6th Perdition.
The Perditions of John
6th Perdition
Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: The 6th Perdition of John
Summary: Who is the man left behind? Sherlock makes some surprising discoveries.
Character/Relationships: John/Sherlock
[John. This is not going to work. I will simply have Mycroft track you. The clue is utterly simple. Please stop, and talk to me instead. SH]
[You didn't bother to go. Yes, count on Mycroft. I did. JW]
[You know I have plans for the day. Why are you doing this? Just be mad at me in person. SH]
[sorry. Busy. JW]
[This isn't necessary. We should be working this out, not playing hide and seek. SH]
[Suit yourself. Time marches on. JW]
[What do you mean by that? Stop being droll and just come speak with me. SH]
[Inconvenient. JW]
[Fine. What will I find at the school? SH]
[The next clue. JW]
[Great. I love scavenger hunts. Stop this now. I am sorry. I worship the ground you walk on. Now please. SH]
[Tell Mycroft, he never dug deep enough. You should always know your opponent. JW]
Sherlock sent several more texts, but John was being a child and ignoring him. He called Mycroft.
"I trust your reunion has at last taken place?" His brother says without a hello.
"Mycroft. It didn't go well."
"And this is unexpected how?"
"He's run off. He said to tell you that you didn't dig deep enough. Look, he's not thinking clearly. You were right and I interrupted him, but he's still going to do it."
"Pray tell, your smiling face failed to cheer him?" Mycroft says in his I-know-everything way.
"Just find him and pick him up. Text me when your people have him. I need to get going. I heard a car outside."
"As you wish. Do be careful. I will speak to you soon."
Sherlock didn't bother with saying goodbye. Mycroft's former boss just appeared far below, looking older, but still as grand as a peacock. His attention turned toward his purpose for coming to London.
Four hours later, Sherlock appeared at Mycroft's desk, smirking. "This should accomplish more than you hoped. They were both arrogant and spoke quite freely. Now where is he? I have yelling to pretend to listen to and I want to get it over as quickly as possible." Sherlock says rolling his neck and rubbing his left shoulder.
"It always acts up when you are under strain. You need surgery."
"I know. Soon. Right now I just want to see John. Mad or not, I don't even care. I just want to sit and look at him. I have missed him."
"I don't know how to say this, Sherlock, but he isn't here."
Sherlock's eyes lock on Mycroft and his heart sinks at the genuine shadows of concern he sees there. "Why isn't he?"
"Because we spent most of the day on a goose chase. This was found at the location you described." Mycroft, slides a piece of paper forward.
Really, this is the place you picked? I was thinking a little pinker. As in the first place you abandoned me. You better hurry. People to save and places to go, my love.
"And his phone? It gave you his location?"
"I have that too. It was serenading your headstone with some horrid American song about emotionally damaged canines. He was, however, not in its company."
Sherlock flicked to the last song played.
You ain't nothing but a hound dawg…crying all the time…but you ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend of mine…"
"Elvis. He who is still sighted regularly, though dead." Sherlock smiles and shakes his head.
"There is more. We should have a conversation, Sherlock. About, your John."
"Isn't that what we're doing?"
Mycroft sighed. He reached in his drawer and pulled out a folder. " This is the tip of the iceberg. Some was faxed to me with encryption. High security, encryption. It seems our friendly little doctor has more to him then we deduced. We were blinded by his down home demeanor and his fascination with you. I am not certain I will allow you to seek him out. Perhaps it would be better to lose just this one game."
Sherlock had barely begun to read when Mycroft's thoughts interrupted. Sherlock glanced at his brother and in an annoyed tone demanded, "What do you mean? I explained his intention."
"That is precisely why I conclude that you should not play. This isn't all. I can't even get my hands on some of his records."
Sherlock frowns and plops down in the chair never taking his eyes off the papers he's reading. "Losing your touch, Mycroft?"
Mycroft's brows furrow and he leans back in his chair before answering, "Not, at all. These alone are unattainable for anyone else. But it seems there were other governments with whom he performed, shall we say, medical functions, with whom I do not have established rapport on this level. Dr. John Watson, may have been overqualified to be your assistant. He is more than qualified to be mine."
Sherlock wanted to laugh, but it was all very black and white. "obvious," he murmures. Sherlock absorbed the information, admittedly surprised at exactly how deep John was. "But he was injured. Is that why they sent him home? They let him walk away?"
"Quite common actually. But, they do keep a close eye on them. If they become a loose cannon, they are fired in perpetuity. We both were not paying attention. We both missed all the notable exceptions to his mild humble story."
"My John was a bad ass."
"Your John is the hobbit version of James Bond, The Red Baron, and Dr. Jeckyll all rolled into one."
"Kind of a Frankenstein's monster?"
Mycroft smiled, "Yes, very like you indeed."
"I still hate it when you call me that, Bugger-wad."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Never the less, these papers do change some things. You must understand, the long term stability of these…type of soldier, is marginal at best. I would have never advised you involve yourself with this person, had I any idea."
"I don't care about that," Sherlock says smiling slightly and shrugging into his great chunky belStaff and arranging his scarf on the way out the door.
"Sherlock. I am not finished. Where do you think you are going?" He says standing and coming round the desk.
"I am going to beat my lover, crush his tender little ego, save his life and probably never let him out of my sight again. In the meantime, you are going to keep your little beady eyes on all the fabulous toys you have amassed and call me at once when you spot him."
"Sherlock, I forbid you from confronting him."
"Do you? Well that simply makes it more fun, now if you would like to arrest that wicked little man who trained you, I suggest you get on the ball, he's to be liquidated in approximately two hours, once he delivers the shoe size of the Queen mum and the golf score of a certain Mycroft Holmes to the bad guy you have had me babysitting for a month. That part isn't on the tape, but there are three sentences full of incredible state darkness, you might want to keep under wraps." Sherlock turns to leave again but stops, facing away from his brother as he says the last part, " Find him, if humanly possible. I won't be a great deal of value to you if …this game is lost."
Mycroft sighs and is resolved that he has never had any way to control Sherlock and his whims. "I will do what I can, but the rules have changed. I will not endanger good men to bring about the return of your pet soldier gone a bit rabid."
"Ah. Of course, you save me for such." Sherlock smirks slightly as he walks at his quick thinking pace. So my dear John, you think you can out play me. Well, I always warned you not to make heros, but this time I assure you that you will not be in the least, disappointed.
Sherlock hailed a cab, and gave the address to the building that had started it all. He smiled, that John was still offended after five years that he had snuck off to find the woman's case forgetting he'd had a companion. He had gotten better after all and Mycroft had given him a ride back to 221B. Sherlock thought back to that night, how he'd been so close to taking the damned pill. John had killed for him, to save him. He could have been charged. Of course he would have paid for the finest legal team in all of London, but courts could be so fickle.
Sherlock stood on the street looking up at the building. It looked nothing like it had that night long ago. It had been transformed. It was also occupied, which would complicate things. Sherlock was certain that john would leave his clue in the place the body had been. He ran the stairs and knocked on the door. He inquired of a short woman, probably a retired teacher from her propensity toward apple fashion, whether something had been inadvertently delivered to her by mistake. He made pleasant chatter as he perused her now carpeted and comfortably bright accommodations.
He wondered if it would bother her to know a woman had died within this space and if the carpet had been laid over the last message. Rache. He honestly expected to find johns note sitting in plain sight on the floor, after all he was seeking revenge by punishing Sherlock for having sacrificed himself and his entire life, just to keep him alive.
He thanked the woman profusely and slowly stumped down the stairs. So what did john do with the clue? He looked around as he stepped down the stairs; it had to be here somewhere. He had to be missing something. What had happened that night?
He'd been embarrassed by Donovan and he'd made remarks about her and Anderson. He'd ask for the victim's case. And he'd forgotten John.
Come if it is convenient, he'd texted. Sherlock looked up and down the street. John must have been so angry as he stood here alone, having made the acquaintance with an insane person, yet he came anyway. Sherlock smiled and he trotted up the street. The phone booth. Mycroft had rung phones watching him on security cameras. Sherlock looked around as he entered and grinned at the flaming pink envelope tucked between the phone and the wall. He wedged it out and was surprised that it was two small pages.
The first page said,
Dear Sherlock, well that took a bit of time. Good thing you don't sleep. You made me find a ride home that night. He should have picked up my phone by now. Did you look, or are you just trying to jump ahead and see if this is going to be a walk down memory lane? The end is not at St. Bart's. That would make it true that I am as stupid as you think I am. You really should try to hurry, you see I spent a certain number of days in mourning. They are significant.
The second page said,
I will speed you along a bit, beings you probably didn't count them the way I did. 1111. That is an interesting number. Should we say a clue per day? No. How do you feel about numerology? 11+11 equals 22 equals 4 =? Do you have any? Nothing is bigger when you have none.
11 is the master number – are we two masters balanced? Or are our hands tied?
Sherlock growled. He whispered under his breath, "God, I hate riddles."
He was on his phone at once looking up all the lore on numbers.
Thank you for your time and reviews. Can you solve the riddle of where he must go next?