Author's Note:
I hate when things go wrong with this site. For awhile there, I wasn't getting any e-mail alerts and I wasn't entirely certain my first chapter had gone through. It seems to be working now again though. Anyway, thank you those who have reviewed and subscribed!
"Sherlock?" Lestrade had let himself in. His phone call with John the night before had been tense. Exchanges of 'be safe' and 'do not let Sherlock be stupid' were quick. He had been requested by not only John, but Mycroft as well, to check on the consulting detective. He winced as he entered the room, glancing at Sherlock with a frown. "Well, just don't perform it in front of people." He smiled and shoved his hands in his pockets. He had recovered from the incident a month ago, putting the weight back on and losing the bruises and cuts.
Sherlock hadn't heard Lestrade come in and when he did notice the Inspector finally, the bow came to a grinding halt against the strings. Was everyone going to come and check up on him? Couldn't he have two minutes of peace to himself? He put the violin away, picked up the kitten sitting in his chair and sat in it himself. The kitten yawned toothily, as Sherlock set it in his lap and pet its head absently. It didn't awaken and began to purr deeply. He finally regarded Lestrade. "Come to make sure I don't do something destructive, like set the flat on fire? Or are you here on business?" He hoped it was a case and not a social call. At this point, he would work anything even if was dull murder.
Lestrade glanced at the cat for a moment before his gaze lifted. "Both, actually. Checking up on you on the request of John." He moved forward and smiled before nervously glancing around the living room. "We've got some bodies we found out by the Thames. Few weeks old, we think. I've brought pictures and the write up if you want to take a peek," he cleared his throat and looked back at Sherlock.
Sherlock had all these people to check up on him, but who was there to make sure John was okay? He sighed at the thought, but at the mention of a case he looked expectantly to Lestrade. His one hand continued to scratch at the cat's head, the other hand was bent on the arm rest of the chair, waiting for the Inspector to hand the case details over. "Let me have a look then."
Lestrade reached into his jacket and handed Sherlock the Manila folder. "Two women and three men. They were all killed differently. Shot, stabbed, strangled." He cleared his throat and nodded toward the folder. "But all in the same spot. We need to know if we're looking for the same guy or more than one." The cat was unsettling him a bit and he moved to lean against the edge of the desk, his arms folded across his chest.
Sherlock took the folder and with his petting hand, moved the kitten to rest on his shoulder. It growled and clawed his shoulder from being moved. Then it moved to a sitting position with another yawn. He ignored the kitten and only half listened to Lestrade, as he looked through the pictures. He studied each intently, carefully. Without looking up he finally spoke, "What do you think, John?" The question was clearly directed at the cat and it meowed dutifully. "Exactly. No, I can't call you John can I? That won't do…I'll think of a suitable name yet…" Sherlock finally looked up from the photos to regard Lestrade. "What you have here Detective Inspector is a serial killer looking for their identity. He or she is experimenting with different ways to kill and even different people. They are looking for what thrills them most and apparently haven't found it yet. You can probably expect another body soon. Oh and obviously, the spot holds some kind of meaning to the killer."
Lestrade winced as Sherlock talked to the cat, his eyes narrowed at the small creature. Was it entirely healthy to be talking to an animal like that? Shit, it had only been a few hours since John had left. Sherlock's voice caused him to jump slightly before he took all the information in. "You can't determine if we're looking for a man or a woman?" He asked skeptically. Maybe John leaving wasn't such a good idea. "I mean, should we expect them to change the place to dump the next body since we found this one?" He pushed himself away from the table and walked toward Sherlock, hand out to get the folder.
Sherlock shot Lestrade a glare. Was the Inspector really questioning his deduction abilities? He muttered something darkly as he glanced down at the photos once more and then he finally went over the reports of each crime scene. The cat meowed. "Yes, I know. I see it. Now hush, I'm trying to think." The cat growled and bit his ear, before laying down and going back to sleep. "And everyone calls me a child…" Sherlock mumbled to himself. He was quiet a long while after that.
Finally Sherlock looked to Lestrade once more. "Male, mid to late twenties. Charismatic and charming. Above average intelligence. He has a decent job and despite his young age, will probably be pretty high on the corporate ladder or at the very least well on his way. The one shot, was the first to be killed. An accident and impersonal. A single gunshot. The killer panicked and hid the body and after it was all over, discovered he quite enjoyed killing. The next one, he used a gun again but it was overkill on the woman. The third to be killed was the woman who was stabbed. There are hesitation marks, not because he isn't sure he wants to kill but because he doesn't know how to use the knife effectively. Knifing someone is messy business and unless you know what you are doing isn't really as easy as you might think. Also, since he was armature with a knife you should probably look for blood on the stab victim that isn't theirs since he most likely cut himself when using the knife. The fourth to be strangled was with scarf, judging by the width the marks on the neck and analysis report on the fibers found on the body. The last was strangled with his bare hands. Clearly the killer has gained the confidence since the first kill. It might even be the way he will kill again. Strangling someone else is very intimate and empowering. As for changing the dump site, yes most certainly. However, I'd still like to see where you found the bodies."
There it was. Lestrade smiled and nodded, snatching up the file and instantly pulling out his cell phone. "Perfect. We can get you in tomorrow, that's when we're heading back out there." He started typing on his phone before checking the time. "Kandahar is four hours behind us," he muttered, glancing at Sherlock. "John's landed by now. Told me to tell you to stay near your phone." He folded the Manila folder and slipped it into his jacket. "Tomorrow around noon. I'll text you." He nodded toward the door as he turned to leave. "Mycroft will be dropping by tonight. His shift. Don't get into trouble." With that, Lestrade left the flat, talking eagerly on the phone by the time he was at the bottom of the stairs.
John had landed in Kandahar, adjusting a bit to the time change. He had left London in the late morning and arrived in Kandahar while the sun was still rising. He smirked, slipped his body armor on, and followed his men into the base. Compared to his last base, Kandahar was the lap of luxury. It had a cinema, relaxation rooms, a rather nice computer lap, and even a room devoted to video games. He shuffled through his checking in process, receiving his gun as well as the arm band with the signifying red cross on it, easily slipping it on his left bicep. Settling in didn't take long, his room was cramped with two beds and the man he would be living with wasn't half bad. It took two hours to get settled and by the time he had finally managed to get enough nerve to call Sherlock he was exhausted. He dialed Sherlock's cell number and waited patiently for him to pick up.
Sherlock merely nodded and then rolled his eyes when Lestrade said Mycroft would be over later. Good God, was his flat going to become a revolving door of people for the next nine months? Did they really think he was going to blow something up, set himself on fire while reciting poetry or something else just as ridiculous? He sighed and absently pet the sleeping kitten on his shoulder. He took out his cell phone and stared at it, as if that action alone would make it come to life. When it finally rung, he answered it almost immediately. "Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world at your service Captain."
That voice. It had only been a day and it already caused a twist in his stomach. John laughed, lowering his head and sighing. "Hi," he replied weakly, scuffing his boot on the floor and wincing when he realized that he was already coated in a fine layer of brown dust and dirt. "Mr. Holmes? I think I've got a problem. There's this man who I love terribly and I can't seem to find him. Any idea where he might possibly be?" It had taken him a moment to recover but once he did he figured two could play at the little game. The flat sounded quiet and relaxing, quite different from the area around him where he was surrounded by soldiers talking on the phone as well.
"You are in love with man and you say have lost him? Why tell me, Captain, what is this fellow like?" Sherlock asked, a smirk twisted on his lips. The kitten woke up again and meowed loudly, at its sleep being interrupted once more. It jumped off his shoulder and stalked into the kitchen haughtily, tail high up in the air and the very tip bent sideways. He glared at the tiny black kitten as it disappeared from his view.
"Hmm. Well, he's tall and got this impeccably adorable shaggy black hair," John paused, licking his lips and laughing slightly. "He's got these beautiful eyes that can pin anybody down in one glance. And, oh God, his voice," an exaggerated gasp, "It's deep and wonderful. It helps certain Army doctors drift off to sleep after nightmares." He cleared his throat and dropped his voice, his hand cupping the receiver. "I also hear he's a pretty good shag." It was spoken with a smile, playful and full of laughter, something he knew Sherlock would be able to pick up on.
"Hmmm, I'm not sure I know anyone like that Captain. Guess you are stuck talking to me instead." Sherlock said with faked modesty and shortly after a crash could be heard from the kitchen. Stupid cat. He would worry about it later. He was on the phone with John and he wasn't going to let anything interrupt that. He finally fell serious, "I miss you. Everyone keeps fussing over me already, it's annoying."
John laughed but quickly cut it off when he heard the crash through the receiver. Sherlock had seemed to ignore and so John did so as well. "I know they have. I've asked them to. I know you think it's annoying but I'm just a bit worried." He shifted on the stool he was sitting on and coughed slightly as he inhaled some of the dirt off of his uniform. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, but what the Hell was that crash? Did that come from the kitchen?" His brows furrowed as he asked.
"I know you did. I don't suppose you could ask them to stop? I'll be working a case with Lestrade and I don't need all their distractions. I'd say something but they'd probably just ignore me, so it'd just be a waste of my time." Sherlock glanced to the kitchen at John's question. "Um…it was a cat. It seems to have taken quite a liking to me, it's a bit weird. Pretty sure the Inspector thinks I've lost my marbles, because I was talking to it earlier. Really, I was just thinking out loud. No different than me talking to the skull."
"Not for a while," John replied softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just want to be sure. Right now it seems really annoying, I understand... but in a week or so, even a few months from now, I want to make sure that you're doing alright. Eating, communicating with other human beings." He laughed softly and it increased when Sherlock mentioned a cat. "Cat? Oh, Christ Sherlock! Look at that, you've already replaced me! It isn't even dinner here! That little bugger better not be sleeping on my side of the bed," he paused and blushed. "Last night was really, really good." He wanted to change the subject, to focus on Sherlock because he already missed the way he smelled, the way he would catch the consulting detective looking at him.
"For God's sake John, I'm not a child…really I'm not. I don't need their constant mothering stares and pep talks." Sherlock sighed and seriously considering moving out of the flat temporarily and living in a cottage outside of London away from the prying eyes of his brother's cameras. "I haven't replaced you. Don't be ridiculous. No one could replace you, ever." A slight smirk tugged at his lips at John's last words, "Yeah well I wanted to make sure it was a night to remember. Oh that reminds me, Mrs. Hudson says we should change rooms since mine is above hers and she more or less hears everything."
"She what?" John's voice was high pitched and nervous. "Oh, that's... Well. Last night. I was, um," he sniffed a bit, pursing his lips. "That's supremely awkward. I mean, really very awkward. Shit." He laughed softly and calmed himself a bit. He needed to try and remind himself that as much as Sherlock hated it, he did need to be monitored. He decided to move away from the subject. "I left one of my jumpers in your bed this morning. It won't smell like me for nine months but it should for a while."
John shifted slightly as a younger soldier slapped him on the shoulder, shouting 'C'mon, Doc! We're hittin' up the river for a swim!' and dashed away with eager laughter.
"You can snuggle with it, I guess. That was the intention."
The smirk on Sherlock's face only got bigger from John's reaction. "Yes, well one of my scarves is in one of your bags. You'll have to guess which one. It isn't a pillow but it's something." He shifted in the chair and heard another crash in the kitchen. He ignored it like before and the kitten suddenly ran into the room and started biting his shoe. Then ran away again, skidding into the kitchen and came to a halt under the table. It turned to stare at Sherlock with its unblinking gaze. "John, I don't know if love or hate this cat. It's very…different…than what I expected."
"Well, you took it in, didn't you? Maybe it just really likes you." John remarked absently. How different could a cat be, really? "Have you even named it yet? Maybe if you give it a name." He smiled a bit. He already wanted to go back. It was hard to believe that he had woken up this morning wrapped in Sherlock's arms after only an hour of sleep, still sore from their previous activities. The thought of not doing that for nine months caused his chest to stop moving for a moment. "I love you," he stated suddenly.
"Sort of I guess. If I believed in that sort of thing, I'd tell you we found each other when we both were in need." Sherlock shrugged. "I haven't named it yet. It's stubborn, a bit violent, and hmm…intelligent, for an animal anyway." He stared back it, as the kitten continued its unwavering stare. "I love you too John. It hasn't even been a whole day yet and I feel like you have been gone forever."
"I've got to go." John exhaled a shaky breath and glanced around the room. "Going to wash up in the river and head out on my first patrol. Stay safe. And you can read my note now. I love you," he paused a bit before hanging up the phone, running his hands down his face before removing himself from the stool and heading out toward the river as he pulled his shirt over his head.
And just like that, the conversation was over. With a sigh, Sherlock got up from the chair and shoved his cell phone back in his pocket. He walked into the kitchen, the kitten getting up and rubbing itself in circles around Sherlock's ankles. He surveyed the mess on the floor. Appliances, dishes and cutlery were strewn everywhere. Cabinets and drawers were partially opened. The kitten mewed loudly and clawed its way back up to Sherlock's shoulder. He was getting used to the tiny claws embedding themselves in his skin through the cloth. He stepped over the mess and walked over to the refrigerator. For once it was clean and actually had food in it. He wasn't sure what a cat ate but he figured some kind of meat would do. He took out some lunch meat, ham. He opened the container, and offered a thin slice to the kitten on his shoulder. It gobbled it greedily. "Like ham then, hm? I called you John earlier. My dear army doctor will hate it, but I do think I'll call you Hamish." He fed it another piece of ham.
An hour after John's phone call Mycroft let himself into the flat, setting a Manila envelope on the kitchen table. "That cat is... odd," he muttered before pushing the envelope for you. "A gift. Pictures of one Captain John Watson at Kandahar Airfield about an hour ago," he smiled softly. He was the British government and it wasn't too hard to get pictures for his younger brother, something to show him that John was alright and would be. The pictures held images of several soldiers in the river, John bathing in one, splashing somebody in another. The next was him leaving the river, one that caused Mycroft to blush because he was completely naked. After that one photo remained. John was completely dressed, body armor on, a helmet on his head with a visor to protect his eyes, a gun in his hands, and his red cross slid over his left bicep. "If you want more you just have to ask," he stated softly, as he eyed the cat on Sherlock's shoulder with unease.
After feeding the kitten the entire container of ham, Sherlock went about cleaning up the kitchen. Not because he actually cared that it wasn't clean, but because it would give him something to do. Something other than thinking about John. The kitten took a nap on his shoulder, claws digging deeply into the shirt and skin of the consulting detective so it wouldn't fall off with all of the movement. He had just finished up when Mycroft had shown up. Sherlock smirked. "Lestrade didn't say so, but he was also unsettled by the cat." He rifled through the pictures and nodded his head thanks. The letter John had given him was still on the kitchen table, unopened. It was dry and a bit wrinkled from the water damage. He left it for now, opting to read it when Mycroft was gone and he would be alone. The kitten continued to sleep soundly, purring lightly.
"Dinner?" Mycroft asked smoothly, relaxing against the kitchen table. He watched his younger brother with interest. It was different to be in the flat without John, even he would admit that. Living here and not just visiting was something he didn't want to imagine. "I'll pay. I think it'd be best if you got out of the flat for a bit. Fresh air." He would never admit it to Sherlock, or even John, but he was worried about how the next nine months would play out and how Sherlock would react.
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not hungry." He turned to look at his older brother. "Look, I know you all think you need to watch over me like I'm some lost child at the market. I'm not. If you want to drop by from time to time, fine. Not every day. I like my space and before John really I liked being alone. If you all keep insisting on bothering me, I swear I will move out of the city or the country if it comes to that until John comes back home."
Mycroft shifted on his feet and shot a knowing glance at his brother. "Fine. I will have pictures delivered weekly, then. Lestrade is still stopping by but only for cases." He took several steps back and glanced around the flat. It was clean. John must have done that before he left. "I'll see you in a week, then? Don't do anything stupid," he twisted his mouth to one side before spinning on his toes and leaving the flat.
Really? That was it? Sherlock was expecting a fight, an argument. Mycroft had folded. He eyed his older brother with scrutiny and then merely nodded. He picked up the letter and went to the living room and sat down in his chair. He opened the letter carefully, hoping to be able to decipher the message within despite the water spots all over the page.
The letter was written in John's best penmanship, slightly shaky in some parts, but easily readable.
Sherlock,
I know how much you hate this. I could read your body language and I know. You held yourself back, you never argued or begged me to stay back. It's going to be a long nine months, we both know that, but we'll make it through. I'll be back before you know it.
Scotland was the best time of my life and I know when I'll be awake during some long nights that I can look back to that little vacation and smile. Do the same. If you ever start to feel down then just close your eyes and remember.
Don't forget to feed yourself. Don't get angry with Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson and especially your brother. They all care about you and just want to help. Don't push them away. Let them be there for you.
I love you, Sherlock. More than I think you'll ever know. Don't forget that. I can't wait to see you again.
I look forward to your letter.
John
Sherlock read the note and almost crumpled it up and threw it on the floor, suddenly angry. The last month he had held a lot of the frustration in. He had tried to start a fight with his brother, but he had simply caved. His body tensed, causing the kitten on his shoulder to wake once more. It bit Sherlock's ear and then hopped into his lap and began purring loudly, rubbing its head all over his stomach. He picked Hamish up absently, set he kitten on the floor and then stood up from the chair. He walked over to the desk and got a clean piece of paper out, and a ball point pen. He sat staring at it for awhile as he thought of what he wanted to say. Finally, he wrote a letter and just as he finished he heard the kitten meowing loudly by the window. He folded the letter, put it into an envelope and licked the flap before sealing it. He scribbled the address on the front. In a few quick strides Sherlock was at the window and he opened it. Hamish darted out on to the ledge and jumped down to the street below with ease. He watched the cat disappear from view with a sigh, as he idly wondered if the thing would come back. He slumped against the wall and then slid to sitting position, closing his eyes as he thought of John. He wasn't tired but he was emotionally exhausted and sleep found him whether he liked it or not.