Sherlock Holmes stood by the window of just another hotel room
(even more comfortable than the last one, only one entrance besides the window, 14th floor, only 11 people in the world who could make it into the room through the window without noisy technical help, 9 of them completely unaware of his existence, the other two on Mycroft´s payroll, more or less; no way of entering the room other than through the front door then)
and stared at the outline of Madrid, his hand playing with a little plastic bag, filled with cocaine.
(I shouldn't but it would stop all these terrible thoughts going round and round but I shouldn't John wouldn't approve of it I shouldn't have called him he´s worrying now but there's nothing he can do so why did I call him at all maybe I should take it just to stop thinking for a while no)
His thoughts
(spinning and spinning not stopping for a second don't think about it again don't)
always going back to the alley where he had been forced to confront Aurora Isleña two hours ago.
(had no choice she was about to use her gun to shoot me making the decision where to hit her instead was easy between the 5th and the 6th rib driving the knife right through the heart so she wouldn't have time to react)
But she didn't die instantly the way she should have.
(obviously a small medical irregularity, the heart a bit smaller than usual or the slightest bit further to the right)
Instead she had looked at him silently, eyes wide open with shock
(exactly the way I would look, complete surprise on her face, not willing to believe someone had outwitted her, her last thought about how in the world it had been possible for someone else to outwit her),
only for a second
(but still looking at me in my mind why can´t I make that stop?),
then stumbled towards him, desperately latching to his arm with an incredible force
(is this what imminent death does to people? Grabbing the arm of your killer, clinging to the only other human soul within your reach, regardless of the fact that he is the one who just took your life, holding on as long as possible, even though you have realised instantly that you are going to die? Looking for what, comfort? Being saved?)
before gracelessly descending to the ground.
(the hands holding on longer than the rest of the body, still grabbing the jacket when the legs already gave in, why do people do that? Wish I could ask John, he would know, he always knows, but he´s not here, wish he were)
A final spasm shaking her body
(caused by the loss of too much blood, a normal reaction of a dying body, do you still feel it or are you beyond feeling at that point? Why should that be important? Need to stop thinking about it, need to stop, need to, should I take it?),
and then she stopped existing.
(just like that, suddenly, eyes empty, body strangely slumped, looking much smaller than when she was still alive, and why do I think about that? Completely irrelevant, isn't it? But it was me who emptied those eyes)
Sherlock was so lost in thought
(I shouldn't, should I? Those hands, desperately clinging to my arm, slipping away, dying, the body not able to function without the heart, I shouldn't have called him),
that he was startled when someone knocked at the door: "Room service!"
He leapt back to attention,
(no order gone out, not expecting any contact, must be an assault, five ways to overpower the intruder, it was a man's voice, wasn't it, didn't pay enough attention to it, his mood, should have been more alerted, too lost in thought, concentrate!)
sneaked to the door
(three ways to overpower the intruder from this position without killing again, varying a little depending on his height and his choice of weapon, he would expect an attack, need to be so fast that he won't have time to react properly, best place to receive him is on the left side of the door frame)
and answered: "I didn't order anything!"
(obviously, only said it to buy some time and grab the knife, still blood on it? no. concentrate)
when his mobile signalled with an incoming text.
(John, definitely worrying, enough time to take a look at it, if intruder would have means of opening the hotel door he would be inside already, John is more important than any intruder)
"I know," it read, "but I brought cinnamon rolls. Let me in, would you?" Sherlock frowned.
(Was it possible? Only with help of Mycroft, has John been that worried surely he wouldn't. But it was sent from John's mobile, all possible scenarios that include someone else using John's mobile spelt disaster, please not please not but has it been John's voice? Let's listen to it again in my head and...oh.)
Caught completely by surprise, he opened the door and looked at a sheepishly grinning John Watson.
(new wrinkles around the eyes dark circles deprived of sleep for several months, lost weight, had a coffee on the plane read something while drinking otherwise wouldn't have hold it with right hand, didn't take time to ease hair ruffled by sleep before leaving the flat was in a hurry and not paying attention to it while on his way here I worried him).
Still at a loss for words, Sherlock stepped aside to let him enter the room.
While John placed the plate in the table and babbled something about the flight and the cinnamon rolls,
(Mrs Hudson's plate given to her by her aunt Sylvia, cinnamon rolls home-made, she knows John doesn't really like them why did she give them to him when he told her he wanted to go on holiday in Spain? She knows that I love them, but... oh, clever old woman how long was she suspecting it? John clearly did not understand that she knows)
Sherlock quickly considered an appropriate reaction,
(pretending not to be surprised? too late for that even John must have recognised, pretend to be only slightly amused? No, inappropriate considering John had apparently contacted Mycroft which is always unpleasant and had hurried to Spain out of worry, show happiness and leave out relief? No, John wouldn't buy it after the phone call, show only relief and leave out happiness? No, would leave John disappointed)
and when he had finally made up his mind,
(genuine reaction? Yes, only possibility!)
he quickly crossed the distance between them with three long strides and pulled the doctor into a clumsy hug.
(…)
(…)
(…)
To his utter surprise, when John hugged back Sherlock's thoughts came to a complete stop, only for a brief moment, but long enough for him to deeply cherish the unexpected feeling.
Serves me right, John thought when he subtly struggled for balance after being pulled into the fierce hug. You can't surprise two Holmes' a day without being surprised at least once in return! When he realised that Sherlock would not let him go any time soon, he gracefully settled into the hug and started rubbing his friend's back a little. Damn, he DID miss him.
When he felt the other man relax and heard his breathing slow down for good, he stepped back a little and gave him a diagnostic glance. Sherlock looked strange with the short blond hair, and was clearly shaken momentarily, but otherwise fine. Obviously playing hide and seek with the world for nine months hadn't done him any harm.
"Of course I look well," Sherlock tutted, not sounding half as offensive as he used to do. "Did you think I'd starve without you feeding me regularly?" Well, yes, John had considered the possibility, but then his tremor hadn't returned out of sheer boredom either.
He started to comment on it when suddenly Sherlock shoved a small plastic bag into his hand. "You better take this," he mumbled, then glanced at John in discomfort. "Didn't take any, though!" John stared at the cocaine in his hand. "Well, that's... that's good, isn't it?" He tried to smile reassuringly, "You surely wouldn't...", but Sherlock cut him off. "I would have!"
They looked at each other for a moment, and then John nodded. "Okay, but..." "It's good you're here!" Sherlock cut him off again, then turning towards the cinnamon rolls, the lost expression all of sudden swept off his face, replaced by the usual smug grin. "So, Mrs Hudson figured out that I'm alive and you didn't notice? Really, don't you observe anything?"
Later, when they had settled onto the extremely comfortable sofa, it didn't feel at all like they hadn't seen each other for so long. They instantly settled back to their usual banter, Sherlock happily munching the cinnamon rolls but pretending to eat them only to please Mrs Hudson, John taking care of the exquisite leftovers from Sherlock's last meal. He realised now that when he had imagined how Sherlock might have been doing, he never really considered what it meant that Mycroft was supporting him. Of course, there was no need to content oneself with four stars only.
"So, what will happen next?" John asked, while he switched from one expensive pay-TV channel to another even more expensive pay-TV channel. "We'll leave for Italy tomorrow. Here," Sherlock got up, caught a newspaper from the nearby table and threw it in John's direction. "Page 3, top article!" John caught it and looked at the article for a moment. "Um, Sherlock..." "Yes?" "It's written in Italian."
"Of course. It is an Italian newspaper. Why would they write in any other language?" He shot John his best "John, really!"-glance, obviously not getting the point. "I neither speak nor read Italian," John explained, when Sherlock wouldn't stop looking at him quizzically. "Oh, but that's a bit debilitating when going to Italy, isn't it? Are there any other important languages you don't speak?"
They settled the following argument by agreeing on the fact that John's poor language abilities that only covered Latin (from medical classes), Spanish (from school), basic German (a former girlfriend) as well as bits of Pashto and Dari (military), were ludicrous but acceptable due to the fact that John made up for this flaw by being patient enough not to really kill Sherlock by hitting him to death with a dictionary.
Still pretending to be sulking a little Sherlock started to pace through the room and explained what had happened in Rome just the other night. Impressively unobtrusive break-in at the Pantheon, remains of first Italian king stolen, three security officers involved, one of them killed.
"So, why would someone steal those remains?" John asked, wishing his Italian history would be a bit better than it actually was. To his surprise, Sherlock's face lit up. "Exactly the right question!" he beamed, "Go on, what do you think?"
John sighed a little. He hated those "Show me how close you come to my brilliance"-things, but Sherlock would not continue before he had tried, so it was better to get over with it fast. "Well, " he mused, "there must have been something valuable inside the tomb..." "No!" "...or the bones are of any value because..." "No!" He sighed deeper. "Or maybe there was something inside the tomb that didn't belong..." "No!" "or maybe someone just wanted to demonstrate..." "No!"
At that point not rolling his eyes was no longer an option. "All right, you sod, enlighten me with your superior insight!" he grumbled. How could he have forgotten how annoying Sherlock could be? "Of course, gladly" the other man answered matter-of-factly. "Imagine this: Four men sneak into the pantheon through the side-door. Bribed someone to get the key or bribed someone to leave the door open. Electronic surveillance is turned off, the pantheon empty, no spectators alarmed the police. Still, because of a "hunch" those three security men come in, confront the burglar, but only one of them is killed. A bit odd, isn't it?"
"Well," John started, but was cut off immediately. "Two similar cases during the last four weeks, one in Lombardy, one in Tuscany." Sherlock didn't stop pacing to throw another collection of newspaper articles onto the table. "First incident, Bergamo, 25th of March, 13:47, Banca di Marche. Four robbers, 21 hostages, a ludicrous amount of money. Of all banks at Bergamo, this one is the most complicated to break into, and also the one with the lowest amount of cash available. Twenty hostages survived, one got killed by a clean shot in the head. Accidentally? Unlikely!"
Another folder was tossed. "Livorno, 15 days later, shooting at the harbour. Two mafia families decide that after 9 years of truce it is finally time to decimate each other's number again. 17 dead members of the familia, exactly one innocent bystander hit, directly into the heart. No accident at all! And now Rome!"
John, who had watched Sherlock's agitated walk through the room, now directed his attention to the folders in front of him. The Latin he had learned at Uni helped to gain a general idea of what the articles were about, but the details were completely outside his reach. He looked at the photographs instead. The dead body of an older woman at the bank desk, a sporty looking young woman lying on the streets of a picturesque little town, a strong man of uncertain age slumped to the ground under a huge dome.
"A contract killer then? Who camouflages his assignments as other violent felonies?" That got him an intense stare. "Why do you think of it as an contract killer instead of a serial killer, John?" Sherlock asked with honest interest.
"Well," John elaborated, collecting all he had learned about that topic during the last two years, "serial killers usually choose their victims because of a certain shared characteristic, or completely at random. If the bank was a lousy choice for a robbery, then that means that the woman must have been aimed at and not have been a random choice." He looked at the pictures again. "And as the victims are so different from each other, I would also rule out a shared characteristic."
Sherlock nodded his head slowly. "I see your point!" he said thoughtful. "Am I right, then?" John asked mildly surprised. "No, not at all. It was a serial killer, apparently, I just haven't figured out his scheme. But I like the way you thought about it! Intriguing what kind of intelligent ideas can come out of your ordinary little brain from time to time!" With that, Sherlock grinned at him and flopped down on the sofa next to John, his back facing John's shoulder.
"Well, in that case I'm very glad that my ordinary brain and I made it here in time to entertain you and your immense intellect!" John grumbled, but tried very hard to keep the smile out of his words. "So am I, " Sherlock tossed back, but then grew sober, "so am I!"
"Who was your first?" he asked quietly after a while. Instantly, for just one brief moment, John was back there in the officer's mess that day, still freezing from a chilly day, that boy standing in the middle of a crowd...
"Ashkan Hasimi, boy of 13," he explained. He couldn't help but sighed. It had been a while since he talked about it to anyone. "Lived in a nearby village. Well, village... He used to come over every day, spoke a little English. Seemed to be fascinated by everything we did or said." He could still see that young, open face some nights. "One day, he came into the mess with a bomb attached to his hips and his finger on the activator." They had never found out if he had been planning that all along or if he had been spontaneously recruited.
"Our luck that he was very eager to tell us disbelievers what he really thought of us before blasting us to death." Only 13, what a waste of life. "He got so carried away with his little speech that he let go of the activator and raised his hands to heaven." So convinced he was doing the right thing. "I wasn't the only one to realise, but the first one to shoot. Clean shot right into his head."
John closed his eyes, but that proved to be a mistake. Ashkan's friendly face appeared again immediately. He sighed again, glad Sherlock had decided not to face him. To his surprise, he felt the other man leaning closer, actually resting his head against John's. "You're saying that time won't heal all the wounds, then?" John gave that a sad smile. "No, it won't."
They just sat like that for a while, resting against each other, until Sherlock turned on the TV again and spent two hours explaining to John that the cases in that American show were ridiculous as he would have identified the first serial killer instantly by the unnatural way he stretched the "a"s when he spoke and the second by the way he ate his hamburgers and what did they need such a big team for, anyway?
A big thank you to all those who follow, reviewed or favored this story! Biggest thanks to my wonderful beta-readers GoSherlocked, Liz Night and Bev for encouragement and everything else.
Reviews would be lovely!