Chapter Five: Viciously Lovely (continued)
John is beginning to think he's losing his mind. Never before has he experienced so much spirit activity and it's starting to take its toll on him. He's mentally exhausted; maybe this is why Sherlock can be so churlish on occasion. What must it be like, to see this stuff all the time?
This job he's on right now, though, nothing out of the ordinary is happening. There's hasn't been even any creaks or thuds. Nothing. Nada. No objects being thrown, no weird entities busting through walls.
Jack shit.
He sighs and stretches his arms over his head, letting his eyes close as he makes a last ditch effort to relax his mind on the ancient sofa in the sitting area of an empty four-bedroom house in Barking at one o'clock in the morning. Well, the owner, Thomas Maximillian, said 'house' but John's tending towards calling it a mini-mansion in his own head. Its vaulted ceilings and a bathroom the size of John's bedroom sort of make it seem that way.
Whatever it is, it is empty save for this terrible sofa that smells like wet dog with an undercurrent of I-probably-don't-really-want-to-know. Thomas insists that he's being haunted by the ghost of his former lover, Raymond. Apparently Raymond died of cancer five years ago, but the haunting only started seven months back—yet the house is as empty as if it's sat this way for decades.
John decides to give it one more try. He yanks the EVP meter out of his pocket, takes note that it is still dark and huffs, the sound loud in the empty house. Idly, he thinks about Sherlock then Ophelia. Sherlock's had the odd habit the past three months of showing up wherever John happens to be. Sometimes his sister does, too. With the two of them, but mostly just Sherlock, John's found himself beginning to loke his job. He certainly enjoys writing out reports with more than three words in them.
Admittedly, John finds himself looking forward to seeing Sherlock more than actually doing his job, if he's completely honest. He crosses his legs at the ankles where they're hanging over the arm of the sofa and drops the hateful little meter onto his chest. He'll close his eyes for five minutes and then he'll check in with LOPNI HQ and report that total lack of anything happening. Again.
ooo
A five minute nap actually turns into two hours. John wakes up with a start, swearing that someone or some thing touched his arm. He writes it off as exhaustion and being keyed up over the waste of a night and hits the button on the blue tooth in his ear.
"Ah, John, you haven't joined the fifth dimension yet, I hear." Dale is entirely too exuberant for three AM.
"Aw, Dale, not in the mood tonight. This place is as desolate as a public gym on Thanksgiving."
"Aye, Captain, hear you loud and clear. Over and out." Dale says happily.
God, to be twenty five again. "Night, Dale." John tells him, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. He rolls his shoulders, wincing at the stiffness from being idle settling in. Locking the front door and slipping the key back under the mat, he decides to walk for a little while in hopes that the exercise will work some of the kinks out of his back. It's a decent night, anyway, a little cool and damp but not enough to deter him.
It has started to drizzle some and John has almost had enough walking for one night when a flash of blue-red-blue-red lights and a screeching siren catch his attention. He quickens his step and checks down several alleys before he finds the one cordoned off by an investigative crew. He wanders closer and closer towards the yellow tape barricading a floodlit area in the corner where two big buildings meet. From his current vantage point, which happens to be facing directly into a pair of enormous lights that are set out on the ground. The steady but gentle fall of rainwater could easily be diamonds the way they catch the bright beams.
A rumpled copper with a cigarette in his mouth is leaning against one of the walls. John can just make out a glint of silver in a headful of hair that looks as if it's been a while since it had a date with a comb. The man is mostly in shadow but John can that he's holding what is presumably a coffee cup in his hands. John observes him a little more closely as he shifts on his feet and thinks that maybe the copper should be mainlining the stuff when he turns his eyes in John's direction. He looks so exhausted that even if he did, he'd probably only look tired.
The policeman turns away from John and John follows his gaze towards two figures on the ground. Obviously, the one laid out flat is the victim and the other one, surprise, surprise, is Sherlock Holmes. He peers around to see if Ophelia is anywhere in sight.
Without conscious effort or awareness, John steps close enough to the barricade to grasp the top line of tape in his hands. He cannot make out what's being said over the patter of the rain, but there's no mistaking the deep, carrying timbre of Sherlock's voice. Glad to see that apparently he's been forgotten, never mind the reason, John has to fight the irrational urge to stomp over the line and make Sherlock explain himself.
He knows better, though. It's not like that had any type of long standing commitment. Just because someone happens to show up on every one of your cases for a few weeks doesn't mean you're dating or anything. Twelve weeks, to be exact. John quells his urges, however, reminding himself that he has no claim on this man's time. He tells himself that interrupting someone's work is childish and rude, and that's all there is to it.
He watches Sherlock, though, never taking his eyes off him even as his fingers fiddle with the EVP meter in his pocket because it just started beeping at him and he doesn't really want to draw attention to himself for fear that he'll be told that he has no business being there. The rain begins to slack off as Sherlock stands up from where he's been kneeling beside the body on the pavement for the past fifteen minutes.
John involuntarily gasps. Watery moonlight is now peeking from between the clouds overhead, highlighting the rain-licked curls artistically flattened around Sherlock's face. Even from where he's standing, John can clearly see that his eyes are glittering with a thrill that he decides in that instant he wants to understand. Regrettably, John is discovering that he cares less about what's happened to the poor sod on the ground than to finding out how to make Sherlock look at him that way.
John doesn't even know he's not breathing until Sherlock is less than a foot away from him, eyes locked with John's. A new voice intrudes into his thoughts, diverting his attention from the viciously lovely vision in front of him. It is almost physically painful to turn away.
"Aye, mate, who are you?" the copper with the silver hair asks as he pulls up a section of the police tape in order to bend beneath it. Up close, John admits he's certainly striking but the image of Sherlock and moonlight is now burned into his brain.
"Lestrade, this is John. He's a ghost hunter. John, Lestrade. What are you doing here?" Sherlock says in a tone that pretends desperately to be gruff.
"Mike sent me over to Mr. Maximillian's house, it's not too far from here…" John starts to explain.
Sherlock waves a hand in the air between them. "You were not scheduled tonight."
"There's no set schedule, Sherlock. The client called, I was free, so I went."
Sherlock looks at him as if searching for something. "Hmmm," he says.
Lestrade clears his throat. "If that's all, you should take your date somewhere a bit more romantic, Sherlock."
"Usually, I just see him while he's working," Sherlock offers while John sputters. "Never mind, John. Lestrade, the address is seventeen seventy seven, if he's not there and the red shoes are missing, you'll find him at the Jitterbug."
"The what?" John finally has the presence of mind to ask.
"Just a case. George told me that Richard is a top-billed drag queen at one of the city clubs. George thought he'd try it out, but Richard thought he was being upstaged and now Lestrade has a murder on his hands."
John stops as Sherlock slides into a cab he's managed to conjure up out of nowhere. He glances down at his watch, surprised to find that he's been standing out here for almost an hour.
"Well, come on, John. The seat is big enough for both of us."
Sherlock and the cabbie are both giving him strange looks.
"Right," he says with a sharp tilt of his chin before sliding into the backseat beside Sherlock. After a few moments of silence, it's on the tip of his tongue to ask where they're going, instead, however, he finds his clumsy tongue blurting out, "What do you mean George told you? Isn't George the victim here?"
"Quite right, John. Sometimes the best evidence comes from the victims. After all, they're sort of there when it happens."
John isn't sure where to go with that statement. "That's amazing."
Sherlock huffs a short chuckle. John decides to sit back and enjoy the ride, wherever it is going to take him. When they pull up in front of St. Bart's hospital, John starts to enquire whether he should follow, but Sherlock answers him by gesturing towards the building as he pays the cabbie. He strides ahead, intent on his purpose.
John stares after him, considers his options and trots to catch up.