A/N: Still not British, a writer, or anything other than just myself. -csf


II.

The familiar heavy footsteps of our friendly neighbourhood DI echo in the stairwell early in the morning. It catches us having breakfast. Or, should I say, it catches me munching on a toast and Sherlock having small bites of scrambled eggs when he thinks I'm not looking.

Whatever mind processes Sherlock has, that tell him food slows down his transport and beloved mind workings, I could never fully pick apart, but since his Absence, Sherlock has bulked up a bit, which tells me he eats more. He still seems to enjoy keeping the appearance of not having changed for my mysterious benefit, and I play along, with a bit of relief that I no longer need to worry as much. Sherlock will still be himself, and stay off heavy meals while deducing, but maybe he's integrated my advice now, as a tiny imaginary doctor giving him sound advice from atop his shoulder, nagging him if he starts feeling faint. Because, to be honest, sometimes I feel that we're both keeping up the charade for old time's sake. And Sherlock's scrambled eggs get eaten while I browse the morning papers from a stack Mrs Hudson delivers as if I couldn't get the news on my phone. Perhaps we just enjoy the homeliness of those old times so much we insist on keeping them as little charades.

I bring down my mug, Sherlock hastily swallows his last bite of egg, and Lestrade barges in to our living room, looks hastily around and finds us in the kitchen.

'Tea, Greg?' I volunteer, getting up to fetch a mug.

'Ta', he mutters, his eyes already on the cupcakes Mrs Hudson made for us, and that Sherlock can only have if he finishes his eggs (while I'm not looking, as we established earlier).

'Take one', I offer at once. Sherlock, with his sweet tooth, quickly flashes a near hurt look my way. Half a dozen cupcakes, can't you spare one?

Greg pulls up a stray chair, as mismatched to the rest of them as they all are, and sinks heavily on the seat.

I finally get Sherlock's hurt look as I hand Greg the tea. It isn't about the cupcakes. Sherlock was enjoying the quiet morning, as the centre of my barely concealed attention, now I've invested the disruption in.

The atmosphere changes quickly, however, as the inspector finally denounces more than a social visit by the simple expedient of producing an unmarked envelope from his pocket.

Sherlock's grey eyes zoom in on the envelope with keen interest.

'Another victim', he deduces at once. 'No, it's wrong. It's too early. Twelve hours too early. He broke his pattern.'

'Not if I wasn't meant to find it until I got in from off site training. A sensitivity training, can you believe that?'

Both detectives shiver in unison.

Greg looks momentarily deflated. 'One of my forensics has no sense of humour.'

'Which one?' Sherlock is vaguely intrigued. Hopefully he's not actually planning some sort of revenge plot. No matter the studied indifference Sherlock Holmes has mastered as a façade to the world, Greg is a close friend, I know that for a fact.

'Well, you wouldn't know. I make sure to keep you both well apart. It's not worth my retirement.'

Sherlock shakes himself back to attention. He stretches out a hand expectantly. Just as planned, Greg fluidly hands him the envelope in a confidence born out of years of close work.

We both watch as the home detective unwrap the contents of the envelope like a kid on Christmas.

'What about your training session?' I grimly remind him.

'I'll be late now. Is it impolite to be late?' Greg asks in fake innocence, that is contracted by an expressive eye roll. 'The bosses may make me take another', he admits grimly.

In any case, I can tell the inspector very much rather be here at the moment, so I just push the cupcakes platter his way. This time Sherlock doesn't even react. His got his eyes on something sweeter, so to speak.

'Nothing remarkable about the envelope, too many people touched it, handled it, we'd be pressed hard to find fingerprint smudges. No stamp, a drop off. That does not bode too well for the Yard's security. Your title and name, Lestrade, in print, just like last tine.' He sniffs the envelope. 'Common ink, nothing to go on. But the contents, yes, the contents. A single picture. A landscape. An abandoned, near derelict warehouse.'

'No victim in the picture this time, Sherlock. Last time, the picture included the victim. Why did he leave the poor sod out this time?'

'Because last time it was too easy. He's making it hard, to keep my interest.'

I glance at the inspector, he can hardly hide the apprehension from his loyal frown lines.

'It's a wide shoot of an empty room, with high industrial windows and rubble on the floor. How are you going to find the location this time?'

Sherlock reaches out blindingly behind him, to his microscope. 'By finding the clues. There's got to be a clue.'

'Are you sure there's a clue?'

'Of course, Lestrade. That's how you play this game', Sherlock mutters as he adjusts the focus of the minor amplification objective over the glossy photograph. He falls silent, broody, tense.

I grab a cupcake myself. Never know when he's about to storm off the flat without properly filling me in, or waiting for me.

The inspector sighs, consults his wristwatch and glances at me.

'Go on, I'll keep you posted.'

Still looking in two minds but with the superior's orders ringing in his ears, Lestrade slowly, aggrievedly, gets up from the chair.

'Call me, John, at any time. This killer is dangerous. I'll send in all my back up with me.'

I nod, promising as much alert over our activities as the crazy detective will give me.

.

The cabbie speeds at last as we leave behind the densely populated areas of central London, the expensive stores, the bubbling markets, the tourist attractions that still gather visitors even as the pandemic reduced the steady inflow of residents, workers and visitors. London is still London, and it fights steadily with a bravery of heart that defines the international capital.

'Sherlock, where are we heading?'

'You heard me tell the cabbie, John.'

'Yes, but why there?'

Sherlock grumps, as he does when he doesn't have an answer. He's following the trail a deranged serial killer left for him. Near the cabbie he refuses to admit he is being led, or to acknowledge that thrumming, vibrant energy flowing inside his preternaturally still transport.

I take my hand behind my back, searching for the security a well placed, well hidden, Browning can provide. Whatever it takes, I vow to protect the detective.

The cab drives on, flying through the near empty streets.

.

Deja vù. John is sure he's lived this scenario before. Once in real life, he had just met the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes. Often after that, in fleeting nightmares.

Two buildings. Twin and gemminated. Two different entrances. And time running out as ever.

'We need to separate. Keep your phone on you', Sherlock directs. For a moment it looks as if John is about to protest, in his overbearing need to be Sherlock's protector. A guardian angel, or a version of it, the kind that avenges with a Browning.

Sherlock pre-empts the protests his soldier has to offer. Predictable. Boring. You can't stop Sherlock now.

'I'll be careful', the fluid lie comes rolling out of his tongue. He doesn't intend to be careful; careful is not a top priority at the moment, in complete disregard for his own safety.

John sees right through him.

'Here', says John, as he takes out his gun, cocks it and hands it to the detective, as he casually flicks his jumper back over the hem of his trousers.

Sherlock looks down in near shock.

John smirks. 'I've got a spare, you idiot', the former soldier states steadily as he jerks his chin towards his left ankle. 'Take it, but if you shoot your own foot, I swear—'

'Blasphemy doesn't suit you, John', Sherlock says, with an answering smirk, as he takes the proffered gun.

'Be careful, John', he mirrors the advice.

'I'm a soldier, for crying out loud! What do you take me for?' John rolls his eyes and shoots off to his side of the twin constructions.

Sherlock jogs at once to the other.

.

Stealthily, I advance in the darkened building, full of haunted recesses cut drastically by the sharp squares of light flooding through the windows. The air is stale, damp, noxious. Instinct tells me I'm in the wrong side. Always the wrong building. Sherlock again alone in danger, of his own volition, across a small yard, trapped in the other building.

A sharp noise of old wood snapping as if adjusting to the temperature or humidity levels takes me to a mindful halt.

Do old houses' woods crack when no one is there to listen, when they are no longer inhabited? What would cause the natural shifts, expansions and contractions in the woods in a cool, steady temperature day?

Sherlock is rubbing off on me.

I may be in the right building after all. Something has disturbed its timeless abandonment.

I wish I had a gun in an ankle holster. I made that up so to ensure the skinny detective had some form of protection. As for me, I'll think of something. I'm a soldier, after all.

Can't really believe I fooled Sherlock. The old bean is losing his touch.

It's an odd time to be feeling proud.

The woods ominously crack again, this time behind me. I turn. Sharply. Too late.

.

A slight metal beam thunders as it hits against the floor, just behind Sherlock Holmes. The tall, thin man twirls his long coat as he abruptly turns to watch behind him. He brings up John's faithful gun, as the only ghostly impression of John he can summon at the moment.

Sherlock lives for this, the danger moments, the attraction of the unknown, the thrilling excitement of the unpredictable. He is not afraid, he craves this. What a difference an inventive and dangerous criminal can make, to a predictable, banal life. Long before John Watson, long before Scotland Yard, there were the dangerous of the ennui that nearly engulfed his mind, turning it to stodgy treackles of depression. It was then that Sherlock found his love of danger and selflessness – the one he so easily recognised in the twin scared soul of John – and it was then he fully learned to free fall, to give in to its gravitational pull, like a sucking black hole of the universe, making a bored, depressed Sherlock part of something more, something unique, something worth living for.

Excitement thrumming in his veins, the one half present in the crime scene – no, wrong, this is a kill scene and he's the target – decides to rush headlong to the source of the metallic noise, caution be damned.

Gun outstretched in his hand, preceding a very determined detective, he hastily follows retreating shadows, running from the scene. Instinctively Sherlock knows the body drop has been made. He's too late. That only incenses the detective the more, as it's unfair, he wasn't given a proper chance to fight back, to save a life.

'Show yourself!' Sherlock's thunderous baritone echoes in the empty walls.

No reply.

Sherlock's ears strain to pick up the slightest sound. His finger caresses the trigger of John's gun. He is vaguely aware of the gun oil and tea scent, reminding him not to be the bloody martyr – like John would have put, in strong terms.

The detective nods to himself, quickly. Careful it is. Quietly, stealthily, he starts pacing forward in the debris covered floor. The remnants of mortar crack under the expensive soles at each step.

A sound finally rewards the detective's patience. A door – wooden, cheap, rusty hinges – slams shut at the back.

He's getting away!

Sherlock hastens in pursuit.

No, wrong, its not an outer door, it's the door to a closed room. Sherlock has had enough now. He is about to confront this killer.

The detective is not shy to slam his shoulder against the wooden nondescript door, forcing it open. In his energetic push, he stumbles into the inner room – old manager's office, empty going by the echo of the smashed door, utterly dark – and stops as he sees the object posed at the centre of the room.

He lowers his gun without even noticing.

.

John. The good doctor's familiar form is laying down in a gory theatrical scene. Immobile inside a long glass case, like a glass coffin – no, erase that! – paraded for spectators to see, as a museum piece, unattainable and preserved in eerie stillness. Moreover, there is a breathing mask atop the doctor's nose and mouth, responsible for the quiet chest movements that represent the only animation in his near lifeless body.

Sherlock praises unbeknown deities that John is alive and breathing. But in what state?

Taxidermy. Sleeping beauty. Doctoring the doctor. The clichés are both vulgar and brilliantly brought together to taunt Sherlock in one single imaginary that is forever etched in acid streaked lines in the detective's psyche.

The rest of the room is empty. It's a good thing, seeing that the detective has long forgot what the gun in his slackened hand is customarily for.

He steps forward, blood running like cooled trickle in his veins, as he studies the quiet form on the platform. How? John was supposed to be safe, having taken the least probable building according to the photograph so kindly posted by the killer. He had to protect the doctor.

Later for that.

Under the strong overhead spotlight, John's pale skin glows, exposed. He's been left in the cold, his bare torso in display. The light caresses the exposed skin, highlighting this soft tan that the former soldier seems to have brought back from the sandy landscapes of Afghanistan, and that contrast with the dark pink maelstrom scar on the smooth planes of his skin. He looks thinner, smaller, without those bulky layers of comfort and warmth that define John Watson, that hide his body from sight.

In his eagerness to release his friend from captivity, Sherlock almost misses the obvious signs shouting at inter the red flags in the crime scene, demanding that any interruption to the staged play will result in fundamental disaster. The detective needs to steal himself from the primal rage demanding to free John from this ignominy, and to protect the innocent doctor who is the primary target of every larger-than-life enemy Sherlock attracts in his work; and there are too many of those, always too many.

This is a mental puzzle for a collected, cool headed detective, who prides himself in his cold, machine-like reasoning. And the one present at the moment, boiling in anger as he studies the scene, looks for the tell-tale hints of deception in the tableau scene created to impress him through the ripples of an unsteady heart. His hands shake, the throat rasps, his breaths are quick, shallow, uneven. Sherlock wants to tell himself it's just another case, a mental puzzle, but this is John, his John, kidnapped, potentially hurt, and now paraded like a horrible trophy. Spoils of war in a relics game between Sherlock and an anonymous opponent, a formidable one at that.

How many times has Sherlock silently sworn to his doctor that those threats were over, that Sherlock could stave them off, and give John the protection in life he deserves? Only to be defeated by another yet faceless foe.

Sherlock may be adept at self recrimination at the moment, but he does not waver in his mission to save John. Fingertips brush past the glass cage, as several lines of inquiry are studied, prioritised, and dismissed in the detective's mind. Sherlock doesn't doubt himself. Not here. Not now. For the alternative of his failure would signify John's death. Sherlock won't admit that, therefore Sherlock convinces himself that he is unbeatable, because John is deserving of the utmost success from his partner.

He will save John, because he must always save John.

A wave of frustration and anger hits the beleaguered detective as he finally notices the slightest residues of acrylic resin around the airtight walls of the glass coffin someone has dared to place the doctor in. Not only confronting the scientist genius with a puzzle to solve, demanding all his pressing attention, but setting one last step to this successful rescue. A silent voice demands throughout the heavily staged scene: deduce the correct sequence of actions to save your friend and you can have him back.

.

TBC