A/N: Still not... yeah, all the usual stuff. -csf
VI.
Monday, 1:13pm
Sherlock Holmes has not been idle. He has chased up all manner of leads, made a few enquiries, ordered some random items from the internet (can't entirely say they were case related – but, again, multitasking is a trademark of my friend's disposition) and not left a single stone unturned in the chase for the Chandler Twins, the home delivery architects of murder. Scotland Yard was baffled. They could only name and tag the bodies of more and more previous victims all across London, that they were just now identified from their cold case archives. No one seemed able to foretell where the killers would strike next.
The only thing we could do was to follow the bodies trail and hope for a mistake that would lead us to the identity of the twin master plotters.
Next thing I knew, Sherlock was waking me up – I had fallen asleep at the living room's desk a couple of hours before and was developing an epic neck crick – and with little more than my jacket tossed at me, my best friend had me following him across the city to an office space by the Thames.
'You know who the victim is?' I ask, doing my best to ignore the cabbie's misplaced song – and this was after we asked him to turn off the radio.
'Not yet.' Sherlock was sitting tense in his seat, his face a study in chiselled marble, the seatbelt strained as my friend refused to recline back, as if those extra inches leaning forward in anticipation got him to his destination quicker. The cabbie was pushing on the speed limits even if earlier he had stubbornly refused to do so for a bribe, such was the palpable tension inside the vehicle. I would finger my gun behind my back repeatedly, seeking reassurance.
'How do you know where it's all happening, Sherlock?'
'I traced a delivery van's route, easy and convenient. Now can you please stop journaling? We're almost there, I need your full attention, John!'
I put away my notepad and pen, feeling my cheeks burning. Not that it was actually fair of Sherlock to act as if I wasn't paying attention, or as if in any way I was distracted by being the blogger rather than the former army sidekick. I knew full well why Sherlock had invited me along, just as I was aware that this case's reporting after the fact could be less than factual so to keep us both from facing the consequences of eliminating two odious and unredeemable serial killers without following the legal requirements restricting DI Lestrade. In fact, the gun that I was cradling in my waistband was provided by Lestrade out of an evidence box from the dead archives of the Yard – making it nearly untraceable, and even if it were traced, it's appearance in connection with the Chandler brothers could never be logically explained.
I wish Lestrade would have managed to get that second gun for Sherlock, but somehow the process failed, and Lestrade couldn't get his hands on another cold case gun, and he very nearly didn't hand this one to Sherlock and I, deeming the whole thing too dangerous for the two of us.
Lestrade is a good man. But just as easily any of us three and our loved ones could be the next random victim of this heinous pair. If I can, I'll ensure they face Justice; if I can't, I ensure they face eternity.
The cabbie stops us by an old seedy warehouse near the river. Sherlock tries to protest, but his words die down as he checks the GPS on the taxi. This is the correct location – is this a trap?
We both know we must come out and play, so we leave the taxi and watch it drive away. It seems that we are alone here.
I wouldn't be surprised if creepy horror music got broadcasted as our soundtrack for the afternoon. But we must reallly be alone, because I can only pick up on Sherlock's familiar melodies. John Watson: From damaged goods to handy enemy detector in one go.
Seeing that we are, indeed, alone, I pull out my gun and cock it. Hyperalert, focusing hard on the enemy territory, trying to ignore Sherlock's tense tune. We keep stepping forward, quietly, as quietly as I can with constant musical input between my ears making any new and foreign sounds harder to distinguish. I'm clearly on edge, playing with a handicap, but I will not give up on being Sherlock's bodyguard, on keeping him and his phenomenal brain safe. Suddenly, he spots it. A box on top of a foldable table. The box is from a global delivery company.
'Careful,' I hold him back. 'Could be a bomb, remember?'
Still, we both approach. Couldn't abandon the clue just like that. Sherlock leans over, his music edgy and tainted by static now. I'm much too caught up with the present moment to try to make sense of hidden meanings. He reads the address: "Scotland Yard".
Next thing I know, Sherlock is spitting bullets, going on a long and heartfelt diatribe on master criminals that are absolute ignorant and cannot possess the minimum insight into the crime fighting field and how they have the unmitigated gall not to know the name of Sherlock Holmes and— He freezes.
I think the absurdity of it all hit him at that point. My friend is vain and self-absorbed much, but he is not entirely self-entitled. We stare at each other for a long second, and we burst into a fit of giggles and chuckles, and that's how Scotland Yard and DI Lestrade come to find us some 15 minutes later when they finally arrive with the bomb squad.
Anyway, it wasn't a bomb. It was a sarcastic bag of popcorn. Sit and watch, it implied to London's biggest police investigation force.
Further investigations showed it was poisoned. I suppose old habits die hard.
.
Monday, 4:44pm
Sherlock was right when he said he'd be good for another couple of nights. That time now elapsed, he's out like a bulb and sleeping deeply on the long sofa. He should have taken his bed, but I guess he wanted to kid himself, tell himself that he could still keep an eye out on my wellbeing from the living room sofa.
The tables now turned, I keep a careful eye on Sherlock's rest, while I investigate on my laptop. I want to find out all I can about my condition (temporary or permanent? no sign yet of abating, after all), I desperately seek similar tunes to the ones that express other people's feelings and ponder a long time over a website on soundtracks for all popular film genres, but get nothing new from it except a new sense of admiration for composers. Finally, I search for the Chandler twins, a pair of elusive criminal masterminds that have taken their crimes to a form of artistic pastime, planning and providing murder plots on demand. I wonder where they list their services. I wonder if Sherlock and I can forge a sting operation of sorts.
Heck, I wonder if Sherlock can give the Chandler Twins a run for their money, setting up a (fake, of course) competing business. Sherlock might even get on board with it, given his love of plotting mental murders when he's stuck on a boring queue. (In Sherlock's defence, in an effort to further move the queue along, Sherlock also plans how to save the people from his own murder plots, exploring its flaws, its dependence on serendipity, and backup plans. All in all, Sherlock devises full crime novel plots in his mind when placed in boring queues.)
Quietly, I get up and gather a soft blanket to drape over my sleeping friend. He looks absolutely exhausted. All this careful, kind and considerate caring for his flatmate; was I so blind as to accept it without noticing the toll it was taking on him? Allowing one hand to linger in a comforting gesture over his shoulder, I vow to keep Sherlock safe and demonstrate the same level of care he has had for this ordinary former soldier from the start.
As my hand touches his warm shoulder, the whispering melody intensifies, as if it acknowledged the physical touch. I can't tell what he dreams of, but I know he sleeps the peaceful slumber of fatigue.
.
Monday, 6:30pm
Mrs Hudson has come up to drop us two large portions of shepherd's pie, again pretending that she cooked too much and won't have it going to waste. The way she lingers in the flat, tidying the washing in the drying rack, tells me she wants to check up on her two tenants. I offer to make her a cup of tea, and she brings out a packet of cards, knowing full well that it's hard for me to say no to a small friendly play.
She learned to play a mean Poker in Vegas, and I am not too bad myself – except for when Sherlock sits by our landlady's side and reads off my most minute tells to give her undue advantage. Something that is not to happen this time, as Sherlock still sleeps peacefully on, under a blanket, on the long sofa.
Again, I enjoy Mrs Hudson's music, while I ponder the odds of a straight flush. That's when she tells me, upfront:
'You're humming slightly, dear. Is that what I sound like? You know, inside your head?'
I can feel myself blush.
'You sound very nice, Mrs H,' I assure her.
She tilts her head and gives me one of her looks. 'I'm quite sure that I sound a bit livelier than that, John. I'm not that old, you know? There is still warm blood in my veins.' I stutter some apologetic words and she lays out her royal flush on the marred kitchen table. 'You owe me another £50, John.'
I recover quickly and gather the playing cards to shuffle them expertly. 'We'll see about that, Mrs H. You have never actually beaten me before, have you?' And I smile dangerously.
She chuckles. She knows better than to engage John Watson in card games and gambling odds, but she also knows that this is the perfect distraction for me at this time.
You see, I've won 221B Baker Street three times at Poker from Mrs Hudson. It's just that the gentlemanly thing to do is to give it back, which she trusts I will always do.
'How is Sherlock holding up, dear?'
'Sherlock has run himself to the ground looking after me. I should have stopped him.'
'Why didn't you?'
I love Mrs H; she's ruthless.
'It felt very nice to have someone take care of me. I didn't quite notice how much Sherlock was wearing himself thin.'
'That's our Sherlock, dear. He always goes too far for the things he loves.'
I frown. Did Mrs Hudson's tune change ever so slightly? Was there a bigger meaning to her words? Is she still rooting for us to be an item?
We are. Just not in that way.
'Is Sherlock going to solve this case soon?'
'Of course. Why do you ask?'
'It's just that he is enjoying it so much, John. He's sure to wish it to last longer.'
I ponder Mrs Hudson with astonishment, and pretend I don't see her sneak an ace into her cardigan sleeve.
I make a note to talk my idea over with Sherlock, and force this case into a conclusion asap. A sting operation is all it takes.
.
TBC
