John looked down in satisfaction at the biogenic ligament, now in place in his patient's knee. He remembered when they used to have to harvest one of the patient's tendons for this repair. This was so much better.
The operating theatre door opened slightly, and a nurse wearing a surgical mask poked her head around the edge. "Doctor, there is an urgent message coming in for you."
It was highly unusual for anyone to interrupt a surgery this way. "What is it?"
"It is very short. Just 'Found him.'" The nurse was obviously mystified as to why this message was so urgent, but the man on the phone had been most insistent.
John gave a half chuckle at that, a surge of relief and excitement running through him at those two words. He was glad his face was mostly covered for the surgery, hiding his expression from his co-workers.
"Who is the message from?" John asked, wondering how Sherlock had handled this.
The nurse looked at the note. "The caller wouldn't give his name. He said you would know what this was pertaining to."
John nodded. "Thank you, nurse."
She nodded in acknowledgment and left.
"If you need to go, John, I can finish up here." Dr. Lee offered, her dark eyes giving him a concerned look.
He smiled at her, knowing she couldn't see it from behind his surgerical mask, but it would show in his eyes. "That would be great, Gina. Let's run through the tests and then I'll go."
John performed the Lachman, anterior drawer and pivot shift tests, and felt satisfied that the new ACL ligament was stabilizing the knee motions now. He stepped back, allowing Gina to move into place to close the incisions.
He sped through his normal post-op procedures, and was soon in his street clothes, leaving the hospital.
Where are you? -J
The reply text was quick. Sherlock gave a name of a tube station.
Wait for me. I'm on my way. -J
But he is so close. I don't want to miss catching him. -SH
John ran down the steps of the subway station, thankfully mostly empty this time of day.
WAIT. It could be dangerous. You wouldn't let me run after him alone. -J
The berk better be waiting for him. John hopped onto the train, knowing he would lose the connection once they were out of the station.
As he travelled, John grabbed a granola bar and bottle of water from his messenger bag. It had been a busy day, and he hadn't eaten since breakfast.
When he got to the station, he jumped out of the train, looking around for Sherlock. He wasn't around, so John swore to himself and ran up the steps.
I'm here. -J
If Sherlock had gone ahead on his own, John would kill him. With his bare hands. John waited anxiously for a reply, scanning the street for Sherlock.
NW corner. -SH
Relief spread through John when he looked that way, and saw Sherlock. He crossed the street, jogging to his side.
Sherlock's eyes were practically glowing with excitement. "He's three blocks away. If he's not home, we will need to find a place to wait for him."
John followed as Sherlock turned, walking fast down a side street. "You mean stake him out?"
"I have to get him. This is my last hope." Sherlock said over his shoulder, moving fast, his eyes still scanning the area.
It made sense. Sherlock had pushed things, hiding out for so long. If this didn't pan out, he would have to go to the police himself. Face their questions.
Sherlock stopped in front of a run-down building, checking his phone before putting it back into his pocket. He looked at John, seeing if he was ready.
Leaning in, John gave him a light kiss for luck. "Let's go." His heart was threatening to beat out of his rib cage, but he had never felt more alive. After searching and having so many dead ends, this could finally be an answer to something he had wondered about for weeks.
Who was this man, and why had he attacked John, of all people? Paolo's cousin, someone he had never met. It had never made sense to him.
They entered the apartment building, Sherlock surprisingly picking the lock with apparent ease. There was no one in the hallways, but sounds of people in their flats came through the doors as they passed. Muffled talking, music, regular sounds of life. Cooking smells occasionally. They walked quietly, eyes alert as they made their way to the third floor.
Sherlock stopped near a door, cocking his head to listen. John did as well, and their eyes met when they heard someone moving around inside the flat. John's breath caught when Sherlock knocked on the door. This was it.
It took a couple minutes, heart still thumping, before they heard the deadbolt being unlocked and the door opened. In the doorway stood a dark haired man around thirty, with a sturdy athletic build, around John's height.
It was the attacker. John knew it to his core within a heartbeat. It was confirmed when the man's eyes landed on John, narrowing with recognition. "What are you-"
Sherlock stepped forward aggressively, making the man step back out of reflex, and John followed him into the flat. Sherlock shut the door behind them, using his height to crowd the man. "We'll be asking the questions here, Matteo."
Matteo bristled at that, glaring right back at Sherlock, not intimidated at all. "What do you want?"
"Why did you attack my friend here, after Paolo's memorial service?"
Finally, the question that had plagued John for weeks. He clenched his hands, feeling ready to punch the man again if needed.
"How could you ask that? Don't you know what he did to Paolo?" Matteo gave John a look of pure hatred, pure disgust. "And you call yourself a doctor." He almost looked ready to spit in his face.
"What did he do, Matteo?" Sherlock asked, his voice firm and commanding. Demanding answers.
Matteo glared back at him. "Killed him. Said everything was safe, natural. Promised it wouldn't hurt him."
Sherlock grabbed his shoulder when Matteo seemed about to move away. "Paolo told you John was giving him drugs? A treatment?"
Twisting out of Sherlock's grasp, Matteo stepped back, straightening his shirt with a hard tug. "Paolo was worried he wasn't doing enough. That his play was suffering. And that damn chemist wasn't helping much, even though Paolo paid him a small fortune. His doctor said he would help him."
"Help him? Help him how?" Sherlock stepped into Matteo's space again, cornering him, almost sounding manic with his quick questions.
"Dad...?"
Time seemed to freeze as they all turned, seeing the young boy in pajamas standing with crutches in the hallway leading to the bedrooms. His hair was messy and his skin had an unhealthy pallor.
Matteo pushed past them with a huff, rushing to the boy. "Joe, you shouldn't be out of bed. Come on, let's go..."
"Are those bad men going to hurt you?" Joe asked, his eyes big as he looked up at his father.
Shaking his head, Matteo ushered the boy along. "Of course not. We are just talking. Sorry if we were too loud and woke you up."
The man disappeared into a bedroom, and they could hear him talking to his son, settling him down.
John sunk into the sofa, the surge of adrenaline easing now, making him feel tired. It was a good thing he had eaten something on the tube.
Sherlock paced around the room, obviously thinking hard as he looked around.
Matteo came back a few minutes later, his jaw firmly set. "Look, you two have to go. Now."
Sherlock whirled around, shaking his head. "Let's sit and talk this out. It will only take a few minutes, and then we will go."
Sighing, Matteo nodded and waved Sherlock to sit beside John, taking the chair opposite him.
"You son has been sick a long time."
It wasn't a question, but Matteo nodded, looking exhausted suddenly. "Yes. A few years now. A perfectly healthy kid. But it's been nothing but doctors since then."
"And Paolo was helping pay the bills?"
Matteo nodded. "I don't know what we'll do, now that he's gone." He looked away, blinking rapidly.
Despite everything, John felt his doctor persona taking over. "Why is he on crutches?"
"He is having knee problems." Matteo said, turning back to glare at John. "What, are you going to offer to help him? No thanks. I know what you did to Paolo, and there's no way you are coming near Joe, you incompetent quack."
The insults and total lack of respect were making the anger flare again in John.
"What did he do to Paolo? Please, tell me." Sherlock said, trying a reasonable tone, holding a hand out to keep John from talking. Ready to hold him back, if necessary.
Matteo ran his hand through his hair. "I don't exactly know. Paolo was visiting Joe, and we were complaining about how lousy his treatment had been. He was saying that his drugs weren't doing much anymore either. Said his doctor had some old natural technique he could try. Supposed to work great. No chemicals."
"Did he say anything else? When did he get the treatment?" Sherlock leaned forward.
Matteo shrugged. "I dunno. A few weeks before he died, I guess." He glared again at John. "Ask him. He'll know when."
John shook his head, glaring back. "I hadn't seen your cousin for a year. It wasn't me."
"Sure. Fucking deny it all you want, man, now that he's dead. Cover your tracks." Matteo scoffed.
"If you are so sure he killed Paolo, why haven't you told the police?" Sherlock asked.
John glared now at Sherlock. Did he want Matteo to point the finger his way, just to get off the hook himself?
Matteo got up. "What's the use? I've been dealing with the shit doctors at the hospital for years, registering complaints about their incompetence, and it's gone nowhere. Rich doctors have lawyers and never get punished for anything they do."
"So, you decided to punish John yourself? Beat him up?" Sherlock said, calmly.
Going to the door, Matteo opened it. "I'm not admitting anything. You two are probably wearing wires, trying to get me in trouble. I've talked enough. Get the fuck out."
Grabbing John's hand, Sherlock tugged him out of the flat.
"What the hell are you doing? We need to take him to the police!" John pulled against Sherlock's hand, trying to go back to the door.
"No, John. We don't need him now. He gave us all the answers." Sherlock let go of John's hand and started down the stairs, practically at a gallop.
Reluctantly, John followed him. "Answers? What answers? It was all the mad ranting of a clearly delusional man."
Once outside the building, Sherlock hailed a trishaw. He was looking up something in his phone as John climbed in beside him. He gave an address John didn't recognize to the driver.
"I just hope he is still in his office when we get there." Sherlock murmured, checking the time on his mobile.
"Who?!" John grabbed Sherlock's phone from him, needing answers. The screen was back on the lock screen.
Sherlock lowered his brows, glancing over at John. "You really didn't see it?"
John gave a huff, and looked out of the window, watching the passing scenery for a minute to cool down a little before he ended up strangling Sherlock out of pure frustration. "No."
"Joe had been having health problems for a while. Paolo was visiting them, and saw he was having issues with his knee. He mentioned that Matteo should take Joe to see his knee surgeon, the wonderful Dr. John Watson. And then later on, when they were talking about Paolo's performance enhancing treatments, he mentioned that his doctor was going try some old natural techniques on him..." Sherlock explained.
The trishaw stopped, and Sherlock paid the driver. They were in front of an office building, and they walked inside, looking at the directory in the lobby. John read the name there, and it suddenly all clicked.
"Dr. Park is his doctor. Dr. Park was the one doing the procedure on him. Matteo got him confused with me." John said aloud, more to himself than to Sherlock, as they went to the stairs and started up.
Sherlock held open the door to the second floor for him to pass by. "Yup." He popped the 'P' slightly.
Dr. Park's office was empty of patients, as it was almost closing time. Sherlock sauntered right up to the reception desk. "I need to see Dr. Park on an urgent matter."
A man in his early twenties looked up from his tablet, shaking his head. "Sorry, we are about to close for the day. Can I book you an appointment for next week?"
There was a notepad on the man's desk, and Sherlock grabbed it. He wrote a few words and folded it in half. "Do me a favor and deliver this to the doctor. I assure you he will welcome the interruption for this."
With that, Sherlock spun around and sat down on a nearby chair, crossing his legs and pulling out his phone. John shrugged to himself, and settled on the chair next to him.
A couple minutes later, the man was scrambling back to his desk. "Um, sir, please follow me. Dr. Park wants to see you in his office."
Smirking a little at John, Sherlock stood and following the receptionist. John looked around as he brought up the rear, noticing the office was simple and clean, with many framed posters of local sport teams, all from the 'pure' league.
The receptionist knocked on the door lightly, and opened it for them to pass into the office. Dr. Park was sitting behind a large oak desk, wearing a white lab coat over a dress shirt with a striped tie. He was a slim Korean British man in his mid-fifties, with some grey streaking through his black hair.
"Sit down, gentlemen," he said calmly.
Something about his tone caught John's attention though, and he looked closer at the man as he sat down. There was a tightness to his expression, behind the pleasant mask. He was stressed or worried, and it gave weight to Sherlock's theory.
"Your note mentioned Paolo Baresi. We all treated him, in our own fashion. Why are you here, wanting more from me about him?" His dark gaze was challenging, an intelligent man used to getting respect from his patients and co-workers.
Sherlock scoffed. "'In our own fashion?' Since when do you dabble in performance enhancement?"
Dr. Park looked almost like he had been physically slapped. "I don't. That is for cheaters. I don't condone that."
It was the old debate that had broken so many sports into the 'clean' or 'pure' leagues, and the DADT leagues. Over the years, it was harder and harder to have testing that separated the 'cheaters' from the rest. The reality was that most athletes were doing some form of performance enhancing drugs, and tapering off the use leading to big matches so the chemicals would have cleared their systems by then. It just made the athletes better at 'cheating' over time.
"Where is the line for you, Doctor?" Sherlock asked, getting up to perch on the edge of his desk, crowding him, looking down at him. "Specialized training, perfect nutrition, sports psychologists?"
"Those are acceptable, of course." The doctor snapped, shifting in his chair away from Sherlock, and crossing his legs.
Sherlock eased closer, bearing down over the man, his gaze unwavering. "And more extreme things like living at high elevations, or sleeping in a hypobaric tent?"
Even John could see the doctor swallowing out of nerves. Sherlock was definitely on the right track.
"The essence of training is to put the body under stress, and then allow it to heal, becoming stronger and better able to handle the stressor the next time. Lower oxygen levels in the air naturally trigger the body to produce more red blood cells." Dr. Park shot back, trying to glare back at Sherlock, but not able to keep it up.
Leaning in, Sherlock was right in his face. "And is it 'natural' to remove some blood, freeze it, and then reinfuse it back into someone a few weeks later?"
"I didn't use any drugs! His own body replaced the red blood cells we took out!" Dr. Park edged away, and stood on the other side of the desk. He looked visibly paler, and glanced towards the door quickly.
John saw that, and moved to stand in front of his route of escape.
Chuckling, Sherlock sauntered back over to John. "Well, that was a confession, if I've ever heard one. Is Paolo the only athlete you were 'helping' this way? If I look around the office, am I going to find bags of blood from many athletes in the freezer, all conveniently labeled so you don't mix them up?"
Dr. Park sunk back onto his chair, obviously shaken. He looked down, not replying.
"Stay here. Don't let him leave." Sherlock said softly to John. His eyes were gleaming with satisfaction.
Giving a slow grin in response, John nodded. "He wouldn't dare try to get past me." It felt good. John planted his feet shoulder-width apart, standing taller as he stared down at their quarry.
Sherlock left, and John could hear him opening and closing doors, searching the office space quickly. It didn't take long before he returned and flung a handful of hard objects down on Dr. Park's desk.
Picking up one, Sherlock looked closely at the label. "'MM' Hmmm….I wonder whose blood this is." He picked up a different one. "'SS'…you have a few of his. Maybe we should take this all down to the lab for testing."
Dr. Park sighed, and then sat up straighter. "Fine. You know what I did, what I am still doing. Are you going to expose it all? You know it will ruin me."
Sherlock was sorting through the blood packs until he found one with the initials 'PB' in it. He held it up to Dr. Park. "Paolo's? Just tell me. Spare me taking it to the pathologist to test it."
Dr. Park finally nodded.
"You will tell us exactly what you did with Paolo, show us his file and any other records you kept on him. Perhaps, if you cooperate with us, we can ask the police to be lenient on you later." Sherlock put the blood pack into his coat pocket, and sat back down.
...
It was a couple hours later that they left. John felt exhausted but elated. As soon as they exited the building into the twilight, he pushed Sherlock back against the wall, kissing him thoroughly.
"That was incredible, Sherlock. Brilliant." John said breathily, their faces only an inch apart.
"The kissing? Yes, I quite agree. More please..." Sherlock murmured, leaning in to kiss John.
Chuckling, John pulled back. "No, you berk. Matteo. Dr. Park. All of it. You've solved the whole bloody case."
Reaching a hand into his pocket, Sherlock pulled out the blood pack. "Not quite. I suspect our jigsaw has a final piece to put into place." Slipping it back into his pocket, he stepped closer to the street to hail a trishaw. "I'm going to a lab for a few hours. Don't wait up."
And before John could say anything else, Sherlock was on his way. Heading to a lab somewhere, but John had no idea which one. He knew texting Sherlock for more information would be futile. When he was following a lead like this, he would be focused on that, and not checking for messages very often.
With a small shake of his head, John walked to the nearest tube station. The constant feeling of dread that had been so present for most of the last week seemed almost entirely gone now. They had Dr. Park's whole story recorded on their phones. There was no way Sherlock could be blamed for Paola's death now.
But instead of celebrating with John, the berk had rushed off without much explanation to investigate something else. Part of John understood it, admiring Sherlock's unflagging quest for knowledge and his incredibly brilliant mind. But the rest of him felt a bit irked at not being included. They had been together in this from the start, investigating and discussing everything. Being out of the loop at this stage felt like a slap to the face.
What could Sherlock be possibly looking for with that blood? Molly Hunter had run full testing on the blood samples she took from Paolo. What more could he learn from it?
At home, John had a long relaxing shower and ate a sandwich, just wanting something quick and easy. He relaxed afterwards with a big glass of red wine, playing some John Coltrane, letting his thoughts just drift. He could feel himself unwinding, the worries he had been carrying fading.
It was a strange limbo period, waiting for Sherlock to return, wondering what he was doing, thinking about what would be next.
Sherlock had promised to go speak with the police, especially now that he had such concrete evidence on Dr. Park. Would he actually do it? How would the police handle it? Would they still charge someone, just to satisfy public pressure? The story was still in the news, rumors and half-truths everywhere. Conspiracy theories involving Felicity and Oscar. Probes into Sherlock's past.
Without even seeking it, John had heard more about that. He would have preferred to hear it from Sherlock though. His parents were reasonably wealthy, and Sherlock had gone to a private boarding school. He had studied chemistry afterwards at Cambridge, so it was no wonder he felt familiar enough with the place to say Frank was from there. He worked for some of the big pharmaceutical companies, doing research and development. When the DADT league grew and became more mainstream, he had started working on his own, essentially doing his own R&D on professional athletes.
Knowing Sherlock so much better now, it made sense that he preferred working on his own than for a large company. His lightening-quick mind could follow ideas as they came up, unconstrained by red tape and company procedures.
John grew sleepy, and he soon went to bed, missing the warmth and mere presence of Sherlock beside him. It had only been five nights, but it had felt so right.
He had seen how quickly Sherlock could change, from distant and argumentative to affectionate and clingy. Sexy and playful, to completely focused on something else. Grumpy and rude with his brother, to sweet and warm with Mrs. Hudson. Insatiably curious about new things, seeing them with almost childlike wonder and so open to new ideas. Passionate, so alive. So unrestrained.
He had been a mercurial whirlwind that had blown into John's peaceful, quiet life, disrupting everything, and John had loved it all.
...
-A/N: A bit more excitement and some answers in this chapter!
-Boxing Day: I'm posting this on Dec. 26th, and as part of the former British Empire, I have it off for Boxing Day. Most Canadians have no f*cking idea of its origins, but it's nice to have an extra day off after Christmas to travel, or just have turkey-induced naps.
The origins around 1600s Britain suggest it was a day off for the house servants to visit their families. They would serve their boss on Christmas and have the next day off, given a 'Christmas Box' that would contain gifts, bonuses, and perhaps leftover food. By the 1800s, it had evolved into a day people gave a tip to people who did services for them year round, like the postman, garbage man and milkman. In Canada, it has now become our version of the American's Black Friday (the day after their Thanksgiving, the unofficial start of Christmas shopping season, with people practically killing each other in the stores over sales). Our stores here have huge sales, with many people lining up in the wee hours of the morning outside of electronics stores to get a deal on a fancy gadget or two, but it rarely gets violent.
-ACL Knee surgery: It currently takes about 1.5 hours, with harvesting a hamstring or patella tendon from the patient, and drilling holes in the bottom of the femur and the top of the tibia at an angle, and threading the tendon through, and anchoring it into place with bio absorbable screws into both bones. Watching orthopedic surgeries reminds me a little of watching an episode of 'The New Yankee Workshop', with carpentry tools like drills, screws, hammers and planes used to correct the structural elements of the body.