Hi readers! Welcome to chapter 7 of False Names. I really hope there aren't any stupid formatting issues on this chapter, but it loves to mess with me. Hope you like this chapter.
Wow, she's actually making some canon changes rather than just writing down the whole first episode. *slow clap to me*.
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John was still limping his way down the main road fifteen minutes later. By now, pain was slicing through John's leg like a razor blade. His hair and clothing had a thin layer of tiny water droplets from the fine rain and he wasn't sure he'd have enough money for a taxi. He just had to hope his twenty quid would be enough. How thoughtful of Sherlock to make sure I had a way home, he thought.
A ringing sound came from the near by telephone box. It was like the sound was following him. The past three phones he walked past were all calling for attention. Who rang telephone boxes anyway? He walked on, keeping his eye out for a cab.
John had just walked in line with another phone when it started to ring. He sighed and went to answer it. He needed to take his anger out on someone, so at least he might be able to tell the idiot to stop ringing.
He opened the door (which had at least two broken glass panels) and stepped inside. There was a leaflet for pizza on the floor and there were various graffiti symbols on the wall, all in the same vibrant yellow. He picked up the scratched hand set and said:
"Is it you that's been ringing all the bloody phones in London?"
"Hello Dr John Watson." He froze. He clenched his fists, gripping his walking stick so hard his knuckles went white.
"Who the fu-" The voice, rather posh and commanding, cut him off.
"There is a camera on the side of the building on your left, do you see it?"
John noded before realising the voice couldn't see him. "Yes." A CCTV camera pointing at the phone box. As he watched, it turned away to face the bare brick of the building it was attached to. John clenched his jaw. What the hell was happening?
"There is a second camera," the voice continued, "On the building straight ahead." John turned to face the next camera and saw it turn away from him moments later.
"And finally, there is a camera on your right." This camera was also pointing in the opposite direction to John.
"You will now see a black car pulling up in front of you. Get in the car, Dr Watson." John certainly knew better than to refuse. Any man capable of all this was able to use force to get into that car. He would much rather go into battle on his own terms.
He exited the phone box an walked over to the vehicle stopped at the curb. Blacked out windows gave him little insite on what was the other side of the glass. He checked the steadiness of his hands before reaching out for the door handle. There was no shake at all. John Watson was used to much worse than this.
The interior of the car was as dark as the outside, leather seats and plush carpets lined the surfaces. On the opposite side of the seats sat a young woman with long, dark brown hair and a slightly irritated expression. She was looking at her phone and did not stop typing when John managed to ease himself onto the back seats.
He slammed the door shut and a few seconds later they were off. John coughed to try and get the womans attention, but failed.
"Hi," he said, louder than necessary. She finally looked up, but certainly didn't look happy about it.
"Hi," she replied, her voice loaded with sarcasm.
"What's your name then," he asked, eager to break the tense silence.
"Um, Anthea." John didn't believe it, but went along with her chosen name.
"Well, "Anthea", can you tell me where we're going?"
"No."
They drove on in silence through a part of London John didn't know, Anthea still typing on her phone. John didn't press for more information. After another half an hour, they pulled up outside an abandoned warehouse in the middle of a trading estate. It looked not long empty as it was still in good upkeep despite the lack of crates and the general look of disuse.
The driver — a bulky man with salt and pepper hair — indicated for John to go in. He grabbed his walking stick and exited the car. It was still raining enough to make the air hazy. His hair had almost dried on the journey here (wherever here was) and now it was damp again. He moved it out of his face and closed the distance between the car and the warehouses.
He opened the heavy door and looked inside. It was lighter than he had expected, and much cleaner. There seemed to be no memory of dirty, sweaty men or fork lift trucks. In the very middle of the huge space stood a man. He was tall and well dressed in a pinstriped three piece suit. He was leaning on an old-fashioned umbrella and had brown-red hair that was receding. In front of him was a foldable, blue fabric chair. The man gestured to a foldable chair with his umbrella and spoke.
"Take a seat, John." It was the same voice he had heard in the phone box, cold and sharp and dangerous.
"You know," John said, trying not to let his fear transfer to his voice, "I've got a phone. Very clever and all that, but you could just phone me. On my phone."
"When one is avoiding the notice of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet, hence this place. The leg must be hurting you, sit down."
"I don't want to sit down," he replied almost instantly.
"You don't seem very afraid."
"You don't seem very frightening." The man smiled. John suspected it wasn't something he did very often, as his face seemed to stretch unwillingly into shape.
"The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the nicest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" He sprung the question suddenly as if trying to catch him off guard.
"I don't know him. Well barely. I met him yesterday." And yet he was already tangled up in this madman's life.
"Yes, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now your solving crimes together. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"
"Sherlock is surprisingly likeable," John said, lying through his teeth. Although he had persuaded him to move in to a flat after knowing him for just a few minutes, so maybe he was just manipulative.
"Really? I've never known anyone so willing to interact with Sherlock. Maybe he's special to you. Do you feel that sentiment bubbling deep down?"
"Who the hell are you?" John demanded, rage simmering at the surface. Strange really, that he was the one asking questions when he had practically been kidnapped.
"An interested party."
"Interested how? I'm guessing you're not his friend." Obviously, John thought. A friend could just pop round for tea.
"You've met him. How many friends do you reckon he has? I'm the closest thing Sherlock Holmes can have to a friend."
"And what's that?"
"An enemy."
"An enemy?"
"In his mind certainly," he said, looking bored. "He would probably say his arch enemy. He does love to be dramatic."
"Well thank god you're above all that," he said sarcastically. At the same time, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A single, short vibration. He went to fish it out of his jacket.
"I hope I'm not distracting you," the man commented. John ignored him. The text read:
Bakers Street. Come at once if convenient. SH
"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" The man said, slightly louder than he needed to be. His voice echoed a little through the tall warehouse ceiling. Another text came through.
If inconvenient come anyway. SH
"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business," John said, looking into the man's cold, grey, emotionless eyes.
"It could be my business."
"It really couldn't." A third text.
Could be dangerous. SH
"If you do move in to," he glanced quickly at a notepad, "221b Bakers Street, I would be happy to pay you a meaningful amount of money on a regular basis to... ease your way."
"Oh come on," John said. "Who are you really?"
This seemed to throw him. "What do you mean?"
"You, doing all that fancy stuff with the phones and the CCTV. You could easily get any information you want by just asking your minions. Why did you really get me here?"
He didn't respond immediately. Probably for dramatic effect, the bastard. Eventually, he spoke. "I wanted to meet you."
"Why would you want to meet me?"
"Because for a man with trust issues, you have trusted my brother very quickly."
"Sherlock's brother!" John exclaimed, looking closer at the man now. He didn't seem to bare any resemblance to Sherlock, not even something subtle like their jaw line or eye shape, though there was certainly plenty in common with the way they both acted. "You're doing all this to stalk your brother's new flatmate? Wow."
"You are important to my brother, and therefore worthy of my investigation." Sherlock's brother was slowly losing his composure.
"I can't be that important to him. I've only known him a few days."
"It may seem that way, but there is more to this situation than you think. I am sure things will become clear to you soon."
"What are you, a bloody fortune teller?"
"No, just someone trying to shield their little brother from harm as best he can." Neither of them spoke for a second. They simply started at each other as if looking for a weakness. "If you do change your mind about the money, ring me," The brother said. He fished a business card out of his pocket and handed it to John. On it was printed a phone number and nothing more. John snatched it away.
The two men maintained eye contact for a second before John turned and walked away as quickly as his leg would permit (which admittedly wasn't very fast). The funny thing was, he wasn't walking quickly because he was afraid, but because Sherlock said he needed him. His heightened pace meant he was soon facing the black car once more.
"Back to 221b Baker Street please," he requested as if he was talking to a cab driver rather than his abductor. "But could we stop of somewhere on the way?" He needed something from his old flat.
He thought of all the times he had opened the draw that contained his weapon. All the times he had picked it up since returning from Afghanistan. All the times he had passed his shaking fingers over the trigger and imagined pulling it one last time. Once or twice he had even raised the gun to his head, closed his eyes, said his mental goodbyes. Every time, images came to him of bullet wounds and stitches, of all the people that bled out in front of him, of all the people he couldn't save. Every time, he placed the gun back in the draw. He couldn't do it like that, not after all he had seen. All the people that had unwillingly died at the mercy of a gun. He could never do it like that.
And anyway, that's not what he wanted it for. Sherlock said it could be dangerous, and he wanted to be prepared.
That's the end! Hope you enjoyed. I know my updates should be getting more regular, but I'm a piece of trash and quarantine means staring at the ceiling for hours.