((I'm kind of cheating with this one, since I'm pretty sure the person who came up with the original list meant the cute headband Disney animal ears. I've never liked those things, so I went a different direction. Enjoy!))
Day Ten – With Animal Ears
When the phone rang at his right hand, John didn't look up from his patient notes as he picked it up. "Doctor John Watson speaking," he said, tucking the phone between his head and shoulder as he kept writing.
"Good afternoon, Doctor Watson." John stopped writing, listening intently to the voice on the other side of the line. It was electronically distorted, but sounded vaguely familiar.
"Who is this?" John asked, already knowing the question was futile; people didn't use electronic distorters to disguise their voices if they were going to give their names.
"I haven't much time, Doctor Watson, so you will do me the courtesy of not wasting the little I have, understand? You are in tremendous danger."
"What a surprise," John said, sitting back in his chair. "I've been in danger for the entirety of my adult life and most of my childhood; you'll have to be more specific."
"Does the name Jim Moriarty mean anything to you?"
The phone dropped from John's suddenly nerveless shoulder, clattering on the floor as John shoved his chair backwards with both feet. Moriarty. A name from beyond Sherlock's grave. He hadn't heard anything more about the consulting criminal since the deadly game that culminated with Sherlock's suicide two years ago. That was half the reason he always carried his gun concealed on his person when he left the flat. And now…he bent with a grunt and retrieved the handset from the floor.
"…Doctor Watson? Are you still there?" It was hard to tell with the robotic distorter between them, but John had a feeling the caller was genuinely concerned about the sudden loud noise.
"I'm here," he said, rolling slowly back to the desk and putting his left hand palm-down on the surface. "I'm…sorry, I haven't heard that name in two years."
"I apologize for startling you, but it was necessary to get your attention. One of Moriarty's underlings has targeted you, Doctor Watson, and several others in England and across the Continent. I don't know if he's in England yet," and there was definite frustration at that last part, "but he plans to head your way, if he hasn't already started circling you. Have you found pig's ears pinned to your front door?"
John pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at it for a moment. "Pig's…ears?" he asked, not sure if he should laugh or not.
"Yes, it's odd, but no one has ever accused murderers of being much for normality."
"He could just leave a business card."
"In a sense, the pig's ears are his business card. I will assume from your reaction that you haven't been the recipient of such a sign. Excellent; there's still time."
"What should I do?" John asked, feeling the weight of his gun heavy against the small of his back.
There was an odd silence from the other side of the line, broken a moment later by a soft chuckle. "You can't do anything about this problem, Doctor Watson. If you ever got close enough to use your highly illegal handgun, he would have already killed you four or five times over."
A cold chill ran down John's spine as he lightly touched the metal of his gun, warmed by its constant contact with his skin. "Then why bother warning me if I can't do anything?" he asked.
"On the battleground, Doctor Watson, a soldier should always be aware of his surroundings. You believe you are no longer on the battlefield because Sherlock Holmes died. You're wrong, and that might get you killed."
"Who the fuck are you?" John snarled, careful to keep his voice low.
"As your American soldier friends would say, stay frosty, Doctor Watson. Be careful out there. I will be in contact." With that, the strange caller hung up, leaving John to listen to the hum on the open line as he stared at the wall opposite him. He put the phone carefully in its cradle and folded his hands in front of his mouth.
Half a country away, a tall man disconnected a distorter from a public telephone and slipped the pieces into the pockets of his pea coat. "Be careful, John," he said, touching the tips of his gloved fingers to the receiver.
John spent the next three days sleeping lightly, if at all, his gun always on his person. A few of his patients commented on his tendency to keep an eye on the door all the time. Interestingly enough, every person who noticed was a soldier as well, and they only commented because they did the same thing.
On the evening of the third day, he came home to find pig's ears pinned to the front door with a knife. He didn't sleep at all that night, practically mainlining coffee to keep the adrenaline pumping through the long dark watches into the morning.
The next morning was rough, at best. His patient load was low, thankfully, but he had difficulty staying awake as he sat in his office waiting for the day to end. When the phone rang, it startled him wide awake as he grabbed at the receiver. "Doctor John Watson speaking."
"Losing sleep over the message won't do any good, Doctor."
John sprang up, grabbing the phone base and carrying it to a corner away from any windows. He sat on the floor, the base cradled in his lap as he leaned forward intently. "He's threatened my life, one of the only things I have left to call mine, and you're going to try and tell me not to worry about it? Fuck you, I'm a soldier and I can't just let it go."
Silence for a long, long moment. Then the voice, sounding oddly gentle through the distortion, said, "John, there's nothing you can do. Truly."
Goosebumps ran up and down John's spine. For just a second, he was pretty sure he'd just heard an aural ghost. "Sherlock?" he whispered, his voice cracking.
"Impossible. Sherlock Holmes died."
True. John shook his head, pulling himself together. God, he needed sleep. "Look, whoever you are, I appreciate the warnings. I guess. But someone is after me, according to you, and if someone's after me, everyone I care about is in danger too. So either help me, or get the hell out of my way so I can protect the people I care about."
Again with the weird silence. John thought he heard cars or a train in the background noise, but it was hard to tell through the distortion. "Very well," the voice said at last. "I suppose dissuading you is a waste of my time and energy. Keep a watch out, Doctor Watson." The stranger hung up with a hard 'click', indicating more temper than his (his? Probably, a woman's voice would sound higher even through the distortion) words had.
John shook his head slowly, hanging up the receiver as he got up. God, for just a second, he'd been so sure he was talking to Sherlock. Ridiculous, of course. If Sherlock was actually alive (impossible, John had touched his dead arm, been to his grave, it had been two bloody years), he'd text with that stupid priggish little 'SH' at the end of his text. Sherlock hated talking on the phone, and always had.
Somehow, he made it through the rest of his day without falling asleep. Sarah eyed him with concern as he clocked out, but left him alone as he walked outside and hailed a cab.
When John arrived at 221B, he stopped outside the door, his keys in his hand, and turned a slow circle on the sidewalk, looking around. For just a moment, he thought he felt Sherlock's warm presence behind him, whispering, "Don't just look, really observe, John." Something had changed in the neighborhood. But what? The graffiti was the same, a mixture of old and new layered on top of each other. He didn't see anyone who looked particularly out of place, and no one seemed to be watching him. His eyes flicked up to the edges of the buildings. Sherlock had once observed that no one ever looked up, content to spend their lives with their eyes planted firmly on the ground ahead of them.
Remembering Sherlock's disparaging comment saved his life. John saw the barrel of a sniper rifle in time to fling himself onto the ground by the stairs. A gunshot went off, and people around him began screaming as he swore under his breath. Dammit, he was retired from the battlefield! Two more gunshots, the last one chipping off a bit of concrete above his head, and John drew his gun. All right, fine, someone wanted to take potshots at him on a crowded street. This was already bad, he couldn't make it much worse with his shots.
Just as he popped up over the edge of the stairs, another gunshot rang out. To the uneducated ear, it would have sounded exactly like the first few shots. John knew better. A brief cry followed the last shot, and a body tumbled from a rooftop. John set his teeth against the PTSD flashback, shaking his head hard as he holstered his gun. No, this wasn't June 12th, no, he wasn't in front of Bart's, no, the dead body lying on the sidewalk wasn't Sherlock. He looked around as the flashback let him go, checking for the second shooter. No sign of him or her, not even a flash of a gun barrel in the fading evening light.
He ran across the street, dodging cars and pushing his way through the small crowd that had gathered around the body. "Let me through, I'm a doctor!" he shouted, shoving hard at people. They parted reluctantly, letting him through to kneel beside the body. Despite his knowledge that it couldn't possibly be Sherlock, John still breathed a sigh of relief when he turned the body and didn't recognize the battered face. He checked for a pulse out of habit; he knew as soon as he touched the body that the man was dead.
On the roof of 221B, a tall slender man scooted back from the edge, breathing hard and holding a sniper rifle against his narrow chest. That had been too close for comfort. He wasn't a marksman, not like John. If John hadn't been there to distract the other shooter…he shook his head, blond hair flicking the corners of his eyes. Let it be. John was safe, for the moment, and another strand of Moriarty's network had just been broken. He took his rifle apart and put the pieces in a duffle bag before climbing down the fire escape and disappearing into the dark alleyways. Not much longer now.