Chapter Title: Stressed
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Beta: N/A (If interested, PM me…Must also be able to Brit-pick!)
Words: 2,560
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D
ALMOST THREE YEARS AGO – A MONTH AFTER THE FALL
"Strange, isn't it? Seems like just yesterday you were classified as half of the greatest criminal catching duo in history, and now you're here, looking for a job," Sebastian smiled at the ex-army doctor before him, "Jim'll be happy to see you, John. He's been looking for a new hire."
"Just lead me to him," he growled, using a glare he usually reserved for Sherlock when he was being especially annoying.
Seb simmered at the demanding tone, but obliged. He led John down a dark hallway, turning left down another, smaller hallway that branched out from the main. He stopped halfway to make sure John was still trailing, and opened the door to Jim's office. "Sir, you have a guest."
"Send him in," Moriarty didn't look up from the paper he was reading, motioning for whoever his guest was to come in with a wave of his hand.
John entered the room, cataloguing the details of the room. He noticed the expensive furnishings –though this did not surprise him seeing as Moriarty was constantly used as a consulting criminal and had the uppermost price for his services.
"Sit down," he sent a dismissive wave Seb's way, "Make yourself at home." Only when John sat in one of the two white chairs with diamond encrusted frames did Jim Moriarty look up from his paper.
John was prepared for anything. Ridicule, anger, anything.
Except for what did happen.
"Finally!" Jim grinned. "I must say, Johnny boy, it's about time! Took you longer than I expected to be honest."
John gaped, "What?"
"It's been over a month, John! I expected you exactly thirty days ago," Jim sighed, "I could always see it in you, Johnny. I could always see that spark in your eye whenever the situation presented itself as being dangerous. It was just a matter of time before you'd come to realize being on the side of the heroes is boring," he droned. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, "What finally made you turn, Johnny? What made you snap?"
John grit his teeth to hold back a snarky comment, "The fall."
"Ah, yes. Your best friend's death. Bit sad…" Jim sighed dramatically, "If only the poor bloke would've had the bright idea to fake his death like the rest of us –by 'the rest of us' I mean me and all the other famous criminals running around the streets of London having faked their own suicide. Not that hard, actually, faking your death and all." Moriarty watched as John tensed and fed off of it. "That Sherlock of yours and yourself were close; do I detect a bit of romance?" He winked.
"No. Now, if you excuse me, I came for a job, not an interrogation into my personal life," John growled, "I know I'm qualified, so just hire me."
"Oh, feisty," Jim smirked, "It fits you, John."
"Do you want my help or not?"
"I want your help, dear lord do I want your help," Moriarty gleamed, "You're hired just as long as you can prove to me you're trustworthy."
"How?"
"Your first assignment, Johnny boy! How exciting!" Jim hopped from his chair and received a phone from his safe. He set the phone down in front of John and waved him away. "Go on now, prove yourself."
John knitted his brows together, "You didn't give me an assignment…"
Jim huffed, "The phone, my dear boy, the phone! I told you I was anticipating your arrival, so I made a phone jam-packed with information you'll need in the field. Your first assignment is in Cardiff; Jim Reshin is the man you're after. The rest is on the phone. Kill him without leaving evidence –or witnesses- and I'll hire you, full time. No funny business, John, I don't want to have to kill you on your first day!"
John picked up the phone and began to scroll through all the information stored on it, "There are more names on here…"
"Yes," Jim smiled mischievously, "just in case you're feeling a little ambitious."
John stuffed the phone into his pocket and stood, "I will not disappoint."
"Oh, I know you won't," Jim smiled.
John began to exit when Moriarty added something.
"Oh, and Johnny boy," John could almost hear the smirk, "It could be dangerous."
…
Sherlock stood in the doorway to Molly's kitchen, staring at the bloody scene before him.
Molly was lying beside her kitchen table, bloody hand prints by the wound in her chest, and her head snapped back in an unusual fashion due to the bullet through the brain.
Blood was pooled around her torso from the bullet in her chest and some was seeping from her head wound. Blood was splattered on the walls, making the scene feel right out of a horror movie.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade materialized beside him, a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"
Sherlock snapped out of his state of shock and shrugged Lestrade's hand off, turning his focus toward the scene before him. He moved toward Molly's body, hesitantly kneeling beside her whilst being careful not to step in the blood.
John stood back from the body, his nerves on edge as he watched Sherlock's calculating scan of Molly's body. He bit the inside of his cheek and waited for Sherlock's deductions.
Sherlock cleared his throat, "One bullet to the chest first, evident by the bloody handprints on her shirt…probably caused by her clutching her chest and trying to stop the blood loss…" Sherlock moved his eyes up to her head, shuddering slightly, "Kill-shot to the head provides an important piece in just the kind of person who'd do this. The killer saw her clutching her heart and used what people classify as a 'mercy' shot. They pitied her and put her out of her misery by putting a bullet through her brain…killing her instantly," Sherlock's voice got softer with every word spoken; by the end, his voice was barely above a soft whisper. "The position of the bullet suggests that the suspect is about…5'3'' or 5'4'' feet tall. The gun was fired about a few feet away from her body which means that he either surprised her or she was frozen in fear as he came nearer. Ballistics report?"
"The bullet came from an untraceable pistol. We have no idea what specific kind of gun or where the weapon came from," Lestrade sighed, crossing his arms.
Sherlock moved away from the body, trying to hide his discomfort, and motioned to the table, "Two cups of tea, suggesting that she knew this person. She let him in and felt comfortable enough to make tea and cookies for the both of them. That's when," he motioned to the body without looking at her, "this happened."
"Him?" Lestrade asked, still in amazement at how much Sherlock could take away from the crime scene.
"Yes, him, obviously. Molly is not one to have many 'girlfriends'. I know of only two and I checked on the way over; they're both in America visiting family. That leaves the men in Molly's life. New boyfriend, perhaps?" Sherlock looked at the two teacups on the table and noted that one was empty. "You've already tested for DNA on the teacup, yes?"
"No, we thought it irrelevant," Lestrade sighed again, "Which doesn't make sense…I can see that now."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's like working with a bunch of uneducated monkeys."
"Oi, I realized the mistake and I intend to fix it. Anderson!" Lestrade called for his forensics team leader.
Anderson moved toward the table with an evidence bag and bagged the teacup, sealing the baggie shut.
John shook himself of his shock and moved out the door, trying to slip away unnoticed, but everyone knows there is no going unnoticed when Sherlock is around.
"John? Where are you going?" Sherlock called after him.
"I need some air…" John didn't stop; he just hoped Sherlock wouldn't follow him.
Sherlock exchanged a confused look with Lestrade who just shrugged.
John exited Molly's flat and slipped into the alley. He put his back up against the bricks and closed his eyes, putting his hands over his face. "This is a disaster."
"What is?" A familiar voice whispered in his ear.
John tried to cry out, but a hand was over his mouth before a sound could escape.
"Ah, ah, Johnny. You don't want to alert the police to my presence, do you?" Sebastian removed his hand from John's mouth and wiped John's saliva off on his jeans.
John scowled, "No, that would be awful," he peered around the corner at the forensic team packing all their stuff up into the vehicle, "I'd love to be derided by you, but right now I need to get that evidence away from Anderson. The evidence he has puts me in the flat at the time of Molly's murder and you know what happens if I get caught. Our deal will be off."
Seb copied John's actions and eyed the man John identified as Anderson. "You need something stolen? Leave that to me." Seb pulled a ski-mask out of his jacket and pulled it over his face. He waited until Anderson was the last of the forensic team out on the street –all of the others had either gone inside or left the scene to start processing evidence- and ducked his head down. He broke into a fast sprint and rammed into Anderson, snatching the bag from his grasp.
"Hey!" Anderson screamed, pointing after Sebastian, "He stole evidence! Get him!"
A few police officers sprinted after Sebastian who was already rounding a corner, out of sight.
John emerged from the alley and prayed that Sebastian had evaded the trailing police officers.
Sherlock ran out of the flat, having heard the scuffle outside. He ran over to John and made a quick search for injuries. "Are you alright?"
John nodded, "He didn't touch me, just Anderson. I only saw Anderson get hit; I didn't see the bloke's face."
Sherlock eyed him, "Anderson?" He looked back at the man, "You saw him?"
Anderson shook his head, "No, he was wearing a mask. He bumped into me, almost knocked me over for Christ's sakes-"
"Anderson, get to the point," Sherlock demanded, "Did he take anything?"
"The evidence bag with the teacup in it," Anderson replied, knowing he was going to be called an idiot for losing the evidence.
Sherlock balled his hand into a fist and punched the air in frustration. "Goddammit! If you lot would've done your jobs correctly, the single most important piece of evidence wouldn't be lost! You know what this means, don't you? It means that we are back at square one; no suspects."
John silently sighed in relief. Thank God. If I'm going to be working for Moriarty and doing his dirty work, I'm going to have to be more careful not to leave any traces of me being there.
"Bunch of idiots!" Sherlock continued his rant, his voice at a point of yelling.
"Sherlock," John started, "it's not their fault; it's okay."
"No, no it's not 'okay', John," Sherlock snapped, "Now we have nothing! Nothing to tell us who murdered Molly!"
John sighed, "Let's just go home and review the facts. Maybe a suspect will arise and we'll find another lead."
Sherlock's nostrils flared, "Fine." He turned on his heel and began to hail a taxi cab. "Text me the pictures your foolish team took and call me if you get any leads. I'll be at the flat. Come along, John." Sherlock yanked open the cab door as it rolled to a stop.
John looked over at Lestrade, "Sorry, Lestrade. You know how he gets when a case is lost."
Lestrade quirked an eyebrow, "What makes you think it's lost?"
"I –I meant…you know…" John spluttered.
"I mean, I've seen Sherlock solve cases using only the tiniest piece of evidence. He could solve something like this in his sleep," Lestrade seemed to ignore John's sudden nervousness.
"Yeah…yeah," John forced a smile, "He'll solve it in no time. He just needs to simmer down."
"Yeah, what's his deal?" Lestrade crossed his arms, "I've seen him get excited about murders before, so what's so different about this one?"
John quirked an eyebrow, "Its Molly. It's strange to think she's dead now, Lestrade. I think he just needs some time and then he'll be back to the Sherlock we know and love," John smirked.
"Speak for yourself; I could get used to this different Sherlock. Sure he's a little more wound-up, but anything beats the old pain in the arse he usually is," Lestrade chuckled.
"Yeah, I gue-" Suddenly, John felt himself being dragged away from Lestrade by Sherlock, "The Hell, Sherlock?" He demanded, giving Lestrade an apologetic smile.
Sherlock glared, "I said come on." He pushed John into the cab and practically yelled their address to the cabbie.
The cab began to head toward their home, silence settling itself over the duo.
John glanced sideways at Sherlock.
Sherlock caught him looking. "What?"
"What's with you?" John asked, turning to face him. "Usually you don't get so emotional at the crime scene, whether you know the victim or not."
Sherlock didn't answer.
John furrowed his brow, "Tell me what you're thinking, Sherlock. Maybe it'll relieve some of the stress you're under…" John suggested.
Sherlock whipped his head toward him. "What I'm thinking is how idiotic Lestrade's team is."
"Well, we all knew that," John joked, trying to ease the tension.
Sherlock blinked at him, "This is no time for jokes, John. Molly is dead and our main evidence is stolen."
"So? You'll just find a new lead, then. You always do," John snapped, annoyed by Sherlock's attitude.
"No, you don't understand. The way she was killed suggests that her murderer has killed before."
"Yes, and? What does that mean?"
Sherlock's eyes locked with John's, "It means he's going to do it again."
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