Chapter Eight
A Pressing Case
-.-
The room is dark, the curtains drawn. Click. Click. Click. Sherlock lies idly on his bed, browsing the internet, searching John Watson. Click. Click. Click. He finds a blog and reads through the cases meticulously, unable to believe that he would ever allow someone to put up such romanticised versions of his exploits. Click. Click. Click. It occurs to him that this blogger of his certainly had a lot to say about his unruly flatmate. It also occurs to him that John Watson barely mentioned himself at all. Everything is Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
Who was he? He ponders for the umpteenth time. It looks like he was obsessed with me, going by what he's writing. He glances at a post entitled 'His Return'. As he reads, he can tell that this was a man who actually cared about him. Sherlock blinks, taken aback. Not many people have openly admitted to caring about him before. And I must have cared about him too…
He remembers that picture. We may have been drunk, but surely getting drunk and acting that way entails prior feelings. Someone had once told him that drinking helped you act as you would if you were not restrained by your conscience. Sherlock barely has a conscience and yet, even now, he can never imagine willingly kissing somebody with such obvious passion.
Click. Click. Click.
There is a knock on his door and Lestrade enters without waiting for him to answer. He is slightly out of breath and has been wearing the same clothes for at least three days.
"Lestrade." Sherlock says curtly. "You've got an urgent case for me?"
"We've managed to track down John's killer." Sherlock looks blank. "The assassin you were after, remember? Well, we know where he's heading. In a couple of hours we can close in on him."
"And you're telling me this because…"
"Because…" Lestrade wavers. "Because I thought you'd like a spot of revenge. For what he did to… to John." He saddens as he broaches the topic, but there is fire in his eyes as he speaks.
"Where?"
"The place near that alleyway. Off Trafalgar Square. Will you come?"
"Now? Alright." Anything that might trigger a memory is worth his time. And where better to return than the scene of the crime?
"Sherlock, dear, your lunch is ready."
"Not now, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock calls to her as he follows the detective inspector. "This takes priority."
"You need to eat, young man!"
He knows that she is worried about him. However, he shouts back casually as he leaves: "You're not my mother!", and closes the front door behind him.
Lestrade takes the wheel. "You might have offended her, you know." Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly as they drive off. He wants to ask Lestrade more questions, but something holds him back. The DI looks upset and his passenger can't bring himself to trouble him further. That move, Sherlock realises, is decidedly out of character. Since when does he take other people's feelings into account? Maybe it's this John Watson, still whispering incoherently in his head. Why would he ever listen to somebody else's opinion though?
He is still battling to answer this conundrum when they pull up and get out of the car. Stepping out onto the pavement, Sherlock heads straight towards the alley, but Lestrade grabs his arm and stops him.
"Mate, we can't go there yet. We have to wait for him, remember? We have people surrounding the area and we can't get too close or he'll realise it's us."
"Oh. Of – Of course." Sherlock stutters. He has been so intent on the location that he has neglected the actual reason they are here. "Right. Where do we position ourselves then?"
Lestrade leads him to a warehouse and they are greeted by two plain clad policemen at the door. The senior man flicks an ID and they walk into a gigantic storage room, riddled with rows of boxes, piled so high that it is impossible to see what is behind them.
"We wait here." Lestrade informs in hushed tones. "When we get the signal – a whistle – we run out of the exit over there. Got it?" Sherlock nods and they crouch behind an empty crate, waiting.
Ten minutes pass in absolute silence. Lestrade is fidgeting impatiently next to him, gun in hand. His breathing has quickened and his teeth are gritted. For him, this is a personal revenge. All he wants to do is catch the killer and punch him over and over for the crimes he's done. Sherlock is thinking similar thoughts – this is the person who killed someone important to him. Even in his state of not-remembering, he wants justice.
Then, far from the shrill blow of a whistle both men expect to hear, a young police officer rushes over, walkie-talkie in hand. "Sir… he's not here. He's gone to – to a house in Baker Street… 221B…"
Sherlock looks at Lestrade in horror. In a terrified whisper, he conveys the one name on his mind.
"Mrs Hudson."
Things are about to get a whole lot worse.