TITLE: The Other One
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Five/ Just a Body
RATING: T (violence/language)
A/N: The suspense! The cliches! Dun dun dun
Review please?
Chapter Five: Just a Body
Sherlock and John doubled back to the building where the other haggard homeless network members were still gathered. The group was cackling and sharing stories, entirely unaware or uncaring of the mad chase that had just occurred. Like a trained bloodhound, Sherlock took up the boy's trail. He hurriedly followed the same path that the trio had initially taken and then detoured where Sherlock and John had first split off.
Sherlock remained at a clipped walking pace, but his strides were so stretched and swift, John practically had to jog to keep up with him.
"John, I understand you have questions," the detective spoke in an almost staccato fashion. "You must trust me. This is very important. Whatever happens, you must do what I tell you. Do not," Sherlock interrupted his friend. "ask. Not now. As I said, I will explain. If something – happens – call Mycroft. The bastard probably already knows -"
The detective suddenly stopped short both his speech and feet.
"Knows what?" John pressed against the sudden silence.
John had grown accustom to his flatmate cutting himself off in the middle of a sentence or thought and stealing away to his mind. Sometimes it was due to Sherlock's rapid thought pattern. On other occasions he would come to some significant realization or conclusion and gasp quite audibly. And then there were those instances when he simply grew bored of speaking altogether.
The time, though, was different.
Sherlock stalked inside the alley that the two had been standing in front of. Kneeling, he swiped a single finger along the ground, glaring at the appendage as it came back stained scarlet.
"Fresh," Sherlock reported, standing and scanning the alleyway. "No body."
"Body?" John marched over to meet him. "Are you talking about the kid? You think someone killed him?"
John could have sworn he saw Sherlock's natural pallor lighten a few shades at the question. With almost hesitant steps, the detective walked over to the nearest skip, noting the unsavory mess of someone's stomach contents beside it. Taking a breath, Sherlock lifted the lid and peered inside.
Nothing.
Well, that was both a good and bad sign.
Closing his eyes, Sherlock let himself escape to his mind palace.
New to London. Street performer. No enemies to be made in that line of work. Start over.
New to London. Card player. Skilled. There.
Plenty of people didn't fancy losing, especially to a young kid from out of town.
Street performers tend to travel in their own preformed packs or solo. So why was this one suddenly making nice with the local homeless bunch? Safety in numbers. Scared. Hiding.
Sherlock nodded and mentally scrolled to the next page.
Nearest places to hide a body.
The detective's mind jarred a bit at this. It was like when he had spoken the single word just before. Body. Was that all that this boy was to him now? After everything, all this time, was he going to get his hopes lifted like a common fool only to be left with nothing more than a body?
Sherlock shoved the thought away. He was about to close his eyes once more when he sniffed the air and smiled. People were so often predictable. As much as Sherlock loved a puzzle, in that moment he appreciated these imbecile's choice of the classics.
The detective tore out of the alley, barely noting John taking off after him. He was only a few streets away. Vaulting a railing and sprinting towards shore, Sherlock finally paused. The Thames was silent tonight but there was another sound carrying over the air. John panted as he caught up to the man and opened his mouth.
Sherlock held up a hand to silence his partner and John immediately understood the gesture. His ears perked as the blogger listened for whatever the detective's keen senses had obviously picked up. He only needed to wait a few seconds before he too heard it.
"-elp-"
The strangled and scratchy voice sounded near. That one syllable was enough for even John to make his own deductions. He had lived long enough on the battlefield and had tended to enough patients to know. This wasn't some drunkard or homeless beggar. It wasn't a ploy to draw them into the darkness. No, whoever was pleading was seriously injured.
Whoever it was, was dying.
The duo turned in the direction of the noise in unison, John fishing a small torch from his jacket pocket as they did so. The beam of light darted about the darkness until it finally landed on a lump of something along the water's edge.
Doctor's instincts taking over, John hurried to the bloodied form.
"Sherlock," John ordered and the detective instantly grabbed the torch from his friend's outstretched hand.
John was already kneeling as Sherlock cast the light over the body, illuminating the stranger's scarlet stained face.
"Sherlock," John repeated to draw the detective's attention as he took in the familiar features.
"Merlin," Sherlock spoke a name John had never heard uttered outside of stories and legends, an unusual crack to his voice.
The boy's raven hair was disheveled and plastered against his forehead. John was met with drying blood and a wince as he pushed the saturated and sticky bangs back to examine a jagged gash.
"Mm - pff -"
"Hey, can you hear me?" John peeled back the fluttering eyelids. "Sherlock, this is a pretty serious concussion." He prodded his patient's stomach and limbs. "I'm counting two bruised ribs. One broken. He's soaking, and shivering. They threw him in the river? It's freezing out here. Any longer in that water and he'd be dead. Sherlock, give me your scarf, now."
Sherlock obeyed, holding the torch in one hand as he tore of the fabric with the other. John grabbed the article of clothing and promptly pressed it against the still seeping head wound.
"Sherlock, call an ambulance."
"N - n - pl - no - amb - nn -"
His patient was weakly shaking his head as he tried in vain to speak.
"Sorry, mate. You need a hospital."
The boy started tiredly trashing as John draped Sherlock's coat, the one that he had still be carrying, over his drenched body.
"Plea - ple - nnn - plea -"
John paused as watched tears streak down the young man's already wet face.
"Can you move him?" Sherlock was suddenly beside John.
"What?"
"Is it safe? Can you move him?" Sherlock repeated irritably, though there was a trace of something more there.
"Yeah, I guess - hey, wait. Where are you going?" John looked up as his friend started off in the opposite direction.
"To hail a cab," Sherlock said simply. "We're bringing him to Baker Street."