like hell," Lestrade told him frankly, offering his hand. John studied the other man for a moment, allowing his gaze to flicker between both the Detective Inspector's face and his hand. It was a long enough pause that the scene became awkward, the twitter and rumble of office life around them fading into silence as the rest of this corner of Scotland Yard became aware of something happening in its midst.
Lestrade didn't move but waited patiently, hand outstretched. The Detective Inspector looked tired. He had lost some weight since John had last seen him: his cheekbones stuck out just a little too much and his waist was a little more defined. There were shadows under his eyes that spoke to long hours at the office and sharp lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn't been there before. The thick salt and pepper hair that had caused more than a fair share of hearts to flutter had changed, the balance shifting more in the favor of salt. Invisible, but not unnoticed, was something else. The life that stared out of the gold flecked brown gaze was a little more dull, as if an essential candle had been snuffed out somewhere inside.
John reached out and took the Detective Inspector's hand in his own and shook it with the familiarity of an old friend.
"Definitely not one of my finer moments," he croaked out. "Hello, Greg."
Lestrade's eyes narrowed as soon as John started talking. "Someone tried to kill you, eh?" John let go of the inspector's hand and reached up to part the scarf and flash the bruising on his neck. Lestrade blanched and his eyes hardened all in a moment. "We'll continue this in my office. Higgins," he snared the attention of an officer who had been a little too slow in returning to his work. "Bring me Sergeant Donovan. I'm sure she's helping Anderson down in Forensics. Don't make that face, John," Lestrade added wearily as he directed the doctor to an interior office. "She is a good officer." John didn't deign to offer a response, but he felt that thrill of pleasure as he noted the sudden press of Lestrade's lips and tightening of muscles in his neck and jaw.
"New office?" he inquired instead as Lestrade held open a door and motioned him inside.
"Yeah. Got moved after Sherlock's death last year," the inspector replied, shooting him a quick glance to see how he would handle mention of Sherlock's suicide. It took all of his will power but John kept his face smooth. He had learned to lie with more than his words in recent months. After a moment's observation in which the inspector concluded that he wasn't likely to provoke a panic attack or round of hysterics by mentioning the fallen detective Lestrade continued, "It was my punishment for the whole Sherlock business."
"But I thought you…?"
Lestrade looked up, sighing as he seated himself behind his desk. "Cleared him of guilt in the case of Moriarty's death? Yes. It was quite obvious to all who saw and processed both scene and evidence that he had offed himself. Not to mention that we were able to make enough connections between Moriarty and Brook to all but prove that they were the same person. Still, someone had to take the fall for extensively involving a civilian in police matters." Greg shrugged. "I was the one that called him in the most so I was the lucky scapegoat. Worth it though," he added softly.
John met his gaze and felt a moment of understanding flash between them. Survivor's guilt; and god knew they both guilty of not doing enough. "Always was," he agreed just as quietly.
"We will just wait for Sally, alright? Make it more official," Lestrade explained after a moment of silence. "After that business with Sherlock, well… it will be better to have a witness to this. Besides, I would hate to make you talk about it twice." He motioned to John's throat and took a sip from the cup of coffee that had been cooling on his desk. "That has got to hurt." John nodded and inclined his head.
"A bit," he whispered. "Not as bad as the ribs though."
The inspector straightened behind his desk, the coffee cup returning to the safety of the far corner as Lestrade leaned forward, "Ribs?"
John gave him what amounted to a smile for him nowadays. "I thought you only wanted to do this once, remember?"
"Right. Sorry. Why can't Sally hurry?" the inspector tossed an impatient look at the door.
"Because she's too busy trying to shag Anderson into leaving his wife," it slipped out before John could stop it. He pressed his lips together and looked away.
"Probably true," Lestrade murmured his lips quirking. "You want some water?"
John licked his lips reflexively; the mention of water making him achingly aware of how his throat felt like it had been replaced with sandpaper. He was used to being thirsty. Hold over from Afghanistan. Some days he would go the whole day without drinking, suppressing the roughness in his throat and the cotton in his mouth until someone mentioned it or he saw something that freed the repression of bodily weakness. "That'd be good." Lestrade opened a drawer in his desk and rummaged around for a bit before emerging with a slightly dented bottle of water.
"Sorry it's not cold," apologized the inspector. John made a dismissive gesture with his hand and sipped at the water. They waited.
"You needed me, sir?" The sound of Sally's voice drifting over his head a few minutes later nearly made him choke on the water. Just a few words from her and his entire body tightened, muscles suddenly quivering with the need for action. Four words from this woman and he was more battle ready than he had been since he had gone running after Sherlock's body as it tumbled from the roof of Barts. John pressed his teeth together until his jaw hurt.
"Yes. Come in and shut the door. I thought it might be best to have you present while John gave me his report." Lestrade's voice was bland.
"John? John who?" the door clicked as it shut and Sally Donovan turned around. "Oh. You. What are you doing here?" A look of childlike glee flashed across her face. "Are we finally going to question him concerning…"
"No." Lestrade cut her off before she finished her sentence, recognizing the subtle danger signs in the doctor sitting across from him. "You know as well as I do that it was all circumstantial and that the Yard would rather just put that whole business behind them." The detective inspector looked like he needed a drink. John sympathized. "No, John is here to give his statement regarding the attempt made on his life last night."
"You?" Sally turned her sneer to John. "Why would somebody want to off you? Especially now that the Freak is gone." John felt his face go completely blank.
"Sally," warned Lestrade, his voice weary.
Keeping his eyes on Sally's sneer John reached up and pulled off the scarf, rolling it into a ball in his lap. Though still partially hidden by the collar of his shirt the ever deepening rainbow of colors across his neck were suddenly remarkably visible. "Hello to you too, Sally," John hissed, the harshness of his voice even more pronounced by the emotions this woman riled up in him. "Pleasant as ever, I see. Some things never change I guess."
Lestrade groaned. "John…" He rubbed his hands over his eyes for just a moment. "Let's get on with this shall we? You," he added, turning and pointed at Donavan, "are here to listen and take notes. If you're going to be aggravating please don't talk." Lestrade opened another of his desk drawers and pulled out a tape recorder. He set it carefully on the desk, equidistance between John and himself and pressed the red record button with one finger. "Whenever you are ready, John, just start at the beginning. What were you doing when you were attacked?"
John shut his eyes and took another sip of water. "Getting milk," he answered slowly. "I was on my way home after a bit of shopping. Someone called for help and I stopped. They were hidden in the alleyway…"
"You just went stumbling into the dark after some stranger?" Sergeant Donavan asked, clearly skeptical.
John resisted the urge to throw the half empty water battle at her head. "I'm a doctor," he replied quietly, surprised at the calm, sure judgment he could hear there. He idly wondered if anyone else heard it too. Sherlock would be so proud of him for being judgmental. The detective had always maintained that John was too nice. If you could see what I see… people aren't good, John. Stop wasting your time on them. "I help people. It is what I do and the man…" John would have shrugged if it doing so didn't hurt so damned badly. "He sounded hurt. I didn't know if he'd been mugged and injured, or if he was drunk or high. He just sounded like he was in a bad way and he was asking for help. So yes, I stumbled into the darkness after him." He opened his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of shooting a quick, smoldering glare at Sally before he adjusted his gaze and focused on Lestrade. "I didn't see the beginning of his attack. If I had seen it I might have avoided it or at least been able to fight back some. The man was quick and brutal." John touched his face lightly.
"You are an experienced soldier and you were already looking at the man. How did he catch you off guard?" John took another sip of water and regarded the inspector's question with a focus he had not allowed before.
"I was… distracted," he said, slowly.
"By what?"
John shut his eyes again. "I thought I heard someone calling my name." Not just anyone, he added mentally, Sherlock. You thought you heard Sherlock calling your name. You would know that jaguar-in-a-cello rumble anywhere and you're a pathetic sod so you had to look. "But it was nothing," he added quickly, heading off Lestrade's next question. Wouldn't do for everyone to think that he was stark raving mad. That is what they call it when you see and hear things that aren't really there, right? Mad? Hard for something to be there when that something doesn't even exist anymore. "There wasn't anyone there."
"Anyway, he hit me fast. My face," he touched it again, just to highlight the damage, "and then a knee to the gut. I went down and tried to get away. He was quicker. I got a boot to the chest," He gingerly touched the shirt covering his broken ribs. "Broke a couple of my ribs. Then he stood on my neck. I passed out." John looked away, wondering how much of what he was leaving out Lestrade could read in his eyes. "When I woke up I was home. Don't know how I got there, but I'd gotten my kit out and tended to myself a bit before passing out on the sofa."
"Can you describe the man that attacked you?" asked Lestrade.
"Tall. Big guy. Bald. Tattoo on his neck…" John trailed off and then added quietly. "I can sit with a sketch artist if you'd like. I'll never forget his face – you don't forget someone who means to kill you."
"That would be good," Lestrade started to say but Sally interrupted.
"How'd you know he was trying to kill you? You are still alive aren't you? Couldn't you just be overreacting to being mugged?"
"You ever had someone try to kill you, Sally?" John asked conversationally, his face and eyes as blank and unfeeling as he could make them. "I mean really, truly try to kill you. There is a look in their eyes…"
"A look in their eyes?" Sally scoffed. "God, you are almost as bad as the Freak. Thought you'd have gotten him out of your system by now."
"Donovan!" Lestrade snapped, bolting upright. "You will watch your mouth!"
"It wasn't a mugging," John continued in that same unfeeling voice, talking right over Lestrade's protests. "Or if it was it was a poorly executed one. The bloke didn't even touch my wallet. Keys and mobile were still in my pocket. The only things I'm missing are a carton of milk and my cane and I bloody well probably left those all on my own."
Off to the side Lestrade perked up, the narrowing of his eyes and tightening of his face reminding John very much of the hunting dogs his grandfather had kept. They would get that look when they caught the scent of something interesting. It was a look of all consuming focus: a fleeting obsession being formed with the faint turning of cogs and wheels in the mind behind the eyes.
"Milk and a cane, you say? Where, exactly, were you attacked?" John gave him the address. "Bloody hell," Lestrade whispered. Even Sally looked stunned.
"What?" John asked, his own eyes narrowing.
"You didn't fight back? You didn't get any blows of your own in?" Lestrade asked. John's eyes narrowed even further. The detective inspector was using his clarify this for me voice.
"None whatsoever," John confirmed. "Not one of my finer moments. Why?"
Lestrade leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Just before you called me I was over at UCH with Donovan and Anderson seeing a bloke that was brought in. Shop girl found in the alleyway behind the shop when she took out the rubbish this morning. Man was the victim of quite a beating. We assumed he was mugged because he didn't have a wallet on him. He still hasn't regained consciousness. Anderson's processing the evidence now."
"There was a cane," Sally added quietly, suspicion coloring her tone, "and a carton of milk found nearby."
"The man himself is all tucked away in the hospital, but we've got pictures." Lestrade added, watching John closely. "What do you say we go take a look?"
