Sorry this is later than usual – busy weekend (also, the characters were trying to run away with the story, but I got it back – I think!).
Enjoy! And if you enjoy, please review – Thank you!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!
John huffed with impatience as the workmen set about replacing the door of the flat. It was not that they were slow – after all, they'd been hired by Mycroft, they wouldn't dare! – it was just that he wanted to shower, and to work out what his next move should be. He was furious with Sherlock for disappearing off without a word to him – and he would be sure to tell him so in no uncertain terms when he saw him next….a shiver ran down his spine….yes, it must be when – not if – because once he started thinking like that….Damn the bloody fool for going without back up, without at least saying something! Did their recent brush with this gang tell him nothing about the lengths to which they would go to protect their operation? For God's sake he could have died – they both could!
Pacing up and down, he willed the men to work faster. Moving to the living room he picked up his phone and started to send Sherlock a message – then halfway through he cancelled it, he didn't want to compromise his friend's safety. Bloody hell! He felt useless! It had been just two and a half hours since he had woken up, and already he felt he'd had a rough day! He glared again in the direction of the workmen. At last they started to pack their gear, the foreman handing over several keys for the new lock. Mumbling his thanks John hurried them out and shut the door thankfully behind their retreating backs.
Letting the hot water flow over him John realised just how tense he'd been. Combining hard-learned relaxation techniques with the mundane but soothing act of washing the clinging ash, soot and powder from his hair and body he considered his options. He had no idea where Sherlock was likely to be by now – he'd wrung from Mycroft the information that a highly dangerous Russian had been due to enter the country about an hour after the arson attack on the Baker Street flat – that meant that by now he would be out of the airport and on his way to…..well, to wherever his comrades were. He only prayed that Sherlock would have the good sense not to be obvious when he followed him – not an entirely forlorn hope, in his time with the reckless idiot he did sometimes show the common sense everyone else thought he lacked. Still, that wasn't helping right now, and if he couldn't ring or text his flatmate then John could do the next best thing. He would go and talk to John-Joseph, put the word out that Kallie was missing, ensure that the eyes on the streets were looking for her. Satisfied with his plan of action he stood under the water stream and let it wash his body clean….
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….In the non- descript terraced house in Hammersmith a tall figure stood in the shower and washed his hair and body for the third successive time, ensuring the filth of his morning's work was well and truly gone. Pale lids closed over quicksilver eyes and he turned his face upwards to the water, letting it stream over him, washing away the kinks in his muscles as it took the soap from his skin.
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"Why were you trying to stop your friends talking to us?" the Brute had dragged Kallie from her prison to a sparsely furnished room at the top of the house. Now he stood over her, glaring down into her upturned face.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about" she made herself sound sullen and stupid. "ain't got no friends."
"The girl – you know the one." He grasped her chin, squeezing harshly before giving her a shake. "The little bitch that washed up dead! You tried to stop her talking to us. And the cripple girl – we saw you talking to her as well - why?"
Kallie forced herself not to react. She remembered the crippled teenager. She was known as Hobbit among the homeless, a nickname she'd been strangely proud of. Hobbit had been a sweet natured little thing until this gang got their hands on her, and made her a frightened, secretive shadow. It was Hobbit that had sparked her suspicions, and when she had been found dead with a needle in her arm Kallie knew the connection to be true. A sharp stinging slap across her face cut into her reverie.
"Why?" the word was shouted this time and Kallie didn't need to act afraid.
"I wanted money!" she almost shouted back, her body shaking, real tears trembling in eyes and voice. "I thought you were paying them to work for you – I wanted to work too, to earn easy money!"
"Liar!" another slap, this time backhanded across the other cheek. ""They told us…"
"No, no! Please, you gotta believe me!"
The next blow knocked from the rickety chair and onto the floor. As he raised his hand to strike again another man entered the room.
"Makar, enough my brother! If you hurt her too badly she'll never tell us what she knows, and if you kill her Katerinochkin will be angry. She thinks this scrap of filth may know how to get to that detective!" disbelief tinged Karels voice.
Kallie lay still, listening to the words but not understanding. The tone of them left her feeling cold. Suddenly she felt herself being picked up and as the Brute set her on her feet she swayed unsteadily, her legs weak and shaking. She was swept up and thrown over his shoulder before she could grasp what was happening to her, and within minutes had been thrown back onto her mattress in the cellar. Slowly sitting up she bit her lip. She wouldn't cry. Mr Holmes and Doctor John would find her – of course they would!
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Ron Douglas had never seen the like in all his years as a foreman on a building site. Blue flashing lights and police swarming all over, tying off their blue and white crime scene tape and herding his workmen into the portakabin that served as a tea room and office. A tall man with greying hair carefully crossed the uneven ground, pulling a warrant card from his pocket as he approached.
"Mr Douglas? Detective Inspector Lestrade" he introduced himself "Want to take me through what happened here?"
The foreman scratched his head. "We'd only just started for the day. Ted there…" he indicated a stocky man currently talking to Donovan "had just moved the first lot of earth with his excavator when…" he swallowed hard. "…the body just fell out!"
Lestrade nodded. "And you called us straight away? No one touched the body?"
"Touched it? Are you kidding? He had to be dead, him being naked an' all, and buried…" his words trailed to a halt as he watched the detective pull out his mobile and send a swift text.
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Sherlock lifted his phone from the bedside table. The second message had come through as he was getting dressed. Now he read them both.
'Your man is in Stockwell – Pepper'
The next was more usual, at least as far as its intended recipient was concerned.
'We have a body, can you come? – GL'
His fingers flew over the keyboard.
'P. Keep watch. Get help if you need. Keep me informed – SH'
'Where? – SH'
He waited, foot tapping impatiently, until the address arrived in Lestrades next text. Not bothering to respond he wrapped his scarf around his neck and left the house, pulling his coat on as he went and wondering if there was a likelihood of a cab in this part of London.
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Thankfully most of the café's morning trade was for take-out coffee, and so John was able to sit at the counter with his cup of tea talking to the café owner without drawing any undue attention to himself.
"Sherlock though Kallie had called from here JJ, before making her way – we think – to the City to wait for him."
John was the only one who used that particular shortening of John-Joseph's name nowadays, but it still made the young man smile. Except that today he didn't feel like smiling at all. He'd just been told that one of the network was missing, the little blond that had been here the previous evening.
"What can I do to help Doc?" the question was automatic, and came without any coaxing or strings attached. The network still considered him one of their own, and the regard was mutual.
"Can you spread the word? We want to know if anyone has seen her or knows where she might be." John put a photograph on the counter, covering it momentarily with his arm as another customer walked in and approached the counter. JJ turned and smiled at the newcomer, and John watched as he moved smoothly from concerned ex networker to café owner, cheerfully chatting as he prepared a long latte take out. When at last he turned back john slid the photograph across to him. It was a grainy black and white picture, compliments of Mycroft and his CCTV cameras. And although it was obvious the subject had tried to avoid being seen, it was clear enough to enable identification.
"His name's Karel Karanov. We believe he's part of a drugs gang that has been targeting homeless kids." John shook his head as JJ started to hand the photograph back "Keep it JJ, if you can show it around the network. Put the word out that we're looking for Kallie, but please, remind them it's dangerous. Don't let them do anything silly. If they have any news tell them to get in touch – no matter what time, day or night. My number's on that phone – if they can't get hold of Sherlock they can get me."
John-Joseph nodded. "Sure thing, Doc. I'll get this out on the streets as soon as I can." He turned to put the picture safe behind the counter when John's hand on his arm held him back. He looked questioningly into the doctor's face.
"Be careful JJ. These people are killers – they've already had a crack at Sherlock and me, they've killed countless homeless kids, and I don't think they'll stop at killing a café owner if they thought you might harm their trade." It was said in a calm, quiet voice, but there could be no mistaking the sincerity of his words. Seeing acceptance and understanding in JJ's eyes john gave a brief nod, finished his tea and left.
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Sherlocks eyes took in the building site and the activity going on around the trench where the body had been unearthed. Anderson was busily poking around in the dirt, the photographer was packing his camera away, having taken photographs from all angles. Lestrade and Donovan were talking to the workmen. Taking all this in, he slipped under the police tape while the constable on duty was still radioing his superiors to advise of the consultant's arrival, causing a minor panic as the young officer had not previously had the pleasure of his working methods first hand.
"Keep your distance! This is a bloody crime scene Sherlock." Anderson stormed towards the taller man, fury in every line of his body. Sherlock just stopped walking and waited until Anderson reached him.
He stared haughtily down his nose at the infuriated forensics officer. "Problem Anderson?" he asked, insolence colouring his words deliberately.
"You know what the problem is! You!" Anderson was beside himself. He hadn't recovered from his unsuccessful attempt at making the consulting detective squirm, less still from the fact that his pet doctor had outmanoeuvred him so neatly. Thinking of John Watson, Anderson peered expectantly over Sherlocks shoulder. The doctor was nowhere to be seen. Anderson sneered. "Lost your pet have you?"
A slight smile curved Sherlocks pale lips. "If you mean John, Anderson, then let me put the record straight – John is not a pet, he's a real doctor!" and he moved smoothly around the blue clad figure, his smile growing wider as the spluttering coming from behind him marked the exact moment that Anderson realised his professional qualifications had just been comprehensively belittled!
"Must you upset my team every time you turn up at a crime scene?" Greg asked as he joined him beside the body.
"Only when your team insult my friend and colleague." The subject was dismissed as Sherlock leaned down to look at the face of the naked man. "You realise who this is?" he asked. The DI shook his head and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's Fazil Sahin, Katerinochkins lackey."
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John was standing outside Charing Cross station wondering what to do next when his phone chirped, alerting him to the text it had just received. Pulling it from his pocket he huffed out a relieved breath as he saw who it was from.
'Fasse is dead. Meet me at Barts – SH'
'30 minutes – JW'
'Faster if you can – SH'
"I'll give you faster!" John grumbled under his breath as he walked towards the taxi rank.
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Molly generally felt a little nervous around Sherlock, but she was honest enough with herself to know that the cause of the nerves was the fact that she wanted him to see her as an intelligent human being. She was also honest enough to know that was never going to happen! Despite this she knew that once she started the autopsy on this latest body her hand would be steady, her professionalism over-riding the effect the enigmatic genius had on her.
She started her methodical preparation of the cadaver on the stainless steel table in front of her, shutting out the frustrated muttering coming from the other side of the room where she had insisted Sherlock stand if he wanted to stay. She vaguely noted the arrival of John Watson, and the fact that he was giving his flatmate the dressing down of a lifetime! Keeping a neutral expression Molly was grinning like a loon inside – which was better than that nice Detective Inspector Lestrade was managing – his grin was threatening to split his face in two!
"I'm glad you're finding it funny!" John turned on the police officer. "You saw what they are capable of Greg – and this supposed genius went off stalking one of their killers on his own….."
"But…."
"I wasn't….
John held his hands up for silence. "Don't want to hear it…."
"Um….gentlemen?" Molly interrupted the argument. "I think you'll want to see this."
The three moved as one to the table, all looking expectantly at the young woman. She blushed slightly and cleared her throat.
"I thought at first that the dirt in the victims mouth was due to the fact that he's been buried in loose earth, but look here…" she pulled the skin away from the chest and throat area and with a sharp knife nicked the trachea close to the lungs. "….the trachea looked too solid, but see here, that's because it filled with earth." She looked up at her audience. "This man had earth forced into his lungs and throat while he was still alive – and very slowly, he choked to death!"
