Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Late in the month, I know, but here I am. I managed to kick my Muse hard enough to avoid pitchforks this time. XD
John blinked. Was that.. was that their therapist? Never mind that. The carving knife in his hand left no doubt about what his aim was. John rolled off the bed, while Sherlock slipped out on the other side. Neither failure to catch his intended victims unaware, nor the fact that they were two against one – one being a former soldier and another a police officer, as far as the man knew – made their murderer flee. John would wonder if he should be impressed or insulted by such nerve...once the man had been apprehended.
Which would be soon, but damn. The age-old quip about shrinks all being crazy? It had to be true. Despite John pointing the gun at him, their killer didn't drop his blade and raise his hands. Not even when John ordered him, in case the man didn't notice the weapon in the low light.
Instead, he lunged low and sideways. As if Sherlock would be an easy target, even unarmed himself. John's gun followed the killer, but unless the detective was hurt, he wouldn't shoot. He was pretty sure Greg knew, and Mycroft would disappear the evidence, but best to avoid leaving bullets that forensics would match with the one in their first case anyway.
Seconds later, a pained yell and a clang made him smile. The knife was on the floor, and the murderer held his wrist, staring incredulously at it. That was what happened when the man you loved was expert in so many martial arts that he gave a name to his own personal mix.
"Are you ready to behave, now?" John turned on the light. "I'd like to take a look at that, but I'll tie you up first, if you insist."
"It's not fair!" the murderer whined.
"That's it. Help me out, love, will you? The sheet will do."
That sent their prisoner in a sudden fit of rage. Still, restraining him was easy...and if John took advantage of the hurt he wanted to check, well. In love and in war. Between the two of them, the man was tied up and laying on their bed like a netted fish.
"Well, it's broken," the doctor announced after a rapid exam. "I could reset it, but I'd rather he'd had an X-ray first. No sense doing things blind unless there's no other choice. Are we bringing him, or do you want to call the police and leave things to them?" For the moment, he called the reception and asked for an ice pack.
"We'll call the police...in a minute." Sherlock stared down at their prisoner. "How did you hide it?"
"Hide what?" The man groaned.
"Your responsibility. Requesting my help isn't odd, not the first criminal who thought they could fool me...but it's the first time I've spent a considerable time with a murderer, and missed it." The sleuth frowned.
"You too." The murderer snarled. "Nobody ever sees the difference. Except once. Once someone saw it...and found me wanting. Well, I'm proving her wrong."
"Are you saying you're not doctor Reese?"
"I'm Alan. The stupid twin."
An assiduous ( nosy) maid knocked, requesting all of John's diplomacy and firmness to keep her outside. If not for that, he would have snorted as he caught a glimpse of the grimace Sherlock made, as if the declaration offended him the way an especially mangled piece of music sometimes did. Aesthetic distaste at its finest.
Thankfully, Alan didn't seem to notice, and continued his rant. "I would have said the lucky twin, before, you know? Because Tom might be the one who could dissect how relationships ought to work, but he's always been too busy for one. Hilarious, uh? Why would anyone go to him? Why did you?"
"To catch a murderer, obviously, but go on," the detective snapped.
Door finally shut, with the maid still on the other side, John nodded towards his partner, arms opening and head shaking in a wordless, "Did you expect me to let him go alone?" He walked over to his patient and applied the cold compress, instructing him to keep it there.
"Thanks, I guess. Well, anyway, I was the one who actually landed a wife, and Lilian hung the sun every morning for me...at first. But after a while, she started grumbling – always about money, and why couldn't I be more like Tom on this or that..but it was obvious that she didn't want me to study Jung or whatever. She wanted me to find a better career, and she'd pick at every bloody detail she could."
"So your wife was an idiot. She married a cook. Unless she hoped you had enough talent to get a few stars, she should have known that money wouldn't flow the same as for the twin with a medical degree."
If he wasn't bound already, their prisoner would have raised trouble again. John glared quickly at Sherlock. Not that he disagreed with the assessment, but there was no need to say it aloud.
Instead, Alan only struggled for a minute, before sagging back and continuing. "Well, we went to Tom. For one, it was his fucking job. For another, I thought that maybe if Lilian saw him as a client she would have stopped looking at his Rolex and remembered why she'd picked me in the first place. He's my twin. He was supposed to help me!"
"Did he fail, then?" John asked. He'd not often found a murderer pathetic...but this one was getting closer with every word.
"To fail, he would have had to try." Alan's voice turned into a bitter hiss. "No, he only pretended to, but from the start he suggested – privately and in session – that we split up. He kept bringing it up to me, despite my telling him that I wanted things to work, but nope. And who was abandoned by his wife in a month? You get one guess."
"I never guess, and it's painfully obvious that you were," Sherlock huffed. "So you thought that if you could ruin your twin's career and have him end up as poor or poorer than you, your ex-wife would...what? See the error of her ways and come back? Punishing your brother for failing on your case made it even more satisfying, naturally. I have to object to your self-description, though. You aren't the stupid twin. That would imply that your brother isn't an imbecile himself."
"He isn't. A bastard, sure. Cruel, even. But not that." Alan glared.
Usually John left antagonising the murderers to Sherlock, if only because his partner's expertise was much greater. But this time, he couldn't help himself. "He can't be that smart if he didn't get across that you deserved better. I'm not a couples therapist, but if Harry had the same troubles, I'd advise her to drop her wife too. Not that my sister needs any help in relationship wrecking."
The man blinked. How many deaths would have been spared if Reese had actually worked with his brother, instead of cutting out the reasoning part in an effort to hasten the results?
"That's not why your twin is incredibly dim, or not only, anyway. He consulted me because he had no idea who might want to wreck his career. Or so he said, at least. How could he not have figured out the truth? Even the dullest policeman would have found some proof of your crimes, once set on the right trail. This case isn't even a two."
"Well, maybe he didn't expect me to destroy him."
"That's exactly what makes him stupid. Or at least, an abysmal therapist. Your actions weren't just criminal, they were wasteful – you could have sat it out, and your brother would have ruined his own career, given enough time," the sleuth replied. "John, call...well, whoever will get us back home the soonest."
The doctor complied. If they were lucky, someone in the police would be a fan of the blog. That always sped things up.
A young officer arrived minutes later. His eyes were drooping, despite the large cup of coffee he carried, and John empathised with him, all too used to long nights in his various careers. The scene, though, made the man goggle almost cartoonishly, so the doctor thought it prudent to point out the knife still lying on the floor. Sherlock's bored attitude wasn't the reaction the sergeant expected from the victim of an attempted murder, and the last thing they needed was a misunderstanding.
Their murderer was all too happy with a new audience for his tale of woe. Their keeping their own side of the story short was actually appreciated. Once having been given the therapist's number for the necessary verification, the policeman left, with a less haphazardly bound Alan Reese in tow.
"Apologies. I wouldn't have dragged you here if I had known how disappointing the case would be," the consulting detective said, sitting on the ruined bed.
"I've seen worse." No matter how far they'd come, 'I loved the chance to pretend to be your lover' was not the best answer. Tomorrow they would go back to normal, after all. Or maybe right now?
A.N. (again) Sorry for the lack of Johnlock...but with the case out of the way, next chapters (at least 2, possibly more) will be all johnlocky. I couldn't resist doing this. The full title of this story was always, in my brain, "It's never twins...except when it is."