In this chapter:
"Jesus Christ!" John said. "Couldn't you knock to warn me instead of giving me a heart attack?" He rearranged himself on the seat and nodded to the cabbie so that he knew that Sherlock was a friend and not a fugitive from a nearby madhouse.
Well, maybe he was a bit.
Sherlock gave him a stunning smile. One of those that would be able to burst one of Molly's blood vessels, if only Sherlock didn't save them all for John. "John! The game is on!"
CHAPTER 17
John snuggled in the back seat of the cab, resting his tired head on the cold window glass. His shoulders were rigid. His life as a GP was nothing compared to being a soldier or being Sherlock's sidekick, but – bloody hell – it drained him.
Well, it drained him for different reasons, but still...
He gave 221B address to the cabbie and closed his eyes. He couldn't shake off the loneliness that crept up his spine. Mary had travelled somewhat unexpectedly to help a friend in Ireland – or so she had said. John didn't feel he had the right to question her.
He felt much too guilty for that.
He had been weak for telling her about the danger Sherlock was in. Mary was probably trying to run away from that madness and though it killed him, he thought she was right in doing so. He tried to feign being angry about her leaving, but behind the bit of loneliness that bothered him now and again, there was a much stronger sense of relief.
It was different from feeling responsible for Sherlock. Sherlock was impossible to control, had his own mad pace, couldn't be tamed. Mary was a strong person, yes, but a normal person, nonetheless. She hadn't been made to the battlefield.
John shouldn't have worried her with all that. He should've waited.
God, he was shite.
And at the same time, he felt as if he had betrayed the trust Mycroft had placed in him. He hadn't told Mary any details about the surveillance, of course, but it still sat wrong in his stomach that he hadn't been able to keep his mouth shut.
Maybe all that time alone had left him desperate to share himself, to have a normal life of togetherness, companionship.
John sighed and looked out of the window, observing the damp his breath had left on the glass. His head was beginning to throb.
His partnership with Sherlock was built in a very different way than his relationship with Mary – or of any other normal couple, for that matter. Not that Sherlock and he were a couple, of course. Not that he would even consider this sort of thing.
No, their relationship was not built on understanding or heart-to-heart conversations, not even on respect.
Their partnership had been built on desperation since the day one – on a bone-deep necessity John had never been able to explain. He had never tried to. Not until Sherlock had come back from the dead and John had second-guessed all they had gone through. He didn't trust Sherlock as a person – had never trusted him to tell the truth, even before the whole not-really-dead ruse. What he felt for Sherlock was an unaccountable devotion that wouldn't make any sense if he were talking about anyone other than Sherlock Holmes.
As a completely extraordinary man, it was natural that Sherlock prompted the most extraordinary sentiment in people. It happened all the time – Sherlock was just too emotionally ignorant to notice. Or too much of a git to care.
It was a kind of... love, John supposed.
He closed his eyes again. He couldn't deny the little declarations of love their partnership demanded every day. Saving each other's lives, protecting one another...
Making sure Sherlock ate at least enough to keep standing. John snorted faintly to himself. It was a kind of love. Sometimes it had been a very domestic and silly kind of love.
At other times it had been a throat-clogging passion that had left John completely hollow after watching Sherlock jump to his death. It had eaten him up from the inside.
He flexed his hands and rolled his left shoulder.
He had to learn how to divide himself in two to make the most of the lives that now presented themselves in front of him. How to love Mary and deserve her love without dragging her into a sort of madness that, honestly, didn't have room for her. And how to continue to be Sherlock's partner, at least in the ways the detective would still have him.
John felt gutted by the feeling that maybe they would never be what they once had been. The silly domestic affection had been replaced by a never ending emptiness.
That place – that intimate place in which John and Sherlock were best friends, sharing a life outside the crime fighting world – that had become an old dusty trunk full of memories in an empty attic.
Maybe in another lifetime John could have been able to bring those two lives together, to build a third path for him. A third path in which Sherlock and Mary would have become friends and gang up on John for getting fat or something as ridiculous as that, but not in this one. He felt too much of a coward to give up the uniqueness of both relationships.
He refused to face the faults in his reasoning. He simply did not have the heart for it now.
The cab came to a halt and John looked outside. He was surprised to realise he was already at Baker Street. Before he could get his wallet to pay the fare, Sherlock jumped inside the cab, barking an address to the cabbie.
"Jesus Christ!" John said. "Couldn't you knock to warn me instead of giving me a heart attack?" He rearranged himself on the seat and nodded to the cabbie so that he knew that Sherlock was a friend and not a fugitive from a nearby madhouse.
Well, maybe he was a bit.
Sherlock gave him a stunning smile. One of those that would be able to burst one of Molly's blood vessels, if only Sherlock didn't save them all for John. "John! The game is on!"
John shook his head, but smiled fondly. He couldn't help it. Nutter. "Tell me."
Sherlock talked non-stop about the crime scene to which they were headed. Lestrade had sent him some pictures, so he kept squinting at his phone while babbling to John about how the blood spatter indicated a crime of opportunity.
Sherlock turned his phone over and over again, as if that could provide him with different angles of the living room.
"See here, this empty spot on the coffee table," he said, not really waiting for John to answer. "This is a wealthy house, decorated with the best furniture and accessories. It is highly unlikely that someone who went out of her way to match couches, carpets and curtains would be so remiss as to leave this spot empty," he nodded to himself. "It is asymmetric."
John would argue that maybe the woman simply liked the coffee table like that, but when had he been right about a crime scene? He just nodded and kept looking at the pictures.
He was interested in the case, of course, but Sherlock's sudden appearance hadn't given him time to dissipate the cloud of thoughts he had been mustering over before.
"Robbery gone wrong?" John asked, in lieu of any clever comment to make.
Sherlock hummed. "Maybe. I need data."
John nodded absent-mindedly and looked out of the window again.
Minutes later he noticed Sherlock had stopped talking. John could almost feel the other man's eyes on his neck. He turned to face him.
"What?"
Sherlock did that thing he did when he was accessing all the dark secrets of someone. His piercing gaze made John feel more than a bit exposed. It excited him at some degree, but he feared Sherlock finding out things John wasn't sure he could explain.
Why do you still have nightmares about me?
Why are you so miserable?
Jesus. Just get your shit together, Watson.
"What?" He asked again.
Sherlock frowned. His eyes were still scanning John's face. "You... Are upset."
John sighed.
Was he? Why?
Fuck, he didn't know where to start.
John watched while Sherlock looked down at his own hands resting on his lap. The detective flexed his fingers twice. John reckoned the talk was over. Well, that had been quick and he was glad for it.
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Did I– hm," he said, awkwardly. He sighed. "I'm sorry."
John frowned. He had no idea of what Sherlock was on about. "Why?"
Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tried again, but just huffed unhappily. "I don't know!" He looked at John with soft round eyes. "I don't know what I did wrong, but I'm sorry. Should I have been more careful to talk about the deceased?" Sherlock was tapping his fingers on his leg. John asked himself if he was aware of it. "Well, you know how I get, but we are going to solve it, that's what we can do for the victim–"
"Sherlock–"
"Really, John, sometimes I wish you would just nag me like you used to–"
"Oi!" John said, more firmly. That got the madman's attention. "You haven't done anything wrong. It's all right..." he trailed off. He looked intently at Sherlock's eyes. The eyes that had been a bit scared seconds ago and now were just plainly confused. It made John feel warm to know Sherlock cared that much.
It also pained him a bit to notice Sherlock was always waiting for him to snap. "It's all right, okay?"
The other man looked a bit wary, but nodded.
And John found that he really meant it.
For now, it was all right.
The cab took them to the rich neighbourhood the crime had taken place. They could see the Yard cars parked nearby. It was a beautiful house, not as big as the others around, but equally imposing. Lestrade came out of the building to greet them.
He was already talking to Sherlock when John finally paid the cabbie and got out of the car.
The D.I. smiled and nodded at him, but kept talking. "The scene is a bit gruesome, not that you'd have a problem with that," he said, as Sherlock and John followed him inside the house. "Something seems a bit off. There are signs of struggle," he pointed to the furniture and broken china spread all over the floor. "But the guys took everything that was on the safe anyway..." he indicated the stairs that lead to the bedroom.
The body was in the living room and Lestrade hadn't been exaggerating. Someone had hit the woman more than once with a blunt object. Her name was Margaret Smith, not more than thirty-five years old. A beautiful woman who had a horrible end.
For once, Sherlock wasn't looking at the body, but frowning at the scene, as if something weren't quite right with the whole picture. John just waited.
"Who else lives here?" Sherlock asked while scanning the floor. He crouched, probably looking for the murder weapon.
"We haven't found indication of any other resident. There's only one bedroom and a home office upstairs," Greg answered.
Sherlock let out a triumphant sound, and showed them a bloodied trophy that had fallen between the couch and the wall. John could see that the object matched the victim's injuries. Well, he had found the murder weapon – that was a start.
The consulting detective was squinting at the object. "He was wearing gloves," he concluded.
No such luck as fingerprints, then. Bastard.
John looked at the body again. Sherlock was right about the criminal being a man, of course. That kind of damage had been caused by someone fairly large and strong. The victim was not a tiny woman, by all means, so her assailant must have been a powerful one.
"Where is her daughter?" Sherlock asked, while still examining the trophy.
John felt his blood freeze. Oh, god, was there a dead kid somewhere?
"Daughter?" Lestrade's confused voice came from the hallway where he was talking to one of his guys.
Sherlock showed them the trophy. "The victim is a bit old to be dancing ballet in school, don't you think? It could be a boy, yes, but a girl is statistically more likely."
"We didn't find any indication of a child in this house. Maybe she's got a niece."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You probably saw, but didn't observe! This," he showed them the trophy again, "was in display right here in the living room, a part of the house meant for close family," he concluded. "Also, the victim didn't have any sisters," he said, getting past them and heading to the bedroom. "Come along, John!"
They ran upstairs and John walked fast through the hallway to get to the bedroom. However, when he looked for Sherlock, he noticed the man had stopped halfway. He was frowning, looking lost in his own thoughts.
Suddenly, he turned to the wall and squinted at a painting. He took down the frame and ran his hands smoothly on the wall. Finally seeming satisfied, he joined John again in the bedroom entrance.
They could see the safe, now empty. It didn't show signs of being forced open, so the victim had probably opened it herself. John asked himself why had the criminal killed her, then.
On the bed there was a notebook, an appointment book, and a box of Kleenex together with some painkillers. On the dresser, John could see the remaining of a cup of tea. He turned to look for Sherlock, but the detective wasn't anywhere near the bed. He was doing the same thing he had done on the hallway, now on the bedroom wall.
Sherlock pushed a bookshelf out of the way and John suddenly understood what was off about the house. They could see a small door, not three feet high, that led to a child's bedroom.
Sure enough, there should be a little girl in that house. "Jesus," John whispered, closing his eyes for a moment.
They were gathered in the living room. The body had already been removed and no child was found in the house. The forensics team was processing the bedrooms – of which Sherlock had already collected some evidence of his own to run a few tests. He hadn't told them anything yet and John knew Lestrade was getting more and more impatient by the second.
"Give me whatever you got," he told Sherlock. "What are we looking at? Robbery gone wrong?"
"Kidnapping gone wrong," Sherlock corrected him. "The child, she was the target."
Shit.
John heard Lestrade barking orders to his men. "I don't care if the neighbours are refusing to talk, threaten to arrest everyone! There's a kid missing. Do it, now!"
Sherlock's dull voice explained what had happened. "The mother shouldn't have been here. She had a cold, was working from home. The girl should have been home with her nanny – a much easier target to kidnappers. The mother called the nanny earlier this morning as we could see on her phone, probably to tell her she was free from work today. She was taking advantage of her sick day to stay with her daughter. Well, it didn't go well for them."
"Sherlock," John reprimanded him.
Sherlock continued. "The mother thought she was prepared for something like that, she herself hid her child from others, she tried to mask the bedroom. Maybe they were being threatened," he mused. "The question is: why would someone kill the person who would pay the ransom?" Sherlock asked, rhetorically, pointing to the blood spatter. "This wasn't an amateur job. They tried to cover the presence of the child, simple-minded Londoner criminals do not act like this." He joined his hands in front of his face in something that resembled his usual thinking pose.
"The father...?" John asked.
Lestrade brought a picture someone of his team had found. "She is a widow. Her husband was one of the partners at Pearson & Mills. He was the Mills in the name, by the way. But I just made some calls and the victim had nothing to do with the bank, except for an allowance she received every month for her daughter. She had her own art gallery, and it was not worth millions."
Sherlock was typing something on his phone and quickly brought a picture of the deceased with his partner Michael Pearson. He magnified the picture and let out a dubious sound. "Where's the picture of the girl?"
After Lestrade had handed him the picture, Sherlock proceeded to analyse both side by side. John had no idea what he was getting at and was getting jittery thinking about that poor kid.
"Have someone look into the bank's financials and any disputes between the owners. I think you'll find your motive," Sherlock said.
"They weren't working alone, then?" John asked.
"Oh, no," Sherlock answered. "Whoever did this was led here by an interested party, probably someone intimate, judging by the effort the victim made to mask the presence of her daughter in the house. The murder wasn't planned. She struggled to save the girl and was killed because of that. She followed them to the living room and probably tried to take the girl back from the person's hold. So there wasn't a gun involved. Killing was never the plan. The person who is behind this is not going to be happy."
"Do you think they will try to get rid of the girl?" Lestrade asked, terse.
"I think the chances of that becoming the outcome are increasing by the minute, Inspector. Call Pearson for questioning," Sherlock told them, turning hastily and walking out the door.
John hated when he did that. For God's sake. That was a child abduction, that wasn't the time to show off.
"To the lab, John," Sherlock turned back and shouted at him. "Come on!"
They hopped into the cab that had appeared out of nowhere.
John could feel the adrenaline pumping in his veins.
"So, who do you think is behind all this?" John asked, as soon as the cab started moving.
"One shouldn't presume before having all data," Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him. John had been told that many times.
It never ceased to be bloody annoying, though.
"Come off it, you have already figured it out, haven't you?" John tried to say it lightly, but the situation demanded an action was taken soon and he wasn't in the mood for Sherlock's act.
The detective looked at him intently and nodded, seeming to comprehend everything John was not saying. Maybe he could detect the urgency in his eyes. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Money," Sherlock said, looking out of the window. "The reason. It's always money with these people. Judging by the allowance the victim was given every month by the company, and by other examples like that, I estimate," he said the world as if it were difficult for him, "that the board of such a company must have a rule regarding the payment of ransoms in case of kidnapping. It's not uncommon to big companies whose owners become high profile targets. I suspect the rules are also applied to their family members and that the amount of money in the case of a child's kidnapping must be meaningful."
"Okay" John nodded, that made sense. "Anyone could be behind all this, then. Many people must know her daughter would be worth millions."
"Not so many, no," Sherlock disagreed. "She kept the girl hidden from everyone, remember? And only very few people would have the knowledge to plan such an elaborate scheme that would have gone brilliantly if it weren't for the fortuitous cold our victim had," he looked expectantly to John.
"Who would be that intimate, but heartless enough to plan this?" John felt a bit sick. One would think that after being in the army and working with Sherlock for so much time, he would be used to people's cruelty, but no. He was far from being a romantic, but he was too much of a fighter to get used to this.
"Maybe the childless business man who is near to be bankrupt?" Sherlock asked, showing John an article on his phone.
It read 'Michael Pearson, only living owner of Pearson & Mills, going down for tax evasion'.
"Shit." It made sense. It all made sense. "You have to tell Greg to arrest him."
Sherlock sighed, somewhat annoyed. "And for what? Because I have – God forbid – a hunch?" He sounded disgusted. "Investigate, John. That's what we do. Data, that's what I need to solve this and to be able to prove it," he said, turning away to his window. His jaw line showed determination. "Without proof everything turns to ashes and we let dangerous criminals get away with everything."
John felt his throat tight.
He was hit by the memory of Moriarty and the sensation of watching everything they had worked on be destroyed bit by bit up to the point where they became the mice and Moriarty, the house cat.
He remembered watching Moriarty walk away free, he remembered calling Sherlock to warn him that Moriarty was going after him.
He remembered those last days of anxiety and a fucking hopelessness that had gradually frozen his blood.
He remembered everything that caused Sherlock to be taken away from him.
John cracked his neck and looked out of his window.
Damn, he didn't need to be told twice.
They arrived at St. Bart's little after 9 pm. Sherlock seemed more jittery then before. He had been texting nervously in the cab, but after the last bit of their conversation, John hadn't felt inclined to ask about anything else. He decided that letting Sherlock work would be the wisest to do. Sherlock had never disappointed him. Well, at least his Work hadn't.
He felt his phone vibrate and took it out of his pocket. Mary's name flashed aggressively on the tiny screen. He lingered in the hallway for a bit, deciding what to do. He felt awful, she would obviously notice that something was wrong, and John didn't want to worry her. Not after so recently having scared her away from him.
He squeezed the plastic, feeling its corners imprint their shape on his fingers. He couldn't run away from her either. He didn't want that, he wanted to be together.
Sherlock must have felt his absence, cause he stopped and turned, frowning at him from afar. "Well?" He prompted.
John sighed and decided to stop being a fucking coward. "I'll be there in a bit. You don't need me anyway," he tried to joke. Just before he turn his back, he could see Sherlock's expression turn into something he couldn't identify.
"Hi, love," he picked up the phone.
"Hey, hello," she said. "I was almost giving up! Is this a bad time?"
"No, no, of course not," he lied. "How are you? How is your friend? Sorry, I forgot her name."
Mary smiled. John knew she did, she always did when he forgot things. "Kathy! And she is recovering," she told him, although her tone meant to say that her friend was, indeed, still ill. "And I'm okay. I miss you, though."
"Oh, yeah?" He smiled. He missed her too. Of course he did. It was impossible not to. Mary had saved him in more ways than anyone could suspect. "I do, too. When are you due to come back?"
She sighed. "I don't know yet," she sounded dejected. "She doesn't have anyone else. Her parents died when she was very young... Orphans, we keep an eye on each other, you know."
"I know, love," he reassured her. He didn't want to sound clingy either. Mary was a loving friend, he admired that in her. "That's okay. Do what you have to do."
He didn't want to sound relieved. He did miss her. But it didn't change the fact that his head was a mess. His brain felt loose inside his skull. Sodding headache.
"You sound tired. What happened?"
Mary. Sweet, absolutely caring Mary. John had thrown the weight of the world on her shoulders and she was still worried about him being tired.
"Nothing, busy day at work, just that."
She hummed, unconvinced. John could tell she hadn't believed a word. "Where are you?" She asked.
John looked around and thought about lying, but he felt he had already told enough lies. "I'm at St. Bart's."
"Oh!" She exclaimed, excited. "Are you two on a case? Is it a good one?"
John laughed forcibly. He didn't want to tell Mary – Mary who still wanted to be a parent – about the child abduction they were dealing with. About the child that now was an orphan like herself.
He couldn't do that, not now when he wouldn't be near to hug her. Not now when the little girl was still in danger.
"Nah," he dismissed. "Just a robbery. Sherlock was really bored."
There was noise in the other end of the line, and Mary was in silence for a moment. "I have to go, I'll call you back tomorrow, okay? Love you!"
She hang up before John could answer. He hoped her friend was all right.
What was her name again?
"You haven't found anything, then?" John asked Sherlock when they sat on the third cab he got that day. His back was already killing him.
Sherlock made a disgusted noise. An unproductive hour at the lab and all his excitement had turned into resentfulness. His asperity warmed John for being so familiar.
"The blood?" He insisted.
"All belonged to the mother, as I have already told you," the detective said impatiently. "Not a single useful trace in that soil samples. Too many possibilities, too many variables," he tugged on his hair.
"Have you rechecked everything?"
John knew he was walking a thin line. What was he trying to do, honestly? Sherlock Holmes had never needed to recheck a damn thing in his life. He would jump off a plane without double checking his fucking parachute.
Sherlock squinted his eyes at him. "Tell me, John. How is Mary?"
It would be useless to pretend he hadn't understood. John thought he deserved it. "She is very well, thank you for asking," he tried to say lightly.
He looked out of his window trying to figure out why had that hurt so much. Sherlock was just naturally cruel. It had never bothered him. Not when directed at him.
Anyway, at least Sherlock hadn't asked where she was, even though he probably knew her flight number.
They spent the rest of the ride in a heavy silence. John didn't know what to say. He didn't know why they kept resenting each other for the smallest things, why now everything felt wrongly wired between them.
The cab pulled over in front of 221B. Surprisingly, Sherlock reached for his wallet and handed John fifty quid. The doctor was too shocked to reject it.
Sherlock didn't leave the cab right away, but kept his grip on the handle. John could see the creases of the leather on his gloves. "You could stay."
"Sorry?"
"If you don't want to be in your house alone, you could stay. I mean, here," Sherlock looked sideways at him. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson would be delighted. Would bake you anything you wanted."
John was shocked into silence. That single verb lit him up from the inside. It was so scary, he felt his hands sweat.
"I–," the detective cleared his throat. "Goodnight, John."
Just like that, he jumped out of the car and disappeared inside 221B, not very different from how he had earlier appeared.
On the ride home, John tried to ignore the magnetic pull that threatened to drag him back across the city to something he didn't know if he would ever be ready to face again.
Thank you for the reviews and the messages! Sorry that it took me so long to update, but my beta and I were having technical problems.
Nice things are coming! However angsty they might me, they will be nice, i swear ahahah.