Author Note: Sadly, I have found that I probably won't get around to writing the sequel for this story like I had hoped. However, I had written some of chapter 1 some time ago and I thought it'd be fun to share it with the readers. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
The crime rate was dropping in London. Sherlock hated it. It wasn't even through the efforts of Scotland Yard; if it was at least then he could go and yell at Lestrade for it.
In just one month, killers, kidnappers and smugglers had run for the hills so to speak. There was still the occasional theft or assault, but nothing worth leaving the flat for. It was all because of Kira. Kira, Kira, Kira. Sherlock couldn't escape the name; it was all over the internet. Everyone was praising the Japanese mass murderer that somehow picked off criminals all over the world with heart attacks.
Idiots. Blind, gullible, desperate idiots.
How low he had fallen that the only way he could pass the time was to insult the masses…well more than usual. It was either that or shooting the wall, and he's been forbidden from that since they didn't want to risk Mrs. Hudson's old heart giving out from fright. She had scolded them for treating her like "some old woman," but she appreciated that her wallpaper would no longer get a beating. There was still enough activity around the flat to keep her on her toes. Or there would be if the criminal classes weren't so scared out of their wits.
There he went again.
If only John was there to distract him. He had tried to convince him to stay home, by any and all means but, while the doctor was amused and willing, he had insisted on going to work anyway.
"I'm sorry Sherlock. I promised Cameron I'd take over her shift today. She's going to visit her mother-in-law in the hospital before her surgery. I'll be home as soon as I can. I'll even call you during my lunch break if you want."
The man was long used to how stir crazy the consulting detective's mind got when idle too long. He did his best to soothe the madness and often times he succeeded. But he wasn't there to help this time, so Sherlock was left cursing Kira in his mind. He knew L was on the case so it wouldn't be long before it was settled. Still, the end couldn't come soon enough. Sherlock would have assisted him and offered several times before over the years. His son was insistent on doing it himself. Sherlock could respect that and there were a few times when their paths crossed when a case in the area brought him home.
Just as he was contemplating getting a silenced pistol for himself, though it wouldn't be nearly as satisfying, his phone rang. He checked the caller id then answered it; he didn't care that it was Mycroft. Even talking with him would be better than this.
"What do you want, Mycroft?" He asked gruffly, falling back on his usual snippy treatment and keeping his relief to himself.
"To deliver you some concerning news." The man's voice was serious, ignoring Sherlock's tone instead of joining in their little "game."
"What happened?"
"According to reports, a little over two weeks ago, L had twelve FBI agents brought to Japan to assist him on the Kira case. They were to investigate members of the NPA."
So, L had suspected that Kira was connected to the police in some way? A family member maybe or even one of the officers himself. It was underhanded but effective to find what he needed. Surely, the NPA wouldn't appreciate it though.
"I've just been informed that they all perished four days ago."
"What…?"
They died? All of them? In one day?
Of course, Sherlock knew Kira had to be quite proficient in his killing to have as many victims as he did. It wasn't even that many when compared to the long list that seemed to follow each week. Those were criminals though. This time it was people of the law. The "good guys" so to speak. Further proof of Kira's hypocrisy. Still, this meant no one was safe from him.
Concerning news indeed.
John expected a lot of things when he got home. Sherlock couldn't shoot holes in the wallpaper anymore but maybe he would pour acid on it or some other experimental fluid. Maybe he would even throw pints of blood to see how it would splatter across the wall. Maybe he "rescued" another dog like he did that one time.
"The man isn't fit to be an owner, John."
"Yeah, well it's still stealing, or dognapping, I suppose."
Who would have thought that the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath was such a dog lover? In fairness, Sherlock hadn't called himself that in many, many years. Thankfully, the owner hadn't pressed charges. He seemed scared to as he was gruffly instructed on how to better care for his dog. The man did love his dog but wasn't too bright. He didn't have the common sense to understand why it was wrong to give the dog pastries when Bailey seemed to enjoy them so much. Honestly, it was a surprise the dog hadn't keeled over yet by that point. John felt that Sherlock was right to intervene. He didn't say as much, afraid the detective would take that as permission to turn their flat into some kind of kennel.
So, there could be a bulldog drooling all over his chair when he got home or some limb being hacked or dissected on the kitchen table. After all these years, he thought he was prepared for everything. Then again, he was sure the sight of Sherlock Holmes with blond hair would be enough to stop anyone in their tracks. It wasn't a wig either but the man's actual hair. It wasn't an outrageous shade at least, leaning more towards brown than platinum, but there was enough of a difference to make John gawk. The man had also slicked the strands back a bit so there were no curls spilling over his forehead and around his ears. There was enough freedom left for the strands to curve and rise in stylized waves rather than sit flat and restrained on top of his head.
Was Sherlock truly so bored that even his vanity was thrown to the wayside in his desire for something to occupy himself? It didn't look bad; in fact, it was rather flattering. The man seemed to agree as he was busy admiring himself in the mirror.
His attire was another source of astonishment. He was always neatly dressed in a dark suit, with varying states of dishevelment depending on what stage of a case he was in or how long he had been without one; he didn't do casual. To him, casual was lounging around in his pajamas and dressing gown. Besides that one time at Buckingham Palace or the times he donned a disguise, he never left the flat unless dressed to impress.
Unless John had drifted into a dream or some alternate reality, the detective was actually wearing a simple long-sleeved shirt and jeans. He hadn't even known the man owned any jeans. He suddenly imagined the man browsing at a clothing store like he was the common folk and nearly laughed at the implausibility of it. He probably just had Mycroft send him clothes that matched his specifications.
Upon closer inspection, they were of better quality and style than what John would most likely see a passerby wearing on the street. Regardless, the man was practically unrecognizable.
Sherlock finally spotted him lingering in the doorway.
"Oh, John! Welcome Home." He greeted. "What do you think?" He asked, gesturing to his hair and outfit as if John somehow hadn't noticed himself.
"Looks good." John managed to mumble out, still reeling slightly. "Hardly recognized you."
"Excellent. Mycroft said it would be too conspicuous." He wrapped an arm around John's shoulders so he could steer him over towards the mirror. "Of course, we're going to stand out no matter what we do, so little point in going for anything dull. I have other dyes for you as well. Didn't know which color to go with."
He grabbed two bottles from the mantle. He held them next to John's face to get an idea if they would work with his coloring.
"It has to look somewhat natural. Can't be obvious that it's a disguise. What do you think? Black or red? Hard to imagine you as a ginger."
He was talking at a non-stop pace, as if they were on the same page when John hadn't even read the title yet. While that wasn't unusual, John was starting to worry. His husband was abuzz with energy, but it wasn't his usual mania or excitement. Even his grin was forced. He hadn't made eye contact with John yet, though he was looking at John's face in the mirror it didn't seem he was truly seeing him.
No, what was fueling each rushed word or hectic action, wasn't joy at finally having a case. It was anxiety and worry bordering on fear. He wouldn't be able to escape this spiral on his own. John firmly grabbed his arm as he was reaching for another bottle, finally halting the rush of words.
"Sherlock, stop. What is this about?"
It was like John had taken a needle to a balloon. He could feel the muscle under his hand go lax and limp. Sherlock's arm fell without breaking the doctor's gentling grip. The detective let out a long sigh, shoulders dropping as he stepped closer. He slumped into him and rested his head on top of John's. John's other arm readily slipped around his waist to support him, forming a partial embrace. The doctor stayed quiet and patiently waited for him to calm and put his thoughts in order. Finally, Sherlock pulled away so they could speak face to face.
"Mycroft called me. He had planted a man at the NPA to keep an eye on the Kira case. He's shared everything that's been gathered with me."
"L won't be happy to hear that." John tried to joke, but he knew it wouldn't work. Sherlock's answering grin lacked true amusement. He let John lead him to the couch so they could sit together.
"A couple weeks ago, L had called in some FBI agents to investigate the NPA task force."
"He thinks one of them is involved with Kira?"
"Yes. It's a logical deduction from what was in the report. It…didn't go as he expected."
"What happened?" John asked, a bad feeling stirring in his gut.
"They died."
"What?"
"All twelve agents died on the same day."
Cold horror filled John's veins. This case was taking an even grimmer turn than he expected, and it was already so grim to begin with.
"So, Kira is truly willing to go after the police?"
"Of course, he isn't a true god of justice or whatever bile those mindless masses believe. He's just a murderer getting his kicks." His earlier frustration had now morphed into genuine disgust and anger.
"That means…" John was starting to feel the same panic and anxiety as all the pieces came together. Sensing this, Sherlock placed a hand on his back. The doctor instinctively leaned into it.
"…L isn't safe. Especially since I suspect he's planning to work with the remaining task force face to face."
"Why would he do that?"
"He's decided he needs a team, and they wouldn't trust him after he has investigated them behind their backs. They would demand to see his face at least."
"Why not just call in someone else? He has other connections. We could have…I see."
"Yes, he's keeping us as far from it all as possible. Easier to put a bunch of strangers at risk than family."
"Still, it's reckless. Honestly, the two of you. It's no wonder my hair went gray early."
Sherlock opened his mouth to correct him that it was actually from genetics, but John was already waving at him to stop.
"So, we're heading to Japan to help?"
Sherlock nodded, looking calmer now that he and John were finally on the same page and the doctor showed no disapproval towards his plan.
"It's the parents' responsibility to look after the child, after all."
"That explains your total transformation. Wow never thought I'd actually make it to Japan one day. Shame it's to hunt down a mass murderer." He let out a laugh. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised really." This time Sherlock's grin was genuinely amused. "Well, suppose I should find my passport."
"Already taken care of. We just need to sort out your disguise and decide on aliases. Mycroft will get anything else we need ready."
"Right. I'm guessing you've already taught yourself Japanese."
"Indeed. It was a precaution in case L did call us in. Don't worry, I'll give you a crash course on our way there."
A very rigorous and thorough crash course he meant; John was not looking forward to it, but he wouldn't refuse.
"So, black or red?" Sherlock asked, returning to the topic of hair dyes.
"Neither. Trust me, they wouldn't look good. Why don't we just darken it to some shade of brown or something."
"That's acceptable."
Not wasting any time, they grabbed the dye and everything they needed and sat John down in the desk chair. He sat silently as Sherlock worked the dye through his hair, trusting the man knew what he was doing; his own hair turned out just fine so there shouldn't be any reason to worry.
John tried not to let his thoughts spiral down into the same dark pit that had ensnared his husband less than an hour ago. There was so much to dwell on though.
Beyond traveling to a new country, which wasn't exactly new to John, he also was about to take on a mass murderer that somehow was even more of a threat than Jim Moriarty had been. He hadn't thought that was possible. Mainly, Moriarty had been an intimate threat, attacking directly in some way or another within close quarters and had even sat in their flat at one point. He loved showing off each phase and watching Sherlock's retaliation. He relished the "game" first and foremost. If he had really wanted them dead, they never would have left the pool, or even reached it for that matter.
Kira was different. He didn't need to be there in person, according to reports. He could strike them down at any time without them knowing or getting a chance to prepare or fight back. It only took a name and a face, and, with the internet, no one was safe. Sherlock and himself had been plastered all over the news many times over the years. Despite Sherlock's earlier efforts, there were photos of them. There was no anonymity to be found. It wouldn't be hard for Kira to get what he needed to eliminate them. All John could do was hope the disguises worked well enough. It truly was a suicide mission. Even so, there was no doubt they would go regardless. There had been more than enough victims already. And now Kira was gunning for their son.
That was not okay.
This was just the sort of thing L had prepared for. Not the supernatural mass murderer part, of course, but the precautions taken to keep his identity a secret. John couldn't be more grateful that he had decided to remain anonymous. Otherwise, their son would probably already be dead.
A horrified shudder ran through him, loudly projecting to the other man what path his thoughts had found themselves on. The detective couldn't touch him with his hands covered in dye-stained gloves. Still, he paused in his work to step into his line of sight.
"It'll be fine, John." Sherlock spoke slowly, eyes locked with the doctor's. "It'll be the three of us against one man. His chances are slim."
It didn't matter whether he truly believed that or not. His natural, often arrogant, confidence washed over John. It was hard to doubt with Sherlock Holmes on the case. True, John had seen more than the man's fair share of slip ups and unsolved cases while living with him. Even so, he knew the man would give his best. And that was something he could put his faith in. Reassured, he nodded. Sherlock smiled softly and went back to finishing up.
"What about a fake mustache? It'd help disguise me." John asked after a moment, mainly to help push away the dark mood, but he was also seriously considering it. Sherlock's face immediately scrunched up in disgust.
"God no."
"So what do we call ourselves? Need to get it straight now so we don't slip up while we're there." John asked as he examined himself in the mirror.
His hair was darker than it had ever been, but it wasn't quite Sherlock shade. It would be some time before he stopped doing a double take at his own reflection. Just like he couldn't help but stare at Sherlock, well for different reasons than usual.
"I was thinking Scott Williams for me." Sherlock replied, helping gather the last few things he hadn't already packed.
"Isn't it risky to use part of your name?"
"I thought that would be easier for you to remember. No one knows my full name except you, L, Mycroft and my parents."
"What about Moriarty?" John asked, ignoring the unintentional jab at his memory. "Couldn't he have known it? That would mean his network might have too."
"I took care of his network." As if either had forgotten that.
"Doesn't mean it didn't get out at some point and spread to others in the criminal underworld. Kira may be targeting criminals, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have such access."
"…point." Sherlock conceded after a moment, looking almost sheepish. John smiled kindly, moving on instead of lingering on the blunder.
"I have an uncle named Chris. Shouldn't be hard for me to remember for myself. Doesn't exactly fit me but at least it's not entirely random."
"We won't be the only one using aliases so it won't matter whether it's obvious or not."
"Alright then. Chris it is. What about you?"
"Few of my relatives have simple names." That John could believe. Just look at Mycroft. "And I'm not particularly willing to name myself after my cross-dressing uncle."
"Yeah, can't really imagine you pulling off a dress." John teased, chuckling at the bizarre image that popped into his head.
"Lestrade would disagree."
"Wait, what?"
"It was for a case a year after I met him. He didn't recognize me right away. Of course, he noticed once I turned around and spoke. He still gets ashamed if it's mentioned." Sherlock's grin was wide and wickedly amused.
"All these years… how haven't I heard about this?" John was full on laughing now, imagining the inspector's face when he realized the woman was actually the annoying twat, his words, that often forced his way onto crime scenes.
"I'll go by Ben." Sherlock said, once they returned to the main topic.
"Ben?" It sounded too plain for the detective. Then again, that was rather the point, wasn't it? It fit his current appearance well enough.
"From this moment on, we use the aliases."
"Alright."
Sherlock then proceeded to get up, head to the kitchen and grab a mug.
"Sherlock!" John yelled when the man threw it against the wall.
"Alias, Chris." He softly chided, unconcerned with the shards of porcelain now littering the rug.
"What are you doing?"
"Sorry, I had to test you. It has to be second nature. Anything could happen and we can't afford to slip up."
John let out a long sigh.
"You're right. Still, couldn't you have grabbed something non-breakable?"
No one recognized Sherlock when they ventured outside and even when John did slip up, he reassured him that Mycroft had men set aside to make sure no pictures or mention of his new look made it online.
Sherlock was determined to test as many situations as possible with all kinds of emotional responses. He nearly gave John a heart attack when he suddenly stepped into the middle of the street into the path of a car. John failed that test, but he hardly cared about that. The detective was lucky he was ready to leap out of the way; otherwise, John would have killed him. He still might.
Once the fear passed, John, out of spite and mostly to remind Sherlock why youdo notdo that, "slipped" and slid down some stairs. He easily caught himself partway down. There might be a bruise or two but nothing unmanageable. The detective had nearly flung himself down after him, he moved so fast, crying outJohn!
John sat there and waited as Sherlock looked him over anxiously. He raised a brow when their eyes finally met.
"Ah." He drew back, acceptably ashamed. "Right. Sorry." John let him help him up and they moved on to less gray hair inducing tests.
"Be careful you two." Mrs. Hudson hovered in the hallway. They hadn't outright told her just what they were embarking on, but she wasn't one to be fooled. She could sense that it was serious.
Sherlock put the suitcase down and drew close to her. He let her wrap her arms around him and returned the hug. After a moment, he stepped back and cupped her cheek. He gave her one of his kindest smiles.
"Don't worry. We will be back before you know it. Then you can chide me for leaving behind my mold experiment."
No one said it aloud, but they all knew. It was a goodbye. Just in case.
"Wait, mold?"
Lestrade meets them before they go. He at first is so startled, shocked at seeing Sherlock looking so different.
"Christ…you look like one of those models in the magazines my ex used to read."
"You two really are serious? You do remember that this guy has killed practically hundreds of criminals, right?"
"Yeah, we know. But L needs our help." John said, resolved. Lestrade tensed, face hardening. There was a protective glint forming in his eyes. John was sure the same was reflected in theirs as well.
"Right. Wish I could join you." His face softened, though the worry remained. "Give him my regards and…I know I can't do much stuck in London, but if you need me for anything, please call me."
"We will. Take care, Greg." John said.
"Better make it back, you hear!" He called out as the two headed for security.
"Mycroft looked through the security cameras of the area and discovered several NPA officers heading to the same hotel. There was some time between their arrivals but it's clear this is where L is holed up for now."
They stopped on each floor, peering out long enough for Sherlock to check for a camera. Since there wasn't one in the elevator itself, there would be one on the floor L was on, placed where it could see who got off the elevator.
Inside the hotel room, the task force was listening to L explain his reasoning. They were still rather shocked that the odd, young man before them was a world-famous detective. Even so, the intense intellect behind each word couldn't be ignored, regardless of his odd mannerisms.
A cell phone suddenly rang.
The members looked to each other, wondering if one of them had forgotten to give their phone over as L requested. L pulled his own phone out, holding it between his thumb and pointer finger up to his ear. Matsuda grumbled to himself over him being allowed one when they weren't, regardless that he was in a sense their de-facto leader besides the chief.
They couldn't hear what was said on the other line, but L's reaction was certainly interesting. He brought his other hand over his face and let out a long sigh. Matsuda felt a bit bad for thinking it, but it was the most human reaction the man had shown since they met him.
Less than a minute later, there was a decisive knock on the door. Everyone stared at it, curious at who could be joining them. L let out another soft sigh then unraveled from his crouch to go open it. All the task members collectively fell silent, eavesdropping and trying to peer around the corner.
"What are you doing here?"
"To assist, of course."
A deep voice with a clear British accent drifted into the room, followed by a tall man and another shorter man striding around the corner. L trailed after them, looking almost exasperated. Matsuda marveled at the man who had spoken. He hadn't seen anyone quite as striking before outside the magazines that Misa-Misa appeared in. This man was a foreigner too and that only helped him stand out more.
The man gave them all a long look. Matsuda nearly squirmed in his seat. Something about his stare made him feel exposed.
"So, this is your task force?"
Aizawa bristled at the tone. L speaking stopped him from snapping something back.
"You weren't supposed to come here." L joined the two, seemingly missing what was said about the task force. It was like he had forgotten the others were there; the two men held his full attention.
"Did you really think you could keep us from this?" The second man finally spoke, tone much softer than the other's. There was a long pause as the three stared at each other. Matsuda was admittedly curious. There seemed to be some sort of tension between L and the newcomers. He knew he couldn't ask.
"…No." L confessed.
Author Note:That's as far as I got unfortunately. I'm struggling to find time to write my current story so I don't know when, or even if, I'll be able to return to this. If I finish my current story and I have the time, then this one will probably be next on the list.
