The doctor had a strange interaction with someone who claims to be Sherlock's arch-enemy. Do people have arch-enemies? He thinks to himself when the man drops him off at his destination. He opens the door to the detective's flat. The Detective had messaged him before, urgently asking for him to come to his flat.
You've just met this man. Why is he texting you? Though, the main question was why was John answering these texts. It was the adrenaline rush Holmes brings to Watson. He's missed the feeling of danger. The arch-enemy pointed out how John's hand didn't shake once during their little conversation. He was not scared or nervous, he was used to being in that situation.
Watson makes it up to the flat where Holmes is, lying across the couch with his hands pressed against each other near his lips. His breaths continue to level out perfectly as he was lost in his mind. His sleeves are rolled up, showing more of his arms. Sherlock's beloved coat hangs where it's needed most.
The flat is cluttered with papers, reports of the last few suicides - Sherlock calls them murders - John looks around him, seeing the flat. His gaze soon falls on Holmes, lying there in deep thought. His scruffy hair, sharp cheekbones. He has a level of attractiveness to him.
John clears his throat quietly as he approaches the room. "What are you doing?" He asks Holmes.
Sherlock keeps his eyes closed as he hears the doctor. He shows him the three nicotine patches on his arm. "Nicotine patches. Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit here in London. Bad news for brain work."
"Also good news for breathing."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Breathing. Breathing's boring." He shifts his thoughts to something else. He didn't have to focus on breathing, there for, it was a waste of his time.
John glances over at the patches he was wearing. "Three patches?"
"Three patch problem, John." Sherlock says simply, though ignoring his worry for him. He soon opens his eyes, starting to stare up at the ceiling, still deep in thought. A part of Watson believes he wasn't there fully.
John waits for a moment before speaking up, "So, you need me for something?" He finally asks, still getting Sherlock staring up at the ceiling.
"Hm? Oh, yes. Can I borrow your phone?"
John stares at the man. His... phone? He's got to be joking. "My... phone?"
"Yes."
"Can't you just use yours?"
"Don't want the chance of the number being recognized. It's on the website." Sherlock informs Watson.
"Doesn't Mrs. Hudson have a phone?" John asks.
Sherlock gives a small nod. "Yes, but she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear me."
"I was on the other side of London!" He informs, raising his voice.
"There's no rush." He extends his hand out for John's phone, wishing to use it for just a moment.
John sighs in defeat and places his phone in his hand. "Is this about the case?"
"Her case." Holmes corrects.
"Her case?" Watson repeats
Sherlock nods as he holds the phone in between his hands, "Yes, her suitcase, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. His first big mistake." He says, glancing over at John for a moment before looking back up at the ceiling.
He shakes his head. "Okay, he took her case. So?" Oh, how lost Watson is.
Sherlock sighs calmly. "Here, there's a number on my desk. I need you to text it." He says, holding out John's phone.
John stares at him, unamused. "You brought me here to send a text?"
"Yes, a text. The one on the desk."
John is hesitant about the favour he was asking him to do. He wasn't sure who the number belonged to. "I met a friend of yours." He says as he accepts the phone.
He almost scoffs. "A friend?" Odd. The detective isn't capable of holding friends.
"An enemy." He corrects himself.
Sherlock nods. "Oh! Which one?" That makes more sense. He could have many enemies, but having friends? He isn't able to be human enough to have friends, let alone one.
"According to him, he's your arch enemy. Do people even have arch enemies?" John asks, cocking his head gently.
Sherlock stares at the man, finding his words troubling. He soon pauses to think. "Did he offer you money to spy on me for information?" If he was correct about who this was, he isn't an issue for him at this current moment.
"Yes."
"Did you take it?"
"No."
Sherlock sighs. "Pity. We could've split it. Next time, think it through."
John scoffs softly, unsure if he was serious or not. Though, this man seems serious about everything so far. "Who is he?"
"The most dangerous man in London, and he isn't my problem at the current moment." He goes back to the issue at hand. "The number. On the desk!"
John goes over to the desk he mentioned more than once. Grabbing the paper off the desk with the phone number - which he was hoping that it was the correct number - He notices an address written on the paper as well as a name.
Watson turns to look at Holmes. He knew the name, it sounded familiar. "This name, Jennifer Wilson, wasn't this the dead woman's name?" He asks.
Sherlock went back to staring at the ceiling with his hands pressed against each other. "Yes, that doesn't matter, just enter the number." He waits no longer than a few seconds. "Are you doing it?"
"Yes." John answers, typing in the number.
Again, Sherlock waits, but not long. "Do you have it?"
"Hang on." John replies, sounding irritated. He was on the other side of London and now here just to send a text for Mr. Holmes.
The detective seemed oddly comfortable in his state. Especially with three nicotine patches, that'll do the trick. "Now, these exact words, 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must've blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"
Watson pauses gently as he looks over at Holmes, shocked. Blacked out? "You blacked out?" He asks.
Sherlock opens his eyes. "What-? No, no! Type and send, quickly." He quickly sits up and gets off the couch. He heads towards the direction of the kitchen, stepping on the coffee table in the process.
Trying to type the message as quickly as possible, John stumbles with it. As Sherlock returned from the kitchen, now carrying a pink case, it catches John's attention. It was a small, hot pink case. It's possibly the woman's case that Sherlock referred to in the house.
Sherlock bangs the case down on the table and opens it in front of John. "Sent it yet?" He asks, inspecting the case.
John stares at the two, quite in shock to find the case here. In the detective's grasp. There has to be an obvious explanation for this. He nods gently. "That's... That's the pink lady's case, Jennifer Wilson's case..." He trails off.
Before Sherlock replies, he gets distracted by the noise coming from outside. It usually doesn't, but he hears speaking coming from below the flat. The windows are open, pulling in a nice breeze into the clustered room. He moves from where he sat, looking below from the window.
A parked cabbie, near the curb, allowing the passenger to climb out of the back. The passenger, a woman, climbs out and situates her jacket. It's a simple brown colour. It could be found in cheap clothing stores. Her hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, though throughout her day, strands of her hair had fallen out.
She hands the driver his payment and a small wave. "Have a good rest of your night, sir." She says before closing the car door and looking behind her. She examines the beautiful door. Its golden address is drilled into the door. 221B.
Sherlock rolls his eyes gently, walking away from the window and back to John. "I believe Mrs. Hudson has a new client." He says soon, casually walking back to the case. He turns back to see John's shocked expression. "Oh, I should probably let you know, I did not kill her."
John blinks gently. "I never implied that."
"You should. Given the evidence we have and after that text I had you send, logical and perfectly good assumption." Sherlock says, sitting back down.
John shakes his head slightly. "Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"
He shrugs. "Now and then, yes." He sucks in a small breath. Below them, the exclaims of Mrs. Hudson interrupt them. John looks towards the door. Sherlock, on the other hand, ignored it.
John looks back at Sherlock, seeing his focus pulled onto the pink case. Soon, the sound of footsteps starts to get louder as the set comes into view for the two boys. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, and a woman. It was the same woman who was on forensic on the case.
"And this is Sherlock and John Watson." The lady leans in closer to Willow to whisper in her ear. "He's possibly the new flatmate." She says, giggling gently. Willow smiles as she listens to the old woman.
She nods, examining the flat. "It's quite a cluttered place. I believe the original owner of this flat doesn't realize how messy it is." She says, looking over at the two gentlemen.
Watson clears his throat gently. "You're Miss Woods, correct? You were helping with the body." He says, remembering her face. Her green eyes complimented her skin perfectly. Though, something about her seemed vaguely memorable to Holmes. As if he'd seen someone like her before, but millions of years ago.
Willow raises an eyebrow as her gaze lingers on the pink case that sat in front of the two men. She remembers the detective declaring something about a pink case. "Yes, doctor, I am."
He pauses. "How did you—"
"Telling by our first encounter back in Lauriston Gardens, you—" Holmes interrupts her.
His hand runs gently through his hair. He asks, "Can you please be quiet? You can see I'm working to resolve this case. Now, if you two must show introductions, I suggest you do it later." He looks over at Willow and Mrs. Hudson, getting an unusual feeling from her. Why does she seem so familiar?
Willow crosses her arms gently. "I believe you claimed that she had a pink case before you went running out the door. Whoever has the case is the killer." She pauses. "No, that's too easy. It isn't you."
Sherlock nods. "The killer must've driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident, if it was in a car. No one could be seen with this case without attracting attention - particularly a man, which is statistically likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake."
"So you checked any backstreet within five minutes of the location she was dropped off at." Willow says, sounding amazed by his deductions.
Sherlock nods again. "Took me less than an hour to find the right skip." Her smile is gentle towards the detective. Mrs. Hudson looks between the two, soon leaving them be. The two continue to stare at each other for a moment, allowing him to make a few deductions from her.
Middle child. Lives alone. Single. Divorced. No kids. Doesn't date any more, dedicated to her work. Still friends with ex-spouse. Owns a small dog. Graduated from university. Criminalist. Adopted parents. No longer close with parents. Still visits siblings. Truthful.
Something seems to stand out to Holmes. She gives him a familiar feeling. But how? He couldn't wrap his mind around it, but there was something about her that seemed too familiar to be ignored.
The three continued to discuss the case and what Sherlock noticed about his time on the case, getting a few insights from Willow. It didn't take long, but the three decided to figure out who is doing all these murders. It was the thrill of the chase that intrigued Watson. Willow enjoyed this more than being stuck in a lab or taking samples off the flooring.
Dr. Watson and Miss Woods had something in common. They liked the change of pace and scenery for both. An ex-army doctor who's used to the adrenaline and a Criminalist who thinks outside the box for everything, having her skills wasted on the simple things.