Right. So. I've been working a new job plus a side-job for the past couple of weeks and it's been nuts. So I am really, really sorry about missing last week entirely. Three chapters for you this week though, so hopefully that will make up for it. All reviews are very much appreciated; I could really, really do with a pick-me-up.
Enjoy!
John went in on his own, asking Sherlock and Lestrade to stay in the car, because the last thing he needed was a nosy detective and a policeman on his back while he tried to get evidence on a killer.
The small room was actually really practically set up, a far cry from the psychic-voodoo-spiritualistic thing he'd been imagining, like a fortune-teller room at a carnival. Instead, it was clean and looked much like any other office, except there were several posters with different objects and their meanings spelled out for them.
"Hello," the mother from the day before said, standing and holding out a hand to greet him. She was dressed nicely, a professional black dress and a red necklace to add some colour. "Dr. Watson, it's a pleasure to meet you, again."
John smiled and shook her hand firmly. "Thank you for taking the time. I just wanted to ask you about something - not Timothy, I'm sad to say, though I was glad to hear he was doing okay."
Ms. Pillington nodded and sat back down, gesturing to a chair across from her. "Please, take a seat."
"Ta," John said, sinking back into the chair and relaxing for the moment.
"So, what can I help you with?" Ms. Pillington asked, and John was grateful for it, because he'd had no idea how to bring up the subject.
"Well, actually - ah - you remember I said Sherlock worked with the police?"
Ms. Pillington raised one eyebrow, but she nodded, and John leaned forward slightly.
"Ah, right. Well. We've been doing some investigating and I was hoping you might be able to help us a bit. Because we've had, well, it's not pleasant, but a string of murders."
"Oh," Ms. Pillington gasped, and John looked up at her, meeting her eyes.
"It's not that you're involved," he hastened to explain, noting she looked alarmed, but then, that could just be her reaction to the idea of murders. "It's just that the murderer's been leaving things, and my sister mentioned she'd been doing dream reading, so I looked it up, and I thought perhaps they meant something."
"Oh," Ms. Pillington said again, but she looked a little more confident. "I might be able to help."
John leaned back a bit. "It's just the three - well, two, really, but the middle one - well. Ah. Right. I'm not doing this well," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, and Ms. Pillington chuckled, and he reddened but grinned at himself. "Abacus, Bailiff, Cactus," he ticked off on his fingers. "ABC. He's working his way through the alphabet, and I thought he might be reading a dream dictionary or something - one of those online ones."
Ms. Pillington was frowning thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see the message. 'I'm changing my ways, though I know I deserve to be punished for it, I know I'm being chased,'" she summed up expertly. John nodded, glad she was good at catching on.
"That's what I thought, too," he said, and Ms. Pillington looked at him narrowly.
"So what could I do for you?" she asked, and John made a face.
"Well, I was wondering if you could tell us if there were any more dream readers in this area. And if any of them are tall."
"Tall?" Ms. Pillington suddenly looked worried, and John hastened to explain.
"Well, the forensic evidence suggests the murderer is very tall-" John said, but halfway through he was interrupted by a snarl, and stood quickly, turning around and looking up to see an angry face before a fist came crashing into his temple.
John felt the blood in his head slosh as he was hit again, felt his brain shift in the pool of liquid around it. "Answer the question," was snarled out in Pashto, and John shook his head slightly, once again noting the odd sensation of his grey matter shifting with the movement.
"Daniel," he gasped out. "You alright?" His eyes were blurring as he cracked them open, looking across the cave at the private, who was staring blankly at the ceiling from where he lay on the floor. Then he remembered how three hours ago, they'd slit Daniel's throat, and felt his heart sink, and some clinical part of him realized he had a concussion. "That'll be a no, then," he muttered, licking his bottom lip and tasting the sharp tang of blood. He wondered how long he'd been here, in the dark.
"Oy, John," came Murray's voice in the dark. "Hold on, mate." Murray sounded like he was gasping, and John guessed he was probably in pain.
At the thought of pain he realized he couldn't feel his shoulder, and then it shot through with liquid fire, spiralling out into - was that a flower? John looked down, cracking his eyes open as if he could see the fire spiral out into a flower through his veins, but all he saw instead was a wound, sticking to the bandages, which were sticking to his shirt. Right. Murray had been trying to care for him, had saved his life, but they'd been left behind and then they'd been found, and now -
Another crack on his head and his brain swam.
John blinked his eyes open, almost surprised to find that his eyelashes didn't stick together with dried blood, that he could turn his head without feeling the world spin.
"No, no, no, wrong, won't do, can't do," a man's voice was muttering, and John turned his head again to see a tall man pacing back and forth next to him. He was - somewhere else - some part of him panicked again at being somewhere he didn't recognise - breathe. Right.
"Can't do what?" John asked, but it came out as a squeak, and he had to clear his throat. "Can't do what?" he tried again, and this time it was understandable.
The man's eyes lit on John's weary ones, and John understood the look in them with a sinking feeling. Insanity, there was no true comprehension in those eyes. But then the man blinked and focussed on John intently.
"Can't kill you," he muttered. "Haven't been told, can't, there's no reason, won't."
John raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's good, isn't it?" he joked weakly, and the man looked at him, frowning.
"No, bad, must get rid, must, but can't, won't, wrong, but must," he muttered, and resumed pacing.
"Right. Well, while you're deciding, can I have some water?" John asked, and the man shook his head.
"No, don't know water yet, mustn't," he said, and John sighed, relaxing into the bonds that tied him to an - was this an office chair? - it was, one of the rolling ones, but his feet were bound to the support, he couldn't move it. Damn.
"What do you know?" John asked, figuring every moment of distraction was a moment he was alive, and the man started listing things off. John noted the words all started with A, and felt a pang of pride as he realized the man was memorizing the dream dictionary. No wonder it had been alphabetical.
"What do you learn next?" he asked when the man took a moment to pause.
"Detective," the man said, and John winced.
"What's that mean?" he asked, and the man answered blandly.
"Thrill and danger. Looking for talent and truth. Guilt. AM NOT GUILTY!" he suddenly screamed, and John flinched away from the noise.
"Okay, okay, you're not guilty," he said, and the man began to calm. "It's okay, I'm a doctor, I can help," he tried, and the man calmed more, then looked at him with excited eyes, his mania making them sparkle wildly.
"You're a doctor, yes, trust me, I'm a doctor, Doctor Watson the lady said, doctor, I've nearly learned doctor," he said, staring at John with intense focus. John squirmed slightly.
"What's doctor?" he asked, wondering if he wanted to know, and the man smiled, looking normal for a moment.
"I am not the doctor, you are, I am seeing the doctor, so it is healing," he said, and John took a deep breath, glad that doctor didn't have something more sinister attached to it.
"Good," he finally said, the honesty apparent in his words, then tilted his head. "What did banker mean?"
The man frowned, then recited, "Money problems, financial distress, out of control," he said, and John felt the emphasis on the last words.
"Tell me," he asked, and the man almost growled, and John blinked. "Doctor, remember?"
The man settled, and John tried again, feeling like he was working with a particularly frightening dog. "Tell me, are you on any pills to give you control?"
His captor blinked at him, looking confused, then smiled sunnily. It would have been reassuring except for the mania which continued to darken his eyes. "Of course! Taking lots of good medicine."
"Like?" John prompted, and the man frowned for a moment - not an angry frown, but the sort that said it was hard to think, and John let him.
"Happy drugs," he finally concluded, and John's mind whirled. His specialty wasn't psychiatry, but he knew that certain depression medications could make a person spin out. He tried again.
"Were you sad?" John asked, and the man nodded. "And they gave you the drugs to make you happy?" The man nodded again, and John tried to think.
"Am I somewhere safe?" he asked after a moment, and the man looked at him.
"Yes," he finally said, beginning to pace again. John noted the movement anxiously; agitation meant the medication was still in effect. He wondered what else the man was on, and bit his lip, hoping he could calm his captor long enough for Sherlock to find him.
"Right," John finally said. "I know how to fix it." He tried to make himself sound as confident as possible, and the man looked at him, that manic excitement back in his eyes. "Right, so you were sad and now you've got to kill me but it doesn't work like that, yeah?" he said, oversimplifying the situation. He wondered if there was any brain damage; that also had been linked to fits of anger. But the man was too smart to -
He wasn't. John blinked up at the man, who was watching him closely. He wasn't smart, he was almost childish, despite the mania that had overtaken him.
"Did you go to the dream lady to get help for the sadness?" he asked gently, and the man nodded, and John felt the pieces slot into place, taking a brilliant moment to breathe in the solution, and hoping Sherlock could do the same. "Did she give you any happy pills too?" he asked, and the man nodded again.
"To make the bad dreams go away," he murmured, and John's heart sank.
"I know what you need to do," he said, and once again tried to keep conviction in his tone. "You need to let me go."
The man blinked at him, and his face contorted in anger, but John looked at him and said calmly, "Let me go, and I'll make sure the detective doesn't hurt you and the cactus goes away." He crossed his fingers, bracing himself for whatever was to come. This was a gamble with a madman, and he didn't know if it would work.