Chapter Text
Soundtrack for this chapter:
Sons and Daughters by The Decemberists
Bumpy Ride by The Hoosiers
++
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.”
John remembered the wink, that odd, self-consciously cocky wink, as he approached 221 Baker Street. No sign of Mr Holmes, so he limped up the steps and reached up to grasp the knocker.
“Dr Watson.” He turned to see Holmes emerging from a cab, a slight smile playing at his lips.
“It’s John, please, Mr Holmes.” John held out his hand as Holmes approached.
“Sherlock,” he corrected, grasping John’s hand and shaking, once, firmly. They both turned toward the door and Sherlock rapped once. It was opened after a moment by an older woman who gestured them in.
Sherlock unwound his scarf and made introductions. “Mrs Hudson, Dr John Watson. Mrs Hudson’s the landlady.” John smiled congenially at Mrs Hudson, who practically beamed back at him.
“Oh, a doctor, you have done well.” Before John could ask what she meant, Sherlock had swept past them both and was on his way up the stairs. “It’s just up the one flight, unless you’ll be needing the bedroom upstairs. Will that be all right?” She looked, worried, at his cane and he grimaced.
“Quite all right. I manage.” He said tightly, and began hobbling up to prove his point. He made it to the top landing and into the parlour where Sherlock was – nowhere in sight. “Sherlock?”
“Just gone to fetch her, he’ll be out.”
“Fetch who…” his question trailed off as Sherlock emerged from the hallway leading off the kitchen. Carrying a child. A young child, four or five perhaps, who seemed to be chatting away quite happily, arms flailing about as if to punctuate her points. Sherlock held her close, tucked up against his hip, and a small smile played across his mouth as he listened. John was vaguely aware of Mrs Hudson backing out of the flat, saying something about letting them get settled, distracted as he was by the unexpected occupant.
Sherlock caught John’s eye and paused in the doorway, smile tightening slightly. “John, this is Imogen. My daughter. Imogen, this is Dr John Watson.” At that, her attention turned to John, head cocked as if studying him. Her gaze was eerily similar to the once-over Sherlock had given him at the lab before asking about Afghanistan.
“What kind of doctor are you?” She was still staring at him intently and he suddenly felt like much may hinge on his answer.
“I trained in paediatrics – that’s working with kids, like you – but then I joined the army. Have to be a bit of a jack of all trades there, I’m afraid.”
“I know what paediatrics is, it’s where Papa takes me at Barts when I need to get shots.” She wrinkled her nose at the memory.
“Paediatrics?” Sherlock looked at him curiously. “I didn’t realize.”
John felt somehow pleased to have surprised Sherlock. “Yes, well, we’ve only known each other five minutes.”
Sherlock watched him for another moment; John tried to keep his face impassive. “Yes, and what do you think of the flat?”
John barked a laugh; he hadn’t yet taken a look around, so surprised by the sudden and unexpected appearance of a child in his possible future flatmate’s arms. He glanced around. Disordered, to be certain, but it had a comfortable, world-weary charm. A sofa and a pair of mismatched armchairs gathered around a low coffee table, a desk pushed up against the wall between two large windows, topped off by a bison skull. Wearing headphones. Right. Every horizontal surface was covered in boxes, books, and papers.
“Could be quite nice. Very nice indeed, in fact. Once we’ve cleared a bit of the rubbish…” Sherlock froze, smile slipping away. “Oh. Is this all –”
“Well, we’ve only just started moving in; I could do a bit of tidying of course.” Imogen wriggled from his arm and slid to the ground as Sherlock began ineffectually moving some papers about. Stabbing a penknife through a stack of correspondence on the mantle, he gestured abstractly, “Well, you get the idea.”
John was trying to think how to respond – surely penknives in the reach of small children were a bad idea – when he felt a tug on his coat sleeve. Imogen looked up at him, dark curls falling in her eyes. “Dr Watson, are you going to be my new daddy?” Her eyes were widened, tiny bottom lip in an almost-pout, her entire face composed in a perfect pleading expression he recognized from a younger sister and years of paediatrics. His stomach dropped and he looked to Sherlock for guidance.
Sherlock, who was trying – and not succeeding at all – to conceal a laugh. At John’s expression, he lost it, letting out a chuckle before admonishing his daughter, “Imogen, what have I told you about playing tricks on people?” Imogen’s pleading face instantly vanished, replaced by an expression of slight annoyance.
“That I should only do it if I need to know something important from them.” She huffed a sigh.
“That’s right.” Sherlock took a step closer to the window, flicking the curtain out of the way and peering down into the street, a strange, expectant expression blooming. He glanced back to Imogen, whose face was still screwed up in a pout. “Go on and keep sorting your things now.” It was an order, but he said it kindly, inclining his head toward the hallway he had emerged from earlier. “You might want to find your colouring pencils or a book; I’ll be going out in a moment and Mrs Hudson is too busy to keep you entertained.”
John wasn’t sure what reaction that was supposed to prompt, but Imogen actually stomped her foot, once. “Papa, I want to go with you!”
“Tantrums won’t solve anything and I’ve already said you’re staying.” He fixed her with a mild look that managed to be deeply unimpressed and still slightly more imposing than that of most of John’s commanding officers. She exhaled a put-out huff, but spun and headed for the hallway.
Sherlock had barely looked to John and opened his mouth when his name was called from the door. They both turned to see a middle-aged man in a grey overcoat.
“There’s been another. What’s different this time? You wouldn’t come if there weren’t something new.”
The man nodded in confirmation. “There was a note this time. Will you come?” He seemed just on the edge of catching his breath, as if he’d been run off his feet all day, and the lines around his eyes suggested that was not a new state of events.
“Not in the police car, I’ll be just behind.” The man nodded once more and, with a curious glance at John, turned and rumbled back down the stairs. Sherlock turned to John, huge smile playing on his lips.
“The game’s on, John!” He strode to the door, grabbing his scarf and coat as he went. John watched him sweep out the door and his fingers tightened on his cane. What was he, the babysitter? Then the footsteps paused, doubled back, and Sherlock’s head was poking through the door. “Aren’t you coming?”
“What? I don’t even know where you’re going.”
“Crime scene, should be fun.”
“Fun?”
“Possible serial killer, John, always promising.” John opened his mouth to respond but found no words. “Come on, I’ll fill you in in the cab.”
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock called out to Mrs Hudson. “New serial suicide and now there’s a note! We’re off out, will you –”
She emerged from the ground floor flat with a smile. “Yes, yes, I’ll watch her. You two be off – and mind you be careful, Sherlock!”
++
“All right, you’ve got questions.”
Where to start? “Crime scene?”
“That’s not a question.”
“Right. So, we’re going to a crime scene – one of those string of suicides they’ve been talking about on the news?” Sherlock nodded in confirmation. “So that’s what you do, then, with your – what was it – ‘science of deduction’? Help the police?”
“You’ve read my website.” He sounded pleased with himself. “What did you think?” John raised one eyebrow and Sherlock frowned minutely.
“You said you could tell a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”
“Yes, and I could read your military service in your face and leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone. And yet, paediatrics. There’s always something. Makes sense, though.” He said the last quietly, almost to himself.
“What does?”
“Mike. He would never have knowingly introduced me to someone who didn’t get on with children, and I did wonder at first. He’s a good judge of character, though, even if he can be insufferably smug about it.”
John laughed. “That sounds like the Stamford I knew – incorrigible matchmaker. Not that – I mean.” John coughed, attempting to cover up his embarrassment; Sherlock merely looked amused. “Imogen, then, she lives with you full time?”
“She does, yes. Will that be a problem?” Sherlock’s tone was almost forcefully flippant and John considered his answer carefully.
He thought of night terrors, of screaming and waking in sweat. He thought of guns in desk drawers and frustrated outbursts at useless limbs. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. Sherlock nodded and turned to look out the window. They sat in silence for a few moments.
“You said potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. Did you not think four-and-a-half year old daughters should come up in that conversation before violins?”
Sherlock turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “She’s not the worst of me.”
“I didn’t mean –”
Sherlock waved his apology off. “I know. I’ve been told living with me is indescribable at best and hellish at worst. You’ll see and decide for yourself.” At that, the cab stopped; Sherlock passed a few notes to the driver and lifted the door handle, climbing out of the car with a long-limbed grace.
++
After that, there was a women in pink, deductions and brilliance, and making a point. John stood at the top of the stairs, contemplating the long walk down, as the police and forensics team bustled around him as though he were invisible. A shout and Sherlock had gone off, out the front and nowhere to be found.
John was walking away from the police tape toward the main road to find his way home when Sergeant Donovan called out to him. “I’d warn you to stay away from him, but I know how he can suck you in.” John turned; she worried her lip, seemingly almost surprised herself that she had spoken. “It’s just…there’s only one person in this world he shows any consideration for, and that’s his daughter. He might find you interesting or useful now, but he’ll get bored.” The word was spat out, like a dirty epithet. “But…” she paused, unsure. “If you do decide to be his colleague, or whatever, then, well, watch over them, will you? Do them good to have a doctor’s eye.”
He was surprised at this almost tender admission given her hostility toward Sherlock earlier and wondered what part she played in all this. He moved to ask but hesitated a moment too long; she was already away to answer a staticky call on her radio. He wondered if he’d ask Sherlock when (if?) he saw him next.
He had made it down the main road a fair bit before he paid notice to the ringing phones. He ignored the first few but finally, out of recklessness or curiosity – strange how those two intersect – stepped into a booth and picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end, oily and self-assured, unnerved him a bit. In his experience, men with voices like that tended to think they should get what they wanted, and what they wanted could be unpredictable.
He got into the car, then, with some trepidation about what he might encounter but with a lifetime’s experience in dealing with the unexpected. The woman already in the car barely glanced at him, eyes on her Blackberry as her thumbs clicked swiftly over the keys. His fishing comments – for information or a date, either would work – returned little more than a swift rejection with a soft, private smile. And damn that smile; that was exactly enough to keep him interested, the teasing promise of the unknown. He had always fallen for dark haired girls who knew more than him, from Natalie, the girl next door when he was five who had shown him the secret knots on the back of the best climbing tree in her yard, to Priya in med school who had quizzed him – over and over – on human anatomy. That knowing smile was always the death of him.
When they arrived, the warehouse was cold and quiet, the distant sound of dripping water the only thing breaking the stillness. When he stepped out of the car, John was confronted with a man leaning on an umbrella, all studied casualness. He declined the offer of a seat: if nonchalant and quietly dangerous was the evening’s dress code, then John knew better than most how to act accordingly. He tossed off a comment about cleverness and phoning – I prefer to text rising, unbidden, in his mind – using years and continents of experience. Experience in interrogation and in flirtation; this was somewhere strangely in between.
The man rebuked his comment and somehow, with only a mere twelve hours’ acquaintance, it was not at all surprising that this was about Sherlock.
“So who are you then, his friend?” With friends like these, right?
“You’ve met him; how many friends do you think he has?” Reminded of Sergeant Donovan’s comments, John thought back on Sherlock’s interactions: coolly professional with Lestrade, rude and insulting with the rest of his team. Yet he also remembered Mrs Hudson’s motherly fussing and kiss on the cheek and the quiet, intense bond immediately apparent between father and daughter. The man watched his face carefully but continued, “No, I’m the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes has. An enemy.”
“An enemy?”
“In his mind, certainly. His arch-enemy, he’d say.” He fairly preened at this statement, leaning toward John minutely as his hand caressed his umbrella. Almost as an aside, he added, “He does so love to be dramatic.” There was certainly a note of familiarity there, of distaste tempered with the slightest hint of fondness.
“Well, thank god you’re above all that,” John deadpanned.
The man gave one short, humourless laugh before pulling a small notebook out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “It seems Sherlock has offered you a place in, let me see, two two one b Baker Street.” He pronounced the address with a sneer. “But, my dear Dr Watson, you must realize that given Sherlock’s…situation, the offer of a flatshare is not made lightly, nor should the decision to accept be impulsive. He has certain – attachments – that may be rather unsuitable for a man of your background.”
“Attachments? You mean his –” John broke off; if Sherlock’s self-professed arch-enemy did not already know about Imogen, he would not be the one to divulge her existence.
But the man merely proceeded. “His daughter, yes. Do you really think that a soldier with a psychosomatic limp, diagnosed PTSD, and a family history of addiction would be the best influence on a young girl?”
John was momentarily rendered speechless. Two men in as many days unpicking his secrets, needling away at his innermost insecurities, was too much. He gritted his teeth; he would not rise to the man’s comments. “What do you care?”
“I worry about them. Constantly.” John frowned. There was an edge of truth to the man’s voice; his eyes had widened slightly, mouth pursed, all evidence of genuine concern. “If you do, however, choose to take up residence with Sherlock – with all reasonable safety precautions met, of course –” the man’s expression was mild and unrevealing, but John’s mind still flashed instantly to the handgun in his desk drawer and he was sure the thought showed in his face. “If that is your decision, I would be willing to pay you a generous amount of money on a regular basis.”
“Why?” John’s voice was tight with suspicion.
“Because you are not a wealthy man,” he said, his face still infuriatingly impassive.
“In exchange for what?”
“Merely information, nothing distasteful, nothing intrusive. I just care to know how they are doing,” I worry about them, constantly, “wish for updates on their health, for example, my dear doctor.” The title was said pointedly; as though spying on your flatmate was part of the Hippocratic Oath.
“No.”
“I haven’t even named a figure yet.”
“Not interested.”
“Hmmm. You’re very loyal, very fast.” John thought of wide, pleading eyes, of shared mannerisms and shared dark hair. He remembered standing at the top of the stairs in an abandoned house, cane in his hand and useless self-pity in his stomach. Loyalty? Perhaps not yet.
“No. I’m just not interested.” At this, his phone chimed. The man raised one eyebrow as John, not looking away for a moment, pulled it from his pocket. Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH.
While John read the text, the man’s voice, cold and imperious, interrupted his thoughts. “Trust issues, it says here.” He was reading again from his notebook and John’s stomach went cold.
“Where did you get that?” He forced his voice to be calm, steady.
“Could it be that you’ve chosen to trust Sherlock Holmes?” John gritted his teeth. “I can’t think of a man less suited. For Sherlock, only one person in the world matters. Trust him, and if it came down to it, he would betray you in an instant if it meant keeping her safe.” Sally Donovan’s words floated in his mind. He didn’t answer.
His phone chimed again. If inconvenient, come anyway. Could be dangerous. SH. What did he seek: protection or a partner in arms? Doctor or soldier? And why did the thought of either have John reaching for his gun? A gun he shouldn’t have, a gun he’d only just started to forget about, a gun that was decidedly not there, but tucked away in a drawer in a depressing little bedsit that might not be his home much longer.
John slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Are we done here?”
“Simply fair warning, Dr Watson.”
John was nearly seething. As Sherlock had said, he’d see, then he’d decide. He did not need bitter warnings or mysterious assignations to make his decision for him. “We’re done here.” He turned and walked the few short steps back to the car.
Anthea was still clicking away on her Blackberry but she absently nodded when he said, “221 Baker Street. But we need to stop off somewhere first.”
++
221 was quiet in the fading light of the evening. John walked slowly up the stairs, his body fighting off a slight ache from the cold and the whirlwind tension of the evening. The door to the flat was ajar and as he walked in, John spied Sherlock’s dark crop of curls resting on the arm of the sofa. Leaning against the sofa on the floor, Imogen sat, immersed in colouring, face intent and markers scribbling precisely on a small, pocket-sized notebook.
“Well, I’m here,” he announced to the room. “It sounded urgent.”
Sherlock arched his back, leaning his head on the arm of the sofa to look at John upside-down. “Ah, John, yes. Can I borrow your phone?”
“My phone?”
“Yes, need to send a text. Shouldn’t use mine, there’s always a chance the number will be recognized from the website.”
“Mrs Hudson has a phone.”
“She’s out.”
“Knitting club,” Imogen piped in. “She’s making me a jumper.” Sherlock cracked a small smile and sat up, swinging his legs to settle to either side of his daughter. He tucked a stray curl behind her ear and John found his annoyance receding.
“Fine.” He leaned over the edge of the couch to hand Sherlock his mobile. Sherlock reached to take it, revealing the inside of his forearm.
“Hang on, is that three nicotine patches?”
“It’s a three patch problem,” Imogen stated, the cant of her voice a perfect imitation of Sherlock’s, serious and slightly impatient.
Sherlock mussed her hair before looking at John. “Helps me think. No pesky second hand smoke to deal with.”
John just shook his head, stepping to the window to look down on the darkening street. “I met a friend of yours earlier.”
“A friend?” Sherlock’s voice sounded almost affronted at the idea.
“An enemy. Your archenemy, he said.”
“Oh,” Sherlock sighed. “Did he offer to pay you to spy on us?”
“He did, yes.”
“Did you take it?”
John glanced at the pair, Imogen scrawling what looked like blood splatter patterns in her notebook, Sherlock watching him with one hand resting on her shoulder. He unconsciously stood straighter, feeling a soldier’s sense of duty and protection. “I said no.”
“Pity, we could have split the fee.”
“Papa, why does Uncle Mycroft want Dr Watson to spy on us? Doesn’t he have people watching me already?”
Sherlock sighed deeply. “That he does, the unbearable –”
“Wait,” John interrupted, “Uncle Mycroft?”
“Yes, my brother, Mycroft. He is suffocatingly protective.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with disdain. “But forget him, he’s not my problem right now, there are far more interesting things afoot.”
“Is this about the case?”
“Her case, yes.” Sherlock gestured toward a pink suitcase propped on one armchair and flung open, its contents jumbled, having clearly been rifled through.
“That’s – that’s her case, the victim’s case. How did you…?”
“Obvious, really. Killer couldn’t have kept it, would have drawn attention, so he had to dump it as soon as possible. I started looking in every likely skip; only took three until I found it.” John was trying to reconcile the thought of Sherlock, with his artfully tousled hair, slimly tailored suits, and expensive wool coat, rummaging around in skips when Sherlock spoke again. “But that’s not all our victim left behind with the killer.”
“No?”
“Think, John: she works in media, she runs a string of lovers, she’s traveling, she’s modern. What would be essential that isn’t here?”
“I…”
“Her mobile! Phone, laptop, iPad, something – she kept up and kept in contact, yet there’s no technology to be found.”
“Papa always tells me that if I’m kidnapped I should leave behind something so he knows I was there. Like a clue.” Imogen’s voice was completely nonchalant.
John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who shrugged. “In my line of work it’s very practical advice. But Imogen is precisely correct. I think it’s quite likely that our victim left her phone behind on purpose.”
Imogen held her marker against her pursed lips, her face a precocious study of introspection. “I think if I had him with me I would leave behind Kelvin. That way Papa would know it was me because no other girls have Kelvins.”
Kelvin? John mouthed to Sherlock. Sherlock gestured to the mantle, where, next to the impaled correspondence, sat a human skull. “Friend of ours. Well, when I say friend…”
John opened his mouth to respond but shut it again, unable to find the words.
“Now, John, on the desk, there’s a number,” Sherlock gestured and John stepped across the room to pick up the slip of paper. Sherlock handed John’s phone back to him. “I want you to send a text to that number. This exactly: ‘What happened last night at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Meet me tonight, 22 Northumberland Street.”
John fumbled with the keys of the phone. “You blacked out? What?”
“No!” Sherlock cried out, exasperated. “Have you sent it?”
“Hang on, what was the address?”
“22 Northumberland, hurry!” John pressed the send button as Sherlock jumped up from the couch, grabbing the phone from him to set it within reach on the table. “And now we wait.”
“Wait? What did I just send? Hold on, did I just –” Imogen glanced between the two, eyes wide, following every word. John turned slightly away from her and whispered, “Did I just text a murderer?”
Sherlock grinned back. “Yes, and let’s hope he’ll find the bait interesting.” The phone rang and all three sets of eyes stared. Sherlock’s smile was almost feral as he snatched it up and strode toward the door, his voice quickening with excitement as he explained. “If someone had just found the phone, they’d ignore a text like that. But the murderer would panic. Imogen, how do you feel about dinner?” Imogen grinned and jumped up, running to put on her jacket and mittens. “John, coming?”
“To dinner?”
Sherlock smiled again, less manic and more excited. “Of a sort.” With that enigmatic answer, he swept out the door, Imogen close on his heels. John sighed, grabbed his coat, and followed, closing the door behind him.
++
Out on the pavement, Sherlock took Imogen’s hand and guided them to the left. He walked quickly, Imogen skipping happily beside him and John hustling two steps behind, trying not to struggle with his cane.
“Papa, can I have nocciola gelato for dessert?” Imogen’s face was a slightly more toned-down version of the doe-eyed pleading she had pulled on John earlier. Sherlock raised one eyebrow.
“How do you know we’re going somewhere with gelato?” Sherlock kept his face serious but a slight note of teasing edged his voice.
Imogen glared back, her expression rivalling her father’s earlier exasperation at Anderson’s unwelcome comments. “22 Northumberland Street,” she said, with a disdain that absolutely had to be genetic.
“So you were paying attention then. Tell me everything that was in her case.”
Imogen let go of her father’s hand to count on her fingers, listing off each item of clothing then, when prompted by Sherlock, speculating on the likely contents of her toiletries bag. She was listening intently as Sherlock espoused upon the likelihood of spray versus roll-on deodorant – time to dry before dressing, probability of marks left, scent interactions with perfume, ease of transport on a train versus an airplane – when they arrived at the restaurant.
John’s mind was whirling; he had barely registered the clothing in the case as more than anonymous fabric. It was clearly a common game Sherlock and Imogen played; the frequency evident in their easy back-and-forth, Imogen’s face scrunched in concentration, her answers sometimes hesitant in the face of Sherlock’s inscrutability but made more confident as his hints and leading questions lessened.
Imogen pushed her way into the restaurant first: Angelo’s, a small, cosy Italian place with the homey smell of garlic and slow-stewed tomato sauce rich in the air. They were seated by a young man who ruffled Imogen’s hair, causing her to duck down and with a stern glare, admonish him, “Billy, stop it!” Billy just laughed and tweaked her ear before stepping back to the kitchen.
They’d barely settled in a booth by the front window when a middle-aged man with a greying ponytail burst out of the kitchen and approached their table. Imogen, who had been seated between Sherlock and John, scrambled out of her seat onto the table. Startled, John reached out to grab her before she fell, but before he could catch her she had launched herself at the man.
“Angelo!” He had caught the small, airborne girl around the waist and, chuckling, swung her in a circle.
“Been too long since I’ve seen you in here, lass. You must have known I just got in a new batch of gelato this morning.”
Imogen giggled. “We’re here because Papa’s going to catch a murderer!”
“A murderer today, Sherlock?” Angelo shifted his attention to the table, catching sight of John for the first time. “But who’s this? Sherlock, about time you caught yourself a nice man. I’ve been telling him for years he needs someone to take care of him and the little one,” he said to John, with the fond smile of a concerned relative.
“I’m not his – I mean, we’re not –” John spluttered, only to be saved by Imogen, still in Angelo’s arms.
“That’s Dr Watson. He might be moving in with us to our new flat. His leg hurts because he was in the war,” she said, eyes wide and serious. “War must be a bit like catching murderers, only all the time, I think,” she added, contemplatively.
John glanced at Sherlock, whom he found looking to him. Sherlock raised one eyebrow: a question or a challenge John was not sure. “Well, I’ve never caught a murderer, so I’ve nothing to compare it to. Although there was significantly less Italian food in Afghanistan.” Imogen looked intrigued, as if about to launch into an interrogation about what kind of food they did eat in Afghanistan, when Angelo interrupted.
“Ah, how lax of me. Sherlock, anything you want, on the house, for all of you. I have your favourite spinach spaghetti, young lady. And Sherlock, you’re eating. I have some of that goat cheese tortellini you’re fond of…” his tone was almost wheedling and Sherlock narrowed his eyes minutely before waving his hand in acceptance.
“Fine, fine. John, I think you’ll find the butternut squash ravioli to your liking.” Imogen squirmed down from Angelo’s arms and re-joined them at the booth, this time wriggling under the table.
Angelo, satisfied with their order, returned to the kitchen, but not before bringing them a small lit tea light, which he placed on the table with a flourish. “More romantic.”
“I’m not –” John tried to respond, but Angelo had already departed.
++
Swallowing a bite of his frankly heavenly ravioli, John said, offhand, “Does your brother often kidnap your potential flatmates?”
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Invariably. He’s had words with nearly everyone with whom I associate. He will have done a thorough background check and have you on near-constant surveillance by now.”
“What?”
“Oh yes, he probably knows what colour your pants are, snooping bastard.” Beside him, Imogen giggled.
“He watches through the CCTV. I like to wave to them sometimes in case he’s bored.” Imogen smiled, almost dreamily. She lazily twirled some strands of green spinach spaghetti on her fork only to have them slide off when she brought it to her mouth. Frowning, she forwent the fork and picked up a strand with her fingers, holding it above her head to drop into her mouth. With her mouth full, she added, “And sometimes play hide-and-seek.”
“Good way to find out blind spots,” Sherlock explained. He leaned over toward John and, in a slightly lower voice, said, “I don’t tolerate my brother’s interference in much of my life, but I make certain…allowances when it comes to my daughter.” His voice returned to normal as he said, with a smile in Imogen’s direction, “In all other things he is an insufferable git.”
“You forgot meddling!”
“Quite right; an insufferable, meddling git.” Sherlock and Imogen nodded together, Imogen giggling.
John considered this as he chewed. “Besides Mycroft then, do you have much family?”
Sherlock had turned his attention back to the building across the street and was slow to answer. “Hmm? No, just the lazy brother.”
“What about…” John gestured toward Imogen, who had returned to playing with her pasta.
“What?” Sherlock did not look toward him, distracted by pedestrians walking up Northumberland Street.
“You know, Imogen’s…” he trailed off, uncertain of asking outright in front of the girl. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re asking me if Imogen’s mother and I are still involved. Easily answered: we never were.”
“What? Really?”
“Women aren’t really my area.”
“Oh. Oh, right. Do you – are you seeing – do you have a boyfriend, then?” Sherlock finally turned fully from the window to peer at John.
“John, I must tell you, that between Imogen and my work I consider myself fully occupied and while I’m flattered by your interest I’m really not –”
“No. Just no,” John interrupted. “I wasn’t asking, I was just saying, it’s fine.” His eyes strayed to Imogen, who seemed to be plotting a siege of her spaghetti by a troop of cherry tomatoes. “It’s all fine.”
Sherlock watched him for a moment longer, scrutinizing him anew, before his eyes softened. He rubbed Imogen’s back with one hand before settling his attention back to Northumberland Street. Imogen shifted her shoulders, leaning into his touch unconsciously. John went back to his ravioli, only to have his attention jerked away when Sherlock uttered a small exclamation and half-rose from his seat.
John and Imogen both turned to look at Sherlock, who in turn had his attention focused across the street, one hand gripping the back of the booth behind Imogen and the other flat on the table. “The cab,” he said, gesturing at the black taxi outside of 22 Northumberland Street.
“What about it?”
“It’s stopped.”
“Maybe it’s waiting for a fare or checking the address.”
“Not on that quiet street, not for that long. It’s our man,” Sherlock launched himself away from the table, grabbing his coat as he shouted, “Angelo! We’re off, will you –”
The kitchen doors swung open as Angelo bustled out. “Go, Sherlock, I’ve got her.”
With a nod of acknowledgement, Sherlock headed toward the door, stopping briefly to look back at John. Jerking his head toward the cab, he asked impatiently, “Well, aren’t you coming?” before shoving the door open and striding out into the falling evening.
John glanced at Imogen, who had crawled up on her knees on the seat and was watching her father stride off with rapt attention, then to Angelo, who gestured him off. “If he wants you with him, you best go.”
“Right.” John pushed himself out of the seat and through the door to jog after Sherlock. Adrenaline flashed in his blood and he felt the reassuring weight of his gun at the small of his back. He’d tucked it, empty, in the back of his waistband earlier, a single loaded clip in his pocket, with the niggling thought in his mind that it might be necessary. Necessary or reassuring or comfortable; John didn’t try very hard to differentiate between them, now, as he followed Sherlock’s swirling coat down the street.
He reached the other man just as the cab pulled away from the kerb. John’s eyes flashed to the license, committing the number to memory, but Sherlock shrugged off his reassurance, eyes closed and hands gesturing jerkily as he rattled off a string of directions. With an abrupt turn, he set off at a run toward a dark alley perpendicular to the road the cab had taken. Without a thought, John followed.
They chased twists and turns, through alleys, over gates, up ladders, across roofs, John’s heart pounding out a beat that felt less like survival than exhilaration. Sherlock’s coat flapped as they turned corners, his long legs setting a punishing pace, but John kept up, at his heels, not just following but watching his back. Sherlock negotiated corners and junctures and dead ends like a tracker and John like a soldier: in Sherlock’s mind the route was planned, mapped, rerouted and in John’s it was protected, cleared, evaluated for risks.
Steady on his feet, he was fighting again, and his very veins sang out.
They rounded a corner and slammed into the cab and after that it all went a bit quickly: teeth, tan, L.A., welcome to London. As the cab door closed, John bent over in fits of giggles, a rush of absolute manic delight he hadn’t felt in months. Welcome to London indeed.
They set off at a jog when they noticed Mr Teeth-Tan-LA talking to the actual authorities and made their way quickly back to Baker Street. The giggles set in again as soon as they arrived back; John could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, probing, slightly unsure and perhaps a bit concerned.
John drew in a breath and managed to get out, “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” Ridiculous, amazing, astounding, absurd.
Sherlock chuckled, sounding surprised and relieved. John looked up, caught Sherlock’s eye; Sherlock raised one eyebrow and returned dryly, “You’ve obviously never participated in a primary school science fair.” He held his composure for a moment before cracking a grin and John was off again, shoulders shaking as he fell against the wall next to Sherlock.
Their arms brushed and John leaned in, minutely, a sense of camaraderie warming him. For the first time in the 30-odd hours he had known the man, he did not feel like he was parsing Sherlock’s every movement, trying to discern what exactly the madman was on about. They were just two blokes in a hallway, laughing.
John had just managed to get himself under control when the doorbell rang. Sherlock threw the door open; over his shoulder John could see Angelo holding Imogen on one hip. By the looks of her, she’d been quite spoiled after they’d ran out of the restaurant; she wore a huge grin and had a fair amount of chocolate smudged in the corners of her mouth.
“Hi Papa! Angelo let me have –”
“Yes, gelato, I can tell. With chocolate sauce, a flake, and cream, judging by the state of your jumper.” Angelo had the good grace to look chagrined but Imogen merely wriggled out of his arms and pushed past Sherlock to bound up the stairs.
Partway up, she spun around to ask, “Papa, did you catch the murderer?”
“Not yet, but we will.” She considered this, then with a nod scrambled up the rest of the stairs to the flat. John had begun to follow her when Sherlock called his name. He turned and, seeing a glint of metal flying toward him, instinctively caught it. It was his cane.
“I…” Sherlock merely grinned, smug, and nodded at Angelo, who took his leave.
“Point proven,” Sherlock said enigmatically before passing to stride up the stairs. John followed him, steps easy and cane held useless in one hand. He paused at the landing to savour the feeling for a moment, half expecting his leg to give out underneath him. It held.
He continued into the flat, where Sherlock was pacing in front of the sofa. Imogen sat on the coffee table, swinging her legs in time to her father’s steps.
John instinctively headed for the kitchen to search out a kettle. “What happens now?”
“Now, we wait. Serial killers always slip up, always make a mistake. He’ll lead us right to him, whether he knows it or not.”
“You think so?”
Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at John’s questioning tone. “He’s smart, John. Intelligence always loves an audience.” If Sherlock heard John’s snort of amusement he ignored it.
++
An hour later, Sherlock had given up on pacing, instead stretching himself across the sofa, feet propped on one arm and head hanging half-off the cushions. Imogen lay on the floor flipping through an anatomy text, elbow cocked and chin propped up, feet kicking absently. John fiddled with his phone, attempting Sudoku and willing something to happen. The wait was stifling; despite Sherlock’s assurance that the murderer himself would do something, John was beginning to wonder if that something wasn’t simply another victim.
Then Sherlock’s phone rang. Swinging his feet down to sit up, Sherlock rooted around the back of the couch cushions until he found it. He scoffed when he saw the display and tossed it to John, who caught it one-handed with surprise.
“It’s Lestrade. Ignore the call, then text back ‘yes, I have it, and no I will not bring it to you.’” John frowned at Sherlock’s phone, hitting the end call button then fiddling with the keys until he figured out how to create a new text.
“Have what?”
“The case, obviously.” The phone beeped again in John’s hand.
“He says, ‘coming over now you wanker.’” Imogen giggled. Sherlock immediately flopped back onto the sofa while John stood to make a pot of coffee; even if Lestrade was stopping by to recover evidence, John’s mum had instilled in him quite a strict policy of hospitality. Plus, if coppers were anything like soldiers, a cup of strong coffee never went amiss.
Lestrade arrived minutes later, his knock on the door answered by Mrs Hudson. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes immediately landing on the pink suitcase. “For god’s sake, Sherlock. You can’t just take evidence to rifle through at your leisure. There’s procedure for a reason.”
“Yes, yes, so your incompetent team can completely mangle whatever evidence they happen to retrieve. There’s nothing of interest in it, anyway.”
“That’s for us to decide!” Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and, with a glance at Imogen, rapt with attention on the floor, watching the exchange, moderated his voice and continued more calmly. “I make you privy to all the results anyway; I don’t see why you can’t do these things in the proper way. For the trial at least –”
“Spare me. Have you brought any new evidence? What did you find out about Rachel?” Lestrade hesitated, clearly considering refusing to tell Sherlock anything. Sherlock scoffed. “Come now, you’ve brought me in, you need me. Let me do my job!”
“Your job, right,” Lestrade answered sarcastically. “Fine. Rachel was the victim’s only daughter.”
Sherlock lit up. “Daughter! Excellent. Is she dead? What’s the connection? There must be one.”
“Doubt it. Rachel was stillborn, fourteen years ago.”
“Stillborn? Then why…oh! Oh, she was clever.”
“What? What does it mean?” John could see a grin beginning on Sherlock’s face; he seemed almost impressed by the dead woman’s actions.
“Rachel – someone important to her –” he glanced at Imogen, who grinned at him, absorbing his enthusiasm, “even though she was dead, or more properly, never alive. And, as we know, she had a phone, used it for business, therefore likely a smartphone. Which comes with – anyone?”
John and Lestrade exchanged bewildered glances. “Email? Internet?” John hazarded.
“Yes, yes, that and –” Sherlock grabbed his laptop from the coffee table, “GPS tracking. John, on her luggage tag, there’s an email address.”
John was beginning to put the pieces together. He read out the address, “[email protected]. And you think Rachel is the password?”
Sherlock glanced at him, surprise and a flicker of interest in his face. “Well done, John.” He typed in her email and password, waiting for the tracker to resolve into a map point. “32 Penfold Street, not far from here. Lestrade, your cue I believe.”
Lestrade sprang into action, pulling out his phone to call for backup as he turned to go. “Don’t think I’m forgetting this, Sherlock. I’ll send Anderson back to pick up the case.” Sherlock grimaced at his retreating back.
“So, that’s him caught, then, isn’t it?”
“Hmm. Would seem so,” Sherlock answered, distractedly.
“What?”
“Seemed a bit easy, no?”
“You think he, what, planted the phone?”
“Let’s just say I doubt this is the last we hear of this killer.”
Sure enough, twenty minutes later Sherlock’s phone beeped with a text. Sherlock read it first before passing the phone to John. Found phone abandoned in un-let flat. No sign of killer. Sherlock narrowed his eyes pensively. Seating himself in the grey armchair, he steepled his hands, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “He obviously figured out we would track it. Now we have to wait for his move, again.” He sounded equal parts annoyed and interested.
His phone chimed, a different noise this time. “In the meantime, though, it’s time you’re in bed, Imogen.”
She wrinkled her nose. “But Papa, it’s Saturday. And I want to stay up and find out what happens next!”
Sherlock shook his head. “You heard the alarm; it’s 9:30. And I doubt he’ll make a move tonight, you won’t miss much.”
“Papa!” But Sherlock brokered no argument. John attempted to keep back his laughter as the two stared at each other in a battle of wills, Sherlock’s face placid and Imogen’s flashing between pleading and frustration. Imogen broke first, and with a put-out sigh stomped off to her room.
John let out a small laugh. “I was beginning to wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“Whether Imogen was actually the most well-behaved child in the world.”
Sherlock let out a small laugh, glancing toward the hallway with an unmistakable look of pride. “I’ve been told it’s normal for children to have tantrums occasionally, but I’ve found Imogen is fairly even-keeled as long as we keep to a regular schedule. She can be a bit…obstreperous when sleep-deprived.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call her normal. Or, not average at any rate. She’s very bright.”
“Of course she is, doctor,” Sherlock’s statement was less boastful than factual, the words she’s my daughter lingering unsaid. A moment later, Imogen came back around the corner, pyjamas on and a thick paperback held under one arm. She crawled onto Sherlock’s lap in the armchair, handing him the book before curling up under his arm. Sherlock opened up to a marked page – John managed to a catch a glimpse of the cover, Jürgen Thorwald’s Crime and Science – and began reading.
As he read about decades-old murders, his voice deep and even-keeled, Imogen began to drop off, her eyes flickering shut and body going slack. Once her breathing evened out, her head tucked under Sherlock’s chin, he stopped his narration, setting the book aside.
John, who had found himself caught up in Thorwald’s reconstructions – and perhaps Sherlock’s enticing and confident voice – suddenly felt intrusive, watching as Sherlock curled one arm around Imogen’s body, placing a single tender kiss on the crown of her head. Sherlock slipped his other arm under her knees and stood, an effortless, practiced movement. He turned into the hallway, and John imagined those strong, slim arms placing her in bed, tucking the duvet around her sleeping body. He thought of his own parents putting him to bed, before his father died and their lives went all askew. Soft hands on his cheeks and whispered endearments. Safety and love.
++
Once Sherlock re-emerged, he resumed pacing, obviously not really convinced that the killer was finished for the evening. John watched him, feeling the pent-up energy roll off the man in waves. Sherlock went over the details of the case again, repeating the minutiae of each crime scene in precise terms, tossing out questions half-rhetorical. John made a stab at answering them anyway, often earning himself an impatient wave or look of disdain. They were up to the anomalies of the pink lady’s story when interrupted.
“Yoo-hoo! Sherlock, your taxi is here. Where are you off to this time of night?” Mrs Hudson knocked congenially on the open door, leaning around the doorframe to catch Sherlock’s eye.
Waving her off with one impatient hand, Sherlock answered brusquely, “I didn’t order a cab, Mrs Hudson, send it away.”
She frowned at him, but descended the stairs to do his bidding. A minute later, however, she was back up. “Sherlock, he’s really quite insistent. Perhaps you’d better talk to him.”
“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed before stilling, eyes widening. “Oh! Oh, that’s it! John, I won’t be a moment,” he said, sweeping past Mrs Hudson, who tutted before following him down.
Curious, John passed to the window, pulling the shade aside to see Sherlock talking heatedly with a cabbie. The other man was late-middle-aged, stooped a bit in the shoulder, a tweed cap obscuring his features. Sherlock gesticulated, his voice rising enough that John could hear its deep timbre, if not the words. As he watched, Sherlock crowded in close, accusatory.
From the window, John wasn’t sure what he saw next, but one moment Sherlock was gesturing arrogantly and the next his shoulders began to slump and his body tilt toward the cab. John watched, stunned, as the cabbie caught him neatly and, in one surprisingly deft movement, opened the cab door and deposited him, looking for all the world like he was helping a rather uncoordinated fare.
As the car door slammed, John ran the few paces to the door, thundering down the stairs and out onto the pavement. He reached the road in time to see the cab round the corner, turning off Baker Street, and without a thought sprinted to where it disappeared. Looking down the road, however, he saw a number of black cabs, traffic moving along quite speedily. The street had been too dark and the angle wrong for him to see the plates on the cab, so even the police had no way to track it if, as he suspected, the cabbie had gone off-book when he came to see Sherlock.
“Fuck!” he cried out, startling a couple crossing the street near him. “Goddamn it, Sherlock. What the bloody fuck have you got yourself into?” he muttered to himself. Breathing hard, he tried to formulate a plan as he jogged back to 221, aware of having left the door wide open behind him.
Sure enough, when he arrived, Mrs Hudson was leaning out the door, looking concerned.
“It’s Sherlock, he’s just –” John waved his arm down the street, unable to articulate what exactly he’d seen. “I think he’s in trouble.”
Mrs Hudson gasped but kept her head. “I’ll call Mycroft.”
“Yes, do. I’ll go back to the clues and see if there’s something we can go on.”
Arriving back upstairs, John picked up his phone and found Sherlock’s number in his contacts, which Imogen had added earlier in the evening, complete with a slightly blurred picture of Sherlock at Angelo’s. “Fuck! Sherlock, answer!” John shouted into the phone as it rang out, Sherlock’s voicemail picking up.
“Doctor Watson? Where’s Papa?” Imogen’s worried voice came from behind him; he turned to find the girl blinking awake, face screwed up in fear.
“I – he – I’m not sure,” John admitted, unable to lie to her wide eyes and quivering lip. He wished his voice sounded less frustrated, less worried. He wished he could reassure this little girl that he’d find her Papa, but he had no idea where they might be headed. All the other victims had been found in random locations, far from where they were meant to be. All empty at the time of death, but not necessarily abandoned – that didn’t narrow it down at all.
“He’s not answering his phone and I think – I don’t know if –” John scrubbed his hand over his eyes in frustration.
“Is he in danger?” Imogen’s eyes, wide, belied her worry though her voice was steady.
“I…I think he may be, yes.” No sense in lying to her; Sherlock clearly rarely, if ever, kept the truth from her, and it was possible her Papa was all she had in the world.
To his surprise, rather than bursting into tears, Imogen took a deep breath, face turning serious. “Dracula,” she said, enigmatically, as she pulled open one of the cardboard boxes on the coffee table. She rooted through the books inside, finally emerging triumphantly with a battered copy of the Bram Stoker classic. “Doctor Watson, what’s today’s date?”
“Twenty-eighth of January. Imogen, what is this about?”
She ignored him, flipping the book open on scanning a page. “Aid,” she said, with a smile.
“What?”
“It’s a sorta code, for if Papa is in trouble. Each month has a book and then the date is the code.” She could clearly tell John was lost, elaborating, “Today’s January 28th. So I look at page 28 and the first word. Aid.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s like Papa said earlier, with the pink lady. It’s for his phone thingie.”
Realization dawned bright and hopeful in John’s mind. “It’s the password for his GPS?”
“Yeah! So you can find him now. Is he with the murderer?”
John booted up Sherlock’s computer, using another password supplied by Imogen – krypton, Imogen’s favourite noble gas apparently – then quickly typing in Sherlock’s email and Imogen’s discovered password. “I’m afraid so. But,” he continued, with growing confidence, “I’m going to get him back. Don’t you worry.” The GPS signal booted up, still moving steadily about two miles away.
“Can I come?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll get Mrs Hudson to come up and stay with you, though.” Imogen looked ready to argue for a moment, but John gave her his best army captain glare and she backed off. John shrugged into his coat and grabbed the computer.
Before he could reach the door, Imogen threw her arms around his legs. “Make sure Papa’s okay. And tell him I’m very cross he chased a murderer without me.” John hesitated, somewhat stunned at Imogen’s display of affection, before laying a – hopefully – comforting hand on her head.
“I’ll tell him.” He cupped his hand under her chin, tilting her face up. A bit of the fear was back, but the warm, hopeful trust in her eyes steeled his nerve more than anything else. He cleared his throat. “Try to get some sleep.” She nodded and let him go.
++
Finally in a cab, John called out directions as the blinking signal moved along the map of London, steadily away from Baker Street. It eventually stopped in what John recognized to be a fairly run-down neighbourhood, full of condemned buildings and abandoned tenement houses. It was another ten minutes before they arrived, even with John pushing the cabbie to drive quickly.
He had the cab stop at the end of the street to avoid drawing the killer’s attention and made his way to the address, staying in the shadows. Like many others on the street, the house was boarded up, dark, and crumbling, marked out only by the cab half-hidden in an adjacent narrow alleyway. He paused on the doorstep and loaded his gun, chambering a bullet before putting the safety back on and tucking it into his jacket pocket.
John’s heart thumped, blood and adrenaline forcing through his body, as he moved quietly through the ramshackle house. Swiftly but carefully, he checked each room on the ground floor, finding all empty. In the kitchen, he was opening the pantry door when a floorboard above him creaked, followed by the distinct noise of footfall. Hurrying, John went back into the entryway and up the stairs.
He reached the top of the stairs and rounded the corner; there, at the end of the hallway, a glimmer of light caught his eye. Just a sliver, under the door, dim and uneven, but enough to betray a human presence. Testing each floorboard before shifting his weight, he crept down the hallway, glancing quickly in each open doorway along the way. He pulled out his weapon, flicking the safety off but keeping it held loosely at his side.
Reaching the door, he discovered it cracked open, the doorknob having not quite caught when closed. Behind it, he could hear a murmur of voices, though he couldn’t make out words.
Tightening his grip on his handgun, hoping the element of surprise would work in his favour, he shoved the door open with his shoulder, gun held ahead of him.
Sherlock stood near the window, his distinctive profile silhouetted by the orange glow of streetlamps. His neck was tipped back, one hand forced above his head by the cabbie. John only registered that the man was holding Sherlock quite strongly by the wrist, forcing his hand toward his mouth.
In a second, John saw the white flash of a pill – poison, suicide, chewed, swallowed, his mind helpfully supplied – and that was enough for him. He took aim and fired one shot and the man stumbled, fell back, his grip half-pulling Sherlock with him before Sherlock resisted enough to shake him off. Then with a heavy thud, he fell to the ground, a rapidly growing pool of blood emerging from under his arm.
Sherlock dropped the pill and stumbled back, steadying himself against the window frame. His eyes caught John’s, a flash of fear so potent John was stepping toward him before he realized.
“Don’t!” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse and urgent, one hand held up weakly, as if forcefully stopping John. “You’ll leave evidence. You need to get out of here, wash your hands – you can’t be here when the police show.”
“I – Sherlock, I can’t leave you like this. You can barely stand.”
Sherlock waved him off. “Residual effects of the drugs, I’ll be fine. But unless you know of a good way to explain why you killed an unarmed man when you were in no imminent danger, you need to get out of here.”
“Sherlock, I –”
“Go, John!” John wanted to refuse again, but Sherlock’s expression, at once fierce and demanding, brokered no negotiation.
With a huff of frustration, he complied, pounding down the stairs and checking the street before ducking out of the house and down the road, away from the direction of Baker Street. A few streets away, he heard the distant wail of sirens. He continued away from them, walking for twenty minutes before deciding it was safe enough to circle back to the house.
++
John arrived back on the scene to find the police had arrived. He headed straight to the edge of the taped-off area, where he could see Sergeant Donovan managing the arrivals and departures of various officers, much as she had at the last scene earlier that day. Had it only been a day?
He nodded to her as he approached, noting her wary expression.
“Haven’t run off screaming yet, Doctor?”
He grinned ruefully. “I’ve seen worse than Sherlock Holmes.” Donovan glanced at him sceptically. “Afghanistan.” He didn’t add anything else; he wasn’t even sure why he said that much.
“Ah.” The distrust in her expression lightened a little and John filed that away: Sergeant Donovan, respects authority, procedure.
John gestured toward the house, in front of which were parked three police vehicles and an ambulance. “Can you tell me what happened here?” He didn’t see Sherlock yet; hoped he was inside with the police.
“Yeah, freak got himself drugged and kidnapped by our killer. Seems he was keen on killing him, too, only got interrupted by a rogue shooter.”
“A rogue shooter?” John hoped his voice conveyed the right amount of scepticism mixed with concern.
Donovan shrugged her shoulders. “Apparently. The guy was a cabbie – made his victims take the pills at gunpoint or some such thing. Guess he always had two, one poison, one not, and he promised to take whichever one they didn’t choose.”
Two pills – it was a fucking game. Bet Sherlock loved that, proving he was clever. Bastard. He swallowed slightly, trying to hide his budding frustration from Donovan. “And Sherlock?”
“Freak’s fine, a bit doped up, but in there lecturing to Lestrade.” She clenched her jaw – loyal, likes her DI – before continuing. “It’s not like he realized who the killer was any earlier than we did. It’s his own damn fault for rushing in without fucking stopping to think –” she broke off and turned her head away. “Anyway, the paramedics are going to give him a once-over, but if he’s fine he’s free to go.”
John nodded and took his leave as Donovan’s attention was needed by the arrival of the forensic collection team. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Donovan and Anderson avoided eye contact, then took up a place nearer the door of the house.
He could hear Sherlock’s voice carrying as footsteps neared the door. Finally, the man emerged, half supported by Lestrade. Sherlock was apparently trying to convince the DI to allow him to do the testing on the pills; Lestrade was firmly refusing. He helped Sherlock over to the ambulance, where Sherlock shook off his supporting arm and sat, back turned away from John.
Sherlock held himself stiff, with effort, clearly trying to combat the effects of the drug. John had stepped a bit closer, still behind the police tape, to attract Sherlock’s attention when Lestrade spoke in a low voice. Catching part of the sentence, John paused.
“Are you coping? The drugs, with your history…”
“I’m fine!” Sherlock snapped, before responding in a more normal voice. “I suspect my body’s long accustomed to substance abuse. Though I rarely favour anything quite so sedative,” he added, sardonically.
Sherlock, a junkie? John thought. Images of Sherlock pacing, hands always in motion and mouth running almost as quickly as his mind, of Sherlock’s pale forearm covered in nicotine patches, appeared in his mind at the thought. Images of a man in need of distraction, of an addictive personality.
“Sherlock, are you still…” Lestrade’s hesitant question drew him back to the scene in front of him.
Sherlock scoffed. “Lestrade, you better than anyone know precisely how long I’ve been clean.”
“Four years.” Lestrade sounded relieved, his suspicions less serious than fearful.
“Indeed.” Sherlock stood, clearly trying to hide his unsteadiness. “Are you quite finished with me? I must get back to Imogen.”
Lestrade shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, got to take your statement. And a description of the shooter.”
“I was facing away from him; I don’t know what he looks like.” John held his breath; Sherlock clearly had a plan for all this, but damned if he knew what it was. There was forensic evidence, the bullet that matched his own – illegal – gun, not to mention the cabbie who brought him out there.
“Come now, Sherlock. You and I both know you don’t need to see a man to know what he looks like.”
John imagined Sherlock rolling his eyes at that, then wondered at how quickly he had started imagining the other man’s face at all. From his vantage point, he saw Sherlock set his shoulders before beginning his narrative. “Judging by the sound of his stride, he’s a tall man, my height at least. Rather broader than me, but it’s muscle gone to fat. Aging, then, military or special ops based on the accuracy of the shot, but been out for years. Possibly knew the cabbie, more probably found out about his extra-curriculars and decided to have a go at a bit of vigilantism.”
“Right. Aging soldier, tall, broad. Not giving us much to go on.”
“Favours his left leg – he’ll have been injured there, but long enough ago to have got used to it.” That was a nice twist on the truth, there. John still wasn’t quite sure what to make of the fact that Sherlock was blatantly lying to Lestrade, pulling a completely false suspect profile out of the air.
“Left leg, got it.”
“Now may I go?”
Lestrade sighed. “Fine. But I want you in first thing Monday morning to give a proper statement.”
“Of course,” Sherlock answered, all false obsequiousness. He turned abruptly and his eyes found John almost instantly. John fought his instinct to fall back in the shadows; instead, he let Sherlock’s gaze sweep over him, standing at parade rest, expression a careful study in mild concern. Sherlock’s eyes pierced him and he knew the other man realized exactly how much he had heard; most likely, Sherlock had known that he was in earshot the entire time. He found he didn’t mind at all, really, Sherlock examining his body language, pulling out clues about his reactions to the shooting. To killing a man.
Sherlock walked over to John; he stopped and his hand hovered, like he meant to clasp John on the arm before thinking better of it. Sherlock cleared his throat. “What you did in there – it was, it was good.”
John accepted that as the poorly-pronounced gratitude it clearly was. “Were you going to take the pill? I couldn’t – I mean, I wasn’t.” He didn’t want to admit that he wasn’t sure of what he’d seen, wasn’t sure if pulling the trigger was the right decision.
“I wouldn’t. I don’t have a death wish.” It was said lightly but the glance Sherlock gave him was significant. “And you did right. It could have turned ugly.”
“I don’t –” John cut himself off. Time to live with his decision, knowing he’d do it over again if there was even the slightest chance of danger to Sherlock’s life. The certainty with which the knowledge settled unnerved him for a moment. He looked back at Sherlock. “You’d better not, you know. Have a death wish.” He thought of dark, curly hair and sleepy eyes.
“I know.” They were both quiet for a moment.
John glanced around them and, finding the police all absorbed in their duties, lowered his voice to say, “You lied to Lestrade.” Sherlock merely inclined his head. “Why?”
“Come now, can’t be having my new flatmate arrested the day he’s to move in.” John raised one eyebrow, silently prompting him for the truth. “I – I appreciate what you did. No one’s ever done that for me before.”
“What, killed a man for you?”
Sherlock barked a laugh. “No, not that I – well, I suppose Mycroft perhaps has, but I don’t make it my business to know.” A pained expression crossed his face and he sighed wearily as they began to walk away from the scene. “Oh god, I’ll have to ask him to clean a few things up.”
“What? You mean –” John gestured to the crime scene.
“Yes, we’ll have to see what he can do about any evidence or witnesses. You came by cab?” John nodded. “But the gun’s not licensed to you. That makes things a bit easier.”
“You mean, Mycroft’s going to tamper with evidence?” John wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or horrified.
“I’m sure he’d describe it as making sure certain facts are seen in certain lights.”
“And you’re okay with that? Because I’m not sure I am.”
Sherlock looked at John askance, clearly puzzled. “Do you want an inquiry?”
“No, but –”
“Lestrade may be dim but he’s like a bulldog with a piece of evidence. I can’t say it’d never come back to you, and I for one would find that dreadfully inconvenient.”
“I just – queen and country, you know. It feels wrong.”
Sherlock stopped on the pavement and turned to study John’s face. “You don’t really believe that, though. You believe in helping people. Which you did. So, patriotism unbroken, Hippocratic oath intact.”
John rubbed his forehead. “It’s not as simple as that.”
“It never is, when you try to protect people, I find.” Sherlock’s face, for a moment, was open, unguarded, before he turned and began to walk again. John still felt conflicted, but he found himself following nonetheless.
++
They picked up Chinese and walked back to Baker Street, neither too keen to take a cab at the moment. John felt a bit foolish following Sherlock back when he hadn’t even decided to move in, but he was decidedly not feeling up to returning to his bedsit alone. For his part, Sherlock seemed to take for granted that John would come along, like John existed to follow him.
Back at Baker Street, Mrs Hudson woke from an ungainly position on the sofa, arms slack and head rolling back, as they walked into the sitting room. When she caught sight of them, her eyes narrowed as she admonished them in a fierce whisper, “now, boys, I ought to give you quite a scolding, running off like that, leaving me to worry half the night.” She pushed off the sofa, steadying herself on the arm. “Did you catch him, at least?”
Sherlock smiled. “We did indeed. After a fashion.” He cupped her shoulder and leaned in, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before adding a quiet, “thank you.”
She tutted and brushed him off. “She’s asleep now, fussed a bit when you left, but after a bit of warm milk she dropped off. I’ll be off now – see to it you both get some sleep, now.” As she made her way down the stairs, Sherlock disappeared around the corner – to check on Imogen, John surmised. He busied himself searching for clean cutlery, coming up with a single fork, four butter knives, and half a dozen spoons, none of which matched. They would have to do, though, his stomach reminding him how long it had been since Angelo’s.
John was ensconced in the sofa, which quite comfortably moulded to his body, when Sherlock emerged. His shoulders seemed looser, more relaxed, now that he had seen Imogen, but his face was pale, his movements stilted; as he came down off the adrenaline high, the remaining effects of the drug were beginning to take their toll. He collapsed onto the sofa next to John, who nudged a container of noodles in his direction.
They ate in companionable silence, the occasional noises of three A.M. rattling outside the window. John could feel weariness creep in like a steady tide, stiffness settling into his body, an ache in his leg that would demand attention tomorrow.
“You’ll stay.” Sherlock stated it, it was not a question, and yet he didn’t quite make eye contact. His voice was low and John felt it somewhere at the base of his neck.
“I…” John exhaled, stretched his hand – no trace of a quiver – and glanced to the kitchen. Just beyond that door, down the hall and on the other side of plaster and paint, slept a little girl within a little, self-enclosed world. John pictured again Sherlock brushing back her curls, kissing her forehead. They existed together, a self-sufficient unit, with the whirling peripheries of Mrs Hudson, Angelo, Uncle Mycroft, and who knew who else, at the edges, taking up the slack. It was a neat system, carefully balanced orbits setting their pace around a flaring sun: a sharp, fierce connection between father and daughter.
John was superfluous to this particular solar system.
And yet – he remembered the weight of his gun in his hand, the dread of loss and the need to save a brilliant mind and, even more so, a radiant, extraordinary relationship. Remembered the purpose and the drive, the sharp clarity that came with adrenaline. He had seen – had experienced – parents lose their children, children their parents, seen the emptiness behind the eyes of the survivors, the loss carving out deep pits in their minds. Imagining that hollowness in either pair of sharp grey eyes knotted his stomach.
John was a soldier – and a doctor. To serve and to protect. He touched Sherlock’s shoulder, hand lingering perhaps longer than necessary to attract the other man’s attention. “I’ll stay.”