A/N: Of course, I don't actually know where I'm going with this, it's just building up of its own accord, sometimes plots do that. Either they succeed, or they fail. *They*? Nah, I actually mean Me. Hopefully there's a decent plot lurking somewhere in here. I've got a suspicion that there is, it's just that it's part Four and I'm still laying it out. -csf
4.
'Mrs Hudson, I've got a case for Sherlock', the grey haired detective inspector with the kind face says as soon as the ground floor flat door opens.
'They're not in, dearie.'
He knows. Lestrade has been all through that flat already, secretly worrying the two Baker Street kids have got themselves into trouble again.
'Any idea where to those two have wandered off?' he asks politely to the Baker Street's landlady.
She's got on a flowery apron and soapy marigold rubber gloves. Behind her, the detective inspector catches a glimpse of the kitchen sink and a drying rack with some pots and pans, a pair of tights and... is that a crossbow's arrow in with the cutlery?
The landlady ponders him for a second, then decides to confide in the friendly inspector. 'Come on in, inspector. Sherlock might still need your help.'
'What has he gone and done now?'
She shakes her head slowly, confidentially.
'It's John', she says succinctly.
The detective inspector doesn't need further incentive to step inside the flower print overloaded rooms. His brow creases in concern for the two madmen of Baker Street.
.
John is exhausted by the time they reach a placid little village, very removed from the buzz of the larger cities he and Sherlock usually dwell on.
Keeping in mind that John is, in essence, a convalescent man right now, the detective insists on booking a room in a local Bed and Breakfast. John upgrades that to two rooms, with practiced ease. The B&B host gives them a quizzical look that no longer bothers John.
Sherlock follows John into John's room as if that second booked room never existed. He deposits his travelling bag next to John's, as if laying out a comparison study of the two men's lifestyles. The fact that John's soft duffle bag bundles against Sherlock's expensive rigid back carry on is yet another metaphor lost on the taller man.
'What do we do now?' John asks, full of a fake, near frenetic energy designed to misdirect Sherlock's attention from his tired features. It could never work.
Making a decision, the investigator grabs a nearby pad and pen, handing them to John.
'List every important detail about those nightmares, John. I need data!' he demands, letting himself drop on the pristine bedcover with his shoes still on, crossing his feet at the ankles and laying back against John's pillow with his dusty coat. He immediately assumes his thinking position, fingers pressed together in a silent prayer to the higher gods of reasoning.
John just shakes his head, takes the notepad and goes to the other room booked. Two can play that game, he decides, as he topples himself onto the bed cover (albeit after removing coat and shoes), and tries to think back on his mission of jotting down significant details from his nightmares. He finds the details are quickly disappearing, leaving behind only the ghost impression of strong emotions elicited.
Just like that, John falls into a fitful doze, powered by his body's exhaustion. He fleetingly wonders if Sherlock has played him yet again – monkey sees, monkey does – as John lies on the soft mattress, falling asleep.
.
A yellow door with a well polished knob, gleams in the early summer sun. John will forever associate that warm sun with a part of himself he's about to discover. He doesn't know this, though. He's but a child, returning home from school with a couple of mates he sees off at the corner. They joke, and promises of mischief abound, probably more than will ever come to fruition, little boys have big imaginations.
John is grinning as he reaches the yellow front door. A gentle breeze waves tree leaves and flowers in a flutter, and the warm scent of thirsty earth rises from the garden next door. He glances at the tree, a tall hefty giant with angular leaves reaching out towards him. The boy sticks his tong out to the foolish giant, rising proudly in his small height. Even as a boy, John is short for his age. He hopes for a big growth spurt this summer. Granddad said it was going to happen. Granddad is most always right.
The yellow door opens suddenly and the temperature drops throughout the whole street. The boy's father stands at the door, his tall frame stretching up to the top of the door frame. He looks angry, short tempered. He nearly always is.
The father grabs the boy by the shoulder and ushers him inside forcibly, then slamming the door shut after a quick cursory glance to the neighbourhood.
Never do that again, do you hear me? Never!
John doesn't understand why he can't stick his tongue out to a giant tree, but he also wants so badly to defend himself, to explain himself, to get his father's approval again. He tries to say something, but his dad has disappeared. The child is left in a strange empty room, a room that looks like so many other rooms, that is vaguely familiar yet nowhere he's ever been before.
He looks all around, calls for his family to find him, he's all alone in a strange living room. His shoulder aches more and more, from where his father touched him. It starts dissolving the memory of this living room, out of many other living rooms.
The damaged shoulder itches and burns, and echoes throbs from the very bone deep inside. His collarbone is shattered by the Afghani bullet, his structural integrity crumbling apart from his left side radiating devastation, bile is rising towards his mouth, he gasps it, mixing it with sweat and the tears that fall freely from a dying man's face.
John's eyes snap wide in a peaceful B&B room. He gasps fast shallow breaths of useless air and nearly retches up whichever meagre contents are left in his stomach. He hasn't eaten in hours and the queasy retching turns to stomach pains. Perhaps it's better this way, as John is curling his upper body over the edge of the bed, about to be sick on the cheap rug. The urge recedes slowly, leaving behind disorientation and nausea.
He's grasping his shoulder tightly, so tight he's probably bruising his own skin around the scattered pattern of his scar. His knees come to his chest instinctively, dragging along sweat damp bed covers, and he keeps himself as tight and small as he can; hiding from the world.
John gives himself sixty seconds like this, falling apart, hiccupping and gasping and fighting back the tears prickling in his eyes. Then he'll get up, wash his face and go meet Sherlock. Only his friend can give him the cold no-nonsense rationality he so desperately needs right now.
.
Sherlock Holmes is a quiet man in a nearby local tea rooms establishment. He's sitting by a window that separates him from a few colourful geraniums swarming with bees and butterflies. For the moment he seems more interested in the insects than any mental puzzle John can bring him, and John feels guiltily thankful that Sherlock isn't obsessing about him and his case, as he knows how unhealthy Sherlock can be with his sharp tuned mind.
Thanking his luck that he's found Sherlock easily – John didn't want to call or text, didn't want to give away any neediness – the blond doctor makes his way into the quiet establishment himself.
Sherlock must be really out of it, John thinks, as he manages to get to the chair opposite his friend without the usually incredibly observant detective noticing the newcomer.
'John!' Sherlock flashes him a quick smile. Since when does Sherlock smile in welcome? The smile instantly gets slammed down by a concerned raking look. 'What happened?'
'What do you mean?'
John mentally kicks himself. He's come here to tell Sherlock about his dream, and yet at the first mention of disturbance he's deflecting, pretending nothing ever happened. Knee jerk reactions.
Sherlock must know him only too well, because he calls the waiter over instead, asking for a freshly brewed teapot and another cup. John glances at the tiered cupcakes platter and nearly loses control of his stomach again. He intently diverts his gaze from the overly sweetened confectionery treats.
Diversion finished, Sherlock asks the same question again. 'What happened, John?'
John grimaces; a semtex vest in a midnight swimming pool comes to mind. Sherlock always asks about John's welfare in doubles. And John always answers in kind, to all the meanings and all the layers contained in his friend's concern.
'Fine. I'm fine.'
The detective quirks an eyebrow. John is anything but his usual self. He's answering the question Sherlock means, rather than the one he actually asked. Unguarded, raw, hanging by a thread. John's control is wavering. His hair is damp in the hair line, sticking out in spiky clumps. His eyes are red rimmed and dull. He's instinctively shying away from the cupcakes stand.
Sherlock leans forward towards his prey. 'You've had another dream. A significant one too, or you wouldn't have come find me, you'd have texted me.'
John flinches, but it's only the truth, and he reacts as such, with some relief for his friend's mind reading act.
'I don't know what was a memory and what became a nightmare. In fact, I don't think there's much in it you can use for my case.'
'Then why did you come?' Sherlock shoots out of frustration, before he can check himself. 'I didn't mean it that way', he tries to compensate after the fact.
'Yes, you did, and it's fine. I know I'm... disturbing you while you... deduce the... butterflies.'
'Bees, actually. Fascinating creatures. But they can wait. Tell me what you recall, John. It's imperative I know before you forget more detail.'
John shrugs, trying to minimise the importance of the dream. Sherlock keeps a wary eye on him while he listens to a disjointed tale. John looks small, damaged, in pain. Not physically in pain, his dull eyes indicate that the pragmatic doctor has swallowed a couple of painkillers already – so his shoulder was hurting – but facing inner turmoil that strips some confidence out of the sleep deprived soldier. Sherlock hates seeing John like this, so un-John-like.
'Let's focus on the details, John. Yellow flowers, yellow door, yellow sofa. There's lots of yellow, John.'
The Case of the Yellow Soldier, John thinks bitterly.
A warm hand with spidery fingers envelops John's smaller, calloused hand. 'Stop that', Sherlock hisses nearly silently. 'Whatever is going on in your head right now, is just the reminiscences of a chemical imbalance caused by the fight or flight response to your nightmare.'
John, who is the actual doctor there, nods in amazement. He wants to trust Sherlock and follow him out of this stupor.
The tea arrives at that moment and they break hands with slight blushes. It'd be no good to get on the gossip magazines pages yet again.
.
'Liriodendron tulipifera. Tulip tree. American imported species, with early summer, big yellow flowers.'
John realises he was picking at the loose threads on his fraying cuffs and forces his hand still. Sherlock dramatically raises his phone to show an Internet stock picture of a stocky but elegant flower on a background of vivacious green leaves.
'Could have been, yes. How likely is it that the tree and the house are still there today?'
'Not likely at all. While you were meant to rest, I scanned the residential area for the yellow door and yellow flowers tree, to no avail.'
'Hey, I didn't have a nightmare on purpose!' John complains.
'Do better next time, John!' Sherlock admonishes with a smirk, in friendly banter.
'And how do I do that? I'm not in control of my dreams, you know?'
Sherlock rolls his eyes at all the lesser trained minds.
'I'm scanning satellite images for yellow bloom trees. With a bit of luck we may find the correct street from photographs added to urban maps.'
'I thought you were going to infiltrate my primary school for their home address records.'
'Poorly kept database, we'd have to break in for that. This may be faster. Still – well thought, John. You are really coming along nicely. Developing a bit of a criminal streak, but I don't mind that in the slightest, if it's for a higher purpose.'
John chuckles, easy going.
.
It's funny how old doors in old recollections from a child's perspective can turn out being so ordinary looking in real life. Currently painted black, worn down and not really that tall, John is feeling oddly displaced from his actual self as he examines the door from decades ago. He reaches out to touch an object he never thought he'd physically touch again. But it's no longer the door. It's the same size, a different colour, and, most flagrantly, someone else's door. He's no longer got any claims to it. Just a door to someone else's residence, no longer a small child's front door to home. No longer separating him from his loved ones.
Luckily the property is now up for sale. Sherlock wouldn't have stopped himself at breaking and entering someone else's home for a case involving his flatmate.
John glances back at Sherlock, wondering what his (probable posh childhood background) friend makes of this typical, unassuming, modest house, bang on straight in the middle of a neighbourhood of identical houses.
Sherlock may be internally reasoning along the same lines as he looks around and comments: 'I see the significance of a yellow bloom tree now, John. Need all the houses around here look practically the same? Is it to confuse potential robbers?'
John shrugs, plastering a fake smile on his face. He looks away, and spots the tree stump of that once was a magnificent specimen of an exotic tree next door.
'Glad it was still here when the road survey took place, or we would have wasted a long time searching for this house. I might not have recognised it at all. We only lived a few months here.'
'Was that length of time usual for the Watsons?'
John hesitates. 'Shorter than usual', he opts to say, diplomatically.
Sherlock senses that John still holds back, protecting the memories of his parents and grandfather, trying to convey only good things about the deceased. It's socially contrived and it hinders Sherlock's investigation; yet Sherlock stops himself from lashing out over the hypocrisy of it all, because he doesn't want to hurt John. Sentiment.
'Let's start with that shed, John.'
'You think it's still there?'
'Only one way of knowing, John!'
John follows the large, energetic footsteps Sherlock is leaving on the muddy ground, faintly registering other, older, footprints and impressions about. In the back of his mind he recalls the first weather forecast he consulted mentioning rain overnight. His tired mind carries on supplying meaningless statistics like humidity and temperature that he didn't even know he had noticed. Vaguely he wonders if being Sherlock is like this. Like John is when he's exhausted and he can't really filter out the information assault.
When John resurfaces from his mind wandering, Sherlock has placed a warm hand on his forearm, beckoning for his attention.
When has Sherlock become so tactile?
'John. The shed.'
John steers his gaze towards a derelict out building, clearly an ugly, functional thing with no windows and only one door.
This door wasn't painted over since John's childhood. The rotten wood is exposed and dying before their very eyes.
John blinks his exhaustion away.
'Let's go inside', he decides, before he nonsensically talks himself out of it.
Sherlock immediately takes his position at John's back, keeping close, watching out for his friend. They swing the door open on rusty hinges and a shed full of wonky shelves with old paint buckets and condemned electric appliances blearily comes into existence.
A click nearby tells John that Sherlock tried turning on the electric overhead light but it failed to power on.
A central table lies covered on debris, abandoned clutter and cobwebs.
This is the very table John recognises from his nightmares. Only then it looked taller, seen from bellow. It still reminds him of a mortuary examination table, somehow.
No small child laying on it now, with sock cladded feet sticking out. John holds in a shiver.
'John.'
Sherlock's voice carries alert, as he leans in towards a cracked edge and rubs at a red stain infiltrated in the crack with an exploratory fingertip. 'Blood.'
'What do you mean? Of course it's paint. There are paint cans all over the place! Do you really think blood would last for over three decades?'
'It wouldn't be unheard of, in the appropriate conditions. It's a simple hydrogen peroxide test', he adds, rooting through his pockets at once. 'If it fizzes, we have organic matter present in the sample.'
John shrugs, finding it amusing. Sherlock is a detective, of course he'll see murder everywhere.
'No DNA tests?'
'We can try, but the sample might be too degraded for a positive comparison', Sherlock answers seriously.
John stands back against the filthy countertop under the shelves, and watches his best friend work, always a bit in awe of the ease and fluidity of movements. It's like a dance for Sherlock, a macabre dance to a song only he can hear.
Sherlock angles the pipette and drops a few drops ever so slowly on the sample. Nothing happens for the first few seconds, while the crusted surface absorbs the liquid. Then suddenly it comes to life as it fizzes and bubbles of its own accord.
Sherlock's mercurial eyes narrow John's way.
The doctor rushes from the shed, not going far, cutting a sharp left to the overgrown bushes, and Sherlock clearly makes out the sound of retching and choking.
It's not like John to have a sensitive stomach. Sentiment, again. Must be an emotional response. Sherlock recaps the hydrogen peroxide bottle and pockets it carelessly. His long wool coat is easily his version of a lab coat when on the field, such as his camel coloured dressing down is his homely one. Big pockets, long length and ease of movement is all it takes.
Sherlock takes out a couple of sample collection tubes and scrapes some dry blood to them, to take. Once he caps and pockets those too, the investigator looks around, committing to memory the entire room. He wishes he could stay and analyse more in depth, but he doesn't want to leave John alone with his worse fears confirmed. Which, by the way, is a jump to conclusions Sherlock will not abide by. None of this freaky set of circumstantial evidence determines John's grandfather's guilt as a murderer. Sherlock knows that much, because he knows John. And John wouldn't have turned a blind eye to a murdering grandfather, nor would he forget, for recompense nor threat. No, something else, something improbable must be at play here.
Something as surprising as John himself.
Sherlock is not done yet.
.
TBC
