Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock
Jason's POV
When I get back to the flat after a walk, I hear the sound of repetitive gunshots.
My heart almost jumps into my throat. No!
I run up the stairs as if I were a speedster, only to find Sherlock lying on the couch with a bored expression on his face, shooting the wall.
"What the hell are you doing?" I yell at him.
"Bored," Sherlock says, sullenly.
"What?" I snap in disbelief. He's shooting the wall because he is bored?! I though someone had broken in and was murdering him! After all, our flat isn't exactly a Bat-cave!
"Bored!" Sherlock says loudly, springing up and turning towards a smiley face on the wall, shooting it furiously. "Bored! Bored!"
I snatch the gun from him, pulling the bullets out of the gun without even looking at it while Sherlock continues to glare at the smiley face in a way that makes me think it wronged him or something.
"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them," Sherlock says.
I put the pistol away. "So you take it out on the wall." I prefer to take my anger out on a punching bag or a target or sometimes even a mob boss, but that's just me.
"Ah, the wall had it coming," Sherlock says, flopping onto the sofa.
"What about that Russian case?" I ask, recovering from my fear of the thought of someone murdering Sherlock.
"Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time," Sherlock says.
I nod, and head over to open the fridge, only to be greeted by the sight of a severed head in it. I've seen plenty of severed heads, even severed a few myself, but I wasn't expecting this.
"Uh, Sherlock, not that severed heads bothered me, but please tell me its not in the fridge because you plan on eating it," I say.
"Just tea for me," he says with a smirk "I got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death."
I begin to make him tea.
"So, why were you so concerned about me shooting the wall?" Sherlock asks.
"It's not the wall I was concerned about," I snap. "I was just worried…"
"Yes, go on?" he presses.
"I was worried someone was murdering you," I say.
"Why?"
"Because you're solving a lot of crimes, Sherlock, which can piss off big mob bosses and other criminals, and let's face it; our flat isn't exactly a good hideout," I say.
"A hideout? You mean like those costumed vigilantes from Gotham and Starling and Metropolis?" he says. "Well, those don't exactly always help them either."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Well, Batman's second Robin died," Sherlock says.
"What?" I ask, staring at him. B covered up my death though. How did he…?
"It's obvious, isn't it?" he asks. "The first Robin was more of an acrobat that the second, and he left when he was eighteen to go to Bludhaven, taking up the identity of Nightwing. I know this because Nightwing has the same sort of acrobatic skills as the first Robin did, and appeared shortly after the first Robin disappeared.
"As for the second Robin," he continues. "He was obviously in his early teens judging by his build and height when he disappeared after a case with Batman going after the Joker in Sarajevo, where there was an explosion that happened to kill a boy named Jason Todd, ward of Bruce Wayne, billionaire, surely you've heard of him, being from Gotham? The second Robin was obviously killed by the Joker, since that's when he disappeared and no other identity was assumed after that with anyone of his build and with his skills. Therefore, hideouts don't always help you."
I stare at him for a moment, a thousand emotions building and conflicting within me.
Anger, sadness, pain… I need to get out of here, now.
I spin around and head for the door.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asks.
"Out. I need some air," I say, closing the door behind me, heading for one of my safe houses. I can't go back there tonight, not with how I feel right now. He just spoke about my death so… so casually. As if it was nothing more than an obvious piece of evidence he just happened to find interesting enough to remember.
He even spoke about the death Bruce fibbed about to cover up my real one, even mentioned my name.
I don't know how I am supposed to feel about that, but right now, I feel like killing someone, so it is probably a good thing that I left.
That of course has to be the night the flat gets bombed.
As soon as I get back to Baker Street, I shove past all the people and practically demand the police let me through once I tell them I live at 221B
I dash up the stairs. "Sherlock. Sherlock!"
I get inside to see Sherlock looking intensely annoyed, but not at me, rather at his bother Mycroft.
He looks up at me. "John."
Mycroft glances at me to, but I ignore him.
"I saw the news. Are you okay?" I ask, almost frantic, remembering the fear I used to feel whenever B would go out on something really dangerous and leave me behind, insisting it was too dangerous for me to go, and he wanted to keep me safe.
Look how well that turned out.
"Hmm? What?" he looks around the flat as if he has forgotten what happened. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently." Then he turns back to his brother. "I can't."
"Can't?" Mycroft looks shocked.
"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time," Sherlock says.
I stare at him. Wasn't he so bored he was shooting the wall yesterday?
"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance," Mycroft insists.
"How's the diet?" Sherlock asks, fingering his broken violin strings.
Mycroft doesn't take the bait. "Fine. Perhaps you can get through to him, John."
"What?" I ask. usually when someone wants me to get through to someone, it involves punching them until they agree to whatever I say.
"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent," Mycroft says.
Yep, sounds more and more like Bruce to me every day.
"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock inquires.
"I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so…" Mycroft begins to trail off. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?"
"Besides, a case like this, it requires," he grimaces. "Legwork."
"So, John, how was the mattress you slept on?" he asks me.
"It was the floor," I say.
Sherlock looks me up and down. "Oh yes, of course."
Mycroft smiles at me in a creepy way. "Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became… pals."
Sherlock glares at him.
"What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine," Mycroft says.
"He's not as bad as my guardian was," I mutter.
"Good! That's good, isn't it?" Mycroft says.
"You have a guardian?" Sherlock asks me.
"Not anymore, and not the time," I snap.
Mycroft shows me a folder. "Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."
"Jumped in front of a train?" I ask, remembering people in Gotham doing that down in the subways all the time when they wanted to off themselves.
"Seems the logical assumption," Mycroft says.
"But…?"
"But?" Mycroft asks.
"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," I say.
Sherlock smirks.
"The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defense system – the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called," Mycroft says. "The plans for it were on a memory stick."
"That was pretty dumb," I say wryly.
Sherlock smiles in agreement.
"It's not the only copy," Mycroft protests.
"Oh," I say mockingly.
He shoots me a peevish look. "But it is secret. And missing."
"Top secret?" I ask. I've had to keep a lot of things top secret my entire life. My identity as Robin, and as Red Hood, Batman, Nightwing, and Batgirl's identities, my own death, and before all that, I had to keep my mother's illness and addiction a secret and the fact that I was a thief providing for my mother and not going to school.
"Very," Mycroft says. "We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."
Sherlock breathes in sharply. "I'd like to see you try."
"Think it over," Mycroft tries to look threatening.
Neither of us are impressed.
Mycroft walks over to me, extending his hand. "Goodbye, John."
Grudgingly, I take it, and Mycroft smiles creepily. "See you very soon."
For some reason, that reminds me of when the Joker told me: 'And, hey… please tell the big man I said, "Hello."
I stare after him, not liking what he said one bit, and then I turn to Sherlock. "Why'd you lie? You've got nothing on. Not a single case. That's why the wall took a beating. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"
"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock shrugs.
"Ah, you just wanted to piss him off," I say. "I see. Sibling rivalry."
Sherlock's phone suddenly rings. He pulls it out and speaks into it. "Sherlock Holmes. Of course. How could I refuse?"
"Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?" he says.
I find it amusing how he goes immediately to Lestrade, but refuses to help Mycroft. "If you want me to."
"Of course," Sherlock picks up his coat, and motions for me to follow him. "I'd be lost without my bodyguard."
I smirk. Apparently, Dimmock has spread the word.
"You like the funny cases, don't you?" Lestrade asks Sherlock. "The surprising ones."
"Obviously," Sherlock says.
"You'll love this. That explosion…"
"Gas leak, yes?"
"No."
"No?" Sherlock looks startled.
"No. Made to look like one," Lestrade says.
"What?" I ask.
Lestrade gives Sherlock an envelope. "Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box, a very strong box and inside it was this."
"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asks.
"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade says.
Sherlock reaches towards it, hesitantly.
"We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped," Lestrade tells him.
"How reassuring!" Sherlock exclaims, not looking reassured at all.
He begins to examine the envelope. "Nice stationery. Bohemian. From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"
Lestrade shakes his head. "No."
He looks at the writing. "She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duo fold. Iridium nib."
"She?" I ask
"Obviously," Sherlock says, opening the envelope carefully and pulling out a pink iphone.
"Is that the pink lady's phone?" I ask.
"What? Jennifer Wilson's?" Lestrade asks.
"Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like it," Sherlock says. "It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone."
Suddenly, the phone gets an alert. "You have one new message." Five short pips sound out from it.
"Is that it?" I ask, though I don't like the sound of those pips. There is a hidden meaning behind them; I know it.
"No. That's not it," Sherlock says.
A photograph is sent to the phone. It is of an unfurnished room with peeling wallpaper and a tall mirror in the corner, and another small mirror on the mantelpiece.
"What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade exclaims. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"
"It's a warning," Sherlock says. "Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again. And I've seen this place before." He begins to walk off.
"Hang on," I follow him. "What's gonna happen again?"
Sherlock turns back and looks at me. "Boom!"
I stiffen for a moment, remembering the sound of the seconds going down and then the loud boom of the explosion as fire consumed me, casting a horrible pain over my entire body before draining what little life it still had from it…
I follow Sherlock, my memories still racing through my mind I barely notice Lestrade follow us too.
Sherlock has Mrs. Hudson let us into 221A. He examines the padlock as Mrs. Hudson speaks to him. "You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat."
He looks at the keyhole. "The door's been opened recently."
"No, can't be," Mrs. Hudson says. "That's the only key."
Sherlock pulls off the padlock and inserts the key into the door.
"I can't get anyone interested in this flat," Mrs. Hudson tells us. "It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements."
I don't actually mind basements. Creepy, dark basements are nice places to be. Then again, once I was adopted by Bruce, I was practically living in the Bat-cave. I used to talk to the bats when I was bored and Bruce and Alfred weren't around…
Sherlock opens the door as Mrs. Hudson continues to speak. "I had a place once when I was first married. Black mold all up the walls…"
We head inside.
When we get to the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock pushes the door of the living room open and we go inside. It's just like the photograph, except there is a pair of trainers shoes placed in the middle of the floor.
Sherlock begins to walk towards them, but I grasp his shoulder before he can. "He's a bomber, remember."
Sherlock stops for a moment, considering what I said, and then moves towards the stupid shoes anyway. Just as he is about to touch them, the pink phone rings.
"Hello?" Sherlock speaks into it.
A female voice speaks with a shaky, tear-filled breath. "H-hello… sexy."
Oh, no, this isn't the bomber; he has a hostage.
"Who's this?" Sherlock asks.
She's not going to answer you, Sherlock.
"I've… sent you a little puzzle… just to say hi," she sobs.
"Who's talking? Why are you crying?" Sherlock says.
"I-I'm not… crying… I'm typing…" the woman sobs. "and this… stupid bitch… is reading it out."
"The curtain rises," Sherlock murmurs softly.
"What?" I ask him.
"Nothing," he says.
"No, what did you mean?" I ask.
Sherlock turns to look at me. "I've been expecting this for some time."
He has?
"Twelve hours to solve… my puzzle, Sherlock…" the woman continues. "Or I'm going to be… so naughty."
The line goes dead, but I know exactly what that means. If Sherlock doesn't solve the puzzle, that woman is going to blow up, just like I did.
Later, Sherlock goes back to Bart's college to examine some stuff.
"So, who do you think it was?" I ask.
Sherlock gets a text but does nothing about it. "Hmm?"
"The woman on the phone– the crying woman," I say.
"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage. No lead there," he says.
"I know she was a hostage," I snap, "but how can you say she doesn't matter like that?!"
"You're being awfully defensive about that," Sherlock comments. "John, was your near-death experience a hostage situation?"
"No," I growl.
"It was, wasn't it?" Sherlock says. "Or you were at least held prisoner in some way. Had to depend on someone else to save you?"
"Shut. Up." My eyes burn black fire.
"Who kidnapped you?" Sherlock asks, looking concerned and intrigued at the same time.
The Joker's laughing face flashes before me.
"I said, shut up!" I snarl at him. "Are they trying to trace the call?"
"The bomber's too smart for that," Sherlock says hastily. "Don't change the subject."
"I'll change the damn subject if I want to!"
The phone gets another text. "Pass me my phone."
"Where is it?" I snap, still angry.
"Jacket," Sherlock says.
Angrily, I thrust my hand into his pocket and hand him his phone. "Text from your brother." I suddenly miss my brother, and the way he would never press me to talk about things if I didn't want to. The way he would just give me a hug and tell me things were going to be all right and that he wouldn't let anything happen to me…
Thanks for trying, Dick. I know you always tried to help me, even if in the end I did die.
"Delete it. Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it," he says. "Now, back to our previous subject-"
"I'm not talking about that with you," I snap.
"Yes you are," he says.
"Why don't you make me?"
Sherlock has a look on his face that I don't like, and then he surprises me by jumping at me and handcuffing me to the table.
"What the hell?!" I yell, jerking on the cuff. "Where did you get this?"
"I told you I pickpocket Lestrade when he is annoying," Sherlock says. "Now, tell me, what happened to you? You were held hostage, yes?"
"Go crawl up your ass!" I yell at him, dislocating my thumb.
Sherlock pops it back in place quickly.
"Damn it!" I snarl as the pain sears through my hand. When dislocating your own joints, you've got to take it slow.
"None of that now," Sherlock says, getting up in my face. "Now, what happened?"
The computer beeps, and the screen flashes Search Complete, but Sherlock ignores it.
"Well?" he asks, as I wonder how the heck I am going to get out of this. I could lie about who kidnapped me and what happened, but this is Sherlock we're talking about; there's no way he's fall for any lie I tell him.
I am saved by Molly Hooper walking in. "What are you doing?!" she exclaims, seeing Sherlock pushing me up against the table.
Sherlock stands back. "Nothing, just had a bit of luck," he gestures to the screen, and then leans in to whisper in my ear. "We'll continue this discussion later."
"No, we won't," I hiss back, dislocating my thumb again and beginning to pull my hand free.
A man in his thirties with dark hair who I immediately don't like walks in. "Oh, sorry. I didn't…"
"Jim, hi!" Molly says. "Come in! Come in!"
Sherlock looks up briefly, and then turns back to his work.
"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly says, and then turns to look at me. "And, uh… sorry.
"Ja- John Watson," I lie, almost saying Jason Todd. Sometimes, I am still getting used to that.
Sherlock looks up, intrigued by my 'stutter', looking for hidden meanings.
"Hi," Jim says, staring at Sherlock's back. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"
"Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," Molly says as she and Jim giggle.
I think I'm going to be sick.
"Gay," Sherlock says, turning back to his work.
Molly's smile disappears. "Sorry, what?"
Sherlock looks back up, giving a fake smile. "Nothing. Uh, hey."
Jim smiles creepily. "Hey," he accidentally knocks a petri dish over, and scrambles down to pick it up, giggling. "Sorry! Sorry!"
I turn away, rolling my eyes in annoyance at the awkward moment, and wonder if I can make a break for it through the door to avoid anymore of Sherlock's questions.
I take a single step forward, and Sherlock, not even looking up from his work, grabs a hold of me and pulls me down to sit beside him. "Nope, you're not going anywhere; don't even think about it."
I glare at him, but he doesn't notice since he is still focused on his work.
"Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, about six-ish?" Jim says to Molly.
"Yeah!" Molly says happily.
They say goodbye, and Jim looks back at Sherlock wistfully. "It was nice to meet you."
"Don't come back!" I shout after him, not liking the guy. There's something not right about him. The kind of look in his eyes… I've seen it before.
Jim blinks at me, and then leaves, looking hurt.
Molly glares at both of us, me for telling Jim not to come back and Sherlock for his earlier comment. "What do you mean, gay? We're together."
"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly," Sherlock says. "You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."
"Two and a half," she defends.
"Three," Sherlock contradicts.
"He's not gay. Why do you have to spoil…? He's not!" Molly looks near tears.
Sherlock snorts. "With that level of personal grooming?"
"I just thought he was creepy," I say.
"Tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear," Sherlock says.
He looked at his underwear?
"His underwear?" Molly looks appalled.
"Visible above the waistline– very visible; very particular brand," Sherlock reaches for the petri dish that Jim knocked over. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here, and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."
Molly runs out of the room, almost in tears.
"I still think he's just creepy," I say.
"Go on, then," Sherlock gestures to his work.
"What?" I ask.
"You know what I do. Off you go," he says.
"No."
"An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me," Sherlock says, "unless you'd rather continue our previous conversation. We will continue it later, but I can postpone an hour or two if you do this."
I glower at him. "Fine." I begin to look at the shoes. "I don't know. They're just a pair of shoes. Trainers."
"Good," Sherlock praises.
"They're in good nick. I'd say they were pretty new, except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while," I say. "Uh, they're very eighties. Probably one of those retro designs."
"You're on sparkling form. What else?" Sherlock says.
"Well, they're quite big, so a man's," I say.
"But…?" Sherlock presses on.
I look on the insides of the shoes to find blue smudges. "But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip. Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid."
Sherlock looks at me proudly. "Excellent. What else?"
"Uh, that's it," I say. "How did I do?"
"Well, John; really well," Sherlock says. "I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know…" he picks them up. "The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discolored. Changed the laces three... no, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old."
"Twenty years?" I ask. They're as old as I am.
"They're not retro– they're original," Sherlock says, showing me an image on his phone. "Limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine."
"But there's still mud on them. They look new," I say.
Sherlock looks at them carefully. "Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it. Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."
"So what happened to him?"
"Something bad," Sherlock says.
I stiffen. Too many bad things happen to kids.
He looks up from the trainers to look at me. "He loved those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets…"
Sherlock pauses. "Oh. Carl Powers."
"Who?" I ask.
"Carl Powers, John," Sherlock says. "It's where I began."
AN: Well, what do you guys think? I really wanted to make Sherlock find out more about Jason's past when writing about this episode, since it involves bombs, and Jason was blown up. I hope you guys enjoyed it. I'll get to work on the next one soon.
-DragonsintheMoonlight