Chapter 21: M for Murder
M for Murder
"How's your blog going?"
"... Yeah, good. Very good" He lied.
"You haven't written a word, have you?"
He clenched his jaw, "You just wrote 'still has trust issues'".
"And you read my writing upside down... You see what I mean?"
Psychiatrist-number-six sighed and gave a patronising smile.
"John, you're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you".
He scoffed, "Nothing happens to me".
Oh, but something was going to happen to her.
U for Unusual
John swore and paused for a minute, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
He wasn't as young as he used to be, and handling a shovel was more difficult now thanks to his leg and shoulder. Before the war, it never took more than two hours to dig a grave. Now it was taking him four.
He turned to the body rolled up in cast-off carpet.
He was almost sorry he killed her.
She wasn't a bad person, after all, just... useless.
And as his mother used to say, it takes all sorts to make the world go round.
But not this sort.
Picking up the shovel again, he stabbed it into the damp earth, and then stood on it for good measure. He was about three feet down, currently, and knew there was a lot further to go before he'd reach six feet.
If machines weren't so noisy, he'd consider investing in a mini digger.
A twig snapped behind him.
John froze.
... An animal, perhaps?
It was far too late for anyone to be out walking, and he'd chosen these woods specifically for their lack of campers. The terrain was too rocky and steep for hikers, and no one lived close by enough to just wander in. Which just left hunters. But John was a hunter himself, albeit of a different kind...
Leaving the shovel in place, standing upright in the soil, he slowly turned as he heard more leaves being trod on. He had his old army revolver resting comfortably in his coat pocket, and if he had to dig two graves tonight, then so be it.
The footsteps got louder as the man came closer, and it was a man, based on the heavy thread and long loping gait, before suddenly stopping a few meters away.
There were no lights lit, John never risked it despite the remote location, but it was a clear cloudless night, and he knew that there was enough moonlight for the stranger to have seen him by now.
His hand inched slowly towards his pocket.
The man took a step closer.
"Lovely night for burying, isn't it?"
John stopped.
The stranger took another step, and another and another, until he was standing in the little clearing with a smirk on his face.
And also, more surprisingly, a body in his arms.
He caught him staring and sighed, "Yes, I know, a rather tall fellow, isn't he? I do so hate the tall ones, they're always more difficult to get rid of".
He was tall himself, John distantly noted, a good foot on himself. But he was slight, skinny, lanky even, and he felt like, if he had to, he could take him.
"I'm not going to cause you any trouble" the stranger suddenly said, as if reading his mind, "I was in the area, as it were, and couldn't help but notice your injuries making digging more difficult... Perhaps we can come to an agreement?"
"... What kind of agreement?" He asked hoarsely.
"I'll help you dig, if you help me bury".
"Two for the price of one?"
"For both the living and the dead".
John studied him closely.
He couldn't make out much in the dim light, but could tell that the man was sharp featured, likely from aristocrats. What led him to murder, was interesting in itself, but the fact he was clearly at ease with the whole thing, was what really caught his attention.
This wasn't his first kill.
"... Alright" He finally agreed, "Two men dig quicker than one, after all".
Half an hour later, and John had to reluctantly admit that he was glad the man had found him. They were making a good headway with the grave, and for all his leanness, the stranger was strong, and for every one shovel of earth John dug up, the taller dug two.
"Who's the girl?"
He glanced up only the find the man in question curiously looking at the body on the ground next to them.
"... My psychiatrist" He replied, "Or, well, used to be".
"Walking wounded?" He asked, nodding towards the cane propped up against a nearby tree.
John stared at it and then thought of the shrapnel still buried in his shoulder, too deep to safely remove.
"... Something like that".
He shook his head and focused on digging once more.
"And the man?"
"Caught him littering once too often".
He waited, but no further information came.
"So... that's it? That's your motive for killing him? He littered?"
The taller man also stopped, and gave him a look of such contempt that he didn't need proper light to see it. "Think. Of. The. Bees!"
The... bees.
John blinked.
... Right.
R for Roommates
The next day, and John wasn't all that sure that the exchange had ever even happened.
He remembered finishing the hole, ten feet rather than eight, rolling in both bodies, and then covering them again. A few minutes of carefully moving plants around, and it almost like they were never there.
The man had nodded, told him to ditch the therapists, and then disappeared into the dark forest around them.
So now, John was lying in bed in his miserable one-room bedsit, and wondering if the dirt beneath his fingernails was actually real or not.
Eventually, he dragged himself out of bed, and went through the morning routine he'd developed since Afghanistan. It was bare, it was bleak, it was boring.
The only time he felt alive now was when he killed someone.
... Perhaps he should go for a walk instead.
"John! John Watson!"
He frowned, and turned, only to see a heavy man ambling towards him.
"Stamford, Mike Stamford" He introduced, "We were at Barts together".
Oh yes. The class bully.
"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, hello".
He briefly entertained the idea of shoving a pen into the man's large neck.
"Yeah, I know, I got fat".
He caught his strange look, but thankfully mistook it for something else.
"No, no!"
Mike smiled, somewhat annoyed, but gestured towards a bench.
"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"
He tapped his leg, ruefully, "I got shot. Are you still at Barts, then?"
"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be" He replied wistfully, "God, I hate them. What about you? Just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"
"I can't afford London on an Army pension".
Not to mind the hassle of finding burying places.
"You couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know".
He would miss the ready supply of victims, he supposed.
"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..."
"Couldn't Harry help?"
He scoffed, "Yeah, like that's going to happen".
"I don't know, get a flat share or something?"
Someone to ask him why he was out at all hours?
"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?"
Not likely.
To his surprise, Mike laughed.
"What?"
He grinned.
"You're the second person to say that to me today".
Huh.
"Who was the first?"
D for Developments
To say he was shocked when he walked into that chemical lab and saw Mr Tall Dark and Homicide, was putting it mildly.
Sherlock Holmes.
An interesting name for an interesting person.
His person suit wasn't quiet up to scratch, standing out in all the ways that John blended in. But then again, whereas John was underestimated because of his averageness, Sherlock was underestimated because of his extremeness. No one expected the self-proclaimed sociopath to be a serial killer, precisely because it was incredibly likely that he was a serial killer.
John almost envied his eccentric disguise.
But it did lend itself to a lot of benefits when he eventually moved in with the man, because of course they were going to move into now, even if they had hated each other they knew each other's real names, and those secrets were far too important to simply let the other man go.
The body parts in the fridge, for example, were all obviously part of Sherlock's experiments, and not because John thought the eyes of his latest victim were simply too pretty to let go of just yet.
His odd hours and occasional disappearances were actually expected, given the taller man's strange habits and case-obsessed mind.
And thanks to those cases, John lived quite peacefully right under the very nose of Scotland Yard, integrating himself in such a way as to never be suspected of a single damn thing.
Introducing him to Sherlock just saved Mike a rather quick, if not painless, death.
"But you're not his friend" Donavon said, "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"
"I'm... I'm nobody. I just met him" He quickly lied.
"Ok, bit of advice, then. Stay away from that guy".
He felt his heart race pick up.
"Why?"
He wouldn't get away with killing an officer at a crime scene, after all.
"You know why he's here?"
But if she knew something...
"He's not paid or anything".
Maybe he could lure her further down the street, away from prying eyes.
"He likes it. He gets off on it".
But maybe she doesn't know anything.
"The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what?"
Or maybe she does.
"One day just showing up won't be enough" Donavon finished, "One day we'll be standing round a body, and he'll be the one that put it there".
And wasn't that just ironic?
E for Evidence
Anderson was being unpleasant, as usual.
"Oh, I volunteered".
Of course he did.
Sherlock turned pleading eyes to him, and John gave him a withering look.
No, Sherlock, you're not allowed to murder Anderson.
He pouted.
Why not?
John raised a solitary eyebrow, ignoring Lestrade's confused looks.
Because you'd be the first suspect, idiot!
"Are these human eyes?"
"Put those back!"
Later, as they both sat in front of the fire, Sherlock proclaiming his boredom every few minutes while John tried to read the newspaper, he decided to bring it up.
"Should we talk about our... shared interest?"
Sherlock frowned.
"Our what?"
"Shared interest. Our- Our mutual hobby".
He stared at him blankly.
"Oh for- The extracurricular activities that we both occasionally partake in despite the possibility of being found!"
"Oh" He realised, "You mean murder?"
John threw his hands in the air. "What the hell is the point of trying to be subtle, Sherlock, when you just go ahead and talk like that?!"
"Well, I can only assume-"
"That was rhetorical!" He snapped, "I thought Mycroft had this place bugged?"
There was no response.
He glanced over at him.
The detective stared back.
They both blinked.
"... Was that not-"
"No that was not rhetorical!"
"Well sometimes it's hard to tell with you!"
Ironically, that was probably the closest to a compliment he was ever going to get from the man.
"Sherlock, does Mycroft have this flat bugged, yes or no?"
"Yes. Obviously".
"Then you can't just go around talking about- about our common interest in case he-"
"He knows".
"... I'm sorry, what?"
"Mycroft. Murder. He knows".
"... Mycroft knows?"
"Yes".
"... That you kill people".
"Yes".
"... And he just lets you?!"
"Oh please, as if he could try and stop me" He rolled his eyes, "I'm sure it doesn't surprise you, John, that our government has enemies. Some of these, the public know about, others… Well. Let's just say some enemies need to be dealt with quickly and silently".
He stared at him in disbelief, "... Your own brother, Mycroft Holmes, the British government itself… hires you as an assassin?!"
"Contract killer, if you will".
How the hell did this become his life?
R for Revenge
Mycroft, surprisingly, didn't bring it up with John, despite knowing now that he shared his little brother's interests. There was probably something about plausible deniability in there somewhere, but he didn't much care for the law. Obviously.
He panicked, briefly, when the detectives found the pink case in their flat, and worried that the offhand remark of "find the suitcase, find the killer" would be taken more seriously.
But apparently, John was too boring and Sherlock was too eccentric for either of them to have killed her, and so the case moves on.
Sherlock solves it, of course, just as he solves every case thrown their way, and John briefly wonders what will happen when one day it's their own murders that they're looking at.
They track the phone, Sherlock disappears in a cab, and he realises too late that the entire thing was a set up.
So, he does what he does best.
Grabs his gun and kills someone.
Afterwards, he can see Sherlock talking to Lestrade, and their eyes meet. He can pinpoint the exact moment that the genius realises the truth, and then immediately backtracks to the officer to throw him off the scent.
"Good shot".
"Yes. Yes, must have been" He replied, almost breathless, "Through that window".
"Well, you'd know".
Sherlock stared at him.
"... Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case".
John grinned, and they began to walk back.
"He wasn't a very nice man".
"No. No, he wasn't, really, was he? Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie".
"That's true, he was a bad cabbie" Sherlock agreed, "You should have seen the route he took us to get here".
"Stop! We can't giggle, it's a crime scene. Stop it!"
Sherlock bumped shoulders with him and he suddenly realised that he'd just taken a life for this man.
John had never killed for someone else before that night.
But he wasn't going to stop now.