And now, the thrilling conclusion to A Study in Pink! Dun, dun, duuuuuun!
On another note, this chapter is dedicated to my beloved black labrador, Leia, who saved my life around 7 years ago before she passed away. Love you always my sweet girl.
This story was inspired by ausherlock's Little Companion story collection.
Disclaimer: I do no own Sherlock. Still. *Sulks sadly in the corner*.
John raced down the steps of 221B Baker Street. If Beta Lestrade (or was Mrs. Hudson Beta? Sherlock always acted as if they held the same position) called after him, John didn't hear. He ran out the open front door and gave a frustrated bark when he saw the empty street.
His Alpha was a bloody idiot.
John paced the curbside, wondering where Sherlock would have gone with the strange man. The one that smelled of sickness and smoke. John had been so absorbed in the other humans digging around in their territory, he completely missed it when Sherlock had followed the newcomer out and left. Without him!
John growled and plopped down onto his belly, ignoring the strangers who gave him strange looks at his behavior.
How was John supposed to find Sherlock? His scent was strong here on the sidewalk, but it'd take a miracle for him to follow the scent. Especially if he had gotten into one of those metal contraptions humans use to travel in. Nasty things those were. John could never keep his balance when riding in one, and they always smelled strongly of the human controlling it.
Wait...
John's ears perked up. Sherlock's scent would be wiped away, for sure. But the other human? His sickness was a strong scent that stood out from all the distinct London smells. A bitter, sour smell lying in between the dark, gritty scent of smoke, fire, and food.
John stood up, hearing the gray-haired Beta packmate calling for him as he came down the stairs. If John was to find Sherlock, he couldn't be dragged back inside by him.
John took a deep breath of the bad man's scent. He'd never tracked humans before. This should be fun.
Catching the trail, John darted off across London's streets, ignoring Lestrade's cries for him to come back.
His claws scraping against the hard ground, John ran as fast as he could along the scent trail, dodging humans and inanimate objects as he went.
The scent traveled far, but the route they took was simple. Straight, with a few turns mixed in. John had to run through the roads to keep it though, some of the moving, metal contraptions coming close to hitting him. He lost the scent only a few times due to the close calls, but always managed to find it again after backtracking.
By the time the trail was strong enough for him to smell Sherlock again, he was panting heavily. His paws hurt from running over concrete without protection, but he didn't care as he came up to two buildings.
The scents led him to the one on the right. He could smell the sick man (medicine, old soap, gasoline) and Sherlock (home, chemicals, excitement) as he followed the scent through the automatic doors.
XxxxxxSHxxxxxX
Jefferson Hope, the serial-killer cabbie, smirked at Sherlock as he got up to leave. The man had proved himself guilty and Sherlock had solved the case. He was done here.
"Just before you go, did you figure it out?"
Sherlock stopped, the door to the classroom half open, as he heard the question.
The cabbie smiled, "Which one's the good bottle?"
Oh, the man was clever. So clever. Sherlock should have guessed that the killer was a cab driver earlier on. He'd asked it to John. Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? It was so obvious now, Sherlock didn't know why he didn't think of it before.
And now this. Egging Sherlock on, tempting him with the game. Sherlock was intrigued, yes.
"Of course," he gave a smirk back, "Child's play."
The cabbie gestured to the two pills, "Well, which one, then? Which one would you have picked? Just so I could know whether I'd have beaten you."
Sherlock didn't answer. Of course he'd have beaten the cabbie. The man was smart, yes, more so than others, but not as smart as Sherlock himself. If anybody could beat the cabbie at his own game, it would be him.
"Come on," he chided, "Play the game."
The man was taunting him. Playing with him. Sherlock's expression turned to stone as he walked back over to the table and snatched the bottle sitting closest to Jefferson Hope.
"Oh, interesting," the man sounded cocky as he took the other bottle.
Sherlock took his time observing his choice, twirling the clear container around in his fingers. He watched as the reflection of the overhead lights danced on the glass. A reminiscent ghost of past years, of midnight meetings with dealers, of needles in the crook of his arm, of the highs that stroked his brilliant mind.
"So what do you think?" the cabbie gave him a secretive smile, holding his own pill up in his hand, "Shall we?"
"Really, what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?" the man's voice was starting to grate on Sherlock's nerves. He will win. He wasn't an ordinary civilian, crumbling at the thought of a life or death choice. How dare this murderer underestimate him.
"I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you, so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?"
The top twisted off Sherlock's bottle with a soft pop, and the detective rolled the pill in is hand. He held It up to the florescent lights, looking for clues to prove his point. But the pill stayed silent, giving nothing away.
"Still the addict. But this, this is what you're really addicted to."
Sherlock held the pill close to his face. This daunting little pill. He wouldn't be bested by a lonely, lowly, self-righteous shell of a cabbie.
"You'd do anything, anything at all, to stop being bored."
They both moved the pill to their mouths.
"You're not bored now are you? Yo—"
There was a loud barking and the banging of a door hitting a wall. Sherlock's head twisted towards the classroom entrance.
John leapt up and snagged Sherlock's coat sleeve in his mouth and yanked downwards. The pill dislodged from the detective's hand and skittered across the room.
"John!" Sherlock gasped in surprise.
The dog let go of his sleeve and growled menacingly at the cabbie. His lips were pulled up, revealing his gums and teeth, and the hair on his back stood on end.
When faced with an aggressive dog, most people would freeze or run. Very few would do what Jefferson Hope did.
The cabbie stared at John, and chuckled.
"Well blimey. That your dog Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock nodded, and reached down to run his hand down John's back, "Yes."
Jefferson Hope smiled, "I saw him in your house. He followed us, did he?"
Sherlock, for once, was speechless as the cabbie grabbed the fake gun. He twirled it around in his hand, holding the barrel instead of the grip.
"Did anyone else follow him?"
The sentence held more menace than any other Sherlock had heard the cabbie say that night.
Sherlock held up a hand, "Wait, don't. He doesn't understand."
"You didn't finish the game, Mr. Holmes. I can't go back empty handed. I've got to. For my kids. You're a smart man, you understand."
The cabbie started to draw his arm back to hit, and the only thing that stopped Sherlock from shouting out was John. The dog lunged forwards at the threatening move. He bit down on the cabbie's arm and forcefully shook the gun out of the man's hand. The fake gun fell to the floor, and John moved his teeth from the man's arm to his neck.
Sherlock saw them both fall to the floor, the cabbie's pained cries and John's snarling filled the room.
"John!" Sherlock sped forward and grabbed John by his harness as the dog started to rip and tear at the cabbie. The battle to pull the dog off was hard fought, but the detective managed to haul John off of the man. But not before permanent and extensive damage was done.
John let loose a string of barks, his only way of releasing his pent-up aggression and protectiveness.
Sherlock kept a firm grip on his dog, despite the animal's strength, as he looked at the dying cabbie. He couldn't help but ask the question, "Did I win?"
Even with the gaping wounds in his neck, Jefferson still managed to make a small smile at the question. He didn't answer.
Sherlock gave a growl of his own, "Ok, ok, fine! But tell me this. My fan. I want a name."
John's paws scraped against the linoleum floor and Sherlock's hold to get back at their assailant.
"Tell me, or I will release him, and he will tear at you until you can't take it anymore."
Jefferson Hope's eyes widened at the statement, and Sherlock saw the fear hidden there. But his head shook, "No."
John's barking grew louder.
Sherlock looked at him menacingly, "Give me a name."
The dog was close enough to snap at the cabbie's feet.
"A NAME!"
Primitively, fear of the animal overcame fear of the man. The cabbie, on his dying breath, gave his answer.
"Moriarty!"
XxxxxxSHxxxxxX
Thirty minutes later, Sherlock Holmes sat on the back of an ambulance. His dog sat next to him, eying all surrounding men with anxious suspicion. His muzzle and teeth were clear of blood, but protectiveness lounged in his blue eyes.
Sherlock sulked as, once again, an orange blanked was gently laid across his shoulders. He sighed in relief as Lestrade came up. Finally, someone to complain to.
"They keep putting this blanket on me. Why do they keep putting this blanket on me?"
The detective inspector gave him a pointed look, "Because you're in shock."
"I'm not in shock."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sheepish expression on Lestrade's face. The gray-haired man leaned in close, "Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."
They both looked down as John not so subtly shifted closer to the two of them. Sherlock reassured him by rubbing the furred head.
Lestrade looked at the two knowingly. He casually leaned against the ambulance, "Strange. The way that cabbie committed suicide in front of you."
Sherlock tried not to hesitate, "Hm, yes I suppose it is."
"With, what was it? A knife that he found in the janitor's closet?"
"Obviously."
Sherlock watched as Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, "You know...if I had known better. I would say that the injuries on his neck looked more like...animal bites."
Sherlock said nothing, but looked Lestrade straight in the eye.
Lestrade met his gaze, holding it for a minute. Then he shrugged and crossed his arms, "But what do I know? A serial killer cabbie with, an aneurism, that's what you said right? Probably wasn't in his right mind. His hands might have been shaking, inaccurate. The knife wounds would look like anything."
Sherlock let out a silent breath of relief as he scratched at John's ears.
Lestrade looked around suspiciously before softly whispering, "But don't let it happen again. I can't cover for you every time you dog goes after a killer cabbie."
Sherlock nodded, and found himself saying two words he never thought he'd say to Lestrade, "Thank you."
He almost smiled at the wide-eyed look of shock the detective inspector shot his way, "What did you...Sherlock?"
The lanky detective cleared his throat loudly, "Sorry, that's the, uh, the shock talking. Now, it's time for us to head back. Wouldn't you say, John? Chinese?"
The mutt got to his feet, calmer than he had been a moment before Sherlock was glad to say. He stiffly gave a few wags of his tail.
Lestrade looked like he was about to argue, but was interrupted when John went over and licked the man's hands a few times in gratitude.
All arguments fell away. He turned back to the building and flippantly waved a hand at them, "Fine, I'll come by tomorrow for your statement though."
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson made their way away from the crime scene. When Sherlock considered the two of them a fair distance away, he stopped at looked down at John. The dog looked up at him, ears slightly back and his tail wagging.
"Don't wag your tail, we just came back from a crime scene."
John's tail just wagged harder, and the detective was hard pressed not to smile.
He knelt down and laid a hand gently on John's head, "Good boy."