Chapter 23

"Ow!" little Johnny cried out.

"You little—!" Hamish swore at the little boy, calling him a foul name, as he backhanded him again. As Johnny raised both arms to protect his now-bruised face, Hamish then grabbed Johnny by his chest and hurled him against the wall. "I'm going to beat the living h_ out of you! You little s_!"

Johnny shot up in his bed, panting, terrified. He spent the next few moments regulating his breathing: three seconds in, three seconds out, in an effort to calm himself. After a moment, he flopped backwards on his bed, only to start fidgeting. Try as he did, it was impossible to relax.

It's no use, he thought dully. I won't be able to go back to sleep now. I may as well go downstairs and make some tea. I'm much obliged to Mycroft for having my RAMC mug packed with my other things when they were brought here.

Moving his legs over the side of the bed, John stood up, only to wince when a sharp pain shot through his right calf, below the knee. He swore. Just what I needed—imaginary pain! Cursing again, he put on his dressing gown and robe and dug his old cane out of the wardrobe. After checking on Rosie in her cot to make sure he hadn't woken her up, he slowly went down the steps, leaning on his cane.

Minutes later, as John was in the process of making himself a cup of tea in the kitchen, Sherlock entered the room, wearing one of his silk dressing gowns. "Did I wake you, Sherlock? I apologize," John said, as he dumped a tea bag into his cup and poured some boiling hot water into it. Then he poured a second cup for Sherlock.

"I was already awake," Sherlock said, as he leaned against the fridge door. Seeing a piece of wrapping on the kitchen floor, he bent over to pick it up.

As John watched his friend wincing as he bent over, the guilt he had been grappling with ever since the painful events in that hospital morgue, when he had assaulted Sherlock, flooded his heart once again. I'm the one who caused the pain he still lives with. It's my fault it still hurts him to bent over. Biting his lower lip, he turned towards the electric kettle. I'm not at all sure I deserve for them to save me from these killers! Not after what I did to Sherlock. He sighed. He had done his best since then to make things up to Sherlock, but would it ever be enough?

After Sherlock had straightened his back, John turned back to face him. Sherlock looked at John, and then at the cane leaning against the counter. "You've had a nightmare. And your limp is back."

"No s_, Sherlock," John said, gritting his teeth. Turning his attention back to the teapot, he waited for the tea to finish steeping and then poured some into his RAMC mug. He nodded toward the teapot. "Tea?" Without waiting for a reply, he grasped the handle of his cane and hobbled towards the cabinet where Sherlock kept his cups and mugs; opening the cabinet door, he took out one of the cups and carried it back to the spot where he'd been making his own tea. Upon setting the cup on the counter, John dumped a tea bag into Sherlock's cup and poured some boiling hot water into it. At least my hand's not shaking. Yet!

Sherlock picked up his tea, and John picked up his. Leaning on his cane once more, he followed Sherlock into the lounge.

"You know something's going to have to be done, John," Sherlock told him. "These recent events, these memories, they're all taking their toll on you. That you're having to use the cane again is proof of that."

"True, but I can't exactly leave my flat to go see a therapist just now, can I?" John snapped, and then took a sip of his tea.

"No, but I can ask Dr. A. to start coming here," Sherlock pointed out. "If you want me to."

John leaned back in his chair to think about what Sherlock had just said. He also started thinking about his daughter. I would be foolish to refuse help at this point, he thought. If something's not done, and soon, this is going to bring back my PTSD with a vengeance. I don't like to think what that's going to do to Rosie, if that happens. Guess Sherlock's right.

Out loud, he said, "Right now, my main priority is staying alive, but you're right. I'm definitely going to need help dealing with all this. I'm clearly not doing very well on my own." He took another sip of his steaming tea. "Not successfully, at any rate."

"Keeping you and your family alive is my main priority, too, but I intend to do everything I can to prevent your PTSD from coming back," Sherlock said. "As soon as I can, I'll text Dr. A. and ask him to call you."

John nodded. "Thanks." He took yet another sip of his tea.

"Care to share with me what you were dreaming about?" Sherlock asked, as he took a sip of his own tea.

"Only my dad being his usual awful self." John's lip curled. "And I'm very much afraid it was a real event, not something my brain made up." He set his mug on the side table. "You think I should write it down?"

"I'm fairly sure Dr. A. would. He always makes me do so." Sherlock held his own cup in both hands and looked at John. With a sigh, the former army doctor rose to his feet, took hold of his cane, hobbled towards the desk, and upon sitting down, wrote down what he had dreamed about. When he was finished, he leaned back in his chair and sighed.

"Well, I'm going back to bed." He looked at Sherlock. "Thanks."

Sherlock raised a hand, and John, leaning on the cane, limped up the stairs to his bedroom. Setting down his teacup, Sherlock stood up and strode toward the desk. Picking up the notebook, he read what John had written about his dream.

The next morning, after Siger and Mellie had arrived, Lestrade arrived to pick Sherlock up. "Let's hope we can solve this case sooner rather than later, Lestrade," Sherlock told him. "What's happening is really taking its toll on John. He had another nightmare last night—about his father—and his limp has returned. And then, when he woke up this morning, he had a flashback—this time, about his father, not the war." He shook his head. "Mummy and I had to work really hard to bring him out of it."

"We sure did," Mellie said, her voice sorrowful. Sherlock picked up the notebook and closed it, making a mental note to show it to Dr. A.

"If something isn't done, I fear this is only the beginning," he added. "John has a number of characteristic indicators of stress, all of which are beginning to make themselves known."

"I'm afraid you're right." Lestrade shook his head. "Where's John now?"

"Upstairs, resting," Siger said. "He was feeling pretty out of it when he came out of his flashback, so on our recommendation, he returned to his room to take a nap. We're looking after Rosie until he comes back down." He gazed down at the baby girl, who was gnawing on a plastic ring. Lestrade gave her a fond smile, and then turned back to Sherlock.

"Let's go," Lestrade said. "Donovan and the others are waiting for us at Scotland Yard." Sherlock nodded and, after saying good-bye to his parents, left with Greg.

Upon their arrival at Scotland Yard, the two men spent a few minutes reviewing what they had learned, so far. Finally, Sherlock started impatiently tapping his fingers on his chair rests. "We'd better get started, Lestrade," he said. "We need to begin by going to Chelmsford."

Lestrade nodded. "I agree, but first, I need to pull up the buyer of the Watsons' childhood home." He opened his laptop and punched some keyboard buttons as Sherlock watched; a moment later, the information they were looking for came up via the phone company records. Greg frowned. "Something's wrong, Sherlock. I was told that George Brown bought their home, but these records have somebody else's name listed instead. I'm going to have to have a look at the property/tax records to find out who the current owner is. If we're going to search for clues at their childhood home, we need the names of the current owners." He grimaced. "The correct owners."

"Let's get Donovan, Camden, and SCO-19 Officer Jacob Smith, then, and I'll ring Harry Watson to bring her up to date. John's already given me the address; I asked him before you arrived." Sherlock held up a slip of paper containing the address and handed it to Lestrade. After gathering some evidence bags to take to the scene, the D.I. removed his phone from his pocket and punched in Harry's phone number. Shortly, she answered.

"How's your investigation coming along?" she asked.

"We're making progress," Lestrade assured her. "At the moment, we're in the process of building a case that'll hopefully stand up in court. We don't yet know where to find Gruner and his accomplice, but we're keeping an eye out for any leads that may lead us to them."

"I just hope you can find them soon." Harry paused. "Your brother told me Mr. Gruner is trying to kill my little brother." She swallowed hard. "And me."

Sherlock nodded, looking sober. Leaning toward Greg's phone, he said, "That's right, and quite possibly your niece and your cousin, as well. That's why my brother had you taken to a safehouse and had John and Watson taken to Baker Street. It would not be safe for either of you to remain at your current homes, or to go to your places of work. Not while Mr. Gruner and his accomplice are at large." He paused and glanced at Lestrade and the others. "We need to visit your childhood home, Harry, so we can look for data. Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan, P.C. Camden, SCO-19 Officer Smith, and I are all going to Chelmsford to visit your old neighbourhood and see if we can find any clues there that will lead us to your would-be killer."

"I wish you luck there," Harry added, "but you don't really need to look for any of our parents' possessions at our old house. Didn't Johnny tell you that the new owners collected everything still in the bungalow when they moved in, and gave me the chance to come by and pick it all up?"

Greg nodded. "As a matter of fact, he did, and I'm glad you brought that up, Miss Watson, because with your permission, Sherlock and I should like to go through it. Did you ever sort it all out after you brought it to your current house?"

A pause. "'Fraid not. I just left it all packed once I brought it all home. Since I had already brought all of my own things with me, all of what I brought from the bungalow after it was sold was Mum and Dad's, and I wasn't really interested in looking through their stuff. Especially Dad's." She paused again. "It's all upstairs in the attic, still in boxes. You're welcome to go through it, if you'd like. I'll tell you what. Why don't you come to the safehouse, and I'll loan you my house key? Guess it's just as well I've got to stay here; I'm afraid I won't be much help to you in identifying what's what."

The detective inspector smiled. "That's quite all right, Miss Watson. If I do need your help identifying anything I find, I'll bring it over. We're on our way."

They went to the safehouse where Harry was staying, and she gave them her house key. "I'll return it as soon as we're finished there, Miss Watson," the D.I. promised.

Harry nodded. "Thanks. Do you need the address?"

"Thanks, but your brother's already given it to Sherlock." Greg looked at her seriously. "If we do find any evidence in those boxes that will incriminate Gruner, we'll need to take it with us."

Harry nodded. "Sure. I've got no use for any of that junk anyway, so you can take whatever will help. I live in a one-story house in Camden, and the stairs to the attic is at the far end of the hall."

Leaving the safehouse, Lestrade, Sherlock, and the others went to Harry's house in Camden, the same area where her jewellery shop was. Lestrade unlocked the door, and he and the others entered the lounge. They strode down the hall towards the stairs leading up to the attic; upon entering it, they found several dusty cardboard boxes standing stacked against the opposite wall. Taped to each box was the label, 'PAPERS,' 'BOOKS,' 'HOUSEHOLD ITEMS,' etc. Lestrade immediately took his phone out of his pocket and took some pictures of the boxes.

After Lestrade handed out latex gloves to each of the others and put a pair on his own hands, the five of them got started. Each team member searched through one of the boxes; before they started doing so, the DI first took a picture of each box's contents. "When you're done going through each box, put its contents back in it for the forensic team," he said. "They'll have to take pictures, too, when they go through these boxes."

Suddenly, as Sherlock was searching through the boxes Lestrade had pushed toward him, his hand landed on what felt like an envelope down at the bottom of a box that contained old paperwork. He picked up the envelope and examined it for a long moment. It was yellowish white, which indicated that it was quite old. The envelope had no address or sender's name, only the now-faded name of John's late father, Hamish Watson. Sherlock opened it and removed a folded, equally aged sheet of paper. Noticing what he was doing, the others stopped to watch. Unfolding it, Sherlock approached the entrance and held it up to the sunlight to read the message, which had also faded. Fortunately, it was still readable.

'You don't want children. I can help you with that, Hamish,'* the letter read. 'I can dispose of them for you. Just send little Johnny to my house, and I'll see to it that he never comes back. Later on, we'll decide when you shall send Harriet over. Since you'll need an excuse for sending Johnny to my house to see me, why don't you come by tomorrow, and I'll loan you something? I'll let you decide what you want to borrow. Then you can send Johnny to bring it back when you're finished with it. I'll be waiting for him.

'Reuben'

Sherlock shook his head. John's father was plotting to have his own son and daughter murdered! He shook his head.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice cut into his thoughts.

Without a word, his lips pressed into a thin line, Sherlock handed the faded note to the detective inspector, who accepted it. While Sherlock looked on, and Donovan, Camden, and Smith looked over the D.I.'s shoulder, Lestrade silently read the now-faded handwriting on the yellowing sheet of paper. A hard expression crept over his face, and he pressed his own lips into an equally thin line, as he scanned the text.

"Since John's father is dead, he can't be prosecuted for what he tried to do to his children," Lestrade finally said, coldly. "But if he were still alive, it would be my pleasure to see that he, as well as Gruner, faced justice."

"Me, too," Donovan added, her voice equally cold, and Smith and Camden, agreed, scowls on their faces.

Lestrade inserted the note into one of the evidence bags and handed the bag to Sherlock. "Since you'll want to examine the note carefully, I will let you keep it for now, but I'm counting on you to return it to me when you've finished with it, Sherlock. It's evidence against Gruner that will stand up in court."

Sherlock nodded agreement. "Yes, it is. I'll text you when I'm done."

Lestrade inclined his head. "All right." He scanned the others' faces, including Sherlock's. "In the meantime, let's continue the search, and when we go downstairs, let's not say anything to Harry about what we've found. Not yet. I should prefer to spare her, if at all possible. We've still got to go to Chelmsford when we're finished here."

"She'll know, eventually, and so will John," Donovan told him soberly.

"I'm afraid you're right." Lestrade sighed. "But let's hold off on that, if we can." The others nodded agreement and went back to work. However, they found nothing else of any interest, so they repacked them all in their original boxes, stacked the boxes back against the wall, and returned to the lounge. Leaving the house, they returned to the safehouse where Harry was staying, to give her back her house key.

"Thank you, Miss Watson," Lestrade said, smiling, as soon as she had slipped her key back on her keychain. "You've been most helpful."

"Did you find anything?" Harry asked.

Greg nodded. "Possibly, but we have a ways to go, before we're sure what it means. Our next stop is in Chelmsford, to see if we can find anything there."

"Well, good luck." Harry bit her lower lip. "And thanks."

"You're welcome." Greg gave her a comforting smile, and he and the others left.

Less than two hours later, they arrived in Chelmsford and drove towards the working-class neighbourhood where John and Harry had grown up. "From what Mycroft has told me, Gruner trained to become an accountant, after his attempt to kill the entire Watson family when John was seven," Sherlock said, as they turned onto the street where John and Harry had lived as children. "He left that neighbourhood after he finished his training and moved to an area that was more upscale. He still owns that house he lived in during John's childhood, though. He never sold it."

P.C. Camden shook his head. "Makes me wonder why he decided to become a soldier and a sniper afterward, if he was working as an accountant."

"He probably got into some kind of legal trouble at his accounting firm, and joined the military to escape arrest," Sherlock said. "It used to be an easy way for people to disappear."

Pulling up into Gruner's old driveway, Lestrade turned off the ignition and removed a piece of paper from his pocket. "Well, let's go search this place. I already have a search warrant."

The five of them got out of the car and entered the house. Inside, they split up to search different rooms. To their disappointment, they found nothing.

"Well, all that remains is to search the outside," Lestrade said, when they got back together to report their findings—or their lack of them. "When we go outside, among other things, let's see if there's a crawl space underneath the house."

The five of them left through the back door and turned their attention to the bottom of the house. Kneeling, Sherlock noticed that down at the bottom of the back wall, there was a set of bricks that had no mortar in between. "Well, well," he said. Lestrade approached and leaned over his shoulder. Before he could say anything, Sherlock was already knocking the bricks out of the way, revealing a sliding door that was shut.

Getting down on his hands and knees, Sherlock once again put on his latex gloves and slid the door open. He smirked. Leaning back, he gestured towards Greg. "Take a look."

Squatting down next to Sherlock, Lestrade furrowed his brow. Just behind the sliding door was a small concrete room beneath the door; inside that pit was a small canvas bag. Reaching inside, the D.I. drew the bag out and, turning around so that the others could see what he was doing, opened it. Inside were several ropes, a collection of large scarves and strips of cloth, and a couple of sharp knives. Then Sherlock got down on his stomach and peered intently into the crawl space. "Lestrade, do you have a torch?" he asked. Taking one out of his suit pocket, Lestrade handed him one.

Sherlock turned on the torch and pointed it inside. He shook his head. "Take a look." He crawled backwards and, handing the torch to Greg, got up on his knees. Getting down on his own stomach, Lestrade pointed the torch into the crawl space as he peered inside.

When he drew back and got back up on his knees, he looked grim. "We're definitely going to have to notify the local police," he said. "They will have to send out forensic experts to identify the remains."

Inside the crawl space were several sets of what appeared to be human remains.

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*In "A Long Walk Down a Dusty Road," sgam76 has named John's mother and father Hamish and Jean Watson, the same names that are on John's birth certificate, and so I have given them the same names.

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