Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss

The Good Doctor
Chapter 4

Pizza

John twisted his waist a bit to the left and held binoculars to his face and watched through the window as his client's neighbor shuffled around his kitchen preparing his food. He lived alone even though he seemed to be about 40 years old. The mercenary had done a bit of background checking before hand and illegally obtained his records (he had connections in very favorable places) which showed a spotless background. He had no record of ever being arrested and didn't have anything at all, not even a bloody speeding ticket. Baffling.

The blond doctor was sitting in a car on the other side of the street he had "borrowed" from somewhere. Actually, he hotwired the vehicle and took it. He was going to return it by leaving it right where he was just in case the police were on his tail already. He would simply slip out of the car and run. No harm, no foul. He reached into a bag of crisps and grabbed a few, lifting them to his mouth and munching on it as he continued to watch Alan Crusoe. John was awfully ravenous. The trauma centre was extremely busy today due to a pile up near their building and more than six people were rushed in. Four had suffered fatal injuries while the other two were in intensive care. As much as he wanted them to survive, John was kind of annoyed at the fact that he was on call on such an important night. He would have to observe the Alan's every move to catch him red-handed. Pedophiles never hunt for prey only once. No, they are never satisfied, the bastards. John's blood began to boil in anger and he chewed his crisps even faster. He realized how thirsty he was and immediately regretted choosing salty crisps of all things to eat. He never drank on a stake-out. Drinking fluids means the necessity of urinating and the bad guy always came out when you needed to go to the loo.

Hours later, his client's neighbor turned off his bedroom lights and went to sleep. The doctor waited for a couple more hours just in case it was a feint when he spotted a police vehicle strolling down the street in the rearview mirror.

"Whoops, that's my cue," he muttered as he grabbed the empty bag and exited the car. He slowly opened the driver's door and shut it extremely quietly, kneeling down on the pavement on one knee as he did. It was times like this when he actually appreciated his short stature, which was rarely. Just as he lunged backwards into the shadows, the police car stopped next to the "borrowed" vehicle and rolled down the window, squinting to get a better look at the license plates. Of course, he called it in and John silently left, leaving no evidence of his presence anywhere. Well, maybe except a few crumbs.

The blond doctor, now in his civilian clothes, his work-clothes shoved in his small sack which was shoved inside a more inconspicuous messenger bag, was sitting on the in a cabbie waiting for his stop when he felt faint. He needed sustenance and he needed it now. As a doctor, it would be really idiotic if he passed out and found himself in a hospital, so he told his driver to pull over, wherever that was, paid him, and stumbled out onto the street. There, in front of him was a pizza restaurant. He didn't care what he ate. He needed something now. His stomach grumbled so loudly he jumped, startling himself. He chuckled and walked up to the restaurant and noticed the open sign was on.

It was early in the morning, perhaps 3am? He wasn't sure and he was too lazy to check his watch, but he checked the restaurant time table and saw that it was open until 4am. Most likely due to the amount of revenue raked in by the drunk idiots scouring the town for food and more drinks. He pulled the door open, setting off a small bell situated atop the door and walked straight to the counter past a group of drunk teenagers. He sat on a stool and greeted the lone chef who nodded and handed him a menu.

"What drink can I get ya, mate?" he asked as he cleaned a glass cup with a rag.

"Just water, thanks."

The robust man filled a cup with ice and water and handed to him, adding a slice of lemon.

"Ready to order?" he asked in a slightly raspy deep voice.

John pursed his lips.

"Think I'll have...the pepperoni, please."

The chef nodded.

"Can't go wrong with pepperoni. Nope."

John gave him a small smile and grabbed his cup, taking a long drink. He didn't realize how thirsty he was, not since his duration outside of Crusoe's home.

"Thirsty?" the chef asked as he refilled the now half empty cup.

John smiled and watched the large man refill it and then turn to work on John's order. He was a rather homely looking fellow, but appeared to be extremely friendly. He looked about fifty years old, large hooked nose (which looked like it had been broken, healed, and broken again), and had white hair which was almost entirely covered by his small white boat-hat. It was crooked, revealing the hair underneath. His white attire had a few tomato sauce stains here and there, even on the rolled up sleeves that were up to about three quarters up his forearm. His striped apron definitely had stains all over it. It was a little disconcerting to look at. Never mind that, John focused on drinking his water to quell his demanding stomach. He watched the chef toss the dough in the air a few times when he heard the bell atop the door tinkle as another patron walked into the restaurant.

The chef looked past John at the customer and smiled.

"Hey! It's my man!" he greeted the stranger.

A tall, lanky, slender, ghostly-looking man walked past John and sat at the other end of

the counter, a newspaper in hand.

"Frank," the man nodded.

"What can I get ya? On the house, of course," the chef asked as he continued to work on John's pizza.

"The usual," the man said curtly as he tugged off his leather gloves. He slid the end of his scarf out of the loop it was in and placed it on the counter with his gloves. John looked over and noticed the man's unruly hair.

I've seen that hair before, he thought.

Sherlock opened his paper and scanned the classified ads. He had decided to move to a new flat in London months ago, but he still couldn't find a suitable place. Or suitable mates. He had been contacted a few times by various people but five minutes with him, they all backed out of the deal. Hm. He wondered why.

He had decided to get something to eat as his refrigerator was filled to the brim with odd things he had pilfered from St. Bart's and there was no room for food, or in other words, there was absolutely nothing to eat. He didn't realize how ravenous he was until his rumbling stomach broke his concentration. Pity. He was in the middle of an extremely interesting experiment. Sherlock looked at the clock that hung on his wall and decided to get some food from Frank's. It was still open. He remembered the schedule as he visited there a few times. The chef and owner had sought out his services when he was being accused of running with the Italian mobsters in the city, one of whom was the man's cousin.

It was obvious the man had no relation to the mob men other than his cousin Vinny. Why the police thought his tiny restaurant was a front for their drug operations just baffled Sherlock. Some people can be absolutely stupid. Moronic. Idiotic. Cretinous.

The younger Holmes continued to scan the ads as Frank gave him water and resumed making another customer's food in addition to Sherlock's 'everything' pizza. He didn't know what Frank called it, but it had pretty much everything. Pepperonis, those little meatballs, bellpeppers, mushrooms..and other things. He didn't really care to memorize what was on it or what it was called. His brain needed that room to store other more important information.

For some reason, Sherlock glanced at the 'D' section and halted at an odd ad. It said something about a doctor being needed, but there was no indication of what kind of doctor and why. There were countless symptoms and specialties, so why put a generic 'doctor'? And what kind of help? Either the person who put the ad in was thoughtless, or it was vague on purpose. Perhaps there was more to it than what it read. Interesting. He made a mental note to look at that later. In the meanwhile, he moved on to the 'F' section to look at available flats or people seeking a flatmate.

Frank was finally done with John's food and the restaurant was filled with the smell of freshly made pizza. John got back to his seat from the loo and saw his food waiting for him. His mouth started to water and his stomach grumbled loudly. He ignored it and sat down, preparing to dig in when the man on the far end of the counter was too busy reading the newspaper and almost bit into the piping hot pizza which would have surely burned his mouth.

"Wait!" John called.

The man looked up, his mouth slightly agape. His slice of pizza hung limp and lamely from his hand and the heavy toppings were beginning to slide off.

"You'll get burned if you eat it right out of the oven, you know." The blond doctor looked pointedly down at the slice.

The lanky man shifted his eyes at the pizza and glanced at all the steam that rose from it.

"Ah. Thank you," he said as he set it down and resumed scanning the newspaper.

John noticed he was reading another article about the unknown 'vigilante' which

made him wonder if the journalist he had treated for insomnia about a week ago was really the author of these ridiculous articles. His panger vibrated and he checked it, groaning as he was called back to the hospital. Damn his job.

"Can I get this to-go please?" he asked Frank who immediately gathered everything for him.

John hurried into the trauma centre after changing into his scrubs.

"What's the problem?"

A nurse turned her head towards him.

"Oh, Doctor Watson. Two of your patients coded but..." she trailed off.

"Too late?" he asked. She nodded.

John sighed.

"Alright. You did everything you could. Where's Robinson?" She was the intern on duty.

The nurse pointed at trauma room number 1. He nodded his thanks and headed over and saw the doctor sitting on a chair in the dark, her face in her hands.

He knocked on the open door as he stood in the frame. "Doctor Robinson? Are you alright?" he asked.

The intern immediately sat up in response and wiped her tears.

"I'm good. Doctor Wilhelm called the time of death. I'm good," she said, her voice cracking.

John squatted down in front of her.

He made a motion to speak, but hesitated. "You know," he said after a moment, "we can't save everyone. Death is a part of life. There's no use in crying over something that was meant to happen. Do you understand?" he asked. He sounded a little harsh, but if you were working trauma, you had to be tough. Save the emotion for later. He learned that the hard way.

She sniffled as her head bobbed up and down.

"It's-it's not fair," she had almost inaudibly.

John closed his eyes and pursed his lips for a second, and opened his eyes..

"Well, life's not fair. You did everything you could. You're a healer, not God. If it was his time to go, it was his time to go. Take a break. Eat," he ordered her as he stood up. John dusted off his white coat and went to check on his other patients.

By the time the doctor got back to his pizza, it was ice cold. He ate it anyway; he wouldn't care if it was dropped on the floor at this point. He was starving. John's eating habits were terrible, but that was the price he paid for his busy life. He sat alone on the bench in the lobby, thinking about the man back at the restaurant which was probably closed by now. He didn't even know where it was. He just took cabs everywhere and paid the fare as it was obvious he could afford it. That man looked extremely familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it. he shrugged the thought away and finished his meal.

John was running away from the bombs exploding all around him. One went off right at his feet and the man who was half-supporting his body and half-dragging him screamed in horror. He crumbled to the ground, gripping his face. John, semi-conscious, knew they had to get out of there or they'd never see the light of day again.

"Come on!" the doctor mustered out wearily, tugging at the man. They both staggered away as more explosives and bullets flew past their ears.

John bolted awake and looked at his pager. Someone was summoning him from the clinic. Great, he thought. He had ended up sleeping in the on-call room. Again. What was the point of paying the rent for his flat when he was virtually never in it? He sighed and hoisted himself up. At least this time, he had remembered to take off his coat.

He slipped it on and opened the door, taking his time. He really didn't feel like working today. As usual. How he had become a doctor, he didn't know. The clinic patient could wait though. He headed towards the Intensive Care section to check on his patients. Once he completed that, he began walking towards the clinic wing, passing Andrew who turned around and handed him a cup of tea while gripping his own.

"Thanks," John said as he raised the cup in thanks to Andrew who was walking backwards. He nodded and raised his own in response, turned back around and hurried to catch up with his other peers.

Mary sat in Doctor Watson's office and rolled her neck, hitting it to massage it. She had another long night and her insomnia wasn't getting any better. The woman outside had said she paged the doctor, but he was taking his sweet time. She sighed, getting impatient. Her boss would have her head if she didn't turn in her article for revision in two hours. She checked her cell phone. She had time. Well, it would also take her about an hour to get back so..maybe she didn't have that much time.

The door opened and the blond doctor she met a couple weeks ago walked in, taking a swig of tea. Or coffee. Whatever. She wondered, was he a tea or coffee man? For some odd reason, that really intrigued her.

She smiled brightly. "Hello, Doctor Watson!"

He sleepily looked at her and sputtered, choking on his tea. After coughing for a few seconds, he straightened up.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Mary, was it? Nice to see you again," he said sheepishly as he set his tea on his desk and sat down on his desk. "What can I do for you today?"

Mary reached up to her bun and adjusted it. "You said to come in for a check up, so here I am." She waited for a response, raising a single eyebrow when none came.

John stared at a spot on his desk. What was it? Oh, maybe it was dried jam he accidentally spilled the other day. Hm. Didn't look like jam. Was it a coffee stain? He didn't remember spilling any liquids though. What was it? Looked like it was a permanent stain though. He made a mental note to ask the janitorial staff if it was possible to get that out of his desk.

"Um...doctor...?" Mary said, trying to get his attention. "Hello..?"

Someone was calling him. He looked up.

"Hm?" A patient. Crap. He forgot he was at work.

He cleared his throat. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I kind of drifted away for a moment. Yes.

Check up, I did ask for. Yes. So, uh, Ms. Morstan-"

"Please, Mary."

"-yes, Mary, how have the sleeping pills worked out for you?" he inquired.

The blonde woman took a moment to think.

"Well, I think it was working for the first few days, so I didn't take them the next two. I managed to fall asleep without them, but then the next week, the insomnia started up again. I don't know what to do," she said almost desperately.

"Well, Ms-er, Mary," he corrected himself, "I think we need to go over your sleeping schedule. If you don't mind, could you write up a daily schedule for me? From there, we can try to figure out a way to tweak your habits in order to help you get a good night's sleep naturally," he said as he wrote instructions down. "I also want you to keep a journal detailing when you sleep and how long."

Mary nodded.

"Well, I must be going, but I suppose this just means I will see you tomorrow, doctor?"

John nodded.

"Goodbye, John," she said, winking as she left the door.

John blushed.

Sebastian Moran sat in his dingy room, cleaning his guns. He always took good care of his guns religiously, always taking time when he wasn't busy with assignments given directly to him from the boss. The man had saved his life. Taken him in when there was no where to go. Sure, he had his tryst as a solo mercenary after his military days, but it was boring. He had no purpose other than killing people for other people's revenges in exchange for money. He didn't need money. He needed a purpose.

He scratched at the skin underneath his missing eye. It was kind of itchy today.

His boss was a brilliantly intelligent man. His view on life sparked his interest. Oh, every mercenary and assassin that ever existed wanted to get a job from his boss, but he was a hard man to get in contact with. Even harder to get hired by him. Imagine his surprise when an anonymous client contacted him with the most odd jobs. After he completed one, he would receive another through one of many of the man's lackeys. He had followed the client's orders down to the very last detail without hesitation, and as a reward, he was allowed to meet him face-to-face. He would never forget that day. It was one of the most nerve-wracking moments of his entire life and from then on, he was hired indefinitely, even becoming his right-hand man. He respected the man and would even give his life for him which was why he endured having to deal with a partner, a woman none the less. She was so irritating. He wanted to choke the life out of her, but his boss had a reason for everything. Why he hired her, Sebastian had no idea. She basically walked into his world from the streets. Did she think being a mercenary and assassin was a game? None the less, she got the job done. That was the only reason why he tolerated her.

His text tone went off as he received a message.

"Meet M tonight at 7. She will give the details." - M

Great, now he was getting orders through her?

He sighed and resumed cleaning his rifles, ignoring the burning itching sensation from his old scar on his eye.

John squatted down on the roof of the building across the shady motel, binoculars glued to his eyes. He had finally gotten off work early that day (for once) and was now trailing Crusoe once again. It seemed like he was up to something weird today. He had taken the tube all the way out here, about two hours from where he lived, checked into a room, and now he was apparently waiting for someone.

The doctor had a sneaky suspicion that he had been texting someone, and he hoped to God it wasn't an unknowing underage child. If what his client had said was true, Crusoe was a pedophile and a murderer, two things that should never be and even worse when combined. He kept his eye on the motel and started stretching out his muscles. His gut had him thinking he needed to stay alert and limber tonight.

He was in the middle of stretching out his left leg when a taxi drove up. Someone of very short stature got out of the car, but it was hard to see the figure as they were standing too far from the lights emanating from the motel. The cab left and the person started walking towards the building. They eventually passed right under a street light.

Oh God. It was a teenager. Probably about fourteen or thirteen. She was heading towards room number 13, Crusoe's room.

The audacity of the bastard! John panicked and immediately climbed down the building, running faster than usual to catch her before she went in. He was halfway there when the girl knocked. The door opened and closed when she entered.

Shit.

He ran up, not caring if there were any cameras, and didn't even bother knocking. John kicked the door open, holding one of his guns, and felt his heart sink at the sight before him.

The assumed naked bastard was holding her down on the bed, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. They both immediately turned their heads towards him.

"Please, help me!" the girl sobbed.

John unhooked the safely.

"Let. Her. Go. Or I swear, I'll shoot," John threatened. He was serious.

The man let her go and held up his arms in surrender with his hands in the air.

"C'mon man, don't shoot. We were just wrestling," he said.

John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, right." He turned to the brunette who was cowering behind him, whimpering. "Go to the check-in lobby and tell them exactly what happened. Get them to call the police. Go. Now," he ordered. She nodded her head vigoriously, tears streaming down her face, and left.

"It's just you, and me," he said as Alan stared at the silver gun. The doctor took out a recorder from one of the many pockets on his person.

"Did you, or did you not, rape and kill your neighbor's daughter, Susie?"

Alan's eyes widened. "I-I-I," he stuttered.

John shot the vase to Alan's left.

"Oh my God! Are you crazy?!" he screamed.

John stood his ground. "Answer the damn question," he said as he turned the recorder on.

"Alright! Alright! I did! okay?!"

The doctor paused the recording.

"Did what?" He turned it back on.

"I killed her! Susie! I told her that her dad sent me to pick her up and I raped and killed her, okay? My friends covered for me from the police! Just don't kill me!"

John paused the tape again.

"How many others have you killed?" He pressed the small record button.

"Hey man, I'm-"

The blond shot the painting in the wall.

"Okay! Okay! Five other girls!"

"Name them," John demanded after he paused the recorder, turning it back it on when Crusoe spoke.

"I don't know their names, man." The doctor's blood began to boil in anger. He punched the man and collected the casing and bullets from the floor and the wall as Alan lay moaning on the floor in pain. He set to work, making sure Crusoe couldn't escape, and then left when he finally heard the sirens wailing in the distance. Luckily, no other boarders had come to check what all the noise was about (most likely due to there not being any other boarders at this dump).

"Holy hell," Lestrade muttered as his eyes caught sight of the scene before him. He had gently pushed open the broken door and gasped at the naked man sitting on the floor against the four-post bed. Two normal ropes were laxly tied to each wrist and the two posts at the bottom of the bed where he back was leaning against. A pair of open scissors hovering above his genetalia as he sat cross-legged on the floor and were tied to each wrist, the stretchy rope straining and tense. If the man lowered his arms, he would become a eunuch.

"H-help me! My arms are so tired!" the man said in a panicked tone.

"In due time," Lestrade said. He was in no hurry. The police had received a phone call from his motel about a pedophile and attempted rape from the staff of the motel who said the girl mentioned a man in black barged in a saved her. She said the pedophile's name was Alan Crusoe, a dismissed suspect in the murder of a young girl, his neighbor's child, in fact, which was why he, a homicide detective, came to the motel. Crusoe's alibi was air-tight due to several eye-witness. DI Lestrade rubbed his face. He had to reopen the case and re-interrogate each witness.

"Donovan, make sure someone's there with the girl. We need to get her statement, the staff's statements, and contact her parents," he ordered.

"Yes sir, " she said as she left.

Some of his men began to undo what John had done earlier, making sure they didn't cause the scissors to close. That would be a nightmare in paperwork.

Lestrade looked around as a forensic photographer began taking pictures of the crime scene. The bed was a mess. A vase was shattered, pieces scattering the floor. There was a small hole in the revolting orange and red painting of something the grey-haired man couldn't make out. On the desk across the bed was a small...recorder?

What the hell had happened here? he wondered.

A/N:

I am so sorry for not updating. I had a family emergency, then crisis, so I had no time to write until now.
My summer class is over and everything's calm, so it's all good now.

I hope this wasn't too bad for a T. Shouldn't be, right?
It's odd. I personally don't curse. Well, in my head I occasionally do, and perhaps I utter one out loud by accident, but my characters do, so I write them in my stories. Lol

Have you ever had an old scar that burned and/or itched? I have, right under my left eye. Weirdest sensations. I felt like Harry Potter. LOL My eye was tearing up though because of the burning sensation. Other times it would itch, probably because of new cell growth.

I apologize if you think things are going so slowly, but it's all build up. It's going somewhere. Somewhere very good. In due time, you'll see.
I hope you stick around!

Thank you all so much for reading.