John Watson's Blog
June 27, 2011
I'm confused and, well frankly, brassed off. Sherlock and I had it out last night.
On top of that, I was lied to and I can't fathom the reason why. And Sherlock was right about it, in his usual smug manner. Arrghh! is all I can say. I'm sure there is a good explanation for the lie. Would traumatic experiences cause someone to lie out of fear? I need to get to the bottom of it, at least for my peace of mind, if nothing else.
Either way, it felt damn good to give him the right hook.
Comments
No doubt, Sherlock has her figured out? Then again, you two are so easy.
8-|
Anonymous
Seriously. Get off.
John
John had not slept well the previous night. The altercation Emma had with the mystery man was enough, but when Sherlock mentioned Emma had lied about who the man was, all of it put him on edge. He rarely put his trust in anyone, but when he did it was completely.
Having called in 'sick' at the surgery, John gave Emma a ring. He simply said, "We need to talk." He was still upset with his flatmate, but also at the situation with Emma. He tried not to reveal it in his voice. As Sherlock seemed to continually remind him, he needed to break from his emotions, take a step back and observe.
He met her at the front of Pret A Manager. Handing Emma a cup of coffee, he motioned they should begin walking. Silence reigned as the two sipped their coffees and strolled down the street.
Clearing his throat, John stopped suddenly. "Emma..." He began to ask her about last night, but quickly changed his mind. "...how are you feeling?"
Emma raised an eyebrow, reading his face. With a concerned look, she perceived, "John, something is bothering you. I can only assume it has to do with last night. What is it?"
John gave a weak smile. There she goes again. Am I that obvious? "I...," he took a deep breath. "I want to know why you lied. Why did you tell Sherlock the man last night was your brother?"
Emma looked off in the distance, a frown forming on her lips. "I was upset...at him. He wasn't taking me seriously. So, why should I take him seriously?" She glanced back at John. "Do you believe me?"
"Of course I do!" John's brow furrowed. "Emma, he can help you, but only if you want it. You must be truthful, otherwise he will pick you apart. He needs to understand why you lied. I need to know."
Emma shook her head in frustration. "He doesn't care, not about me. He only cares about the mystery, the unknown. He didn't believe me."
"Yes, he did! He said he believed you," John said in exasperation.
"No, John. He said the evidence supported my story. That isn't quite the same." She again frowned and resumed walking.
John matched pace with her, trying to read her. It is so difficult to tell what is going on inside! "You're right. He used a poor choice of words, I'll grant you. But he did, uh, does believe you!" He reached out with his hand, gently taking hold of her arm to stop her. She would not face him. She still seemed upset and, thus far, John's words had not affected her in the slightest.
In a soft tone, John said, "Look at me, Emma. Please." Emma looked briefly over her shoulder at John, giving a ghost of a smile. He led her to a nearby bench where the two sat. "Help me understand."
Emma gave a quick nod and, briefly closing her eyes, took a deep cleansing breath. "I don't know the man's name, but he has been following me for quite some time. I had no idea what he wanted until around the first week of June. He approached me and, rather roughly, threatened me. He said that my brother owed him a great deal of money. Gambling, as I said. He asked where my brother was. Of course, I had no idea. But he didn't take that for an answer. He told me to find my brother, or else I would owe the debt. It was the same man that I had run into..." she trailed off.
"The bus? The man on the bus? I had asked if you knew him, but you said you didn't." John frowned, recalling.
"I did know him, but I couldn't very well say anything. It would have called attention to this whole matter. We were just beginning to date and I didn't want to ruin it. You had planned such a lovely evening at Kew Gardens. Why would I mess that up with this trouble?" She gave a fleeting smile, which John returned. She continued, "From then on, I noticed that he would follow me nearly every where I went. It was nerve-racking, to say the least. When Sherlock mentioned he knew about the man, I was horrified. I didn't want to drag either of you into this mess. I wanted to take care of it quietly. I had nearly all of the money collected. But my time had run out. Last night the man confronted me. He demanded the money or my life. I told him I was trying to collect it, but I didn't have it all yet. He wanted what I had and was threatening to kill me. That is why I ran."
John nodded. "And when Sherlock asked if he was your brother?"
Emma shook her head. "It occurred to me that the two of you were becoming more involved in my problems. I didn't want that for you, John. This is a mess. My life is a mess and I can't risk having you taken down with me." John was about to protest, but she held up her hand. She sounded as if she were choking on her words. John gave her a gentle squeeze on the hand. "I lied to stop you and Sherlock from pursuing this further. But, in the process, it seems I've only fuelled the fire."
John grinned. "Yeah, that's the thing about Sherlock. Once his interest is peaked, there is no way to stop him. He'll die trying to solve any riddle."
"Is that so?" Emma asked with curiosity. She grinned at John. "He is very..."
"Strange? Odd? Peculiar?" he offered.
Emma laughed. Taking hold of his hand, she looked directly at him. "I'm sorry, John. Sorry for lying to you both. I..."
"I know. You meant well. Just...be truthful, okay? It'll make it easier. At least on me." He gave her a wink and wrapped his arm around her shoulder in a hug.
She turned to give him a light kiss on the hand, when she noticed redness on his knuckles. "John, are you alright?" she asked while inspecting his hand.
John sniggered. "Yeah, I'll be fine." Emma could see a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
"Oh, John...you didn't." She sounded appalled.
"What?" he asked innocently.
"Sherlock?" she guessed. His grin broadened. "John!"
"He asked for it! I was defending your honour," he said gallantly, his chest puffing up proudly. "I had to sock him."
She giggled. "John, I do believe that is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me."
John Watson's Blog
June 28, 2011
I had a nice chat with Emma. I now understand.
Odd thing, the strange man doesn't seem to be following her any more. Sherlock has become extremely agitated and I believe he is actually baffled. I do hope things start to settle down. For now, I plan to take Emma out on a date, a truly romantic date, to the Blue Elephant. I had wanted to take her there before, but with Sherlock tagging along, it just wasn't possible. I'm not spending that much money on him!
Comments
Good luck, John. It's an excellent place for a romantic dinner.
Mike Stamford
Thanks, Mike!
John
We probably should address the elephant in the room. Ha!
Harry Watson
Harry, I may have to revoke your privileges if YOU keep asking. Emma and I are simply dating for now.
John
Sounds like an angry comment from the peanut gallery. :)
That's a smiley face, by the way.
Mrs. Hudson
Stop it. Now.
SH
Never been to this restaurant. Are trunks required?
Molly Hopper
If the date isn't at the Blue Elephant, it's irrElephant.
Mike Stamford
I once shot an elephant in my pyjamas. Why he was in my pyjamas, I'll never know.
Harry Watson
Where is my revolver?
SH
Your antiquated Webley? Might want to invest in something similar to John's. Now THAT is a nice piece (I am, of course, referring to his gun).
Anonymous
When Friday evening arrived, though the rage had subsided, John still found himself irritated with Sherlock. In the three days that had passed, his flatmate did not acknowledge, nor did he apologise for, his rude behaviour. In fact, he had hardly spoken a word. He had become fixated on the anonymous blogger who had in fact 'borrowed' his Webley Mark VI revolver. After the comment was posted, Sherlock found one bullet had been recently fired. John's P226 seemed to have remained untouched.
Sherlock had analysed the .455 calibre gun, checking for any clue as to its recent user, but came up with nothing. It was odd for John to see Sherlock, for a brief moment, baffled. Calls and contacts had been made. For now, he had to wait on others to complete their searches. One thing Sherlock hated above anything was having to wait.
John had left for Emma's residence, not bothering to say anything to Sherlock. He buzzed the intercom and waited. It had been three days since their talk. He had been satisfied with her explanation and was looking forward to a romantic evening. John turned towards the street, looking around to keep himself occupied. He felt as if he had butterflies in his stomach. Why am I so nervous?
His thoughts turned to daydreams as he recalled how she had looked on previous nights. She typically wore a black pea coat and red scarf. Her brown hair gathered behind in a French bun with a few loose wisps framing her face. In that moment, John's heart fluttered and he could not help but smile broadly.
Returning from his daydream, it occurred to John that Emma had not answered, nor had she come down from her flat. Buzzing the intercom again, he waited. John looked at his phone. How long have I been waiting? 2...3 minutes? He buzzed her again, waiting another minute. Puzzled, he dialled her mobile phone. A faint ringing could be heard from upstairs.
John frowned. Why is she not answering? "Emma!" John called out with no response. He walked back towards the curb and looked up at her window. No light was on. Odd, I just spoke with her a few hours ago.
He panned through his list of contacts until he came across the hospital number Emma had provided. The phone rang over and over, without an answer. He hung up and redialled the number. Finally, an older woman answered the phone.
"Yeah." She sounded inconvenienced as well as equally bored by the call.
"Yes, hi." John began, trying to remove any anxiety from his voice. "I'd like to speak with Dr. Herrington."
John's request was met with silence.
"Yes, hello?" he said. He glanced quickly at his mobile, curious if the call had been disconnected.
"One moment," was the curt reply. A few seconds letter, she returned. "Sir, there is no doctor on call with that name."
"What? Really?" he asked in surprise. He thought Emma might be at the hospital since she was not at her flat. "Are you sure?"
"Quite," the woman replied, a tinge of rudeness in her voice.
"Dr. Emma Herrington? She works in Pediatrics," he pushed, hoping the woman had made a mistake.
"No, sir. No physician by that name. Thank you." The soft click made it clear that she had ended the call.
John stared at his mobile in disbelief. She hung up on me! That...that... He growled in frustration. Looking back up at Emma's window, he took a breath. Relax, John. I'm sure there is a good explanation. He decided to wait on the steps outside, hoping she would show up soon. While waiting, he dialled his friend, Jane. She had introduce the two in the coffee shop back in May. Though he had not seen her in quite some time, he hoped that she still kept in close contact with Emma. Unfortunately, she was not answering. John left a message asking her to call as soon as possible regarding Emma.
After fifteen minutes passed, the worry began to edge at the back of his mind. A couple passed by him and walked up the stairs into the building. Taking advantage, John slipped in behind them before the door closed and locked. Pressing his back against the wall of the vestibule, he waited for the couple to disappear into their flat. When they had gone, he bound up the stairs.
Reaching Emma's place, he knocked a few times. Emma did not answer. There were no sounds from within. He knocked louder, his anxiety building with each second.
Pacing frantically, he thought, What should I do? What should I- John stopped as his eyes fell on the key hole. He glanced down the flight of stairs, then back at the lock on Emma's door. I haven't a clue where to start.
Finally, as desperation began to set in, he struck the door harder. He paused. No answer. Hitting harder, his ears picked up the clink of metal falling on the floor. John spun around. A reflection of light flashing off of metal caught his eye. A key. His heart began to pound rapidly. Looking up, he spied a piece of moulding that had knocked loose, a small space behind indicating where the key had been.
With a silent prayer, he inserted the key into the lock. A turn and push, the lock released and the door swung open. Thank you, Emma!
Then the thought occurred to him, Would it be wise to enter a darkened flat without protection? What if the stalker had Emma inside? In the dark? Honestly John... Cursing under his breath at the lack of forethought, he debated his next move. He felt time was of the essence, considering that Emma might be in danger. Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and held it while entering her flat quietly.
Hugging the wall, he moved away from the entry and squatted low in the darkness. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. He squinted. No movement could be detected. Still holding his breath, he strained his ears. No sounds. Reaching up behind him, his fingers quietly traced the table, searching. John turned the lamp on and gasped. Scrambling to his feet, his eyes scanned over the ransacked flat. He felt immobilized. Emma! This can't be happening! The coffee table was smashed to pieces. Papers and books were strewn all over the floor. Stuffing oozed out of knife slashes in the sofa cushions. As he stepped forward, crackling of broken glass snapped his eyes downward. He had stepped on a framed picture.
Slowly he picked up the photograph of the two of them from a few weeks back. His eyes glistened with moisture. Blinking, he shook off the initial shock. Emma had been kidnapped and needed his help. Reaching for his mobile, he speed dialled Sherlock.
"Come on. Answer!" he pleaded quietly. No answer. He dialled again. No answer. He dialled a third time.
A click followed by "What, John?"
"Sherlock! Oh, thank God you answered. Sherlock, I need you to come over to Emma's flat right now."
Sherlock sighed. "I'm not much for company at the moment, thank you."
Sherlock was about to hang up, when John quickly blurted, "She's missing, Sherlock! Emma is gone and her place looks to have been searched."
"Don't touch anything. Call Lestrade." Sherlock hung up.
John met his friend at the bottom of the stairs. Ignoring any possibility of a bruised ego or sore jaw, Sherlock nodded to his flatmate and bounded up the steps, two at a time, to Emma's flat. John followed quickly behind.
Stopping at the open door, Sherlock squatted down. "Used a key?"
"Yeah, why?" John asked.
He stood. "Interesting...," he mused.
"What, exactly, is interesting?" John asked.
Sherlock looked at him askance. "Lucky for you there was a key."
John nodded with a frown. He knew Sherlock did not exactly mean lucky in the traditional sense. "It...it fell when I was knocking on the door."
"A knock?" Sherlock questioned, noting the space where the key had been hidden away.
John hesitated, avoiding eye contact. "Well, perhaps a more...enthusiastic knock."
"The key was dislodged and fell." Sherlock smirked at his friend. "Convenient." he murmured, though inaudible to John, as he moved into the flat.
"I found her mobile," John pointed out. "There are text messages here that you should read."
Sherlock eyed John for a moment, evaluating his mental and emotional state. "I told you not to touch anything."
He flushed with extreme embarrassment. "Sorry," was all John could muster.
Taking the mobile in hand, Sherlock thumbed through numerous messages. The last few responses were sent an hour before John had arrived.
He wants to chat.
I can't.
He says NOW. Meet at Convoys Wharf, 5pm.
I can't!
Coming for you.
"Coming for you. The stalker?" John said while accepting the mobile back from Sherlock. "Do you suppose this is the stalker?"
"He..." Walking about the flat, Sherlock murmured while occasionally glancing sideways at his flatmate. In order to keep John's mind from drifting towards more terrible thoughts, he asked, "Impression?"
"Hmm?" John asked distractedly.
"John, focus." Sherlock had turned to observe his friend. "It will do her no good to dwell on the negative at the moment." He turned back around, continuing his search. He noted small bits of dark gray clay near the entrance of her flat.
John's eyes drifted aimlessly around Emma's flat. Looking back at Sherlock, he said, "Uh, obviously not a robbery." He glanced around, his mind slowly rejoining the search for clues. "I couldn't find her bag or pocketbook anywhere, but considering recent events, that, the texts..."
Sherlock made a sound to indicate he was listening.
John stared at the sofa. "...the state of the furniture, my guess is she struggled with the man. He must have taken her."
"Excellent, John!" Sherlock responded in praise. "What else?
Deep in thought, John did not immediately answer. He was so distracted by 'what ifs' that he had not noticed the light blood spatter on the wall. He was startled when Sherlock snapped at him.
"John!"
John jumped back into reality.
"John," Sherlock said with a quiet sigh, the features on his face slightly softening. "You are no good to me in this state. Separate your emotions from the case."
"I'm fine, Sherlock," John replied, irritation evident in his tone. "Wait. Did you just say case? Is that all she is to you? Another case?"
Sherlock ignored the questions, his eyes running over the cast off of blood on the wall. He squatted down, eyeing scrapes and additional blood on the floor. "She's been stabbed, most likely twice, given the cast off pattern...," he murmured, though John did not hear as he was angrily pacing back and forth.
Sherlock noted a crushed reddish orange feather in the living room rug. He took out his phone and worked for a few minutes in silence. Then, at one point, he stopped and closed his eyes. To anyone unfamiliar with the consulting detective, it would have appeared he was taking a break to relax. In actuality, he had begun to reconstruct possible scenarios.
John paced hurriedly about the room. He understood Sherlock's methods, but at the moment, was impatient at having to wait. Please let Emma be alright! he thought. Stopping for a moment, he watched his friend with lids half closed. Frustrated, John began to pace again. He was bursting with energy and needed to take action.
Meanwhile, Sherlock was going over the evidence in his mind. The scrapes in the floor were so light, that John had not noticed them. The smeared finger prints on the door frame were most likely from Emma. "It was the stalker that came here tonight. I recognize the faint scent of his cologne. It would appear we have evidence of two weapons involved. Neither are here."
"Two weapons? I haven't seen any weapon," John commented, unintentionally hurrying the discussion.
"John, just listen and allow me to provide the deductions and observations." He gave a quick smile. John, in turn, gave a forced smile."There were, at least, two weapons: a knife and a revolver. The knife was knocked from Emma's hand during the struggle here, and skidded across the floor. It came to rest under the bookcase there. However, there was at least one other weapon, as evidenced by the .455 calibre bullet embedded in the wall there." He pointed up towards the wall in front of them. "The casing seems to have been carelessly tossed on the floor, under the bookcase. It would have required the shooter to manually eject the casing. Curious..."
"Then where's the gun, or the knife, for that matter?" John challenged. "And did you say at least?"
Sherlock sighed at John's impatience. "I've found no evidence that the knife is still here, but I highly doubt he used it to 'encourage' her departure. He did not use the resolver either. He must have had another weapon."
"Emma! We need to hurry, before he kills her!" John snapped, heading for the door, his body tense. He needed to do something. Standing in her flat, he felt utterly useless.
"Wait, would be no point in killing her. One cannot collect from the dead. If she truly does owe a debt on her brother's behalf, as she has said, he will merely provide the proper motivation to ensure future payment."
John frowned. "That isn't reassuring, Sherlock."
"As for the revolver I mentioned..." Sherlock answered, still working through the evidence in his mind. "...it is in our flat."
"What? How?" John began to ask. His shoulders slouched as the realisation set in. "The anonymous blogger."
"I believe the bullet originated from my revolver. There was evidence that it had been recently fired," he mused, eyeing the familiar .455 Mk I calibre ammunition casing. "Which means I'll need to give it up to Lestrade as evidence." He growled in frustration. England's gun laws were strict, making it difficult for a citizen to obtain a firearm certificate. Since Sherlock had not bothered to waste time obtaining said certificate, owning the revolver was, technically, illegal. "I wonder..."
"What?" John stopped at the entrance to the flat, not entirely listening to his friend.
"I wonder if the kidnapper knew this...if the anonymous blogger knew-" he stopped, thinking it best to keep John unaware of his lack of the certificate. In that respect, if John were ever asked, he would know nothing. Quickly, he corrected, "Never mind. I'm not certain how it ties in with Emma at the moment. No doubt the trace in this flat is from the wharf. I recognise the reddish orange feather of the black redstart. That and the gray silty clay I've found leads me to believe her kidnapper had come from a store house in the Convey Wharf area. I know of one where recent excavation has been halted. I suggest we make haste. "
John led the way as the two rushed down the stairs. "You don't seem surprised by all of this," he said through clenched teeth, the frustration and annoyance quite clear. His anger was growing, yet he could not bring himself to look back at Sherlock.
"It was obvious from the tone in your voice," he said with indifference.
"Does it matter to you? Do you even care if she is injured or...or wor-," he gulped.
Sherlock shot him a look as the two stopped at the front door. "Do I care? It would change nothing, accomplish nothing. What good would it do her if I worried? None at all." Taking hold of the door, he continued outside. "John, you are ruled entirely too much by your heart. Your emotions may be your downfall, if you are not careful.
John stopped short. It had just occurred to him that he was unarmed and heading into a possibly dangerous situation. "My-" His words were stopped when his eye caught the familiar sight of his P226, in Sherlock's hand. With a sheepish grin, he said, "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," Sherlock said, returning a grin.
John quickly tucked it in his belt against his back. The feel of the cold metal through his shirt was reassuring at that moment. He breathed a prayer of thanks, as Lestrade and his team pulled up just seconds after he had concealed the weapon.
