Are you deranged like me? Are you strange like me?
Hello once again, lovely readers! Soooo, I'm just now realizing I'm over half way done with this story. Whoa! I have a few other ideas for future projects up my sleeve, but none set in stone. I'm totally open to suggestions for what to do after this story's finished. But for now, please enjoy!
Sharkisha the 3rd – Thank you! Yup, there's no way Tony would forget walking in on Strange!
Celestial Glowhead – I'm glad you got to watch Infinity War! ^^ I love Spider-Man a lot; he's one of my favorite characters to write (probably because I can relate, lol). I really enjoyed the scenes between Iron Man and Doctor Strange, some of my favorite dialogue. Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter!
There was a knock on Ned's window and the teen jumped. He looked up from his Millennium Falcon model and over towards the window. Peter was stuck outside to the wall, mask on, looking in. Ned got to his feet and walked over, sliding the window open. "Sorry I didn't text you," Peter apologized.
"No problem, I just figured you got busy being a superhero and what not." Ned slid the window closed and Peter took off his mask. "I was watching the news; they said the guy leading the rally is dead. What happened?"
Peter sighed and sat down in the vacant chair at Ned's desk. "I ran into a mutant."
Ned perked up, quickly sitting on his bed across from Peter. "You did? Because of the rally, right? Did he kill the guy?"
Peter nodded. "The weird thing is I don't think he totally meant to." He saw the confused look on Ned's face and tried to explain. "I mean, he did it on purpose of course, but he seemed really confused afterwards. He gave me a note and I took it to Mr. Stark. Turns out he went missing a few months ago. The note said something about the Winter Solider, so it can't be good."
Ned hung onto Peter's every word. "You think you'll see more of this whole deal?"
Peter shrugged. "Hard to tell, but I wouldn't doubt it." He looked down at the Millennium Falcon model. "But for now, I need to know where you got that!" he said with a grin.
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Lestrade looked down at the body on the floor. His job being what it was the DI was used to seeing some things that the average populous would blanch at. He was also accustomed to cases sometimes hitting a little close to home – especially after getting Sherlock Holmes to work with. But the idea that Sherlock's best friend – one of Lestrade's friends as well might he add – was committing murders not of his own free will? That would never sit right with the detective. Ever.
It had been a month since Sherlock broke the news to Lestrade that John was under SIP's control in a very Winter Soldier-esk fashion. Since then, there had been nearly a death a week that seemed to lead back to him. He hated it. Lestrade hated being unable to do anything about the state of his friends. John was MIA and under a crazy organization's thumb and Sherlock was hardly in the best place because of it. Lestrade had tried again and again to step in, insisting the man care for himself, but the consultant wouldn't have it. There was only one thing on Sherlock's mind: John.
The familiar sound of quick footsteps and insults caused Lestrade to turn. Sherlock was already beside the body. "Evidence is identical, I presume?" the detective snapped quickly.
Lestrade nodded. "Yes. It was him." Sherlock stood, reaching his full height. Lestrade noticed an ever so slight sway, but said nothing. "We haven't done a lot of digging yet, but we can already tell he had connections to an anti-mutant organization. We don't know which one but we're looking into it."
Sherlock looked back and forth between the bullet holes in the window and the ones in the victim's body. "When you find out which organization he was connected to, tell me." Sherlock turned to leave but Lestrade stopped him.
"Let's get lunch, alright? Just chat. Go over some evidence from the last few cases."
Sherlock whipped back around. "I've already gone over every possible detail, Lestrade, there's nothing more to be discussed. We don't need to 'chat.'"
"You need to eat something, Sherlock. John wouldn't want—"
"John isn't here, Lestrade!" The crime scene went silent. "John's out there somewhere committing assassinations and we need to find him. I can't do that if I cloud my mind with useless chatter and useless food and sleep."
"I understand if you don't want to talk," the DI said patiently, "but food and sleep is not useless, it's what keeps you alive." Sherlock huffed and tried to walk away. Lestrade was not having it. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. "You'll be no help to John if you're dead on your feet. Just…take a break. Okay?"
Sherlock jerked out of Lestrade's grip and stormed out of the building.
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Having scouted the area earlier, John knew there was no good angle for sniping. Up close and personal it was then. The road was blocked, courtesy of a car John placed there not long ago, and the small, quiet road was still. John perked up at the sound of a car. He silently slipped behind a handful of nearby trees, waiting for the vehicle to approach.
The car slowed down, tires scraping against the asphalt. John listened as it came to a complete stop and there was the slamming of a door, then footsteps. John pulled his gun out, loading it. It was almost completely silent. Upon the final click his weapon made, the target turned around, scanning the trees. The footsteps got closer. "Hello?" the man called out cautiously. "I-Is this your car?"
In a single move John stepped out from the behind his hiding place and fired his weapon. The man crumpled to the ground without another sound. John walked up to the road, stepping over the man's body without a second thought. He made his way over to the car and yanked the back door clean off before beginning to search. The case wasn't hard to find, but he had to make sure it was the right one. John broke the lock combination off and opened the lid. Inside was an astounding amount of cash. Yes, this was it.
John closed the briefcase with a click and began walking towards his vehicle. He stopped cold when his eyes landed on the body pouring blood across the old snow.
"I was a soldier, I killed people."
"I thought you were a doctor."
"I had bad days!"
John blinked. He knew that voice. He looked around as if expecting to find someone. But there wasn't anyone. That's because it wasn't real. It wasn't real. John looked back down at the body, staring as the dead man continued to bleed.
"If you were dying – if you were being murdered – in your very last seconds, what would you say?"
The briefcase fell from John's slack hands right into the growing pool of blood.
"Please, God, let me live."
"Oh, use your imagination!"
"I don't have to."
He didn't have to. Because he'd nearly died before, hadn't he? While he was killing others. John's hands began to shake. Something was wrong, something was terribly wrong. But he didn't know what. There was something he was forgetting – something big.
The SIP assassin shook his head, trying to break himself free from these thoughts. What was going on? John looked down at the case, now covered in blood. He felt ill. Why? He was used to seeing stuff like this, why the sudden change? What was happening to him? John stumbled over to his car. He needed to go…somewhere. Where did he need to go? Only one place popped into his mind:
Brighton.
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Detective Ford was scratching his head at this one. He worked in such a small town, all he and his officers ever saw was the occasional break-in, but this? This was more than he'd learned to deal with. A man no one recognized (probably just passing through) shot right in the middle of the road with a blood-soaked brief case beside him. The once-warm blood had melted the bit of surrounding snow, creating a red slush around the body. Not a pleasant sight so soon after breakfast. Needless to say, Ford was very relieved when he got a phone call offering help.
His phone rang and he pulled it out, examining the caller ID. Well that was a name he hadn't seen in a while. He answered. "Detective Inspector Ford speaking."
"Ford, it's Lestrade from Scotland Yard."
"Lestrade!" the fellow DI greeted. "Man, it's been a while hasn't it? The Myerson case, right?"
"Yup, that's the one. Look, Ford, this is a little strange for me to request – I know your cases aren't in my jurisdiction, thus none of my business—"
Ford shook his head. "No, no, mate, seriously. After that mess you helped me out with during the Myerson case I'm willing to lend any kind of helping hand. What do you need?"
There was a pause as Lestrade registered the immediate and positive response. "Uh, are you at the crime scene on Tayola Street?"
Ford was taken aback. "Er, yeah. Does word really travel that fast?"
"Nope, I've just got some friends in high places." Ford was a bit confused, but thought it best not to question it. "Anyway, I was wondering if you'd let a friend of mine check out the scene."
"Yeah, of course! What's his name?"
"Sherlock Holmes. He's already on his way, should be there in about twenty minutes. Just as a heads up, he can be a little… How do I put this…problematic to deal with."
Ford chuckled. "Well, thank you for the warning. I'll give him full access to the scene."
"Thanks Ford. I owe you one. And as much as you may want to, try not to punch Sherlock."
Ford couldn't help but laugh, but Lestrade sounded dead serious. "Alright, will do. And no, you don't owe me one. Let's consider this even, yeah?"
"Alright. Thanks again."
"No problem."
Sherlock Holmes arrived right on schedule, twenty minutes later. The first thing Ford noticed was that this man was not dressed like a cop. Did Lestrade just ask him to let a civilian on the crime scene? But Ford owed the DI a lot of favors, so he said nothing. He watched as the man walked around the crime scene, examining the car, the body, and then the case. Sherlock opened the case to reveal an enormous sum of (now blood-stained) money. Ford frowned. "Why'd he have that?" he asked.
Sherlock closed the case then began to go through the victim's pockets. "Profits for a mutant hate-group."
Ford halted, taking a moment to register what the consulting detective had just said. "I'm sorry, what? Mutant hate-group?"
"Is that not what I said? Do keep up! God, you're worse than Lestrade," he mumbled. He found what he was looking for and pulled a business card out of the man's pocket.
"Are you a detective?" Ford couldn't help but ask.
"A consulting detective," Sherlock snapped, "the only one in the world." Sherlock got to his feet, examining the slowly melting footprints.
"Okay…so why did the killer not take the case?"
"He remembered," Sherlock said softly. "He began to break out, he began to remember."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"John was remembering, so he didn't complete the mission."
"Who? John? Is that who the killer is?"
Sherlock glared and pushed past the DI. If John could still break through SIP's work, there was still hope yet.
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Director Walton stared as the other SIP agents rushed around their asset, tying to wipe him. This was the first misstep since his assignment in Queens. Hatts walked up to her and Walton raised an eyebrow. "News?"
Hatts looked back over his shoulder at the mutant. "We're going to revise the drug," he said. "It's still working, but its effects aren't as strong as they used to be."
"You think he's developing a tolerance?"
Hatts paused. He hadn't thought of that. "It's possible. We aren't certain at this point what's causing all of this, but we're confident with a new drug he'll be better."
Walton smiled. "Good." She watched the scientists scurry about, hooking up sensors and IVs. "I'm leaving to see if Agent Marks has gotten anywhere with starting his base over in Cardiff, so I'll be gone for a while." Hatts nodded. "I trust you to make the right calls regarding the Recreation Program."
Hatts nodded once again. "Of course, ma'am."
The SIP director took her leave. "Then I leave Brighton in your capable hands, agent," she called behind her.