Staring at the door, John was lost in thought. Emma was resting in the other room and Sherlock had left without explanation for an address on Neasden Lane. Finally rousing himself, he realized he still had hold of the bedroom door handle. Slipping his fingers away, he walked towards the kitchen, then stopped. He had forgotten why he was heading that direction. He turned towards the sofa to sit down. He felt exhausted, but could not bring himself to sit. Walking past the sofa, he stopped again.
John sighed deeply. Though he was relieved to have Emma safe and within a few feet of him, something was still bothering him. Unfortunately, he could not figure out exactly what it was. He paced to the window, stopped and peered out. The streets were relatively quiet. In fact, the quiet was part of what was maddening to him. He needed to talk to someone, anyone, about the recent events. He needed to sort out every detail. With a growl, he paced back across the room.
John groaned. He began to understand Sherlock's need for medications. His mind was racing, and he was unable to stop it. One little pill could easily take all of that away, dull the mind and ease him into a temporary state of oblivion. He shook his head. Dr. John Watson was never one to resort to drugs for the solution to any problem. He resumed pacing.
Inspector Lestrade strapped himself securely in the car and raced towards the morgue. He had just received a cryptic text from Sherlock.
It wasn't suicide.
Confused, Lestrade texted back, What?
Neasdon Lane. It wasn't suicide.
Lestrade tried to ring Sherlock for more clarification. Receiving no answer, he decided to continue towards Neasdon Lane. On his way, an additional text from Sherlock came through.
At morgue. Meet there.
With a growl of annoyance, Lestrade veered across traffic, changing direction. He was met with a chorus of horns, screeches and curses. He grimaced, ignoring any and all eyes on him as he kept driving. He was law enforcement, but there were times when he felt he was seen more as the enemy than protection. Arriving at the morgue, he sloppily parked the car and raced inside.
Lestrade pushed through the door into the ice cold room of the morgue, where he found Sherlock pacing next to a body. The body was partially exposed as the sheet had been pulled back from the head and neck. He expected the consulting detective to acknowledge him. That acknowledgement did not come.
Lestrade watched and waited. Sherlock appeared animated. No, more than animated...agitated. He was curious as to why the detective would be in such a state. Usually, he was in his element when it came to the discovery of a crime. In fact, it seemed at times he enjoyed it. Sick, Lestrade thought to himself. He cleared his throat and swallowed. With a wince, he secretly wished he had passed on lunch. The heavy grease laden burger now felt like a rock in his stomach.
"Well?!" Lestrade snapped. There was no response.
Sherlock continued to pace rapidly beside table. His eyes were darting from side to side as he appeared to be processing information internally. Consumed by his thoughts, he ignored all outside stimulants at the moment. Lines were etched in his face. Lines of concern.
Lestrade was puzzled. He had known Sherlock for a long time, but never had he seen that look on his face. He tried to run through possibilities in his head, playing the part of the detective, but he came up with only one possible thought. Sherlock was concerned for Emma. Lestrade became more confused. Sherlock was never one to fall in love, or have a relationship in general, for that matter.
His closest, human relationship was only recently started with Dr. John Watson. Rumours spread like wildfire when it became know that the two men had taken up sharing the rent at 221B Baker Street. And, as usual when Sherlock was involved, the rumours were not...nice. The inspector could not help but grin. They may not be appropriate rumours, but they were certainly amusing ones. Ones that he would draw on whenever the detective got under his skin, which was more often than not.
The room fell silent. Lestrade looked up, realising the sound of Sherlock's pacing had ceased. With the grin still on his lips, he found Sherlock staring at him with curiosity. Hoping to distract the detective, or at least to avoid questions, he nodded to the body.
"What was so damned important that I race down here?!" Lestrade demanded.
Sherlock's eyes shone bright as he turned to face the body. "Ah, yes. The homicide."
"You say homicide, but the report has already been written up as suicide," Lestrade said while stepping next to the body, looking at Sherlock askance. He knew full well he was leaving an opening for one of Sherlock's snide remarks.
"And police reports are never wrong," Sherlock quipped.
And there it is. Lestrade clenched his jaw in anger. Counting down from thirty, he finally gained control of his emotions. When he first met Sherlock, he had an outburst. With each successive meeting, he learned to maintain control through counting. First, it began with five, then ten. The longer he knew Sherlock, the more his time increased to keep cool.
He was Chief Inspector and deserved respect, but every time he dealt with the 'consulting detective', the outcome was always the same. Did the man not understand respect? Does he even care? Lestrade sighed. It was a stupid question he already knew the answer to. Sherlock did not subscribe to common courtesies and niceties because he considered them time consuming and inefficient.
"Look, I appreciate your help and all, but..." The inspector waved a hand towards the body. "This is a closed case. The man shot himself in the head. Time of death was estimated at 48 hours ago."
Sherlock smirked, that familiar smug look coming over his face. He had information that no one else had. "True, he did shoot himself, but not by his choice."
Lestrade scoffed. "So, you're saying that someone made him commit suicide? Doubt it. I can't imagine anyone forcing me to kill myself. If anyone wants me dead, they are gonna have to do it themselves."
"I would agree, as would, I'm sure, the victim here. Gabriel Henson, a family man. Married with two children, a young boy and girl. The family is not struggling financially, the wife claims there were no problems. He was living in this flat, away from his family, without evidence of any affair. I thought it odd he would prepare dinner, only to kill himself. A waste of food, if you ask me."
"What? Dinner?" Lestrade was confused.
"Yes, inspector. Dinner. The victim had dinner in the nuclear cooker." Sherlock walked around the head of the body, standing on the other side, facing Lestrade. "And see here, the victim was right handed, so it is appropriate that he shot himself in the right temple. Note the burned and blackened skin. And the discharge on his right hand."
"Yes, yes...we noticed all of that. Seems clear that he committed suicide," the inspector said with impatience.
Sherlock shook his head. "You've missed one vital clue, or two, rather. Here." He turned the head away from Lestrade, in order to expose the back of the neck. Two small burn marks lay side by side with a radiating circle of erythema on the mid neck, near the base of the skull. "And here." He lifted the right arm, again pointed at two small burn marks on the back.
"What the-" Lestrade began.
"Taser," Sherlock explained. "The victim was incapacitated with the initial hit to the neck. Then, using his own weapon, which was tied to his hand. His muscle, the flexor digitorum profundus, was manipulated, causing his hand to flex and, subsequently, pull the trigger."
"You figured this out at his flat? The weapon tied to his hand?" the inspector asked incredulously.
"I had my suspicions, after finding trace rope fibers on his wrist. That, and his dinner." Sherlock responded. He stared at the face of the body, something obviously still on his mind.
"Dinner, right," Lestrade said with an eye roll. "Hey, how's John's girlfriend doing? I'll need to stop by and take her statement."
"Hmm? Oh, fine, fine," Sherlock murmured distractedly. "This man. He looks familiar..."
Molly entered the room, but only Lestrade looked in her direction. Giving a brief smile, he turned back towards Sherlock. "Familiar?"
"Molly!" Sherlock called out, startling the two. "Did this man have any personal effects when he was brought in?"
Molly Harper gave a shy smile and nodded. "Yes. I can get them for you, if you'd like. The family hasn't picked them up yet." She turned and left, returning a few minutes later with a small clear bag.
Sherlock snatched the bag quickly out of her hand and dumped the contents on a nearby, empty, examining table. Though startled by the movement, it was not unexpected by Molly. She had grown almost accustomed to his quirks. At times, she welcomed them. Though Sherlock often was curt, nearly hurtful, she knew it was unintentionally and forgave him for each infraction done her.
Sherlock spread the items out, noted the wallet with identification and family photograph, money, a small black book and a mobile phone. Picking up the phone, he called up the text messages.
While Sherlock was spinning through texts, from old to the most recent, Molly had picked up the black book and was leafing through it. She looked at the inspector, hoping to make small talk. "This man looks like a secret agent."
Lestrade grinned. "What? Because of the black suit and tie. Right." He shook his head. She's seen too many movies.
Sherlock was busy reading and was not entirely paying attention.
"This is a log book. 'Bus to Kew Gardens.' Oh, that sounds lovely. John told me it was beautiful, though I don't wonder he was referring to her and not the garden," she said with a giggle as she flipped through more pages. "'Tapas Brindisa'. John mentioned it on his blog, but I've never tried it. He said it was a nice, casual place to eat. You went with him, didn't you Sherlock?" She paused.
Her words fell on deaf ears as Sherlock reached the last of the victim's messages.
He wants to chat.
I can't.
He says NOW. Meet atConvoys Wharf, 5pm.
I can't!
Coming for you.
Receiving no response, Molly continued looking through the book, "This man has been around the city quite a bit. In fact, it seems he's been to a lot of the same places John has been to recently." She let out an uncomfortable laugh. "W-wouldn't it be funny if this man had actually been following John and Emma? Well, not funny-"
Sherlock's head jerked up at Molly, her words finally registering in his mind. "Molly, you're brilliant!" he exclaimed while ripping the black book from her hand. Rapidly, he turned each page, his eyes scanning the words. Balcombe Street. Kew Gardens. 221B Baker Street. Tapas Brindisa. Pret A Manager.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Lestrade asked, glancing at Molly who gave a shrug.
"The stalker," Sherlock answered, though both Lestrade and Molly had no clue to what he was referring.
"I...," she began to ask quietly, but was afraid she might say something wrong.
"Sherlock, what do you mean 'the stalker'? Who's stalker, yours?" the inspector asked.
"Emma's...," Sherlock's mind whirled as he began sorting the information.
"Emma's kidnapper? You're saying this is the guy?" Lestrade asked incredulously.
"Quiet! I need to think!" he demanded. Then, murmuring to himself, he ran over the clues. Suddenly, he was dialling his mobile phone. While rushing to the door, he said to Lestrade, "Take me to my flat. Now!"
John had finally settled down in one of the armchairs. Having brewed a pot of tea, he gingerly sipped at his cup, hoping the warmth of the liquid would give some peace to his still active mind. Hours had passed and the evening was drawing near. He had not heard from Sherlock. Curious as he was, it was nice to have some time alone.
Alone. He frowned at the thought. Being alone was one of his fears. Dying alone was another. He shook his head. Stop it! he thought, chastising himself. Suddenly, his ears picked up the sound of soft moaning. He quickly put his cup down, tea splashing onto the table, and rushed into Sherlock's room.
Emma was curled in a fetal position, moaning in pain. John flew to her side, his eyes running over her body in search of any outward evidence of the cause of the pain. He saw nothing, but small, dried blood stains on her shirt.
"Emma, what is it? What's wrong?" he said in a hushed tone.
She moaned again, her arms wrapped around her abdomen. Beads of sweat had formed on her forehead and her face looked flush. John placed the back of his hand against her skin. She was warm.
John cupped her face in his hand. "Emma." Her eyes were closed. "Emma, look at me." he insisted.
Through slitted eye lids, she looked at John. She tried to muster up a smile, but finished in another moan. She doubled up again.
"Emma, I need to get my bag. I'll be back in a moment, alright?" John said, the worry rising in his voice.
As soon as she gave an imperceptible nod, he dashed off and upstairs to retrieve his bag. When he reached the living room, he heard his mobile ringing. With only a brief hesitation, he passed by his phone and back into Sherlock's room to tend to Emma.
She had just come from the loo, the sound of rushing water indicating she had recently vomited. Her face was now damp from sweat. Weakly, she slipped back into the bed. John helped cover her with one sheet. She protested, wanting more.
John's mobile began ringing again from the other room. He glanced at the door, then back at his girlfriend. "Emma, you have a fever. Piling on additional blankets will only make it worse. Do you need Zofran? Lorazepam? We need to get your fever down, but we first have to control the vomiting."
John grabbed the bottle of Zofran he had in his bag for emergencies. He handed her a pill, then, as an afterthought, ran to the kitchen to get her a cup of water. When he returned, she had already swallowed the pill.
"Emma, you need to have me look at your injuries. If you are running a fever-" he began to insist, but stopped when he heard his mobile ring again. "Can no one take a hint?!" he grumbled to himself.
Emma gave a small nod of agreement. "Alright, John," came the feeble whisper.
John looked back at Emma, gently pushing away strands of hair from her face. His heart swelling at seeing her. He had been so worried that something terrible might have happened. Here, in front of him, an indescribable feeling overcame him. He quickly wiped away a few tears that had escaped, hoping she had not noticed.
John's mobile began ringing again. John growled in anger.
"John, answer your phone. Then come back afterwards." She attempted a weak smile. "Go..." she insisted.
"Alright, but I'm not staying on the phone. Nothing is more important than you." He stood up and slipped out the door. His mobile was on the table by the window. When he glanced at it, he sighed heavily. Sherlock. Of course.
Wanting to give a bit of his own medicine, John was prepared to answer as Sherlock often did, with 'What, Sherlock'. Suddenly, a sharp, burning pain hit the base of his neck and a buzzing sensation shot through him. Every muscle in his body seized up. Immediately, he lost his balance and fell sideways, crashing onto the floor painfully. Though he groaned from the fall, he could not bring himself to move. His brain was screaming instructions, but his body either would not or could not comply.
Movement told John his assailant was still behind him. Emma, no, oh God, no! John's only concern was to try and regain movement. Emma was weak and vulnerable. She was in grave danger and he could do nothing. The feeling of helplessness was claustrophobic. But there was hope. He felt the tips of his fingers move, or at least he thought they were moving.
Unfortunately, John did not have time to work on any additional muscles. A hand grazed passed his cheek. In the hand was a cloth that reeked of a familiar chemical. Chloroform! He tried to fight, but his head would not move. The cloth was gently placed over his nose and mouth. He had no choice but to breathe in the toxic vapors. As the chemical invaded his body, his vision grew blurry, and all he could think of was the danger to his girlfriend in the other room. Within minutes, he was unconscious.
Sherlock and Lestrade rushed into the living room of 221B Baker Street. The flat was eerily quiet. Sherlock slowed to a halt by the window. Lestrade ran to the kitchen: empty. Passing quickly through the living room, he looked into Sherlock's bedroom. The covers were pulled back on the bed. No one was in the room. He turned and bolted up the stairs, pushing John's door open. Nothing. Lestrade ran back down stairs. Even Mrs. Hudson was not home.
Returning to Sherlock's side, breathlessly he said, "There's no sign of them."
Sherlock stood motionless.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade called out, curious as to why he had not said a word since they arrived. Stepping next to the detective, he noticed a laptop on the desk. "John's?" he asked.
Sherlock gave a nod. "Read it."
Lestrade leaned in close, squinting slightly as he read the familiar site of John Watson's blog.
John Watson's Blog
July 4, 2011
Thought I would pop on for a moment. John is in good hands. *Very* good hands.
To Sherlock,
Don't bother looking for him. I'm sure you will ignore that request and look anyway. Just know, I will make you regret that decision, should you choose to 'rescue' your flatmate. He's mine. I own him.
For that matter, I own you as well. For all of your logical and 'keep at a distance' attitude, you are still easily manipulated.
