Chapter Three
Title: Mobile
Author: A Study in Schadenfreude
Pairing|Characters: No strict pairing
Length: Looks like it'll be a long one
Genre: angst, action-adventure
Warnings: Post-Reichenbach Fall.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, and Conan-Doyle own the characters, we're just making them dance to our tune.
Summary: John Watson's on the verge of leaving 221B behind. Until he receives a message that will change his life forever... "Text Received from Sherlock Holmes."
John reread the instructions on the dye box three times before even letting the stuff touch his hair. He had half a mind to just head off to a hairdresser to get it over with, but that would be too suspicious. Besides, he never did like going to such shops. Too much chatter and noise.
Mrs Hudson had been kind enough to go buy the box for him, but he'd asked for brown, not some sure to be hideous red-brown. He didn't have much of a choice, he only hoped it would turn out normal looking. John shook the strong smelling dye in the plastic bottle and leaned over the sink to catch any drips, glancing at the mirror every now and again.
Christ, this was going to be bad on his back. It already hurt. He always felt older than when his back hurt. He was almost forty years old. How did other people do this?
John was only part way through depositing the colour when it started to burn his scalp. He winced, almost yelping a little as he thought of the dye eating its way through his skin and tinting his skull. No, John, that's ridiculous. Besides, you got shot. This is just hair colour. This is easy.
"Bloody dye," he swore. "How do women do this all the time?" Despite the burning, he finished squeezing the dye onto his hair and rubbed it with his gloved hands. He scratched a bit at the parts that were stinging, feeling immediate relief. The dye started to drip down his forehead, and John panicked at the thought of the colour getting into his eyes, and he yanked the toilet paper roll and wiped his forehead. Easy, my arse. This is bloody impossible.
Oh god, I have to do this every time my hair grows.
He grabbed the instruction sheet after the dye was covering his head to check the wait time again. Thirty minutes. Fantastic. He set the egg timer for the recommended time. Unfortunately, there wasn't a window in the ensuite and his sense of smell was being tortured by the chemicals in the dye, so John wrapped an old towel around his neck and walked out to the living room.
John Watson was a sensible man. If one needed to do something big, something complicated, someone made a list. And so he made one. He stared at his to-do list, double checking that he wasn't forgetting anything. Body, check, hair, check, goodbyes, check...
John was fairly certain that he'd planned as well as he could. There were still a lot of things to complete to ease his 'passing'. After this, everything else would be out of his hands, and he was going to have to rely on the people he trusted to push it through for him. He sighed. People. He was going to have to leave people behind. Some he didn't mind leaving as much as others, but he was leaving them nonetheless.
He heard the timer ding and walked back to the bathroom.
He picked the conditioner that came in the box off the sink and turned on the shower. John figured that this would be easier than leaning over the edge of the tub, which might possibly kill his back further. The dye turned the water red at his feet, and he watched idly, wondering if that was what it would look like if he decided to 'kill himself' in the shower. He shrugged, squeezed the conditioner from the bottle, and scrubbed it into his hair.
As John rinsed, he mentally ran through his to-do list again. He couldn't afford to be sloppy, to forget something. He needed to be thorough, and to make this as perfect as possible.
He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but he wasn't an idiot. He had friends who can help him, too. Speaking of friends, he needed to see one about a diagram.
John left the shower, red staining the bath and mixing in with the greens and blues Sherlock left from all his experiments.
He had his clothes laid out in Sherlock's room. He had a blue striped shirt and a pair of jeans ready on the bed, and he dug through the detective's wardrobe for the 'disguises' the man kept 'just in case'. John found a leather jacket a little too big for Sherlock's frame, and threw it on the bed as well. He planned on wearing it to a meeting later, but didn't want anyone seeing him in it just yet. He liked how the jacket looked. It wasn't something that he would ever wear as John Watson, but maybe Arthur Dent would put it on. But he wasn't Arthur Dent yet, and the coat would easily call attention to his person if he walked out of the flat in it, so it went into an old Tesco bag. He tossed his new coloured contacts in there as well.
John was very cautious. He operated under the assumption that someone was watching his every move, and so he tried to be as him as possible. He was paranoid that someone, perhaps Mycroft, especially Mycroft, would notice his odd behaviour. He was certain the man would try and stop him somehow. He couldn't have that.
He checked the bag again, satisfied that everything was in there. He didn't want Anderson to see his entire new look, but he'd need to wear them later today for a test run. Glancing at the time, he swore and dressed in a hurry. According to his own schedule, he was late. Too many things left to do. He grabbed his things and left the flat at a run.
John knocked on the door to Anderson's house. Normally he wouldn't think twice on visiting the man and would simply say no to the idea, but the man hadn't sent him those diagrams and D-day was tomorrow. A car was in the drive; obviously, Anderson was at home. The door swung open just before John could knock again.
"Good mo-oh. John. Nice hair. Auburn, really?" Anderson appeared in his dressing gown. It looked like the man had just woken up, his black hair sticking up everywhere. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin.
"Anderson." John bobbed his head in greeting, ignoring the jest towards his newly coloured hair. "Mind if we take this inside?"
Anderson shrugged and stepped aside to let the doctor pass. "Hello." He said wryly, walking into the den. Anderson turned to John, and crossed his arms. "Why are you here?"
John had followed, and his hand rested against the back of a chair. "You have those diagrams you mentioned?"
Anderson swore and scratched his head. The man looked genuinely flustered, and he raised his eyes almost apologetically to John. "No, haven't been able to think on it. The Yard is going nuts. Lots of cases, lots of unsolved ones."
John sighed. He needed those diagrams. He still has to study them, and he needed to make it as close to the real deal as possible. Even if Anderson was already there to help him fake evidence that didn't mean that John should be purposely careless. "I understand, I do. You do know I need those for tomorrow, yeah?"
"I know." Anderson scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I have it on my calendar and everything."
John grimaced at the joke, and Anderson continued. "I'm going to work on it after tea. Tea?"
"I'd love to stay, but I've got other places to be." John looked at his mobile and furrowed his brow.
Sometimes, he still half expected it to beep with a text message from Sherlock, asking him to buy more milk or making him go on some bizarre errand especially if he was in the middle of something.
Just like it did a few days ago. He knew it wouldn't, since "Sherlock" had turned out to be Anderson. John blinked. Where did Sherlock's mobile go?
"Anderson, where is Sherlock's mobile?"
"Hm? What?" Anderson turned from preparing tea to look at John.
John scowled. He wasn't in the mood to play games. "You heard me. Where is it? You texted me from Sherlock's mobile, that means you have it. I want it." As an afterthought, he tacked on a please.
"I don't have it. Left it in the evidence locker." Anderson sipped his tea, avoiding John's eyes.
"Look at me and say that again." John commanded. He stared him down like he was an unruly private.
"I..." Anderson looked up, "left it-" he took another sip from his cup - "elsewhere. I just don't have it, all right?"
John was quiet, thinking. He glanced down at his mobile and navigated to the last text he'd sent Sherlock's phone and resent it.
The beep punctuated the tension in the room.
"...bullocks."
John stared at Anderson. " You've got two options. Hand over the phone, or I take it from you."
"No, John, it's evidence. It should be in an evidence locker in the Yard. You can't take it."
"I can and I will. We both know that if this was evidence, it would be in the evidence locker and not here with you. Cut the crap, Anderson. Last chance, hand it over." John held out a hand. "Give it to me."
"...Why?" The forensic officer asked dumbly, crossing his arms over his robe.
John didn't have time for this. He exhaled through his mouth, and closed his eyes for a second. "Not a good time, Anderson. I was a soldier - I killed people, and I am not in the mood to be particularly patient today." John warned. Anderson didn't budge.
John lunged for Anderson, tackling him to the floor.
Anderson fell with a surprised squeak, knocking the tea over on the way down. "John what the f- Ack!"
John dug his knee into Anderson's kidneys, pulling and struggling against the man's flailing. "Just give up the phone!"
"No!" He folded an arm protectively over his shirt pocket. "It's evidence!"
John huffed. "No it bloody isn't! Greg told me that they didn't find his phone. Funny how that turned out."
Anderson swore and tried to crawl away, jerking his arm away from John's hand and doing a faux army crawl across the kitchen floor. "John, get off me! This is assault!"
The frustrated doctor grabbed Anderson and held him in a light choke hold, putting most of his weight on Anderson's back.
"Someone gave it to me for safekeeping and NO!" Anderson rasped, his hands flopping about, trying to grab at John and fling him off his back.
John reached for the pocket but Anderson managed to slide the iPhone out of his pocket first. It skittered across the tiles and came to halt in the corner. John released his hold to make for the phone.
"Assaulting an officer! I'm pressing charges!" The pale, scrawny man scrambled for the mobile, almost pouncing at it from a distance.
"Jesus, Anderson! Just give me Sherlock's phone! It won't do you any good!" John grabbed Anderson's leg and tugged him down. "Besides, isn't it a bit not good to charge a dead man with something?"
Anderson looked like a man trying to save his child and he yelled like it too. "I told you, it was given to me for safekeeping and I am NOT letting it out of my sight!" John received a kick in the sternum. "Let go!"
John avoided a flailing foot when it jerked toward him. This was bloody ridiculous. "Who the hell gave you the mobile then?" He growled, swatting away the limbs coming at him. "You know what I think? I think you stole it off the roof."
"I did not - at least not voluntarily! I got a bloody phone call that told me to do that! And so I did!" Anderson's voice took on what sounded like a desperate plea. "They threatened to throw me off the Met's payroll!"
John froze, wetting his lips before quietly asking. "What?"
"I told you!" Anderson panted. He kicked at John's hand, and John let him go. "Someone called me..." He stood, and picked up the device. "...told me to keep the phone and never let it out of my sight and threatened to have me fired if I didn't." He sighed wearily, and sank into one of the kitchen chairs. "What was I supposed to do?"
John blinked, laying out on the floor at that revelation. He stared at the ceiling, not even caring that he looked ridiculous on Anderson's kitchen floor. Who would...oh yes, of course. Mycroft bloody Holmes. Mr British Government. Fitting that the name that literally opens doors can shut figurative ones. He sat up, running a hand through his red-brown hair. "Anderson, I promise that the man who told you that has no problems with me getting that phone. Your job will be fine."
Doubt clouded Anderson's face. "Are you sure?" The man turned to John, his eyes lighting up. "Wait, you actually know who he is?"
John glared at the ceiling, his lips twitching downward. "Yes, I'm sure. And unfortunately, I know who it is."
"Then by all means, here." Anderson tossed the mobile to John, a look of relief on his features. "That phone has made my life a living, breathing hell - even before I sent you that damned message." Anderson's face seemed to twitch at the thought. "I keep looking over my bloody shoulder, certain that it would get me in trouble or killed or something. All yours, John."
Once the phone was in his hand, John felt more irritated then relieved. What had Mycroft been thinking, giving Sherlock's phone to Anderson? "Thank you. Sorry for the, well, that. I really do have to get a move on now. Can you bring the diagrams to the flat tomorrow? Around 16:00?"
"I will." Anderson nodded quickly, clearly in a better mood despite the tussle. "Take care, John."
John tilted his head, quirking a smile. "Thanks, you too. Cheers."
Sherlock's mobile felt heavy in John's pocket. Mycroft hid Sherlock's phone from everyone, including him, and that meant that there was something special about it. A clue or a message hidden on it, perhaps. John didn't know yet, but... if Mycroft was this adamant in keeping the mobile safe, is it more proof that Sherlock really was alive?
The adrenaline still racing through his veins from the scuffle fed his determination and his certainty. Sherlock was alive.
He is alive.
And John was going to find him. And for that, he was going to need a new identity.
Steve Tabernacle sat on the park bench and resisted the urge to tap his fingers. His client wasn't late, not by a long shot. Steve was just early. He sighed.
He couldn't believe he was reduced to this, faking IDs for clients whom he didn't even know personally. But he was broke; he took every job he could get. Even simple fake IDs. Money was still money.
Steve watched his client from afar. He wore a brown-almost-black leather pea coat that looked out of place on him and walked with a military air and bearing that gave him away. The man was obviously pretending to be someone he wasn't. Steve shook his head and stood up.
"Mr. Dent?" he asked, lightly brushing his suit off. Paul Smith. (Very expensive, very nice. He'd sell them last if they really run out of money.)
Arthur gave a polite smile before he answered. "Yes, that's me. You'll be Mr. Tabernacle then?" His voice was taut, but there was still a level of control, modulated.
"Yeah." Steve flashed a brilliant smile, hoping to put his client at ease. The shorter man clearly had never done this before. Arthur was too tense. Time to get to business then. "So. We're making you new IDs today."
"That was the plan. You can do it on short notice?"
"Easy. Not a problem." Steve slipped a hand into his pocket, and produced his own fake U.K. license, fiddling with it between his fingers. "I'm copying this one, right? Are you just using it here in the country or do you need a passport as well?"
Mr. Dent appeared to think for a moment, but the deep blue eyes never lost their alertness. "I'll need a passport too, if that's not too much trouble."
"It's your dime, Arthur. Can I call you Arthur? Anyway, we need pictures. Preferably with different backgrounds. I can take them for you, but you're going to have to come with me for that." Steve smiled brilliantly, and sent the go ahead text to his partner. "Can I trust you?"
"Can I trust you?"
"Touché, Mr. Dent. You can trust me as long as you can pay me. Shall we?" The car rolled in, right on cue.
Arthur inclined his head and headed toward the car. "I don't think we're going to have any problems."
"I'm glad." Steve opened the door, and let Arthur into the back seat. He got in the front, and stared at Arthur from the rear-view mirror. "So, Arthur, it's none of my business, but why does a man like you need fake IDs? You don't seem the type."
Arthur arched an eyebrow. "Do you often judge people's character on their appearance? That could be a mistake that costs you your life."
Steve laughed good-naturedly. It was old but sound advice, something that he'd learned early on when he was starting out. "No, but you don't look like anyone who'd pull a con or anything illegal. Military man, obviously. Your walk says a lot. I'll show you when we arrive at my office. "
Arthur nodded before a thoughtful look stole across his features. "You're right; maybe I'm not the type you normally make fake IDs for. Not that I'd know." He tapped a finger on the seat, and looked Steve straight in the eye through the mirror. "You seem to know a lot about disguise though. Any pointers?" he asked, whetting his lips.
"Pointers?" Steve turned, and looked at Arthur in surprise. "Seriously? You're asking me for pointers? Mr. Dent, that'd be like having me admit to you that I'm a con artist!"
"Spare me the innocent act Mr. Tabernacle. My friends told me what you allegedly did before breaking into making fake IDs."
Steve broke into a huge grin. "Hah, your friends." He didn't believe for a moment that Arthur had a lot of friends like him. It was more likely that he had gotten a tip from some cop friend. This could be the end of his stint in London. "But pointers? On 'acting'? How long will you be doing it?"
"For as long as necessary. Long term."
"Those are always the tricky ones." Steve said, trying his best not to grin like an idiot. He was flattered that someone was actually asking him for advice.
"Let's start with something easy. You noticed military in my walk. How do I hide that?"
"Walk in another manner." Steve answered with a grin, and laughed when he saw Arthur's incredulous expression. "No, really. Watch how other people walk and just... copy that." He said. He wasn't entirely sure how to explain it. It was acting. How do you explain the act of acting to someone?
"That's all there is to it? I thought it would be more complicated." The man in the backseat scoffed and rolled his eyes. He leveled his gaze at Steve, who met it with his own. Arthur had a penetrating gaze - like what a commanding officer might give a private under him. The man needed to get rid of that if he wanted a new identity. "Anything else?"
"Oh! I've got a good one." The driver suddenly spoke, and Steve glared at him. Haversham wasn't really supposed to speak. "'We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.' Believe in who you're playing. Really think and act like him. You know, like in the movies. Like you're going to win an Oscar for it."
"Or a BAFTA, if you want." Steve offered with a grin. "I guess it does come down to that, doesn't it?"
Haversham nodded. "Yes, yes it does."
"You know, I had a dream once, where I won a BAFTA. "Arthur offered in a way of humor, and Steve and his associate laughed.
"You've got it all in the bag then. We're here." Steve said, pointing out a small flat. "After you, Arthur?"
"Right, thank you." Arthur got out of the car and headed to the flat's door. Steve called his name so the man could see his demonstration.
He walked forward, miming Arthur's measured, military walk. When he reached the steps of the door, Steve made a gesture as if to ask how he did. He was rewarded with a laugh of astonishment.
"Good, that was good. Scary even." Arthur remarked as Steve unlocked the door to the flat.
Once inside, Haversham retrieved a camera from the closet and took Arthur's picture against a nice white wall. Different expressions, different angles. It took Steve a while to coach the man to school his features a little differently from each shot. Arthur wasn't a very good actor, but he needed to be soon, especially if he wanted to do this long term.
Steve took the CF card to the computer and opened the files. "I'll have them done in an hour. Are you going to wait or...?" He paused; wondering if that was going to give him enough time to finish three sets of fake papers and ids. After all, you can't rush art. "No, actually, make that three." he said, clicking the print button.
Arthur waves it away, and sits down on the couch, looking like a child waiting for their mom to pick them up. "Yeah, that's fine." He looked left and right, like he was trying to decide something, and then looked up at Steve. "Is there a place nearby I can buy a cheap mobile?"
Haversham grinned, and opened a drawer. He tossed Arthur one, and shrugged. "Here. That will be... twenty quid."
Arthur looked relieved, and handed over the twenty quid and pocketed the cell phone.
"So, as the glue dries, tell me more about yourself, Arthur." Steve said. He watched the man with interest, grinning ever so slightly with each movement the man made. It was so astonishingly easy to figure him out. That wasn't going to work. Arthur would fail in a week.
"I think it's safer if I don't tell you anything about myself. The less you know the better." Safe answer. Good answer, if Steve hadn't already figured it out.
"Of course it is. But come on, "Arthur". You don't really think that your dye job's enough to fool everyone? I read the news. I actually follow your blog. Tack on that wonderful military air and the fact that you have been suspiciously looking over your shoulder for the past hour as if waiting for someone to say something... I know exactly who you are, Dr. John Watson." Steve shrugged, grinning widely now, certain that he was right from the way the man shifted almost uncomfortably in front of him. "And I'm a huge fan."
John shouldn't be surprised, really. So he wasn't. He sighed instead. Clearly Sherlock's fame wasn't only getting Sherlock noticed. He would need a better disguise if this stranger could see right through it.
But then again, Steve was anything but an ordinary stranger. The man grinned at John, his movements sure and confident. Charm rolled off the man in waves, and John could see why people trusted him. Something about those sharp, blue eyes however, told John that the man was great at selling his lies, and twisting them with the truth. And John wouldn't lie, the man was a good-looking bloke. That probably helped put people at ease.
John had been pointed in his direction by a friend who worked somewhere in law enforcement, and their sources are usually spot on, if not a bit shy of the truth. And John could see that his source was wrong - this man seemed to be better than what they have on record.
"When did you realize who I was?"
"The moment I saw you walk." Steve stretched his legs on the sofa and put them on the coffee table. "All right, maybe a little after you started talking."
"Right then. I'll have to work on changing that. Will I be recognizable to anyone else I don't know?"
"Look, John, I'm a special case. I do this for a living. Others - not so much." Steve looked at John, scanning him from head to toe. He gestured at John. "You need to... change everything. The way you talk, the way you think, the way you act. You have to believe in this character you made up." He frowned. "I don't know why you're doing this (probably has something to do with Sherlock) but you need to be less you for this to work. Arthur Dent needs to become more... real."
Change everything. Combat 35 years of habits, mannerisms...his identity.
No pressure.
It was sound advice. It was going to be hard, pretending to be a different person every day, never letting your guard down even while you sleep. But he could do it - he will do it. Come tomorrow, John Watson would be dead, and Arthur Dent would materialize out of thin air.
His mind ran as it considered possibilities. Arthur Dent. Who would he be? Would he be loud? A cynic? Does have a family? John felt a rush as he remembered what had made Richard Brook so believable to the public. A background. Arthur Dent needed a history. Everything else would build from there.
"You've been incredibly helpful. Thank you."
"I could help you, you know." Steve said with a grin. "Always for a price, but I can help."
"How much would it cost me?"
"I'll send you a bill."
"Send it here." John wrote down Henry's mailing address. "I'm not sure where I'll be when you bill me."
"Will do." Steve grinned, and hid the paper in his pocket. "Tell you what. We fix your back-stories, histories, papers, everything, and me and my driver here will take care of the rest. And then I could be your... consulting criminal for the week."
John tensed at the title. Relax, John. He's no Moriarty. "As long as you never call yourself my consulting criminal again. I've got a bad history with consulting criminals."
Steve thought for a moment, and rubbed his forehead in dismay. He shook his head. "Right. Him. The consulting criminal. Moriarty." He grimaced, and frowned apologetically at John. "Sorry, forgot for a moment there." He glanced at his driver, who made a disgusted, if not terrified, face. "I never liked him. He always was too creepy, and every 'favour' you get has strings attached. Never liked all the killing, either."
The forger flashed a smile again, as if remembering something. He looked at John pointedly. "You know what, I met him once. Sherlock. Nice enough guy, almost - almost handed me over to the Yard. If only the FBI didn't get first dibs on me and everything got buried under the bureaucratic red tape we wouldn't be having this conversation."
John laughed. "You must have made a good impression, if he almost handed you over to the Yard."
Steve shook his head, laughing too. "Almost - I slipped away before they could get me."
"And just what was it you were up to? Stealing a Raphael?" John chuckled at the absurdity.
Steve raised his eyebrows suggestively, and ignored the question altogether. "How is Sherlock doing? He couldn't have just killed himself. I've seen people pull that con many times and they still pop up in someone's radar at some point." He leaned forward. "Besides, between you and me, I bet Moriarty's knee deep in whatever happened. His fingers are in everybody's cookie jars."
John didn't want to share his hopes of Sherlock being alive. It wasn't worth the risk. John kept his face passive. "Sherlock is dead, everybody knows that. I saw it happen." He paused. "I'll tell you one thing, I wouldn't be surprised if Moriarty was at the centre of it. Sherlock was his favourite game."
Steve shook his head in amusement, as if he knew John wasn't telling him something. "Okay, that's okay, I wouldn't tell you anything either if I was running a con." He grinned, and waved at one of the drying licenses. "So, Mr 'Dent', let's see how we can bring you to life."
Tabernacle did not disappoint. The papers were perfect; John compared them to his originals and he couldn't tell the difference.
Next on his list was shopping. Clothes shopping. Honestly. He usually had Clara or Harry help him for this, but now he was on his own. He sighed, missing the ease of army uniforms. Civvys could get a little complicated. But Arthur was a civilian, and he needed clothes that did not consist of jumpers and jeans.
A cab dropped him off at the Debenhams. John browsed the racks, grabbing shirts that weren't his usual button ups, hoodies that weren't his knit jumpers, and a couple pairs of jeans that John Watson wouldn't wear. He saw a grey jacket that reminded him of his green one and added it to his growing pile of Arthur clothes. John wasn't very materialistic, but maybe if he had some pieces that reminded him of who he was, who he'd been, this would be easier. He couldn't simply dispense of John Watson simply because he was going to 'die'.
Next came a comfortable pair of black ankle boots that looked good for running and some toiletries. A flat cap and a pair of leather gloves. He moved on to the toy section to find an item of significant importance: a water gun. He felt ridiculous, a grown man scanning through the toy department for water guns, but thank heavens he didn't actually have to browse for one, since there was only one type. It was perfect: different settings for spraying or streaming. It was necessary. How else was he to spray his blood all over the flat? He grabbed a duffle bag and a new wallet for his new ID. He needed to leave his own on the body, and John sighed at the thought. Clara had given it to him for Christmas. It was a nice wallet.
He fought his way through the lines and managed to check out without much fuss (which was, in retrospect, a complete miracle that the machines didn't hate him this time; never mind that someone else was operating the counter.) He caught the tube back to Baker Street. No more cabs for a while. He was running out of money. He needed to save some.
John packed with the ease of a man who has been doing it for years. His position in the army had him move from checkpoint to checkpoint, camp to camp, and he had become efficient at packing his clothes quickly and neatly, managing to fit all of what he needed into his bag. He carefully laid his fake papers at the bottom of the bag, and slipped in his new phone in the bag's pocket.
He placed the packed bag in the middle of the den, and sat in his chair. He stared at it.
There was Arthur Dent's life (along with one Hector Dixon and a Tim Canterbury) in a duffle bag.
John Watson stood up. He glanced around the flat. He was leaving 221b. He had been here for so long… far too many memories. Sherlock, playing the violin on the couch or by the window, composing music or playing Chopin. Himself, eating toast and jam, drinking tea on the table next to a sliced open heart with electrodes stuck in it. Mrs Hudson, coming up the stairs telling the boys they had another client, and asking if they wanted tea. Greg, Donovan - hell, even Anderson, combing through the flat under the pretense of a drug bust.
The animal skull with headphones, the human skull on the mantel, the Cluedo board, the bullet holes and smiley on the wall.
It was his home, and he was leaving it.
John exhaled slowly. He wanted to keep a part of it, a piece of it that wouldn't be missed when he leaves. The skull was too conspicuous. Sherlock's violin? No, John, don't be stupid. What would you do with Sherlock's violin? Too obvious. People would wonder where it went. Sherlock. Maybe just a piece of Sherlock. 221B. He'd always associated it, partly, with his best friend anyway.
Sherlock. His dressing gown? No. Too big, too noticeable. Wouldn't fit in his bag, at that.
His scarf. His scarf, the scarf he used to wear. The one the detective left huddled up in the corner of his closet, partly forgotten after Mrs Hudson presented him with a new one. It still even smelled like the man, not that John ever paid attention to that.
The scarf smelled like Sherlock, and it smelled like the wardrobes in 221B. A box of nicotine patches caught his eye, and a memory flashed across John's mind: Sherlock lying down on the couch, gesturing with three patches on his arm at Mrs Hudson to go away, for Greg to shut up and for John to listen.
He grabbed that too, and stuffed everything into the bag.
He stared at it again.
He was ready. John was ready. John exhaled slowly, and turned around, his feet moving in a familiar military march that conveyed respect. He respected this place. It was home.
He made his way upstairs, climbing up the familiar steps for the last time. He crawled under his covers, relishing each movement, trying to imprint the small, habitual motions into his brain. He was leaving the life he knew, after all. Surely he could be permitted this.
He fell asleep trying to memorize the patterns on his butter yellow ceiling.
Morning.
The alarm rang precisely at zero-five-hundred, and John turned it off. He always woke up a few minutes before five, as his practice had been in the army. He sat on his bed, and sighed. He looked up to the ceiling, and whispered to the powers-that-be for luck.
Today was the day he was going to die. John tried saying it. I'm going to die today. It left a weird taste in his mouth, and John swallowed and repeated it out loud.
"I'm going to die today."
It didn't make it any easier.
But at least now, he could look for Sherlock. Now, he could look for Sherlock in relative peace, and not worry about his loved ones getting harmed because of this lunacy he was engaging in.
At the end of the day, that was why he was going to 'kill' John Watson. So John Watson's loved ones will be safe.
John sighed. Still didn't make it any easier.
Well. That's that, then.
He stood up. He had a long day ahead of him, and he'd better get started.
He was dying today, after all.
The dry grass crunched under his boots as John made his way to the hopefully empty grave of Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing the flat cap he bought, the counterpart to Hat-man's deerstalker, to cover his hair. John didn't see many other visitors, not uncommon for a week-day. The black headstone was partly visible now, shadowed by the pine tree.
John had a vague idea of what he was going to say, but when he arrived at the grave, he was silent. This was the last chance to back out.
He wasn't going to.
"Sherlock, if you can hear me, I came to say goodbye." John paused, trying to remember the script he wrote for this earlier. He couldn't. He improvised. "I've tried to remember what life was like before you, but all I can remember is how I was so alone. I didn't care what happened to me, but nothing happened to me. Nothing good, nothing bad. I can't...I just can't do that again. So I'm..." He inhaled, a little too sharply for a pretend goodbye. It felt too real. "You were my best friend. Maybe we'll meet again. Goodbye Sherlock."
He reached his hand out to touch the top of the marker, like before, before walking away despondently.
John wondered if he would ever get this close to his best friend's grave again.
Hours later, after reviewing the footage, Mycroft Holmes would be alerted of the message. It would be too late.
It was easier than John thought.
Really, it was. Considerably.
With almost the whole of the hospital was on your side, it wasn't really that much of a stretch that stealing a body wouldn't be difficult. Also, as John was already a doctor, it wasn't too hard to act like he knew what was going on and that he actually worked at the hospital. Sort of.
Greg Laurie was supposed to meet him in the office early that morning, talk to him about how to acquire the body, and let him borrow his car. Instead, John found the other doctor bickering with someone in the small room, and John waited outside the office as patiently as he can.
The man stormed out after a few minutes, and Greg emerged from the room with a huge grin.
"Don't worry about anything Doctor Leonard – I will take care of your patient with extra love and care!"
Doctor Leonard turned around and stopped. He walked back, and glared at Greg. "You still owe me lunch, Laurie."
"I thought that sandwich was free for all."
"It had my name on the package!"
"You didn't have a name on the food itself! You should write it down with a biro." Greg said. Doctor Leonard rolled his eyes, looking like he didn't really expect to win, and just walked away, shutting himself in another office.
John looked up at Greg. "Having a little domestic?"
"We're not together, although we can be in your head if you like." Greg grinned widely, winking at John.
John rolled his eyes and sighed in impatience. "I don't have long, Greg, and you know it. I've got somewhere I have to be and I need something along with me…"
"Got somewhere important to go? Leaving this plane of existence?"
John glared at him. "Anytime, doctor."
"Follow me." Greg said, and he hobbled out of the office. He tossed John a white coat and John shrugged it on. It felt different. He was more used to the uniform of an army doctor.
They walked into the Palliative Care Unit, Greg exuding the arrogant air he always had, and John trying his best not to remember how similar it felt being with him to how it was being with Sherlock.
Greg tapped his cane loudly in the middle of the department. "Listen up. This is Doctor Dolittle. He's here with me consulting on a case. Whatever he does, just let him do it. Got it?"
Nobody answered. Greg shrugged, and called on two orderlies. "Do whatever he asks. Oh, and, did that man in forty-two die already?"
One of the orderlies nodded, and said that the machines had just been recently disconnected. Greg smiled. He patted John on the back. "Well then, Doctor, he's all yours." Greg turned to leave, and then stopped. "Oh, and here." Greg tossed him some keys. "Take care of my car, it's the only one I have. Go in peace, Doctor McCoy."
John exhaled. Yes, he was going to do this. There was no turning back. He had already dyed his hair ginger.
The orderlies had very confused looks on their faces. "Doctor who?" the tall, thin one on the right asked. Why did Greg have to use those fake names? John really hated Greg Laurie sometimes. Most times probably.
"Doctor Smith...Jones. Doctor Smith-Jones." he said, coughing lightly hoping that would keep them from noticing his hesitation. He stared them down, trying to see if they would call him on it. They seemed to accept his horrible alias. John really watched too much Doctor Who.
He tried his best not to act like a captain, and more like a civilian doctor. "So, ah, mates, forty-two?"
The orderlies shrugged, and showed him in. The man was being covered with a bed sheet, and the tag on the foot told John that it was going to the morgue. John nodded in approval, and peeked behind the bed sheet. Yes, that was the man that he needed.
"I'm going to need a body bag." John said with a slight grin. The orderly raised an eyebrow. "Ah… Doctor Laurie and I have an understanding that I need these bodies for a… scientific experiment on… tobacco ash."
John inwardly cringed. Tobacco ash? Really, John?
"Tobacco ash, Doctor?" The orderly repeated sceptically. "This man has been in a coma for six months. How does tobacco ash play into it?"
John didn't know. So he made something up. "There are as many as 243 types of tobacco ash that I can identify. The experiment to be conducted has something to do with its effects on post-mortem skin and internal organs." He recited, recalling a little of Sherlock's deleted post on his blog.
John paused. He needed something to convince these two orderlies to help without breathing a word about it to anyone. Then it hit him.
Sherlock had used this tactic on other people, and it always made them want to keep a secret – after all, they're part of it now, and that made people want to be part of the circle. John leaned over, and whispered. "Part of a government investigation. Classified."
One of the orderlies grinned, and the other one looked like he was in awe. "Classified?"
"Yes. Now, will you help me get this to Doctor Laurie's car?" John smiled at them, and nodded, as if he was affirming that they're part of the secret now.
John had never seen anyone move that fast before, not even in the war.
John drove back to the flat with a huge, triumphant smile on his face. He shouldn't really be happy while driving with a corpse in the boot, but he was. Everything was going along better than it should be. He had a body, his plan was all set, and everything was going along just fine. He expected to be back at the flat in a few minutes without any trouble.
But things never really work out the way he wanted them to.
He swore when he saw the lights in the rear view mirror. John frowned at the dashboard, making sure he followed each and every traffic law. He didn't want to get pulled over with a body in the truck because of something he wasn't aware he did.
The officer signalled for him to pull over. Just his luck. He took out his mobile and sent a quick text to Anderson, hoping that he could do something.
Marylebone Road and Lisson Grove NOW
JW
John gritted his teeth, and remembered his recent change in identity, so he sent Anderson a quick text before the officer stepped out of the car.
call me arthur dent
The officer walked up to the driver side and John rolled down the window, fumbling with the turn handle. When the window was down all the way, he looked up with a friendly smile. "Afternoon, officer."
"Good Afternoon, Sir. I'm Officer Burke…" The officer flashed his badge, and rattled off his precinct number and other related information that John didn't catch. He was too busy thinking and trying not to grimace and show his anxiety. The officer's next few words jolted him out of his thoughts. "Do you know why you have been stopped, sir?"
John plastered what he hoped was a confused-but-sincere smile on his face. I thought it might have something to do with the body in the boot, sir. "Sorry, no. Was I driving too fast?"
Burke flashed him a smile, and shook his head. "No, you have been stopped for a search sir. The number of the car you've been driving is on our roster here for suspected drug trafficking and possession under the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971. Do you own this vehicle, Mr?" The officer paused, and held out a hand. "May I see your license and registration please?"
John had never wanted to murder anyone more than he wanted to murder his 'friend' right now. He would plan Greg Laurie's death with an imagination only a soldier could pull up from his mind, but maybe later. He had other things to worry about. Drug trafficking and possession? What the hell has he been doing?
"Dent. Arthur Dent." John sighed, and gestured at the steering wheel. "No, this belongs to my friend Doctor Laurie."
John pulled out his new license with mostly feigned confidence - but, no. Steve Tabernacle was good at his job, and he knew it. He had come highly recommended. "I'm not sure where he keeps the registration, if you'll give me a minute to..." He dug through the glove compartment, looking for the registration deliberately slowly. Where the bloody hell is Anderson? "Ah, here it is."
"Thank you, sir." Officer Burke accepted the registration and the license, looked it over and gave it back to John. John exhaled. He didn't expect the license to be put to test so early, but it passed with flying colours. "Mr Dent, I am going to search your car. It would be in your best interest to cooperate. You may or may not be present during the search, although I would advise you to remain for any clarifications."
The officer shined a light through the windows in the backseat, and John tried not to let his jitters show every time the officer got too close to the compartment. It was just like the time he needed to smuggle medical supplies across enemy lines, he told himself. Only then, the consequence was fairly simple: death. Now… ah, not so simple. He didn't even want to know what would happen if they find him carting along a dead body that looked uncannily like him."Can you please open the back doors and the compartment, sir?"
John swallowed. This couldn't seriously be happening. It was only a four minute trip from the hospital to the flat. He nodded and slowly got out of the car. Thanking the heavens for older cars, he slowly made his way to the other side of the car to unlock the respective doors, and he took precious time with it. His phone buzzed and beeped, and he grinned at the officer apologetically and checked. Anderson. Thank god.
On my way. What's going on?
Been pulled over for a search. The thing's in the car.
Hang on, I can see you.
John unlocked all the doors to the car first, taking sweet and precious time. He glanced at the officer, who looked calm and patient nonetheless, like he had nothing else better to do.
When he walked back to unlock the boot, he dropped the keys. The officer picked up the keys and handed them over, his patience obviously thinning as John felt the man's hand tense as he gave the keys. John shut his eyes, exhaling through his mouth. He pushed the key into the slot, and was about to turn it when, conveniently, like in every action-comedy movie he has watched, someone arrived to save his arse.
"Officer! Oh, oh it's you! David!" Anderson had arrived. John maintained an impassive face, mostly because if he didn't he would be grinning like an idiot and that would make him look suspicious.
The officer shook hands with Anderson, and John, for the umpteenth time, thanked the heavens for his rather good luck. The two knew each other. Wonderful. "Oh! Anderson! How's the wife - wait, no, sorry, I'm in the middle of a search." Officer Burke said. He looked pointedly at John, and gestured at him to open the boot.
"What, him? Oh, Arthur!" Anderson clapped John on the back, trying to not look too awkward while doing it. John smiled as nicely as he could under the circumstances. "I know him. What are you searching him for?"
"Drugs." Officer Burke said. "Got his vehicle's number on the roster."
"What? This bloke, drugs?" Anderson scoffed, and he shook his head. He grinned at the officer, and leaned in a little closer with a stage whisper. "He doesn't even smoke! He's one of my best mates - and he's been having a trying time lately and I would appreciate it if we just let him be, you know…" Anderson shook his head with a sigh. "Friend just died. Awful mess."
The officer shook his head, whistling in sympathy. "Ah." He stretched a little, and nodded at John apologetically. "I still do have a lot of other vehicles to go through." He turned to Anderson. "Say hi to the wife for me."
"Will do, pint sometime?"
The officer nodded at Anderson, waved and took off into the London traffic.
John watched the officer leave. He inhaled through his teeth, showing his relief as Anderson paced in front of him. "You just saved me from prison. Thank you."
"...That was close. Too close." Anderson said. He gestured at John and the car. "Who the hell did you borrow this car from? I have half a mind to search it myself!"
"Just an old friend from St. Mary's." John almost raised his hands defensively, but opted to cross his arms. "I swear, I wouldn't have taken him up on the offer of the car if I'd known. I have half a mind to use him now instead."
"Be more careful next time. I can't help you every single time, Arthur." Anderson lectured. He shook his head, and went to the car and grabbed a large, brown envelope. "Here are the diagrams."
"I'll try my best." John answered, and he took the envelope. He gingerly pulled out the multiple papers covered with arrows, angles and illustrations, and knotted his forehead as he took everything in. "I don't suppose you could come make sure I do this correctly?"
Anderson looked over his shoulder. "Everything's on that." He glanced at John, and looked into the far distance. "I can't, John. I can't be mixed up with all this. I'm sorry. Least I could do is process your scene."
John nodded in understanding. It was fine, really. He didn't even expect Anderson to come this far, but the man had. Man of his word, indeed. John believed it. "Alright. I'll be off then."
Anderson got into his car, but called out before John could get into his. "Oh, and John…" He paused, as if considering something. "Say hi to Sherlock for me."
John nodded. It was the last time he was ever going to see the other man as himself, and John was far too aware of it. "I'm sure he'll have plenty to say back to you. Goodbye Anderson, and thanks."
John grunted with effort. The body bag was heavier than he expected.
I carried Sherlock through the flat the last time he was unconscious. How the hell could this be harder to do?
The term dead weight was clearly there for a reason.
John groaned, and shouldered the flat's door open. He looked around, making sure that no one had been paying attention, and shut the door.
He left the body leaning against the stairs and he headed into the living room. He grabbed the pair of leather gloves from his bag of things and put them on.
Everything seemed to be in relative order. As in order as things could be. He was going to kill himself after all and dammit he just couldn't say that without reacting. Couldn't say it with a straight, unflinching face, not even to himself.
He took a little breather, and then started to pull the body again, but stopped realizing he didn't want the body to have weird marks because he was too lazy to carry it. And so John slung it over his shoulder, and dumped it on Sherlock's sofa.
John took a deep breath and then gingerly removed the body from the body bag. He grimaced. He could see the resemblance between him and the man, and it scared him. It felt surreal, like something out of Doctor Who. John grabbed the clothes he'd set aside and dressed the corpse in them.
He grabbed the bag of blood he set aside and carefully squeezed it into the water gun he bought for the occasion. He sprayed a little in the sink - a little more viscous than water, but it worked. He took his letter, and put it beside the corpse. He stepped back to look at the scene. Something was missing. John took off his newsboy hat and placed it on the body's head. Perfect.
He placed the suicide note gingerly beside the body, and posed it so that it seemed like he was trying to reach for or place the note beside him. John registered that he actually referred to the body as a he, and John sighed. "Sorry, mate, no hard feelings. You are essential for this working."
John retrieved his Browning from his room, almost sad that he'd have to leave it behind. He'd saved Sherlock with this gun. He looked at the diagrams Anderson had made and wrapped the corpses' right hand around the handle of the gun, moving the index finger to the trigger. He pressed the barrel of the gun to the jugular, angling it to destroy most of the face.
His finger pressed down and the gun went off with a loud crack.
John exhaled forcefully. There. He'd done it. Days of planning and now he would be able to search for his best friend. He stared at the destroyed facial features of the corpse for a second before he realized that he needed to finish setting up his death. John grabbed the blood-filled water gun and squirted a fair amount of his blood onto the new bullet holes, watching it drip down the neck from the burst jugular vein. He turned to the wall facing the exit wound and sprayed part of the blood there. There was some of the Joe Bloggs's on the wall already, giving him an estimate of where to aim. He spattered the remaining blood on his oatmeal jumper, the gun, and a bit on the couch.
Giving everything a final look, he gathered the body bag, the blood bag, and the water gun into a pile
and shoved them into a bin bag. His other things were waiting in the car, but John stood in the middle of the flat, looking around, trying to memorize it all. Remembering when the Cluedo board had been pinned to the wall. Seeing the skull that Sherlock had called his friend before meeting John. Hopefully they'd be able to come back to 221B. Together.
"When I heard the shot I thought it was just Sherlock again, bored and... then I remembered he was gone." Mrs Hudson cried and struggled to wipe her tears. Greg wanted to comfort the poor woman, but the whole of Yard was watching and he couldn't be personal with witnesses. "It was awful when I got up there. He- he-.. there was so much blood! Oh my boys, my boys..."
"Donovan, take her to the kitchen and give her a cup of tea, will you?" Greg said, massaging his temples. He didn't need this. Why, John? Why of all days would you kill yourself today? On my wedding anniversary?
The morning had started out fine. He had been making dinner reservations over landline when his mobile rang. Greg had decided that this would be the day he would win his wife back. Fitting, on their thirteenth anniversary. Wife had always been superstitious - explained the bad marriage away because Greg broke a mirror on their wedding. It never got better. Today he was going to change all that.
Greg checked the number. He didn't recognize it.
"Is this Mr Lestrade?"
The woman on the other end sounded like she was about to cry.
"Yes? Who is this?"
The woman did cry at this point, making Greg feel a little more alert. "Hello? Ma'am? This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. May I ask who this is?"
"It's - " The woman sniffled - "Mrs Hudson, dear, from Baker Street. John told me to call if there are any problems and I just..." She sobbed, and Greg winced. He didn't like hearing anyone cry, not even at crime scenes. Hell, not even his own wife.
Greg started a little in surprise, and stood up. "Yes, Mrs Hudson? What can I do for you?"
"I... I found John." Mrs Hudson said, and she broke down into tears. It didn't matter what happened next, or what else she would say, Greg sped over to 221B before he even put the landline down.
Greg arrived with Mrs Hudson frantic and crying in front of the flat. "I'm waiting for the police Mr Les -"
"Greg, Mrs Hudson, please."
"-Greg, and they're still not here and I can't go up there. I'm sorry." The elderly woman gave him a hug and rested her forehead on his shoulder. Greg froze, but shook his head. He was an Inspector at the Scotland Yard, dammit, and he was going to act like one.
"Mrs Hudson, tell me what happened."
"I found John, Greg." Greg could hear his pulse in his ears. He knew he wouldn't like what he would hear next. Mrs Hudson pulled back, and looked at Greg. "I found him dead on the sofa."
Greg was thankful he had the presence of mind to move Mrs. Hudson aside and to run up the stairs, clutching his mobile in one hand and frantically calling the chief, Anderson, Sally, Dimmock - all of them, anyone he could reach.
The sight that met his eyes made him sick. And he had never been sick in a crime scene before, not even when he was a rookie. He scrambled back down the stairs, and dry-heaved outside.
...No. Not John. No. This... this wasn't happening. John Watson was one of the strongest people he has ever met. This was the man who shot that damned dog without flinching. He was a good friend, the one who told him to suck it up and make his marriage right again and to actually work at it for a change and -
No he simply cannot be dead.
The next few minutes were a blur. It felt to him like the whole of Yard came, and Greg was grateful that they did so he could just turn off most of his emotions and he could work. He looked at the gore, the blood, deliberately moving his eyes away from John's body.
Dimmock set him aside and whispered to him that he probably shouldn't take the case. He was too close. Greg agreed without protest and told Dimmock everything that he can as he was the first to respond, and Greg also pointed out that Mrs Hudson was the one who found John.
Greg volunteered to interview, even if Dimmock protested. Greg told him that they already had rapport. He insisted he would interview.
He felt like he needed to hear it for himself. And so Greg had asked Mrs Hudson, and he heard the story.
Poor woman. Her two tenants had died. Both from suicide.
Poor Greg. Two of his friends have died. Both from suicide.
He detached himself as they processed the crime scene. He insisted upon watching, even if he didn't have to, even if he was off the case. Dimmock looked like he wanted to send Greg away, but Greg knew Dimmock understood.
Anderson and Sally looked at him mournfully. Even for them, this was too much. Anderson even promised that this will be the cleanest processing he would ever do. Greg nodded in silent agreement. Anderson knew John too. Even if they weren't friends, at the end of the day, it was still someone he knew. It was different if you knew someone. Always different.
He watched as Anderson gingerly picked up bloodied paper and slide it into the evidence bag. Before Anderson could stop him, Greg already snatched the paper. It was a letter. Suicide note. No doubt in his mind now. Gunshot or not, there's a note. And Anderson said the patterns were consistent. Everything was consistent. Suicide. God, John. Why?
He read the note, even if he could hear Anderson protest in the background.
I feel alone. I feel so alone.
It's been four weeks since he died. I'm tired. I've had enough.
Funny, I watched a lot of my friends die on the battlefield, so why couldn't I handle this one?
He told me that people leave a note when they do this. So here's mine.
Sorry everyone. I'm so sorry.
Bury me next to him.
I quit.
JW
The man had signed it like a text message, the way Sherlock usually did it, with his initials.
Greg exhaled slowly. This was not happening. It wasn't. No.
John H. Watson killed himself.
Greg watched as they carried the body to the coroner's van and to the morgue. Dimmock insisted they take the body to St. Mary's, knowing that Molly knew John and it wasn't how they should handle it. Greg agreed. Molly had already done Sherlock's body. It would probably break her to do John's, too.
He wanted to stay until the end of processing the scene, to see it through, but found that he couldn't. Greg shook his head, tapped Dimmock on the shoulder, and Dimmock nodded at him. He left.
Greg couldn't take this. No, not today. It was his anniversary, dammit. It was not fair.
A/N's
Thank you to everyone who reviewed and/or favourited! We are so sorry that this took over a month to write...but hopefully the 10,474 word count makes up for it, yes? Thank you for waiting, everyone! We blame timezones, real life, and tumblr for interfering with writing (we love all of that, anyway. except for timezones. bloody, nasty little thing). Anyway, here's our monster. Hope it makes up for the time we took to write it!
Please review! We love hearing from our readers 3
Make sure to check out Static, the in-universe companion series to this. Offers other POV's of happenings in the chapters. And emotions.
Here's the link to the livejournal post with links to the clothing/items featured in this chapter: http : / / 2schadenfreude(dot)livejournal(dot)com/2427(dot)html.