hasn't been working for me for the last few days, so sorry this is late. Not my best, but hopefully the next chapter will be more action packed…
8: Double Killings
"Hamish, don't be afraid to ring me if your daddies aren't feeding you up," Mrs Hudson cooed, balancing the little boy on her hip. While John was assisting with carrying boxes into the moving van, Sherlock was sitting unhelpfully on the stairs, watching Mrs Hudson say her goodbyes to Hamish.
"Mrs Hudson, we are perfectly capable of feeding our son," John reminded her as he passed, carrying some of the old woman's china. She looked up as if she hadn't realized he was there.
"Oh, I know what you two are like, always out on a case. I worry that he'll struggle a bit, without me here," Mrs Hudson said earnestly. John blinked, stopping by the foot of the staircase. Sherlock seemed equally gobsmacked, and couldn't even think of cutting remark.
"I don't know what you mean, Mrs Hudson," John said, shooting a look at Hamish. The toddler, although tall for his age, was also skinnier than most children. The cause for this was put down to Sherlock's genes, but Mrs Hudson still seemed to think he was unneutered.
"Well, who's going to look after him, when you're out?" Mrs Hudson asked. Truthfully, John hadn't given the matter much thought. He wasn't good at practicalities, which was unfortunate considering he was married to Sherlock.
"Well, we can get Molly…" John said, shifting the box onto his hip.
"You can't dump Hamish on the poor girl every few days, John! Do you two plan anything at all?" Mrs Hudson scoffed. John looked at Sherlock for help, but he'd apparently zoned out of the conversation, and was muttering to himself, eyes shut.
"We'll manage, Mrs H," John said shortly, before making his way outside with the china.
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"It's so good of you to take him for the night," John smiled at Sarah, who looked mildly annoyed to be disturbed at 8 on a Thursday night. Hamish was fast asleep on John's shoulder, with his overnight bag on his back.
"Yeah. Well let's not make it a regular thing, John. You can't do this indefinitely," Sarah said, bluntly. Lestrade had texted with a case this morning, and Sherlock had run off immediately, leaving Hamish with Molly since John was at the surgery. Molly had been happy to look after him for the day, but had to drop him at the clinic an hour ago. Sherlock had texted for John's assistance, so arrangements for Hamish had to be made. Only a few days had passed since Mrs Hudson leaving, and they were already struggling with balancing out the time spent on cases and the time spent at home-although John didn't want to admit it, he suspected that he and Sherlock's crime solving days were drawing to a close; of course he hadn't expressed this to the detective himself.
"I know, Sarah," John sighed, "But I don't really know what else to do…"
Sarah's face softened, and she reached for Hamish.
"You could always stay home with him. When one of his parents is Sherlock Holmes, he needs a more stable parent," Sarah suggested softly. John closed his eyes, and counted to five, before replying.
"I know. But he'll get himself killed if I'm not there,"
Sarah looked at him sadly, before shutting the door.
John walked to end of Sarah's road, before hailing a cab and climbing in.
Where to?
North Gower Street. Two bodies, hurry- SH
We need to sort out places for Hamish to go in the long term.
People have died. Please concentrate. –SH
John sighed, and put his phone away, reluctant to carry on conversation with the bastard. The journey stretched on for about fifteen minutes, before the taxi arrived at road similar to Baker Street. The regulation police tape encircled a house on the left side of the road- a few windows were smashed, and the door had been broken down. There was some graffiti on the side of them house- I O U in bright red paint. John half smiled as he remembered the case of the 'Blind Banker', where yellow ciphers had played a large part in solving the case.
After paying the driver, John jogged up to the front door, ignoring the officer who shouted indigently at him for ducking under the tape. Anderson was standing in the hallway, outside what presumably was the front room. John nodded at him, before attempting to move past him.
"Sherlock told me not to let anyone in," Anderson said in his nasally voice. John gave him an incredulous look, before folding his arms.
"We're married, Phillip," he said, wondering if the forensics scientist had somehow forgotten. Anderson shifted uncomfortably, his hand lingering on the door knob.
"I know, but he was very clear that no one would be allowed in…" John laughed disbelievingly, before pushing his way past Anderson and entering the crime scene.
The room was in fact a study. Two bodies were sprawled on the floor- a man and a woman of about forty, both with gun wounds through their forehead. The woman was clutching a gun in her stiff hand. Lestrade was looking through papers on the desk, while Sherlock was crouched by the woman's body, making rapid deductions. The detective didn't offer any greeting, so John fell into the usual routine of grabbing his husband and hauling him to his feet, so that he could survey him.
"Have you drunk anything today?" John asked, taking in Sherlock's pale face and dry lips. Sherlock looked slightly murderous at being distracted from the crime, and didn't reply verbally, only sighing and trying to wriggle away from John.
"Sherlock. Have you?" John said sternly. Sherlock's health had dramatically increased since marrying John, but only because of John's constant monitoring.
"Does it matter?" Sherlock spat, his voice raspy.
"Christ, Sherlock," John muttered, dragging the ridiculous man into the kitchen to locate some water.
"This is a crime scene, John," Sherlock protested, as John cluttered around the cupboards, too used to this kind of situation to have any qualms about using the deceased's cups. There was jars of pickles stacked on all the cabinets, with other strange combinations of food.
"I don't care. You need to stay hydrated in order to solve your crimes effectively," John snapped, pushing the cup of water into Sherlock's gloved hands.
"I just forgot," Sherlock retorted, but gulped down the water almost thankfully. John watched, feeling his annoyance fade slightly. It was just the idea of being responsible... it had never bode well with John. And with only a month to go until the baby's birth, it looked like he would be falling into that role more often. Sherlock caught John's eye, and moved his calculating gaze over him.
"You're tired, and stressed. You don't have to come," he said, wrapping his arm around John's shoulders. John leaned into Sherlock, hating how exhausted he felt. He'd braved Afghanistan, for God's sake- why was parenting wearing him down so much?
"Yeah, I did," John responded, inhaling Sherlock's scent. He smelt like Baker Street- musky and dusty, but still pleasant.
"Oi, Sherlock. We're trying to solve a case here," Lestrade called, bursting into the room, but stopping when he saw Sherlock and John in an embrace.
"Er, do you need a moment?" the detective inspector said awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. Sherlock looked like he was about to yell at Greg to piss off, so John intervened.
"No, it's fine," John said, sliding away from Sherlock and following Lestrade back into the study.
Sherlock almost immediately went back to deducing the bodies, before producing a conclusion.
"The man is an author- the notebook in his pocket has conversations and ideas written down. A struggling one, though- he looks tired and probably near the end of his tether - and his ideas aren't exactly Shakespearian standard, so most likely unpublished for a number of years. Boring, and probably innocent. The woman however, is much more interesting- groove in her finger where a gun is held, as well as numerous tattoos. Although they mean nothing to most, that sign, there," Sherlock pointed to a circle behind the woman's ear, "Is the brand of the Cohors, a gang based in Spain. So this woman was a member of a gang, known for murder and smuggling. Most likely an assassin,"
Sherlock then took out his phone, and began typing something. John looked at the woman again… something wasn't adding up. She was wearing very baggy clothing, and all the weird foods in the kitchen…
"So she killed him and then herself?" Lestrade asked, looking pityingly at the man.
"Nope," Sherlock replied unhelpfully. John bent down beside the woman's body, and looked at her abdomen closely. Five weeks pregnant. John closed his eyes, and sighed, rocking back onto his heels.
"She was pregnant, Sherlock," John whispered. Sherlock stopped typing, and looked at the body for a long time, before simply going back to the phone. If John didn't know Sherlock so well, he'd have been shocked at the lack of compassion. But Sherlock simply didn't know how to deal with stuff like this.
"A member of the gang is in London currently, and we have his location. It's probable that he shot them both, then made it look like she'd done it. She most likely left the gang for her husband, but she knew too much," the detective said quietly.
"Where is he then?" Lestrade demanded, pulling his phone out. Sherlock gave him a humourless smile.
"That's for me to know, and you to find out. Come on, John," and the detective swept away, leaving confusion in his wake as always.
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