Lighting Fires
Thanks as always for the reviews – you are such lovely people! I'm really enjoying writing this fic - I'm planning another 3 chapters, so we're almost there!
I've gone a bit out of canon regarding a character that appears in this chapter – I won't say anything here, so I don't give anything away, but there's a note about it at the end.
Inspired by the song Fires by Ronan Keating
Disclaimer : not mine, no money
John has always been fascinated by the effects of death on the human body; how it can diminish even the bodies of big, strong men in indefinable ways. Bex's body resembles nothing more than that of a child. He had once glimpsed an old soul in those streetwise eyes, and she'd maintained a womanly dignity despite her tender years and impoverished state that had led other homeless young people to seek out her advice. All of that had been ripped from her in a mere moment by the bullet that had entered the side of her skull, killing her instantly.
She looks so much like a child when the stretcher takes her away that Greg Lestrade winces at the sight as he approaches the scene.
John leans against the door of 221, watching the forensic team working around the blood stain on the paving slabs. He feels oddly remote – detached from the scene. He hasn't been asked for a statement yet – in fact, after giving him a close look, the coppers who were the first to arrive at the scene had quickly backed away, leaving him alone. The shock blanket around his shoulders seems rather unnecessary; he raises his shoulders to shift it a little, and wonders blankly why his red hands are shaking. And also why they are red.
Lestrade looks at him without speaking for a moment, and something in John's eyes makes him lean against the door next to him. His broad, comfortable shoulders nudge at John's, and the doctor moves along obligingly, without thinking much about it.
"They tell me she was wearing an ear piece. Under her hat," Lestrade clarifies.
John nods. He didn't know that, but it seems likely.
"She was receiving instructions."
"Yeah." If John lingers too long on that image, any minute now, he'll be back there – at the pool, with that high mad voice in his head, reliving the mind-numbing terror of not knowing whether the next second will be his last.
Except, for Bex, it really was the last moment of her short life.
Did she know that the message was a bullet, or had she been told that she'd be OK if she just delivered that note? Did she believe that? John can't bear to imagine what was going through the young woman's mind; those terror-stricken eyes haunt him.
Talking of the note… he sees a member of the team retrieving it from the pool of blood and bagging it. She waves the evidence bag in Greg's direction; he takes it and raises his eyebrow at the words.
"Hmm. Looks like our old friend has been busy again. This –," he gestures generally in the direction of the scene, but John knows he means more than just this latest murder, "- has the stamp of Jim Moriarty all over it."
"It's not Moriarty." John's voice is low, controlled, but he can feel the anger inside, rising like a spring about to uncoil.
Greg turns to him, confused. "How'd you know that? You know something we don't?"
The laughter bubbles up in him, entirely unexpected – he feels it rising through his gut like vomit and bursting out of his body, sounding obscenely loud and inappropriate at the quiet crime scene. He's aware of Greg's hand on his shoulder, of the forensic team pausing in their work to stare up at him in disbelief, as he gasps and chokes.
"I know something you don't? Know what, Greg? That's fucking funny. That's really fucking hilarious… You wanna know why? Because in fact I know nothing – nothing…."
"John –," Greg's hand reaches out to grab his arm, but he throws it off as he hurls himself down the steps, striding towards the CCTV camera across the street.
"This stops here. Fuck you, Mycroft. This. Stops. Here. Do you understand me?" He's screaming at the camera now, feeling the last vestiges of his self-control leaving him.
"John! For fuck's sake, what's got into you?" Greg runs up to him and grabs his shoulder, pulling him around roughly. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I believe I can answer that, Detective Inspector."
John tenses at the voice.
Greg turns towards the parked police cars by the security cordon. "Mr Holmes, what are you doing here?"
"I think the doctor may be looking for some information. No doubt that is the reason for his outburst. Rather unnecessary as I was already on my way, but nevertheless –"
Those smooth rounded syllables are the last straw. John launches himself at Mycroft, drawing his hand back. He feels a visceral satisfaction at the audible crack as his fist meets the man's nose. The spymaster falls back against one of the police cars, blood spattering across the paintwork.
Before John can get in another blow, he's grabbed and held in a beefy PC's iron grip. His muscles protest automatically against the restraint for a moment before sense takes over and he finds himself subsiding.
"OK, OK, let him go." Greg orders. He moves slightly between the two men, braced just in case, but John steps back, making his intentions clear. "Jesus, John, what the hell is going on here?"
Mycroft sits up rather shakily, patting at his newly broken nose, from which blood is gushing freely. He gives John a slightly wry look and reaches for his briefcase, which has been knocked to the floor.
"You could have helped. You could have stopped this. I asked you to help, but it was just too much trouble, wasn't it? Or just too unimportant?" John gestures towards the ambulance. "After all, what's the death of just another homeless person, eh?"
The spymaster glances in the same direction. "I couldn't have stopped this, John."
"You don't know that for certain." John can't keep still; the adrenaline is making him pace fiercely.
"I'm sorry about the girl."
"You're sorry? You're sorry?" John stops pacing and pushes his face close to Mycroft. "Have you any idea…? She wasn't just some girl, you bastard, she was –."
She was what? She was Sherlock's friend and my only contact with him, my only real proof that he's still alive in three years, because he IS alive, your brother - and she gave me hope that I might see him again, because…because I'm not properly alive without him, I'm only half a person when he's not around - and God I so wish I'd realised that when I still had a chance to tell him, and I would tell him, I would, even if he laughed at me, because it wouldn't matter, I wouldn't care, just as long as he knew - and I would never, ever have called him a machine if I'd only known that it was one of the last times I would speak to him – and you will never know how it makes me feel to know that I can't tell him that I didn't mean it - and if Sherlock walked back into my life, I don't know if I'd hit him or hug him or shout at him or storm out or just cry, but I will never, ever let him leave me again, not ever… And I can't tell you any of that, and it's killing me…
"She was a friend," he finishes, rather lamely. The fight has gone out of him now, and his knuckle is definitely regretting the punch as much as Mycroft's nose is. His legs are beginning to shake, and an agonising pain shoots through his bad shoulder.
"Come on, John," Greg takes his arm again. "Look, quite frankly, you look like shit right now and you've clearly had enough. And so have I. Let's take this inside, shall we?"
"I haven't given my statement yet." John is suddenly reluctant to leave the scene. It feels as if he's abandoning Bex, however stupid that may seem.
Lestrade rolls his eyes. "I think I can probably take it myself, over a cup of tea. Come on, John, you look done in. And you," he gives Mycroft a stern look, "had better come in too."
Mycroft grants the DI a mild nod and follows them towards 221B, waving off a paramedic's offer to treat his nose.
As John climbs the stairs to the flat, he becomes aware of the stickiness of his work clothes. His blood-soaked trousers adhere uncomfortably to his thighs. He glances at his hands and sees the dark blood. But of course. The type of bullet Bex received, its trajectory and speed, is designed to cause as much damage as possible – more or less carrying away the back of her skull on its journey from one side to the other. John is liberally covered in haemorrhaged blood all down his front, from his head to his feet. No wonder he was receiving so many strange looks out there.
He pulls out his wallet, phone and keys and throws them to Lestrade, toeing his way out of his shoes as he does so. Immediately inside the flat, he strips down to his boxers with no embarrassment, gathering his clothes into a pile and dumping them in a bin bag in the kitchen. They're probably not redeemable, but he supposes there's a chance forensics might need them.
"Make yourselves at home," he mutters to Lestrade and Mycroft, jerking his head towards the kettle before crossing the lounge towards the bathroom door.
He runs the shower as hot as he can bear before stepping underneath to scrub the dried gore off his face and arms. Eyes closed against the steady stream, he soaps his hair, breathing in the herbal scent, trying to eliminate the sweet, sickening stench of blood. Even this act feels like some kind of betrayal – as if he is washing away Bex's memory.
He keeps his eyes closed for a few minutes, leaning against the cool wall as the hot water thunders unused down the plughole, uncaring of the impact on the water and electricity bills. The throbbing in his shoulder has faded to a degree but he can feel the beginning of a stress headache forming in his temples. It's been a bloody long day, and a shatteringly emotional one, and there's no end in sight that he can see.
"John?" Greg shouts from the doorway, breaking into his reverie. "I've got you some spare clothes, just popping them round the door."
"Yeah, thanks," he shouts, dipping back under the water to wash off the last of the shower gel before turning off the shower and stepping out of the bath. Greg has laid out some spare towels and clean underwear, jeans and a t-shirt – he must have raided John's wardrobe. John finds that he doesn't particularly care about this invasion of privacy.
Dressed, he stares at his face in the mirror, not recognising himself for a moment. He's pale with fatigue and, perhaps, with more than a little shock. His eyes are shockingly dark-ringed and he's lost more weight; his features look gaunt and old, with permanent lines across his forehead and around his thin mouth. He wonders suddenly whether Sherlock would even recognise him as the John he knew - his friend and blogger, the man who would follow him anywhere.
He glances down at his swollen knuckles and gets a first aid box from the cabinet, taking it out into the lounge. Mycroft is sitting in Sherlock's chair, trying to stem the slow flow of blood from his nostrils.
"Here." John passes him a wad of cotton wool. "I'll get you some ice."
"Thank you." Mycroft's voice sounds slightly muffled but otherwise much the same as normal.
In the kitchen, Greg is dipping tea bags into 3 mugs, bachelor-style. John fetches the bag of crushed ice he had got into the habit of having handy for Sherlock-related mishaps – it hasn't been needed since The Fall.
"I'm sorry about that," he remarks, nodding at the clearly broken nose as he passes the makeshift ice pack, wrapped in a tea towel. He sits in his chair with a sigh. "Well, actually, no I'm not – not really. You deserved it."
Mycroft gives a slightly cautious and rather pained smile. "Possibly. You need not worry, my personal physician will sort it out. Anthea is already onto it and will be sending a car to collect me shortly."
He hesitates before continuing. "I meant what I said. Nothing could have saved Miss Reynolds. Miss Rebecca Reynolds," he clarifies as he sees John's confused face. "Twenty four years old, from a broken home, taken into care at the age of eight, a number of failed fostering attempts, ran away from the children's home on numerous occasions, left school with no qualifications, homeless since the age of nineteen. A bright young woman, but never able to escape her past, with an abusive father and an in-denial mother who blamed her, and frequently let down by teachers who failed to spot the potential behind the rather sullen attitude."
"Sherlock did," says John before he can stop himself.
Mycroft nods. "Yes, of course – his infamous Homeless Network. I know that Miss Reynolds was of help to him on many occasions. I know it may seem as if I don't care, but believe me when I say that if I thought I could have protected her, I would. However, I'm afraid her death warrant was signed a long time ago." He sighs. "One of the consequences of getting involved with my brother."
Greg has placed a tray of tea and biscuits on the coffee table, and he pulls up a third chair and sits down, watching Mycroft intently.
"Her death was a warning to you, John. Possibly for being in touch with me – I do not know. However, it was just an excuse. At some point, she would have been killed anyway for her knowledge and usefulness to Sherlock – and you."
"And you couldn't have helped her?"
"I sent an agent to offer her a change of location – and opportunity." Mycroft picks up his mug and sips the tea, wincing at the strong taste. "She refused. A very proud and independent young lady."
Greg allows the silence to stretch a little before breaking it. "Right. Are you going to fill me in now?"
Mycroft favours him with a slight smile and reaches into his briefcase, withdrawing a file. "This, Detective Inspector, is a file of information about the victims, investigating links with James Moriarty, who is dead by the way, and identifying potential future victims. Dr Watson requested this information of me earlier this evening. I was subsequently… persuaded that it might be wise to assist him in some way."
Greg blinks at this and takes the file from him.
The power behind the British Government rises in a leisurely manner, as if this is nothing more than a polite social visit. "Well, I believe that my car is about to arrive. As the road is cordoned off, I shall have to walk to meet it. My thanks to you both for your hospitality."
He extends his hand to Greg, who shakes it with some suspicion, and collects his case, turning briefly to John.
"Goodnight, John. I hope the information may be of some use to the investigation. And -," the smile fades from his face, "- I do hope that you will consider the warning I gave you earlier today."
John nods, not getting up. Mycroft looks at him intently, appearing to be on the verge of saying something, before he gives another brief insincere smile and leaves the flat.
Greg sighs, sounding relieved as he flicks quickly through the file. "Christ, he's a tricky bugger, isn't he? Never quite know what he means."
"You know him well?"
The DI shrugs. "How well does anyone know him? I remember meeting him a few times, back when Sherlock was in rehab. Always got the impression of a tiger waiting to pounce, with his claws tucked away just out of sight, you know what I mean? I think he disapproved of me letting Sherlock onto crime scenes, but the kid was just so desperate for something to do that I couldn't bring myself to stop him, y'know?"
"Sherlock thought you were working for him," John comments, remembering Dartmoor.
"Bollocks was I working for him," Greg mutters. "Yeah, he approached me, but I turned him down flat. Despite what certain sections of the media might think, DIs at New Scotland Yard are not open to bribery." He chuckles. "And then I thought of the potential consequences of having to spring Sherlock from the clutches of the Devon constabulary and decided to turn up anyway."
John grins at the image this throws up, and then sobers up again. It's going to be a long night. He holds out his hand for the file. "Come on, Greg. You might as well let me go through it – you're not going to have time anyway, and you know I'll let you know if there's anything useful."
Greg hesitates. It's yet another broken rule to give up potential evidence to a civilian, and Mycroft had very pointedly given the file to him, as if he hadn't wanted John to be involved. John wonders what made him change his mind so soon after their meeting – perhaps even before Bex was killed.
"Yeah, OK then – but this goes no further, or it's my neck on the line. And drink that up first -," he gestures at John's untouched mug, "- or you'll collapse before you even get a chance. And I want your statement too – we'll make it as quick as possible."
John gulps his drink quickly and obediently crunches up the ginger biscuit that Greg holds out to him, all the time conscious of the strange almost-reversal of roles. It doesn't seem that long ago that he would have been in Greg's position, forcing refreshment onto Sherlock in the middle of a case.
He gives his official statement – not that there's much to tell, but he reconstructs it as carefully as he can, describing Bex as a woman whom he had recognised as one of Sherlock's unofficial operatives and had offered medical care to on occasions. He doesn't mention the attack three years ago or the bag of food and clothing that he had given her on that occasion. He answers Greg's brief questions as truthfully as possible.
Satisfied, the DI passes Mycroft's file to him. He puts away his notebook and leans back in his chair, glancing around with interest at the skull above the fireplace, the Cluedo board stuck to the wall with a knife, the piles of books littering every spare surface.
"I see you haven't changed the decor that much – not in here, anyway," he comments, lightly. "The kitchen seems much cleaner though."
John grunts, busy sifting through pages and creating piles on the coffee table. It must be getting on for 11PM now, but he's determined to make a start at least before going to bed. He needs to.
Gradually he becomes aware of an expectant silence in the room. He pauses, looking up to find the DI watching him. "Yes?"
"Why do you stay here? It can't be easy to meet the rent and the bills by yourself. And it can't be easy in other ways either – coming back to all this, the memories," Greg gestures around the room and looks back at John, his dark eyes very kind. "It's almost as if you think he's going to walk back in at any moment and – and, well, it's been three years, John." His voice is very quiet. "Maybe it's time to move on? No one would think the worst of you for packing all this up and putting it in storage, or perhaps giving it away. If you want – if you would find it difficult – I can –"
"No." John cuts across the well-meaning words. "No. Not – not yet. I can't –." He breaks off, looking down at the papers.
Greg rises, comes over and squeezes his shoulder briefly. "I understand. I do, really. If you change your mind… well, you know where I am."
"I know. Thank you." John makes an effort to smile up at him.
Greg stretches, groaning slightly. "Well, I'm off – gotta finish off out there and get back to the Yard. Another all-nighter. Don't stay up too late with that file." He gives him a stern look. "You look done in. You don't know if there's going to be anything useful – and even if there is, we've got time. He always leaves at least six weeks between hits, remember?"
"He didn't this time," John points out, jerking his head towards the window.
Greg frowns. "We don't even know if this is the same bloke. It's a completely different pattern and method. Hate to say it, John, but I think her death was more personal, more aimed at you. Like that near 'accident' you had yesterday. Something to do with Mycroft – or Sherlock maybe. It's not our killer's usual style or typical choice of victim."
"Hmm." John isn't convinced. It seems to him that the killer's pattern has already changed, with the message at the last scene being written by a different hand.
Greg hesitates. "Look, John, I really shouldn't be asking you to get involved, but, frankly, I'm all out of fucks to give. You asked Mycroft for info, which I wouldn't have done 'cos I just don't trust that bastard, but that's fine, I asked you to help. And, OK, he's given you something to work on, and I trust you to hand over anything that might help. But we do have a team of experts working on this. Just because you don't hear anything on TV, it doesn't mean there isn't a big operation going on in the background. We do take this bloke seriously – just because he's after low-lifes, it doesn't mean we don't want to catch him." He sighs. "It's just difficult when there's a long time between hits and we have no idea what he's doing in the meantime."
John comes to the door with him. As time goes by, the feelings of guilt about concealing Sherlock's survival from this essentially decent man grow ever greater, and it's probably this that compels him to shake Greg's hand. "Good luck, Greg. I'll be in touch soon."
"Yeah, well, right then." Greg looks a little confused by John's formal gesture. "See you around. I'll let you know if there's anything that comes up at the girl's autopsy. And let me have that file as soon as you can."
Three hours later, John slumps back in his chair, rubbing absently at his aching shoulder. Mycroft's minions are nothing if not thorough, and he's convinced he must have read about every gang member in London by now. There's CCTV photos showing meetings between members and between victims and undercover police, and several showing a tall, muscly figure in a balaclava and dark clothing following various victims, presumably to their deaths, although no actual murder scenes. Either they've been left out of the file, which is unlikely, or there simply aren't any. It suggests that Jovanovic, if this is him, has a very good knowledge of where CCTV cameras are located in London – or someone does, at least.
And, at the very back of the file, there's a single photograph of a dead man with a note in Mycroft's writing: I thought it might reassure you to receive absolute proof.
John picks it up again and gazes at the mask-like features of James Moriarty lying on a slab. A single shot in the mouth, the impact of the bullet taking off the back of his skull but leaving his face unmarked and recognisable. Self-inflicted, presumably, the gun found clutched in his hand. Unless someone had forced him to it in some way.
John doesn't like to think what happened between Sherlock and Moriarty before the detective jumped. If he had ever doubted it before, he's now absolutely sure that Sherlock met the consulting criminal during that brief period when he was sent on that fool's errand to Mrs Hudson. Something happened – something that compelled Moriarty to kill himself and forced Sherlock to pretend to do so, but what? And which act took place first? Did one lead directly to the other?
His mind runs over the meeting with Mycroft, and he recalls what the man had said about international crime syndicates being systematically destroyed from within. Bodies turning up, cause of death unknown. The anonymous provision of evidence to police forces in other countries – well, he suspects he knows who's behind that. But the killing of key figures, by violence or suicide – that's another matter and it troubles him.
Could Sherlock actually kill? If so, would he do so only in self-defence or in cold blood? In all the time John knew Sherlock, he never saw any sign that he would actually kill. Fight, yes, and he's pretty good at it. And Mrs Hudson's attacker would clearly have regretted raising so much as a finger to the housekeeper, from his hospital bed, having been so unceremoniously ejected by an enraged consulting detective from an upper window. But actual cold-blooded murder is very different and, anyway, Sherlock's preferred weapon is his quicksilver tongue.
John knows that he's killed in cold blood and without much compunction too, but then he was a soldier, trained to kill as and when required, even when his main mission was to preserve life. In Afghanistan, the lines could be blurred a little – he'd saved the life of many a Taliban operative, breathing life back into them, staunching the blood, stitching and dressing the wounds, before sending them into captivity. And he'd been called into prison on more than one occasion to resuscitate those who'd attempted suicide … and once for another reason too, although he tried to block the memory of that occasion.
He stretches his aching spine and shakes his head slightly to dislodge the images. Sighing, he picks up two pages and looks at the circled names again. Still, Mycroft's agents seem fairly certain, and the man himself is no fool. He grabs his mobile and hits Greg's number.
"Lestrade." Greg's clearly still at work despite the hour, his voice creaky with fatigue but otherwise sounding quite alert.
"Greg, it's John."
"Christ, don't tell me you're still working on that file. You need to sleep."
"So do you."
The DI gives a hoarse laugh. "Yeah, well. What is it?"
"There are a couple of names – people who may be targeted by the murderer."
"OK, give me the details."
"Samir Hamid. Moroccan, here on a student permit but suspected of involvement with a group who may be importing bomb parts. He's under surveillance by MI6, but his participation is considered to be reluctant at best. There's an undercover at his mosque trying to strike up a friendship with him. And Ryan Ellis. Got a couple of past convictions for possession of class A drugs – possible distribution but never proved. Got parole, but being pushed for information on some of his colleagues. I think you should try to trace them before the killer strikes again."
"OK, got it. Right, John, that's enough for now. You get to bed. And bring that file by as soon as you can."
"Will do."
The line goes dead, and John stifles a yawn, suddenly feeling completely shattered. He glances at his watch – just after 2AM.
He shuffles the papers into a neat pile, glancing at the photograph of Jim Moriarty one last time before he pushes the whole lot back into the file. After a moment's consideration, he stashes the file in his 'security system' - aka the middle of a teetering pile of paperwork belonging to Sherlock that he's never got around to tidying away. He grins as he imagines Sherlock's reaction to getting his scrawled notes 'contaminated' by proximity to a file with his brother's far neater writing on it.
After cleaning his teeth and going to the loo, he walks up the steps to his bedroom wearily, and pauses only to remove his jeans before collapsing onto the mattress. He's in a deep sleep within seconds.
His dreams are uneasy. Time and again, he finds himself running after a familiar dark swirling coat, his legs heavy and refusing to cooperate. He keeps trying to get closer, but Sherlock is always just out of sight - around the corner, behind a tree. All he sees is the back of that coat. One minute he's in a forest, among dark dripping trees that impede his route and roots that threaten to trip him, while that coat moves on quickly between the trunks ahead of him. Next, it's dark urban streets, with twisting alleyways and just vague occasional glimpses of the Belstaff. Then he's back at the Baskerville laboratory, frantically running along endless white passages and seeking a way out – and there's Sherlock's coat, glimpsed through the tinted window of a locked door. He pounds on the door and shouts, but the coat moves around another corner…
He wakes with a start in daylight, exhausted and sticky-eyed but knowing he won't sleep again. His clock tells him it's 7.25. He lies back down again, staring blankly at the ceiling.
The pale morning sun peeking through the window throws a ray across the bed and, despite his lack of sleep and the threat of a real, rather than feigned, headache developing, he revels in the warmth and peace of the moment. If he could only stay here – right here – and shut the world out…
But that would mean shutting Sherlock out too.
He forces himself out of his warm cocoon and hits the shower, hoping to clear his head. That done, he swallows 2 paracetamol, hoping to ward off the inevitable, and shuffles back up to his bedroom to dress, trying to decide what to do on his day off.
Two mugs of tea and a plate of toast later, he's forced to concede that this is going to be one of those days. He can't settle to anything – he can't bear to face Mycroft's file or any of his own notes after last night, and he's not sure of his welcome at the Yard after what he said to Sally. He flicks restlessly through the TV channels before giving it up as a bad job. He powers up his laptop, logs into his blog, gazes rather blankly at his last ever entry - He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him - and closes it down again. He leans back in his chair, stares at the wall and briefly contemplates giving the kitchen a clean.
"Well, fuck this."
Five minutes later, he's on his way to Regent's Park.
"John? John Watson! Is that you?"
John is strolling around the boating lake, having tramped all around the park, up towards the Zoo and back again. It's another still, slightly humid, day, and with the hot breeze ruffling his over-long hair and the sun warm on his face, he almost feels relaxed enough to return to Baker Street and attempt to catch up on his sleep. He's been lulled into a hypnotic state of just putting one foot in front of the other and at first the sound of his name being called doesn't filter into his subconscious.
"John! It's me – Bill! Bill Murray."
He stops dead. Bill?
And, sure enough, he can see the stocky figure of his old friend, Bill Murray hurrying towards him.
"John? I can't believe it, after all these years!"
"Bill… Bill, it's – it's wonderful to see you." And he means it, as he shakes the other man's hand. Without Captain William Stewart Murray, he'd never have made it out of Afghanistan, might never have met Sherlock and had his life changed forever. This short, unassuming sandy-haired Scot had backed him up on more than one occasion, and it had been Bill who'd slung John's unconscious bloodied form over his shoulder and got him onto an evacuating helicopter.
They'd always meant to keep in touch, but what with John's injury and depression, and Bill staying on to finish his tour and then coming back to a fiancée – well… for various reasons, John had found it easier to move on and leave the past behind him. His life had become consumed by Sherlock, and the Yarders, and the Moriarty enigma.
Looking at his friend's pleasant, open, uncomplicated face, he can't understand why he didn't try harder. The army wasn't the worst time in his life, after all. He'd made some good mates and managed to have some fun, even during the tours of Northern Ireland and Afghanistan, in between the skirmishes and the long hours in surgery. If it hadn't been for that sniper's bullet, he'd have probably signed on for a third tour; might have even got that promotion that had once seemed so important.
"Bloody hell, Bill! I can't believe it's you." His eyes run over his friend. "You haven't changed a bit."
His friend laughs, patting his rounded tummy. "Now I know it's really you – only Captain John Watson could deliver such shit with a straight face. I know I've put on weight – I put it down to marriage and kids and too many takeaways and not enough running for your life from people who want to kill you."
"So, Elaine managed to tie you down in the end, then? Congratulations. And you've got kids now?"
"One, and another on the way." Bill pulls a weary face and John laughs.
"That's wonderful news. I'm so pleased for you, Bill."
"So what about you?" Bill's shrewd eyes rake over John, taking in the lack of a ring on his finger and the drawn, thin features. His genial smile falters very slightly. "Well, you look…"
"It's OK," John raises his hand. "You don't have to say it. I know I look shit. The last few years have been a bit…difficult."
"Because of Sherlock Holmes?" At John's questioning expression, Bill clarifies. "I read your blog. And saw the news – what happened. That must have been tough."
John feels his hackles rising as usual. "If you saw my blog, then you'll know. I did – and do – believe in him. He wasn't a fake."
He averts his eyes, not wanting to see the pity in his old comrade's eyes.
"I know."
He looks up, surprised. There's no pity, just a gentle, understanding expression.
"I know," Bill continues. "You believe in him. And I believe in you – always have done. So, if you say he's for real, then he must be."
John feels his heart lighten at this simple expression of faith. It's almost a shock – he hadn't realised just how heavy his heart had grown. He can almost feel the fresh energy seeping into his body.
"Look, John, are you free for lunch? We could get a beer and catch up."
"Yeah, why not?"
They end up in the Garden Café, talking amiably over gourmet burgers and pints of beer about their lives, Bill's growing family, and old mutual friends and colleagues. It turns out that Bill hadn't signed on for his third tour after all – they had planned to sign on together in the hope of bagging Iraq, but it hadn't seemed worth it with John invalided out. Instead, Bill had got his discharge and had focused on his new wife and family.
"And it's OK, is it? Your job?"
Bill takes a gulp of his second beer. "Yeah, not bad. Not very exciting, I basically advise banks and companies on their security procedures. Looking for weaknesses, that kind of thing. But the main thing is that I get to go home at the same time each day."
It doesn't sound very interesting to John, but then, who's he to talk? After all, he used to moan at Sherlock when he was woken up in the early hours or forced to go out on a case after a long day at work. And Bill does have a toddler, which is a tough enough job in its own way. But it doesn't seem to fit with the lively, restless, slightly mad guy he remembers.
Bill had got his attention during basic training – mainly because he was one of the few who'd had the balls to talk back to the complete arse of a sergeant who'd enjoyed terrorising the newbies. John was part of a group who'd signed up for fast-tracking to officer status – mainly newly-qualified doctors and other professionals – and that complete dirt-bag seemed hell-bent on not just humiliating them, but completely annihilating their spirits.
William Murray, a trained A&E nurse who'd seen it all, wouldn't take this lying down – he gave it back with interest and frequently wrong-footed the sergeant in a way that John had found pretty entertaining. From then on, Bill and John were usually together – best mates, assigned to the same squadron, working in the same medical team. When, after their tour of Northern Ireland, Bill got restless with his role and decided he wanted to retrain as a sniper, John was sorry to see him go. However, he accepted the fact that his friend was bored and needed something more challenging.
"Bill, I meant to ask, what happened to Colonel Moran in the end? Is he still out there?"
"Seb? Oh, he's out too. Did his fourth tour and decided that enough was enough. He stayed in for a bit, went into training, but then he got bored with it. He was talking about going into security."
"He'd be good at that." Despite his ambivalent feelings towards Colonel Sebastian Moran, John can't deny that the man was bloody good at his job.
Being selected for Moran's team was considered the ultimate honour. Moran carried out a lot of the training and his level of expertise meant he could pretty much choose who would serve with him. He'd hand-picked Bill Murray for the Afghanistan tour, and John had shared his friend's pride at the distinction.
John had respected, even liked, Moran. In fact, among certain quarters, the man had hero status. He was authoritative but fair, happy to share his knowledge and experience, and utterly loyal to his men. He'd conducted John's own weapons training and had complemented the young doctor on his skills with a gun – John can still remember the warm glow he'd felt at the charismatic colonel's admiring comments. He can understand why Bill was so taken with the man back then.
The colonel had even supported John when his evidence had led to the dishonourable discharge of one of Moran's best snipers.
John had been called into the camp's prison one afternoon – it wasn't unusual, as many of the prisoners used whatever methods they could to attempt suicide, and John had already had to resuscitate a few of them. But this was slightly different – the man had been knocked unconscious from a severe blow to his head and had other serious injuries also – broken ribs, internal bleeding and traumatic injuries to his groin. As he worked on the naked body, trying to get a pulse, John had been sickened by the clear signs of boot marks on his chest, back and stomach.
The guards had tried to pass it off as a fight between prisoners, but the prints from military-style boots were damning, and John had ensured that plenty of photographs were taken to preserve the evidence for an inquest into the man's death.
It turned out that a Captain Robert Marshall had been on duty with his normal partner when they were engaged in a skirmish with some Taliban snipers. Rob's mate had been severely injured before he'd had managed to wound the sniper and bring him in. Four days later, Rob had received the devastating news that his mate had only just made it back to the UK before dying. The young soldier had gone straight to the prison and taken his violent revenge while the guards looked on without intervening.
Sebastian Moran had initially stood by Rob Marshall – the young man was one of his finest snipers and a personal friend. In fact, everyone liked Rob, including John, which made it all the harder for him to bring charges. By all accounts, the prisoner had been pretty unpleasant – uncooperative and verbally and physically violent, constantly insulting his guards and threatening them with annihilation. No one was particularly sorry that he hadn't survived Rob's attack.
To give Moran his due, once he'd seen John's damning evidence, he'd accepted the inevitable and hadn't offered any protest to his protégé's dishonourable discharge. Moran might be hard-edged, but he had a clear code of conduct and appeared to agree with John that, no matter what Rob's personal feelings might be, he should not have taken out his anger on an unarmed prisoner.
The whole incident had made things awkward for John for a while – there were mutters and side-glances, particularly from Moran's team, and even Bill had been a bit quiet for a while. Moran had put an end to any lingering hostility with a firm endorsement of Captain Watson's actions – he'd gone out of his way to shake John's hand and publicly thank him for putting an end to behaviour unbefitting a professional soldier. His influence had been enough to improve the squadron's feelings towards John, but he'd remained uneasy in the presence of the Colonel since then. He'd also felt guilty about ending the career of such a promising young soldier. However, he'd never admitted that to anyone while he was at Bastion. He'd feared that doing so would suggest that he had regretted his decision to get Rob court-martialled - and he hadn't.
It's guilt now that stops John from asking after Rob, and Bill doesn't mention him either. It's possible that he doesn't know anything about him. They carefully skirt around the awkward issues and laugh themselves silly over memories of training days and the crazier moments at Camp Bastion. Bill is fascinated by John's descriptions of some of Sherlock's cases, and it's an incredible relief to talk about them to someone who appears to hold no doubts as to their veracity.
The hours pass by as the pints multiply, no one bothers them at their table in the garden of the café, and John is shocked when he finally glances at his watch and discovers that it's almost 4PM.
"Jesus! I'm sorry, Bill, I've taken over your day."
"That's OK." Bill rises, putting his hand on John's shoulder. "Didn't have anything to do this afternoon anyway. I'd better go now though, was supposed to be getting some stuff for tonight. We're having a barbecue – it's Elaine's birthday."
"Really? Well, have a nice time and give her my best wishes, if she remembers me. And thanks for the chat – it's really helped." More than you know, he thinks, but doesn't say.
"It's OK. We must keep in touch – go out for a drink from time to time. And John – I really am sorry, you know? About what you've been through. I hope that things get better for you."
"I hope so, too." God, I really hope so.
They shake hands outside the café, and John turns in the direction of the path that will lead him to the top of Baker Street.
"John?"
He turns back. Bill is looking strangely hesitant.
"Um, I was wondering whether you'd like to come tonight? To the barbecue, I mean. Elaine wouldn't mind – we've got some friends coming over and she would like to see you – she does remember you."
It's very tempting. Bill lives in a pleasant, affluent area of north London now and, from memory, his culinary skills were legendary, so it should be a good 'do. And he has a memory of Elaine, Bill's then-fiancée, as being a warm and friendly woman. Also, John can't remember when he last socialised with 'normal' people – takeaways with mad consultant detectives, teas with dangerous older brothers and beers with cynical Yarders don't really count.
But then… should he really be bringing his particular brand of problems into the lives of this pleasant couple and their young child? He knows he's not a safe person to be around – what if someone follows him to his friend's house?
He hesitates a little, but then shakes his head firmly. "Thanks, that's really kind of you. But I probably shouldn't – I've got something going on at the moment that I need to focus on. Some other time, perhaps?" When I'm not dealing with a homicidal maniac with an unhealthy obsession with my supposedly dead flatmate.
Bill looks regretful, but almost slightly relieved as well. Perhaps he was also concerned about the impact on his wife and kids.
"That's OK, John, bit short-notice and all that. Another time would be great. It's probably just as well." The last words are muttered, and John's not absolutely sure he's heard right, but Bill raises his voice again, "I've got your number now, so I'll be in touch. Bye!"
"Yeah, bye," John echoes and turns away again, feeling slightly bereft. He makes a mental note to ring Bill when the case is solved, and then his thoughts fly once more to Mycroft's file and the next potential victims. He wonders what Lestrade is up to and feels slightly guilty for not taking the file over to New Scotland Yard earlier today.
A few yards from 221B, his mobile rings. He looks at the name in surprise – can the DI read his mind now?
"John?" Lestrade's voice sounds strained. "Do you remember the names you gave me last night?"
"Yeah – Ryan Ellis, wasn't it? And Samir Hamid?"
"Yeah, that's the one – Samir Hamid."
"What about him?" John feels his heart sink – he's sure he knows the answer before Greg continues.
"He's just been found dead in an abandoned factory in Finsbury Park. Usual method, same message. But no warning this time – we only found out because Sally was investigating a robbery in the area." Greg's voice is terse.
"What – just now? This afternoon? But – but I thought he normally hit at night, in the dark?" John speeds his steps up, almost running now to get back to the flat.
"Yes, he does normally. But it's definitely the same person."
"Fuck." John is thinking quickly as he sprints, bad leg forgotten. "You know what this means, Greg?"
"Yeah, he's broken his pattern." John realises that Greg's slightly clipped tones are due to his barely-controller anger. The DI hates to be wrong-footed by a criminal. But worse than that, they alone share the uncomfortable knowledge that John gave him Samir's name hours ago, and that, if Greg had acted sooner, a man's life might have been saved.
"No! Yes, it does, of course, but what I meant was that the killer now knows we're onto him." John takes the stairs two at a time and bursts into the flat. He grabs at the concealed file, sending Sherlock's papers flying everywhere. "He must know that Mycroft's given us some information. He knows that Mycroft's people have guessed who his next victims are, and he's trying to get the job finished before we trace them. Greg, we've got to get to this other guy first."
"We're onto it. That's why I rung you – I need that file. Now."
"Yes, of course, I'll bring it over –."
"No." Greg cuts him off, firmly. "I'll send someone over to collect it from you. I want you to stay in, John. Keep your door locked and only open it to Dimmock – he's on his way now. Tell Mrs Hudson. The guy knows you're the connection between the Yard and Mycroft, so he may be after you too."
"If he was going to get me, he'd have done it by now," John argues. "OK, I'll wait for Dimmock, but I'm coming back with him. I can help you."
"No, you can't, John. You need to keep out of it now, for your own sake. Let us deal with it from now on." Greg is muttering under his breath. "This is all my fault, I should never have brought you into it. If something happens to you too…"
He breaks off suddenly. "Look, John, I'm at the scene in Finsbury Park at the moment, and I've got to get back to the Yard. I'll speak to you later."
"No, wait, Greg, damn it, you can't just keep me out of it now –."
The line goes dead. John stares at it in disbelief.
Quick note about Bill Murray – I know that in that wonderful blog on the Internet for John H. Watson, Bill Murray does appear – he's written comments on the cases and talks about meeting John for drinks, so they are clearly still in touch. But for the purposes of this story, I wanted John to have not seen Bill for a long time – I wanted to give an impression that he'd cut himself from his past. So, I'm not going mad – well not much!
Next time... John makes a dangerous decision.
