Might be bringing along some people from the yard instead.
John put down the jacket he'd just picked up to send Lestrade a text back. That's fine.
Anderson and Donovan might be there.
Ah…that's okay.
Sorry. It turned into a kind of work thing, a chance to talk about the case. You don't have to come if you don't want to.
It's alright, I'm already on my way out.
It took John a couple of tries to get a cab. The one that did finally pick him up smelled strongly of old clothes and even older food, and John refrained from breathing through his nose the entire way.
"'ear you go," the cabbie said cheerfully, pulling up in front of Peggy's. John paid him with a fiver and left as quick as he could, waving away the change.
John could see when he walked in the pub that he was the first to arrive. Heading to his favourite stool, he sat, and looked around for Vern.
An unfamiliar female barmaid walked over. "What'll it be?" she asked, scratching the side of her painted mouth.
"Vern off tonight?" John asked, giving her a smile.
She gave him a look that said don't even try. "Yeah. You want anything?" Her tone was borderline threatening.
"Just a pint." John said quickly.
John heard the door open and felt the draft. He turned, and was surprised to see Steve enter the pub. "Steve, hey!"
Steve looked just as surprised. "Hello!" He walked over, unzipping his blue jacket. "Waiting for your friends?"
"Yeah. You were told, then?"
"No…but I overheard Greg mentioning it the other day at the scene. I didn't know you were meeting tonight, though."
"Ah, sorry about that." John gestured to the stool next to him. "Didn't know it was going to be more then him and his wife until tonight, actually."
"It's fine. I don't usually come here other then to think." Steve ordered a lager.
The door opened again, and John saw that it was them this time. "Hey, over here." He waved to them; Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, and two others that John knew on sight but couldn't place their names.
"Steve." Lestrade shook his hand as he sat down. "John told you then, hey?"
"No." Steve said, taking a drink. "Just coincidental."
"Ah." Lestrade ordered a round of drinks. "Well, we should really get a table then."
"I wasn't going to stay too long, actually." Steve said.
"We were going to get one anyway." Anderson snapped.
Well, this is going to turn out well, I just know it, John thought.
They all sat, somewhat cramped, at one of the round wood tables. "Is the food here any good?" one of the unfamiliar Yarders asked uncertainly, shooting a glance at a rather tired-looking salad on a table nearby.
"I'd stick to the drinks." Lestrade advised.
"So how's the case been?" John asked, taking a drink of his beer.
"As good as it can be when we've gotten nowhere." Lestrade said with a sigh. "No more hits, but no more information either. Whoever it is has experience covering his tracks."
"No luck on finding any enemies?" John asked, looking from one to another. "There has to be some progress there."
"No one's talking. Both of the victims had people who weren't too fond of them. The second one was a manager at a construction company and wasn't a pleasant boss, but I wouldn't peg any of the workers to have a killing streak. That kind of info usually comes up only when the other side caves. And so far the other side doesn't exist yet."
"At this rate we're basically waiting for another shot to fire." Donovan said glumly.
"Not a very nice method." John noted, realising this to be unnecessary a trifle too late.
"Well, unless you can think of one better, it's the only one we've got." Anderson said derisively. "Though, I suppose being on both scenes makes you an expert."
John, with admirable restraint, ignored this. On the other hand, Steve gave a little amused sniff at Anderson's words, obviously thinking them clever. John allowed himself an irritated glance in Steve's direction, which of course he didn't see.
"You know, its cases like these where…" Lestrade trailed off and cleared his throat. John stared determinedly into his drink, suddenly feeling cold, despite the stifling heat of the pub.
"What?" Anderson said, looking between them. Steve and the other two Yarders also looked confused. Only Donovan had a flash look of understanding, which she followed by throwing her napkin on the table in obvious disgust. "Oh, please don't tell me you're thinking of—"
"Sally," Lestrade looked at her, a warning in his eyes.
"It's just…Greg, its unbelievable how you keep going back on this!" she said, looking at him with disbelief. "The man was a fraud, he said so himself! I don't know why you keep harbouring this fantasy…"
John felt his blood pressure rising, the cold burning away. He took a long drink of beer, which failed to cool his temper.
"Donovan, I've told you before, we respect your opinion—"
"Yes! So then why—"
"So you should do the same." Lestrade's tone gave little room for argument.
"Wait, are you guys actually talking about…" Anderson said, finally managing to cotton on.
"What exactly is this about?" Steve asked, still puzzled.
"Can we drop it, please." John said quietly.
Either she didn't hear him or didn't care, because Donovan turned to Steve to answer his question. "Oh, a few years back we had a man who called himself a "consulting detective"."
"Consulting detective?" Steve repeated, frowning and taking a drink.
Donovan snorted. "Don't ask. He made it up. Anyway, he'd help on cases, seeing what we "didn't observe"" She made midair quotations with her fingers. "He called it the magic of deduction or something."
"The magic of—"
"Deduction, yeah, something like that. Long story short, he was actually in on all the crimes he "solved", to make himself look clever—"
"Donovan—"
She turned to Lestrade and spoke with just as much heat. "My opinion, Greg! It just happens to be the right one, since he bloody well admitted to it himself!" She turned back to Steve. "He did, he confessed to everything, right after this huge disaster case that had a bunch of people held hostage or killed, and I guess the guilt finally caught up to him."
"So he's in prison?"
"No, he didn't want to face anyone after that. He just—"
John stood, nearly upturning the table. As it was, he did shake it enough to knock Anderson's drink over into his lap. Ignoring his angry curses, John glared at Donovan with fury burning in his gut, but he kept his voice level. "You can have your goddamn opinions. But you aren't going to talk about them in front of me."
She looked at him, and his anger grew as he read the sympathy in her eyes. "John, listen, you have to understand—"
He left the table without another word. He ignored Lestrade, who made a half-hearted attempt at calling him back. But he knew John too well. He wasn't going to sit back at that table anytime soon.
John went to the toilets and washed his face in the sink. His ears were still ringing. He stared at his face in the mirror as he dried his hands. Impassive, for the most part, with the only sign of his flash of fury being the slight flush. But he was apt at hiding his anger, and wasn't one to fly in a rage at the drop of a hat. Only a couple of times he'd slipped. Of course, those always seemed to be the times he regretted most in his life. Fights with Harry that never quite got resolved…the heated argument at Bart's that lost him his job… "You machine"…
He wiped his face with the paper towel, rubbing his eyes vigorously. Two years…no, two and a half…all of a sudden everything seemed to be bringing him back to that time. He was thinking more of it in the past week then he allowed himself in the entire past half a year.
The door opened. In the mirror, John saw Steve enter, saw him see John in the reflection. "Hey." John said, balling up the towel and chucking it in the overflowing bin.
Steve nodded in acknowledgement, went to the paper towel dispenser and began pumping out yards of the stuff.
"Going to make a paper quilt?"
"Anderson's lap is filled with lager. The napkins aren't exactly doing the best job at mopping it up."
"Oh." John tried to look guilty, but it took too much out of him. "Hey, listen, sorry about…that."
"I wouldn't have taken you for having such a temper." Steve replied, winding the towel into a loose roll. "I think everyone's in mild shock."
"Yeah, well…they should try and understand a bit sometimes. Wouldn't kill them." John muttered.
"I'm still in the dark, to be honest." Steve said.
"Well, just listen to Donovan's opinion then, seems that's what everyone's set to believe anyway." John's tone sounded so bitter it even surprised him. He cleared his throat. "Sorry."
Steve shrugged. "No worries. I'm still confused. Who was she talking about?"
John paused. The last thing he wanted to do was start talking; thinking was bad enough. But then again, nothing would be worse then letting Donovan's account be the only one people heard. He leaned against the sink, subconsciously flexing his hand. "He was…I'm surprised you never read about it in the papers…his name was Sherlock Holmes. I met him just after returning from service in Afghanistan." Saying his name felt strange, and just those words brought everything to the forefront of his brain—like lifting a garden brick to find the worms and beetles beneath.
Steve looked somewhat interested, so John reluctantly continued. "From the moment I met him he seemed to know things that other people didn't…he could guess a person's family life by how they tied their shoes, that sort of thing."
"The magicof deduction?"
"The science of deduction." John smiled a bit as he remembered Sherlock constantly making the same type of correction, again and again.
"I see…"
John didn't like the note of doubt in his voice, and felt his anger spike again. "Look, I'm not asking you to believe me. I'm just telling you this because he deserves to have two sides of the story told."
"He does?" Steve asked.
His tone was curious, but all John heard was scepticism. He didn't answer for a second. "You know what, never mind. I'm not going to talk about this right now." He brushed past Steve to get to the door. "You better get those towels to Anderson before he gets soggy."
"John…" The door closed.
John headed for his spot at the counter, before remembering everyone at the table. For a few contemplative seconds he debated on whether he should just leave. It would certainly be easier, since he'd bought his own drink beforehand, and he would skip having to talk to any of them for the time being. But he knew it was inevitable, and the last thing he wanted was yet another label concerning his mental stability.
That thought was enough to send him reluctantly to the table, where they had resumed a low chatter, friendly enough. He felt uncomfortable as one by one they stopped talking and stared at him instead. He coughed a bit, and put on a small, very forced, smile. "My apologies, everyone. I'm a little on edge, as you saw. Long day. I think I'll be heading off now…"
"John, don't feel you have to leave…" Lestrade began, shooting daggers at a frowning Donovan.
"No, its fine, Greg. I've been exhausted all week, I think I'll turn in early. I'll see you all." He gave them all a parting nod, careful to resist a glare in Donovan and Anderson's direction. The latter wasn't even looking up; Steve had arrived and dropped the mound of paper towel in his lap, in which Anderson was now quite ineffectively cleaning up his trousers.
John pushed open the door and walked into the chilly night, zipping up his coat. The weather had warmed up just enough to melt the small fall of snow, so John's shoes were soaked within seconds of walking in the wet slush.
Stupid. John blew air out in a huff, watching his breath swirl and fade. I shouldn't have said anything. Lestrade shouldn't have said anything. Not with them there, at least.
He could have hailed a cab by then, he would have normally, but right then John wanted a bit of time to walk and think. His watch read nearly eight, and John knew that Paul usually (always) made his dinner of beans or vegetable soup at eight. And John just wasn't ready for that conversation—Paul's hey followed by John's hi, followed by a beat of silence, and then a small tidbit of information relevant to life that Paul would provide: I turned up the heat, because it got a little chilly, or the middle lightbulb in the bathroom flickers once in awhile. And John defiantly wouldn't be able to handle I got bread. It's in the breadbox. He just couldn't. Not tonight.
John reached up to scratch the corner of his eye. At the same moment, he thought he saw something dart out of his vision, aside from his hand. He quickly lowered it, and turned to look at the other side of the road. Nothing. A payphone, a meter, and a narrow alley. Which was empty. Dark, and empty. John squinted, trying to see into the gloom.
Nothing's there, you tit, John thought, though still staring avidly into the alley. He continued at it for a few more seconds before giving up, and began to walk again. It was your finger. Or a bird. Or a bloody speck. It was nothing.
But "nothing" still managed to make the hairs on his neck stand, and John couldn't help but imagine phantom eyes following him all the way down the road towards Baker Street.