Chapter 6: John's First Case, and a Niggling Memory
Lestrade looks understandably confused. He has never. never. seen Sherlock with any kind of partner. He's always been alone. But both men are wearing pajamas, and were virtually embracing when he entered, so he must assume they're having some kind of relationship. "I didn't mean to interrupt-"
Sherlock looks disdainful. "You didn't 'interrupt', Lestrade. Now, tell me what you've got."
Lestrade's eyes flicker to the small, light-haired man standing in Sherlock's shadow. He looks a little defensive, but also curious. He's a bit older than Sherlock, and careworn lines are carved in his face, but it's altogether pleasant. Lestrade finds himself giving the stranger a brief smile. "Hi. I'm Greg Lestrade," he introduces himself, stepping forward with his hand out. Any man who can tolerate spending time with Sherlock, much less... well... whatever the pair's been up to... is worth getting to know. The man flinches slightly, and makes no reciprocating move. Sherlock flings his arm out possessively, barricading John behind it.
"This is John. Nosy git. Now... tell me. Your confidentiality is safe enough here. He's imprinted on me."
Lestrade gapes for a second, and then shuts his mouth. He doesn't know what the hell that means, and he's not about to ask. Whatever the kinky bastards are doing is surely none of his business, but he can feel his face heat up. Sherlock sees. Of course he sees. But he doesn't mention it.
"We found another body, Sherlock. An alley in Mayfair. Stripped of the organs, just like a month ago. We figure it's the same killer. Will you come?"
Sherlock's eyebrow shoots up, and a half-smile stamps his face. "Oh! I was hoping he would strike again. It's been bugging me like a loose tooth that the leads dried up the way they did. Yes." He glances at John. "We'll be there shortly."
"Sherlock, you can't bring-"
"Yes. I can. He's with me." Sherlock stares at him challengingly and waits. Lestrade is in enough hot water already, this being the fifth body in the past six months that has been cut open and the organs removed. He quickly weighs the trouble of letting another unauthorized person onto a very important crime scene, versus having Sherlock potentially solve the case, and makes up his mind.
"I'll text you with the address," he says, and leaves at a jog.
Sherlock and John are dressed and in a cab 10 minutes later. Sherlock is bouncing on the seat with excitement. "Hopefully, John, this'll be the one where the killer makes a mistake. Serial killers always make a mistake. And I've been waiting. Plus, the body is fresh! I'm bound to learn more, since it hasn't been lying around for a week, or been pulled out of a wet skip."
"Why are you bringing me?" John asks. His personality is beginning to come out, now that he is three days out of his egg. He seems practical, and quiet and generous. Once Sherlock showed him how to make tea and toast, he'd taken over those duties without complaining, and always made some for Sherlock as well.
Sherlock bumps his shoulder into John's and turns on him with a flashing smile and glowing eyes. "Because it's fun, John. It's exciting. Don't you want to see what it is that I do?"
John grins back. "Of course. But I don't want to be in the way."
"You can't be," Sherlock assures him. "Conceivably, you might even be helpful." He takes up one of John's hands, staring thoughtfully at where the skillfully handled knives could appear in need.
John laughs, and flashes a knife in the palm of his other hand. "This?" he asks. Something stirs low in Sherlock's belly at the laugh, the competently handled weapon, but he ignores it. The game, after all, is on.
Sherlock winks, but says, "Better keep it put away while we're out. Especially in front of half the Met."
So they are both giggling, inappropriately, when they stroll up to the police line. "We should stop giggling," Sherlock gasps. "It's a crime scene!"
Sally Donovan is manning the police line, as usual. "Hullo, Freak," she drawls. "They letting you in again?"
The laughter vanishes, and Sherlock's face grows cold and haughty. "Yes. I guess they want it SOLVED this time." His tone is contemptuous. There is a face-off for a moment, and then Sally lifts the tape. John goes to duck after Sherlock, and she snaps it down again.
"Whoa! Who's this, then?"
"He's with me."
"With you? That's not good enough. You'll have to wait here," she tells John, clearly delighted to have one over on Sherlock.
"He's my ... colleague … and he comes with me," Sherlock growls.
"Colleague? How do you get a colleague?" Sher turns disdainfully towards John. "What? Did he follow you home?"
John looks mildly confused. "He was there when I hatched," he answers truthfully. "We were already in the flat."
Sally boggles at them for a minute, and Sherlock reaches impatiently around her to lift the ribbon. "Come along, John."
John follows with a feeling of burning excitement. The site is a tiny alleyway, gray and dirty in the dreary light of an overcast day. He can pick out Lestrade, standing near a skip hidden partially behind a small loading dock. Sherlock strides toward him and John hurries behind, keeping a little to the left, so he can see.
Another man comes forward just as they near Lestrade, and steps deliberately into Sherlock's path, forcing them to jolt past each other, knocking shoulders. He is tall, dark-haired and ghoulish, and has an angry sneer on his face.
"Anderson," Sherlock snarls. "I was hoping you'd take a sick day and leave me with a pristine scene."
"Fucking psychopath," Anderson mutters, quiet enough so Lestrade won't be able to make out his words. "I don't know what you've got over the Inspector that he lets you wander around, drooling like the sicko you are over blood and guts, but someday soon you're going to get what you deserve."
"God I hope so," Sherlock responds, in a normal tone. "Frankly, I deserve some peace so that I may solve your crimes for you in somewhat less time than it takes normally. Lestrade, can't you send him away while I do my work?"
Lestrade looks over and rolls his eyes. "Anderson, go talk to Donovan." Anderson stalks away, glaring daggers at John as he passes. John is bewildered, but stares aggressively back, not liking Sherlock threatened. "And who the fuck are you," Anderson mutters as he brushes past John. It isn't a question. John holds his ground, and not to his surprise, finds himself preparing to twitch his knives forward. He holds back, however, and Anderson stomps away.
Lestrade continues, "Sherlock, I'm glad you're here." He nods politely to John before indicating the corner of the loading dock and the wall, where a mess of blood and flesh lies crumpled. "The floor manager of the shop here found the body this morning at 6am. She's inside, if you need to question her." He gestures, and stands back so that Sherlock can step forward.
Sherlock's eyes dart like starlings all around the alleyway before narrowing in on the sad bundle of what used to be humanity. He approaches carefully, and squats next to it, fastidiously keeping his shoes just outside the large runnels of blood around the corpse. John stands just behind, leaning with one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, looking curiously on.
"You can see he removed the organs prior to death," John comments. "Probably finished with the heart."
Sherlock goes rigid under his hand. There is a long pause, and then, "What?" Sherlock says, flatly intoned.
John looks worried and steps back a little. "There's so much blood. It's evident the heart was still beating for much of the organ removal. Otherwise the blood would have pooled in the veins. So the heart had to be the last thing taken out." He looks at Sherlock for approval.
Sherlock jolts to his feet, and presses his face close to John's. He is a live wire. He grabs John by the shoulders and whispers in a hissing voice, so that Lestrade cannot hear, "How can you POSSIBLY know that?"
Several expressions pass quickly over John's face: nervousness, determination, defiance. "Why? Is that bad that I know?"
Sherlock's smile answers for him: fleeting and sincere. "No, John. It's brilliant! You're right, of course. But how on earth did you know?" He gives him a gentle shake.
John relaxes and murmurs back, "I don't know. But I do." His brows wrinkle. "I know a lot about bodies. I know about things in there that I can't see right now. Bones. Muscles and organs. Biological systems..." He begins to look quite worried, and feels a little dizzy. He reaches out to hold onto Sherlock's forearms for stability. The alleyway recedes. "I've done this before. Had bodies opened in front of me. I've had my hands inside. I know how it all works, Sherlock. I... I... I feel like that's my life."