Chapter Seven

Title: Mobile

Author: A Study in Schadenfreude

Pairing|Characters: No strict pairing

Length: We've chopped them up for you to post earlier :p Obviously it didn't quite work but haha.

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."

So sorry for the wait guys. We've been detained by the horrors of real life. Really. I mean it sounds like such a lame excuse but it's just how it is. This chapter got so long, we decided to break it up. The next part is done but will be posted in a week. Also, just to let you guys know - reckon we're halfway through the fic. Still a long way to go, but we're doing our best!

-Jaeh

23 October

One of them was enough.

Sally Donovan stood in the cemetery, staring at the two stones standing in the green grass. The stones looked resolute, unyielding, and they stayed there and never moved, never strayed from each other.

That foolish, foolish doctor. Sally told him, she did. She warned him, hell, God forgive her, she taunted him. Sally told him that one day, there would be a dead body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the one to put it there.

She just didn't think there'd be two of them, and that the other would be the person she'd warned to stay away. She even regretted that prank she pulled the first time around. It was a horrible thing to do, but she felt vindictive then, against the dead detective who shook up their life. When she saw the phone, she just wanted to hurt someone, to balance out all the crap that had happened to them the past few months. And she did, and she didn't even have the chance to properly apologise.

God, she felt so guilty sometimes that it hurt, but not quite, because the doctor's death wasn't her fault, and she knew that.

She clenched her fists, and sighed. She felt less vindictive now.

"I told you, John. I told you," Sally told the stone. "And I'm sorry."

She had the feeling that she was being watched, and she rubbed the feeling off her arms. Goosebumps had started to break out, and a chilly wind swept through the wide space. She hurried away from the grave. She was positive that no one else had been in the area, but the back of her neck prickled anyway. Her Gran would have said it was the 'spirits in the cemetery, haunting their resting place,' but Sally didn't believe in all that.

Back in her car, she swore. She had decided to visit during her lunch break, which ended five minutes ago, and needed to get back to the Yard. The newest case she was working was going nowhere and she'd stared at the lifts, half expecting the frea—Sherlock to swoop into the office and point out the things they'd been so stupid to miss. She'd felt a twinge of shame when she remembered that he wouldn't be walking into the Met ever again and neither would his doctor friend.

It wasn't her fault. It wasn't.

She drove back into the heart of London, desperate to leave that godawful place.

When Sally got back to the Met, she could see Seamus Anderson sitting at her desk, playing with a deck of cards. Things between them have been better ever since his wife decided she wanted an open marriage. Seamus had happily told her the news after quite a gory murder case somewhere in Whitechapel, and they celebrated and comforted each other in Sally's flat afterwards.

Sally, of course, was perfectly fine with that; she wasn't interested in breaking them up or marrying Seamus. They had a good time together, that's all.

"You better not bend any of those, it's a new deck," she said, walking over. She sat on the edge of her desk, and Seamus leaned over with a grin.

"Do you want to see a card trick?" Seamus teased, shuffling the deck flashily. He winked at Sally, who laughed, and put it away in the box. "Did you have a good break?"

"It was all right, yeah. Traffic was horrible," Sally said, leaving out her trip to the cemetery. No one needed to know she was there. Closure.

She smiled to herself. To absent friends.

She glanced around the office, looking around at the other desks. Her colleagues chatted into phones and hunched over paperwork, all in all, a slow day for their division. Which was a good thing, since one didn't really want murders happening every week in London, job security be damned. Satisfied, she gazed around the office again, as if to reassure herself that people were still there. Her eyes stopped on the strangely empty desk in front of Lestrade's office. Now that she thinks about it, she hadn't seen that desk's detective in a few days. "Do you know if Paul's on leave? I don't remember him mentioning going on holiday," she asked, drawing her brows together. "Doesn't he have work to do?"

"Don't we all," muttered Seamus, eliciting a smile from Sally. He beamed back, and nodded in reply to Sally's question. "Greg's been asking about him as well, actually. He has some paperwork due tomorrow and Greg doesn't have the time to do it for him this week, especially with the paperwork piled up on him due to the whole… incident," Seamus finished. They both knew what 'incident' he was referring to.

"Huh," considered Sally, and frowned at Seamus. "Is it me, or is that a bit odd?"

"Quite," said Seamus, and he stood up. "I think I should really head back to the lab—got a bit of paperwork to do myself."

Sally heard him, but she didn't really react. Her mind was going back to the last conversation she had with Paul, talking about Sherlock Holmes and how odd the man was, and how everything, every crime he'd solved, especially that last one, seemed to be too conveniently easy for him to solve, and how the one with the Ambassador's children were quite in the same vein. How did he even know about the footprints? And the candy, and where they were hidden? It was all too convenient and easy while the rest of the squad puttered about having a hard time solving murders and they were trained for it. She voiced out as such to Seamus, who'd sat beside her to listen.

"He was right, of course—we have to consider every possible angle, and it was obviously the work of a mad genius who thought he could play with the police, and Sherlock definitely fit. Reminds me a bit of the bomber case—remember how he just disappeared on us, the perp?" She vaguely registered Seamus nodding in response. "It was a bit like that. And that got me thinking, what if he'd done it? He knew too much about it and it seemed quite impossible. I had to consider it.

"I was just doing my job," Sally said, almost sad, but mostly indignant.

"Yes, you were. We were," said Seamus. "We were supposed to consider all angles, and it fit. It just fit neatly, like that cover on the jam in the fridge. It's the wrong lid, but it fit."

Sally glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who lost the lid to the jar, weren't you? I've finally got the suspect to confess."

Seamus grinned at her sheepishly, and looked at Paul's desk. "It was still the wrong lid, and though it fit neatly, we were wrong." An odd look settled on Seamus's face, like he was contemplating something, but Sally paid it no mind. He was probably just thinking about what happened.

She hummed in agreement. "Yeah, Sherlock's alibi was sound, and it wasn't him."

Seamus placed a hand on Sally's thigh, patting her comfortingly. She placed a hand over his. "I thought it was a good theory. It was a sound theory, considering all the evidence, Detective Sergeant," Seamus said.

Sally nodded at him. "It was. It really was."

"We are doing everything we can to determine what happened, and we are positive that we will have the answers soon. Thank you."

John clicked the telly off, his fingers tightening around the remote. He massaged his forehead with his other hand, sighing.

The body had been found a couple of days ago by some kids who decided to do a little exploring in the abandoned cinema, and the media latched on to the suspicious death, complete with the sort of gunshot mystery that movies love recycling. 'Joe Bloggs Cinema Shootout', the media had sensationally called it. John had been careful, but he was nervous about leaving any sort of clues that might point to him, dead man walking, literally and figuratively. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, after all.

Other people would point out how messed up it was that John was more concerned with being caught than by the fact that he'd just killed a man. John would point out that as much as he didn't like taking lives, his conscience would not be plagued by killing an assassin who would have killed someone he cared about greatly if told to. The only thing he regretted was that he didn't get more information out of Aranski before his death.

There was a knock on his bedroom door, and Henry poked his head in. "Thomas and Connally are here."

John gave a nod, and followed Henry downstairs. Everyone had been busy—John wasn't the only one Thomas and Connally had been caught up with after all, and Henry had a new business venture he was trying to help take flight.

What the movies always failed to show people was when working on a case, on anything like this? There was a lot of downtime. A lot of time when you just have to sit down and patiently wait for anything new to come up. John had learnt that when he was with Sherlock.

Not that it made it any easier.

Thomas and Connally had been fishing, but information had been a little elusive. Every now and again, they would get rumours of someone from Moriarty's organisation (or rumoured to be part of) being killed or hunted down, and John would get that inevitable text. He'd always get there just in time to witness a body strewn on the floor, or the police make an arrest.

Once, he had stumbled on a bloke who looked no more than 25 years old, bleeding into cement. As much as it wasn't Hector Dixon's problem, Doctor John Watson couldn't stop himself from at least giving the kid a chance to pull through. He screamed for help, looking around to spot someone, anyone, who could at least phone 999, but all he saw was a tall, dark blur dart around a far corner. He almost rose to follow, but the man in his care was dying and he couldn't simply leave him. He'd dialed 999 with his burn phone and left just as the paramedics arrived.

He watched from afar as they carted away a dead body, whose pulse just moments before fluttered weakly under his fingertips. The police was already setting up for their investigation, and in a few minutes a detective sergeant would be on the scene. John had remembered the dark blur, and had wondered for a second what if—what if it was Sherlock Holmes he'd missed again. There were days when, despite the evidence they'd amassed, John felt like he was leading himself and everybody on some crazy wild-goose chase.

Sometimes, they would be doing inquiries into names provided by various contacts attracted by a few pounds worth of rewards. And there were a lot of names to sift through, and most of John's breaks from his job at Starbucks were spent doing legwork and research through some contacts of Thomas and Connally, or even Anderson's, and the occasional ones that he himself had. He wished there was a way to narrow it down, and regretted that he had to leave Sherlock's laptop behind and all the unsorted archives that he'd accumulated on various criminals. He even wished that he could simply ask Mycroft for help, but… he didn't quite want to go down that road. There was a reason why Mycroft didn't tell John in the first place, and John didn't even know what would happen if Mycroft found out he was doing this.

He sat down on a chair in Henry's dining room, purposefully ignoring the obvious joke that he was sitting at a literally round table with all his 'knights' gathered to listen to him. There was something with that picture that John simply didn't like, and it wasn't just because the metaphor was so full of puns that it hurt.

"We might have a problem," he started, looking at everyone in turn. "Hector Dixon is in trouble." He'd sent out the word as soon as he had talked to Aranski but this was the first time that everyone could gather.

John shared what had happened between him and Aranski, sparing no detail. He told them of what Aranski had thought of Hector Dixon, of how he thought he was the one who was dismantling everything.

"Obviously, it's not us, unless you lot have been doing some vigilante work behind my back, which I doubt," John finished. He looked around at the table, taking in the blank looks.

"Our detective has been moving pretty fast," Thomas said, his voice a bit distant. "Every time you reach a rumoured next appearance, something already happened and he was long gone."

"Last known sightings have been no help either, as we've seen," Connally pointed out helpfully. "There are simply no clues left behind. It's pretty ingenious really. I am impressed. Very impressed. Super sleuth makes for a brilliant criminal too."

John winced at the thought of Sherlock being a criminal, but Connally didn't appear to have noticed. John coughed to cover the awkward silence made up in his own head. "In any case, we should be careful about using Hector Dixon. It's good, I suppose, to keep the target off Sherlock's back, but I don't want any of us to be in danger more than we already are."

"Maybe you should discard the name, John. It's compromised; we should lose it and make a new one," said Thomas.

"Not yet. It's useful as a red herring, as someone they have to chase instead of Sherlock," John said. It was likely that Sherlock wasn't traceable anyway, but every bit of help counts. And besides, maybe Sherlock would do something about Hector Dixon, maybe try to find out who he is, and that might really help. John sighed. He hated how complicated this was becoming, but that's the consequence of his choices. He hadn't regretted anything yet. "Hector Dixon is good and unidentifiable at the moment, since he keeps on 'changing' his face. Just be careful about using it. Use it strategically, and preferably only when we've decided to use it."

Thomas frowned at this, but nodded anyway. "We should get rid of it soon, though."

"We'll see." John looked pointedly at everyone, as if to say that the decision was final and the topic was closed. "We need someone to talk to the Network."

"Network?" Connelly asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The Homeless Network. They might know where Sherlock is. It's possible that Sherlock had kept his contacts live during the rest of the months, and some of them might have some information," John said.

"Ah, that network." Connelly glanced at Thomas. "I keep telling you, it's not such a bad idea. I should monopolise connections back home, what do you think?"

"It means settling down, Connelly. I didn't think you were a huge fan of setting up roots," replied Thomas. "It appears useful, however. You have your own version of it, don't you?"

Connelly looked thoughtful. "Ah, yes."

John watched the exchange placidly, and folded his hands on the table. "Will you talk to them, Connelly?"

"Me? No." Connelly said, shrugging. "I don't talk to contacts whom I don't know. It's not a good work practice."

John blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm not going to do it," Connelly said with a finality.

"Then—"

"Right, John, even I have limits." Thomas said, before John could even finish asking. "Look, I know you have me on retainer, but trust me, I'm a bad idea. I can blend in, but I am obviously not a Londoner or anyone from this country. It would be more obvious to Holmes's network— people like them get really good at observing marks and targets and people. And my face isn't exactly forgettable. I can fake it well enough, but not for this crowd."

John sighed, and looked to Henry. "Henry, I know that you've been more than helpful, but… but I need your help once more."

"Me? John, I can't, you know I can't. I can barely even talk to you lot!"

John smiled at Henry placatingly. There was no one else he could trust for the job. It wasn't like he could simply go out and talk to the Network—they would recognise him in a heartbeat. "All right, all right, you don't have to do it. It's fine," he said, looking pointedly at Thomas and Connelly. Thomas tipped his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, understanding what John wanted. They needed to reason with Henry. He would be safe. John would be shadowing him all the way. He was just sorry to have to do this.

John stood up, and evidently, everyone understood it was a dismissal. He went into the kitchen and left Henry in the hands of Connelly, while he searched the fridge for something to eat. He made a mental note to go shop for additional biscuits, since he didn't want to take Henry's stash. That just felt like a step too far, he told himself wryly. Like he hadn't thrown himself over cliff by killing himself already, and asking Henry to fund him.

He would pay Henry back eventually, he promised himself.

Thomas followed him into the kitchen, and leaned against the counter. "Molly sends her regards. Well. She doesn't really, since you're supposed to be dead."

John put the packet of crisps he retrieved on the side of the toaster, and turned to face Thomas. "Do you have anything for me on Molly?"

"I just want to…" He sighed, and massaged the back of his neck. "I just want to tell you, reassure you, that I'm not toying with Molly. She really is a nice, strong person, and she deserves better. Plus she has a really adorable cat." Thomas gave a slight grin. "I also learned that Sherlock has been crashing off and on at her flat, although not at the moment, it seems. There was men's clothing hidden in one of the boxes in the corner of the guest room, and the laundry had a few men's articles in there." Thomas put a hand up. "Of course, she doesn't know I've been snooping. I might check her phone now and again, but she deletes every message."

John sighed. "Just… just be nice to her, all right? She's been through enough. She's been helping Sherlock way more than she has to, and now I'm—" John gave a harsh exhale "—dead, she probably… feels guilty for… not telling me." John massaged the bridge of his nose. "Life is complicated."

"Tell me about it."

John's mobile beeped from his pocket, and he retrieved his 'John' phone and read the message.

Might b an informant for M in the station but he's gone now. No 1 knows where he is; maybe u should look in2 it. I have his files right here, pick up on the 26th in the station. Send sum1. This is Anderson btw.

"Hang on," John said. He blinked at Thomas disbelievingly. "We might have a lead, an actual lead, of the person who got assigned to Greg."