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

The Good Doctor
Chapter 12

Intruder

"Hello there!" a blonde woman chirped as she looked up from behind the large counter towards the back of the wall Sherlock was heading towards. It was a massive lobby filled to the brim with people and with each step he took, his shoes made a clicking sound that became lost in the sea of clicking made by the copious amounts of workers briskly walking about with purpose.

The detective reached the counter and raised his elbows onto it, clasping his leather-clad hands. He gave her a grin. "Good afternoon, Ms-" he glanced at her nametag, "Collins," he finished as he watched her face her computer screen.

The woman typed something and looked back up at him. "How may I assist you?"

"I need to see Mr. Randall, please. It's an important matter that must be attended by him and him only."

The woman grabbed a pen and scratched the back of her scalp with it. "I'm sorry but you need to make an appointment," she said without really giving so much as a glance at him.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and lowered his voice, leaning in as if he were attempting to minimize the volume of his voice so that the other employees and visitors walking around behind him wouldn't hear. "I'm afraid I must ask you to keep this request strictly under wraps. No one must know I came by. Mr. Randall knows I'm coming and he does not want to take the risk of alerting the vice president by your call." She shot him a puzzled expression.

"I'm sorry?"

"You see, Ms., I was sent by the head of the company to do a bit of reconnaissance inspecting on how things are running at some of the factories and I would hate to inform them that the employees in the lobby aren't exactly paying one hundred percent attention to the important visitors that walk through this door, now would I?" Ms. Collins widened her eyes. She had been slacking off lately, so even as much as a whisper of trouble would mean she was done for at this company.

"A-alright. Go on through." She pressed a button and the glass doors to her left slid open. "His office is on the top floor."

Sherlock gave her a smile of thanks and walked on. He knew the president wasn't there because the president was dead, lying in a morgue at St. Barts, but it was interesting that his employees didn't know he was missing. Perhaps it was because she was a lower-level employee, but the detective was interested to find out exactly what the higher ups were doing to keep such scandalous news quiet.

He pressed the up arrow on the lift and it immediately opened up to a nice interior of dark cherry wood walls. The detective stepped inside and pressed the highest button for the penultimate floor, 39, while simultaneously pressing the 'close' button to make sure the car rode straight to his floor and not stopping along the way to pick up stragglers. He assumed the lack of the number '40' was due to the president's office being accessible only on a different elevator as to not be disturbed. The lift shot up and began carrying the dark-haired man to his destination. After a few torturous seconds of listening to bad music that blared out through speakers from the side walls at the bottom, Sherlock's phone rang. He reached into his pocket and answered it.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock!" an exasperated voice almost yelled into the phone. "Where are you? I told you to be here about an hour ago!"

The detective rolled his eyes. "I'll get there later, Lestrade. I'm busy."

And with that, he hung up, cutting off whatever the Detective Inspector was rambling on about. Really, the man needed to mind his own business, he thought as the car seemed to slow down.

The door suddenly slid open with a ding, revealing a chaotic scene before him. Several people were running around; others were tossing papers, searching for a document that disappeared. Phones were ringing off the hooks as employees answered and argued, yelled, transferred calls, held them, or hung up unceremoniously. Sherlock, the epitome of calmness in this disarray, walked straight through the apocalyptic scene and made his way down the hallway to make his way towards the lift that would carry him up to Mr. Randall's office. It was evident that these particular employees were fully aware of their missing CEO. The only reason why anyone would try to cover up his absence would be the threat of a company take over by unscrupulous folk. Mr. Randall must have been knee-deep in something sinister to wind up dead like that, leaving his people frantic and clueless.

After reaching the end of the corridor, another lift was awaiting him. The lights were flickering above him, an eerie observation Sherlock pushed out of his mind. Irrelevant information. He pressed the arrow and like earlier, the doors slid open as he informed the machinery he wished to go up. He once again, stepped into another lift and pressed the only button that existed and stood still on the short-lived ride. The doors opened to reveal the exact antithesis of the floor downstairs-an empty office. Or what he assumed was an empty office. There was no secretary sitting at the desk, but he did catch a glimpse of a framed picture resting on wood. A woman stood smiling with a man, her husband. The man Sherlock spoke to. What was his name? Richard Compton, he believed. The man that started this all.

He moved on towards the door of the actual office and gripped the handle, pulling it down. He yanked the heavy door open and looked ahead, immediately realizing someone was sitting on the black leather swivel chair behind the desk. The back was turned towards him, but the air displacement in the room made it evident. Sherlock casually reached one hand into his pocket and gripped the handle of his gun as the chair rotated towards the left and the stranger occupying the seat turned to face the detective.

"How may I assist you, Mr. Holmes?" a plump, elderly man asked as he removed his glasses and set them precariously on the table.

Sherlock did not recognize the stranger, but a quick glance at his expensive suit and watch informed him that the man was of a high position. The vice president. He had done his share of research and it was public knowledge the vice president and the CEO did not get along quite as nicely as they'd like everyone to hope, and of course, no one would dare sit in the president's chair other than those with high status.

"I saw you come up and recognized you from the papers. You're getting quite famous, you know," he said as tucked his smart phone into his chest pocket. The man leaned over and grabbed a small glass bottle that contained a brown liquid, most likely an alcoholic beverage. With steady, weathered hands, he poured a cup and slid it towards the detective then refilled his own. He took a sip and stared at the man still standing in the doorway. "Please, sit," he gestured. "How may I help you?" he reiterated his question from before.

Sherlock didn't budge.

The man sighed and set his cup down to the side, leaning forward at a more rapt position. "My hands are clean, Mr. Holmes. I don't know where Mr. Randall is, and frankly, I don't care. I will cooperate with you, if you want," he said, spreading his hands out towards the detective.

Sherlock squinted, reading the man's body language. His steady, but labored breathing, normal pupils, defenseless and open position, and direct eye contact convinced Sherlock that the old man wasn't lying, but he knew something was being kept a secret and he intended to find out what. "When was the last time you spoke to him?" he asked.

The old man scrunched his face in thought. "I think the day his secretary was hit by that truck. After that, I don't know. He left for home and never came back."

"And he wasn't home?"

"No, he wasn't, but I'll give you his address. Just wait a moment." The vice president looked around the massive desk, not finding what he was looking for. He swiveled the chair slightly to his right and opened the drawer on the right side of the desk and caught sight of a post-it note. He grabbed the small stack and picked a fancy fountain pen from a cup-holder and wrote an address down. "If you need anything further, please do not hesitate to call, although I must warn you, I will be very busy running the company."

Sherlock saw a ghost of smile graze the man's lips before he turned the chair back around, staring out into the depths of the city. "You may leave," he politely ordered, dismissing him.

Impatient, the detective gave up the facade of being polite and pulled out his gun, cocking it. At the sound, the chair slowly rotated back towards the curly-haired man. "Well, this is rather rash of you, is it not?" the vice president asked as he took a languid sip of his beverage, not batting an eyelash.

Sherlock uncocked it and gave it a twirl on his finger before pocketing it once more. "Needed a quick way to catch your attention," he brushed the older gentleman off. "Now, tell me before I call the Inspector to come arrest you. What do you know?"

The old man licked his lips. A slight tremble of his hand told Sherlock he was nervous. "Very well. I heard him talking on the phone right after his secretary left."

The detective nodded, prompting the man to go on.

"Whispers. A name. I don't know. Something starting with an M, I think. It was a woman," he added as he stared at nothing in particular, scrunching his face in an attempt to remember exactly what he had heard that evening. "He left for home, I believe, shortly after. Never saw him again."

The detective left, having gathered all the information he needed and wondered why the man wanted to withhold that particular piece of information. This man was indeed innocent, but something was hidden behind the veil, that much was for sure.

xxx

"Sherlock, I need you to take a look at this," Lestrade said as he threw down a navy blue folder before the detective. The inspector turned around and rubbed his chin, pacing around the desk Sherlock sat at. The dark-haired man opened it and was greeted with a picture of the wounded felon residing in his flat back at Baker Street. John was in his military attire in the photo, his face stiff and his posture rigid. Lestrade essentially handed Sherlock John's entire background. "Can you tell me anything from this?"

The detective flipped through the files.

"I had the team run the DNA found at the murder scene from last night. There was enough blood to pull an ID, but..."

Sherlock looked up.

"...But you don't think he's the murderer. Hence the reason why you gave me these files. Because the pieces don't fit."

Lestrade looked at his consultor and nodded. He rubbed his face and put his hands on his hips underneath his jacket. "The trajectory of the bullet that killed Mr. Compton was from somewhere behind him, farther away than where Captain Watson was according to the statement of the police that found him, but what I don't understand is why an ex-military man was meeting with a random stockbroker in the park in the dead of the night."

The detective had to give the DI credit; he was smarter than what people took him for. From his words, he knew Lestrade had a gut feeling something else was going on, but he just didn't have the capacity to answer his own questions. "My superiors are hounding me, telling me Watson's the killer, but it doesn't make sense. From the testimony of the officers at the scene, he was shot by someone in the woods. I need you to find out what you can about Watson. Look through these files and tell me where he would flee. There's something going on here, and I don't like it one bit."

Sherlock closed the folder and stood up. "What is the progression on the vigilante case?" he casually asked to a distracted Lestrade.

"Huh?" he said, as he snapped out of his thoughts, "Oh, God. I completely forgot." Lestrade rubbed his temples. There was too much on his plate at the moment. "Nothing. We haven't had word of any recent activity, although I think he's been doing this for longer than we thought. I went back and had some of my men weed through the older statements taken from the criminals we picked up and judging from their statements, I think he's been threatening some of the big fish in the underground world. They haven't come forward because, well-"

"-Because they'd be exposed." The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards a bit. He was definitely going to have a talk with the wounded soldier back in his flat. How had a short ball of rage scared experienced thugs into submission? Did he bargain for a lackie, for one less drug dealer out roaming the streets? The detective tucked the folder under his arm to free his hands, putting his gloves back on. "Well, then. I must be going, then," he told Lestrade who sat down in his chair and paid no attention to the leaving detective as he was much too busy religiously read through the reports his men had written based on the findings of the evidence at the scene. So far, they had matched the deceased with his identity, one Richard Compton, widowed. Occupation: stockbroker. No children nor siblings. Parents: deceased.

His top priority was getting answers for this murder. Lestrade had an inkling that perhaps Captain Watson and the vigilante were linked, but how, he hadn't the faintest clue. An honorably discharged, invalid veteran surely couldn't have the time nor the strength to take all these gigantic men down, did he? The police had scoured his apartment and found nothing pertaining to the captain except his laptop which contents destroyed themselves earlier in the day. Greg was having a really bad day. Why was everything happening so quickly? It felt as if the world of crime decided to purposely explode and crap all over the Inspector within the past twenty four hours to make his migraine was worsen with each passing minute. He sighed and leaned back on his chair. He needed a nap.

John fell for the second time as he attempted to hop around, but that was evidently an extremely futile task. Rubbing his elbow, he sat up on the floor, cursing his savior's height as the doctor had slipped on the pajama bottoms that were much too long. He tried rolling them up, but it was no use as they'd immediately fall back down. He also attempted to roll the top around the elastic band instead, but that cut off his circulation so he quickly unraveled it. The blond glanced around the room and yawned, still tired from the ridiculous series of events that occurred the night before. After sitting with his legs sprawled out like a child for several minutes, he gathered his strength and slowly hoisted himself back up, using the armchair he fell behind as support. Instead of hopping about, he began to limp over to Sherlock's room by turning the disadvantage of the trousers into an advantage. He used the cloth material to slide himself around which was a better option because all the hopping jolted his injuries and could have possibly ripped them open again.

As the mercenary reached the exposed bedroom, he became genuinely curious not only at the prospect of wondering if the detective had anything that resembled a cane he could use, but of what the man's room was like. Sherlock was a strange fellow so it was hard to imagine how he arranged his things, decorated them, or to see signs of his habits by looking at the state of the things he touched and used that were essentially figments of the echoes of the man's life. What sort of person was he that he risked his life to harbor a wanted fugitive? Or at least that's what John assumed he was labeled as. It wasn't clear that he was indeed considered an actual murderer at this point, but the police were out for his head and that was enough to go on.

He slid on over and sat himself on the undone bed, the duvet ruffled atop the pillows-one was in place and the other in the center. It seemed Sherlock was not one to make his bed which was funny because John always did. He did a once-over around the room and was surprised the room was relatively clean compared to the clutter outside, but there were clothes strewn over a chair and some laid abandoned on the floor. A couple books made their way onto the nightstand next to the bed as well as a few coins here and there. There were several empty cups and empty plates with crumbs on them around the room to convince John that even though the man seemed like a robot, he was definitely a human. A bachelor, to be precise, he thought as he gazed at the semi-clean pigsty. Under a stack of newspaper, something thin and black caught the doctor's eye and he stood up to grab it, hoping that it might be some kind of cane or something sturdy that could substitute it, but much to his surprise, it was a riding crop, he determined as he pinched the width with his thumb and forefinger, pulling it out from underneath the papers. He gripped it and smacked the bed with it.

What an odd thing for Sherlock to have. Based on all of the man's possessions, it would have been virtually impossible to guess that he rode horses. And if it wasn't for horses...what was it for? John shifted his eyes and slowly put it back, not wanting to follow that line of thought. Awkwardly, he stood there next to the bed, trying to see if the man had anything as he didn't want to go digging through his stuff. After a few minutes, he gave up and decided to ask the landlady, Mrs. Hudson. In hindsight, he probably should have done that first. The blond doctor hobbled to the doorframe that led to the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called down.

"Yes, dear?" John heard a response.

"Do you have a cane?" he asked. Moments later, he heard Mrs. Hudson head towards the stairs and then immediately caught sight of her. In her hands, she gripped an archaic-looking cane in which the top of the stick curved downwards making the whole thing look like an inverted letter 'J', but he didn't mind. It would definitely do until he retrieved his own.

"Is this good for you, dear? It was my ex-husband's. He left it with the rest of his things," she said as she handed it over.

John took it from her and leaned on it, immediately feeling the pressure lifting from his leg. He visibly relaxed a little bit. "Yes, yes. This'll do quite fine, thank you," he told her.

She smiled at him. "Any time, dear," she said as she turned around and carefully headed back down the stairs with her left hand up in the air as her right glided along the wall to help her.

The doctor turned to walk around and realized it was a bit tall for him, but it would have to do. He limped over to the table and searched the floor to find where his abandoned pack laid. He found it behind the left arm of the couch and picked it up, strapping it on. He was about to walk down and out the flat when he realized he was still in pajamas and had no clothes to change into. It would be embarrassing to walk around the city not to mention the amount of cold, harsh wind he'd be forced to bear. Due to his injuries, his immune system was weak which meant he was that much more susceptible to germs and colds that would decommission him from beginning his new goal of clearing out his good name.

John moved to remove his pack and go looking for clothes Sherlock might have that could fit when he remembered his civilian clothes were stuffed inside. He mentally slapped himself for being such a dolt and began to change, preparing to venture out into the world which was out for his blood, literally as unbeknownst to him, someone had placed a healthy bounty on his head.

The doctor shivered against the wind that had picked up right as he set foot out on the streets. He had asked Mrs. Hudson for a hat (which she did have; he wondered why she hadn't thrown out any of her ex-husbands' things), and tucked his head down as his walked to enable the brim of the brown plaid pageboy hat to cover everyone's view of his face. He thumped along the concrete and slipped into a cab, ordering the driver who failed to recognize him to take him as far as the man could, right about until the edge of the inner city where he switched cabbies who barely gave him a second glance as they drove and continued his journey in this particular fashion until he reached his destination: the street where his flat was located.

John had brought his pack, having stuffed his scope and extra ammo into it. The throwing knives and his guns were hidden on his person; really, he shouldn't be venturing around the streets when images of his face kept flashing on the news, but he couldn't afford to just sit. He was sinking in quicksand and he needed to do something, quickly. He climbed up the fire escape of the empty building opposite his own flat and climbed onto the sill of an unlocked, dirty window. He was having a bit of trouble due to his throbbing leg, but he sucked it up and crawled in. The crumbling walls of the room he stood in had evidently been uninhabited for a while, or so he thought until he caught sight of a candle with a wick that looked it had been burned fairly recently resting on a ragged table in the center of the space. He shrugged it off, thinking it must be used as a get-away by some couple. There was a certain attraction to abandoned places that many people were drawn to, perhaps due to the context of shutting the world out and enjoying themselves if only for a moment or two.

The doctor opened his pack and took out his extremely expensive scope. He looked through on eye and looked around for any sign of a policeman. Just as expected, a car rolled around the corner every ten minutes or so. Whoever was driving it was clearly under orders to patrol the area in case of its fugitive inhabitant's return. He moved the equipment to face his windows and found that someone had opened his blinds. John was prepared to curse himself for looking into his flat as he knew he always left the blinds shut so the idea of checking it was futile, but serendipitously, they were drawn open and the doctor could see everything inside. There was yellow caution taped at his door, marking it with an 'x' and a few of his things were shuffled around, but no one was inside. He waited patiently, watching if anyone came out of his bathroom or his bedroom, but no one was there. It was completely devoid of any life which prompted the blond to decide to make a run for it. John needed to get his extra ammo and knives, hidden in a false bottom of a small chest filled with junk, and of course, his cane. He needed his cane.

After waiting for the police car to come and go, he quickly climbed back down the escape and ran across the street, checking to make sure no one was watching. Because of his leg, it was more of a hobble than a run across, but due to sheer will, he made it to his flat without tripping over his legs or his temporary cane. At this point, the sky was getting dark so he wasn't greatly worried about being seen, but learning from his sloppy mistakes, especially the one that put him in this situation in the first place, he deemed it was necessary to be cautious. He forgot his keys, so he picked the lock with tools he always carried around with him after retrieving them from his pack and walked up the stairs, sliding with his back up against the wall just in case there was someone posted inside that he had missed with the scope. To his delight, he was greeted with emptiness. John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and ducked as he walked across his living room. He couldn't walk freely just in case someone happened to be looking in. Catching sight of an unfamiliar silhouette in a flat that was supposed to be empty meant a phone call to the police and that meant escaping which he was in no condition to be doing.

The blonde abandoned the cane next to the door and made his way towards his bedroom after confirming that his own cane was indeed, leaning on the wall next to the telly. He opened the trunk that lay at the foot of his bed and pulled out a worn looking dark green box then proceeded to lift the lid and place it on the floor, spilling its contents out onto it. John turned the now-empty box upside down and forced the false bottom to fall. He retrieved his special-material clothes and stuffed them into his pack before replacing all the contents and heading over to his closet. He struggled to grab the jacket he was fond of (black with leather padding on the elbows) due to the awkward angle he was trying to pull it down from while sitting on the floor and finally forced it off the hanger and put it on before pushing all the boxes and junk on the ground of the closet aside. A small portion of the corner of the carpet was able to be lifted. He grabbed it and pulled it back to reveal floorboards. The blond loosened one and coaxed it out of his place, displaying the extra ammo and knives that would surely incriminate him if found. Plus, the knives in his pockets could use a break; he needed to sharpen them. The doctor finally replaced the floorboard, carpet, and his useless things after ridding the hiding spot of its contents. He strapped his pack back on and was about to leave his room when he heard his front door open and close. Footsteps began thudding up the stairs and the direction of the tapping rhythm that came nearer and nearer with each second froze him in place. His heart started beating erratically against his chest; he couldn't move.

Someone was in his flat.

A/N:

Oh God. I'm so sorry this is late. I had the most massive writer's block ever.

Happy late birthday to Andrew Scott whose birthday was on the 21st! And to me! I share the same birthday. haha
(Interesting fact: I have the same birthday as the man who plays Moriarty and I have the same personality as the Moriarty in the books. Um...LOL)
I didn't cover nearly as much as I would have in this chapter, but it was getting long so I cut it short.

You guys make my day every time I upload something. Thank you all so much for reading and commenting. Or just reading. Or you know, just taking a glance at it. Or just deciding to open it. LOL