Hi readers! Welcome to Chapter 3 of False Names. In this chapter, John and Sherlock go to 221b for the first time and John starts to make some of his own deductions about Sherlock...
This Chapter has some minor swearing and cursing, but nothing that isn't in the show. As Sherlock is rated as a 12 (at least in the UK) I think this chapter is still a T, but just a warning in case you are sensitive to that sort of stuff. Hope you enjoy!
Flat share
John sat at his desk, staring at his laptop as it logged on. His therapist had recommended writing a blog about everything that happened to him. But what happened to him? His home screen flashed on and he went to click on the icon that took him straight to his blog page. It came up blank. He hadn't written a word. He would have started today, he really would, but right now he had other things on his mind.
Sherlock. How the hell did he know all that stuff? About the war, his therapist, and Harry. He hadn't told anyone about some of the things he said. He couldn't shake the mysterious man's face from his mind. The dark, longish curls that covered the top part of his ears and his pale complexion. The high forehead and sharp cheekbones. And his eyes. They were monolid with dark lashed, and the irises were blue-green, with gold flecks.
John shook his head as if trying to evict the image from his mind's eye. Why was he thinking about the colour of Sherlock's eyes, his hair, his cheekbones? That was easy, because of the name on the inside of his right wrist, not a navy blue colour like Mike's, but a dark tan, showing he had not yet touched his soul mate. Written there was the name William.
William. William. William. William. No matter how he said it, it didn't sound right on his tongue. Perhaps hewas destined to never meet his soul mate. Perhaps they were already dead. He would like to think he would know if anything had happened to them, but would be?
Sherlock, however, felt right. He couldn't explain it, but it did. As soon as he had seen him, it felt like he was the only person in the room. John remembered how he felt compelled to lend Sherlock his phone, and how the man had taken it and handed it back without even brushing fingers. Stop making it such a big deal thought John. It's only a text.Wait... The text. He took it out his pocket and clicked on the recently sent messages.
If brother owns green ladder arrest brother.
SH
What kind of situation caused someone to send a text like that?
He couldn't write his blog, so he opened Google and typed in two words. Sherlock Holmes. He hesitated before pressing enter. This felt like a violation ofSherlock's privacy, but then the other man didn't hesitate to reveal some of his most private secrets. He pressed enter. Up popped several suggestions of estate agents called Sherlock's Homes, before he came to a website named The Science Of Deduction. He clicked on it and found he was only mildly surprised at what he discovered.
The next day, John ordered a taxi for 18:45, and told him to go to 221b Bakers street. It wasn't that far to walk, but his leg forbid him to walk more than five minutes without bursts of pain shooting through his muscles. He remembered what Sherlock had said about it being psychosomatic, but then ignored it. He was pretty sure he knew his own body better than some random-weirdo-genius bloke who he just met.
The taxi ride took longer than expected (John had forgotten how every hour seemed to be rush hour in central London) but he eventually made it to221b. Waiting outside was an impatient Sherlock, wearing virtually the same as he had been yesterday with his coat and scarf, but today the scarf was black. John paid his fare and pushed himself out of the black cab.
"Mr Holmes," said John, holding out his hand for the man to shake. The other man kept his hands in his coat pockets, not even glancing down at his hand. Bit rude thought John, though he decided - for once - to keep his mouth shut.
"Please," the younger man said, "call me Sherlock. Shall we?" he added, gesturing to a glossy black door with a gold knocker and 221b written in gold lettering. Next door was a shabby looking sandwich shop named Speedy's.
"Yeah of course," John replied glancing up and down the street. The sandwich shop was the only shabby looking thing on the street. "This is a prime spot. Must be expensive." He said to Sherlock.
"The landlady, Mrs Hudson, is doing me a special deal. Owes me a favour. Her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida a couple of years back. I was able to help out." Sherlock went to walk up the front steps of 221b and knocked on the knocker.
"Sorry, you stopped her husband getting executed?"
"Oh no, I ensured it." said Sherlock with a sly smile.
Before John could inquire why the bloody hell this Mrs Hudson would want her husband executed, the door opened to reveal a woman in her early sixties with short, light brown hair and turquoise eye shadow.
"Sherlock," she said, greeting the man by pulling him into a hug that he did not return. It seemed Sherlock didn't much like human contact. Instead, the man stood with his arms stubbornly by his side and waited for the ordeal to be over. When she finally released him, he took a step back and gestured to the man behind him.
"Mrs Hudson, this is Dr John Watson."
"It's great to meet you John, come on in."
The hallway had floral wallpaper and a dark carpet, but the landlady and Sherlock headed straight upstairs. John sighed. His leg was aching, and he didn't know if he could keep going up and down these stairs. He supposed his leg would get better over time, but he just wished it would hurry up.
By the time he reached the top, Mrs Hudson was already in the flat and Sherlock was waiting at the top - an odd gesture, but one he appreciated. He gave him a nod before heading inside. The flat was small but cosy, and cluttered with junk. A fireplace was the centrepiece of the room and by the side of it was two armchairs, one a dark red and the other black, both with union jack pillows.
Bookshelves lined the alcoves beside the fireplace and was by far the neatest part of the flat. There was a table, but it was covered with papers and books in an unorganised heap. In fact, every available space was used. The wallpaper was black and cream patterned and the floor was wood. John glanced into the kitchen and saw the tables and countertops were crowded with science equipment. What kind of person had lived here before?
"Well this is nice, very nice indeed." John commented.
"Yes, I thought so, my thoughts exactly," Sherlock agreed. "As soon as I move the rest of my stuff in."
"-As soon as we move all this rubbish out."
They both spoke at the same time, and looked at each other sheepishly.
"Well... Um... Well we can..." Sherlock began
"This is all your stuff?" John asked.
"Yeah but we can... Straighten things up a bit."
"That a skull?" John said pointing to the ornament on the fireplace using his walking stick.
"A friend of mine. Well I say a friend..."
"What do you think then Dr Watson?" Interrupted Mrs Hudson. "There's another bedroom downstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."
John furrowed his brow and looked from Sherlock to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock was also looking at her, but with a different look. A look that said stop talking now.
"Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms..." John trailed off. He saw what she was getting at and sighed.
"Oh don't worry, there's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones." The last part of her sentence was hushed, as if Mrs Turner could hear what they were saying.
John and Sherlock's eyes met for a moment before he turned away. If he was right, he thought he saw Sherlock blush. Did Mrs Hudson know something? John collapsed into the red armchair on top of the union jack pillow and voiced one of the many questions on his mind.
"So I looked you up in the internet last night." That didn't come out as a question, but a statement.
"Anything interesting?" Sherlock said, turned round to sort through the papers on the table.
"I found your website. The Science of Deduction."
"What did you think?" He had finally turned around to face him. He wore an expression of anticipation, as if he knew what was coming. John was looking amused, as if he didn't quite believe what he had read.
"You said you could identify a software designer by their tie, and an airline pilot by their left thumb?"
"Yes. And I could read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."
"How?"
Before he could answer, Mrs Hudson came bustling in from the kitchen holding a newspaper.
"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? Thought that would be right up your street. Three exactly the same."
John had heard about these in the news. Three people had killed themselveswith the same poison, all in places they had no reason to be. Surely it wasn't a coincidence?
"No. Four. There's been a fourth. And it's different this time." Sherlock was looking out the window. There was a police car outside, blue and yellow lights flashing in the evening street lamp light. At that very moment, a man with silver-grey hair came running up the stairs wearing a smart shirt and trousers, slightly out of breath.
"Where?"
"Brixton, Lorestant Gardens."
"What's different. You wouldn't have come to me if it was the same."
"You know they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?"
"Who's on forensics?"
"Anderson."
"He won't work with me," He said casually, as if people refused to work with him often. Maybe they did.
"Don't worry, he won't be your assistant."
"I need an assistant." Sherlock muttered.
"Will you come." The man almost sounded like he was begging now.
"Not the police car, I'll be right behind."
"Thank you." the mystery man replied, as if he has expected that to go worse. He ran back down the stairs and a few seconds later he heard the door of a car slam. Meanwhile, John was looking between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, looking confused. The landlady, however, didn't look at all nervous. Did the police often come round asking for this mans help?
Sherlock was still staring out the window. The police car pulled away, and only once it was half way down the street did he do anything.
"Brilliant!" he shouted, jumping into the air as if he had just been offered a free holiday, not a suicide investigation. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food."
"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."
"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up." With that, he was gone, taking the stairs three at a time, leaving John even more in the dark.
"Look at him, dashing about," Mrs Hudson said, shaking her head. "My husband was just the same." What did she mean by that? "But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."
"Damn my leg!" John yelled, making his new landlady jump a mile. Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." John said tapping his walking stick on his lower calf.
"I understand, dear, I've got a hip."
"Cup of tea would be lovely, thanks." John exhaled.
"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper." She bustled back into the chaotic kitchen.
"And a couple of biscuits if you've got them."
"Not your housekeeper!" She called as the kettle flicked on.
John picked up the newspaper (The Daily Mail, not his preferred choice) Mrs Hudson have previously been holding and saw the headline:
"Don't commit suicide" says Detective Inspector
Staring back at him was the silver-haired man who had just burst into the flat.
"You're a doctor."
John looked up and saw Sherlock hovering in the doorway.
"In fact you're an army doctor."
"Yes." John said, pushing himself put if his chair using his stick. He really couldn't see where this was going.
"Any good?"
"Very," he replied. What is it with him and one word answers? "Very good."
"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths." Nice way to put it, Sherlock.
"Yes. Too many." John didn't like talking about his time in service.
"A bit of trouble too I bet."
"Yes, enough for a lifetime. Far too much." I see it every night, when I close my eyes.
"Want to see some more?"
"Oh God yes."
They both rushed down the stairs, even with John's leg, and stood by the door to put on their coats.
"I'll skip the tea thanks Mrs Hudson. I'm going out," called John up the stair.
"Both of you?" she yelled back, rushing down the steps as fast as her 'hip' would allow her.
"Possible suicides? Four of them?" Sherlock interrupted. "There's no point of sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He looked on the verge of jumping with excitement all over again.
He went to grab Mrs Hudson by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. It seemed the no-touching rule did not apply when he was this excited. This excited about suicide he reminded himself.
"Look at you, all excited, it's not decent," Mrs. Hudson said, pushing him away gently.
"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on."
Hope you enjoyed! (More Johnlock coming, I promise, but its kind of slow burn.)
Constructive criticism appreciated, please rate as I would really like to know what you think Xx