Broken Future
Summary: With a new serial killer roaming the streets of London, Sherlock, with John by his side, finds himself going up against his greatest foe yet - himself.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. I wish I was that lucky.
Spoilers: Season 1 spoilers
A/N: I'm at work all day tomorrow and wasn't sure I would get to post this before I headed out so I'm posting it now. Only a couple of chapters or so left now... Thank you so much for reading and for the reviews!
Chapter 9
After staying on at the bomb site for a little longer – John helping out and answering questions, Sherlock keeping his eyes open for his misshapen reflection – they both found themselves at the hospital by early evening. A quick check up for John, which he insisted he didn't need, and they were ready to go. John just needed to check on one thing first...
"Excuse me," he said, leaning against the reception desk and looking to the nurse behind it. "I'm looking for a woman, Catherine – she should have been brought in earlier after the bomb attack."
The nurse played with the keyboard, pulling up any records. "Are you a relative or friend?"
"No, I'm a doctor. I was there with her... I just wanted to make sure she's okay."
She paused in her typing and raised her eyes, glasses falling to the tip of her nose, making her resemble an old school mistress who was just a little too strict. "I'm afraid I can't really give you any information without permission of the family."
"That's fine... I'm not asking that. I just want to know if she made it in time..." He offered her his best smile and she shifted in her seat, pushing her glasses back up her nose as she rolled her eyes.
"She's alive, but that's all I can tell you. If you want any more information you'll have to ask her husband."
"Husband?" He frowned.
"Yes, Mr. Marsden – he's seated in the waiting area if you want to talk to him." She hitched her thumb in the direction of the seats. "Short guy, I think, brown coat... greying hair. Bit older than you I reckon."
"Thank you. Thank you very much for your help, er..." He glanced down, checked her badge, then looked up once more with the same smile. "Sally. Thank you."
And with that he turned away and Sherlock let out a lengthy sigh beside him.
"There really is no need to follow up," the detective said, glancing to John briefly. "I'm sure that many of the doctors here are quite capable... though some less than others."
But John just shook his head. "I'm a doctor... I'll rest easier knowing I did everything I could to save a life."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And whether or not you did everything you could depends on whether or not this Catherine will survive?"
"Yes – I mean, no. But... Just, never mind. I'll just talk to the husband briefly and then we can go." John's eyes searched the small waiting area and upon finding a man that looked just as the nurse had described, he changed his direction.
"Ah yes, husband – you appeared surprised when the nurse mentioned husband. Why was that?"
Lowering his voice, John shifted his gaze to Sherlock briefly. The man never switched off, always picking up on every little thing – whether or not it was significant. "Because she wasn't exactly alone before the bomb blast... but I just probably just read it wrong."
"Or you read it exactly as it was." The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched momentarily, the possibility of a small lasting no longer before the neutral expression returned to his face. "Really, John, I would be disappointed if you hadn't picked up any observation skills during your time with me."
But John ignored him and turned his attention to the small man sat hunched over on one of the seats, hands clasped together and arms resting on his legs.
"Mr. Marsden?" he questioned.
The man looked up, eyes wide as he looked back and forth between Sherlock and John. "Yes, that's me..." Then he frowned. "You're not one of the doctors... Who are you?"
"I'm John, John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. I was there when the bomb went off and I met your wife..."
John never got the chance to finish, the man's expression changing as he pushed up and stood. "You're the man who saved Catherine?"
John swallowed. "I just did what I could..."
The man smiled, though his eyes remained empty and his hand cold when it clasped John's and shook it. "Thank you..." he said, "She's alive thanks to you. The doctors are still working on her but she's alive."
And yet, even as he replayed the short conversation in his mind on the way back to Baker Street, John couldn't shift the uneasy feeling that had settled in his stomach. He gazed out of the window of the taxi but paid little attention to the London streets beyond and the people that walked it. Sherlock remained silent beside him, lost in his own thoughts and own questionings. Though, no matter where both their thought lines travelled, it seemed to head back to the same place... the thought that, in one timeline, John wouldn't have been sitting in that taxi with Sherlock.
Inside the flat, John turned the television on just in time to catch the last of a news segment on the bomb attack. A reporter's voice went over the events briefly, images and footage of the wreck taking up the majority of the screen, before stating how no terrorist groups had come forward, claiming responsibility and that the police were looking into all angles.
"Boring," Sherlock droned, snatching up the remote to the turn the screen off. Though John knew it was the reminder Sherlock was trying to escape, not the boredom.
John snatched the remote back and turned the news back on. "Maybe so, but I'd like to know why it happened. Don't you?"
"It is a waste of my time and mental resources. I'm sure the police are capable of handling the matter." The detective came to stand before the wall collage, eyes wandering over of the puzzle pieces that had been placed up there. "Right now, my attention is best focused on other things."
And of course, both knew that by other things, Sherlock meant himself – or rather, the other version of himself.
"And how's that working out for you?" John asked, gazing briefly over at the man.
Sherlock didn't answer, bringing his hand up to rest against his chin as his thoughts zoomed around his mind, occasionally colliding and creating more chaos amongst the scattered pieces of information.
"Everything up until this point," Sherlock started after a few drawn out moments during which time the news had ended and the weather was now playing on the television screen, "has essentially been leading up to the events of this morning. The plan... it has all been with the thought that..." He swallowed, uneasy at the notion playing in his mind, but continued on all the same. "The thought you would be dead."
"Which means what exactly?"
"Which means, this has disturbed his plan. Whatever he was going to do, whatever move he was going to make next... all of that has changed. Unless he gets things back on track."
"I still don't understand." John shifted in his armchair and watched the detective who remained perfectly still, pale blue eyes locked on the wall – almost like a statue frozen in place.
And those pale eyes took everything in. Each marker on the map, each incident and piece of carnage... leading from Haverstock Hill and all the way toward what Sherlock could now see was the final point, the final destination. Baker Street. But now all that had been changed and Sherlock felt himself stiffen at the thought wavering just out of reach... the one he refused to let form fully because really, he was only human and denial was a human trait. But the thought was there, the knowledge that seemed to become more and more certain the longer he stared at the wall.
John was in danger.
A shadow shifted on the street below 221b, hidden by the approaching darkness that came with the thick, grey rainclouds overhead and unnoticed by the sparse crowds that hurried past, eager to make it home before the heavens opened and they were drenched. The first few drops fell, heavy and large, landing on the pavement just before the shadow. He shifted again, his mind made up, his decision thought out, and he drew his phone from his pocket.
237 Haverstock Hill. Come alone. SH. He typed, the screen bright against the dismal backdrop of the street. A drop of water hit the phone and he dabbed it away with his scarf before hitting the send button.
Off in the distance, a low rumble of thunder announced an approaching storm and the shadow slipped the phone back into his pocket. Turning the collar of his coat up against the wind and rain, he set out for his destination with his new plan in mind.
"I tried calling you know," Sherlock said, tone distracted and dulled as his eyes remained on the wall.
John turned in his seat to look at him, pulled from his own deep musings about the case and about the man that wasn't Sherlock... and yet was. "Huh?"
"Earlier – I tried calling you," the detective explained further.
"Ah yes, er..." John dug his hand into his pocket and pulled his phone out, "My battery was dying so I turned it off."
He held up the phone, showing the blank screen. Sherlock didn't look. So John huffed out and heaved himself up from the armchair. "I better charge it up while I can," he continued, but again, Sherlock's eyes, and attention, remained locked on the wall and puzzle before him.
John waited for a response. Nothing came.
"Right then..." he breathed out, and with a shake of his head, he trudged from the room. It wasn't long before his phone was charging. The screen lit up, the phone receiving the texts it had been missing. John moved through each one, marking them as read along the way, and slowly became lost in his own thoughts once more.
He remembered what he had said to Sherlock before and stood by his words. The man wasn't a killer. Whatever had happened to his future self, whatever he had gone through, there had to be something left of the man he once was – the man that stood staring at a wall, figuring out a case, the one who called everyone idiots because they didn't live up to his standards of intellect, and the man John had come to know as a friend, and in turn, had come to know him as a friend. There had to be something of that left...
Which was why, when John got that final text, he hesitated only long enough to grab his gun and hide it on himself.
The rest was just a matter of getting out of the flat without Sherlock becoming too suspicious, which considering how absorbed the man was in his collage, John figured wouldn't be a difficult task. He slipped away with only a vague 'off to see Sarah' and was out of the door and onto the street before the words had time to vibrate through the empty air of the flat and penetrate Sherlock's thoughts.
Because John couldn't give up hope just yet. He couldn't believe that the man was beyond redemption and couldn't give up on the belief that some part of the old Sherlock still remained. It was risky and it was dangerous. But he couldn't give up on Sherlock.
More soon!
