A/N: Thank you for all your well-wishes. I'm a little bit better this week. And great news, I got my first royalty check for Spinster's Gambit which is doing So beyond my expectations and I've started my Fantasy novel. Thank you all again!
Sherlock was trying. John didn't quite know what to make of it. He'd never seen the man look so cautious. Surely it was supposed to make him more comfortable, to see Sherlock proving that he understood the enormity of his previous lies, that he wouldn't hide a case from John again. John followed after him, wondering if he was thinking too much. He was grateful to Sherlock, glad to see what their partnership could be. But he hated seeing Sherlock Holmes walk on eggshells. A fake case and a fake partnership.
John got the guard's attention, easy now that they had a real appointment with Major Reed, and they were escorted to a waiting room outside the major's office. No sooner had they been left alone than Sherlock split off to 'sneak around a bit'. John waited behind, doing his best to look like he'd expected to conduct the interview alone. By the time he was called into the meeting his nerves had settled and he could greet the major inside with a salute and no further explanation. The major asked for his I.D and he gave his military card, knowing how it'd helped him before. The major took it and gestured him to sit.
"Can I ask what this is in connection with?" Reed asked, looking up from the I.D.
"Private Bainbridge contacted us about a personal matter, sir," John explained, doing his best to leave out all useful information. He was almost certain this appointment was for nothing more than getting them inside the barracks walls. Now he just needed to stall.
"Nothing's personal when it concerns my troops," the major replied. A normal attitude when it came to the military. Privacy was a privilege of the brass. "What do you really want?"
"I'm here on a legitimate enquiry," John replied. There, that had no content whatsoever.
"You press? Digging for some bloody royal story or something?" the major pressed, looking annoyed.
"No, sir, I'm Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," John stated, listing what the major had already ascertained from his I.D. He was starting to have fun.
"Retired," the major interrupted. Truly irritated, now. John bit his tongue, deciding not to correct him. Medical discharge. He'd tried to reenlist; they'd denied him. The major glanced down at his sling, no sympathy in his eyes. "You could be a used car salesman for all I know."
John met the man's gaze, trying to decide how much of his anger he could show without getting kicked out of the office entirely. Major Reed stared back, his expression slowly clearing.
"I know you, don't I?" he asked, squinting.
"Hmm?" John hummed, trying to look uncertain. The major tossed his I.D back to him dismissively. John leaned forward to grab it and return it to his wallet. Painlessly. He was getting better.
"I've seen you in the papers hanging around with that detective, the one with the silly hat. What the hell does Bainbridge want with a detective?"
"I'm not at liberty to say," John stalled, pushing his I.D into his wallet. He was definitely going to get tossed out.
"Not at liberty to say? He's a soldier in my regiment. I'll be damned if he's going to get up to cloak-and-dagger nonsense like this," Reed growled. The door slammed open, against any kind of deportment training. A soldier rushed in, looking scared. A fully grown man with the marks of a sergeant; he should know better. The sergeant stopped short, seeing John.
"Sir-" he started.
"What's going on?" Reed demanded.
"It's Bainbridge, sir. He's dead," the man announced loudly. Not news to be given in front of a stranger, John noted. Reed pushed himself up from his desk, not wasting time to fuss about comportment. John rushed after them. The major didn't seem to notice, focusing on finding his dead soldier. The duty sergeant led them down a wing of soldiers quarters and into a shared loo. There was a body on the floor, lying half out of a shower stall in a watered down puddle of blood.
"My god!" Reed exclaimed, rushing in. John moved to approach the body but the major stopped him sharply.
"No - let me take a look, sir, I'm a doctor," John ordered automatically, hovering near Bainbridge. Reed's eyebrows snapped together.
"What?' he bit out, looking incredulous. "Sergeant, arrest this man."
The duty sergeant reacted quickly, apparently expecting the action. He wrenched John's arm behind his back without hesitation. John let out a strangled shout and let himself get pulled backwards, not daring to fight. His shoulder would redislocate itself for sure. The sergeant released his arm quickly, shifting his grip onto John's shirt and neck.
"Oh, you're a doctor now too?" the major asked, angry. The door banged open behind them and John tensed, too ready to fight. He needed to let himself be arrested. He had no idea how to do that.
"Let me examine him, please!" John yelled.
"Sir, caught this one snooping around," another sergeant said, walking into John's eyeshot with Sherlock in tow.
"Is that what this is about? Distracting me so that this man could get in here and kill Bainbridge?" Reed shouted.
That's not good.
"Kill him with what? Where's the weapon?" Sherlock asked but his gaze was on John, inspecting his shoulder and meeting his eyes. John nodded and Sherlock turned his glare on Reed.
"What?" Reed asked, blinking.
"Where's the weapon?" Sherlock repeated, slower now. "Go on, search me, no weapon."
John shifted. They needed to let him go. He was too aware of the hand on his neck, the fingernail digging in beneath his hair line. He needed to get his back to a wall and he needed to examine that body. For god's sake, no one had even checked the Bainbridge's wounds yet, as far as John could see.
"Bainbridge was on parade. He came off duty five minutes ago. When's this supposed to have happened?" John growled.
"You obviously stabbed him before he got into the shower," Reed accused.
"No," Sherlock drawled.
"No?" Reed spat. This was taking too long.
"He's soaking wet and there's still shampoo in his hair. He got into the shower and then someone stabbed him," Sherlock replied, glancing at John. John nodded again. He was okay. He was in control of this.
"But the cubical was locked from the inside, sir. I had to break it open," the duty sergeant replied, his voice too close to John's ear. That was interesting; how had the killer gotten inside? John focused on that - Sherlock would be thrilled. He liked locked-door mysteries. They always had deceptively simple solutions.
"Must have climbed over the top," Reed proposed and John snorted - not that simple.
"Well then I'd be soaking wet too, wouldn't I?" Sherlock snarled, impatient too now. They had to look at that damn body. John was done with it.
"Major, please. I'm John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand and Barts bloody Hospital! Let me examine this body!" John shouted. The man could still have a steady pulse for all he knew. The major looked down at Bainbridge, obviously unhappy with his options. He nodded finally, looking ready to spit, and the duty sergeant released him.
"Thank you," John replied, deciding not to take off his coat when it'd been so much effort to get it on in the first place. He walked around the body until he could see everyone in the room and knelt down, trying to regain his calm.
"Suicide?" the major suggested, speaking softer now. John couldn't make out a pulse. Damn it all.
"No. The weapon again, no knife," Sherlock replied. John ran his hands over the bloodiest part of Bainbridge's bare torso and found a slit in his side. Sherlock squatted beside him.
"Here we are. There is a wound to the abdomen, incredibly fine," John announced.
"Man stabbed to death. No murder weapon. Door locked from the inside. Only one way in or out of here…" Sherlock mused. John ignored him, keeping his hand in front of the victim's mouth and nose.
"Sherlock-" John said sharply and Sherlock looked up, like he always did when John took that tone. John felt over Bainbridge's throat, hopeful now. They could save this man. "He's still breathing."
"Oh my god," Sherlock exclaimed, his breath catching. The major moved to leave, hopefully to call an ambulance. John wouldn't trust in it after this show of incompetence.
"What do we do?" Sherlock asked, sounding nervous now and John ignored that too.
"Give me your scarf," he ordered without waiting to check if Sherlock had it. He always had it.
"What?" Sherlock asked and John ignored that too. He had work to do. It wasn't his problem if Sherlock loved that scarf.
"Quickly, now!" he shouted before looking over at the waiting duty sergeant to focus his command. "Call an ambulance now!" The duty sergeant hesitated, confused by the chain of command. He'd been arresting John moments before. "Do it!" John shouted. The shouting worked too well for both sergeants ran to obey. Damn it.
"Nurse, press here. Hard," John ordered, thinking the damned scarf would have appeared already.
"Nurse?" Sherlock protested and John looked up. Right. Not in the hospital. Irrelevant.
"Yeah, I'm making do. Keep pressure on that wound!" he ordered. "Steven? Steven, stay with me," he called to his patient, pulling down the man's lower eyelids to check for anemia. His eyes were pale pink beneath their whites, no longer red with blood. Not good, but not dead and there was nothing to be done for it. He'd need a transfusion if he made it that long. John examined him for more wounds and called 999 himself to give dispatch a full analysis of the patient. The duty sergeant came back and John sent him off for Bainbridge's military file; it'd list his blood type for the transfusion for sure. Then there was little for John to do but encourage Sherlock to apply pressure and hope the Private's heart didn't stop.
This wasn't a fake case. John felt something relax in his chest at the thought. An attempted murder - and if they were very very lucky, a thwarted one. That damned unit sergeant had almost let Bainbridge bleed out alone on the floor. They hadn't even called a bloody ambulance. John met Sherlock's gaze and saw his anger reflected there.
"Incredible incompetence," John growled. Sherlock nodded, his pupils dialating.
"He'd just come off guard duty. There had to be people watching, nothing apparently wrong… No weapon here, only one way in or out and a guard at that door. There was a puzzle, where is the murderer - or if it's suicide, the weapon? I got caught up…" Sherlock muttered. "I missed this." He glanced down at the wound beneath his hand, bleeding into his scarf. His eyes met John's again, full of wonder. John sighed, nodding. They both knew they were likely to lose this patient. Not their error, but it would have been Sherlock's. He'd have discovered it at the autopsy, how long it'd taken for the tiny wound to take its toll. "You caught this. You'd never miss it," Sherlock breathed. John blew out a heavy breath and nodded. Too much sentiment. He didn't have the energy.
"Yes, Sherlock. Beyond being a crippled, vaguely intelligent source of milk and tea for you, I actually know how to do stuff," he growled. Sherlock laughed, a brilliant light-hearted sound that made John's heart sore.
"Vaguely intelligent source of milk and tea? I said that, did I?" Sherlock guessed. John sighed again, glaring at him.
"It might have come up, yes."
Sherlock tilted his head, considering that, and smirked.
"Fairly accurate," he congratulated himself and John huffed. Sherlock smiled, his eyes sparkling, and John shook his head, amused despite himself.
They waited for the EMTs and let them take over. The major let them leave with his thanks and his personal number. It was more than a gesture; they had a major in Her Majesty's guard that owned them one hell of a favor.
"Was it the duty guard?" John asked when they were back in the privacy of their flat.
"No," Sherlock replied, throwing his coat onto its hook and falling into the couch. John washed the blood off his hands in the kitchen sink and settled into Sherlock's chair. Sherlock groaned, obviously frustrated. John didn't have to ask why. There was nothing more to do with the case but see if Bainbridge woke up with more information. Not the distraction they were looking for.
"I had fun tonight," John offered, taking off his shoes. Sherlock groaned again.
"Bored!" he complained and John smiled. It'd been too long since he'd heard that word. A year of absence and mourning, nine days of torture, six weeks of recovery. John pulled off his sling and walked over to the fireplace to start his physical therapy reps.
"Find another case?" he suggested, watching Sherlock in the mirror.
~~/~~
Sherlock observed John in the mirror. The man wanted to stay; he just needed an excuse. Cases would make them leave the house. That was the exact opposite of what he wanted. Useless. He took out his phone.
:I want to stay home. Advise. SH: he ordered. His phone buzzed almost immediately. Donovan was likely waiting in public transit or lonely at home. Perfect. Sherlock held his phone in front of his face and opened the message.
: Avoid the door at all costs.:
Damnit. Why was everyone so slow? And they thought he was laughable?
:With John. You're stupid. SH: Sherlock replied. His phone buzzed again. She was getting accustomed to insults.
:Is he there?: she asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why would he have said 'stay' at home with John if he weren't in the building?
:Yes. SH: he typed out instead. John was on his second set of exercises, already building up a sweat from the pain. There wasn't much time.
:He'll leave when he's bored: he added, desperate enough to spell it out for the daft woman. At least she knew him and she knew men. And she answered her phone.
:Drink beer? Get Pizza? Poker, 'Who Am I', Parcheesy ?:
Sherlock stared at the suggestion, wanting to tear at the woman.
What in the hell is Parcheesy?
Surely the internet would know. For now, unimportant. Apparently they needed beer. If this didn't work, he was going to mock Donovan for a week.