A/N: I'm wanting to finish that last one, but for now I need to put it on hold. Perhaps that's alright for I haven't posted in so long folks have forgotten what that storyline was like? I'm not entirely sure I'm back to a regular schedule, but this is a funny one I started since. Hopefully life eases a bit, and I can finish them all.
I would apologise, but you'll be tired of those. -csf
I.
The Curfew Killer Case had started much like the usual cases Sherlock and John always cracked on a regular basis. Two or three a week usually. Seven or eight when the doctor had time off from his side work as a GP practitioner and could watch Sherlock's brilliance at every turn, thus coaxing more and more fresh new triumphs from Sherlock's deductive powers.
The consulting detective privately marvels at how John's rose tinted lenses' view of Sherlock's abilities make him strive to achieve more, faster, deeper, and to do these willingly, gladly, warm heartedly, as if seeking more of John's approval and praise. Sherlock suspects he could become a master craftsman in bakery if John had him bake a cake, by mere force of John's enthusiasm and genuine compliments. But that's Mrs Hudson's territory. So Sherlock refuses to bake. Or cook. Or otherwise acknowledge their kitchen as something other than a makeshift laboratory.
In fact, John is the complete opposite of Mycroft, who always buffered Sherlock's ego by forcing him to prove himself despite constant brotherly criticism, competition and derision.
And Sherlock knows which one he needs to keep at close proximity every day.
The New Scotland Yard is the real winner here.
The first victims of the Curfew Killer had very little connecting them to one lone murderer, and the Yard themselves were unaware of the near invisible link that threaded them together. Lestrade brought the cases to the consulting detective's attention one Manila file after the other. Sometimes over just texts. It was up to Sherlock to construct a cohesive narrative threading them together, seeing the invisible links no one else could see.
Vital clues were eventually found by Sherlock Holmes in ground glass residue on the sole of a shoe worn by a bus driver, on hair locks of a young woman studying a masters degree, and under the fingernails of a laboratory technician across the country.
Sherlock really enjoyed analysing the fingernail residues of the laboratory technician, given the unusual collection he found, better even than John's; he assured a stunned flatmate who shakily assured everyone from the Yard that he washed his hands thorough and regularly.
And John should know how to wash his hands, he has performed complicated surgeries in the heat of battle, with incredibly high praise from his patients.
Sherlock knows this from when John fails to keep former patients from his nosy, socially blunt flatmate, because the military men bump into them somewhere in London, and praises fall unprompted from soldiers on leave or honourably discharged. Every time John glances anxiously at his flatmate, who always looks conveniently bored and distantly lost in his mind, but his grey cunning eyes are analysing the interaction between doctor and patients, the muscle atrophy or bone degeneration left behind by a stray bullet or a compounded enemy assault, and instead of John's "Afghanistan or Iraq?" you may get—
"Cerebral oedema of the post frontal cortex from blunt force trauma as a result of an IED at the side of the road. Your right side. Months ago, but you still favour your left ear to listen. The injury is causing you some short term memory difficulties, so why don't we have John giving you his number so he can refer you to a specialist and, to answer your next question, you've already had four coffees already on the way here, judging by the severity of your hands trembling – which is not medically related, John can tell you as much – and so you really should get the bus to your sister's before you develop early heart arrhythmia". John gives Sherlock a familiar warning glance, full of exasperated fondness which assures the detective that his best friend wouldn't want to change him, he's just feeling awkward – and that is not Sherlock's fault. Or it is. Only a little bit. And John smiles his bright grin and excuses both with: "Yeah, my friend likes very long sentences, never mind that."
"Oh. In that case, Captain, shall we sit down and order ourselves some coffee?"
"No."
"Why not? Don't drink coffee no more, Captain?"
"Right... Why don't I give you my number, Corporal?"
Sherlock quite enjoys these little peeks into John's frankly heroic past. He often wonders what motivates John to modesty about his previous feats. The detective himself thinks he would like to have the whole of London quite aware of Captain John Watson's talents. It could keep master criminals at bay too, but John absolutely forbids Sherlock to rattle about John's secret killer proficiency with wooden tongue depressor spatulas.
Back on the Curfew Killer Case that has been wonderfully intoxicating Sherlock's senses with its complex lack of vital clues and structural coherence, there were a few scattered victims before a link emerged to bring them together.
The bus driver, a middle aged man with a grumpy demeanour that death had fossilized into rigor mortis, was the first victim. Scotland Yard were made aware quite early in the game – on what later would be perceived as a common chase by the Baker Street double – when an unknown killer or accomplice sent a message straight to DI Lestrade's phone, stating a postcode, overlaid on the grainy picture of the corpse. The scenery around the corpse was a darkened room with too little definition, a dirty window just cut off at the side. From that Sherlock had recognised two of London's least known landmarks and triangulated the location of the dropped off gift for the police. He had also approximated the time at which the picture had been taken – about half an hour before being sent, the killer was busy leaving the scene unnoticed and that lead to a Mycroft Holmes included CCTV rummage to identify the killer. They came up with nothing out of the ordinary, the killer was rapidly proving himself clever and capable.
The young university student had been found a few days prior to the time Sherlock deduced her existence. By then, the clear times stamps inferred that the ritualistic but varied killings had been taking place every 48 hours, to the dot. John had the cringing idea of blogging about the case to ask for witnesses to come forward, and coined the 'Curfew Killer' in his blog.
By that John meant ten at night in his commonplace lingo, given that there was now a tier two local lockdown, imposed to pubs and restaurants for an early closure, by 10pm, to reduce social contacts and lessen the spread of the 2020's rampantly spreading virus in England.
'Is that why John is returning from his nocturnal outings earlier?' a clueless detective mused, a little bit miffed that it hadn't in fact been him the conductor of such behaviour – returning the doctor home early – but a faceless, generalist, blanketing measure imposed on lots of other doctors and Johns in the country.
The friendly detective inspector waiting by the gruesome corpse rolled his eyes affectionately.
'That, and because you text him so much he has to mute his phone at some point', Sherlock was explained to by Lestrade, who did not miss the cheap shot of an amused smirk at Sherlock's hurt look. 'You know you are always welcome to join us, Sherlock.'
'Why? Do you think the killer frequents your local pub?' Sherlock shot back, eagerly, only to be disappointed.
Lestrade later admitted that John did not mute his phone, the inspector did it himself out of pity over an worn out, ragged doctor permanently on Sherlock-alert.
Sherlock huffed contemptuously, as if he could never be deceived about John Watson's loyalty by the inspector's cheap tricks.
The laboratory technician was Sherlock's favourite victim, for the reasons already mentioned. Scarred fingers from little work accidents with scalpels and broken glass that amounted to a fascinated landscape over the years, she had muscular hands that handled heavy equipment as deftly as they calibrated a sensitive and precise machine, and an engagement ring that was way too old to foretell a wedding that would indeed take place, more than just two fiancées who had grown accustomed to their status and individual celibate lives. She was a pool of useless but sharp and vivid information that the detective enjoyed immensely, as a pastime of small deductions. She did not paint her nails, as her fingers were continually exposed to nitrile gloves and chemicals, she didn't colour her hair as the engagement was lukewarm and she probably knew of her boyfriend's infatuation with a third floor secretary. She had dreams of a different life and spent hours journaling her future endeavours, only to gain tell-tale calluses on her index and middle fingertips long before she managed to act on her projects. John mused that perhaps what Sherlock Holmes really saw in that victim had mirrored something deep inside himself, that was a sort of world weary loneliness that was very personal, very much like Sherlock had known as his only reality for years, before a certain limping doctor had wobbled into his lab at Bart's (of course Sherlock thinks of it as his lab, he managed to scare away every other contender to his regular workspace).
And it was on account of his profound attention that Sherlock found the missing clue, that not only solidified the link between all victims of the Curfew Killer, but made them twenty times the more interesting.
.
Sherlock Holmes has taken a personal interest. I can tell it from my friend's demeanour. No less curious and demanding, as he gathers evidence of something or other, potentially of the crime, perhaps of other crimes, who knows only the illusion of possibilities that never became. Sherlock sees far more than even a personal blogger can give him credit.
I think that's why he resists so much taking the Underground like other folks in London. Too many deductions, too many snippets of humanity mashed and forced together in one crammed carriage.
If you ask Sherlock, he'll just tell you it's too plebeian. He's not above a bit of elitism, having grown up as a Holmes.
You wouldn't quite remember that if you saw him monster dive into a dumpster and dig through piles of discarded rubbish as a gold digger in the old West. I clear my throat, and look around measuredly at a few forensic investigators assembled in a awkward audience, waiting in a half moon crescent around the dumpster.
Lestrade called us to the crime scene a little after half past ten, frantic as his familiar tarred voice echoed rough and low through the phone call. The Yard had just received another timely clue from the killer, this time promising a victim still alive – if barely – and that if the Yard could find them in time, they could yet save a life. Detective inspector Lestrade is a great asset to the Scotland Yard on his own merits, but he is not arrogant to the point of believing he alone could solve the whole case at the breakneck speed. He called his Baker Street team of specialists to offer advice; if at all possible, the murderer's identity would do nicely too.
I finish paying the cabbie as Sherlock's expensive leather shoes hit the metallic bottom of the dumpster. I had to round up all the stray cash in my pockets and use a minor contribution from Greg, as the detective must have once again raided my wallet to test the durability of currency for his blog. It's turning out a bit of an expensive blog entry for me, as – of course – Sherlock never carries cash on him.
'Good grief, John! Is he—'
'Yes, inspector, he is', I agree solemnly, as we both look on.
Greg's smirk is amused to no end.
'He doesn't hold himself back, does he?'
'The man knows no bounds', I agree.
'And he knows the victim has been found at the alley's entrance?'
I look at the more illuminated mouth of the narrow pathway, several feet away from the smelly take away joint tip.
'He must have walked past. This is Sherlock, he sees all the murder signs that are invisible to us, how could he miss the stuffed body bag? Have some faith, inspector!'
'Faith? Yeah, sure. Join him? No, thanks', Greg declines, bowing slightly on a hasty retreat.
'John! Come here!'
I swear sometimes Greg is clairvoyant...
I open my mouth to respond, glance around quickly, and ponder my chances of sneaking away stealthily without the dumpster deep detective finding out.
'John, there's a life at stake!'
I sigh and curse inwardly, reaching forward stoically. I hold onto the rim and hoist myself into the pool of half decomposed detritus inside.
Five minutes later, we emerge with a grubby latch key. Sherlock athletically jumps off the dumpster to the alley's cobble stone pavement, patting the creases of his ruined suit as he beckons Lestrade over. I slip again before grabbing enough perchance in the metal walls of the damned dumpster and rolling myself haphazardly over the top rim, losing my balance and nearly crashing face forward on the ground.
'Lestrade, take this key and hurry, the victim's twin is inside the locked basement of the take away shop, go save a life.'
'Sherlock, how can you possibly know that?'
'Look – will you look at the victim's belongings? The key is missing from the key chain. You can tell by the marks on the metal ring holding them together that it was constantly part of the key chain. The victims are the owners of the shop. The killer grabbed one and satiated his instincts, but left the other as a tease, there is still time!'
The DI takes one serious look at the detective and gulps drily, all objections dying on his lips. He gestures at his team, that quickly take the lead.
'Won't you join us?'
'Later. I'm busy.'
'Busy? With what?'
'Shower', Sherlock replies in a dignified whimper, running a hand through his sticky curls. 'I've got some mysteries of my own to solve, inspector. There is something indescribable sliding down my calf', he adds, in a constrained voice. 'Taxi!' he calls out as a timely cab drives past. 'John!' he calls me as an afterthought, as the cabbie slows down and gives him a doubtful look. 'Do you take card?' Sherlock asks, full of dignity.
He does not turn, as Lestrade storms the take away joint to save the co-owners life.
.
John stands ramrod straight in the darkened living room in 221B, as the street lights pour in through the windows, throwing grotesque shadows across the worn rug.
Sherlock comes out of the bathroom, towering his dark curls, and seems surprised by the brooding doctor.
'John? What is it?'
The doctor takes a few moments to acknowledge his flatmate's presence, a tell-tale sign that Sherlock never ignores. Sherlock knows John's silences can shout loudly from the doctor's inner recesses, and he never fails to listen, something John is eternally grateful for.
'What is this fiend doing?' John mutters under his breath. Sherlock immediately comes closer, as if the hushed tone of voice was an invitation for closeness, by the meanders of simple logic. He doesn't interrupt John. Instead, he studies at the short doctor's reflection on the window pane. Sherlock will always pays attention to that particular tone of voice, the one John uses when trying to understand motivations.
It's so easy on John to do what always has fully eluded Sherlock, John can make it seem like a breeze, to judge another's intentions by navigating his own humanity.
'Sherlock', John starts again, in that same familiar low tone that binds him together with his friend, 'you answered his call. From now on, every puzzle he presents you with, there is a solution you can discover to save the victims. Can't you see? It's no fun to beat the police every time. He wants to play. He's not causing mayhem out of a love of destruction. No. No longer. He's enjoying observing you, studying you. He wants you to succeed so he can endanger some other poor fellow and set you on another hunt. Sherlock, this person is a dangerous criminal, far more dangerous than we usually deal with. This is like Jim Moriarty all over again. A lonely sadist seeking attention.'
The tall consulting detective stands his ground, wondering mindlessly how John still surprises him by reading the situation like a book. Really, he shouldn't be surprised. John is a military man, John understands strategy. John may have left the army but the training remains inside him. Sherlock can't lie his way into John's peace of mind. Instead, the taller man assures his friend:
'I'm ahead of you already. I noticed as much. For now we play. He is testing me, soon we will meet face to face. It won't take long before this villain will intend to make my acquaintance. I shall not disappoint.'
The doctor turns and looks up those inches that separate their heights, made starker because John is now a very close mirror of his friend, always only a couple of inches away. 'You are enjoying this.'
Sherlock opens his mouth for an appropriate negative, but immediately falters at John's honest gaze. He blinks, gulps and huffs. Honesty returned, the detective says: 'Enjoying it a bit. For now. It fends off the boredom. But I will not lose focus, John. These are terrible kidnappings and vile threats on innocent bystanders.'
'You are quoting me verbatim.'
'I learnt from my doctor and confidant.'
'Flattery will get you nowhere, mate.'
Sherlock smirks, amused.
'John, I need your help. I need you by my side, lest my sociopathic streak resurfaces and I lose my light.'
'Told you often enough. You are not such thing.' John refuses to utter the label and his friend's name in the same sentence, even if separated by a negative clause. Sherlock finds this an endearing and everlasting proof of friendship, but often dismisses it as John's own bias.
Sherlock should know. Mycroft and their parents have explained it all as kind and calmly as they could when Sherlock was leaving primary school. After one bilious kid nearly chocked on his barf when he snuck up on Sherlock in the playground recess, while the young genius was attempting taxidermy on a deceased pigeon that a stray cat had blundered to death. Perhaps Sherlock should have known he did not possess the proper equipment and chemicals, and maybe Sherlock was just in a whimsical world of his own in his amateurish attempt, but to imply Sherlock had anything to do with the bird's untimely demise was no clear judgement on the murderous instincts of felines and the obvious claws mark on the feathered corpse. Mycroft would have told Mummy as much if he wasn't such a prick, rejoicing on having the upper hand over the youngest sibling.
Take John Watson, for instance, with all his loveable traits, a child John would have been all cuddly jumpers and sunlit smiles whilst reviving the day old dead pigeon and have him fly off to a window sill chirping away while the bilious child would sing him praise all around. Mummy would have been proud of little John and no psychiatrists would have made a small fortune from the Holmes' estate fund.
'Of course I'm a sociopath, John, I wish you'd stop trying to fix me at all costs, even reasonability.'
Predictably, John rolls his eyes and states:
'For a genius detective you sure can miss the obvious clues in yourself, you know?'
Perplexed, Sherlock watches his friend huff as John walks off.
The detective grimaces, shrugs the wet towel in his hands straight to wherever it lands – it happens to be John's armchair – and tries to nonchalantly go to the kitchen. Maybe make them both some tea.
It's very rare that John gets the last word over Sherlock.
.
TBC
