By the time John managed to snap himself out of it and re-enter the club in pursuit of the stranger who knew too much about him to bloody be a stranger, a lot had changed.
The cleaning lights were on, the music had been turned off, and the previously hyped group of clubbers were voicing their complaints with shouts and boos as they were hustled out by a few police officers in neon colours and people that John could only assume to be plain clothed officers.
Right in the centre of the club, previously the dance floor, was the stranger. John could see the proper colour of his shirt, now. It was a royal purple, and it accentuated the man's pale skin and unruly curls. There was an effortless, controlled grace with which the man was gesturing and speaking, and John had to grab a hold of his tangential lustful thoughts.
A second man stood next to him, this one in a long coat who had an air of bone-tired, long-suffering acceptance. John couldn't help but feel a flash of sympathy for the obviously overworked man.
They weren't alone.
"Bill? What the hell – oi! What do you think you're doing?" John yelled as the second man, the one in the coat, pulled out a pair of handcuffs and snapped a set of handcuffs onto Bill's wrists.
By the time John had made his way over, Bill had his hands behind his back, handcuffed. He was grinning for no reason John could discern.
"Don't worry Johnny, all part of the plan," Bill winked at him.
"What?" John's eyebrows drew together.
He glanced at the quirky stranger and his accomplice, and they had both fixed Bill with a heavy glare. John's stranger had narrowed his eyes and raised his hands in mock prayer beneath his chin, and his eyes were sharp enough to pierce Bill's skin.
John was so done with it all. What the hell was going on?
Although it hadn't escaped his notice that his left hand hadn't shaken all night.
"Bill, mate, what are you doing?" John asked.
Bill just stood there, grinning like he'd won the lottery.
Trench Coat glanced at John then, before asking, "Who are you then?"
"I'm his mate. Who are you, and just what exactly are trying to accomplish arresting an innocent man?" John said in patience-masked anger.
Instead of replying, the salt-and-pepper haired man glanced at the man in purple and pointed a thumb at John, "He a part of it?"
He received a short, "No," in response.
"Right then," and he shrugged apologetically at John, "Sorry about this mate. I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Well, Inspector, you've got the wrong man," John replied.
"No no no, it's definitely him," John's stranger interrupted with a dismissive tone, "But the question is how? How could an ex-soldier turn into an assassin over barely two months? Now, with PTSD, an aimless murderer would fit better – unable to cope with civilian life, you decide to take it out on the world at large with an illegal weapon smuggled over from where you served. But no, these kills were executed with pinpoint accuracy every time, bullet through the forehead. No passion involved at all, and then there were the notes. Every victim, left with a small note. What kind of killer, never mind assassin, leaves intentional yet vague clues by the body – helpful hints to anyone who knows how to use their brain? You did this for another reason, but what?"
The man began circling Bill like some kind of jungle cat and John stepped instinctively closer, but Bill only followed the wiry man with excited eyes.
"This is ridiculous," John muttered, only to have the rapid-fire monologue continue.
"All the victims were linked. Barely, yes, but all linked in that they all attended a single seminar on computer technology years ago. You could not have uncovered the information of their attendance, or the times and places each victim would be vulnerable, with such a small data trail left behind. The trail was next to invisible, and a man with lesser intelligence than I would not have been able to spot it. No, you're not a skilled hacker, you don't have the posture or the eyes or the legs for it. Your stance and your bearing only read military. So, you haven't been working alone. It was one of the more likely preliminary ideas I'd had – obviously you're the brawn but who is the brain and more importantly, how do they fit into this?"
Bill's mouth was open in obvious delight, "Wow, they told me you were good, but no, really, you are good."
"Very. Now tell me who you're working for," the man had stopped pacing.
Bill laughed, "That's not for me to say."
Before the man could no doubt spite Bill to death, another man in a suit with gel-slicked hair and a scowl had joined the small group.
He interrupted from beside the D.I., "Excuse me? I'm the manager of this joint, right, and I don't mean to be rude but would you mind moving this along? There's a bit of riot going on outside, and I don't want this episode to cause property damage."
The D.I. nodded wearily, "Sure thing mate. C'mon Sherlock, we can interrogate him at the Yard."
Sherlock, John thought. So that was his name.
Sherlock had not taken his eyes off Bill's throughout the exchange, and it looked like they were having a bizarre staring contest. Bill was still grinning, and it was starting to tick John off. What the hell was he so happy about?
Abruptly, Sherlock broke contact to address the inspector, "That won't be necessary Lestrade. Someone's given him an incentive to keep quiet; he won't talk."
"So we give him an incentive to talk! He's murdered five people, Sherlock, there's a lot we can hold over his head," Lestrade pressed with barely present patience.
Sherlock rolled his eyes melodramatically, which seemed to be a habit of his, "Really, Lestrade. Just look at him, really look; he's lucid, he's perfectly aware of what he's done, and he knows that aside from those vague little hints that you could barely make sense of, nothing links him to the murders, never mind proves he committed them. We know that whoever orchestrated this is clever, so it's likely nothing will be found in this man's house or his haunts. What are we left with? No motive, no weapon, and no means linked directly to him. I know he did it and you know he did it, but the evidence – or lack thereof - won't hold up in court until we find the person behind this sack of meat. Feel free to ask him all the questions you want, but I refuse to waste my time."
John stared after Sherlock's retreating back, and decided he'd had enough of this shit.
He turned to Bill and said, "Don't worry mate, I'll sort this out."
Bill, forever the dealer of wit and dry jokes, did nothing but wink cheekily. Bizarre. John shook his head and smiled wryly.
So much for nothing ever happening to me, he thought dryly.
Leaving Lestrade to take his friend away, John hurried to follow Sherlock. He found him near the entrance, retrieving a few extra layers of clothing from the lockers where other club goers' belongings still sat.
"Bill's innocent," John said with conviction.
Sherlock turned his head halfway towards John, looking over his shoulder and keeping John in his peripheral as he raised a haughty eyebrow.
"Oh?" Sherlock said, seemingly hearing John out for the moment.
"You said so yourself, you don't have any solid evidence. The burden of proof rests with you," John said, crossing his arms.
Sherlock donned his coat and scarf and put his gloves in his pocket before turning and striding up to John. Barely a metre apart, John stood up straighter and looked Sherlock in the eye, standing his ground.
"And you think you could beat me in a battle of wits?" Sherlock said quietly, intensely.
"This isn't about you or me, and it's not about wit. This is about accusing a man of murder who, like you said, had no incentive, means or –" but John was cut off.
"No, I said that he had no motive to murder those five people, but he certainly had an incentive. I just haven't figured it out yet," Sherlock took to staring into the middle-distance, thinking.
"Right, well, he couldn't have done it without coercion. Bill's a good man, and he wouldn't kill people in cold blood. I know it. So you're wrong, and you–"
"I'm not wrong. I'm never wrong," Sherlock said, and if he had feathers they would have puffed out in indignation.
"Don't forget you accused me of killing those people, and I know for a fact that I did not," John gave a polite, dangerous smile.
Sherlock's gaze snapped down to John's again, and there was a fire licking behind those irises that did not escape John's notice.
"But I was right about everything else, wasn't I?" Sherlock said, tone clipped.
That gave John pause.
"Yes, how did you know all of that stuff about me?" John asked, running his tongue over his dry lips.
"I didn't know, I saw. It's what I do," Sherlock gave a wide, close-lipped smile, entirely fake, and flipped his coat collar up.
He made to walk past John, but John held up a hand, "No, wait. Explain. What do you mean, you saw?"
Sherlock gave a huge sigh, but John had the feeling that it was just for show – he wanted to explain.
"Your haircut is short, trim and nothing more. The way you hold yourself – shoulders back, steadfast gaze, legs slightly apart, for example – parade rest. You have a tan, but none above the wrists. All of this says military. You have a limp when you walk, but you're not walking with a cane and when you were dancing it was as if you'd forgotten about it. So, at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury you received were traumatic. Therefore, you were wounded in action. An ex-soldier with PTSD, which has manifested in the form a limp. You haven't been out for long, because the tan is still quite clear and your hair is still military-short. You were patched up and as soon as you were well enough, shipped home. The clothes you're wearing are hardly proper clubbing material – they're simple, durable, and at least two years old going by the stitching and the fading labels. I overheard you and Murray talking, and you mentioned your bedsit, and that's not seeing but it is paying attention. So, you're living on your own, and you haven't replaced your old clothes. It's unlikely you have a family that would have you stay with them or lend you money, never mind an extended one. Hand me your phone," Sherlock held out a hand.
John didn't break eye contact and pulled it out of his pocket, slapping it into the taller man's palm.
"Expensive, mp3 enabled, camera – a young person's gadget. The engraving on the back, 'Harry Watson, From Clara,' three kisses. You aren't Harry – if you had enough money to afford this phone you wouldn't be living in a bedsit. It has scratches and marks on it; it's had a previous owner then. Harry, your sister. She could be a cousin, but as I said, it was unlikely you had any extended family. Now, who's Clara? The three kisses says romantic attachment; the cost of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. But the model is only six months old and she's already giving it away. Ex-wife then. Harry gave the phone to you, meaning Harry left Clara. She would have kept it if Clara left her – people do such things, sentiment. Giving the phone to you says she wants you to stay in touch. Now, her name: Harry. I could have easily assumed she was in fact a he, but see here?"
John finally forced his gaze away from the man's face to look at his phone, which Sherlock was holding with the charger slot facing upwards.
"Small flakes of pink and orange caught in the grazes – nail polish. You aren't the sort of man to wear any this colour, if at all, so it belonged to the previous owner of this phone. Wasn't all too difficult to spot in the light of the bar, although you seem to have missed it. I must thank you for that, or I never would have entertained the possibility of Harry being short for another name such as Harriet or Harietta. I did assume that you didn't have a brother who wore nail polish, but statistical probability states it would more likely have been a woman as opposed to a man."
When Sherlock met John's eyes once again, John had to swallow down his heart. Never mind racing, it felt like the bloody organ had stalled. His mind was buzzing, and he didn't know what he would have done if he didn't have an iron grip on his emotions.
He cleared his throat, "You said she was an alcoholic."
Sherlock smirked, "Bit of a shot in the dark. Scratch marks around the charger slot. Her hands shook when she attempted to plug the phone in. Never see a drunk's phone without them."
John blinked. Jesus Christ.
"Well?" Sherlock said impatiently.
"What?" John croaked.
"Was. I. Wrong?" he said through his teeth, each word a sentence.
"No, no. You got everything," John replied, shaking his head disbelievingly.
This seemed to satisfy Sherlock, because he eased up a bit on the intensity of his gaze.
"Good," he said.
"That was amazing," John couldn't help but say, perhaps a bit embarrassingly, but he didn't want to take it back.
Sherlock blinked in surprise, "You think so?"
"Yes! You got all that just by looking at me and my phone and overhearing a short conversation. It was bloody fantastic!" John was grinning.
Sherlock just looked at him like he'd just sprouted a couple of heads.
John tried to wipe the grin off his face and get a hold of himself. Hell, he'd meant to confront Sherlock and set him straight, not flirt with the guy!
"I mean, well –" John sighed and broke off, "Who are you, anyway? What do you do? You work with the police but – you're not one of them, are you?"
Sherlock was staring at him, gaze like a searchlight, and John was frozen to the spot. He tried not to buckle under the pressure, the heat, of the man's gaze but it was a near thing.
"Sherlock Holmes," the man said finally, "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
John gave a little snort and a wry smile. No sense of humility, this one.
"Nice to know your name, Mr Holmes. John Watson," and he smiled and held out a hand.
"Sherlock, please."
They shook hands, but both broke contact a bit quicker than courtesy dictated. A pause followed.
Then abruptly, Sherlock asked, "Why do you believe Bill Murray is innocent?"
John blinked before glancing away, thinking about how to word it for a moment.
"He's a good friend of mine," he met Sherlock's gaze again, "We've known each other since med school. He's almost like a brother to me. I know him. I have known him for a long time, and I know that he doesn't have it in him to be a murderer."
"You keep saying that, but why? Why do you think that knowing someone is enough justification for them not to be a murderer?" Sherlock pressed.
Something in John settled, then, and he held steadfast.
"Because despite the apparent evidence to the contrary, he's a good guy," John said, quietly intense, "And I believe in him."
A/N: I think this counts as an illegal, undercover operation. Feel free to pick at this to your heart's content in the reviews! Although love is preferred ;) x
