Chapter Four

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."

A/N: We would, again, like to thank everyone for waiting patiently. We hope you loved those Static updates we put up, and we couldn't stress enough that you should read those, really. (Seriously, if you haven't read them yet, stop reading this now and go do that.) We're hiding more feels and plot points in there. :D I know, I know we took three months but you can't rush art, yeah? (ha, ha) But anyway, we hope you enjoy this chapter!

Arthur Dent's life was utterly and miserably boring. His colleagues constantly teased him about living up to his namesake's life before the destruction of the earth in Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.

Arthur's response was to laugh and regale them with stories of his mediocre life. Stories about his dead end job as a barista at Starbucks, running out of toothpaste in the morning and rushing off to Tesco to buy another. Stories about primary school, and sibling rivalry - normal, ordinary, things that most people experience. He would joke they'd be lucky if something really interesting happened, perhaps aliens invading the world like in Doctor Who, maybe even becoming a companion, at that.

Arthur never complained, at least, not out loud, not to anyone. To everyone, he seemed content, comfortable, although they would admit that he seemed a little...'dead'. One of his more perceptive colleagues (a lovely, intelligent, young college student who quit when she found a better job as a secretary somewhere) told him that he looked pained when he thought no one could see. Arthur had laughed at this, and told her that he was thinking he may have left the lights on at the flat and how that would be hell on his bills when he already had money problems. The girl merely shook her head and smiled back reassuringly, as if she knew something about him but would never tell.

When asked about plans for the future, Arthur would answer along the lines of 'I'm still looking for that something'. Nobody ever said that it was probably too late for him, even if people would point this out behind his back. Instead, they would tell him that it was fine, everyone goes through that, it was never too late. He would say something about writing a novel to get them off his back, and divulge during breaks in customers about writing detective stories and wanting to publish them someday, like Agatha Christie, and they would all laugh and forget about it.

Everyone would tell you that Arthur was a nice bloke. Polite. Smiled a lot. Smelled nice. Looked fit. Would make for a decent partner - at least, all his female friends say that, and they would actually jump at the chance to go out with him, if only he was interested, but he even turned down the men who asked him out. Eventually everyone just assumed he wasn't on the market.

After a bit more prodding, they would exclaim that they knew absolutely nothing about him. Nothing personal, nothing that really mattered. People would tell you that he was an average guy, someone you'd pass on the pavement and wouldn't think anything of. He sounded smart, smarter than he looked - and would have a better future if he didn't stick to his current job. Maybe if he took up some night classes or something and become a businessman or a doctor, anything besides staying in the foodservice industry as a Starbucks barista, not that anything was wrong with that.

They'd tell you that all they knew of him was he's a normal bloke, okay to be around, that man you invited to a pub who would always tell you that something came up. He was that man you'd only know at work and nowhere else. He was the sort of man that people would promptly forget when they arrived home.

Unremarkable. Normal.

A day in the life of Arthur Dent would go like this:

1. Wake up, check phone. Take a shower, fix lunch - tight budget, you know how it is, go to work.

2. Work. A barista's job never ends, especially not at a chain like Starbucks.

3. Break - lunch. A nice sandwich, maybe, or splurge on something from that nicer cafe nearby if it was payday.

4. Back to work.

5. End shift. Talk to some people, hang around a little. Get asked out by a colleague, invited to a pub. Turn them down, turn them all down - he is writing that novel he told you about when someone asks why not.

6. Go home. Check phone. Do chores. Watch telly.

7. Sleep.

8. Rinse and repeat, except on weekends, when he visits his cousin in Dartmoor.

A day in the life of John Watson would go like this:

1. Wake up, check phone. Check other phone, make sure that there are no texts from Anderson, Henry, Greg Laurie or Mrs Hudson. Make sure that there are no texts from Steve Tabernacle (or Thomas Lawson, whichever alias he used that day) or any of his other contacts.

2. Take a shower, make lunch. Check e-mails. Make sure there's no news about Sherlock Holmes, and definitely none about Mycroft Holmes. Go to . Miss being a doctor. Wish to god that he'd been able to at least pick up a job at a clinic, but knew he couldn't do that. Even a job at a morgue looking for the causes of death, anything that wouldn't be this... boring. Jesus, he's turning into Sherlock.

3. Break- lunch. Check phones again in the loo, breathe easy when he hears nothing from the people back home, and feel just a bit sad about it. Be frustrated when there's nothing on the informant front.

4. Back to work. Think about the next steps he needs to take. Sometimes waiting was the hardest part. He knew he needed to be patient, and even though dealing with Sherlock Holmes had given him the patience of a saint, this waiting game was fraying every bit of his last threads. He needed news. Anything. Anything at all.

5. End shift. Chat with some people, just enough to make Arthur seem like a good bloke. Private, but a good bloke. Say some nice things, lie about that novel he's writing - hah, detective stories, if only they knew - and turn down every offer of socialization. After this, after all of this, when he finds Sherlock again, he'll be leaving, and he cannot be attached. Won't be attached. He's learned a lot from that Doctor Who episode, when the Doctor turned human. He wasn't about to make the same mistake.

6. Go home. Check phones. Still no news. That's fine, all fine. Keep busy. Put up plans. What to do, where to go next. Check e-mails. Do chores. Watch the telly, keep on the lookout for any suspicious activities from criminals, keep on the lookout for any news regarding his friends. Watch Greg Lestrade on the news talk about yet another hard case, and he can read the stress all over his face. Turn it off, unable to bear watching anymore of it.

7. Go out and search for Sherlock, look for clues.

8. Sleep, pray to God the nightmares won't come. Always about Sherlock falling. Always about everyone he left dying because he wasn't there to take care of them.

9. Rinse and repeat, except on weekends, where he leaves for Dartmoor to speak to Steve Tabernacle, Henry Knight and look for Sherlock and new informants.

John Watson, M.D., would sometimes read a few medical web articles that he's subscribed to in another name, just to stay updated on current medical practices. It was going to be hard when he comes back from the dead, something he really wanted to do soon. He would probably need the help of Mycroft Holmes, British Government, when re-applying for his medical license. Sometimes he practises stitching on the roast that he cooks for himself, Henry, and the rest of his new 'team' during weekends. Occasionally, Steve would bring some friends by who needed some patching up. All well and good, at least he was able to practise medicine on someone.

John Watson, Captain, was chafing under all the monotony. For a brief moment he remembered what his life had been like before Sherlock Holmes, invalided home after being shot. The monotony of everyday life, nothing really happening, at least nothing worth notice. The only improvement between then and now was the hope that someday he'd find Sherlock, because he would find him, and they could go back to bickering over the experiments in the fridge. He missed the danger, the chases through the London streets, hell, he even missed being kidnapped by Mycroft.

Sure, someone could argue that there was plenty of danger in faking your death in order to chase after a madman, but John didn't feel that rush of adrenaline when he was standing behind the counter making small talk with the customers, or while measuring the correct amount of coffee to put in the expensive beverages. He did have to stop himself from clocking some of the customers that offhandedly mentioned Sherlock being a fraud, and that would be the most interesting thing that would happen to him the entire day.

One of his colleagues, a young woman in her twenties named Karen, was John's companion for the day. They were eating sandwiches from the 'other cafe' during an uncommonly slow lunch, and Karen had chosen John to talk to.

Karen was new, that was why. Usually, the novelty of the mysterious older barista wore off after a week or so.

"Arthur, you know, I never really found out where you're from." She began, and John looked up almost innocently at her. It wasn't hard to do anymore. He had three months of practice.

It was bad, the first time he tried. Laughable, really. The manager eyed him suspiciously when he didn't have an answer to who he was and where he was from, and almost fired him on the spot if he wasn't able to bluff his way out of it. Steve Tabernacle, his con man extraordinaire, was right. Think on your feet, believe in your lies - give half-truths instead of making everything up, so it would be easier. He told the manager that he was honourably discharged from the army and needed a new start, that he was working through a lot of things. After that, there were no other questions about his past. The manager said something about serving himself, and not being able to pick himself up by much. That was why he was at a Starbucks.

The manager resigned after that week because he was getting married to an old sweetheart and had a job offer from his new father-in-law. Some people have all the luck.

After that, people came and went, especially the university students who needed a bit of money before the was their latest addition.

"Hm?"

Karen twirled her coffee stirrer. One perk of working at Starbucks? Free coffee. "I mean, you kind of just popped up in the middle of London, and starting working here, in this branch. At least, that's what I got from the others." She looked up alarmingly, and waved a hand in defence. "Not that I'm prying or anything! I was just... curious. Where were you before you worked here?"

John gave her a kind, long-suffering smile, that told her that he's been asked many times and doesn't mind answering. "Oh. I was from Cardiff. Decided to move after a really... really bad relationship with a friend." People usually assumed this was his partner or something. No one ever asked about the friend. They just nodded like they understood.

They didn't. How could they, if they didn't ask?

John wasn't about to volunteer information though. The less they asked, the less he had to lie.

With every other colleague, that had ended the conversation, but Karen seemed to be better at this than everyone else was, or just more curious. She looked at John with genuine concern, and those brown eyes weirdly reminded John of Molly's whenever she asked Sherlock how he was. "I'm sorry. May I ask what happened?"

Oh, what the hell. Half-truths, right? "They committed suicide." Well, sort of.

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. It was, it very much was, but this was new on him. No one, not a single person, had ever asked before. They just assumed that whoever he or she was, it was too painful to talk about, especially when John donned a look of pain and loss that he had perfected. It worked because the look wasn't a pure lie.

There was silence in the shop. Their other colleagues, obviously eavesdropping, heard and paused what they were doing.

"I'm sorry." Karen said, breaking the ice. "We - I didn't know."

John smiled at her sadly. That wasn't hard, too. "It... happens. I just... really miss them, you know." This was as close as 'Arthur' would ever get to telling the 'truth'. "Sometimes I feel like they're still alive." John inwardly scoffed at this. He was developing a rather pawky sense of humour. Too bad he was the only one who understood how funny it was.

Karen nodded sadly. "Yeah." She looked up, and watched as another colleague, Rory, sat at their table. "I get it, mate. I had a friend who did the same. We watched him..." The man shook his head. "Doesn't matter how we watched him. But everyone needed to get away, and we all just wanted to forget. I'm so sorry for your loss." A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. "Sometimes it feels like the bumbling clod is still with us. Memories are a powerful thing."

John nodded with a smile. The questions stopped after that, and no one asked about where Arthur Dent came from. They all acted like they knew who he was now, though John knew they had no idea.

An ounce of truth really did go a long way.

Saturday, 24 November, 16:13

John was never a fan of close calls, even and especially when he was a doctor and a soldier. Close calls tended to be fatal for him and for the people around him, people he was trying to help.

Being found out that he wasn't really dead was fatal for the people around him and maybe even for the person he's trying to find, so he wasn't really looking for people who might recognise him.

But somehow, they keep on finding him.

The bus ride to Eaton Square from work wasn't a long one, but it seemed to be far too long when a chipper young man, named John of all things, ended up sitting in the seat adjacent to him. Of course, that wasn't the reason for John's inner turmoil.

The young man had been staring at him for a few minutes, with an awestruck look before quickly moving to occupy the aisle seat in John's row.

"Hullo!" he said brightly. When he realised that John wasn't going to answer, he continued in the same bright tone. "My name's John and I am a huge fan of your blog."

Don't panic, John. Deny everything.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. I don't even own a computer." Another partial truth. Henry let him borrow his extra laptop. Henry Knight had proved to be very generous, willing to help John with anything he needed in repayment for taking his case in March. He was even letting John stay at his new home on Eaton Square.

"Wow, really? I could have sworn that you were Doctor John Watson. I mean, you look just like him. Are you his clone?" the younger John rattled off, sounding like a curious five-year-old. His head was cocked to one-side like an interested puppy, and he frowned at John like a sad one.

Fortunately, before John could insist that he was not John Watson, another bus rider, an older man whose hair was peppered with grey, chimed in. "John Watson, who blogged about that detective Sherlock Holmes? He's dead, they both are now. Right shame, that. I don't believe the press about what happened. My nephew was being driven out of his mind and Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson proved he hadn't gone yumpy."

It gave John hope that there were people out there who believed in his best friend. It made him feel less alone.

The older man turned in his seat to peer at John and raised his brows. "You do look a lot like his picture though."

And all his gratitude melted away.

John closed his eyes, praying that the bus would come to a stop, any stop, just so he could escape further scrutiny.

Monday, 3 December, 10:35

Monday mornings at the coffee shop were insanely busy. There was a constant stream of people coming in to order their venti lattes and iced mochas. John was on the drink station today, taking a break from the register, and there was an almost therapeutic routine to grabbing the cup, reading the order, and adding the syrups, milk and coffee. He fully expected today to be the same, to stick to the routine.

His colleagues tended to gossip about the various customers that come in, pretending to guess about the stranger's life, which reminded John of a game Sherlock used to do when bored, except he was accurate. They also tended to jostle each other around despite the space, which actually made John feel like their father when he had to break up the fun behind the counter.

It was a normal Monday, the type he'd started resigning himself to, until about half past 10, when John overheard his colleagues discussing a customer who just ordered. That wasn't the unusual part of his day. He got jostled around a bit as well, an elbow jabbing into his ribs that made him almost drop the order he was making.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that's that detective, the one that threw himself off tha' roof!"

John hissed in pain as he poured the hot milk all over his hand instead of adding it to the latte.

He pushed his hand under the faucet, letting the cool water wash away the milk. It was probably just a mistake. Someone tall, with a coat like Sherlock's, tricking people who hadn't seen the man outside the papers.

A deep, baritone "Thank you" from the customer felt like a whole bucket of burning milk was poured over him.

He turned, colour draining from his face. He caught a glimpse of a man with ginger curls pushing his way out of the door, and John immediately ran out, almost knocking over the order in one of the Uni kids' hands.

The man was gone when he got outside, and John swore. He glanced around, spinning a little, and he buried his hands into his hair.

Please please please tell me I didn't just miss Sherlock please please

God, he needed a bit of air.

"You okay, Arthur?" The manager asked when he came back in. He must've looked like a mess, hair disheveled, glasses askew. He wondered if his face was pale. He felt peaky. "Is your other eye blue?"

John shook his head. "I'm going out on my break now." He choked out, and he knocked the contact back in with a seemingly random rub of his hand. "Sorry, I need a bit of air."

"It's fine, we can handle it here. Take a little breather, will you? You look like you've seen a ghost."

He hoped to God he hadn't, or else he just missed whom he had been looking for all along.

Monday, 3 December, 12:02

There were days when John wanted his past to haunt him. There was something about nostalgia and wistfulness that he welcomed every once in a while. Sherlock used to argue that he was just being sentimental, but John didn't mind. Sometimes, that warm, comfortable feeling goes a long way.

His dad used to tell him that it's always good to remember where you're from, because it's a part of where you're going. He might not be a huge fan of reminders of the past, but occasionally, he appreciated it.

But not today. Maybe after all... this, just not today. It was hard enough to miss his old life, to miss being John Watson. He didn't need to keep on seeing people from his past to make him painfully homesick. He already missed the dust that always accumulated on the mantle and the skull, people he lived and saw everyday notwithstanding.

After the possible Sherlock sighting that morning, John wasn't sure what else he could handle today. What happened on his lunch break made things harder than they should be.

John had turned around the corner from his Starbucks and straight into a scene out of his own blog.

There was a crime scene line running across the whole street, cordoning off the pavement and the cafe that he frequented. A dead body under a sheet lay in the centre, and there were numbers set up around the perimeter, marking the extra blood spatters and the bullet cartridges scattered around the road.

It looked bad. John did not envy anyone working on that scene.

The way the PCs looked, the case seemed just about hopeless. John had asked the nearby constable what was happening, and managed to charm some information out of him, getting a date in the process without meaning to - what just happened? Steve's tutorials worked maybe a little too well, but it got him the information he needed.

The man under the sheet had been seemingly murdered at point-blank range, but there were no witnesses. Aside from the shell casings and the body, there was no evidence of a crime happening at all. No one heard or saw anything, which wasn't possible with the amount of rounds littering the area. The security cameras had suffered technical errors at the time of the murder as well. It was very odd.

It was a case for Sherlock Holmes himself.

John peered from his position, trying to see how the blood had spattered, catching that the spatters were all wrong for a shooting at point-blank range. He blinked at this, and was unconsciously moving in for a closer look when he looked up, and saw Anderson coming out of the deli.

Anderson paused, blinked, and cocked his head behind him in a panicked notion. He tried to block whoever was coming out, but the man merely sidestepped the forensic expert, glared, and turned to look where Anderson was facing.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stopped in his tracks, and stared at John. Their eyes met, and they both froze.

John stepped back, turned, shouldered people aside and ran.

Sherlock never failed to point out to John that he needed to listen to someone's steps for it might indicate who was after him. He heard the slightly uneven pounding of the Inspector's shoes behind him. John swore.

Greg was following him.

John inhaled through his teeth, and broke his running stride into a casual walk, weaving through the crowded street. He headed into Clarks, and with a quick nod to the salespersons he knew, he ducked into their back room and headed for the employees' entrance, and stepped out. He dodged the smoke from another person's cigarette, and rang the shop's phone with his mobile.

"Hello, this is Clarks Victoria Street, how may I help you today?"

"Hey Brenda, this is Arthur." John paced a bit but stopped, trying to keep his panicked voice under control. "Is there a man there, silver hair, claiming to be a Detective Inspector?" He stopped, looking up at the sky, and hoped to God that Brenda would not give him away.

"Mhmm."

"Don't believe a word he says. He's...well...he's my ex." John cringed, and hoped that his unease at the lie fell through as nervous energy. "He's delusional. I filed a restraining order but I think he almost caught me today."

God, this was a funny, bizarre, low excuse. Pretending that Greg Lestrade was his ex - ex-what exactly - Steve would get a kick out of this story and could just hear jokes about his standing with Greg come from a mile away.

"All right sir, thank you for calling, I will take care of everything."

John released the breath he was holding. "Thank you. Thank you so much Brenda, I owe you one."

There was a click of the phone, and John resisted the urge to go back inside and watch how it went. He instead went back to Starbucks, and decided that maybe he should make use of his employee discount and just buy a sandwich from their display.

That was close. That was far too close. Greg looked like he'd aged ten years since the last time John had seen him. He supposed having two friends die, both from suicides in the same year would do that to someone. As much as he missed Greg, and everyone else, there was too much at stake to be found now.

He could not be sorrier for the people he left behind.

A/N 2: (Errors in formatting are ff(.net)'s fault, messed up during uploading.) We have almost half of the next chapter written, so stay tuned for more, either here on Mobile, or Static! Again, thank you for your reviews and alerts! More reviews would be most appreciated :)