Chapter 3 – Art Unfinished
Summary: Sherlock and John seek out Claire Caroll, professor at University College London, for information on Edgar Allan Poe and the symbolism of the serial killings.
Author's Notes: Since I'm not an expert on Poe, I used criticism regarding The Following voiced by Penn State professor Richard Kopley in an interview. This again proves that we shouldn't believe everything television tells us ;)
Again, I didn't really plan any porn. But stake-outs are boring... and we can't have boring, can we?
xXx
It is still early afternoon when they ascend the steps leading into the University College London building, Greek pillars towering over them. John can see the traces left by the civil war - bullet holes, blackened spots on the stone from where bombs or grenades went off and dark shadows on the stone floor under their shoes where people bled out and the blood hasn't been washed off entirely.
Their target is Claire Caroll, professor for English literature. Luckily, they find her in her office, where she is packing up worksheets and a laptop, presumably for her next class.
Objectively speaking, John can describe her as beautiful with her long, full hair framing a delicate face with high cheekbones.
Sherlock raps his knuckles against the door frame, causing her to look up. Her eyes widen when she sees them and John sighs inwardly. It was very likely that a professor at the university whose students played an important role in the revolution would recognise him.
"Can I help you?" she asks, zipping her bag closed.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson."
"My pleasure! What can I do for you?"
"We need information on Edgar Allan Poe, his works, symbols and literary theory."
The question obviously startles her, but she catches herself quickly.
"Well, I guess you have the wrong professor."
"I'm sorry, but you are Professor Caroll, aren't you?" John asks, slightly confused.
She nods and smiles. "I am. I'm also teaching English literature, but I'm not an expert on Poe. My husband is."
"Oh, well, can you tell us where we will find him?" Sherlock asks in his most polite tone.
"On Mondays he meets a colleague for coffee after lunch at the small coffee shop across campus. You should still catch him, watch out for his tweed jacket."
Sherlock is already turning around and leaving her office, but John gives her a smile and a sincere "Thanks" before hurrying after the detective.
When he catches up with Sherlock, he looks thoughtful. John knows this expression - a theory is forming.
"What is it?"
"Her husband. A man. Who is the expert on Edgar Allan Poe."
"What are you saying?"
"That we might be meeting our new prime suspect."
xXx
Professor Caroll, the man this time, is probably in his thirties, with short brown hair, a light stubble and a beige tweed jacket. He is coming out of the coffee shop at the same time Sherlock and John reach it and they almost collide in the doorway.
"Pardon," Caroll says and turns to leave.
"Professor Caroll?" John asks because Sherlock doesn't give any signs of speaking up soon. His eyes are focussed on the man adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder.
"That's me."
"Your wife said we would find you here, I'm -"
"John Watson, it's an honour." Caroll extends his hands and John shakes his, noting the firmness of his grip. "And Sherlock Holmes. I'm a huge fan."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow but doesn't extend his hand to meet the one Caroll offered. Caroll drops it without looking too put out.
"Indeed?"
"Yes, I follow your blog, Mr Watson, ever since you left the Reformist forces."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"So, to what do I owe this visit? You said my wife sent you?"
"Yes," John begins, "we were hoping to pick your brain on Edgar Allan Poe."
Caroll's face splits into a huge grin.
"Of course! I'd relish the opportunity. But if I start now I will talk incessantly and unfortunately, I have a prior engagement. What is this about?"
"A murder investigation," John says, watching the man's face closely but he doesn't react in any suspicious way.
"Oh, yes. The murders. I've read about it in the papers, poor girls. Well, I'd be glad to help the great Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Why don't you come over for a drink tonight? I teach until six, but after that I'm free."
John and Sherlock exchange a look and John nods. "Do you have a card?"
"Of course, hang on…" Caroll rummages in his jacket pockets and produces a small silver case which holds business cards of which he hands John one. "Just call me when you're about to come and I will give you the address."
"Thank you." John accepts the card and waves after Caroll who is making his way across the street with a steady pace.
John directs a questioning glance at Sherlock, as if to ask if the man is a serial killer.
Sherlock gazes after him, eyes narrowed. "He is interesting," is all he says.
xXx
John has a plan: Research David Caroll on the internet the moment they get home. Sherlock and he, however, haven't even hung their coats when Greg calls.
"Any leads?" Greg's voice is tight, the question rushed.
"Perhaps. We're meeting the Poe expert tonight after he finishes his lectures," John says, uncomfortable feeling settling in his stomach. "Any news on your end?"
"We found another body."
One look at Sherlock is enough for the detective to retrieve his coat and lead the way out of the apartment.
xXx
Another Omega, another pair of gouged out eyes, another pile of intestines draped over the victim.
Veronica Martin is lying on the floor this time, however, head turned towards the wall that holds a bookshelf. Of course they find one of Poe' publications.
"Something is off," Sherlock announces as soon as they have entered the crime scene. The fact that he doesn't wait in the far-off chance anyone else has seen the answer says all about how desperate he is to find the killer.
"First, she is displayed on the floor, every other victim was either sitting or lying on respectively in something. Second, she is pointing out the bookshelf containing a work of Edgar Allan Poe, and third, this book has been placed here by the killer. He is confirming our theory. He knows which path the investigation is following and he welcomes it."
"How do you know the book was planted?" Greg asks, approaching the book shelf.
"The layer of dust on the remaining books is thicker than on Poe's copy. Dust doesn't lie, dust is poetic."
Sherlock lets the information settle as he crouches next to Veronica's body.
"She took night classes at the same college as Louise Mead but was in completely different courses. Other than that, there are no obvious connections between her and the other victims."
Something catches John's eye - a bruise on Veronica's left arm, probably left by a hand when the killer grabbed her too tight.
"Our killer is getting sloppy," John says and immediately holds everyone's attention. "There's a bruise. He handled all the other victims with a great amount of care, every murder has been very sophisticated but this time, he left a bruise."
Sherlock smiles at him and John feels a sudden rush of pride.
xXx
They call David Caroll around seven after they had to discard several leads since they turned out to be dead ends after all.
"So, how about you treat him like a suspect and I treat him like an informant?" John suggests as they exit the cab in front of Caroll's apartment building.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I suppose that will do." John can see Sherlock's jaw working, though the detective doesn't say anything further.
"What?"
"Well, I believe you will get along with Professor Caroll rather splendidly. Don't let it cloud your judgement."
"I won't."
With a clearly dubious look, Sherlock rings the doorbell. Caroll buzzes them in and welcomes them at his door on the second floor, wearing a jumper to his cotton trousers. John can see the tweet jacket on the coat rack in the entrance hall
"Good to see you, come on in." Caroll leads them into the flat which is an odd blend of books and children's toys. "It's just you and me tonight, Claire is out with the little one. Can I get you a drink?"
"No, I'm fine," Sherlock replies.
"Well, if you're offering?" John sees Sherlock's lips twitch.
Caroll fetches them both a beer while Sherlock unfolds the crime scene photos on the living room table.
Caroll stares, eyes wide, and swallows hard. "Oh my god. This is a moment where it all becomes very real."
Sherlock narrows his eyes at the professor. "Your wife mentioned you're the expert on Edgar Allan Poe."
Caroll is rather pale when he manages to tear his eyes away from the pictures. "Yes. But what makes you think your killer has a greater literary purpose?"
"The sophistication to the murders, the way the bodies are handled and displayed, there's a… romance to it," Sherlock says, voice soft and probing, hoping for a reaction. John doubts Caroll can tell that Sherlock suspects him, the way the man seems shocked by the blood and gore.
Caroll shuts his eyes briefly and shakes himself a little. "Poe's eye allegory would certainly fit. You'll find his symbolism full of romance…" He looks around, spots a book on one of the shelves surrounding the table, pulls it off and hands it to them. "Here."
To John's astonishment, Sherlock accepts it. "Great, thanks a lot. We'll get this right back to you."
"Oh no, don't you dare, this is for you. This is a treat for me. Helping the great Sherlock Holmes and Captain John Watson? Now please, may I offer you a drink?"
"Alright, whatever you're drinking." Only John can see the calculation in Sherlock's eyes.
Caroll produces another beer for Sherlock, then a thought seems to hit him.
"I have something else for you, one moment."
Caroll disappears through a door while John exchanges a slightly worried glance with Sherlock. John's hand darts to his Sig hidden underneath his jacket.
Yet Caroll doesn't come back holding a knife, but a book. "I'm an author, too. This was inspired by Poe's unfinished work The Light-House. Wait, I'll sign it for you."
John managed to catch the title - The Gothic Sea. He has never heard of this book, however he hasn't been following the bestseller lists that closely either.
Sherlock smiles in what John identifies as fake-gratitude. "Thanks a lot, I'll read it right away."
"Feel free to hate it. Everyone else has."
"It's not doing well?" John chimes in.
"Actually that's the third copy," Caroll explains with an air of bitterness.
"I could give you a twenty or something?" John suggests which makes the professor laugh.
They fall into comfortable small talk. Sherlock was right - John actually has a good time talking to Caroll - "Please, call me David" - while Sherlock skims through the pages of The Gothic Sea.
"How many lectures do you give a week?" John asks at one point and the smirk playing around Sherlock's lips tells him the detective knows exactly that John is asking for an alibi.
David provides them with his entire schedule, which unfortunately gives him an alibi for most of the murders, especially their last case, since Caroll teaches Monday mornings from ten to twelve, the exact time Veronica Martin was killed.
"We really appreciate your help, David," John says when they decide to call it a night.
"If nothing else, it's good beer."
"It's great beer," John concedes, then goes out on a hunch and adds, "We've been working on this case non-stop. Sometimes we just forget to stop and turn it off for a few hours."
John may not be able to see Sherlock's expression, but he is sure the detective is rolling his eyes since Sherlock never forgets. He just chooses not to.
"I couldn't turn it off either if I were you." Caroll sighs. "Must be hard. At least you are working together, so it doesn't get quite that lonely. But the pay-off. Helping people, saving lives… I think what you do is quite remarkable."
John's answering smile is wide and genuine. "Thank you. It's nice to be appreciated."
"Take care."
Sherlock nods and follows John out of the flat and into the street.
"So, what's your verdict?" John dares with a glance at the detective.
"He seems too fascinated with the Romantic Period and especially Poe. I'll know more once I've had a closer look at his book. A person's way of writing can give you great insight into their mind."
Smirking, John raises an eyebrow. "Do you analyse my blog in the same way?"
"Perhaps." But Sherlock's tone is light, so whatever he infers from John's style didn't tell him anything he hadn't already known.
xXx
At Baker Street, Sherlock sends John off to bed, alone. Sherlock never sleeps much on a case and not at all while there is a serial killer on the loose he might be inches away from catching.
He huddles into the sofa, allows the scent of the flat to drown him comfortably without analysing his actions further - he is busy reading Caroll's "masterpiece".
It doesn't take five pages for Sherlock to know exactly why the book flopped.
Apart from his abysmal writing style, he also interprets Poe wrong. Still, Sherlock manages to mostly finish the book before his body gets the better of him and he drifts off into a deep sleep despite his agitation.
It's the smell of breakfast that wakes him.
"Morning, sleeping beauty," John quips from the kitchen doorway. "I'm glad to see reading David's book has such an effect on you. Although I doubt it says much in favour of the book."
"You are quite right in that regard."
Sherlock stretches and tries to loosen his stiff neck. He wanders into the kitchen where John gently but pointedly shoves him into a chair at the table where a cup of hot tea is already waiting.
"Eat," John commands and it sounds so much like the voice he used as Captain Watson that it sends a shiver down Sherlock's spine.
Bugger. His heat must be approaching.
All the more reason to solve this crime quickly.
"So, what did The Gothic Sea tell us?" John asks after he put away their dishes.
"That Caroll shouldn't teach about things he has no knowledge of."
"Criticising the expert, are we?"
"Please. I had a classical education, we spent weeks on Poe and nowhere did he say anything about the insanity of art and that art had to be felt by the artist and what other rubbish Caroll wants his students to believe."
John doesn't even answer, only looks at him in a way that reminds Sherlock that not everyone shares his intellect and, in this case, his educational background.
"Poe's writing was complex, thoughtfully crafted; by no means insane. Yes, the eyes and the whirlpool were symbols he used, but our serial killer treats his violence as a work of art in itself. Like Caroll argues, the killer believes there is insanity in art and his own form of artistic expression centres on depravity and gratuitous violence. Poe believed that art could elevate the soul and yes, he wrote about dead women and girls, but one needs to take his life history into account!"
John is still listening, so Sherlock barges on, allowing his annoyance to spill into his voice. "Poe's mother died when he was two years and ten months old; a best friend's mother died when he was 12; from the age of 33 to 38, he was watching his wife slowly die from tuberculosis. Enduring death and the dying of the woman he loved was a fact of life for Poe, his art a way of honouring grief and the pain that comes with loss. Caroll has it all wrong."
John stares at him, mouth agape, for half a minute. "Why do you know things like this?"
"I make it my business to know everything of import."
The Alpha smirks at that. "Then tell me, does the earth move around the sun or vice versa?"
Sherlock groans and rises from his chair to escape into the living room. That bloody argument about the solar system. Things like that aren't important to him, why does John have to make such a fuss about planetary constellations?
"Alright, sorry, that was mean," John apologises, following him. "So are you saying Caroll is our madman with an obsession about Romantic literature?"
"Obvious."
"He has alibis for half the murders. And even I can deduce our serial killer isn't working with an accomplice."
Ah, yes. The issue of the alibis. There has to be a way around that.
"I'm working on it."
That exact moment, his mobile phone rings. The caller ID reads "Lestrade".
xXx
The eighth crime scene with the ninth victim is a mess - John has seen war zones that were more organised.
Apparently someone tipped off the press, who are having a feast as it is with a serial killer going around and now are crowding the blue and white tape to one of the Omega building complexes.
John pulls Sherlock's phone out of his coat and dials Greg's number.
The DI picks up on the second ring. "Are you there yet?"
"Yes, but we can't get through the reporters. I guess you don't want them to see us."
Greg sighs on the other end. "There's a back entrance. I'll come get you."
"Worried that Donovan won't let us in?"
"You maybe, but Sherlock would definitely have to stay outside."
John chuckles and tells Sherlock about their change of plans. At the back entrance, Greg waits and the guards let them in without problems.
"Tell me," Sherlock orders, falling into step with the DI.
"Cordelia Gabriels, 26, Omega. Was attending Imperial College on scholarship like Molly Lipton, but they didn't share many classes. Evidence in Cordelia Gabriels' room suggests she wanted to become a vet."
"Forced entry?" John inquires, though he fears he already knows the answer.
"Same as always, knew the attacker. That's part of the reason everyone's going round the bend. If it's someone you know, then who's to say it's not your best friend?"
They have reached the small room Cordelia Gabriels occupied, directly next to the public bathrooms of her floor.
"Any witnesses?"
Greg shakes his head as his eyes follow Sherlock who is already inspecting the room, leaving John access to the body.
"She hasn't been dead long."
"We estimate time of death around eight am," Anderson informs him curtly.
John and Sherlock exchange a meaningful glance. David Caroll gives lectures on Tuesday mornings from eight to twelve and is always half an hour early.
With nothing else to do, John inspects every inch of the victim's body. He sees burn marks on her forearms, probably left by a cruel Alpha once. They look like they are from cigars.
Cordelia is wearing a short skirt and a blouse whose top three buttons are open, exposing more of her cleavage John would deem proper for a college student on scholarship. Her legs are spread, her black tights ripped at places, exposing scarred skin underneath. The entire display has a truly sexual overtone and it makes John shiver uncomfortably.
Most of her torso is covered in blood from the abdominal wound but something catches his eye.
A small puncture wound in the crook of her elbow, as if from a needle. There is only one, suggesting she wasn't an addict of some kind.
"Sherlock?" he calls and moments later, the Omega is standing next to him. "This looks like the mark of an injection."
"Interesting."
When Sherlock goes quiet, John glances up and finds the detective staring into nothing, hands moving with jerky motions, mumbling under his breath. His mind palace.
John knows better than to move and break his concentration so he inspects the corpse further. Her neck, where it isn't covered in blood, bears scars as well - she probably was equipped with a low-quality collar. If one tugged too hard on it for too often, it would cut the flesh repeatedly and the poor sanitary conditions most Omegas had to endure during slavery did the rest to prevent wounds from healing.
"Proferroxin."
Startled, John rises from his crouched position to shoot his flatmate a questioning look.
Sherlock sighs when faced with too many unknowing expressions, then explains. "Proferroxin is a drug used in taxidermy, the art of preparing dead animals while preserving their bodies. Proferroxin delays the symptoms of decomposition. The use on human bodies is forbidden, obvious, but it has a similar effect."
The extent of this realisation hits John like a blunt weapon to the head. "You mean our killer could have murdered his victims before the official time of death?"
Sherlock nods. "You need to test all the victims for the drug immediately," he tells Lestrade and makes to leave, almost bumping into the DI.
"Where are you going?" Greg looks more than a little overwhelmed. John feels for him but he knows that they need to move, now.
"We're tailing a suspect," he explains and hurries to catch up with his flatmate. "We are going to follow David Caroll, aren't we?"
"Obvious."
"Brilliant. Because stake-outs are usually so exciting."
xXx
As it turns out, John's feeling was correct. Shadowing David Caroll has to be the most tedious task he has ever undertaken, including manning an observation tower in Afghanistan. At least there he was allowed to shoot scorpions.
They "borrowed" Greg's car - that is, Sherlock stole his keys when he left the crime scene, so John sends the DI an apologetic text message when he finds out.
Their mission turns up nothing on Tuesday; sitting in the car for so long only makes John itch. Thus he is the one always making runs for tea and food, occasionally simply stretching his legs.
He hopes that they catch Caroll soon, he really wants to get back to training Lubitsch and the rest of his former soldiers - a job that Bhabha persuaded him to fulfil as often as he can fit it into his schedule between cases. John isn't complaining. It allows him to keep in touch with his comrades and keeps his body in shape.
Now that is the benefit even Sherlock values.
John returns from an actual coffee run around eleven thirty at night. The lights in Carol's apartment are still on.
"Nothing of importance to report," Sherlock tells him, obviously bored. He has already inspected Greg's glove compartment and made a series of deductions John would rather die than reveal to the DI. Other than that, there is nothing to do and Sherlock doesn't cope well with boredom.
He then has gone through every detail of every crime scene in the hope to discover anything they have previously missed.
Around seven Greg called to confirm the use of Proferroxin on five of the nine victims.
"We could try to sleep, I doubt he will commit any crime before six am since you said the drug only delays death by two to three hours."
"I'm not tired."
"Suit yourself," John says with a deep fondness in his voice as he tries to get comfortable in the passenger seat.
An enticing smell wakes him and a look at the clock tells him he slept for about an hour. Inhaling deeply he has no trouble identifying the spicy-sweet smell in the air.
Sensing John is awake probably, Sherlock shifts in the driver's seat.
"This makes no sense," he complains, "my heat isn't due until next week!"
The detective sounds highly annoyed and John can understand him. Until now, Sherlock's heats have never coincided with the peak of one of their investigations.
"Extreme stress can cause the cycle to start prematurely," John supplies, shifting his body so he is facing Sherlock. "How can I help?"
"There will be no helping, John, we are on a case."
"We're on a boring stake-out where the most interesting thing happening is a neighbour walking his dog. Caroll is asleep."
"But we can't miss when he leaves the house. Could you live with yourself knowing that another woman died?"
John can't but snort at that. "Don't pretend it's about the victims. You just want to catch him."
"You do, too."
"Yes, but we won't if you can't think straight because all your blood has left your brain in favour of your groin." John pointedly glances at the bulge in Sherlock's trousers.
"No. It's not necessary."
John sighs. He knows a lost battle when he sees one, and Sherlock will come around when his biology takes over most of his higher brain functions in which case John will be there for him in whatever way Sherlock wants him.
xXx
He doesn't have to wait long. Thirty minutes later, Sherlock can't keep still although he tries to force his body to obey him, and the way he is writhing on the car seat, probably already dripping, is particularly filthy and shouldn't turn John on as much as it does.
The smell of an Alpha's arousal is too much and with a groan, Sherlock turns his head to look into John's eyes.
"Make it quick."
Treating it as a challenge, John tells Sherlock to climb into the back seat where they have more space - not particularly much but it will have to do.
Swiftly, John opens Sherlock's fly and pulls down trousers and pants, exposing Sherlock's hard and leaking cock. John doesn't wait more than a second before he closes his mouth over the glans and sucks down, hard and fast, building a ruthless rhythm. He forgoes Sherlock's balls and uses the hand not holding his shaft to circle Sherlock's hole that is already wet, just like John predicted.
They haven't had sex since the murders started, so John starts with two fingers and quickly has Sherlock ready to take another one. He works them in and out, alternately stroking his prostate and pushing past it while swallowing down all of Sherlock he can handle.
Sherlock is writhing, biting down on his hands to muffle the sounds that spill from his throat. When John deep-throats, however, Sherlock cries out sharply before he manages to clam two hands over his mouth.
John would smirk maliciously if he didn't have his mouth full of Sherlock's heavy cock. He wants to test Sherlock's restraint so he engulfs his length again until he can feel the tip hit the back of his throat but he still takes Sherlock in further.
He swallows around him at the exact moments his fingers find Sherlock's prostate and Sherlock's hips jerk once, twice and then he is shouting John's name as he literally comes down his throat.
Moments pass with only their heavy breathing filling the car. John's own erection is almost painful underneath the fabric of his trousers but it can wait. Knowing Sherlock, he will need at least two more rounds before his heat is sated.
Not even ten minutes pass before he feels Sherlock's hands at his fly, opening it and tugging at the fabric.
A glance confirms Sherlock is hard again and John pushes his trousers and pants down until they reach his ankles, then toes off his shoes and strips completely.
When he focuses on Sherlock again, he finds the Omega on his fours, probably not even aware how he is presenting his arse, perineum glistening in the light from a street lamp outside the car window.
John stifles a groan and takes the invitation, sliding in with one quick thrust.
Sherlock pushes back, urging him on and he understands - make it fast is still the top priority.
So John wanks Sherlock's cock with one hand while he fucks him hard into the car seat at a pace that has both of them gasping and sweating.
Just in time, John remembers that they are in fact in Greg's car and he retrieves the only thing he can find - Sherlock's scarf - to cover the fabric of the back seat before Sherlock climaxes and spills white fluid all over it.
The muscles around John's cock convulse just right, sending John over the edge with a stifled moan.
"Is that my scarf?!" Sherlock asks in alarm a few moments later since, as experience has taught John, Sherlock's brain rebounds a lot quicker from orgasm then his own.
"It was either that or explain the stains to Greg."
Sherlock shudders at the thought, placing the sullied scarf behind the headrest, glancing outside at the same time.
"Their flat is still dark."
"And you need at least one other round," John comments, letting his voice drop an octave lower than usual.
Having obviously resigned himself to his body's biology, Sherlock chooses to crawl between John and the backrest, draping himself half over him in the process, instead of keeping watch at the window.
John kisses him breathless, then traces Sherlock's jaw with his tongue, moving lower until he can tease Sherlock's pulse point which has the Omega hard in no time once more.
John wants to lean up but a hand on his chest stops him. Smirking, Sherlock untangles himself from his shoes and pants at last, then swings one leg over John so he is straddling his hips, Sherlock's erection brushing against John's half-hard cock deliciously.
Sherlock shuffles lower, one hand gripping John firmly before he licks a wet line along his shaft. John presses his mouth shut to keep the sounds in because, frankly, Sherlock gives amazing blow jobs.
Though this time, Sherlock only wants to get him fully hard for he pulls off way too soon and John whines at the loss of the wet heat of Sherlock's mouth.
He doesn't have to wait long. In one fluid, graceful movement that never ceases to amaze John no matter how often he watches it, Sherlock lowers himself onto John's cock. Once he is fully sheathed, Sherlock rotates his hips sinfully slow and John has to use every ounce of self-control to keep his hips in place.
Sherlock is beautiful like this, his lithe body shimmering with sweat, nipples hard and John stretches out his hands to tease them between his fingers. It is mean, he knows, for this is one of Sherlock's many erogenous zones and within a few minutes Sherlock is grinding down at a strong rhythm, moving his hips just so.
The strain of holding his body up becomes too much then and John slumps back into the seat. He adjusts his hips slightly, brushing against Sherlock's prostate and Sherlock immediately covers his mouth with a hand.
John has to close his eyes, the friction is increasing as Sherlock's movements become erratic and John bites the inside of his cheek to keep him from moaning as he feels a familiar heat pool in his groin.
It takes effort to will his knot down this time - the Alpha in him senses his Omega is in heat and wants to lock their bodies together, but John can only imagine the way Sherlock would complain.
The small distraction turns his orgasm into a surprise and he comes so hard his vision blurs for a moment. Sherlock rides him through the aftershocks, working himself hard on John's cock, until he topples over the edge, too and coats John's chest with long, white spurts.
Sherlock all but collapses onto him, his body moulding itself into John's side as always, this time careful to avoid the mess on John's chest and abs.
"We should get a car," Sherlock says, somewhat non sequitur.
"We don't need a car." John raises an eyebrow but Sherlock's clever expression is enough to make the other shoe drop. John laughs. "No, we are not buying a car just so we can have sex in it."
"Then we need to borrow this one more often."
"Greg will poison my beer the next time we're at the pub."
"Not if he never finds out."
"We're talking about the same Greg Lestrade here? The Detective Inspector?"
"Please, like I couldn't fool him."
"Let's leave this a hypothetical idea."
"An idea is always hypothetical."
"People shouldn't be this smart, post-coital."
"I'm not like other people."
"No. You aren't." John smiles and gently dips Sherlock's head back for a leisurely kiss, wallowing in the smell of sex and satisfaction.
xXx
Sherlock shakes him awake at six thirty in the morning.
"Caroll is on the move," is all he says before he starts the car. John is glad he made the effort of getting dressed at some point during the night.
He can discern the professor's figure in the distance as the man gets into his car. Sherlock follows him at a safe distance, brilliantly navigating the traffic as to not arise Caroll's suspicion, through London.
They aren't going to University College, that much is certain.
Sherlock and he exchange a meaningful look when Caroll pulls into a parking slot at King's College campus housing. John rummages in the glove compartment and throws Greg's Met parking permit behind the windscreen and follows Sherlock out of the car.
John's hand immediately darts to his gun and stays there, not wanting to take the chance that Caroll has spotted them and decides to lay a trap.
Sherlock raises a fist before they round a corner and out of reflex, John stops.
"He entered a flat. We need to wait for a sign that he is actually hurting someone or he will be able to find a way out of this."
John nods and they proceed to the door of flat 2-41, listening for the smallest sound.
Sherlock actually has his ear pressed against the door. "They are talking. Three voices. His victim has a roommate."
A few quiet moments pass, then a high pitched scream pierces the silence and Sherlock tries the door knob but it won't give.
"Step away," John shouts and his foot hits the door the second Sherlock is out of the way. The door breaks at the first try and Sherlock slips into the flat before John can enter, Sig raised.
John sees Sherlock glance at the brunette Beta who lies on the living room floor, eviscerated with much more force than the previous victims, but the detective follows the sounds of fighting into the kitchen.
A quick check confirms that the Beta's heart has stopped beating, then John proceeds into the kitchen where Sherlock is currently pulling David Caroll off a blonde woman who is clutching her bleeding arm.
Caroll has a knife which he tries to hurt Sherlock with, yet thankfully, Sherlock is versed in hand-to-hand-combat and manages to deflect every jab. Sherlock's back is to John, so he can't get a clear shot at Caroll but within a split second, Caroll wheels Sherlock around, raising the knife.
Sherlock is caught off balance and the moment he needs to regain his footing is enough for Caroll to sink the knife into his right side.
John pulls the trigger the very first second he can, but it's still too late.
Caroll screams in pain, then topples to the ground, revealing Sherlock leaning against the kitchen counter, the knife stuck in his lower torso.
John hits Caroll over the head with the butt of his Sig to keep him unconscious before he is at Sherlock's side, catching him as he threatens to fall over.
"I've got you."
"I hope you didn't kill him."
"No, Sherlock, I made sure you can question him - Jesus, are you listening to yourself? You have a knife stuck in your body, bloody hell!"
"A non-fatal wound and you know it."
"The way it's bleeding the knife hit your kidneys, you need to lie down."
John stifles his Alpha impulses and addresses the blonde who is threatening to go into shock at any moment.
"Miss, what's your name?" Then, louder, "Miss?"
She startles, blinks and focuses her eyes on John. "Sarah. Sarah Fuller."
"Sarah, I'm John. This is Sherlock. You put up a good fight. Now can you go to the phone and call for ambulances?"
She simply looks at him for a moment, though when the words sink in, she rushes out of the kitchen.
John guides Sherlock into the living room and lies him down between the sofa and the TV, as far enough away from the brunette's body as possible. John pulls the coffee table closer and puts Sherlock's legs up.
"Stay still; I'll look for a first-aid kit."
He passes Sarah in the hallway as she hangs up. "First-aid kit?"
"Bathroom," she answers, then hurries through a door and comes back out with the small box.
John accepts it and hurries back to where Sherlock is oozing blood all over the carpet. He pulls the phone out of Sherlock's jacket and offers it to Sarah who takes it with shaky hands.
"Alright, I need you to go to the call list and select Lestrade," John tells her while he puts on gloves and pulls out as many compressions as he can find. "Call him, tell him you are with John and Sherlock. Give him your address and tell him we caught the killer. Can you do that?"
She nods, pushes at the screen and brings the iPhone to her face.
John listens with one ear while he moves Sherlock's hands to put pressure on the dressings.
"He's on his way."
"Good. Can you sit down and take the scissors from the first-aid kit? Cut the sleeve of your shirt off so I can tend to your wound."
She nods again and John returns his focus to the detective on the floor who is growing increasingly pale.
"Sherlock, you've been lucky. The knife apparently only punctured your kidney and missed the liver. You will need an operation at the hospital but you will be fine, alright? Press down on the wound, don't play with the knife. I will bandage Sarah's wound."
Sherlock's answering nod is so small that John hardly sees it.
When he turns, he finds Sarah sitting, wound t-shirt sleeve free, staring at the brunette on the floor.
"Sarah, can you look at me?" John asks softly and is glad when Sarah's eyes find his. "I'm sorry about your friend. But you survived, you did well. Now I'll patch you up, you're bleeding quite a bit."
She nods and allows him to use the last dressing on her wound. He can already hear the ambulances approaching as well as the siren of the police and finally the relief floods his body, now that Sherlock's wound is tended to and Sarah's breathing is evening out.
When the A&E arrives, everything passes in a rush. John is telling the doctors about the three patients when Greg approaches him.
"How's Sherlock?"
"Bleeding but he'll live."
Greg nods and follows John's eyes to where Sherlock is wheeled out of the flat. "Go with him. I'll find you at the hospital."
John smiles briefly in gratitude, then breaks into a run to follow Sherlock into the ambulance.
xXx
As soon as they reach the hospital, Sherlock is rushed into surgery, as is David Caroll since the bullet is apparently lodged between his ribs.
Greg finds John in a waiting area near the OR.
"Are you up to giving your statement?"
John shrugs. "It passes the time."
"He'll be alright, won't he?"
"Yes. But still, if I had had a clear shot earlier -"
"Why don't you tell me what happened? I'm sure I'll still say there's nothing you could've done differently. And you did save Sarah Fuller's life."
"Where is she?"
"With a doctor. Donovan will interview her."
"Well then," John sighs, running a hand over his face before he gives his testimony.
"You did well, John," Greg says once he is done, patting his shoulder. "Who knows how many other girls Caroll would've killed before he stopped. If he had stopped at all."
John doesn't answer; everything that comes to his mind are empty phrases.
"There is something else," Greg continues and John's head snaps up. "Somehow the press has heard that we had an address, little buggers must've been listening to our radio again. Anyway, a few reporters were outside when they transported Sherlock into the ambulance. You might get a little more attention than before from now on."
John groans - the press following their every move isn't something he wants to happen.
"Well, I'll deal with the vultures. Say hello to Sherlock for me. I'll visit for his statement later."
John nods but halfway down the hallway, Greg stops. "You wouldn't happen to have my car keys, would you?"
He shakes his head. "They are in Sherlock's coat pocket. I'm sure they will give them to you if you ask nicely."
"Alright, I'll charm the nurses."
"Be careful not to mention that to Judy!"
Greg's answering laugh echoes in the corridor.
xXx
Sherlock is out of surgery in a little over three hours, which is a good sign, John muses. He has to wait until Sherlock is out of the recovery ward but soon, he is allowed to see him again.
The hospital gown is not a good look on the detective, the IV even less so, but at least Sherlock is alive.
The nurse told him it will be a little longer until Sherlock wakes up, so John decides to chance a look at his chart.
When the receptionist turns out to be a young female Omega, John can't believe his luck. It is rather easy for Captain John Watson to persuade her to hand him the chart for a quick look. Like he predicted, the knife missed the liver but punctured the kidney, yet the surgeons were able to repair the damage.
John thanks the woman and hands her back the file, then hurries back to Sherlock's private room. They probably have Greg to thank for that one, and that even after they stole his car.
Sherlock drifts back into consciousness slowly, eyes adjusting to the light and surveying the room.
He brings his hand up to his stomach and probably feels the bandages underneath the gown. He looks questioningly at John in the chair beside him.
"You had a nephrectomy. You spent three hours in surgery but they expect a full recovery."
"Caroll?"
"Had to undergo surgery to retrieve the bullet. He'll walk out of here and into a prison cell in no time."
Sherlock smiles triumphantly. "I found out why we couldn't discern whether the murderer was Alpha, Beta or Omega. He can shift, just like that Adler woman."
"Brilliant, as always."
"Well, apprehending Caroll would have proven difficult without backup."
"Is this your way of thanking me for saving your life?"
"You know me too well."
John laughs, warmth spreading in his chest and he leans in to press a soft kiss against Sherlock's lips.
Belatedly, he remembers that he never did get around to having The Talk with Sherlock like he promised Greg. That night in the pub seems like a lifetime ago.
"Can't you kiss me properly?"
"You're recovering from trauma surgery. No strenuous physical activity, doctor's orders."
Sherlock groans and throws his head back into the pillow. "How long will they keep me here, then?"
"Ten to twelve days."
Sherlock's eyes widen for a second before he clears his throat and begins talking at high speed. "Then I need you to go back to the flat and pick up the books from the coffee table, as well as my laptop. Then I need you to check the tupperware box in the kitchen and tell me the colour. The exact colour, not just some approximation your brain has come up with. Better yet, take a picture, this way we can avoid awkward silences. Light it well, please."
"Anything else?"
"My violin."
John rises from the chair with a smile. "Of course." John regards Sherlock for a moment longer, then, impulsively, leans in again to press a kiss on Sherlock's hair.
"I love you, by the way."
Sherlock's face goes slack, like the news is an absolute surprise for him and perhaps it is, the concept of love hasn't occurred to Sherlock's brilliant mind.
"I'll see you later," John says then, clarifying that he doesn't expect an answer of any kind, and leaves the room to fetch everything Sherlock ordered.
xXx
End Notes: I'm never sure about using the "I love you" line in fics but it just had to be said :)
I invented Proferroxin. If something like it actually exists - great :) Well. For the taxidermy professionals…
Thanks to my MD sister for advice on the knife wound! Originally the plan was to give Sherlock a scar like Ryan Hardy has on the show, just on the other side to avoid the pacemaker issue. Turns out puncturing the lungs is no fun at all either, so kidney it is.
Anyway, thanks for all the positive feedback I've received so far, you guys are the best!