Title: A Study Of Living With Sherlock Holmes
Disclaimer: I do not own anything or anyone from the BBCSherlock universe.
Genre: General, Friendship, Angst, Drama
Rating: Will venture into mature, due to adult themes of sexuality, drugs, ptsd and other subjects that will pop up.
Warnings: Murder, including the death of a teen.
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, with appearances of DI Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper and others.
Summary: John Watson moves into 221B Baker Street after the events of 'A Study In Pink'. He had no idea what he would be in for, living with an eccentric genius like Sherlock Holmes, but if the first twenty four hours are anything to go by, then he knows he's in for a ride.
Feedback is appreciated, enjoyed and loved.
Chapter 10
Date: February 16th, Day 17
Time: 9 pm.
Location: 17 Montague Ave, Ealing, Greater London
John hovers by the doorway, ignoring the stares from Sgt Donovan and the mutterings from Anderson.
Lestrade had called Sherlock, told him that he was needed, and well, thirty minutes, John was at a crime scene.
In another blue coverall, looking at three bodies.
Sherlock hadn't let him come in the bedroom yet, and John was thankful for the pause. He may be an ex soldier, a doctor, and had seen plenty of wounds in Afghanistan and seen quite a few dead soldiers as well.. but he needed some time to gather himself before he looked at the body of a child.
"Do you bring him in often on cases involving kids?" John asks in a quiet tone to the silent Detective Inspector next to him. They weren't in the large room but neither wanted to hear Sherlock snapping at them for disturbing him. Lestrade was the only other one. Donovan and the others were processing the other scenes, stopping only previously when Sherlock stopped at them.
"Not usually," Lestrade says quietly.
"What makes this one different?"
"The Harkswell's are the fourth family in eight years to die like this. Happens only ever two years though. But all families are similar. Married couple, a son and daughter that are in their teens, well to do, all brunettes. No one connected it until the third family from two years ago and that was because of Sherlock. I was almost there honestly, when Sherlock burst into my office, rattled off a lot of things, and then left."
"Another serial killer then?"
"Seems like.. the fact that each family was two years apart kept it from being connected."
John nods. The killings of the adult Harkswell's were brutal. Multiple stab wounds to the chest, then the slicing of the throat. The husband was found just five feet from the front door of the ground floor. The wife just ten feet away from where John and Lestrade were standing. The daughter in the dining and lounge room.
"Done here," Sherlock says briskly as he comes out of the bedroom. "Where's the son?"
Lestrade shifts on his feet and John notices that the DI looks uncomfortable now. "We haven't found him yet, he's bound to be here though."
"He must have made the 999 call then."
"How did you know there was a 999 call?"
"Did you not listen to John? The bodies are not in rigor," Sherlock snaps, sounding irritated with the DI already. His words come out in a matter of fact tone, but quickly.
"But you would know that anyway. The killings are fresh. The last three families were not found until at least twelve hours passed so your family killer had time make sure not to leave any evidence behind. This is his mark, but he was rushed this time. From the state of the kitchen and the dining table in the middle of being set, they were getting ready for dinner. A knock on the door. The husband answers. Gets stabbed for his troubles. He then proceeds to get out a warning in between stabbings, enough to get his wife's attention. She comes out of the kitchen, her husband is most likely now almost dead. The throat is then sliced. The killer is fast and efficient. Nine stab wounds, and then the throat. Twenty seconds at the most. He catches the wife near the entrance, the daughter is trapped. No phone in the dining room, nor the kitchen and the only way out is to go past the killer. The daughter has defensive wounds, so she tried to fight back but ultimately died as well. The clock is damaged in the dining room, she used it to throw at it am. The time is stuck at seven forty six. It is now nine. It took John and I thirty minutes to get here, so your team must have gotten here most likely ten after eight. You connected this quickly with the prior killings within moments at least, that's when you called me. So the killer only had twenty minutes. He was rushed. It must have been the son. Yet the son is not here. Hence, the son was found and quickly killed. Now the only question is, I repeat: Where is the son?"
John takes note of Lestrade looking a bit stunned, but the DI somehow shakes it off.
"We'll find the son. Let me get Anderson so he can process the girl's room."
Sherlock steps to the side as Lestrade passes him and turns to John. "Come on then, upstairs with me."
"But their still searching-"
"And most likely bungling it," Sherlock says derisively, and heads to the stairwell automatically, passing Donovan.
"I told you to stay away from him," Donovan says as John pauses by the stairs.
"Also told me a lot of other things," John says flatly, and heads up the stairs. If it wasn't for her attitude, and the last time he saw her, he had a feeling he would like her.
"Idiot's going to get himself killed," he heard Sally Donovan mutter and he just quickly goes up the rest of the stairs.
"We've already searched the rooms, Mr Holmes," one of the Detective Sergeants that John was briefly introduced to earlier protests.
"Well, then you won't mind if we take another look," Sherlock states and passes by them.
"Sorry," John murmurs to Caswell and Harper, and follows Sherlock into the room, what looks to be one of the three bedrooms.
"How quickly did all of that come to you?"
"All of what?"
"The timing."
"The moment I heard you make your observation. Then it factored in by the time on the clock, and the response time of the Yard, the 999 call, the time it takes to stab someone. Especially in that manner. It's quite the personal killing."
John looks under the bed, and then straightens as Sherlock closes the doors to the walk i closet. "Personal?"
"He could have stabbed the wife from behind, as her back was to him. But he forced her to face him. Same with the daughter, same with the husband. Face to face. Intimate. Personal. The viciousness and quickness of the attacks, despite being rushed due to the son, indicates that this is personal to him."
"So you're sure it's a man?"
"Statistically speaking."
"Of course."
"So.. he knows the families then?"
"In a way. They represent something he hates. And he lashes out at it by killing."
"But it only happens every two years."
"Same date, every two years."
"So.. it's a trigger," John states, realizing now, pausing in the second bedroom. "Something happened to the killer on this date."
"Good, John," Sherlock says with a smile as he checks the bathroom and John feels good at having figured that out.
"But the two years..."
"That is the tricky part."
"That's why you wanted to be a part of this. To find out the why on the two years."
Sherlock nods. "And of course what the families represent to him."
They search the other bedroom and the bathroom, and then John follows Sherlock back downstairs and into the dining area.
"They haven't checked outside yet," Sherlock comments. "I am not surprised."
"We're about to now." Lestrade says coming up behind them. "We've been a bit busy securing the scene."
"Don't bother, John and I can do it," Sherlock says dismissively, and John murmurs an apology to Lestrade. The man just nods in a resigned manner, and hands John a torch.
Sherlock opens the door and they step out onto the porch. John turns on the torch to be able to see in the dark, then notices that Caswell is behind him.
Figuring he was ordered to watch them, John doesn't say anything and just flashes the torch onto the ground and then upwards, stopping at the railing.
"Sherlock."
Blood on the railing. "Follow the trail," Sherlock orders, and John trails the torch over the railing, seeing spots of blood on the porch itself, and then on the steps.
John hears Caswell swear and go back inside, most likely to get evidence bags and to take pictures. John and Sherlock follow the trail a few more feet to the grass.
"John. The shed."
He flashes the torch onto the shed, and sees a set of doors, slightly open.
"Come on."
John nods, his stomach tight. Most likely the son is in there. Another kid, a teenager, a life taken before they had the proper chance to live.
John shakes the thoughts from his head, not wanting to dwell on them now. He can do that later, when they are away from here. As he does, he hears something faint.
He takes hold of Sherlock's arm, pulling him to a stop, earning an indignant protest, but John holds up a finger, and concentrates.
It's a... it's a voice.
John lets go and strides over to the shed in a matter of steps, shoving open the doors and aiming his torch all over, finally landing on a body just a few feet from him.
"H-h-help-"
"He's alive," John moves over to the boy, laying down on the ground, blood seeping out from the boys hands and stomach. "Sherlock, he's alive!"
"LESTRADE!" He hears Sherlock call out, still sounding as cool and calm as ever. "AMBULANCE!"
Instinct and training comes rushing back to John as he fights to keep the boy laying on the ground in front of him conscious and alive.
Location: Ealing Hospital
Time: 11 pm
John paces the length of the waiting room, wondering how much longer it would be before Lestrade came to them. Sherlock wanted to start going over the evidence he had gathered and start tracking the killer, but John wanted to know if Nathaniel Harkswell was going to live.
He did everything he could until the ambulance came.
"You don't have to wait with me, Sherlock."
"I believe you were the one that said you wanted to be with me when I went haring off around London trying to find killers," Sherlock says dryly, not moving from his spot against the wall. "If I leave, that's what I would be doing."
"You mean you're actually listening to me?"
"Don't get used to it."
"No chance of that," John mutters. He comes to a stop as Lestrade comes into the waiting room.
"Nathaniel Harkswell is going to live. He lost a good deal of blood, and somehow each stab wound missed vital organs. The doctor said he was stabbed four times, and the kid said something about cutting the killer, so with any luck, some of that blood on the porch could be the killers.. and maybe we'll be able to find the knife in the yard and get some prints."
Sherlock doesn't counter any of that, at least verbally. In fact he appears to not be listening. However relief that the boy made it pours through John and he sits down, needing a chair.
"Also, your quick thinking helped, Doctor Watson. If you and Sherlock had not have found him, Nathaniel would have died. So we have some good news on this sorry night. Meanwhile I have to go see if I can find any next of kin."
"Is he lucid?"
"No, Sherlock you are not going to question him. I'm going to question him about whatever he may knows, and that will be tomorrow when he's awake and more clear."
John hears Sherlock huff as he sits down in a chair. Lestrade stops by Sherlock and says something to him. Sherlock gives an 'Don't be stupid' look and John doesn't hear what he says in return, his mind on the boy.
How close that Nathaniel was to dying.
"Stop."
John starts and notices Sherlock is sitting in front of him now, cool pale blue eyes assessing him as usual.
"I'm sorry?"
"You're letting your emotions take hold. It prevents you from thinking clearly, from focusing. You know better than that, John," Sherlock tells him coolly, and John looks at the taller man. "He's alive. We have a witness."
"I suppose that makes it easier. For you at least."
Sherlock's eyes narrow. "It should be easy for you. Before you came here you were surrounded by injuries, blood and death. Some of them as young as seventeen no doubt."
"I'm not in Afghanistan anymore."
"No, but you're still in a battlefield."
"When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield."
Well, Mycroft was right.
John can't believe it's taken him this long to realize it.
When this one is resolved, and he knows it will be soon, John decides he won't be writing this one up. Not straight away.
Perhaps a little while down the line.
A long while.