A/N: It makes me so pleased to see that people seem to be enjoying this story. Thank you all for your reviews and support!
John obliged as the man with the gun gestured at him to come inside and shut the door slowly.
He wasn't anyone John recognized. With his shortly cropped brown hair and grim, determined eyes, he could be any number of the criminals in town who hadn't yet gotten the memo that John Watson was back to civilian life.
The man pointed him down the hall, saying, "Slowly now, slowly."
Leaning more heavily on his cane than he needed to, John led the way into the living room. In the mirror to his side, he watched as the intruder passed.
His strike with his cane was well-timed and landed squarely on his opponent's ribs with enough force to drive him back a step. The man was quick, though, and deflected John's punch, returning with a swing of his own that caught the doctor above the eye. By the time John had shook his sight clear, the gun was trained steadily on him once again.
"Doctor Watson, couldn't we have been polite about this?" The young man sighed.
"I don't know, coming in here without an invitation seems pretty rude to me," John said.
A shrug seemed to concede the fact. "Sit over by the table, won't you?" Handcuffs swung from his fingers.
John's arms were pulled uncomfortably but not painfully behind him as his wrists were handcuffed to the table leg. The tabletop pushed his head forward at an unnatural angle.
His captor straightened, surveying his work. "You got me good there, doctor." He winced as he rubbed his ribs.
"I try to," John said. "When people break into my house to kill me."
"The plan is not to kill you, Doctor Watson." The man regarded him seriously, then tilted his head. "That is, unless you want me to."
John's scoffing laugh turned into a hacking cough. He couldn't deny it. Only because he didn't have the space in his lungs, of course.
The man was roaming around the room now, ruffling through books and fingering papers aside. "I'm Slade, and I need your help finding something. A code. Jim Moriarty said he left it here with your flatmate."
John was already shaking his head. "No, no, we only realized what he must have done that day, Sherlock didn't have time to figure – " He stopped. There was something much more important. "You said, you believe in Jim Moriarty, then?"
"I never worked for the man, never met him, but it's clear this Richard Brook story makes no sense." Slade must have seen something in his captive's face, since he gestured to a chair, asking, "May I?"
At John's agreement, he settled into his seat. "Look, if there was a man hiring people to commit crimes, then turning around and arresting them, he'd run out of people that'd work with him right quick. Word like that gets around."
His throat constricted, John could at first only nod again. He managed, "You seem like a perceptive man."
"I try to be," Slade replied, "when I break into people's houses to find what they've hidden."
"I don't know where it is," John said.
Slade rose and went back to perusing the mantelpieces. "Most of the others figured that since Sherlock Holmes is dead, so is their chance to find the code. But I don't know that a man takes all his secrets to the grave."
The image of Sherlock's lonely coffin lowering into the earth returned unbidden. John tried to blink his eyes clear.
"I'm sorry. For your loss," Slade added. "I know what it's like to lose a friend."
"Then you know I'd help you if I could. If I found it, I'd pass it straight along to you and we could use it to bring down Richard Brook and expose Moriarty for the monster he is. And you could do whatever you liked with it after that."
The venom in his voice surprised John, but it made an impact on Slade, who sunk to his haunches, bringing the two men to eye level. "Is that a promise?" he asked, intense.
"Every word."
A minute passed silently as they took each other's measure. Then Slade reached into a pocket. "Don't hit me again, alright?" He pulled out a key and unlocked the handcuffs. With one hand, he helped John to his feet.
"I'm sorry I can't help you." John rubbed his wrists absently. "And for, you know, your ribs."
"They're just bruised," Slade waved him off. "Mind you, I thought you were supposed to be a doctor!"
"Army doctor," he conceded.
"Yes, that's right, you're a soldier."
John nodded curtly. "Try to be."
Slade smiled, and stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Doctor Watson."
They shook. "It's John. And likewise. You have very nice manners for a crook."
"This line of work, it's important to be polite." The young man tucked his gun into the back of his pants. "And please, call me Charlie."
John raised his eyebrows. "What about Slade?"
"Bit of a stage name. Also important in this business." He placed a business card on the arm of John's chair. "Let me know if anything comes up."
"Absolutely." John answered, and then the flat was empty again.