The Improbable One
The man thought of himself as a detective. That wasn't his official job description but he knew that he was a competent, even talented, professional. The work, making a crime scene release its silent story and providing the necessary evidence to see that justice was served, was his calling and his passion. This evening he walked slowly around the woman's body. She was in her thirties, he guessed, married and was dressed in pink from head to toe. She was attractive and obviously took great care in her appearance. That was why it was so telling that she had scratched a word into the wood floor destroying her once manicured finger nails. That was a desperate act. Rache. Of course, he had immediately recognized it as the German word for revenge. He had always been rather good with languages. But how and why had a pretty, blond, German woman come to Lauriston Gardens to become the fourth of the "serial suicides"? Other than the body, the upstairs room in the dilapidated old building was empty, bare except for a dust-covered rocking horse in the corner. So intense and complete was his concentration as he observed the scene that he started at the sound of his D.I.'s gravelly voice behind him.
"Got anything?" Lestrade inquired.
"Not much," he answered truthful. "Like the others, she obviously doesn't belong here but other than that we'll need to ..." Anderson trailed off. Lestrade was fumbling for his phone.
"You're not going to call him are you?" Anderson asked hesitantly. "Because we can handle this. We can definitely handle it."* Lestrade ignored him and hit 1 on his speed dial. The D.I. sighed in aggravation when the call went directly to voice mail.
"OK, listen, I'll be back shortly. Keep me informed of everything you find. Don't over look anything. Right." Lestrade retraced his steps down stairs while the forensics specialist sullenly watched him go.
"Donovan," the D.I. called out as he shed his blue suit. Sally popped her head around the corner, brushing back her dark curly hair. Anderson did love Sally's hair. "I've got to go. Manage scene access until I get back," Donovan looked cross. He knew that she knew that there was only one reason why Lestrade would leave a scene.
"Yes, sir." she said curtly before stalking back through the door..
/-/-/-/-/-/
Lestrade returned almost an hour later. Holmes was less than 10 minutes behind. As Anderson descended the stairs he sincerely wished that he and the Detective could exchange information in a collegial fashion but knew from experience that would not be the case. In fact, after the Hinckley double homicide debacle, he had made it clear to Lestrade and the other D.I.'s that he would no longer voluntarily work with the brilliant yet puerile man. He had barely stepped outside tonight when Holmes started.
"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again," Sherlock was sneering at him but he needed to remain professional.
"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" He folded his arms in a show of authority. It was then that he noticed the short bloke with a cane. Who the hell was he? He couldn't be with Sherlock, could he? Anderson's attention was immediately drawn back to the Detective himself.
"Quite clear. And is you wife away for long?" He asked. How on Earth could he have deduced that? Now Anderson was annoyed.
"Don't pretend you worked that out someone told you," he snapped.
"Your deodorant told me," the Detective snapped back. Anderson knew that he was about to be sucked into one of Holmes's deductive traps but he couldn't help himself. Surely, he was a masochist.
"My deodorant?" he said.
"It's for men," the Detective replied glibly.
"Of course, it's for men. I'm wearing it!" he heard himself exclaim, exasperated.
"So is Sergeant Donovan." Holmes said smoothly as he made to move past him.
"I don't know what you're implying..." he said defensively.
"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally just came over for a nice little chat and happened to stay over. And scrubbed your floors going by the state of her knees." Holmes turned and entered the building.
How, how, how? How could he know? How? Damn him and his blasted, super-human smugness. Anderson looked helplessly at Sally who was, understandably, mortified. Then he noticed that short bloke again. He had quickly checked Sally's knees before following Holmes in to the house. Who was he and what was he doing here?
Anderson took a moment on the pavement to talk Sally down (or rather, to get his ears thoroughly blistered by her) before returning up stairs. He needed to be sure his findings were heard. The Detective just was reporting to Lestrade as he gained the landing. Not much, he'd said. Had he come up empty as well? Wow. Anderson leaned casually against the door jam, emboldened, and began to theorize.
"She's German," he said, confidently. "Rache, German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something ..." It was obvious there was something important in this message. The Detective never looked up. He crossed the room in three long steps whilst fiddling with his phone.
"Yes, thank you for your input," he had said flatly then he had slammed the door closed.
The rude dismissal stung. It really stung. Anderson stared at the closed door for a long moment sublimating his anger. The man was absolutely impossible. Every time, every time, he tried to collaborate in the spirit of professional cooperation Holmes behaved like a pompous, arrogant arse, showing off for Lestrade as if he were the only one at the scene with any deductive ability. And Lestrade ate it up! He may not be possessed of the same gifts as the Detective but that did not make him unskilled. How dare Holmes presume that he had nothing to offer. Anderson had almost convinced himself to re-open the door when Toft called up the stairs with a question regarding the scene photography. Anderson straightened, collecting himself, and descended the stairs to consult with his officer. He was the lead forensics scientist on this case, after all.
"Anderson, keep everyone out," Lestrade had called down not two minutes later as if nothing untoward were happening. The D.I. was patently breaking every rule in the book by letting Holmes in there. Not to mention the other guy. Toft gave him a look out of the the corner of his eye gauging his reaction. Peeved, Anderson jammed a finger at the scene processing checklist in Toft's hand. Just five minutes later Holmes was tearing down the stairs talking nonsense about suitcases, mistakes and pink. Obviously he was on to something brilliant, as usual, but what was yet unknown. Anderson finished with Toft then noted, with grim satisfaction, that Holmes had abandoned the short bloke, who looked utterly confused and out of place, at the top of the stairs without a second thought.
/-/-/-/-/-/
Two hours later, the scene processing complete, Anderson was riding with Lestrade and Sally back to the Yard. He was still stewing over Holmes's treatment of him. Didn't the Detective realize that justice would be better served if they worked as allies rather than adversaries? Sally was talking to Lestrade about the case, he really wasn't paying much attention.
"So what exactly did the Freak's 'colleague' do, then?" Sally asked and Anderson straightened in the rear seat. Colleague? Hardly. Lestrade quickly glance away from the road toward Donovan and then back.
"He didn't really call him a 'colleague', did he?" the D.I. asked, incredulous. Donovan smirked and nodded.
"Yup, that's what he called him 'his colleague'." Lestrade glanced away from the road toward Donovan and back again, shaking his head.
"Really? He called him that?" he smiled. "Wouldn't even tell me his name, just dragged him upstairs."
"Did he even do anything? Looked a bit deer-in-headlights, if you ask me," Anderson said dismissively. Lestrade screwed up his face considering,
"Not so sure about that. He's a doctor of some sort. Gave the same cause of death as our lot did." Anderson snorted. So he could tell the cause on death for a simple poisoning. Big deal.
"But that's not the half of it," Lestrade was continuing.
"What d'you mean?" Sally asked.
"So Sherlock was off doing his thing," Lestrade fluttered a hand in the air before returning it to the steering wheel, "when the doctor bloke interrupts him to ask a question." Sally snorted a laugh.
"No, really, he did," Lestrade continued. "Didn't know any better, did he? But get this. Instead of ripping the poor sod's head off, I mean, yeah, he insulted him but nothing like he might have done, Sherlock answered him and explained everything. Bloody useful, actually. I'd missed about half of what was said the first time 'round. Three times he interrupted."
Sally was staring gape mouthed at her boss,
"Freak did that?" she asked disbelieving. Oh, Jesus, not Sally, too.
"Still ditched the sod, cane and all, didn't he," Anderson muttered darkly. Colleague, indeed. Sally sent him a bewildered what's your problem look over her shoulder.
Lestrade and Sally resumed their conversation about fact checking and press releases while Anderson slouched back in his seat. Several minutes later he spoke,
"You know, if there is a suitcase, he's going to find it. May have done already." he said petulantly to the back of their heads.
/-/-/-/-/-/
The next time Anderson saw John Watson was later the same evening during the "drugs bust" at Holmes's new flat (Anderson was secretly very pleased the Detective had moved from that tip of a place on Montague Street). He still didn't know the short guy's name but the man certainly was naive. Did he really not know about Holmes's history with drugs? But it was Anderson who was soon gobsmacked when Sherlock turned to the man and asked his opinion, and then appeared to listen to him. He was even more astounded when the guy dared to snap at Sherlock over his deductive rant about Rachel not being a name.
"Then, what is it!" he had demanded. Holmes had actually paused and answered him, just like Lestrade had said. Holmes even called him, quite naturally, by his first name, John. Anderson had known and worked with the Detective for five years and Holmes had never called him by his first name. He doubted if he even knew it. Who was this John bloke?
/-/-/-/-/-/
Over the next week rumours about John Watson ran rampant around the Yard.
"Who is he?"
"Don't know. He's some sort of doctor, though."
"I heard he was in the army."
"Nah ... really? Well, s'pose he could have been ... "
"Get off. They're not flat sharing ... are they?"
"Did you see it? Holmes talked to him!"
"NO!"
"Yup. A bloody conversation they had."
"Bet they're shagging."
Laughter.
"You've gotta be joking. Holmes? ... Hmm ... maybe ... and maybe this Watson has pictures or summat..."
More laughter.
"I'm serious ..."
Other than quick Google, which returned too many hits to be useful, Anderson kept himself above all the petty speculation. Besides, he had seen the man himself. John Watson was obviously nothing special. He would disappear from the Detective's life within a fortnight.
/-/-/-/-/-/
But he didn't. Watson continued to show up at crime scenes and even at the Yard, following Holmes around and looking completely out of place (if not out of his league). Lestrade began greeting him by name and soon some of the others followed suit. Although his manner was polite and even respectful, always using an officer's rank when addressing them, Anderson was skeptical. This Watson had no business riding Holmes's coat tails and he said as much, repeatedly, to Sally. She had told him to grow a pair and talk to Lestrade about it and stop bothering her. He had smiled. He did so love Sally's feistiness.
/-/-/-/-/-/
The next time Watson showed up at a crime scene Anderson noticed that he was making notes in a pocket notebook. He twice interrupted the Detective to ask questions, scribbling down the answers, as if he could possibly understand the genius's train of thought. That's fantastic, he heard the man exclaim more than once. He was obviously deliberately stroking Holmes's sizable ego so the Detective would tolerate his presence. The forensics specialist scoffed derisively as he pointed the note taking out to Mercer, who only shrugged,
"Probably just keeping the facts straight for the blog. You read the last one?"
"Blog? What blog?" Anderson asked sarcastically. He had never heard of anything so preposterous.
"Watson's. He's been writing up the cases he's been to. They're a good read. Gets in all the best bits. Even has a bit of a go at Holmes, he does," the constable replied.
That afternoon Anderson tried Google again and found the blog. He read A Study in Pink and was thoroughly appalled by Watson's amateurish account of the serial suicide case. His grammar was atrocious, his referring to himself as Sherlock's colleague was utterly presumptuous and his level of appreciation for the Detective's brilliance was completely inadequate. "Did I mention he was clever?"** Clever? School children are clever. Sherlock Holmes was a genius of the highest calibre. John Watson would never understand or appreciate the Detective like he did. As improbable as it may seem, if anyone was remotely close to being worthy colleague for Sherlock it was him. He left a comment on the blog saying as much before returning to cataloguing lab results.
/-/-/-/-/-/
By the time the Trenhope murder came along, Anderson was more than ready to tell Lestrade, and anyone else in ear-shot, exactly what he thought about the dubious merits of this John Watson. So the man was a doctor. An army doctor, some said. Big deal. He had a whole team of medical specialists, at his beck and call mind you, with whom he could consult. They certainly did not need this bloke's opinion, especially not tonight. The cause of death was so blatantly obvious. The women had been beaten and then killed when her throat was slit, probably by a serrated blade, like a hunting knife. Holmes was preoccupied by some smudges he was insisting were heel prints. Anderson, however, knew that they could have been made by any number of smooth objects. Maybe there was a slight foot shape to them but there was no tread or other markings that could be definitively identified. What murderer went shoe-less in London in March? He could see no possible connection between these smudges and the corpse and was telling Holmes and Lestrade so when Watson interrupted capturing the Detective's attention. Just that like that, his findings and arguments were disregarded. Again. Focus had shifted to Watson, who Holmes then invited to examine the body. This was beyond belief.
"Really, you need an expert medical opinion on this one?" he sneered, air-quoting the expert part. He felt vaguely self-satisfied when Watson's head jerked up to look at him. Anderson did not recognize the look for what it truly was, a warning glance from an officer to a subordinate, and he continued head long,
"Can't you deduce the cause of death?" The Detective ignored him setting his laser-like gaze on the doctor who was continuing his examination. Was he actually palpating her abdomen? Anderson could not contain himself.
"Oh, for God's sake, isn't the fact that her throat's been slashed and her trachea exposed a clue here?" he ranted. Sally gave him a slight nod. At least someone else could see what was going on here. Watson was speaking now, asking if he could move the body. Lestrade actually let him! Before forensics had signed off on the scene processing! Now he was reporting as if he was an expert.
"Um, yeah. Female, mid-twenties. Cause of death was a massive hemorrhage ... "
"You think?" Anderson could not keep himself from breaking in, sarcastically gesturing with both his hands at the large pool of blood around the victim's head and upper body. This charade had gone on long enough.
"Shut. Up!" the Detective barked at him. The rebuke was like a physical blow and Anderson shrunk back a bit. The conversation continued to flow around him with Watson at its centre.
"Massive hemorrhage in the abdominal cavity caused by single blunt force trauma. The laceration of the neck was secondary probably made several minutes after the abdominal trauma either just after or shortly before death." Lestrade was lapping it up and Holmes ... Holmes was smiling in approval.
"Blunt force trauma, huh? Really? What makes you say that? I mean I don't see a likely weapon." At least the D.I.'s brain hadn't gone totally off-line. Let see Dr. Blunt-force Trauma answer that one. But then the Detective was off.
"There was no weapon, Detective Inspector, save the commando-style knife that the killer used to cut her throat and then took with him. Ms. Trenhope was first battered about the face and knocked to the ground. She was then murdered by an upward blow to her abdomen by an unshod foot delivered with sufficient force to rupture either her spleen or her abdominal aorta or both. Cutting her throat was merely window dressing. A final release of rage. You are looking for a male acquaintance, probably a jilted lover, with advanced martial arts training and both anger management and self-esteem issues."
Anderson took a deep breath, not realizing he had been holding it whilst Holmes expounded upon his deductions. He jumped back in trying to restore some reason to these proceedings.
"Wait. That's preposterous! Just look at her. It's obvious ... " he sputtered. The Detective rounded on him again but he was ready. He was angry now and wasn't about to back down. Lestrade shouted them both down only to turn back to Watson.
"Enlighten us," he had asked encouragingly.
Anderson had to admit that he, like everyone else, was stunned into silence by Watson's graphic and detailed elaboration. As he watched Holmes and Watson disappear into the cab, it struck him. That was a eye-witness account. Who the hell was this guy? Was he dangerous? And why was he deliberately trying to get close to Sherlock Holmes?
/-/-/-/-/-/
One thing soon became very clear. Watson's presence made working with Holmes easier. He could often derail the Detective's insulting diatribes. He himself, seemed impervious to any (and there were more than a few) snide remarks and insults hurled his way, usually giving Holmes a patient are-you-done-yet look before carrying on unperturbed. He had an uncanny ability to stop the Detective mid-snark with a well-timed throat clearing, cough or look. He usually didn't say much at crime scenes, except to Holmes, or to report on a cause of death to Lestrade. Anderson almost never bothered speaking to him. What was the point?
Tonight, however, the 'Watson effect' was minimal. Holmes had been an utterly callous, inhuman bastard all night. Anderson was telling him so, His deductions, while accurate, had not got them ahead of the killer praying on London's multitude of university students. Holmes needed to do better, to be better. They're words were becoming heated. Lestrade and Sally were on the far side of the scene, too far way to intervene. He would be heard and have his say this time. The Detective raised his voice but he matched him. They were now drawing everyone's attention but he didn't care. He'd had enough of Holmes and his insults. Watson was trying to butt in again like he could smooth things over.
"Um, Sherlock," he said capturing some of the Detective's attention. Anderson seized the opening.
"Right, let Watson tell you what to do," he seethed. Sherlock glowered at him and took a step forward.
Anderson's eyes widened but Watson stepped directly in Holmes's path, standing straight, as he always did, hands clasped behind his back. He spoke again in the same patient voice.
"Sherlock." This time the Detective snapped at him.
"What!" Watson matched his volume for one word.
"Just! ..." He collected himself holding one hand up in Sherlock's path.
"Get us a cab." It wasn't loud but it was an order. Sherlock was about to relent and Anderson saw another chance.
"Does he tell you to wipe your arse, too, or does he do it for you?" he sneered and smirked as he noticed Watson's ram-rod straight back tense. Then he saw the absolutely murderous look in Holmes's eye and a cold lump of fear settled in the pit of his stomach. Watson, however, held his ground standing like a rigid barrier between himself and Holmes.
"Sherlock, get us a cab, hm?" he repeated voice eerily calm and even.
Sherlock glared at Watson before whirling on his heel and heading toward the street. Everyone at the scene was watching now and Anderson puffed himself up and let out a cold, ugly laugh. Finally, victory. His self-assured smile faltered when John Watson turned around to face him.
"What?" he snapped irritated. Watson was standing at parade rest, as he often did, with his hands clasped behind his back, and head up straight. He was just looking at him. At first glance, the doctor appeared to be wearing the same mild, slightly bemused face he usually wore but then Anderson looked into his eyes. They were hard and held no lightness or humour at all. After a pregnant pause, Watson spoke,
"I'm sorry ... I was under the impression you wished to say something to me, Sergeant Anderson?" His voice was even and had a note of sincerity. He stood patiently awaiting a reply. It took Anderson far longer than he would have liked to form his retort, lame as it was.
"Is that supposed to scare me?" he scoffed loudly.
Watson said nothing but he allowed his hands to fall to his sides as he settled his weight evenly on his feet. It was the relaxed and ready stance of an experience fighter. Lestrade started to walk toward the pair of them. John seemed not to notice and cocked his head slightly to the side silently regarding Anderson. His face had hardened and his deep gray-blue eyes were now ice-cold. Anderson took a step back, then a two more. Watson never moved an inch.
"Anderson!" Lestrade called. He was nearing them now. He hooked an angry thumb over his shoulder toward the forensics van. The message was clear and Anderson took the opportunity to make an exit. He could feel the doctor's eyes following him and he picked up his pace. This was ridiculous. He stood almost a full head above the man and was an officer of the law. There was nothing to fear from Watson. And yet? Standing by the van he strained to hear the parting exchange between Watson and Lestrade. Would the DI finally take this pretender to task for his interference?
"Problem, John?" Lestrade asked in his no-nonsense voice.
"Ah, no, no. None at all," Watson replied. "Just, um, refereeing," he added wryly and Lestrade chuckled. Chuckled?
"John!" Holmes boomed impatiently from the street.
"Listen, I better go or I'll be finding my own cab. Shall I have his Brainli-ness call you, then?" Watson quipped. Anderson stilled. Did Watson actually think he could compel the Detective to do anything. Could he, really?
"Yeah, if you can manage it, that'd be great," Lestrade said sounding impressed. Then he extended his hand, "You have a good night, John." Watson straightened as he gave the D.I. a firm shake before heading to the street. Anderson ripped off his gloves and threw them in the bin. When and how had John Watson become the Detective's interface to the world?
/-/-/-/-/-/
Anderson was engrossed in his book idly munching some crisps alone in the fourth floor lunch room. He preferred to eat alone. In fact, aside from Sally (and wasn't that going down the pan), he rarely socialized much with his colleagues. They had their pub nights, their darts and snooker tourneys, their 5K health runs and such but, really, what was the point? They were all so dull. Not to mention that his wife tended to take exception to his spending too much time "out with the boys". He had just turned another page when a rumpled and rather tired looking John Watson came in and made a beeline for the coffee machine. Apparently Watson had been around the Yard enough to know that the coffee on the third floor was complete shite. Anderson crossed his long legs and did nothing to acknowledge the other man's presence.
"Is that the fourth of Song of Ice and Fire?" Watson said taking a sip of his coffee. Anderson looked up ready to defend his reading material but Watson seemed to be inquiring in earnest. Slightly surprised at the interest he answered cautiously.
"Yeah, A Feast for Crows," he said flipping the book around so Watson could see the cover. He nodded.
"That series is great, isn't it? The scope. Jesus. Almost enough to make you lose track." Watson smiled as he sipped more coffee. He was casually leaning against the counter but the Detective was no where in sight. It took a moment for Anderson to register that this was the first time he had ever seen Watson without Holmes.
"Has he stopped adding characters yet? I hear there's supposed to be a fifth book soon." Watson continued amicably.
"Yeah, I mean, no. There are still loads more characters. I've heard there was supposed to be seven books in all and that they're making the first book into a television series++." Anderson said sitting up and warming to the conversation.
"Really? Wow. I'd watch it." Watson smiled again and sipped more coffee.
"What book are you on?" Anderson asked interested after a beat.
"Me? I, um, I'm about half way through the third." Watson said looking down. Anderson's face lit up.
"Oh, I loved that one. I think it may be my favourite so far. Tyrion is great in that book. And the whole siege of King's Landing and .. oops, sorry. Spoilers. How far are you?" he asked.
"Me? Um, I was in the middle of the siege. Stannis's fleet and the ...um ... with the ... wildfire ..." Watson said, his voice trailing off.
"You stopped there! But why? That's the best battle in the whole book!" Anderson exclaimed incredulously. In his excitement of finding a kindred spirit Anderson missed the shadow that crossed the doctor's face under his polite smile.
John remembered reading voraciously in his bunk until lights out before turning down the corner of the page to mark his spot and tossing the well worn book on his small table. He had a patrol tomorrow but was looking forward to picking-up where he left off tomorrow night. He never saw that book again. It wasn't with the rest of his belongings that were shipped home from his quarters in Afghanistan. Clara and Harry had been aware he was reading the series. He and Clara had been discussing the books at length in emails while Harry had been scornful. If it was longer than a tabloid article Harry didn't read it. Still, his sister had gone out and bought him the whole boxed set when he could finally manage to sit-up in bed unassisted. He remembered being excited to continue with the story only to find he couldn't bear to read about exploding ships and men being consumed by unstoppable fire. Intellectually, he knew the books were just fantasy fiction and he could just skip that scene, but so far he'd not been able.
"I, ah, misplaced my copy," Watson said quietly, raising his coffee cup to indicate that it was empty. He smiled once more and left. Anderson shook his head at the other man's abrupt departure. There was something off about Watson, something not quite right there, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Whatever, he thought, and returned to his book.
/-/-/-/-/-/
Any way one looked at it the Chiswick extortion ring murders were nasty bits of work. Each of the three killings had ramped up in ferocity. Initially, there had been no obvious link between the crimes. He, himself, had always suspected that there might be was one, obviously, but Dimmock doggedly treated the first two murders as separate until the third a month later. That was when Lestrade had been assigned the lead and brought in the Detective. Within four days Holmes had confirmed that murders were, indeed, connected and represented a significant escalation of violence from an extortion ring that had held Chiswick shops and businesses in an ever tightening strangle hold for the past six months..
"Surprising. Oh, this doesn't make sense," Holmes said to no one in particularly as he surveyed the scene around the abandoned warehouse where seven of the ring's enforcers had just been apprehended.
"What?" Watson asked, again expecting the Detective to explain it all for him. Anderson rolled his eyes at the idiocy.
"Him," Holmes pointed squarely at Tobias Greenlough who was currently standing with legs spread being searched. "The others, they're all idiots!" he waved a hand in the air as if his point were clearly made. Lestrade looked at him blankly, a non-verbal 'So?' hanging in the air. The Detective sighed in exasperation.
"Think, would you! There has to more, others must be involved. The sophistication of the extortion scheme, itself, is quite high, far beyond these Neanderthals. No, they just got greedy. I'm sure the murders were never part of the plan. Bad for businesses," Sherlock continued. Anderson shook his head and spoke up because he knew the facts.
"But the victims and the other suspects all identify that Greenlough as the ..."
"Oh, he's unimportant!" Sherlock shouted in impatience. "Just a muscle bound, meth head ex-con with a history of sexual dysfunction and a tiny IQ!"
Suddenly, and with an ungodly roar, Greenlough broke away from his arresting constables and lurched forward. Anderson was terrified. The man was an ox, high as a kite on meth and heading in his direction. He backed away, quickly. That was when Greenlough seized the nearest body, Watson, nearly lifting him off the ground as he twisted his arm backwards. Anderson felt a spike of concern for the doctor as he maneuvered himself into a safe position among the armed officers. What happened next was so unexpected it seemed absurd. Anderson felt his jaw literally drop open. Watson did not struggle but relaxed into the huge thug's grip before driving his free elbow back into Greenlough's solar plexus. Almost in the same motion, he rammed a heel into the side of Toby's knee, then pivoting out of his attacker's loosened hold, he drove his fist into the man's stunned face. But Watson was not done. He swept Greenlough's legs out, sending him down hard and was now kneeling on the man's chest, one foot stepping on his wrist, slamming his head against the pavement. Watson's expression was truly terrifying. Anderson saw with perfect clarity that the doctor was more than capable of killing this man and seemed about ready to do so when Lestrade spoke,
"Well, that was impressive. A bit scary, mind, but impressive." Watson quickly released the dazed and bleeding Toby, scrambling to his feet. Anderson found his voice,
"Scary my arse! He's fucking lethal!" He couldn't help but blurt it out. Surely the others had seen what he had. Surely they now knew the man was dangerous. Watson was staring down at his bloody knuckles acting as if he was ashamed. The Detective came to his defence.
"Yes. Obviously, Anderson. I do believe the Queen prefers for her soldiers to be lethal. Job requirement or something. Ready, John?" And just like that, Watson had quietly followed Holmes off toward the street.
"Alright, you lot, back to it. I'd like to get home before midnight for a change," Lestrade had called out.
As if released from a spell, the officers at the scene resumed their duties. Dillard and Perkins moved in to tend to Greenlough and Lestrade turned to speak with Donovan. Anderson surreptitiously followed the Detective and the doctor on the pretense of needing to log evidence in the forensics van. The van effectively separated the scene from the street and he stood at its rear listening. Holmes and Watson had stopped on the far side of the van, and Holmes was casting his eyes about for cab. Watson was standing several steps away from the Detective silently studying his bloody knuckles.
"How bad?" Holmes asked in a disinterested tone.
"It's fine," Watson answered quietly without looking up. The Detective sighed,
"In addition to being both immensely stupid and nauseatingly malodorous, Mr. Greenlough is abnormally large and exhibits a certain aptitude for his chosen profession of 'thug'. When he initially seized you he wretched your left arm behind your back with enough force to momentarily lift you off the pavement. You are now slightly pale and favouring the same arm. Do you require medical attention or not?" Watson stiffened and looked up blinking.
"No. I'm fine... It's just ... strained. It'll be ... fine," he said after a beat in a strangely calm voice.
"Good." Holmes shot Watson glance (was that concern?) while another full cab went by. "Getting one cab is proving to be exceedingly trying. Having to flag a second to send you off to A&E would be doubly tedious," the Detective said with an affected an air of impatience. Affected? Watson smiled sadly still looking down.
"Your concern is overwhelming," he said slowly clenching his left hand into a tight fist. Holmes actually did look concerned, however. Over Watson? Bloody Hell.
"Well, you know, good bloggers are hard to find. Beside re-injury would only slow your already glacial typing technique." Holmes quipped gently. Re-injury? Anderson wondered what Holmes was referring to. Wait. Quipped gently? Sherlock Holmes did nothing gently!
"Lestrade was right, you know?" Watson looked up, his nose wrinkled in confusion. Holmes continued as he waved at another cab. This one was actually changing lanes to stop
"The way you took dear Toby down was rather impressive." Holmes said casually turning back to the street and pointing at the approaching cab. Watson closed his eyes and shook his head. He looked almost pained.
"Don't ... don't say that," he said, regret in his voice.
"Why not? Your lightening reflexes proved quite valuable once again. He had four stone on you if a pound." Anderson had to agree with the Detective there. The cab had stopped and Sherlock was about to get in. He paused because Watson was not following him. Instead, Watson stood rooted to the pavement several feet away watching an ambulance leave the scene. Its lights were going but not its siren. Not an emergency, then. Nonetheless, Tobais Greenlough was being transported to hospital. Watson watched the ambulance make its way down the block and disappear around the corner while Holmes waited half in and half out of the cab. Then the doctor straightened and looked in his direction, as if able to see right through van, and nodded. Although Anderson knew he could not be seen, he took a step back. Watson moved to the cab. He spoke in that calm, slightly pained voice again,
"Because Anderson was right, too."
Oddly, Philip Anderson found he felt no victory in this.
/-/-/-/-/-/
A/N – Sorry for the epic delay since the last chapter. I've been both over-busy and under-inspired. The idea for this chapter came from the blog again. In the third season posts it is heavily implied that the regular commenter theimprobableone is Anderson. Right from the start, his comments are fanboy-ing of Sherlock and dismissive of John (and everyone else). So I think Anderson has always secretly revered Sherlock, who constantly ignored and insulted him, and was genuinely jealous of John when he suddenly showed up. Unlike Sally, Anderson's own feelings of inadequacy keep him from gaining any real insight, respect or empathy for John. He just sees him as a sort of threat. My story Sensitivity Training happens after this chapter.
* This dialog is lifted from the pilot of A Study in Pink
** This is lifted from the BBC's John Watson blog.
++ The series based on Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin is, of course, Game of Thrones, which premiered in 2011 thus was in production in 2010.
Any other dialog you recognize is not mine. Don't own...
Not beta'd or Brit picked. Please read and review.