Fog
by: Ismira Daugene
Chapter 8: Blood Diamond
Sherlock refused to let John out of his sight after the incident in the park resulting in John having to cancel with Greg. The DI seemed quite putout when John called him. "Seriously? What happened?" he asked.
"Met a stranger in the park who tried to compel me and Sherlock went berserk," John explained over the phone.
"Oh," Lestrade commented understanding immediately. "Rain check?"
"Sure. Sometime next week maybe? Or at least until Sherlock stops following me around like a lost puppy?"
Greg chuckled a bit before agreeing. "Sounds good. Text me when he's done sulking."
"Sure! Later," John hung up the mobile and turned around only to find Sherlock standing right behind him. He jumped a little in surprise before calming and shooting the taller man a scowl. "What do you want, Sherlock?"
"Was that Lestrade?"
John rolled his eyes and stepped around his mate into the kitchen to make himself some lunch. "You know it was," he said.
"What did he say? Do we have a case?"
"No," John replied pulling a container of sliced roast beef out of the fridge and checking the expiration date. "Just asked him for a rain check for tonight since you seem incapable of leaving me alone for two seconds."
Sherlock made an undignified sound behind him as John pulled out a jar of mayo and some lettuce as well. He moved to a free spot on the countertop and pulled a fresh loaf of bread towards him and started to make himself a sandwich. Looking back surreptitiously, John could see Sherlock standing at the table looking through his microscope at a slide containing god only knew what. He pulled out another slice of bread and made a half a sandwich for his mate who was still far too thin in John's opinion.
When he was done, he set the half sandwich and a cup of tea near Sherlock and sat down at the end of the table, squeezing his own plate in between the Bunsen burner and an Erlenmeyer flask filled with a smoky translucent blue liquid. He ate his sandwich slowly, looking at the World News section of the paper as he did so. The flat was quiet for the moment except for the gentle rustle of the paper and the occasional scribble of pencil on paper from Sherlock. John glanced up a few times, but never saw the man eat his sandwich. However thirty minutes later when he had finished his own sandwich and his reading, the plate next to Sherlock's elbow was empty except for a few breadcrumbs. John smiled to himself and grabbed the plate to wash it up.
The rest of the day in 221b was quiet, and John spent some of the time on his computer typing up a short blog of what had been happening lately. His therapist, prior to being taken by Sherlock, had recommended keeping a blog to sort things out, and he found it helpful now that he was with Sherlock as well. It wasn't necessarily for others to read so much as it was a way for him to organize his thoughts. He finished out the evening by watching a couple hours of Doctor Who (Tom Baker years) before headed upstairs to bed.
The next morning, John was startled awake by the sharp crack of a gunshot. He panted as his eyes searched for the source of the sound and he could swear that he could smell the hot blood and feel the hot Afghani sun as he sprinted from his bed. Edging into the hallway and down the stairs, John's eyes were wide and looking for danger. Adrenaline pumped through him, making him jumpy.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs he peeked around the corner, but didn't anything out of place. Sherlock was lying on the couch in his blue housecoat… holding a gun. John's old service pistol to be exact; he thought it had been confiscated when he moved in with Sherlock. He breathed out a sigh of relief and walked into the room. "What the bloody hell, Sherlock?" he asked staring hard at the man. "How did you even get that?"
"Bored," was all he said.
"That doesn't answer my question. How did you get my gun, Sherlock?" John made to grab for the pistol, but Sherlock jerked it away and shot towards the wall again, the sound deafening at close range. He jumped back, fighting the panic that was welling up inside him. This was not Afghanistan! He was safe in central London with his stupid mate firing shots at a smiley face painted on the wall. However the self-talk didn't seem to be working and he found himself gasping for air as memories of wounded soldiers covered in blood, screaming in pain, and begging for mercy came flooding back. Gunshots, screams, hot stifling air… John couldn't breath, he just couldn't.
Suddenly a pair of strong arms were wrapped around him and he panicked further, trying to throw the enemy off, but they wouldn't budge. A gentle soothing shushing sound was whispered into his ear. "John, it's me, Sherlock. You're in 221b in London, not Afghanistan. Shh… calm down."
John stopped struggling, but his breathing was refusing to return to normal and he was starting to feel light headed. "Deep breaths now, you can do it," Sherlock encouraged, running a hand up and down John's arm soothingly. He could feel the taller man shifting him around and suddenly all he could smell was Sherlock. His mate's scent completely encompassed all of his senses. John breathed in the smell, letting it calm him. He tried to identify the different scents to calm himself further. Coffee, paper, chemicals, and just a hint of musk that was Sherlock's sweat.
John nuzzled into the scent, giving himself over to the strong arms wrapped around him. When he opened his eyes again he saw that he was now straddled on top of Sherlock who was sitting on the floor. Both arms were still wrapped around John and John's face was pressed against Sherlock's neck. He tried to pull back a bit, but Sherlock kept him in place with a hand at the back of his head. "Just stay where you are for a moment longer, it'll help," he said.
The blond man nodded and relaxed into Sherlock's body. Scenting his mate did help to calm him and he soon found himself nearly falling asleep. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly after a few long minutes. John startled awake a bit at the apology. "Why?" was all he could muster.
"Because I'm easily bored and it was a distraction," he sighed and hugged John tighter. "You have no idea how lucky you are, John. My mind is constantly going. Constantly running a hundred kilometers an hour. I have yet to figure out how to shut it off without resorting to chemical dependence."
"Chemical?"
Sherlock sighed, but continued. "There was a time in my not so distant past that I shot up with heroine to quiet my mind."
"Did it work?"
"In a way. My mind still ran, but I was more relaxed and more inclined to let it pass. Though it complicated the transformation process a bit. Nearly killed myself."
John gave a disapproving kind of grunt, still too exhausted to do much more than lean sleepily against his mate. "How long ago was that?"
"I've been clean for three years," Sherlock replied quietly.
"Christ," John whispered. "I can understand to a degree why you would want to turn you mind off, but heroine?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
John rolled his eyes. They remained seated for at least another half an hour, just breathing in each other's scent. However the peace couldn't last forever and John was startled from his half doze when Sherlock's mobile went off. The consulting detective reached forward to where the phone rested on the coffee table and tapped the screen to see the message. A smile lit up his face slowly and John could guess at what the message said. "Case?" he asked moving to get up.
Sherlock nodded and rose to his feet as soon as John was clear, texting away a reply to Lestrade. As soon as he hit send though, he looked over at the blond man. "You don't have to come if you don't feel up to it," he said, uncharacteristically pausing in the wake of a new case.
John shook his head. "I'm fine now. Besides, I want to see more of your work."
Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Get dressed then. We're meeting Lestrade at Covent Garden."
Within an hour a taxi was dropping them off at the crime scene, a ceramics shop that specialized in antique looking figurines. Crime scene tape marked off the area, but Sherlock ignored it as he ducked under and John followed. This time Lieutenant Donovan didn't stop them at all, but the blond army doctor did hear her calling into her radio, "Freak's here."
They walked into the shop to find Lestrade directing the forensics team to take a small break while Sherlock looked around. John took the time to look around as well. The shop wasn't very large, but was chock full of figurines of all shapes, sizes, and colors. However it wasn't these that drew his attention, but rather the clerk behind the register lying in a pool of her own blood. John could tell immediately by the wound, amount of blood, and splatter on the shelving behind the till that she was shot with a small caliber bullet. The woman appeared to be around her mid forties, had pale skin and dark jet-black hair, and approximately eight stone sopping wet.
Sherlock hovered over her for a while before inching around her, avoiding the blood. John stood back next to Greg, quite reminiscent of their first meeting. "How is he?" Greg asked, and John could only assume he was talking about the park incident yesterday.
"Better," John nodded, watching as Sherlock examined the woman with his pocket-magnifying lens. "Scented me as much as possible and nearly followed me up to bed before I told him to shove off."
Greg chuckled. "So about that rain check then?"
John glanced over at the DI, curious as to why the man seemed so intent on getting John out for a drink. He shrugged it off after a moment though, blaming it on Mycroft. He supposed that Greg needed to vent as much as he did sometimes. "Probably not tonight or tomorrow," he replied thoughtfully. Sherlock would probably still be following him around then.
"Day after tomorrow? Make for a quiet night at the pub with it being Wednesday."
John nodded. He didn't really want a loud boisterous group; he'd grown out of that a while back. To be exact, he'd grown out of it about the same time he was shipped out for his first deployment in Afghanistan. "Sounds like a plan. Still the same time and place?"
Greg smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I'll text you if anything comes up."
John returned the smile and turned to see that Sherlock was walking back towards them. "Nothing was taken?" he asked. The question was almost more of a statement.
Lestrade shook his head. "No, not even the money in the till."
Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. They were only after the diamonds."
"Diamonds?"
"Of course, Lestrade. Do use your eyes!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. "Notice that the clerk has scar tissue along her hip," he pointed out the skin that was showing just above her trousers. Her shirt had slid up when she'd fallen. John squinted, but indeed there was a thin pink line that stood out from the surrounding pale skin.
"She's recently had surgery, a liver transplant if her eyes and the placement of the scar are anything to go by. NHS would have paid for the surgery, but she would've needed money to get by in the mean time and pay bills. That's where the diamond trafficking comes in."
"How do you know it was diamonds?" Lestrade asked, taking down everything Sherlock was saying in his notepad.
At this, Sherlock pointed to the trashcan behind the counter. "A garbage can?"
"What's in the garbage can?"
"Garbage?"
"Really, Lestrade?! How can you be so dense!"
"A smashed figurine?" Lestrade tried after looking again.
"Indeed! It's been broken to access where the diamonds where hiding inside. And before you ask, I know it was diamonds because there happens to be a small one stuck in the blood just beside her left arm. "Your killer knew what was in the figurine and even knew which one the diamonds were in, judging by the fact that only the one was shattered. Which makes him an accomplice. He's probably someone who helped her to sell the diamonds on the black market. However he got fed up with waiting for her and when he found out she was keeping some of the diamonds. Don't believe me? Look in the safe in her office."
"He's most likely lying low at the moment, waiting to sell the diamonds until after the murder investigation loses steam. Which means that he'll be waiting near by to keep an eye on the place. You should look for young men in their mid twenties who look to have come into some wealth recently. Look for nice watches or rings or brand name clothing. Shouldn't be too hard."
Lestrade nodded as he finished writing. "Good, thanks, Sherlock," he nodded in gratitude at the consulting detective. "I'll text if I have more questions."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Next time, Lestrade, make sure it's at least a little bit difficult."
Lestrade looked about ready to retort, but Sherlock swept out the door. John shrugged sympathetically before following. "See you Wednesday," he called out.
Author's Note: Hey everyone! I'm still thrilled at the response this story is getting! Can't believe how amazing all of you are and how much you like this story! Anyway, I hope you like this chapter. Another short case, but with less gross toothpicks... lol... a lot of people got squeamish about that apparently. Next chapter WILL have John and Lestrade going out for drinks. Should be interesting! ;)
*EDIT: Made some corrections based on the helpful suggestions from NumberThirteen in AO3. Nothing plot changing, just some little Brit-picking things and spelling.