"He's gone." The same curly haired police officer from before called to him.
That much was obvious. The giant berk. Who drags someone with a bad leg half way across London and just leaves them?
Donovan, noticing his expression nods. "Yeah, he just took off. He does that."
"Is he coming back?" Maybe he could just wait here.
"Didn't look like it."
"Right." Of course. John glanced around again but he still had no clue where he was. "Right…yes. Sorry, um, do you know where I could get a cab?" There was no way he could survive walking to a tube station from here.
"Um…try the main road." She lifted the tape up for John to duck under. The kindest thing she had probably done since he arrived.
He began to walk away but Donovan's voice made him turn around to face her again.
"But you're not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"
"I'm…I'm nobody. I just met him."
"Okay, bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy." Well if that didn't want to make John do the complete opposite.
"Why?"
"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. He's unstable, with his talk of magic and monsters. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."
John considered this for a second. "Why would he do that?"
"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored."
Someone shouts her name from inside and she shouts in return.
"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." She warns before turning away.
Sherlock Holmes was very interesting, but arguably just as interesting seemed to be other people's reactions to him.
John shook his head and slowly made his way towards the direction she had indicated. By this time it was dark and cold, and John was becoming rather annoyed at both Sherlock and himself. Sherlock for leaving him behind, and himself for expecting anything different from a man he hardly knew.
He did manage to find the main road, and lots of passing taxis but it seemed Sherlock's skill was not one he possessed and all of them passed by him. Not unusual. However, what was unusual was the telephone boxes that he passed by.
The second one that rang he was curious, by the third he was suspicious, but by the fourth John could see the pattern. What next, John thought as he opened the heavily graffitied door and stepped inside.
"Hello?"
"Those people on your left walking towards you, do you see them?" A masculine voice responded.
John frowned. What on earth?
"Who's this? Who's speaking?"
"Do you see them Doctor Watson?"
Clearly John had stumbled into something far more dangerous than he was expecting. Again. But he dutifully turned and looked to his left where there were, as expected, several pedestrians walking in his direction.
"Yeah I see them."
"Watch."
As John stood there, every single one of the people seemed to freeze for a second at slightly different intervals and do a complete about face turn and walk away.
"Now if you would look to your right."
In the exact same fashion, it happened again. A woman with a push chair, a few business workers and even a lady with a dog all froze and walked away. Similarly, John noticed, there were no longer any cars coming from either direction.
"And finally, directly opposite you."
It happened again, and soon John found himself very much alone. Everyone around him was gone and the sounds of traffic seemed suddenly very distant. In the middle of bloody London.
"How are you doing this?" Clearly this had to be some form of magic. There was no other explanation.
"Get in the car Doctor Watson." A black car pulled up in front of the phone box, stopping in the middle of the road due to the sudden lack of traffic, and the driver got out and held open the back door."
"I would make some kind of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." The line went dead and John lowered the phone.
Well, this day was certainly turning out to be a lot more exciting than his usual routine. Maybe not the type of exciting he necessarily wanted. Staring at a murder victim and being kidnapped, weren't really at the top of his list, but he didn't have much of a choice.
Sliding into the car revealed another person, but not the one John was expecting. It was unclear to him whether they were male or female but they were definitely the most aesthetically beautiful person he had ever seen. Their hair was a dark, rich chestnut brown that tumbled elegantly over their shoulders, two slightly pointed ears poking through. Their skin was a light tan colour and their eyes shone amber. They had strong facial features that still somehow seemed dainty and elegant, but their face shape was neither sharp, angular and masculine, nor soft, round and feminine. Clothing also a neutral dark suit.
John was quite dumbfounded to see such beauty that it took him over five minutes of the drive to realise he was staring.
He cleared his throat.
"Hello."
The person looked up from their phone, giving John a blinding smile before turning back.
"Hi."
Fucking hell. People weren't supposed to look like that. Well not normal people obviously, but elves were a different story.
They sat in silence a while longer. John felt unbearably awkward.
"What's your name then?"
"Um…Anthea." John had been expecting something much more fantastical.
"Is that your real name?"
The person smiled, continuing to tap on their phone.
"No."
Of course, names weren't given freely in the fae community due to the variety of spells that could be cast using them.
John nodded to himself, turning away before remembering his fading manners and turning back.
"I'm John." Came out automatically. So much for name spells.
"Yes. I know." Well, John could definitely see where the 'apathetic towards humans' description for elves came from.
"Any point asking where I'm going?"
"None at all…" They paused, seeming to think before smiling briefly, "…John."
They clearly couldn't care less, but as long as that meant he wasn't in any real danger, John didn't particularly mind. It was more interesting to see an elf in person. Murray had been right, they definitely were the easiest to spot.
The rest of the drive passed quickly and soon they pulled up alongside a darkened warehouse. When the car stopped, the elf glanced up and waved their hand, and John's door opened.
That was him dismissed then.
He ambled his way out the car, and then towards the lone figure lit up at the back of the warehouse.
God this was melodramatic.
As he got closer he saw that the figure was a man in a tailored suit leaning casually on an umbrella. He looked completely ordinary, well as ordinary as someone could in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, apart from his left eye which was entirely swallowed by black. In front of him stood a regular, armless chair which the man gestured to with the end of his umbrella.
"Have a seat Doctor Watson." This was ridiculous. They'd dragged him here just for a casual chat.
John ignored him, continuing to walk forward, past the chair, and stopped in front of him.
"You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever with the magic and all that, but…you could just phone me. On my phone."
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." Of course this had to do with Sherlock.
John raised an eyebrow. "What, discreet like emptying a whole street in the middle of central London?"
"You'd be surprised." The man said, forcing a smile.
"The leg must be hurting you. Sit down."
The stern tone did not sit right with John and he straightened.
"I don't want to sit down."
"Hm. You don't seem very afraid."
"You don't seem very frightening." The melodrama had taken away a lot of John's initial apprehension.
The man laughed and John clenched his jaw.
"Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" His smile quickly faded however, and he looked at John sternly. "Now tell me, what exactly are you?"
"What makes you think I'm not human?"
"You mean other than the fact you are able to ask that question normally, and have yet to question any of the magic you have seen thus far?"
John tried not to grimace. He was apparently bloody awful at hiding.
The man gestured to his black eye. "I am able to see through all disguises and concealing magic…as well as various other things, but with you…" He scrunched up his nose looking annoyed, "I can only see that magic had been used to conceal your identity once before, yet you look utterly human. Now why would a human go to such lengths to conceal essentially nothing?"
John just shrugged. He wasn't the one who cast the spell, he had no idea why he still looked human. And of course he wasn't going to let his kidnapper know what he actually was.
The man narrowed his eyes. "What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?"
Again with this? "I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…yesterday." John blinked a few times. Jesus that felt like a lifetime ago.
"Hm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement at the end of the week? He's very unlikely to have been influenced by magic after all."
"Who are you?" and who did this arsehole think he was? Though clearly he knew more about Sherlock, and what he was, than John did.
"An interested party."
"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends?"
"You've met him. How many friends do you think he has? I am the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."
"And what's that?"
"An enemy."
"An enemy?"
"In his mind certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."
John snorted. "Well thank god you're above all that."
The man frowned and John felt his phone vibrate. He opened it to reveal a message from an unknown number.
'Baker Street.
come at once
if convenient.
SH'
What on Earth was it now, thought John.
"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"
"I could be wrong…" John said, replacing his phone, "But I think that's none of your business."
"It could be."
"It really couldn't." The man sounded like a jealous husband.
He took out a small black notebook, looking at it as he spoke, "If you do move into…two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."
John narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "In exchange for what?"
"Information. Nothing discreet. Nothing you'd feel…uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."
"Why?"
"I worry about him. Constantly."
John raised an eyebrow. "Couldn't your…magic eye tell you that?"
"I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unnoticed, which would not be possible were I to use any form of magic, remotely or otherwise. We have what you might call…a difficult relationship."
Kidnapping his potential flatmate in order to bribe them to spy on him? No kidding.
John's phone buzzed again and he removed it to find another message.
'If inconvenient
come anyway.
SH'
The edges of John's mouth twitched.
He looked back up at the man, "I'm not interested" he said firmly.
"You're very loyal, very quickly."
Whatever he was trying to imply went right over John. "I'm not. I'm just not interested."
"Hm. As someone with trust issues could it be you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"
"Are we done?" John had had enough of this.
"You tell me." John stared at him a long moment, refusing to be intimidated, and turned to walk back to the car. He felt a humming along the skin of his left hand and spun around.
"Don't" he snapped.
The man however continued to stare at John's hand, now in a fist at his side, a faint green glow emanating from the centre of his black eye.
"Remarkable."
"What." John said forcefully through gritted teeth.
"It seems the bullet that hit your shoulder was meant to end your life, but your intermittent tremor is the result of your own pent up energy rather than that from the cancelled spell on the bullet."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battle field. You've seen it already, haven't you?"
The tosser was going to get a fist to the face if he didn't start answering his questions.
"What's wrong with my hand?"
"It tells me you're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson, you…miss it."
The man turned and walked away casually, turning is umbrella as he went.
"It's time to choose a side Doctor Watson."
He infuriated John. The last conversation had just been a way for him to have the last word.
He walked angrily back to the car, the door opening and closing behind him without having to touch it.
"Address?" Asked not-Anthea, still in the same position, staring down at their phone.
"Uh, Baker Street. Two Two One B."
The car began to move and John's Phone went off again.
'Could be dangerous.
SH'
"Ah. Sorry, could we stop off somewhere first?" It was best to be prepared when it came to anything involving Sherlock Holmes.
After collecting a small rucksack of his things and secreting his gun away in his waistband, John soon found himself once again outside his soon-to-be flat. He knocked a few times and the door clicked open. He walking in to find neither Sherlock, nor Mrs Hudson in sight.
Was opening doors really so much of a burden when you could use magic? John shook his head and made his way back up the stairs. He opened the door to see Sherlock lying on his back on the sofa, a cushion under his head and his eyes closed. Ah. What an emergency.
His hands were clasped in the same, prayer-like position as their first meeting, but unlike then, the humming of magic was merely a background noise and not nearly as distinct. But as John watched, a patch of light, shiny, olive green began to appear on his arm.
"What are you doing?" asked John, baffled.
"Stimulant potion. Helps me think." He gestured to a mug on the floor, the remnant of something the same vile colour as the thing on the stove on the rim. God he hoped Sherlock hadn't drank that.
"Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work. Although the potion is almost as effective. Haven't yet got rid of the side effect of the patches yet. The patch isn't even a consistent colour with each use."
"Good news for breathing though."
Sherlock let out a large breath. "Oh, breathing. Breathings boring." Clearly.
John walked further into the room, looking curiously at Sherlock's arm. He frowned.
"Isn't that three patches?"
"It's a three patch problem."
Right. John glanced around the room in search of the reason Sherlock may have called him there for. Finding none, he cleared his throat.
"Well?"
But as seemed to be the norm when it suited him, Sherlock ignored the question.
"You asked me to come. I'm assuming it's important."
Sherlock's eyes snapped open.
"Oh yes, of course. I need you to write something down for me."
"What?"
"I don't want to do it. There's always a chance my magical signature will leak a bit and be recognised."
John blinked twice.
"Mrs Hudson's just downstairs."
"Yes. I tried shouting but she didn't hear."
"I was on the other side of London" John replied, clenching his fist.
"There was no hurry."
John glared. Sherlock was more a consulting arse than a consulting detective.
Sherlock opened one eye, glancing at John. "Do you have a pen?"
John sighed and began looking through his rucksack and numerous coat pockets. Eventually he found a black biro which he pulled out and gestured to the man on the couch.
"Good. You won't need that. Use the fountain pen on the desk."
John looked towards to heavens, dropping his pen on Sherlock, much to his apparent displeasure, and walked toward a slightly higher table which must have been the desk. It was difficult to tell with all the things piled on every available surface.
He found the pen, finally, in a small pot which had had several books stacked on top.
"Right, what exactly did you want me to do?"
Sherlock waved his hand and a plain piece of paper landed on top of the desk. So he couldn't write on it in case his magic is detected but he can magic it round the room?
"The paper. I need you to write a message."
Instead of picking it up, John just twirled the pen in his hand. The berk could wait awhile.
"I just met a friend of yours." John said, gauging Sherlock's reaction.
"A friend?"
"An enemy. Your arch-enemy according to him. Do people like you usually have arch-enemies?"
Sherlock turned his head towards John, narrowing his eyes.
"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"
"Yes."
"Did you take it?"
"No." John was kind of offended Sherlock thought he would.
"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."
John honestly felt like he'd entered a world where everything was backwards.
"Who is he?"
"The most dangerous man you'll ever meet, and not our problem right now. On my desk, the paper."
John sighed. "Alright, alright."
He unfolded the paper, taking the lid of the pen and turned to Sherlock expectantly.
"These words exactly, 'Sorry, I blacked out in Lauriston Gardens. Nine PM, twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come'."
"You blacked out?" John asked concerned.
"What? No, no!" Sherlock swings his legs round and stands up, lunging over the various piles and things on the way to the kitchen.
John dutifully wrote out the message, but as soon as he finished the ink disappeared leaving a blank page once again.
Hearing Sherlock come back into the room, rather loudly, he called out to him.
"I wrote what you said but it faded away." He turned towards Sherlock, only to stumble back slightly in shock as he sat, a black coat in his hand which was making a god awful rattling sound, like there were coins in the pockets but less metallic.
"Don't worry, that's meant to happen."
"That's…that's the coat. That's Jennifer Wilson's coat."
"Yes. Obviously."
John continued to stare at Sherlock, not really understanding.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her."
"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"
He smirked. "Now and then."
Sherlock continued to look fixedly at the coat, and John decided to make his way over to the arm chair where he sat down. He might as well make himself comfortable for this long conversation.
"Okay, so…how did you find it?"
"By looking."
"Where?"
"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her coat by accident if it was in a car. A Shellycoat doesn't let it out of their sights long enough for another explanation to be plausible. Nobody could be seen with this coat without drawing attention, the rattling being quite loud and obnoxious. The coat is also usually charmed so that after possession of it for over half an hour by another person, the person or any people around become compelled to bring it back to its owner. Obviously it wouldn't be good for a killer to return to the scene of the crime so he was motivated to get rid of it. It couldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake, with the god awful noise it makes. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere isolated enough to dispose of the coat without being noticed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip. Where I evidently removed the compelling charm."
It all seemed so obvious when Sherlock explained it, but John knew he would never have come to the same conclusions on his own.
"But now it seems he made a second mistake that he may not even be aware of."
"What's that?"
"Her ring. It's missing. It wasn't on her body and it's not in her coat."
"…the ring was clearly on her finger though wasn't it?"
"No, not that one. The second one."
"She had a second ring?"
"Yes. It's how she communicated with her lovers. Write something on a connected enchanted bit of paper and it appears briefly on the side of the ring, alerting them to their meeting place and time. It works similar to a phone, in the sense that it also flashes or vibrates to notify the owner. Quite common in the fae community when committing adultery, due to their general reluctance to use any forms of technology, especially those who live in aqueous environments like our victim."
"She could have just left the ring at home?"
"No. She came into London with the intent of finding a new lover. She wouldn't have left it behind. Why carry a freshly enchanted piece of paper and not the ring?"
"Maybe she'd already given it to someone?"
"She'd only just arrived in London, her hair and skin were still too damp to have been away from her home for very long. She wouldn't have had the time." Sherlock looked towards John expectantly.
John paused, soaking in all the information.
"So, um, why did I just write that message on the paper?"
"Well the question is, where is the ring now?"
"She could have lost it."
"Yes, or…?"
"The murderer…you think the murderer has it?"
"Maybe she left it in the car or planted it on him. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her ring."
"Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just send a message to a murderer?! What good will that do?"
"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a message that could only be from her. If somebody had just found the ring they wouldn't have been able to read the message. They'd need to have been in contact with her for the spell to work. No. The murderer when seeing a message like that would panic."
Sherlock leapt up from the sofa then going over to where he'd hung up his coat.
It was quite brilliant. If a bit unwise to be chasing after a murderer.
"Have you talked to Lestrade?"
"Four people are dead. There isn't time for that."
"So why are you telling me?"
"Mrs Hudson took my skull."
John glanced over to find that the skull was, in fact, missing.
"So I'm filling in for your skull?"
John couldn't quite decide if this was the same as becoming a second skull, which he'd said to himself earlier was the only potential reason he wouldn't become Sherlock's flat mate.
"Relax. You're doing fine." Sherlock put on his coat and moved towards the door, but stopped just short of it.
"Well?" Sherlock questioned, glancing back at John.
"Well what?"
"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly."
"What, you want me to come with you?"
"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk out loud. The skull just attracts attention so…"
John smiled. He wasn't sure if Sherlock actually used to take a human skull out with him, but the image was quite funny.
Sherlock grinned in return. "And I said 'dangerous', and here you are." He span towards the door again, long legs taking him out and down the stairs quicker than John could ever accomplish.
John sat in the chair, debating for a second on whether or not he should go. But was he really going to leave Sherlock to potentially face a murderer alone?
"Damn it!"
John leaned heavily onto his cane, using it to get to his feet and hurry back out the door.