Chapter 8: Captain John Watson
They go to St. Barts late the next afternoon. Sherlock wants to examine the latest body again, and he hopes that the DNA results are back as well. John tags along as usual, although Sherlock notices that there's more distance between them than there had been prior. In the cab, John sits almost a foot away, and their shoulders do not brush as they enter the hospital.
Sherlock is not very happy about this, if he were to examine it closely. He doesn't of course, because that's sentiment, and John is the most amazing experiment he's ever been involved in. It's far more important to record the data than to influence it. But he wonders whether it's deliberate or not, this physical distancing between himself and his... hatchling.
While they wait for Molly to wheel out the eviscerated woman, John stands near the door, both feet firmly planted, shoulders back, hands loosely clasped behind his back. It's the parade rest stance, Sherlock recognizes. How does he come by this innate knowledge, this ready-learned history? The timidity with which John followed Sherlock in the beginning, when he was imprinting, is gone. Sherlock wonders if he misses it. Perhaps. A little. But he suspects that the independent John developing before his eyes is a much meatier and more satisfying mouthful, and he's excited to explore the new territory. He makes a mental note to continue with physical contact, so as to notice if John should draw away further. Was imprinting only temporary? Certainly that's what happens in nature, or ducklings would never leave their mothers to find their own lives and mates. Huh.
Molly arrives with the body. "Ok. You know, they say death leaves the body as just a shell..." she bites her lip, and her mouth is pulled into an uncertain smile.
Sherlock shrugs a shoulder dismissively. "Don't try to make jokes, Molly. It doesn't suit you." Even John knows this is cruel, and he frowns fiercely at Sherlock, who ignores him.
Molly looks down, and a flush floats gently across her face. She doesn't look at John. "Well, this one is just like the others. Missing organs include the liver, both kidneys, both lungs and the heart. They didn't do a very good job on the lungs, they're only partially removed. If their idea is to sell them for transplants, the lungs will be a failure." She pauses for a moment. "At least, DI Lestrade said he thought it might be black market organ harvesting?"
"Yes, yes, Molly. Now do be quiet..." Sherlock scans the body again. Washed clean of the blood, it's now more obviously a woman, whose badly bleached hair is limp and sad against lifeless skin. "Look at this bruising, John," he calls out. John squeezes up next to him, and Sherlock indicates three faintly reddish marks along the woman's ribs.
John nods. "Yes. They seem to be from fingers."
Sherlock presses his hands against the marks, but overshoots them by a good 4cm. "Place your fingers over these marks, John," Sherlock commands. John snaps on some gloves and reaches awkwardly around, and then settles his thumb into the larger bruise and the first two fingers against the other two. The fit his natural hand span. "If you were right-handed, John, would you say this is where you'd hold the body against the pressure of incision during surgery?"
"I think so," John replies. It hardly feels natural, being his non-dominant hand, but if he switches sides in his mind, that's where his hand would be, yes.
"But look at these, John," Sherlock indicates another set, arranged in a more circular fashion, low on her hip, wrapping around to her rear. "Try to match these." John shifts and twists his wrist. The arm that produced this pattern was coming from the top of the woman, rather than low on the front. He scoots around Sherlock to change the angle. But with his thumb in the larger oval, he can't reach the other marks. Sherlock reaches over his hand, knocks it out of the way, and then lays his own fingers over. They still overshoot, but by a much smaller margin.
"There were two people dealing with this woman that night," he says. "One was much taller than the other. Obviously the knife-work was done by the smaller of the pair: either a small man, such as yourself, or a woman. We can assume that the seducer was the larger, since the bruising on her arse is what is commonly inflicted during a passionate embrace. And we already know they were snogging, given the love bites on her neck. At least two perpetrators. Excellent."
He flicks a look at Molly, "Have you got the completed tox screen?"
Molly hands over some papers. "Positive for alcohol, and zolpidem and propofol."
"Ambien," Sherlock muses. "Becoming more popular as a date rape drug. And propofol is an anesthetic. The victim should be thankful for that. " He slides open his magnifying glass and stalks around the corpse. He pauses over her left hand. "Get me a black light, Molly," he commands. Molly returns and Sherlock casts the light across the back of the corpse's hand. Newly visible under the UV lamp, there are faint markings in illuminated yellow that look to John something like an S, or perhaps a snake.
"Aha!" Sherlock murmurs. "The Viper's Pit. They have a very distinctive hand stamp. Excellent. We've got a starting point. How did the imbeciles at the Yard miss this? John. My phone, please."
John reaches around Sherlock's shoulder to slip his hand into the jacket. He skims across a hard, warm pectoral before encountering the inner pocket. He pulls forth the phone. Sherlock straightens and snaps the magnifying glass closed again. His fingers fly over the screen as he types out a text and hands it back to John. John snorts and then puts it back. Sherlock absently notes that the touching doesn't seem to bother either of them.
Sherlock glances at the clock on the wall and decides to check on the upstairs lab and see if his DNA results are back. "John, stay here with Molly. I'll be back shortly." And he swirls out of the room before John or Molly can protest.
"Mmmm. Okay." Molly seems nervous and uncomfortable. John smiles reassuringly at her. He doesn't understand that she sees him as competition. "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name?" she starts.
"John Watson," he replies absently.
Then he goes rigid.
Sherlock sits in front of the computer in the lab after sending the tech out after some coffee. The results are back, and John is undeniably, 100% human. There are no anomalies to account for the knives, or the wings. He grimaces and begins hacking into the national DNA database. Just to be thorough. He'll run comparisons with John's DNA. Perhaps there's family out there somewhere, and by some small stroke of luck, they're criminals, or military, or for some other reason registered in the database. He should get those results back in a couple of hours. He strides back to the morgue.
When he gets there, John is sitting haphazardly in a chair, white-faced and clammy. Molly is balanced anxiously in front of him, squatting on her haunches.
"What happened here?" Sherlock asks immediately, sweeping over to John. He lays his hand on John's shoulder and John slowly turns his head, as if through treacle. He peers at Sherlock.
"I don't know-" Molly begins. And at the same time,
"I'm John Watson," says John, voice hollow and thin. "Sherlock. I'm John Watson. Dr. Watson. Captain Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."
"What? Really?" Sherlock is surprised. He looks at the very puzzled Molly and hauls John up forcibly by one arm. "You don't look very well, John. Let's get you home." He points his chin over at the body on the slab. "Molly, you can put it away now."
Sherlock stuffs John, unresisting and in shock, into his jacket, and slings his own on as well. Then he propels John down the hall to fetch a cab back to Baker St. Sherlock's mind is spinning, fitting together explanations and potential scenarios, all of which are preposterous.
John is dizzy and sick with distress. He shivers violently as waves of memories wash over him. John Watson. He remembers growing up in the suburbs of Northumberland. Fighting with his sister. Dodging his angry dad, and swallowing his fury at his shamelessly servile mother. He remembers rugby and football in high school, and his determination to be a doctor. He remembers signing up with the military, to pay for his education. He remembers Afghanistan, the arid heat, the alien culture, robes of beige and black, rifles and machine guns, dust and spices. He remembers working in the tent, with men moaning and crying, or stoically silent; stitching and bandaging, never enough time to stop and hold a hand; the intermittent percussion of gunshots and explosions outside.
He remembers the patrols, packing 35 kilos in gear, med kit stocked and ready to go. He remembers a dusty reddish dawn, when hell broke loose. He remembers running forward with his men, dodging through a chain of exploding IEDs, the quiet village they were sneaking around suddenly lit and cacophonous. Millhouse, Blevins, and Erikkson all dead, young Connery screaming hoarsely behind a flaming car. Fire and greasy black smoke roiling from windows across the road, and half his team blown into bits along shells of houses. He remembers rushing to Connery, thinking I can save this one. He remembers another explosion, staccato gunfire, and then... The shock of it. Not pain. Surprise. Body out of control, jerking and then falling. He remembers staring at the back of Connery's head, wanting to help him. Thinking Please God, let me live.
Sherlock supports most of John's weight as he hails a cab. The man's legs are buckling, and he sags into Sherlock's locked arms, breathing shallowly. "I remember," he keeps whispering. "I remember."
Sherlock is as worried for him as he's ever been, and absentmindedly pats his hand as they fly back home. "John," he says, trying to get through. "John." But John is lost in his own head, and Sherlock has to manhandle him out of the cab. He tries to hold John upright between himself and the door as he reaches for the key. John growls out, "I remember the war. The guns. The guns!" He begins to struggle, and Sherlock nearly drops the keys back into his pocket trying to hold him tighter. The knives flash into existence, and John's struggles become very difficult to subdue. Suddenly, the wings are out, still straight down along his back, not spread, thank god. John is saying "Let me live, please god, let me live," and his wings are flailing, beating and straining against Sherlock's caging arms.
"John, stop it! John! You can't do that!" Sherlock spreads the edges of his coat, attempting to conceal John from the street. John's wings are very strong, and Sherlock throws his entire body behind clutching them in. He twists the key in the lock as John's knife flashes down, scoring against the back of his hand, the other twisting behind him to rake along Sherlock's ribs.
The door falls open, and both of them tumble inside, Sherlock releasing John in shocked repulsion as he registers that he is wounded. John springs away, and his wings are spread as wide as they are able, in the foyer, arching above his head. He whips around. Thrashing wings knock over Mrs. Hudson's half-moon table and flowers with a crash that makes them both startle even more. Sherlock can see a tiny spatter of his own blood hit the floor, dripping from the point of John's knife.