When Sherlock had left, John found himself feeling unusually upset and alone. He had struggled down the stairs himself (repeatedly getting bumped by various police officers on their way to clean up the crime scene), finally getting to the ground floor.
He paused for a moment, leaning all his weight on his cane, then took off the coverall, placing it on the table with the rest, and put his jacket back on.
John limped out the door, looking around. No sign of Sherlock. He felt his heart sink, and a sense of dread about having to walk all the way back to either Baker Street or his one-room apartment.
Maybe Sherlock was just not in immediate sight, so, spirits lifting a bit in hope, John hobbled to the police tape - not noticing Sally Donovan still standing there, watching. He kept looking around for the consulting detective.
"He's gone," Donovan said as he drew nearer to the tape.
John jolted slightly when she spoke, but relaxed a bit when he recognized her as the one who'd apparently had an affair with Anderson. "Who, Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, to clarify. He also realized she was the same officer who'd been rude to Sherlock.
"Yeah, he just took off." She paused for a moment, then added disdainfully, "he does that."
John felt his hopes die and that sense of dread flood back into him. "Is he coming back?"
"Didn't look like it."
"...Right." John glanced around as Donovan returned her attention away from him, unsure what to do, unsure of, well, even where he was. "Right, yes... sorry, where am I?" he asked.
"Brixton," Donovan replied.
John nodded slightly. "Right. Erm, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er... well..." He awkwardly looked down at his limp. His psychosomatic limp. "My leg."
Donovan winced. "Uh..." She stepped over to the tape and held it up for him. "Try the main road."
John ducked under the tape. "Thanks," he said, and began to walk away.
"But you're not his friend," Donovan called after him. John stopped moving. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"
John turned back around to face her. "I'm ... I'm nobody. I just met him." He shrugged a little bit.
"Okay, bit of advice then - stay away from that guy." Donovan's voice was serious, and quite stern.
John quirked his head so he was looking at her sideways. "Why?"
Donovan stared at him, making eye contact. "You know why he's here?" she asked.
John could tell it was a rhetorical question, so he stayed silent.
"He's not paid or anything," she continued. "He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."
John gazed at her in disbelief. Why was she saying all this? "Why would he do that?"
"Because he's a psychopath," Donovan said, matter-of-factly. "And psychopaths get bored."
John frowned, still staring at her with confusion, disbelief, and now annoyance. Maybe something more intense than annoyance. He didn't like bullies. Bullies were the ones who called someone like Sherlock a psychopath, just because he was smart.
"Donovan!" came Lestrade's voice from the house entrance.
"Coming!" she called back, and started walking over. She turned back around as she walked to yell out one last thing to John: "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," then disappeared into the house.
John stood there for a moment, shifting his weight awkwardly from side to side, then turned and limped away along the road, his thoughts wrapped around Sherlock.
Once he was well away from the building, a phone rang somewhere to his right. He looked around, curious, and spotted a red telephone box on the sidewalk. The phone was ringing loudly, presumably for him.
He watched it for a moment, wondering who could possibly be calling him and why they couldn't just call him on his mobile, glanced at his watch, then shook his head and left it. He needed to get home - though whether 'home' was the bedsit or 221B, he didn't know.
The phone went silent as he hobbled away.
-
John limped along the sidewalk for the main road, searching for a taxi. His leg was killing him, and his bedsit... and Baker Street... were way too far away for him to just keep walking.
He'd called out to about two cabs already, but neither had stopped. He was resisting the urge to commit grand-theft-auto.
A phone rang in a restaurant as John passed by it, and the soldier stopped moving, watching as a server reached for the phone just as it stopped ringing. Strange... He kept going.
A moment later, he passed by another telephone box on the sidewalk. He stopped beside for a moment, waiting to see if the phone would ring...
BRRRRING
Mystified, John decided he was done running from this phone call, and went over and warily picked it up. "Hello?"
"There is a security camera on the building to your left," came a fairly dapper-sounding male voice. "Do you see it?"
John frowned, slightly concerned. "Who's this? Who's speaking?"
"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?" the voice asked again.
John looked out the window of the box and spotted a security camera high up on the wall of a nearby building. "Yeah, I see it."
"Watch."
The camera slowly swiveled so it was facing away from the phone box, and John felt himself tense. He was definitely being watched.
"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"
John peered out at the second camera, eyes wide. "Mmhmm."
The camera immediately turned away from him.
"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."
The camera looked away when John turned to stare at it. The doctor looked at the phone. "How are you doing this?" he asked.
"Get into the car, Doctor Watson."
A car pulled up to the curb right beside the phone box, and a man got out and opened the back door closest to it. It was sleek and black, with shiny silver rims and a beautifully polished body. John stared at it in amazement, completely baffled by this whole conversation.
"I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you," the voice said, and the phone went dead.
John gingerly replaced it on its hook, then left the phone box and neared the car. The door remained open for him, and, deciding he didn't really have much of a choice, he entered the car.
The door shut, the man got back in the driver's seat, and the car drove away. John looked nervously out the window, then at the seat beside him. There was a young woman in it, typing on her BlackBerry, ignoring him. She was quite attractive, with long black hair and wide brown eyes, and a black dress that fit her tightly.
"Hello," said John.
She looked up at him, gave a quick smile, said, "hi," and focused back on the phone.
John blinked. "What's your name, then?"
"Er... Anthea," she answered, obviously lying.
"Is that your real name?" asked John, slightly confused.
"No." Not-Anthea looked at him with a little smile for a brief moment, but back to the phone went her eyes.
John nodded a little bit, twisting to look out the window at the night life quickly passing by, then returned to the woman. "I'm John," he said, a tad awkwardly.
"Yes. I know."
"Erm... any point in asking where I'm going?"
"None at all... John." The woman looked at him with a small smile, then refocused on her phone and continued typing.
"Okay," John said quietly, with a very small sigh.
~~~
The car pulled into a half-empty warehouse, which was grey and brown and drab, with odd, wiry shelves and structures in the background. John looked out the window and saw a man standing in the center of the area, leaning his right hand on an umbrella.
He was wearing a dapper-looking suit and tie, with nice dress shoes, and he had short, dark brown hair. His eyes were a pale greyish-blue. He was leaning on the umbrella - which was black - very nonchalantly, right foot crossed over the other.
John got out of the car and warily limped towards him. There was a flat-backed black chair in front of the man, who gestured to it with the tip of his umbrella before going back to leaning on it. "Have a seat, John."
The man smiled, very falsely. It reminded the doctor slightly of Sherlock's.
"Y'know, I've got a phone," said John, continuing towards him. He glanced around the warehouse, cautious. "I mean, very clever and all that, but, er... you could just phone me... On my phone."
He walked straight past the chair and stopped a few paces in front of the man, standing very straight. Sherlock's deductions about him suddenly echoed in his head, and he resisted the urge to slump.
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." He gestured around again with the umbrella, his voice becoming a little more stern at the end of the statement.
He looked down at John's feet. "Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."
"I don't wanna sit down."
"You don't seem very afraid," the man mused.
John looked up, making eye contact, which he held. "You don't seem very frightening."
The man chuckled. "Ah yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He looked at John with an almost warning expression.
"Now, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.
"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him..." John glanced away, thinking, and realized just how little time had passed since he met the detective. "...yesterday."
"Mmm. And since yesterday, you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"
John felt his heart do a flip at the fourth insinuation he'd got that he and Sherlock were a couple, and decided it was just nerves. "Who are you?"
"An interested party."
"Interested in Sherlock?" John frowned. "Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."
The man smiled. "You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."
"And what's that?"
"An enemy." The man said it casually, as if it made perfect sense.
"An enemy?"
"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy." The man thought for a moment. "He does love to be dramatic."
John looked pointedly around at the warehouse. "Well, thank God you're above all that!"
The man frowned at him, but John didn't give any sign that he was intimidated. His phone played a text alert, and he dug into his jacket pocket, fished it out, and looked at the new text message.
Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. - SH
"I hope I'm not distracting you," the man drawled.
"Nope, not distracting me at all," John said nonchalantly, taking his time looking back up at the stranger in front of him, then pocketed the phone.
The man looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, but didn't. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.
"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business," John said, snarkily.
"It could be," the man said, a little ominously.
"It really couldn't."
"If you do move into, um..." The man took a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket to consult it. "...two hundred and twenty-one 'B' Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."
He closed the notebook and put it away again.
"Why?" John asked, skeptical.
"Because you're not a wealthy man."
"In exchange for what?"
"Information." He'd answered quite fast. "Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."
"Why?" John asked again.
"I worry about him," the man said, and John could tell he wasn't lying. "Constantly."
"That's nice of you," John sassed.
"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned," the man added, ignoring the soldier's sarcasm. "We have what you might call a... difficult relationship."
Another text alert sounded from John's phone, so he took it out and read the new message. It was from Sherlock again.
If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH
"No," John said in response to the man's offer.
"But I haven't mentioned a figure," he said.
John put his phone away again. "Don't bother."
The man laughed softly and briefly. "You're very loyal, very quickly." He looked at John, grey eyes gleaming.
"No I'm not, I'm just not interested."
The man looked at him for a long time, then took out his notebook and opened it again. He made a slight gesture to show he was reading a note from it. "'Trust issues', it says here."
For the first time since their encounter, John felt and looked very anxious. "What's that?" he asked softly.
"Could it be you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"
"Who says I trust him?"
"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily." The man glanced up at him, then closed the book with one hand, dramatically, before putting it back in his coat.
"Are we done here?" asked John, slightly defensive.
The man looked into John's eyes, as if waiting. His gaze was unblinking, slightly unnerving, and John was again reminded of Sherlock. "You tell me."
The doctor stared at him for a long moment, then took a small step back. He turned on his heel, shifted his cane more comfortably in his hand, then began to limp away.
"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen," came the man's voice.
John stopped moving. He felt his shoulders tense, and he shook his head a little. He turned back around, furious. "My whot?" he asked through gritted teeth.
The stranger was perfectly calm, legs no longer crossed, and standing up very straight. "Show me," he said, as calmly as he looked.
He gave a small nod towards John's left hand before planting the tip of his umbrella on the floor in front of himself and leaning slightly onto it with the air of someone who is used to having their orders obeyed. John deliberately shifted his feet so they were almost gripping onto the floor and held out his left hand. He didn't move. If the man wanted to see, he'd have to come to him.
The man seemed unperturbed by this outward defiance, and strolled towards John, hooking the handle of the umbrella onto his arm as he reached for the soldier's hand. John instinctively pulled back with a hushed, "don't."
The man just lowered his head and raised his eyebrows at John with an expression that seemed to say 'now, now, TRUST ISSUES, hmm?' John reluctantly held his hand back out. The man examined it for a moment. "Remarkable." He let go, and John snatched his hand back.
"What is?" he asked.
" Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars," said the man, walking a few paces away from John. "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turned back around to look at him. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"
"What's wrong with my hand?"
"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand," the man answered, and John gave an unintentional nod. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."
John's eyes widened. This was all true. Very, accurately, scarily true. He stared at the man, who seemed calmer than ever. "Who the hell are you? How do you know all this?"
"Fire her," the man said, ignoring John's question. "She's got it the wrong way 'round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."
John's eyes flicked downwards, and he stared at the floor for a while.
"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson..." the man continued. "You miss it." He leaned closer, forcing John to look up at him, and whispered, "Welcome back," then turned and started to walk away just as John's phone sounded yet another text alert. "Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson," he said, casually twirling the umbrella as he went.
The doctor stood there for a long time, watching the man depart, his heart racing and millions of thoughts slamming around within his head. Behind him, Not-Anthea got out of the black car and walked slightly towards him, still fixed to the BlackBerry she held. "I'm to take you home," she said.
John glanced at her, then took his phone out to look at the new message.
Could be dangerous. -SH
Putting the phone back in his pocket, John held out his left hand in front of him and studied the obvious lack of trembling it had. He smiled wryly, then turned to the woman and began to walk towards her and the car.
"Address?" she asked.
"Er, Baker Street," John decided, within a split-second. "221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first."
Jeez! Almost 3000 words! I hope none of you got bored reading such a long chapter, though I did have fun writing this one because of how mysterious that man was, hmmm, wonder who it could be........
Anyways, as always, thank you for reading! Have some Chick-fil-a fries while you wait for the next one: 🍟🍟🍟🍟🍟🍟🍟🍟🍟🍟🍟🍟x10000000
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