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

The Good Doctor
Chapter 13

Suspect

The floorboards creaked ever so slightly as the intruder stepped closer. John, still frozen in his position on the floor, frantically looked around the room. Should he hide? Should he attempt a confrontation? He shook his head at his hesitation. He was a soldier and he needed to act like one. The doctor reached behind him and grabbed one of his guns that was tucked between his lower back and the top edge of his trousers. He pulled it out, cocking the gun as quietly as he could, and stood up slowly, wobbling and almost tipping over in the process. He calmed his breathing which proved to be quite a difficult task. Carbon dioxide pumped out of his nostrils as adrenaline coursed throughout his body, reminding him of the days he spent in a land far away and of memories he had forgotten. His heart was thumping against his chest and it felt as if it were about to burst open. John gripped his gun with both hands and set his back against the wall and slid across as he drew nearer towards the door frame, just as he had when he was downstairs.

He could hear the footsteps draw nearer and from the sound of carefully placed shoes, whoever was inside the flat was walking around cautiously. His intruder was clearly aware that John was there and it was only a matter of time before they became face to face. Perhaps the other person had caught sight of his cane; perhaps John made more noise than he thought. Whatever the reason was, there was no way to run. He braced himself, prepared to kill if he had to.

The veteran, making sure his pack was secure and in place, peered around the edge of the doorframe. He cringed as the strap rubbed against the sore, wounded area around his ribs. Seeing that the hallway was clear, he made his way towards the living room, carefully crossing one ankle over the other as he kept his back towards the wall. The flat was dark, enabling the eerie shadows cast from the luminosity leaking in from the outside world through the windows to slink around the walls and floors. John continued in this manner until he reached the frame that opened up to the living room, not noticing that the other person's footsteps had grown silent. With one spin he would make himself known, but he needed a moment to collect himself. The blond swallowed thickly, trying not to make an audible sound. He took a few quick, deep breaths and spun, gritting his teeth and holding his gun out in front of his body and pointed the tip upwards towards the taller intruder's face. "Freeze!" he cried. At that same moment, the thief, or whomever it was, thrust his own weapon down at John. The two stood face to face, guns pointed in such a manner, a slight tremble of a finger could blast a bullet through the other's skull, taking the living breath up and away from this world. It took a moment for the other to realize exactly whom they were staring at.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John breathed, raising his eyebrows in surprise, his gun still poised.

"John," Sherlock acknowledged, clearly not surprised, with his own mirroring the fugitive's.

At the same time they lowered their weapons, eyeing each other. The consulting detective uncocked his weapon and tucked the firearm back inside his coat pocket. John held onto his, letting it hang limply from his hand at his side but resting his finger on the side just outside the trigger area. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked the lithe man.

Sherlock turned around and walked over to John's modest couch, tugging off his gloves in the process. "I should ask the same of you," he aloofly answered as he flopped down, taking a seat. John didn't move. He scoffed in disbelief as he opened his mouth and slightly moved his jaw to the left. He blinked.

"Well, this is my flat."

Sherlock stretched his long legs out in front of him and then lifted them one by one onto the couch, sitting hunched over with his hands resting on his knees. "And this is my crime scene," he retorted without missing a beat. "I would have thought that an experienced military man moonlighting as a mercenary would think twice before entering a room full of evidence that would incriminate him."

The blond looked around. "What evidence? I don't see anything."

The detective continued to stare at the wall in front of him as John looked pointedly at the dark curls on the back of the man's head. "That's the problem, John. You see but you do not observe," he said. "There's a knife puncture in the wall. The force of impact necessary to conduct the amount of damage done in a clean manner thrust into the dried plaster dictates that the thrower threw it from a far distance, meaning someone with skill and precision," he explained as he pointed towards the area without looking. "The cane resting over there by the television doubles as a type of sword. The ring around the top is strategically placed to disguise the thin edges of where the two parts pull away. Crumbled documents on the floor, research on various known drug dealers and felons," he continued, pointed at each area without moving his head, "Gloves under the coffee table. Military grade. Shall I go on? Tell me, John, what would an ex-military man working as a humble doctor need these things for? It's all evidence, John, evidence."

John gaped at him, sputtering. He was a bit at a loss for words. "That's-that's fantastic!" At this exclamation, Sherlock turned his head to take a look at John, his upturned collar slightly obscuring a part of his face. A slightly surprised look replaced his usual stoic face. He wasn't sure if that was supposed to be sarcasm, but from the blond's apparent impressed visage, the reaction was genuine. Sherlock didn't quite know how to take this. This reaction was foreign. No one had ever called his deductions fantastic; they usually told him to piss off.

"Sherlock Holmes...I remember where I saw you now. You're always on the newspapers and on the telly, aren't you? I usually skip reading the headlines, but I've caught a glance or two," John said, even more thoroughly impressed as he recalled just how many newspapers he'd gone through with the man's face on the cover.

"Ah. That. Irrelevant," Sherlock replied as he returned his face back to normal, albeit his innerself still a bit in shock, and shifted so that his shoulders were square and his back was facing John. He would never admit it, but the felon's praise fed his ego a bit and made him feel, well, actually clever for once. "Although I must say, John, you are absolutely dreadful at covering your tracks."

The Doctor scratched his head. "Well, no one's been as clever as you so there was really no point." John limped his way across the room and grabbed his cane, the one that doubled as a sword, a gift from a deceased soldier in his platoon who had died in Afghanistan.

"So many weapons for a man who does not kill."

John looked up at Sherlock whose eyes shifted to watch what he was doing. "Well, the business I'm in, there's always danger lurking around the corner."

"Ah. Paranoia. Typical."

"No, not paranoia. Precaution. I have taken lives, you know. I was in the military."

"You were a doctor," Sherlock retorted, almost in disbelief.
"I had bad days too."

John looked around the flat, his gun now tucked away, making sure he had all that he needed. Ah. He forgot to grab some clothes. He couldn't continue to borrow the slender man's attire. He had found they were rather ill-fitting and not very comfortable. The doctor hobbled back to his room and left Sherlock behind who, at that moment, stood up and began to rummage through John's things. The detective pulled open a drawer from a desk that was out of the way by the wall and caught sight of a couple medals of honor, stashed away, untouched.

"Sherlock, can you carry this for me? I would, but my leg's a bit sore," John called out as he thumped back towards the detective who quickly shut the drawer. Without a word, he took the small, brown, worn suitcase and headed towards the door but stopped when he realized the blond wasn't following him. Sherlock turned around to ask him what the holdup was when John stood in the center, a puzzled expression taking over his face. His lips were pursed. "Why...are you here again?" He wasn't sure if the detective had told him, but he wasn't one hundred percent trustworthy in his eyes. They had met under strange circumstances. John was a doctor and a felon in the eyes of the law. Sherlock was a consulting detective to Scotland Yard. Two halves that didn't quite make a whole.

"I'm not turning you in, if that's where you're getting at. Logically speaking there's no reason for you to go to prison for your petty crimes-not yet. There's something else at large and I intend to find out."

"And you're just stringing me along for the ride?" John asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I'd suggest you hurry, I'm afraid we have a stop to make before heading back to the flat," he said, avoiding the question.

An hour later, John found himself sitting in a taxi parked on the curb, idling in front of the Palace of Westminster. He couldn't help but to stare in awe at the massive building. He drank in the details of the architectural structure from the ornate decor to the towering flying buttresses that lorded over the people. John had never been so up close because there was never a reason to visit where the House of Commons convened. In the dark of night, however, the spikes that protruded from the palace seemed very ominous and threatening, an image of power indeed. His companion made his way outside. "Stay in the cab," Sherlock ordered to the top of John's head who was about to climb out with him to stretch his legs as the detective opened the door. Before he could ask why they were there, Sherlock shut the door in his face after exiting the vehicle.

"Wha-?" John said as he watched the man leave and shut the door on him. "Sherlock! What are you-Sherlock!" he hissed as he opened the door again, trying to call the man back. He hoped his hat was doing a good job so that the driver wouldn't recognize him, but he didn't want to be left alone just in case the man did. "Okay, then. I'll just sit here. In the cab..." he muttered, shutting it to keep the wind out. He began drumming his fingers on his knees. Several long minutes went by and the driver fell asleep as the heater coaxed him into a light slumber. There was a subtle tapping noise on the window heard above the cabbie's light snoring. The blond looked up to see a disinterested female standing in front of the door, tapping away at a cell phone, manicured fingers expertly clicking each button even as she darted her eyes upwards to look into John's. He raised his brow at her. She looked very polished and elegant, but had an air of business about her. Her dark brown hair curled around her neck down to her shoulders, sleek and shiny due to the reflection of the light from the lamp posts behind her. It was dark and he could barely make out her face but he could tell she was giving him an annoyed look.

"Can I help you?" he asked her as he rolled down the window.

"Out. Now," she ordered. John gave her a look of suspicion, but did so anyway.

"Um, who are you?"

She turned around, still typing on her cellphone before pressing a single button and hold it out towards him. John took it and hesitantly held it up to his ear.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Dr. Watson," the voice said.

"How..who is this? How do you know my name?" John quickly replied.

"Who I am is not important, but I know many things about you. For instance, I know you're standing outside the Palace of Westminster."

John looked up, still clutching the phone to his ear. "How do you know that?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a faint movement as a blinking red dot moved its position back and forth.

"Do you see that?" the voice asked. "That's a camera. I can control them all. I can follow you wherever you go. I can find you wherever you try to hide. I would advise you to follow the woman into the car to your right, lest something...bad...happens." John turned his head to his right and caught a glimpse of a black vehicle parked on the other side of the street, just outside the lit area of another lamp post.

"And what if I don't?" he challenged.

"Now, you could refuse, but you'd only be causing yourself much trouble by putting the spotlight on you. We wouldn't want that would we, what, with your current situation eluding the law? Get in the car." The voice hung up the phone. John handed the cellular device back to the woman. Without a choice, he complied and stepped out into the biting wind.

"This way," she said as she led him across the empty street. They got in the vehicle which immediately drove away as soon as the doors were shut. He had no choice but to play along as he really couldn't afford to get caught by Scotland Yard. They sat in silence for quite awhile as any attempt on John's part to make conversation was rebuffed by the beautiful brunette. She smirked at his attempts to grasp her attention, and quickly ignored all subsequent questions. The vehicle rolled to a stop and John was let out. He looked around his surroundings and found that he was in some sort of underground parking lot.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," the voice from the phone rang out from across the area. The veteran limped his way towards the man, gaining a better view of the stranger with each step. A taller man than himself stood clad in an expensive suit leaning his weight on a black umbrella. His mouth looked as if it were stuck in a permanent scowl and his eyes took the doctor in, lingering on his cane. The nostrils on his sharp nose flared a bit. John thought for a split-second that he saw recognition flicker in the man's eye, as if he knew exactly what injury John was concealing, but dismissed the thought. "I trust your journey was comfortable? Your leg must be hurting. Please, sit," the gentleman welcomed him.

"No, I prefer to stand. What do you want from me?"

"Ah, straight to the point. Very well. What is your relation with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

John straightened himself up, much like how a threatened animal attempted to make its being bigger than it was in the presence of predators. But as soon as he did, he inwardly winced as the act of puffing out his chest which caused a small shoot of pain to reverberate through his injured side. "I don't have one," he managed to get out calmly.

"In that case, I'd like to offer you a small sum in exchange for...information. Small details."

"Look, I'm not interested, so you can keep your money. I just met the man yesterday," the blond replied.

"Loyal rather quickly, aren't we? As would be expected of a soldier," the gentleman said bemusedly. John grit his teeth in return. "I'm rather...concerned about him."

"How did you know I was a soldier? Who are you?"

The man lifted his umbrella and began examining it with great disinterest. "An enemy, he might say, but it's not of great importance. What is your...purpose with him?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Nothing." He gripped his cane tighter, ready to take out his weapon if need be.

"Hm. Yes. Well, I advise you to stay away from him. He'll do you no good."

The doctor wondered at these words. Could it be that Sherlock had an ulterior motive? Was this the man to trust? Comparing the two, Sherlock seemed more trustworthy (not that John actually did trust him...it's just that between a man who brings you to shelter versus a man who virtually kidnaps you, there was no competition). "It's none of your business anyway," he retorted.

The gentleman scoffed. "No need to get snippy."

"Are we done?"

The man placed his umbrella back onto the hard concrete. "You tell me."

And to that, the blond turned around and headed towards the car.

"Remember what I said," the figure called to his retreating back. The man's phone rang and he answered it, but by the time he did, John was out of earshot and back in the car, leaving the strange suited man behind.

xxx

The Doctor hesitated outside the dark door, huddled beneath a small lamp above the doorframe with his arm raised and ready to knock. He wasn't quite sure whether he should assume he was staying at Sherlock's flat or not, but really, he had nowhere to go. He didn't know where Mary lived, nonetheless if she'd believe him if he said he was innocent. By now, the world must be thinking he was a murderer. John made up his mind and firmly knocked three times. Honestly, it was stupid to stay in the heart of London, but on the other side, what better way to disguise himself than in plain sight? He waited, breathing out a puff of air into the cold, night sky. No one came to the door. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock was out at the moment? He turned the doorknob which rotated all the way, indicating that it was unlocked.

John pulled the door open and walked in, wiping his feet on the mat before doing so. He shut it and made his way up the steps of the stairs which slightly creaked and groaned under his weight. As he reached the upper level, he saw that a fire was lit in the living room. His suitcase was sitting next to the armchair Sherlock had sat in while he watched John stitch up his wounds. In that case, the detective was definitely home-just nowhere in sight.

Speaking of the detective, Sherlock lumbered in, his bare feet padding across the floor. Without his scarf and coat, John noticed just how skinny the man was. The detective rolled up his shirt sleeves and leaned down somewhere below the desk that was situated near the back wall and pulled up a violin and a bow.

"I'm closed to cases right now," he said, looking down. Not hearing the client leave, he raised his head. "Ah, John. I thought you might have had made a run for it," he said nonchalantly and he ran his fingers and eyes across the hairs on his bow.

The Doctor, still standing within the door frame, cane in hand, was a little distracted by the events that had just aspired. "I met an enemy of yours, apparently."

At this, Sherlock shifted his eyes towards his companion. "Oh really?"

"Yeah. Strange man. He offered me money to spy on you."

A look of realization flickered across Sherlock's face, eerily similar to the man with the umbrella. "Did you take it?"

John shook his head. "No."

The curly-haired man turned his attention back onto his violin. "Pity. We could have split it."

"What?"

Before the detective could answer, flashing red and blue lights made their way into the room through the windows from outside. They heard voices and keys jingling. Mrs. Hudson opened the front door and walked in. "Sherlock, Detective Lestrade is here!" she called up over the rustle of grocery bags. John's eyes widened in panic. Sherlock set his violin and bow down.

"Follow me," he ordered, walking past the mercenary and up another flight of stairs. John quickly followed, his pace quickening as they heard a few voices floating up from the entrance.

"Thank you for helping me with these, dears. You can wait in Sherlock's flat. I'll make you some tea," he heard the landlady say.

The consulting detective reached a door and opened it. "Hide in here. I'll retrieve you when they're gone." John nodded, but couldn't help keeping the door a sliver of an inch open so he could hear what was going on.

Sherlock walked back downstairs. "Lestrade. Donovan. What brings you here at this hour? Another murder case?" John could hear the muffled voices.

The consulting detective gestured for Lestrade to sit, which he did.

"Freak," Donovan nodded in greeting. The dark-skinned sergeant chose to stand behind Lestrade, arms crossed over her chest as she turned her head to take a look around.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I'll get right to the point. I need your help, Sherlock."

The younger Holmes took a seat. "Why else would you be here."

The Detective Inspector gave him a look of annoyance. "I don't know, a drugs bust? Anyway, that murder case you went to, the warehouse with the unidentified man? Yeah, well, Anderson and his team scoped the place one more time. This time, they found DNA evidence tying that Captain Watson to the scene. I need you to find him, now. Highest priority. I've already alerted the police to be on the lookout and notified all the stations to air his picture with information. He's definitely a homicide suspect now."

One floor above, the blood drained from John's face. He was certainly never in that warehouse and he certainly hadn't killed anyone since his days in the military (patients who died on him in the hospital didn't count).

If he didn't know better, the mercenary was beginning to think he was being set up.

A/N:

I actually finished this pretty early and already got started on the next ch.
I'm also working on a ch for Parallel.
If I wanted to respond to reviews...would I PM people or write on the review thing? Haha I'm a total noob. I've been reading & lurking for years but I never actually wrote anything, hence my dumb self.

Merci beaucoup pour la lecture, tout le monde!