Lennon And McCartney
John woke up the next morning thinking that these late night heart-to-hearts with Sherlock had to stop. Sherlock Holmes didn't care for sentiment or debilitating nightmares.
John's army career had been long and half of it dangerous and he'd got injured way too many times to count them all.
But he was a soldier, injuries came with the territory. John just hoped that once he'd received the Victoria Cross and the media attention died down again, so would his nightmares. They had been few and far between since he moved to Baker Street all that time ago, and now they were back with a vengeance and John didn't care for it one bit.
Mycroft really had done a good job of keeping the journalists at bay. Only a few had managed to get in contact with John directly, agents kept traffic moving smoothly along Baker Street and Sherlock had unplugged the landline just in case.
John didn't particularly want to retell his story to strangers. Sherlock, he could deal with and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly as well. But not the vultures lingering on the doorstep of 221b.
John watched from the window as another reporter was swiftly moved along down the street and told not to return by the men in graphite suits.
While John made breakfast, Sherlock researched online to find more clues for their latest case. Just as John had sat down at the desk with a plate of toast and omelette, Greg Lestrade walked through the door and into 221b Baker Street.
The agents must have recognised him and Mrs. Hudson must have let him in as neither of the two tenants had heard the door bell chime.
Both Sherlock and John looked up at the Detective Inspector expectantly. Taking in Sherlock's still damp hair and John's slightly dishevelled look and the freshly cooked breakfast, Lestrade cleared his throat.
"Sorry, is this a bad time?"
With an exaggerated wave of his arm and a mouthful of omelette, John gestured for the DI to come in and make himself at home.
"Nah, it's fine. Morning, Greg. Just let me finish this and get changed, yeah? It's not often that mad man over there lets me enjoy a full meal" John smirked.
Sherlock pretended not to hear John as he looked more closely at the Detective Inspector.
"There's been another one. He's escalating."
"Yes, in another dumpster, behind another club and with another stamp. I need you to take a look." Lestrade produced a cardboard tray holding three coffees that he'd kept hidden so far by placing it on the low shelf on the landing.
He grinned at John as he revealed it.
"Brought a peace offering, by the way… or bribe, if you prefer" and handed out steaming cups of Speedy's strongest coffee.
"You're a life saver, Greg. Ta!"
John happily accepted the cup Lestrade handed him.
"You must be desperate if you stop to get coffee for us just so we take a look at another crime scene. But then again, I still do not understand what merits some of your crime scene technicians to be titled as such. Did yesterday's suspect not give you any clues or have you just not figured them out yet?" Sherlock said as he grabbed his coffee.
"He means thank you, Greg. Much appreciated."
John chipped in and grinned at both detectives.
"Yes."
"No worries. I know better than to take offense at that. Known him long enough after all."
"I'm right here, you know?" Sherlock said as he took a sip.
"The guy we arrested last night was just a hired hand. Someone else seems to have taken over."
"Obviously. Well, we'll meet you there. Just leave the address, we'll be right behind. As you can see, we're both not quite ready yet."
"Oh yes, right. Thanks, guys."
Lestrade turned to leave but then remembered something else.
"Oh, how's your chest, by the way, Sherlock?"
"It's fine, a mere scratch." Sherlock waved it off.
"Oh, okay. Good. I'm glad. Anyway, see you in a few. John, don't let him rush you. The victim's dead and my team's at the scene, he can wait five more minutes for you to arrive."
The DI turned on his heels and headed back down the stairs while Sherlock retreated to his own bedroom to get changed.
"I'll just jump in the shower real quick, Sherlock. Put the kettle on, I'll need another cuppa if you want me to come with," the former soldier shouted down the hallway as he went into the bathroom for a quick rinse and shave.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he flinched. The bags under his eyes had become even more pronounced, the night terrors taking a visible toll on him. With a sigh, he stepped under the water, the initial cold shocking his body awake somewhat.
When John emerged from the bathroom fully dressed and feeling marginally more awake, Sherlock was already pacing through the living room. To his credit, he had put the kettle on again, he'd just forgotten to refill John's mug with another tea bag. Once this was remedied, John downed the tea in big gulps so the two of them could get going to Lestrade's new crime scene.
The body they found was just like the last one; young, male and dressed for a night of clubbing. He looked a bit more respectable, but not expensively so.
The only thing different about this victim was his skin colour. While the other three men had been fair or olive skinned, this latest body's skin was the colour of rich coffee. Alive he must have been a good-looking, if not striking, young man.
The nightclub stamp on his hand was barely discernible due to the dark ink on dark skin, but a UV light eventually revealed it.
This time, Sherlock did not jump into the dumpster, dismissing it as unimportant. He left that job to Anderson.
Meanwhile, John crouched down next to the body to help examine the man. He too had been bludgeoned to death; the man's face was bashed in, his eye sockets, nose and teeth broken with a blunt object. John thought that the murder weapon could very possibly be a pipe or a cricket bat.
"Lestrade, can you get me close ups of all the nightclub stamps? The connection has to be in the clubs. Check the clubs, see whether the regulars know about any recent drug deals gone wrong, or new management taking over," Sherlock said while examining a speck of dirt on the floor.
"Sure, Sherlock. This guy doesn't look like a drug dealer, though."
"Maybe he doesn't, but that doesn't mean he can't still be one."
"True," Lestrade agreed and scribbled into his notebook.
"He's in his early 30s, well-dressed and with that level of personal grooming clearly trying to appear to be of higher social standing. Well-educated, even though he spent his childhood in poverty. Scholarship student from abroad, then. From what is left of his dental work, I'd say Ghanaian. Plus, you'll probably find the tell-tale scar of the polio jab on his triceps when you do the autopsy. He lived alone but had a string of lovers. He dressed to impress and the packet of condoms in his breast pocket speaks for itself. He went to clubs regularly; he had an old promo leaflet for another club in his pocket. Lestrade, I suggest you start your search there."
Sherlock handed over the crumpled piece of paper he'd found on the body.
"Text me if there's anything else. Come along, John."
John actually had to jog to catch up to his flatmate as he was leaving the crime scene.
"That's it?" he asked once he'd reached Sherlock. The consulting detective just looked at him blankly.
"You're still convinced he was either a dealer or a pimp, aren't you?"
"Of course. They are the most likely choices. Moreover, I do have a certain amount of practice at spotting drug dealers, if you recall. Why do you ask?"
John winced a bit at the reminder. It had been years since Sherlock had spoken to him about recovering from his cocaine addiction. For all intents and purposes, he had always viewed Sherlock as clean and sober. So for Sherlock Holmes to intentionally remind John that he was once an addict and would probably have blended right in with the clientele at the clubs they were currently investigating, was unexpected.
"No, I know, Sherlock. It's probably nothing anyway… just a hunch, really. He didn't strike me as the type to deal or do drugs, and I can picture him as a player, definitely, but not as a pimp."
Sherlock just gave a non-committal hum.
"Well, I'm sure Lestrade will find out soon enough."
They sat in comfortable silence on the taxi ride back to Baker Street. John lost in his thoughts and Sherlock wandering the expansive corridors of his Mind Palace.
Back at the flat, Sherlock grabbed his laptop for some more research, while John rummaged around the fridge for something to eat. Deciding that the easiest and quickest option for lunch would be grilled cheese, John quickly set about preparing the food.
When he sat down at the desk with a plate of food and his own laptop, Sherlock was already typing away furiously.
"Found something?" he enquired, regarding his flatmate with one raised eyebrow.
"Maybe. I'm indexing where the bodies were found and the nightclubs they'd been to. They are all over the place so far. There is no way a pimp could hold sway over such a large area. Drugs are looking more and more likely," Sherlock explained without looking up.
John quickly finished his meal and grabbed a map of London. After all this time living together he knew Sherlock's methods, so he spread the map out on the coffee table, grabbed a permanent marker and sat himself down on the couch.
"Right, then. Which clubs did Lestrade say they'd been to?"
He looked up at Sherlock expectantly, marker at the ready.
When they'd marked all the clubs, John could see that they were indeed spread all over the city. However, it wasn't until they started to also mark in the dumpsters in which the victims had been found that a pattern became evident.
Once Sherlock saw it, he was almost disappointed. Could it really be this straight forward?
The first victim had been found at the club the second victim had visited. He in turn had been found behind club number three. Sherlock groaned inwardly at his own stupidity. There was no need for John to see or hear it, as he was sure the soldier would never let him live it down.
Knowing the army doctor, he'd gloat about it for weeks if he wasn't careful. John however did notice the slightly annoyed huff his friend let out and smirked to himself.
Finally, his life resembled some kind of normality again with them solving cases and sharing laughs; Sherlock being brilliance personified and John the stalwart and steadfast partner who could see right through Sherlock's façade and call him out on it. It was what passed for normality at 221b Baker Street and John wouldn't have it any other way.
The nightmares of the previous nights momentarily forgotten, John enjoyed the thrill of the chase. Sherlock watched John in his peripheral vision and smiled. Finally, John seemed focused on the task at hand and not reliving the war.
Absent-mindedly, Sherlock scratched the bandage currently covering the laceration across his chest. John noticed and went into doctor mode immediately.
"Is it itchy? Does it hurt?" he asked and pointed at Sherlock's chest.
"No, it's fine."
"I'll be the judge of that, Sherlock. I've got to change the bandages anyway. Stay here, I'll just grab my med kit", John said, already on his feet and halfway to the bathroom.
"It's fine, John, really" Sherlock started, but his friend was having none of it.
John grabbed the bag and noted that he would have to re-stock yet again pretty soon. Apparently, one could never have too many bandages when living at Baker Street.
Before he returned to the living room, John grabbed a glass of water and retrieved the painkillers. As he put his kit and the water down on the desk, John stood back and fixed his gaze on the consulting detective.
Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow.
John assumed his army stance, feet shoulder-width apart and arms crossed in front of his chest. And waited. Sherlock didn't move, he just looked around the room at the medical bag. John started tapping his foot after a while. Sherlock just leaned back and smiled.
"Shirt off, Holmes. Now."
Sherlock knew that tone of voice. It was John's take-no-prisoners command voice. A voice which made new recruits come to the 'shun quicker than Sherlock could blink, he knew. Even Sherlock had learned to obey John's command voice, although he thought to himself that he'd draw the line should John ever demand he 'drop and give him twenty.'
The consulting detective knew that an argument with Captain Watson would be futile and the bandages did indeed need redressing. He glared at John for another minute for good measure; John just raised an eyebrow. Two could play that game.
Eventually, Sherlock relented and started to unbutton his shirt, uncovering the white bandages underneath.
John got a bowl of warm water and his antiseptic cream ready and then helped Sherlock remove the bandages. He sighed with relief when he saw no indications of infection. The fabric scratching along the sutures had probably just caused the itch.
He quickly cleaned and redressed the wounds and checked Sherlock's shoulder movement. Satisfied that his friend's wounds were already healing nicely, John got up and went to the kitchen to dispose of the used bandages and let Sherlock redress himself.
Chuckling about the fact that it was completely normal for him now to have a medical waste bin in the kitchen, John went about fixing tea for the two of them.
"Thanks, John" he could hear Sherlock mumbling behind him.
"No worries, Sherlock. Here, I made you a cuppa as well."
He passed a steaming mug over to the younger Holmes brother who had wandered into the kitchen and followed him back out into the living room.
Both men sat down in their armchairs, lost in thought as they sipped their teas.
"Sherlock?"
"Hm?"
"Sherlock, at the crime scene earlier. Didn't you say that the victim had some sort of flyer on him?"
"Hm? Oh that! Yes. It was some nightclub promotion or other. I glanced at the date, it was one and a half weeks ago, so it's hardly relevant for this case," Sherlock dismissed it.
"Hm. What was it? A new club opening? Happy Hour? Battle of the Bands? A concert of some sort?" John listed all the potential reasons for clubs handing out flyers to their patrons.
"I wouldn't call the sort of musical gatherings taking place in nightclubs 'concerts', John. Remind me to get us tickets for the Proms this year."
"I'm sure your idea of a concert is very different to mine. Even though I attended what was arguably the best live concert ever held," John teased smugly, leaning back and grinning at Sherlock, who had looked up with interest.
"That's preposterous, John!" Sherlock exclaimed and John really had to hold back the laughter. Sometimes it was just too easy to bait Sherlock. And boy, the man bit each and every time.
"Besides, I had no idea that you liked that rendition of Mozart's Magic Flute. But I agree, it was the best I have ever witnessed."
"I'm not talking about Mozart, Sherlock" John chuckled.
"Bach? Brahms? Schubert? Vivaldi?" Sherlock prompted. John just grinned.
"That's exactly my point, Sherlock. I'm not talking about classical music. I'm talking about rock music."
"Dull," Sherlock dismissed and sighed, that conversation could have been quite interesting.
"You wouldn't say that if you had seen Queen perform live at Live Aid 1985…"
John took another sip and placed the mug on the side table.
"The Queen gave a concert? I was under the impression she only played privately!"
Sherlock looked at John, surprise written all over his face and John doubled over and absolutely lost it. It took him a good three minutes to stop laughing and he was glad he'd put the mug down because they'd both be covered in tea by now otherwise.
Once he'd got his breathing under control a bit, tears of laughter still in his eyes and his abused ribs complaining at having laughed so hard, John looked back up to Sherlock. His friend just sat there with a confused look at his face, trying hard to work out what it was that had John in hysterics like that.
"Not The Queen our monarch, Sherlock," John laughed and rolled his eyes.
"Queen the band! You know? Freddie Mercury, Bryan May… Come on, you must know some of their songs! We will rock you? Bohemian Rhapsody? Queen live at Live Aid! Possibly the best concert in history. How can you not know?"
"John, you know I don't concern myself with trivia such as this. And whether one concert is better than the other is highly objective."
Sherlock continued to calmly sip his tea while he flicked dust particles off his armchair's armrest with his free hand.
"Oh come on! Have you never had a favourite band growing up? Any LPs you listened to?"
"Of course I had LPs, John. I had recordings of the London Symphony Orchestra playing all my favourite composers."
John looked at him a bit dumbstruck. Then he sipped more of his tea and asked casually "I take it there's no chance any of them were called Lennon and McCartney, is there?"
Sherlock thought back for a while.
"No, I don't think so. I mostly listened to British, German, Austrian and Italian composers, although I was also quite fond of Camille Saint-Saëns."
That earned him another eye roll from the good doctor.
"Living with you, I've actually learned to tell some of those composers apart, you know? And that you would like the composer of Danse Macabre is not a surprise."
Sherlock was astounded that John had got the reference right. Apparently it showed, because John frowned.
"Don't look at me like that. I used to watch Jonathan Creek in the late 90s. Danse Macabre is the theme music. Which proves I know more about music than you do." John grinned again.
"I really don't think so, John."
"Right then. I just have one question for you, Sherlock. Who are Lennon and McCartney?"
Sherlock gave a petulant huff, which almost had John in stitches again.
"Clearly they are not important or I wouldn't have deleted the information," Sherlock said, raising his nose higher.
Suddenly, John was quiet and Sherlock dared to look across at his friend. John just stared at him in utter disbelief.
"Sherlock, you can't be serious! You've never heard of The Beatles? John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr?" John prompted.
"Lennon and McCartney! They were one of the best, most influential and successful songwriting duos of the twentieth century! You must have heard about The Beatles! How can you grow up in Britain and not know The Beatles?"
John was gobsmacked, still trying to work out whether Sherlock was having him on or not.
"I can assure you, I have not. Besides, contemporary music was frowned upon. Mummy didn't approve. Both Mycroft and I received classical training. I play the violin, obviously, but I also learned to play the piano when I was three. Mycroft was much the same, except that he chose cello and piano. I opted for saxophone lessons at boarding school, I knew it would annoy Mycroft and Mummy, but it was taught at school and therefore deemed acceptable."
"Hang on; you can play the piano and saxophone?"
John thought that the whole conversation was getting weirder and weirder.
"I believe I just said that, do pay attention, John!"
The doctor just looked at the detective and couldn't find a hint of humour or sarcasm.
"I had no idea. I would like to hear you play some day. Piano and sax, that is. Didn't pick you for playing a jazz instrument, but I guess it fits," John stated, glad he was already sitting down.
"I prefer the violin. Besides, I don't see you taking out your clarinet1 or dragging a piano2 in here." Sherlock was watching his friend intently.
"I'm not even going to ask how you knew. I was never any good, though. Clarinet was a bit of a Watson tradition that my great-granddad started and piano was compulsory at my school. I learned to play the guitar though, during my army days. A mate taught me."
John laughed at how the conversation had gone from discussing a crime scene to discussing musical proficiency.
"I would say that Grade 5 clarinet is fairly good."
John just huffed.
"How do you know I got Grade 5? And yeah, maybe it wasn't so bad when I actually still had time to practice but knowing you, you probably passed Grade 8 with flying colours in all three instruments. Probably had to show off, doing Music Theory or something too."
"Very good, John! I see my methods are finally starting to rub off on you, not all is lost." Sherlock smirked.
"You're right. Anything less than Grade 8 was unacceptable for my parents. And I did study music theory although I opted for solo jazz with the saxophone."
John chuckled and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You? You did solo jazz?"
"Yes. Is that so hard to believe?"
Sherlock really didn't see why John found that so bizarre.
"Sherlock, a minute ago you had never heard of Queen or The Beatles and now you're telling me you're a pretty accomplished jazz player. I mean the classical music I can see. I have known you long enough and I have heard you compose for the violin. I'm just having trouble picturing you with a saxophone, let alone playing jazz."
"Why?"
Sherlock was genuinely surprised. He'd always thought it was obvious.
"Jazz can be anything you like. You can even improvise. I have always found the music resembled the way my mind works. Granted, I could have played jazz on the piano, but the saxophone annoyed my parents and it was worth it just for that," he grinned.
John thought about that for a while. Sherlock's explanation made sense. He could be quiet or loud, fast or slow, change melodies halfway and still produce something beautiful while playing jazz.
"Fair enough. I guess that makes sense. I kind of figured that unlike my big sister, your brother did not grow up listening to The Clash and the Sex Pistols and passing on that musical taste."
"Sex Pistols?"
"Yeah. 70s punk band. I bet Anarchy in the UK was not as popular in the Holmes household as it was in the Watson residence at the time."
Sherlock drew back, slightly appalled.
"Yes, I can assure you that my mother would not have allowed anything with a title like that past the front door."
John's grin grew wider again.
"How about David Bowie, then? Fleetwood Mac? The Who?"
Sherlock shook his head at every band John listed.
"Right, remind me to get my vinyl records back from Harry. I'll make a connoisseur of decent music out of you yet!"
John leaned back in his armchair, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Sherlock held his gaze, a smile also on his lips, raising his eyebrows as if to say 'Is that so?'
Neither of them realized who started laughing first, but soon they were breaking out in uncontrollable laughter at the absolute absurdity of the conversation they had just had.
As Sherlock joined the laughter, he was glad to see John sufficiently distracted from his nightmares and knew that John cherished the few moments of idle chit-chat between them that had really been few and far between recently.
Sherlock conceded that maybe he should make more of an effort to talk to his friend more often about mundane things, for the sake of conversation more than to talk through information pertaining to a case.
John was, after all, his only friend and if talking about trivial things like music was enough to keep a war hero's PTSD at bay for a while, then that was a small price to pay on the part of a certain consulting detective.
After a while, John gathered himself again and calmed down a bit.
"Right then, back to the case. There was some sort of concert promo flyer in the victim's pocket. But you dismissed it."
"Yes, obviously, John. It wasn't even a current flyer, the event has already been."
"Fair enough. Any other clues?"
"Not yet."
John returned to his laptop to type up a blog post, but made up his mind halfway through. He took another look at the London street map and the markers he had placed at all the crime scene locations. He typed the name of the first club into the search bar.
Sherlock watched as John frowned at the computer and returned to typing just to frown some more a minute later.
"Er… Sherlock?" I think I found something. Have a look."
He turned his laptop around so Sherlock could see.
Sherlock's eyes flickered across the web page that John had opened and then his eyes widened as understanding dawned on him.
"John, I've said it before, as a conductor of light you are unbeatable! Nevertheless, I think this time you have outdone yourself! This is brilliant!"
1 As stated in The Blind Banker
2 ACD canon John Watson was a pianist