Jail wasn't fun. Jail was frightening; it was cold like the cement slab he had to sleep on. John was thankfully put in a single-man cell, so he didn't have to interact with the murderers and kidnappers and thieves. At least Lestrade had done something for him.
John was a soldier to the bone, but that could only get him so far against three hundred pound men that were a foot taller than him.
Two days. Two days behind bars and he still had no clue what was happening. Mrs. Hudson had visited him, once, the day before, to give him home-baked goods. Lestrade and Molly had both stopped by, only to tell him that they believed him. Even Donovan had paused by his cell to tell him to chin up.
Sherlock never stopped by.
The one person who could help him, give him information and make him feel like he was going to get out of this hell. And he wasn't even blinking his direction.
He was alone, with no way to prove that he was innocent. His girlfriend was dead (murdered, his thoughts reminded him). His best friend was nowhere to be found (no one would tell him anything about Sherlock's whereabouts). John was screwed.
Every day he was in there, the Chief Inspector interrogated him. Two times so far. Three, he corrected himself, eyeing the officer that was heading his way. Apparently it was time to lock him in a cold cement room and argue with him for another hour or two. It's not like he was changing his story or adding any proper information! John felt absolutely absurd repeating himself so many times in a row.
"I told you, I woke up and she was dead," He groaned, resting his head on the cool table in front of him. His hands were cuffed to the metal chair he was sitting in, his ankles shackled together as well. "I swear, we went to bed happy! Of course we had, we had just shagged!" John was so frustrated that he wasn't being decent anymore. What was the use of beating around the bush when they forced him to speak every little detail anyway?
"You're leaving something out, Mr. Watson." The CI simply replied, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. The bastard liked to show off his freedom.
"I am not! I've told you everything, what more do you want?" John whimpered, struggling a little bit against the chair, hating the limited movement that he was allowed.
"I want the truth. Your girlfriend did not die of her own accord. You are the only missing piece, are you not?" He asked, raised a slightly manicured eyebrow at the doctor.
"Obviously you are missing something, because I didn't kill her!" John groaned, more tired of the constant questioning and blatant disregard of his words than the implication behind them, at this point. In two days, he had gotten over the fact that strangers considered him to be a murderer. He hadn't forgotten Sarah. Hell, he dreamed about her every moment his eyes closed. But another thought had haunted him, as well. Lestrade had played with the possibility of him being a killer. Sally and Anderson and all of the people he had worked with in the past thought it was possible. That hurt. Those people should have known better!
And then there was Sherlock. Not a single word from him, not even a glance in his direction since the detective broke into the flat. If Sherlock assumed he was the reason for Sarah's death, then he had no way of getting free. If his best friend thought him the killer, there was hardly a reason to want to be free. Sherlock probably didn't want him anyway.
They argued back and forth for nearly an hour longer, John repeating his innocence and the CI demanding more. The two went over every detail, every creak in the night and exactly every little thing that happened when he woke up.
"And you're telling me you didn't smell the blood when you answered the phone?" The Chief asked, smirking slightly as if he had John pinned right where he wanted him.
"I told you, I smelled something but I didn't know it was blood. I was delirious, the phone woke me and I was half asleep until I saw her." Glancing warily at the mirror behind the CI, John wished he could see a familiar face. One that didn't accuse him of murder. It was exhausting to go through this.
His days were clouded between real criminals looking at him as if he were a piece of meat, officers looking at him like he turned Sarah into a piece of meat, and wishing he could eat real meat. He was being questioned so often, he expected them to brainwash him into believing that he had done it after all. John didn't expect to last much longer, here. They hadn't officially charged him yet, but he had no idea why. It's as if they were waiting until the end of the 96-hour limit before actually accusing him. That made no sense. He had seen it time and time again, a suspect getting charged as soon as they were arrested. Were they waiting for evidence or something? Because, from a stranger's point of view, there was nothing more needed.
"Alright, Watson, back to your cell. You better keep thinking, because things will not be looking good for you if you insist on telling this same lie over and over." John just grunted, letting an officer uncuff him from the cold chair just to cuff his wrists back together. God, he really never wanted to be used to the feeling of being in handcuffs, but at this rate, he was going to be far too familiar with it all.
Left back to his thoughts and lonely, cold cell, John sat on the floor against the wall and pulled his knees to his chest. Without the chains on his ankles or wrists, he could have spread out and laid bare eagle on the floor, relishing in the freedom of less-limited movement. But no matter how unchained he was, there was only so much space for him to roam. There was almost no room to even pace properly. Not that pacing was going to help anything.
Nothing was going to help.
Being nice to people was extraordinarily difficult. If John hadn't been Sherlock's only friend, there wasn't a chance that he would even take a glance at such a case. Hell, if he hadn't known the doctor so well, even being his flatmate, he wouldn't look at the case.
But he did know him. And he knew that John Watson wasn't the murderer.
There were so many things that the forensic team missed, so many little things that stood out to him as if there were flashing signs hanging over them. And Sherlock had to politely ask Anderson for a pair of tweezers to pick up a hair follicle he had spotted on the carpeted flooring by the patio door. He managed to refrain from lashing out at the stupid blind ways of the detectives and the others, which seemed to work considering the officers were all being equally (and oddly) pleasant.
Straining his eyes to pick up every little detail, Sherlock steeped his fingers under his lips and narrowed his gaze, focusing solely on the position of the two chairs at the small dining table. John had sat there last, but there were still traces of a previous occupant. A man, slender and dressed on a higher scale than the dead woman was used to. Though, the marks of the chairs on the freshly vacuumed floor suggested that the two were familiar. A family friend, or a co-worker, possibly. They had spoken many times; the seats were too close for them to have been strangers. The dips of the chair were deeper than where John sat (slightly farther from the table, closer to Sarah, heavier at the back indicating relaxation). The first imprints, the ones left by the mysterious man, they were pressed towards the front- he was leaning in, talking quietly probably. The glass of wine was used without a coaster; a slight ring of discoloration on the wood proved that. DNA would be easy to get from the glass, which left the question: Why?
Moriarty was smart, far too smart for something so sloppy. He sent a henchman, obviously, but who was it? Did the man really not know how to do his job, or was dear Jim from IT sending him a message? 'Hey, look at me! I can ruin your only mate's life!'?
He wouldn't put it past the consulting criminal.
"Oi, Freak, aren't you going to eat something?" Donovan snapped him out of his thoughts, waving a hand in front of his face with an impatient sigh. The woman was offering him food, now? How odd.
"I will not eat while I am on a case, Donovan. Do try to keep down the others with their loud chewing, though, I am trying to work here." Sherlock simply replied, sparing a glance up in her direction. She looked tired and stressed. Clean knees; Anderson's wife must be home from her holiday in the country. But there was something else. She actually seemed worried for the good doctor, worried that he had turned into a murderer. The detective was wary of Sherlock, almost more than before, either nervous that he would lash out if she said something negative about John or nervous that it was true, he couldn't tell which.
Taking that advice and nodding, she quickly hurried into the hall to leave him alone again. Ah, it seemed like she was heeding his warning this time. Splendid, now he could go to his mind palace without any interruptions.
Using his mental list of Moriarty's known contacts, Sherlock organized them all by rank and likelihood of being able to pull off such a stunt. Throwing out all the woman, left-handed men, and overweight men, it left an unfortunately extensive list. Without much knowledge of the men still left, he could only remove a handful more- those who were not known for murder, drinking red wine (they often seemed to prefer beer, the lower on the list), and those without any possible contact to Sarah Sawyer.
There were a handful of people left, all dark haired, medium height and weight, right-handed men. Fourteen of them, actually. Three were known to use guns instead of knives, so he tossed them. Eight had an unusual passion for torture and hearing their victims scream, so they were also placed in the 'useless' folder.
Three left. One could pass as a maintenance man for the clinic (his favorite disguise was a delivery boy, though). The second often went overboard and killed all the people in a room, rather than leaving someone living. The third though... The man had military training, was fairly close to the man at the top, had a small bit of medical knowledge... That was the man. He was a marksman (a spot-on one, at that), but had once used the same method on a civilian before he was dishonorably discharged from the military.
If he was right (he suspected he was), then John knew the man.
Oh! He got him now! There was no need to DNA the hair or the glass (though he demanded for it still; just for conformation, for rock-solid proof). Moriarty was playing him, though. And Sherlock couldn't easily tell why. That was going to bother him like an itch he couldn't scratch.
Storming out of the flat and ignoring the calls of the officers, Sherlock moved as fast as he possibly could, barely stopping on his way, hurdling to a halt outside of the cold room. He stared, frowning and hesitating before stepping forward, Sherlock hated what he was seeing. John was curled up against the wall, wearing the same bleary prison uniform that all the other (the real) criminals were wearing. He actually felt emotions stirring in the pit of his stomach at the sight (anger, he noted, and sadness). John looked like he was falling apart, minute-by-minute, stuck in this cold hard room.
"John. Sebastian Moran killed Sarah." His voice was soft, as if his friend was sleeping and he didn't want to wake him. The doctor looked up at him, eyes wide with fear and information and shock and so many other emotions that Sherlock couldn't pick up on.
A/N - A tiny bit short but I'm exhausted. To everyone who favorited/alerted/reviewed this, thank you so much. I can't explain how much it means to me! (And in case it wasn't obvious, I don't really know anything about Moran from ACD's canon). Keep reviewing/favoriting/etc.
