This a very, very long chapter. Still. Thanks are due to elsa3beth for pointing out a small mistake which is now fixed (I hope it's okay, now, anyhow), for which I am very grateful :)
Reviews are always greatly appreciated too, don't forget! :)
As it had turned out, John muses, as he sits in silence next to Sherlock in the cab, Sherlock's suggestion of texting Lestrade hadn't gone as planned. He'd taken it back almost as soon as the words left his mouth, taken a few seconds of silence to think, and changed his mind several times. In the end, they'd texted the DI a photo of the evidence, the address, and a request not to do anything until Sherlock said (and John had felt bad about that, because the police shouldn't be running around after Sherlock: Lestrade in particular when he cut the man so much slack anyway). He'd sent the message regardless, and they'd spent a nervous half hour sweeping the mess up off the floor and stashing the ruined bags at the back, in the hope they'd remain undetected long enough for Sherlock to catch the killer.
It was a risk, but so was walking down the stairs.
The experience was not one John planned on putting in his blog, or for that matter, repeating. Despite the late hour, he'd insisted on taking a shower as soon as they arrived home, in a vain attempt to wash away the feeling of criminality. Sherlock had been no help; standing outside the door of the bathroom making exuberant and unhelpful comments.
Anyway, in the light of day, the store is significantly less intimidating, although that possibly has something to do with the fact that the pair of them have not broken in illegally. John is armed with a photo of the killer Sherlock believes to work here (Sherlock has texted Lestrade the other, and instructed him to find her and arrest her. Lestrade did not appreciate being instructed twice in under twelve hours) and his gun, which is stashed in the pocket of his jacket. He has qualms about using it in broad daylight, but it could be useful if the woman proves uncooperative to capture. He's still got no idea how Sherlock even imagines they're going to get her back to Scotland Yard.
They let themselves in through the entrance without the use of tools this time, and make their way to the counter. There's a man sitting behind it with a head of thin brown hair and a beard. He looks friendly enough, a small smile playing on his lips even at this time in the morning, as he browses his paper and hums to himself. John's about to interrupt him and ask about the woman, when he feels fingers close very tightly indeed around his upper arm, and he is pulled behind a shelf with almost brutal force.
He snaps around, halfway to smacking his apprehender away, when he realises it's only Sherlock, currently sighing at his reaction.
"What?" he hisses, annoyed, trying to wriggle out of the detective's painfully tight grip.
"He's one of the drug dealers!" Sherlock whispers back, loosening his hold on John's arm, but not letting go. John wrenches it from his fingers, and answers, his hushed manner laced with poorly concealed irritation.
"The man working the till is a drug dealer?"
"Yes."
"The man working the till is a bloody drug dealer?"
"Yes."
"Does it matter?"
"Yes! Honestly John, do you think we'd be huddled behind a shelf did it not matter?"
Sherlock pokes his forehead around the edge of the aisle. John watches, feeling a little aggrieved.
"Fine. Why does it matter, then? Particularly."
"Because he'll recognise me! And probably you, if anyone involved has been on the internet recently."
John sighs, recognising the problem. He wonders briefly why Sherlock had not allowed for it before they left. However, at the emergence of such a problem, the weight of the gun hidden in the pocket of his jacket is brought to the forefront of his mind. Looking up, he notices that Sherlock's watching him carefully, and they share a quick glance. Sherlock nods, one corner of his mouth twitching skywards.
"Bit crude, isn't it?" John asks, grinning.
"Completely." Sherlock tells him, rolling his eyes, and fixing his gaze on John's pocket.
They emerge from their hiding place and meander up the central aisle. Sherlock stops every so often to inspect the merchandise, occasionally pointing to something or other and asking John's opinion. The acting doesn't come to the doctor as easily as it does to Sherlock, and he dearly hopes he doesn't look as awkward as he feels. They reach the counter after what feels like an age. There's a long pause, as the man engrossed in his newspaper fails to notice them.
John makes an indistinct noise in the back of throat, but when that draws no reaction Sherlock raps his knuckles on the wood to capture the man's attention. As the detective's eyes scan the man across the counter up and down, analysing him, John slips his hand into the pocket of his jacket. His fingers curl around the metal of the gun. With his left hand, he delves more openly into the other pocket, handing Sherlock the enlarged photograph of the woman.
The man lowers his paper at the disturbance. The action is slow and deliberate. If he's surprised to see either John or Sherlock in the shop he doesn't show it: although John feels his flatmate bristle beside him.
The detective's outward manner, however, is cool and polite.
"Hi there," Sherlock says, with what John deems a fairly convincing smile. The taller man leans forwards and brandishes the photo in front of the dealer's nose. "I don't suppose it would be possible to speak to this –" he pauses, and John appreciates the sense of aversion to his next words – "lovely lady here, would it? I'm led to believe she works here, and I really do need to speak with her."
He gives another smile. John thinks it looks a bit more forced than the first, because the man behind the counter begins to look surlier. His eyes darken, his mouth forms a scowl. John's grip on the cool metal in his pocket tightens; he shares a tense glance with Sherlock.
"You must have made a mistake." The man says. There's no doubt regarding his scowl now, and although his voice is calm, there's a hint of a threat in it.
"I don't do that," Sherlock tells him, a real grin emerging. He's in his element, the arrogant git. "Frightful waste of time, don't you think?"
The scowl deepens into a hostile glare. Sherlock glows.
The man blinks, and in the time it takes him to do so John makes his decision, whips the gun from his pocket, and has it pointed directly and steadily into the man's face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock turn and check for onlookers.
"We weren't asking," he tells him. "Is she coming in today? Don't even think of running away."
The man blanches, and John points the weapon more decisively. The action draws a stuttering response from him; he recoils and backs further away.
"Yeah."
"When?" John persists, making his way around the counter to get a better aim. The man pales further. "I've not got all day, and my colleague here is one of the most impatient people I've ever met."
Sherlock looks half offended through his grin.
"She…she'll be in soon."
"How soon?" Sherlock asks, leaning over the counter to glare at the cowering man. "I want a time."
"Fifteen minutes."
Sherlock retracts his aggressive stance. John does not.
"I guess you won't mind us waiting with you, then?" he asks, settling himself beside the man and smiling almost pleasantly. He hides his gun under his coat, but the butt is still firmly pointed at the person beside him.
Sherlock seems to lose interest in the whole affair, and wanders around the shop, picking things up at random, and making occasional scoffing noises.
The next fifteen minutes is tense. Nobody talks much, the only noise being Sherlock's mumblings to himself as he examines the produce. One woman comes in during their wait, but Sherlock's hostile glare means she leaves very quickly.
It's just coming up to nine o clock when another woman enters, and from there things move very fast.
Sherlock leaps out from examining a potted plant to flatten her and pin her to the floor. Soil and terracotta litter the floor in the excitement. The two grapple for a few minutes, John torn between those wrestling on the ground, and the possibility of the dealer escaping. When a punch from the woman is followed by a horrible crunch and scarlet pouring from Sherlock's face, John makes his decision, leaping over the counter to intervene.
Sherlock is undeterred by the injury, but the spilled blood combined with the other mess on the floor causes him to slip, and the woman to scramble to her feet; and John bolts towards her. He rips the gun from his jacket, and lashes out with it in desperation. The metal collides with her head with a satisfying crack and she crumples to the floor a few feet from the exit.
John feels a huge wave of relief, combined with a hint of self-disgust. Breathing hard, he recognises that perhaps right now wasn't the time for chivalry, but he does feel a slight twinge of guilt at his having just knocked a woman out: even despite her criminal atrocities.
Sherlock appears not to have the same qualms. Now back on his feet, he flips the killer onto her back with his foot. That done, he grabs the man still cowering behind the counter by the collar, and sits him beside the unconscious woman. Once John has hold of the man by his wrists, he calls Lestrade, and they wait.
A minute passes in companionable silence.
"Sherlock, could you hold him for a second?" John asks. He indicates the man beside him on the floor, almost limp from shock and fear.
"No. You're stronger than me. It would be illogical."
"Sherlock, please," John pleads. "You're dripping blood everywhere."
Sherlock glances down, and his eyebrows rise at the scarlet stripe on his white shirt. He seems genuinely surprised.
"Oh yes," he acknowledges. "That shirt's ruined now."
"Wasn't what I was concerned about."
Sherlock gives a sigh, but takes the man's wrists when John offers them to him, and allows him to gingerly feel his nose.
John tries to be gentle, but as he slowly puts pressure on the bridge of the detective's nose, the man gives a huge flinch and swears rather viciously at him.
"That was uncalled for," he comments lightly.
"It hurts!" Sherlock protests loudly, shaking the man's wrists up and down in agitation. The man gives a slight whimper, which the detective ignores. John smiles.
"Well it would. It's broken."
"Oh well. My nose is hardly vital."
"It is when you're pouring your blood out onto the floor," John informs him grimly. He pulls his jumper off over his head, and rips a small strip off the bottom of his shirt, which he hands to Sherlock. He's well practised at ignoring the sickening drip of blood, that's spattering red onto the linoleum tiles.
"Here. Pinch it, and stem the blood with that. You'll need to go to A & E anyway, but this will do for now."
Sherlock frowns at him.
"What?" John asks, failing to see what he could have done to offend the detective. He notices the man's eyes are glaring at the now ragged edge to his shirt.
"You could have used mine, as it's ruined anyway."
John smiles, claps a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and moves to peer out of the shop door.
"I know, but I'd rather Lestrade didn't arrive to find me attempting to rip your clothes off." He thinks back to the panic following the Pool Incident, and the blossoming scarlet. "Again."
He hears Sherlock chuckle behind him. The laugh is infectious and he hears his own quiet snicker join in. By the time the screaming blue police lights appear on the street, the chuckles have grown into full-blown laughter. John's shirt is ripped, Sherlock's covered in his own blood, there's a woman unconscious between them, and a man restrained by Sherlock's side and John finds he can't contain himself. For a good few minutes neither of them can stop. Lestrade's bemused, resigned expression does nothing to quell the pair's laughing.
This was the adrenaline-driven lifestyle that they both thrived on; something this case had long deprived them of.
After a brief explanation, John and Lestrade heave the woman into the back of the police car, and handcuff the man in next to her: though he walks the few feet quite willingly. John goes to follow, but Sherlock makes a pained noise in his throat.
"What?" John asks, perplexed.
"I can take a cab."
It's all he can do not to bury his face in his hands.
"Think of it as a free cab," John instructs him, pushing the detective roughly into the front seat next to Lestrade and slamming the door, ignoring his protests. He himself climbs in next to the offenders. The woman's head lolls onto his shoulder. Given her crimes, he would usually be disgusted, but considering that he knocked her out with a solid block of metal, he feels he should probably excuse the involuntary action.
On Sherlock's 'request', the Detective Inspector has also brought a reasonable section of the drugs squad with him, and after a quick shove in the right direction they set to work, and the police car pulls away from the store. Already the doorway has been cordoned off with police tape.
The two arrestees are taken directly into custody, and are initially identified by their name tags, although the names and pictures are passed onto Lestrade's team to be confirmed.
The problem comes when they make to leave Scotland Yard. Sherlock is disinclined – to say the least – to leave before he gets a look at the captors himself, or before getting to berate the rest of the Yard for information regarding the arrest of the other killer.
John watches him argue with Lestrade. Although his cheeks are tinged pink with indignation, he's far paler than earlier, and looks terrible with the streak of dried blood across his face. The piece of cloth he holds in one hand is soaked through. John breathes in, and wonders whether an intervention would help, or just slow the process down.
"Remind me which part of my nose is so vital to me, that it's worth several idle, wasted hours!"
"Sherlock, the killers aren't going anywhere." Lestrade's voice is calm and reasonable, and John admires his patience. He supposes he's had to deal with a stubborn detective for years longer than himself.
"I don't see why I should either!"
"Because if you don't, then I can easily withdraw permission for you to be involved with the case."
John smiles, watching Sherlock's face twitch in annoyance.
"You know full well you'd be lost without my help."
"According to you, I've got the killers locked up downstairs."
Sherlock grinds his teeth. John's smile broadens somewhat.
"Fine," the detective eventually agrees. He marches towards the exit glowering, his hand absently brushing the caked blood from his upper lip.
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Hospitals, John finds, hold some kind of comfort. Perhaps it's simply the familiarity of them, because they're hardly cheerful: this waiting room alone is heavily scattered with crying children, and people wincing in pain as they move. He's already spotted what look like a good three or four broken legs. It's more the cleanliness, perhaps, the hordes of smiling, identical nurses, and the knowledge that behind the white paint and lights and aprons there's a battle raging. A battle that's striving to save rather than maim. Behind those disinfected doors people are recovering, being given the chance to live. There's an intoxicating mix of fear and hope hanging in the air. Sometimes it's hard to distinguish between the two.
He, Sherlock & Lestrade settle themselves on the garish green chairs like some kind of distorted family. Sherlock sits in the centre, slouching and scowling, blood all over his shirt and face: the little boy that had fallen over and hurt himself. John and Lestrade sit either side of him in silence, the watchful parents. The concept is bizarre, though not so far from reality.
"Did you get her?" Sherlock asks into the silence after half an hour. John, who had fallen into a doze, jerks awake and blinks at his flatmate, momentarily thrown off.
"What?"
"Lestrade," Sherlock amends, turning his head a few degrees towards the addressed. "The other woman, did you get her? The one in the photo, I mean, not just a perfectly innocent cleaner to make the force look like they're getting somewhere. I didn't check."
"Yeah, of course we did." Lestrade makes no elaboration, understandably annoyed.
Silence falls again. John fiddles absently with some loose threads hanging from his shirt. He has the distinct feeling he's forgotten something.
"And John," Sherlock adds, his head inching round so John can at least see the man's face in profile. "Won't the surgery be interested in your whereabouts?"
"Ah f – …damn it!" He hears the chuckle in Sherlock's throat, and it takes a great deal of restraint to not elbow him in the ribs. "Right. Won't be a minute."
He gets up, and makes his way to the exit of the hospital. The air outside is cool, and it helps clear his head from the lethargic waiting room as the wind runs long fingers through his hair, and brings a fresh, welcome sting to his eyes. He dials Sarah's number with rather more reluctance than usual, and waits for her to pick up, on edge.
"John?"
"Sarah, hi." John pauses, and swallows hesitantly. He got the feeling this wasn't going to be their most successful conversation.
"Hi," she repeats, and he can hear concern in her voice. "Is everything alright? I was going to call and check, but it's been so hectic all morning, and…you know."
John smiles at the sentiment.
"No, I'm fine: just had to take Sherlock to A & E."
He hears Sarah gasp, and feels bad.
"Oh God, what happened? Is he okay?"
"Fine." John finds himself disinclined to elaborate much on the situation.
"John?"
"He got punched, broken nose. We could there a while."
There's a silence at the other end of the line that John doesn't like at all.
"He's a fully grown man, John!" Sarah exclaims, the concern in her voice switching instantly to indignation. "He doesn't need you to hold his hand for everything! I've done three times the usual amount of patients this morning, I've had people complaining to me about us running late…this isn't a game. You can't skip work for no good reason! I don't care if your flatmate has a broken nose! Unless he is physically incapable of taking himself to a hospital, you have to be at work."
John sighs. There was no denying her logic, and he feels terrible. Also, considering his reliance on it, it was surprising how little Sherlock Holmes conformed to logic. He always seemed to be the bloody exception.
"Sarah," John begins, deciding to tell her the truth. "We've got those killers. The ones behind all those child murders?"
He hears a sniff, and waits.
"That's what the police are for."
"Sarah, I'm sorry."
"I want you here now. I don't care if Sherlock claims he's incapable of breathing without you, you have got to finish your shift."
"Can I still see you on Friday?"
Although the pause is brief, it feels like the longest yet.
"Of course." He can hear the smile, and indulges in a small smile himself. "Bye John."
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When John rushes through the door of the surgery about twenty minutes later, he can see what Sarah had meant. The waiting room is considerably more crowded than normal, almost every seat taken, filled with people with varying looks of discomfort or irritation on their faces. He gives them a brief smile, and turns away.
As he does so, the television in the corner of the room catches his attention. There's a red band running across the bottom of the screen, and the breaking news plastered across it stops him in his tracks.
It was funny, how panic and confusion made a person entirely selfish. John's straight out of the door again, has dialled Sherlock's number, and jammed his phone to his ear, before he's really had time to absorb the information, to think things through.
It's also funny, in moments of panic and confusion, how one starts praying that their flatmate hasn't chosen then to be the one time they conformed to instruction: and switched their phone off in a hospital.
But perhaps the funniest revelation of all was how flu and coughs and infection paled in comparison to the tenth child murder – and while Sherlock's logic said it should, John really should hold his patients in greater regard: but he couldn't. Not then. It was funny that the condoner of caring should abandon nervous patients and the pleas of his girlfriend for Sherlock and his ridiculous games: and all for the sake of one more small girl, who was already dead.