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

The Good Doctor
Chapter 6

Paper Trails

A female figure strode across the room towards Sebastian Moran who leaned against the only window in the dingy room, her heels clicking the ground with every step. A single candle provided the light source in the abandoned building and the room they resided in smelled musty and full of mold from water that leaked through the roof. The paint was peeling off the walls and some areas had huge bouts of plaster missing, exposing the bare skeleton of the wood hidden behind the dry wall. The sniper was beginning to think that Britain had a more abandoned buildings than was necessary, but that was advantageous to their agenda so he did not mind at all. Cycling through different meeting places kept them safe and away from prying eyes.

"The Professor wants us to keep tabs on him, you know," she said as she stood directly across from where he sat.

Sebastian gave no response, instead, choosing to chew on a toothpick that hung out of his mouth.

"Just because he let you go do your own thing doesn't mean I have to listen to you," Moran replied. He was heavily annoyed with all the females in his life. Why were they so irritating, thinking they could boss him around? Or thinking that he even wanted to talk to them? It made no sense, whatsoever.

The woman merely raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow and smiled, almost in disbelief. Touchy, aren't we? she thought. "I am only repeating what he has said. No need for your input, Moran." She crossed her arms and looked past him, out the window into the night sky. "Regardless, he needs you to update The Saint. She'll be in charge. I trust you to relay the message?"

Sebastian grunted. The boss was making him a bit agitated these days. Why he chose to relay his messages through these amateurs was beyond him. He didn't trust anyone but the professor; not one bit. The man reached up his left hand and scratched the itchy skin underneath his eyepatch as his colleague waited for an answer. He hoped that if he didn't speak, she'd leave anyway. It was almost time to rendezvous with The Saint, that is, if she finished her other duties. No complaints though. Sebastian had it easy; she did all the work and he just shot people's heads off. Very nice.

The man's colleague's phone vibrated. She promptly began to reply to the message.

"Where are you going, all dressed up?" he asked, not really interested, but he thought maybe The Professor gave her a job to complete and wanted his help which is why he sent her to him.

Without looking up from her phone's keyboard, she replied, "Oh, you know. The usual. Some high-powered politician. Dinner, maybe a show at the theatre, then a quick liaison before I off him."

"That's disgusting. Why don't you just kill them instead of going through all that nonsense?"

The continuous clicking resounded from her perfectly manicured, red-polished fingernails. The woman's hair was swept up in an elegant manner, up and away from her face. As per her usual attire, she was wearing a very expensive dress and very much wanted to leave the dirty room. Her neck was hugged by a lace collar that extended and molded to her arms, leaving a small pointed elongated horizontal oval (which was mimicked on her back) where the black cloth of the skin-tight dress started clinging to the rest of her chest and body met the black, sheer lace material.

"Insurance, love, insurance. When I do my own agenda, I don't kill anyone. I collect information, which is why The Professor lets me do what I do. Valuable to me, valuable to him. Why do you ask? Do you want to join me for dinner?" she asked teasingly as she clicked send, facing the sniper again with her ruby red lips pursed in an amused manner.

"No," Moran said as he scratched his face again.

"Mm. Maybe next time. In the meanwhile, why don't you ask that beloved professor of yours to send you for a glass-eye fitting? 'Twould be better than having that thing scratching your face all the time, am I wrong?" the woman asked as she displaced her weight onto her right leg, letting her left hip jut out. She crossed one arm over her body, still clutching the cellular device, and raised the other perpendicular to it and habitually started clicking her middle and thumb nails together near her ear.

"Besides, you'd be able to go out more."

Moran never thought about getting a glass eye, but he ignored her.

"Where is he, anyway?"

His colleague gave him a mock face of disbelief.

"You mean he didn't tell you, Moran, his right-hand?" She smirked as he scowled at her. "If you must know, I believe he's in China. Or somewhere. Doesn't like to give details."

It had been several months since Sebastian had last seen the professor and several months before he utilized him to snipe for his own uses.

The woman hesitated for a moment before asking, "What happened?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know exactly what I mean."

The assassin stood up from his slouched position. His boots made a loud clunking noise as they greeted the dirty ground. He knew she was not clearly asking about the eye, but about his past. It was something he never liked talking about.

"I think it's time for you to go, pretty lady."

The woman shrugged.

"Fine, but you better tell her. Oh and I've been told to give you the greenlight for the disposal the boss spoke to you about. Good bye, Moran."
She sauntered out the room as Sebastian rubbed his small beard, wondering if he should shave it off again. He hadn't done that since his days in...he didn't want to think about his past.

"Let's have dinner sometime," she said as she walked away.

Sebastian chewed on his toothpick again and picked up a large black guitar case which he modified to hold not an instrument, but his sniping rifle. It made for a better disguise in case he needed to blend into a crowd, although his colleague did have a point. Trying to blend into a crowd wearing an eyepatch was absurd.

He walked over to the candle and burned the toothpick, leaving no traces behind.

"Sherlock, I think you should forgo finding a roommate. It seems impossible," Mycroft said to his younger brother. They were currently sitting in the older Holmes's office which was furnished with light brown polished wood for the desk and shelves. There wasn't much of a personal touch in the room at all, which was nothing unexpected. Sherlock thought his brother was a bit too bland in terms of holding his interest personally, but his brother always surprised the detective with his antics whether it was something sneaky he did behind Sherlock's back or something he did in what he thought was in his brother's best interest. It was a hindrance, really, when the government attempted to intercede your daily life because he thought he knew what was best for you.

"Why did you call me here, Mycroft. I'm on a case."

He hadn't really come of his own volition. His brother had sent men. Again. He would have fought them off, but they caught him as he was hailing a cab and shoved him into a car. They learned quickly from the last time that the only way they could get the detective to cooperate was by binding his hands, but this time, a couple of them arrived at their superior's office with a nice bruised eye, courtesy of Sherlock's head.

Mycroft leaned back on his chair, holding up a fountain pen to eye-level and examined it as the light from the fire made the silver on the pen flicker brightly. His eyes focused on the writing instrument as his mouth made a slight frown.

"So chaste, Sherlock. Not a good trait. Didn't mother teach you otherwise?" he asked, avoiding his brother's inquiries.

"No, you did not," the detective quipped back.

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he set the pen down and sat up, his reclining chair returning to its upright position.

"I am merely concerned for you, dear brother. Your lack of a social life is not healthy."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, and I suppose you have one?"

The brothers, as much as they would hate to admit (and they never would) were more alike than they thought. Workaholics. Extremely intelligent, but had the tendency to put others down. Very rational and judgmental. Just. Merciless. Both brothers used other people to do the gruntwork they didn't want to do, except, in Mycroft's case, people were utilized more often than not. Sherlock only did things that caught his interest; everything else could be done by someone else, but he stood in the shadows and echoed their every movement.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "That is beside the point."

The dark-haired detective stood up.

"Well, as much as I appreciate this mindless chit-chat, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what you want later. I'm leaving." He walked towards the door and opened it, shutting it as he left.

"Sherlock!"

Mycroft made a noise of annoyance as the door closed. It quickly opened again and two men in black suits forced the younger Holmes to go back inside the office.

"Very nice, Mycroft, using government agents to bully your younger brother. What an excellent use of taxpayers' money," he said sarcastically as he straightened himself out and sat back on the chair. He crossed his legs and placed both hands on the armrests, staring expectantly at his older sibling.

"If you must absolutely know, these men do so on their own volition."

"Hm. Yes, most likely."

Mycroft stood up from his desk chair and walked around to the fireplace that was burning at the side of the room. He picked up an iron rod and prodded at the wood. When he was done, he turned around to face Sherlock.

"I have a...request."

The consulting detective raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft put his hands in his pockets.

"That so called 'vigilante' the press is having a field day with, I need you to continue to track him down and keep tabs on him."

Sherlock scoffed. Of course, Mycroft would already know what he'd been up to. The government always knows.

"And why would I do such a thing for you?"

The older Holmes sibling racked his brain for a good excuse. His brother responded to logic.

"For the safety of the country, of course. He seems harmless enough, but you never know if his actions would escalate into something...worse," the older Holmes sibling responded.

Sherlock stared ahead. He didn't really care about 'the safety of the country'. It didn't interest him, but the masked man was certainly pulling on his intrigue. Out of pride he really didn't want to agree to assist his brother without some kind of show of resistance.

"Perhaps when I have time, Mycroft. I'm a consulting detective, not your lackey."

Mycroft knew exactly what his brother was doing (ever the same, he was) and took that as an acceptance of his request.

"Good. Now, out. I have work to do," he ordered as he shooed his brother out the door.

xxx

Sherlock found himself in front of a small house somewhere in Sunbury. He was clutching the address which was written on a piece of crinkled paper in obnoxiously girly handwriting. He had never met a female that made him nauseous in his life other than the woman. Nonetheless, he pocketed the small piece of paper and walked up the pavement as the cabbie that dropped him off drove away.

"Richard Compton," he said aloud. That was the name of the one man who used a credit card. Those who placed similar ads in the paper were competent enough to know to use cash. Unfortunately for Richard, he lacked the intelligence to realize that one should not use a card when purchasing an ad for a possible assassin or hitman. Although, Sherlock really didn't know what to call the mysterious man. He didn't kill anyone (yet) so assassin and hitman weren't quite the very definition of what he was. He looked back at the paper to confirm that he was indeed in front of the correct house. Credit cards were an absolutely damning piece of evidence when one wishes to create an alibi or hide themselves. It was all about the trail.

Paper trails, paper trails (or perhaps in this case, it should be called an electronic trail).

He had already gotten Lestrade to run a background check on Richard Compton and interestingly enough, his record came up clean. Those ads were definitely connected to the hitman. Assassin? No, those would indicate a person hired for murder, but this man wasn't a murderer (to the best of his knowledge). The modus operandi would not fit be considered as a correct definition as well. Those ads were connected to..."The Doctor". Perhaps that was his code name. Proper noun with a specific article of 'the'. Definitely his code name.

The detective walked across the stone pathway to the front door knowing fully well Richard Compton was most likely at home. His records had shown that he was recently let go from the company he worked at very shortly after his wife passed away. The dark maroon door was starkly contrasted with the white paint of the area surrounding it. The grey roof was missing a couple shingles here and there, but other than that, the yard looked well-kept and the house looked up-to-date. Well, as of probably a few weeks ago. The weeds in the yard were growing out again.

He rang the buzzer with a gloved finger.

"Mr. Compton? Are you home, Mr. Compton?" he asked in a pseudo-cheerful attitude. He was channeling his brown-noser persona to manipulate the man into trusting him.

No one answered the door. He buzzed again and banged the knocker twice, peering into the small peep hole.

After calling out a few more times, he heard a thud inside.

"I can hear you," he said.

The door suddenly opened just a crack and a lone eye peered through.

"What do you want?" Richard asked. From what the detective could see, the man was about forty years old, suffered from lack of sleep (bags under his eyes), and was most likely in a state of depression. Obviously. He kept rubbing his muscles. Aches. And his wife recently died. It couldn't get more clearer than that.

"I'm here to inquire about your...business transaction," Sherlock said. He knew the Doctor was probably being hired out for an incentive; most likely currency. What else would there be? Favors, yes, but as of now, the detective was lacking the evidence to prove that theory. Many of the names used to buy the ads were obviously fakes, so it was impossible to tell who placed the ads and what they did for a living.

Mr. Compton's eyes widened for a microsecond before returning to normal.

"I don't know what you're talking about and I don't care. Leave my property at once," he barked as he tried to close the door. It hit something and stopped. He looked down at the ground and noticed a large rock was jammed between the frame and the door. When had that gotten there?

Sherlock, ever the quick thinker, had collected a rock before calling the man out in case this scenario played out. While the man was speaking, he subtly slid the rock towards the door and in place without Richard noticing.

The detective gripped the door with his right hand slightly above his head.

"I must insist," he continued as he pushed his way in. Sometimes a little force was necessary to obtain information.

xxx

Sherlock paced the room as the man sat on his couch which looked a bit worse for the wear. It was clearly evident that he had been sleeping and occupying the couch for extended periods of time as trash littered the area.

"Now, I understand that you took out an advertisement in The Times. Who is 'The Doctor'?" he asked as he stood on the opposite side of the mahogany coffee table.

"I don't know what you're talking about. That advertisement was for a house-call. You see, my muscles have been aching terribly and the arthritis in my legs prevent me from walking in long bouts," the man answered.

Lies.

"Mr. Compton, no one would ever place an advertisement calling for house-doctor without listing specifics. You obviously know your so called 'ailments', yet you denied requesting for a doctor specializing in that area of medicine? Do not lie. I know exactly what that advertisement is."

The man looked away, staring a picture of his deceased wife. If the picture was recent, she looked to be about thirty-five.

"And what would that be? I don't even know why I'm talking to you. I will call the police. You are here because I have the grace to let you be, sir, but my patience is wearing thin."

Sherlock needed a cover story. Quickly.

He forced his eyes to tear up.

"I'm terribly sorry. You see, I'm the cousin of one of her dear friends. She treated me so well, like the sister I never had, and when I heard the news, I couldn't help myself. I need to know," he said in the most depressed manner he could muster. "I want to help avenge her death too," he continued, playing on the man's emotions.

Richard snapped his head back towards the detective, his ears and face turning red from anger. He felt his blood boiling.

"So you know too, then? Where did you hear it from?" he asked.

Ah. Now they were getting somewhere.

"I heard information atwitter on the streets, sir," Sherlock guessed.

"Oh. You mean the homeless," the man answered.

The homeless? Interesting...

Sherlock sat down on the armchair. "Yes, I did. Has 'The Doctor' contacted you yet?"

"Yes, but I haven't responded. Honestly, I haven't a clue as to what I'm doing..." he trailed off. His eyes teared up and he broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.

The man was useless. He didn't know anything as he obviously hasn't met the man yet. Sherlock had read her file ahead of time and discovered she was involved with a car accident. Nothing immediately prompted murder, but he had a feeling something else was going on. He needed the facts before concluding.

"Oh, poor Elaine. She was a wonderful woman, but if I recall correctly, she was scared of someone, wasn't she?"

Richard's sobbing died down a bit.

"What?" he raised his head at Sherlock and asked through tears as his nose sniffled. "No, no. Elaine loved her work!"

Her work? Rather specific, was it not? Something was afoot.

"What was her occupation again? I keep forgetting, Elaine, the poor thing," the detective asked somberly. He wasn't quite sure what to say other than 'the poor thing' because sympathy was an entirely different world he chose not to venture into.

"Sh-she was a secretary for a company executive at Randall Industries." Richard reached over to the table and grabbed a few tissues out of the box and proceeded to blow his nose. "Only ten years of marriage," he mumbled, fresh tears threatening to spill out again.

Extraneous information. Obviously Elaine Compton was in some sort of trouble and had not released all of the details to her husband. Perhaps she made a few troubling remarks but reassured him it was alright. If it was something she didn't want to talk about, perhaps it was something she didn't want her husband to know.

An illicit affair with a high-powered executive? She wouldn't be the first secretary to have relations with her superior. Perhaps she had discovered illegal activities in the company, but kept quiet about it? Or perhaps not as quietly as she thought. And the list went on.

"Who did you say you were cousins with again?" Richard suddenly asked.

Sherlock stood up and dusted his coat.

"I really must be going. Thank you for your time, Mr. Compton, and I am terribly sorry for your loss," he said quickly as he walked out of the house.

John was exhausted. He hadn't had a wink of sleep in almost two days, but from the moment his head hit the pillow, the pain in his leg kept him awake. His shoulder was burning. Earlier, he had taken two pills of Vicodin, yet nothing happened. At the same time, he was almost afraid to sleep because sleeping meant dreaming and the doctor had noticed a pattern in his dreams.

His memories were seeping out of repression and into his subconscious mind. After his stint in the military, he never thought or spoke of what happened to him to anyone, not even his sister. She had given him her old phone to keep in contact, but he never called her. When they spoke (rarely at all), it was her that usually called him, and not the other way around. He even lost contact with the colonel he had a near-death experience with...what happened to him? They hadn't spoken since they were both released from duty. He hoped the colonel was having a better time coping with life than he had.

John suddenly sat up and leaned over the edge of his bed, clumsily feeling the ground around in the dark for his laptop. The light on the edge annoyed him. Any light source was extremely bright enough to wake him up, so he had to place it under the bed to hide the light away. He never liked turning it off because he had set his computer to notify him if he received an email which were very important. Since his days in the military, he had learned to become a light sleeper. Waking up to defend himself was a manner of life and death.

He felt the edge of his silver laptop and grabbed it, bringing it up to his bed but almost dropping it. He logged into his email and found nothing. The last client he had responded to hadn't responded back. Perhaps he had changed his mind? He hoped not because the only way to ease the pain in his leg and his shoulder was if he had another job. He loved the thrill, but convinced himself he was doing it for justice and not for his own pleasure.

John closed the laptop and moved it to the left side of his bed and flopped on his back, staring at the ceiling. His fan was rotating slightly due to the fact that his air condition was blasting away. He knew he shouldn't stare at it because the more he did, the more it reminded him of helicopters and subsequently, bad memories he'd rather keep locked away. He laid still, but his mind kept wandering back to the burning pain in his shoulder and leg. He squeezed his eyes shut, internally debating whether or not he should take another vicodin pill, and decided against it. After all, he was a doctor and he didn't want to develop an addiction. He'd seen patients go through withdrawal and that was something he never wanted to experience, although, it couldn't be as bad as being a prisoner of war.

Suddenly, a quiet sound of notification alerted him that he had a new email. John scrambled to open up his laptop and squinted at the screen. His room was extremely dark, even during the daytime, because he had closed the dark curtains that hung in front of the windows. His client had finally replied:

"The window shows the true truth," the single line read.

That reminded him; he needed to change this week's passphrase. Anyway, John typed a reply, instructing the client to meet him at King's Park in Sunbury next week. After fleshing out the details, he sent it and closed his laptop once again, and headed towards his desk to grab his coat off of the chair. He put it on and left, his destination: the very heart of London.

xxx

The wind began to pick up and John shivered. He should have done this yesterday when it wasn't as cold! As the season began to transition from fall to winter, the weather began to vary every day, but it was evident that it was getting colder as the days wore on. The doctor took out a small notebook he carried around with him and wrote this week's passphrase on it and tore the page out. He neatly folded it into a thin rectangle and slid it in a crack between two bricks where a small sliver of mortar was missing. If a person didn't know where to look, they'd never guess there was anything in the wall. The building itself was a back alleyway where no one even ventured to which made it the perfect hiding spot. He trusted Lucinda would find it and carry with her, alerting anyone who inquired about The Doctor.

It was a nice trick he came up with. He paid Lucinda a small fee every month to be the code keeper which she usually used on drugs which would explain why she remained homeless. Since she was mentally out of it most of the time, she wouldn't be able to point him out if unfavorables asked, so his identity and his secret was definitely safe. She was one of the many homeless people that were connected with the underground society who were quick to catch on and follow The Doctor's example, so assassins, hitmen, and dealers usually utilized the homeless as messengers. Quick, clean, and simple. If they ever turned out to be...missing...nobody would miss them which made them the perfect vehicles to carry the word out. John was lucky enough to pass by Lucinda and offer a deal which she gladly accepted.

Another strong gust of wind nearly knocked the blond off of his feet. His stomach grumbled loudly and he left, deciding he'd grab a bite to eat before heading back home. He wasn't needed at the hospital that day. John walked down the street once he reached a main road with his hands jammed in his pockets and his head pointed towards the ground as he attempted to keep his neck warm by shoving his face into his jacket and accidentally bumped into a very tall, thin stranger who wore a thick black coat. He looked up, not recognizing the man even though he seemed rather familiar, but he shook his head.

"Sorry," he said, and walked away.

A/N:
Ah, sorry nothing really happened, but I filled in some holes.
This chap seemed to be more Sherlock-centric, but don't worry. John'll get his due in the next chapter!

The new semester started this week (yippee =_=), but since I ride the train to school, sometimes I spend those 40 minutes working in my fics. Haha. Yay for google drive! (no longer docs, just drive, but I can work on it offline without internet)
Whenever I try to go to sleep though, I get really good ideas for TGD which is why I haven't updated my other ongoing fic.
Don't worry, I have an idea for the next chapter in Parallel even though I haven't updated in like two weeks.

I'm also working on a oneshot, just because the idea came while I was trying to sleep.

Jeez.
My brain goes into overdrive when I'm trying to fall asleep and while I'm sleeping.
And things just run in the back of my mind constantly. I have sudden revelations and realizations out of nowhere.
One time I was sitting in the car and I suddenly understood this physics problem I was struggling with. LOL

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate every single one of you!
Honestly, I don't know why some authors on here hold their chapters hostage until they get 'x' many reviews. That's..kind of stupid. I write because you all inspire me :D
And I write because I personally want to, so I don't really understand why people get all huffy on not getting any reviews.

That's like JK Rowling asking every single person who read Harry Potter to give her a review before she wrote the next book.

hahahaha