Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1
Author's notes:
- Wow! Thank you to all of you who had put this story on their Favorite and Alert Lists!
- Some details come from the story "The empty house" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
- "Chasing the dragon" is a metaphor referring to the pursuit of the ultimate high by using some particular drug (from Wikipedia).
Chapter 2: Camden House
Night had fallen over London, revealing the city in a display of multi-coloured electric lights enhancing its beauties. Most people had gone home to their families after a hard day of work but some others had went out to enjoy drinks at their favourite pub, watch a movie or a play at the theatre, or simply hanging out with friends. Tourists were enjoying London by Night tours while police officers were patrolling to ensure the citizens' safety. However, clouds were gathering in the western sky, a sure sign of rain and people were walking at a quicker pace, worrying about getting drenched before reaching destination.
A single pedestrian, however, kept on walking at a calm pace with the help of his stick. After his visit at Baker Street earlier in the day, Doctor Watson had decided to investigate further the strange "shadow" he had spotted behind one of the windows of Camden House, the empty building across his former address and doing a little search by night usually gave good results. Of course, it was also a foolish action: John was a civilian, he had a bad limp on his right leg and he certainly hadn't phoned the police to tell about his suspicions – he would only end up being called a liar or a paranoid. But he also wasn't the kind to leave a rock unturned, especially after having lived under the same roof as the greatest detective of all times.
Besides, John was worried that the "shadow" saw earlier – he could have sworn it had been the silhouette of a man – would spell trouble for Mrs. Hudson. It wouldn't be the first time killers prowled around in Baker Street and he hadn't forgotten the day the dear woman had been targeted by C.I.A. agents, who had thought they could extort a compromising camera-phone from the detective by pointing a gun at Mrs. Hudson's head. However, their cowardly leader had learned the hard way that it didn't pay to mess with Sherlock's favourite landlady – by being head-butted before being thrown out from the second floor's window to the garbage bins neatly stacked in the courtyard. Afterwards, John had wondered if this action hadn't been too extreme but Sherlock had replied firmly, his eyes as hard as steel:
"He attacked Mrs. Hudson and I owed him one for ordering his goon to shoot you at Adler's. He got off lightly!"
John had a smile at the recollection of this incident. Sherlock, who had taken praise of his heartless, cold, sociopath reputation, had nearly killed a man for threats against his friend and his landlady. Donovan had probably chocked on her own poisonous saliva after hearing the news from Lestrade!
A group of laughing tourists walked towards him, led by a guide who was telling them wild stories about spirits haunting the nearby Regents' Park, obviously their next destination. A Ghost Walk, by the looks of it, and John's eyes saddened at the irony of the situation. Those tourists were ghost-hunting but so was he, chasing a shadow briefly seen in a dilapidated building... That was odd behaviour for a respectable doctor, whose mind had been shaped years ago by facts and reason. But the truth was, John hadn't been able to resist to the call of the intrigue, that little thrill of excitement which had clung to Sherlock like an aura. Perhaps, by renewing with mystery, John would be able to re-connect with his dead friend – even for just a few seconds.
However, being excited by mystery didn't mean for Doctor John Watson to behave like a fool. He had been in the army for fifteen years and it had taught him a thing or two about moving discreetly in the dark and approaching a target without getting spotted – even though he had been younger at the time, less traumatized and with two good legs, those lessons had been drilled into his mind good and hard. He had also packed a torch and an extra protection in the form of a British Army-issued L9A1 gun. After that tragic confrontation with Moriarty, John didn't want to take any chances in case if one of the criminal's minions was haunting the building facing 221 B Baker Street.
As quick as his limp would allow him to, the ex-soldier walked on Cavendish Square and then he suddenly turned right in a narrow alley separating two buildings. It wasn't a normal route but circumstances forced him to make detours before reaching the empty house to investigate, and after Sherlock's death John had taken upon him to memorize all the by-ways of his former neighbourhood as a precaution and also to escape Mycroft Holmes' CCTV cameras. He walked through smelly alleyways, climbed emergency staircases, twice missed stumbling over fallen garbage bins because of the darkness, scared a few cats which mewed furiously at him for interrupting their pillaging of rotten meat and then, finally, he reached Manchester Street.
He limped his way to reach Blandford Street, and then hid in the shadows again to follow a narrow lane that he knew would lead him to the courtyard located just being Camden House. A wooden gate with a lock blocked the way but John didn't have time for subtleties; climbing the gate was impossible, thanks to his leg, so he took the gun from out of his jacket and used its butt to smash the wood where the lock was fixed. Fortunately, the gate wasn't new and the post broke easily. John gave a kick with his cane and the gate was left ajar, letting enough space to enter. John didn't waste time crossing the courtyard; neighbours usually didn't look through back windows but he couldn't afford being spotted by a scared old biddy who would call the police in a snap if she saw him prowling around.
He reached the back door of Camden House and gave it a push; oddly enough, it wasn't locked but the hinges started creaking. John stopped, worried that someone could have heard him but only silence greeted him. After a minute, the doctor calmed down and entered the empty house through the partially-open door.
The building reeked of garbage and human waste. John took out his pocket torch and lightened it; Camden House was indeed in a sad shape: bare planking, dirty tiles and wallpaper hanging in ribbons. There were also signs that it had been visited by kids as tags had been painted on the walls – the usual messages of hate towards the police force, declarations of love to this or that sweetheart or even attempts at urban art. John walked down a long hall and reached a large, rectangular living room with large windows (covered with dust and cobwebs) letting in very little illumination from the streetlights of Baker Street; obviously, this place had been used by homeless people, considering the number of dirty mattresses piled up on the floor and the fireplace filled with cans, old wrapping papers and bottles. Maybe even drug addicts had come here to find a quiet place...
John's heart constricted painfully as a souvenir of Sherlock came to his mind: his friend had "chased the dragon" years ago and John had been shocked hearing this piece of information, having a hard time believing such a genius would deliberately endanger his brilliant mind with drugs. But Sherlock had explained that he hadn't done that out of recklessness but simply because he had been overwhelmed by boredom at the time.
"But something good came out of it, John," had said Sherlock. "I got arrested, I met Lestrade at the police station and, after I deduced his upcoming divorce from the state of his jacket, he started consulting me for cases and I lost interest in drugs."
Nonetheless, John had made it his mission to keep Sherlock away from drugs and smoking tobacco. But Moriarty had put a final end to everything...
John gritted his teeth and carried on with his investigation; it wasn't the time for a trip down memory lane, he had more pressing matters at hand. The house was indeed abandoned but he was trespassing on private property and his ties with the police force had been abruptly severed. John had steadfastly refused to take Lestrade's calls after Sherlock's suicide; the Detective Inspector had tried to apologize, to offer his condolences but after six months of no-reply, Lestrade had finally gotten the message and renounced to make amends for arresting Sherlock after having listened to his two viperian-tongued subordinates.
Waving his pocket torch around, John brought the ray of light in the shadowed corners, the ceiling's plaster bearing huge cracks, the little room next to the large one (which had been used as a lavatory, judging by the smell), a cupboard containing only a mummified mouse and the cold kitchen stripped of all cooking equipment. The doctor was starting to feel a bit silly: what was the use of searching a house that had been abandoned by everyone?
Suddenly, a creaking sound reverberated through the empty house.
John's heart beat inside his chest like a hammer at the thought that he wasn't alone in Camden House. Something upstairs had made the sound; it could be a homeless person, or kids trying to get a scare by looking for ghosts but John knew better: it had been the sound of a wooden plank creaking under the weight of a person trying to be discreet. It was time to take measures; John quietly disposed of his cane and, grabbing his gun from under his jacket, he pointed it in the direction of the staircase, his pocket torch tucked under the weapon.
John had a grimace at the sight of the dilapidated steps; climbing on such a construction wouldn't be easy, even if he had been taught to walk stealthily in the army. But another creaky sound coming from upstairs convinced him to go forward. He started climbing the stairs, taking extra precaution to hug the walls so the wooden planks would be more solid on the sides than in the middle, favouring his bad leg. Spiders' webs clung to his blond hair and the brushing of the mouldy walls deposited dust on his jacket but John didn't let himself being distracted. He had his share of building-investigation in Eastern Europe and Afghanistan; he knew that a wrong move or a simple sneeze could spell his doom.
He reached the floor above and took a peek from the entrance's frame – the door had been obviously torn off its hinges a long time ago, probably used as combustible. There was another hall leading to bedrooms, with a darkened bathroom at the end – John's pocket torch briefly flashed against the white ceramic of a bathtub – but what caught his attention was the long silhouette of a man peeking at the window of the right-hand larger room. John quickly understood that this chamber was located just above the ruined living-room he had visited earlier, and the man was watching the windows of his and Sherlock's former flat.
John never hesitated; he entered the room, his gun pointed directly at the tall stranger.
"Who are you?" asked the doctor in a firm, no-nonsense voice.
The intruder straightened, visibly shaken by John's sudden appearance but he didn't turn around. Instead, he raised his hands in a placating gesture, indicating that he was unarmed.
"I repeat, who are you? What are you doing here?" asked John but the stranger remained silent. From what he could see by the pocket torch's light, John could see that his prey was wrapped in a dark coat and his long legs were covered with woollen pair of trousers. The clothes confirmed the doctor that the intruder wasn't a squatter or a drug addict: this attire looked in good shape, hardly the ones worn by an out-of-luck person. The coat's collar was lifted, hiding the man's neck and strands of curly dark hair escaped from a knitted cap worn on his head.
For an instant, John's concentration faltered; if he didn't know better, he could have sworn this man bore the same silhouette as... But no, that was impossible.
"Answer me, Mister. For your information, I am armed and I know how to use it so don't try to play tricks. Now, what are you doing here?"
But the stranger merely sighed and shook his head, like in a silent refusal to cooperate. This attitude enraged John, as he started walking on the rotten hardwood floor towards the man. His bad leg was hurting in the earnest but the doctor paid no attention about it; the only thing that mattered was to get some answers to ensure Mrs. Hudson's safety on her return from Manchester.
"Turn about, Mister, I want to see you. Now!" said John, unlatching the safety of his gun to emphasize his words.
The tall man slowly turned about, and the pocket torch's light illuminated his face.
All colour drained from John's face as his dark blue eyes widened in surprise.
"No..." whispered the doctor.
The intruder remained statue-like, not even blinking from the light.
"No... N-No! It's im-impossible! You're... d-dead!" stammered John from shock. His heart was beating like it wanted to escape from his ribcage and his hands started to shake, but that was nothing compared to the tears filling up his eyes, blurring his vision.
A light trembling shook the stranger's tall frame, as if John's distress was affecting him; it prompted the doctor to lower his gun and take another step forward the man, but the whirlwind of emotions roaring inside his mind made John forget all about the room's damaged floor. His bad leg wobbled and he instinctively shifted his weight on the good one, but suddenly a deafening noise resounded through the room.
C-R-R-A-A-C-K!
"Watch out!" yelled the intruder.
John yelped in horror as the floor collapsed beneath him, making him drop gun and pocket light. The wooden planks, eaten away by termites for years, had broken under his weight to disintegrate in a multitude of debris. John fell through the gap and landed on the rotten mattresses left on the living room's floor.
The violent impact made him instantly lose consciousness and he remained immobile, showered with sawdust and shards; spiders fell on his body and scampered away as soon as they could, frightened by the sudden destruction of their webs; the pocket lamp landed nearby John's head and broke neatly in two, killing its light. The gun also fell and bounced harmlessly on the corner of a mattress, avoiding an accidental discharge.
The stranger fell on his knees and looked through the gap with a horrified expression on his face. His steel-coloured eyes were dimmed and his firm lips were shaking as he looked down at the unconscious doctor, lying motionless on dirty pallets.
"Oh please, no! Not him!" said the tall man, his voice breaking from anguish. But, as sudden as it appeared, the emotion vanished from his features to be replaced by a fierce determination. He stood up and left the room to run down the stairs, paying no heed about the state of the steps. His long strides quickly brought him to the lower level and he rushed towards the fallen man.
TBC...