Knock, knock, kno-
The door flew open. Sherlock Holmes normally had a cat-like air of cleanliness about him, so it was strange to see him just out of bed-hair sticking out every which way, dark circles under his eyes, and, judging by the state of his clothes, he had fallen asleep in them.
"What do you-oh. Lestrade. It's you."
The DI cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah. Morning."
"It's five A.M."
"Well aware. Did you find anything yesterday?"
"It's five in the morning."
"Yes, you texted me at four to tell me you were being followed. And Sebastian Moran had something to do with it." Lestrade let himself in, allowing the row of people behind him to follow.
"And so…you…" He was staring at the seemingly unending line of men and women in formal suits and pencil skirts in uncharacteristic befuddlement.
"Did what it's in my job description to do, yeah."
"Oh," he said, sounding deeply offended, realizing. "Oh, you went to Mycroft? That's a new low."
"Around the clock supervision until this comes to an end or you owe him two more Christmas dinners. I didn't ask what that meant, so I'm assuming it's some sort of euphuism." The flat was now so full that it was violating fire codes. Sherlock looked like a defiant child, but even he couldn't argue with upwards of thirty assorted members of several Secret Services. And possibly the gravity of the situation had finally convinced him that this was necessary; being in a constant state of dependence does wonders for your superiority complex.
"I'm almost there," he retorted.
"Right. INTERPOL couldn't catch this guy, and you actually think-"
"That I can? Yes, because he's only willing to come out and play for me at this point. He just made a mistake. Will Adair? That was him."
"Why?" Lestrade didn't have time for skepticism. Just roll with the punches.
"I don't know yet, I'm working on it!" He looked around the room as if just realizing the ridiculous volume of people in it. "First, move this-" He made a sweeping, dismissive gesture- "out of here. I need to think, they're breathing too loud."
"Two stay with you at all times, two tail John, the rest monitor the flat."
"Fine. Whatever. Just-" He repeated the sweeping gesture. "Out. Now. Isn't there some sort of law against this many people in one flat, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
"Isn't there some sort of law against indoor firearm practice?"
Sherlock flashed him a look of annoyance. "You know about that?"
"Are you joking? We make people answer complaints from 221A as punishment for mouthing off."
"Well I'm glad to know you've finally found a use for me. How gratifying."
Okay, scratch that bit about the superiority complex. It had actually gotten worse. Was that even possible?
He sighed. "All right, you heard him. Everyone out." He consulted his phone for the list Mycroft had sent him. "Scott, Perez, Bell, and Vertrue, you can stay."
"I'm going to go wake John-he'll be overjoyed to know the flat's been taken over by Her Majesty's Secret Service."
"Is everything alright?" asked Lestrade worriedly. "You know, between you and-"
"FINE." He thundered up the stairs.
"O-okay then," muttered Lestrade under his breath. I'm not asking because I'm worried about you, but John's my friend. He deserves better.
There was a short silence while he fiddled with the door.
"Er. Lestrade?"
"Yeah?" he said, already starting up the stairs.
Sherlock was trying and failing to open the door. "He's locked it," he grunted, throwing himself against it. "Here-help-one, two, three-"
Under their combined weight, it gave way. Sherlock flicked on the light. "John, get up, we have guests!"
The figure in the bed didn't move. He had his back to them, curled up in a ball. The sheets were drawn up to his neck.
"John…" said Lestrade a little louder.
"Lestrade," interrupted Sherlock sharply.
"Hmm?"
"On his desk."
"On his…the pill bottle."
"It's open."
"He's not breathing-oh, shit-"
Lestrade would never forget what happened next, not as long as he lived.
Sherlock strode forward, put a hand on John's still shoulder, and pulled him over to his front…only to find that his front was not there.
The skin had been stripped away from his face and torso. There was blood all over the sheets. The Detective Inspector had never seen that much blood in his life, ever, anywhere. It had soaked through them, staining the long, slender fingers clutching at the patchwork of red and white. His skull grinned up at them, eyeballs still in place. The rest of his organs were still intact. Even his heart. Even his stomach, if that's what that pale pink, quivery looking thing sitting below it was. With a sickening churn of his stomach he realized bits of skin were all over the pillow, and rolls of it, like pencil shavings, were dispersed behind the bed.
John, no, please, God no…
Then the smell hit. It is hard to describe the smell of rotting flesh, but suffice to say it took him all his self-control not to vomit. His eyes watered, and he grabbed at the doorframe for support.
"This…isn't…possible," said Sherlock slowly
"What," gasped Lestrade. "What the hell-"
"No, I mean it really isn't possible! They didn't do their homework, look at those eyeballs! Wrong color, and the forehead is much too prominent-oh, this is really shoddy workmanship. They're trying to scare me! Ha! Someone's in for a surprise…"
His steely gray eyes were doing that flashing thing again, and he was pacing the floor and rubbing his hands together and grinning his head off. It wasn't normal, it wasn't right.
"What are you talking about?"
"Call him. John. I assume you have a mobile, right? Call him on it! Now!"
Lestrade did as he asked. Nothing was making any sense right now. He could almost feel his sanity fraying at the ends, like a worn rug that's been tossed around more times than it can handle. He fumbled for his phone and dialed the number. Someone picked up on the other end.
"Hello? John?"
"Hi," he answered sleepily, to the Inspector's immense relief and even greater confusion. "Lestrade, it's five in the morning."
Sherlock grabbed the phone. "John! Hello, yes it is. In about, oh, ten minutes, a police car will pull up in front of Sarah's apartment, assuming that's where you are. Was I right? Oh, good, excellent. Get in it, don't ask questions, and try not to panic."
He hung up and tossed him back the phone.
"Ten minutes?" said Lestrade, catching it. Eugh, there was blood all over it. "But Sarah lives halfway-"
The detective threw him a withering look. "You've obviously never been in a car with one of Mycroft's people at the wheel. They could do it in seven. Go send one of them."
"But-what about-"
"Unless you stuffed all of them into one car, Lestrade, I doubt that-"
"They came in taxis!" he said, now slightly desperate to get one complete sentence that was somewhat coherent in. "It's my car!"
"I don't care."
"Is that normal?"
"Yes."
"No, not you, that. John-his-its stomach. It's blue."
"No," said Sherlock, eyes narrowing. "No, that's not normal at all."
He leapt over to the side of the bed, rolling up his sleeves. "Downstairs, in the kitchen, third cabinet to your right, there's some knives. Bring me something small, preferably serrated. Muscle is tricky, stomach lining is trickier. Get someone to pick John up. And get me a different shirt, there's blood all over this one now."
"Third time this week, isn-"
"Shut up and do it, Lestrade, I don't have time for this."
The Inspector shook his head, wiped some sweat off his brow and headed back down the stairs. "Okay," he said, addressing the four remaining Secret Service people. "There's a corpse upstairs. No reason to panic, though, we're working on who it was and how they got there. Perez, get Sherlock a knife. Vertrue, go to…uh…"
"Applegarth Drive!" yelled Sherlock from upstairs. "There's an address! On the table! And could you hurry it up with my shirt, I've been up to my elbows in someone's chest cavity!"
The Secret Service agents looked up in shock and surprise.
"Don't," said Lestrade wearily. "Just…do what he says. Questions later."
He peeked into Sherlock's bedroom.
It was, as expected, a complete disaster area-clothes and jars with strange, squishy things floating in them strewn in equal measure around the floor. There was a dartboard on the wall with a variety of lethally sharp looking knives stuck in it.
"Never mind about the knife, Perez!" he shouted, wrenching one out and snatching up a shirt as well.
Sherlock was pacing wildly. "Something's wrong," he muttered.
"Well, yes, there's a corpse on the bed pretending to be John."
"Besides that, I mean, there's the fact that these people want to kill me. They timed this so that John was out of the house, got someone who had the same hair and was about the same height, got it up here without anyone noticing, and ripped its skin off. Didn't even bother to clean the skin up, but I suppose they were somewhat pressed for time. This took planning, this took work, why go to all this trouble?"
"They-"
"You didn't even notice the signs of forced entry, did you," he said, unbuttoning his shirt faster than Lestrade thought was possible. "Here-give me that." He shrugged into the clean, dark purple shirt and discarded the blazer on the ground, rolling up his sleeves. "I thought you all couldn't get worse than you already were-"
"Yeah, thanks, I was going to say the same thing about you. Do you think maybe they're trying to scare you?"
"No, this is a little welcome back present because they're so happy to see me. Of course they're trying to scare me! Why, though, wouldn't they want the job over with? Maybe they wanted to see me suffer first. Wanted…to…see…oh. Oh."
He had gone still all of a sudden. That was either a very good sign or a very, very bad one. "What's wrong?"
"Everything," he breathed. "Knife. Give it here." Sherlock snatched it from his hand before he had time to even extend it and leaned over the body, sawing at the stomach lining.
Lestrade, despite what his olfactory senses were screaming at him, leaned in closer to see.
There was a tangled mess of wires in his stomach, and a little blue LED was flashing, giving the organ a ghostly blue glow.
"It's a bomb," whispered Sherlock, as if talking too loudly would set it off. "That's why. They're going to kill me anyway, they just wanted to be creative."
"Well?" said Lestrade, looking up at the detective. "Now what?"
"Either we die now or you call a bomb squad and evacuate the area. Whichever you prefer."
The game, as they say, was on.