Basd n This Prompt and written with all the love my Maple Leaf Heart can supply.
To: jwatson@yahoo.ca
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: Availability of prescription medication to UK soldiers
While in service with the Canadian military, what was your opinion on the UK soldiers? Were they able to purchase strictly North American medication from fellow soldiers?
SH
To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca
Subject: re: Availability of prescription medication to UK soldiers
Sorry do I know you?
To: jwatson@yahoo.ca
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: re:re: Availability of prescription medication to UK soldiers
Not at all. I was directed to your blog, and I need answers. Quickly, a man’s life is at stake.
To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca
Subject: Fuck Off Harry
Seriously, who are you? How do you know my blog?
To: jwatson@yahoo.ca
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: Don’t be tedious
I am not your brother, and I live in the 21st Century. Where people can access all sorts of material online, and while your blog is dull, that doesn’t change the fact that I need an inside opinion.
To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca
Subject: re: Don’t be tedious
Uhm. Okay, fine. In Afghanistan, troops are usually supplied by their own countries. General supplies do get mixed up sometimes. For instance, I found myself using German- made Iodine quite often. If it was prescription medication, then no. Most soldiers hoard their medication, just in case another supply is delayed. Far more likely that theft was involved.
To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca
Subject: So…
Why did you ask?
To: jwatson@yahoo.ca
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: none
http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/thesocialclubforredheads I used your information to solve a case. Thank you for your time.
To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca
Subject: Holy
So, wait, you can tell about a person’s state of marriage based on the tie they wear, and how likely someone is to hire a person based on the way they hold their glass?
To: jwatson@yahoo.ca
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: Too Easy
Is the tie creased, how is it tied? If it’s a traditional business tie, with a knot tied from left to right - at least a newlywed. If the tie shows signs of constant loosening and tightening then the marriage is poor or dissolved. Why keep a tie that has been knotted by someone else unless the wearer is either uncomfortable with knots or is keeping it for sentimental reasons. What kind of tie is it? A horrifying novelty tie would indicate married with children.
The next time you’re out, look at the way people hold their glasses. Are they close to hand, how often do they sip?
Observe and all else will become clear.
Just as I know Harry is your sibling, and a drunkard at that, and that you have a therapist who you dislike immensely, and your return from Afghanistan has left you wounded.
To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca
Subject: …
You are…amazing.
To: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
From: jwatson@yahoo.ca
Subject:…
How did you know about the therapist, or Harry, or the wound? That’s not up on my blog.
To: jwatson@yahoo.ca
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: It’s all there
Just Look
The first time Sherlock took John along to a crime scene, John was completely unaware.
“Peel back her lips,” he ordered Lestrade, as he pulled out his phone.
Lestrade frowned, “what are you doing, Sherlock?”
“Sending a message.”
“To?”
“John.”
“Who the bloody hell is John?”
Sherlock looked up, blinked twice and then back to his phone. “Colleague.”
“Adding another picture to your wall, freak?” Donovan stalked over, peering at the phone in Sherlock’s hand.
“Yes, right next to the picture I have of Scotland Yard being effective. It’s rather dated.”
Donovan scowled and held out her hand. “We can’t have you sending pictures of the victim to the press, hand it over.”
Sherlock merely pocketed his phone and stood up. “John’s a doctor, I need his opinion.”
Lestrade rose too, and crossed his arms.
“Now really, Sherlock, who is this John, where’s he from?”
“Canada.”
Lestrade laughed. “Canada’s not a real place, Sherlock. Couldn’t you come up with a better lie?”
Anderson joined in with a smirk. “where’d you meet him, some freak chat room?”
Sherlock flashed a wan smile. “Better a chat room than your tryst in the washroom. You’ve soap on your shirt still, by the way. Ah, here he is.”
1 New Text
From: John
Sherlock…is that woman dead? Is that a dead woman? God what’s wrong with her teeth? Why did you send me a picture of a dead woman’s teeth? Wait, how did you get my number?
From: John
What do you mean, not important right now? It…she’s dead.
From: John
Well…I guess, the inside of her mouth…it’s cut up, isn’t it?
From: John
So you’re saying someone stole her retainer? Are you sure she didn’t drop it somewhere?
From:John
That’s really brilliant.
From: John
You’re welcome. I guess I’ll add you to my address book.
Lestrade cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t smile so much at a crime scene, Sherlock. It’s not decent. Now are you going to catch us a killer or aren’t you?”
______________________________________________________________________________________
John refrained from glancing at his phone for what felt like the fiftieth time. This Sherlock fellow had appeared somehow, and within the space of a few days, not only knew intimate details about his life, but about John too, it seemed.
When John had opened his phone to see a picture of the mouth of a corpse, he almost dropped his phone. “Jesus, what the hell.” He quickly scrolled down to see an SH attached.
This should freak me out more than it does. John thought, resigned.
Add New Contact
Sherlock
After two week of texts interspersed with images and audio recordings, John found himself attached to his phone.
His patients at the Walk-In Clinic hardly noticed when he mumbled a thin excuse to retrieve some file or other, when in reality his hand was reaching for his phone before he had got so far as the door. His dates with Sarah did not pan out as easily as his patients.
“John, when you’re with me I want you to be with me.” John’s hand paused mid reach.
“I’m sorry, Sarah, it’s just my friend is having a bit of trouble and-” the phone buzzed again. Sarah raised one brown. John withdrew his hand.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He smiled
That did nothing to stop him from checking his phone the moment Sarah excused herself to the washroom.
6 New Texts
From: Sherlock
Bored
From: Sherlock
BORED
From: Sherlock
John, drop whatever it is you’re doing and entertain me
From: Sherlock
Your date is incapable of intellectual stimulation.
From: Sherlock
I’m going to die of boredom and you don’t even care. I was even going to call and tell you of my latest triumph that I haven’t even posted on my website. Oh well. Guess you’ll never hear my voice because I’ll be dead.
From: Sherlock
DEAD
John pressed a smile against his palm and typed out a quick reply.
Sherlock wilted on the couch, his limbs sprawling. He had finally managed to scare away his latest flatmate, a man who his brother had assured him was ‘unlikely to spook’.
1 New Text
Do you have Skype? And while Sarah may not be up to the Sherlock level of intelligence she’ smarter than I am, and a good deal kinder. More attractive too.
Sherlock snorted. He doubted that. Even with physical perfection, mental imperfection was undesirable. Thus, the whole of the person was undesirable. Still, he knew he had John hooked and so his companion was trivial.
John had been clamouring for details of his latest cases, and Sherlock could hardly be bothered to write up all of his success. They seemed to fade like the afterglow of sex, and they left him wanting more. Until, like today, his mind was clamouring for distraction.
Oh God, has the world ever been so dull before? How have I managed to live in this blasted place for so long? His
experiments simmered, and in one case, squeaked. Sherlock was at the hub of science, and even this could not please him.
He resolved to count every single one of his bones by feel.
1 New Text
From: John
Ok fine, I’ll call you. Sarah’s gone home, you greedy bastard.
Sherlock let the phone ring to voice message.
“Uh…hi. It’s John. This…is weird. Anyway, I called you so stop your moping.”
To erase this message press seven, to save it your messages press nine for more option pre- 9.
1 New Text
From: John
Answer your phone next time, moron. Also, I took some liberties on my site.
Sherlock huffed, his fingers already typing the address to John’s Blog. Scrolling past the banal, ‘oh I hate my life, I’m being forced to write these’ posts, he clicked on The Adventure of the Crooked Teeth. Really, John?
He then picked up his phone and hit redial.
“Hello?”
John sounded nothing like Sherlock had imagined. His voice had a higher timbre, but held none of the hesitancy that seemed to come through in his texts.
“You named it The Adventure of the Crooked Teeth?”
“Ah, Sherlock, nice to finally hear your voice.”
Sherlock sighed and the silence over the phone stretched into a minute.
“Are you still there?” John asked. Ah, there was the hesitation.
“Yes, just wondering where to start.” Sherlock rearranged his legs on the couch, and for the first time in what felt like his life, he was completely at ease.
The routine of John’s day was precise. He woke at seven and walked to the Tim Horton’s by his apartment. It was Roll-up- the-rim- season after all. He’d managed to get his coffee double-cupped with another playable cup and was feeling plenty smug.
He read the paper for a half hour while sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, his double-double to the right of the
napkin dispenser by five inches. He flipped the continuation of the front page story: a series of tourists murdered in London.
All found shot,but every single bullet missing from the scene. No evidence of a through and through, no sign of a gang-hit, and most victims from Calgary. John shook his head, flipping the paper closed.
He did not recognize any of the faces the paper had printed, but the killings still hit close to home.
After draining the paper cup, he used his teeth to unroll the paper lid bit by bit. Instead of a please play again the message read: there’s a black car outside. John glanced outside and sure enough, a black car idled in the lot. could be coincidence John thought. Still, only one way to find out.
He began to unroll the second one. don’t waste my time John.
That was pretty clear.
Gathering the cane at his side and standing with a bit of stiffness, John tossed the cup away before making pushing past the door. He approached the tinted window and peered in. The passenger window rolled down in silence.
“Dr. John Watson, come with us,” A woman’s voice called from the back seat.
John looked around. The Tim Horton’s was busy, a few office workers lined up, the morning haggard on their face. Some had kids in tow, hair damp from melting snowflakes. Right.
He opened the door and slid into the black leather. The woman looked up, a pleasant face currently illuminated by her phone.
“So, what’s going on?” The woman looked up from the screen for a moment before looking back.
“You’re scheduled for an appointment, Doctor.”
That sounds bad
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
From: Sherlock
Find out all you can about those tourists.
From: Sherlock
What have you found out?
John typed back: I think I’ve been abducted. Also give me more time
The car sped around the corner, taking strange routes in and out of construction sites and back alleys labelled ‘Dead End’.
After a dizzying route, the vehicle slowed to a stop in the lobby of a half built high rise.
John shifted in his seat; longing for the weight of his gun for all that it was locked in the small vault in his closet back home he opened the side door.
His laptop was propped on an empty crate, the screen bright. John’s skin crawled and the sense of personal invasion had him tightening his hand around the cane. He approached his laptop, and as he did so the light of his webcam flicked on.
“Ah, John Watson, we meet at last.”
A smooth polished voice emitted from his speakers.
What the hell
John limped to his laptop and reached a hand out to shut the lid, the screen dark.
“I wouldn’t do that just yet, Dr. Watson.” John dropped his arm, and fought the urge to step back.
He peered into the screen, seeing only his own weather beaten face reflected back.
“You could have just sent me an email. On my computer. That you’ve stolen.”
A tsking sound emanated from the speakers and the black screen lit up. The image of a man stood in silhouette, far enough away that John knew it was staged.
“You have no sense of mystery, do you Dr. Watson -well I know the answer to that already, no need to speak. Let us cut to the chase. What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”
John thought back to the ever present ringing in his pocket, the emails and the back and forth blogging. He had no illusions that whoever had set up the elaborate abduction had already looked through the emails.
Whoever this man was, he knew more than he was letting on. John felt impressed, against his better judgment.
“I barely know the guy. Am I in trouble, can I leave? I’m leaving, sorry.”
The screen flashed and the man emerged from the shadows, the sharp lines of his pressed suit contrasting with his round face.
“I have a proposition for you, Dr. Watson. One that I think will be mutually beneficial.” The man leaned in to the video, his face taking up the frame.
“I would like you to keep my abreast of your correspondence with Sherlock Holmes. Emails,texts, what you talk about, his cases, who he's meeting, that sort of information. In return I am more than willing to offer financial compensation.”
John brought his shoulders up, snapping to attention. The scar tissue in his shoulder protested the stretching, arm going numb. Hiding his grimace, he shook his head.
“That’s generous, but no thank you.”
“I’m sure we can negotiate.”
“I’m sure we can’t.”
The man’s voice lost the oily quality, and became something harder.
“ Browning once said: Our Interest’s on the dangerous edge of things, the Honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.”
John frowned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The man tsked again. “That’s right, military doctor. Not very well read. Still, I don’t wonder why he likes you. You’re loyal. It’ll be your undoing.”
John approached the laptop, thinking Right, I’ve had enough of this bullshit.
“Sherlock is a dangerous man, Doctor Watson, and you would err if you forgot.”
“I appreciate your concern. I’m late for work now, so…” John brought the lid of the laptop down, the conversation ending in one decisive click.
______________________________________________________________________________
In the car, John turned to the woman. “Would you tell your boss not to mess with my coffee again? It’s unsettling.”
The woman smiled, and John had the sinking feeling that the answer was ‘no’.
John reached for his phone, his companion’s making his fingers twitch.
3 New Texts
From: Sherlock
Take the Money
From: Sherlock
Airfare is expensive
From: Sherlock
What’s the rate of decomposition of a human hand? Never mind, you’ll take too long.
Sherlock was not worried. So he would lose an email contact. He would stop having to take pictures of crime scenes - and the praise he was growing used to, well that would stop too. He had done without kind words before.
And perhaps John would see that life was so dull without Sherlock that he would start to text him again and all would be as it had been. Or he would take the money, as Sherlock had advised and he would have double the reasons to keep in contact. No, Sherlock was not worried in the slightest.
Which did not explain why his palms were sweating, or that he could not still his pacing feet. Nor could he explain the fact that the last two experiments in which he analysed the type of soil found in Leeds he managed to contaminate, or the fact that as he waited the hydrochloric acid began to eat through his living room table.
Sherlock was not worried.
John limped in to work, his shoulder aching and his nerves stretched taught. Sarah took one look and sent John home.
“We can’t have you getting the patients sick,” she teased, as she tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow. “I’ll call a cab.”
There was a slight chance that Sherlock was worried. Perhaps angry was the better description. Surely Mycroft had not frightened John too much - John was military. He was also an idiot - the kind of idiocy that led a rabbit to curl up next to a fox.
No, John would be rattled, but not terrified. Which meant that he was being ignored, and that did not sit well with Sherlock.
1 New Text
From: Harry
game’s on 2nite. leafs vs canadiens. come over for drinks.
delete
1 New Text
From: Harry
dont ignore me. I expect u 2 come.
John hesitated. Bless Harry, she meant well but he knew that if he went there would be another fight and then go months
without talking.
He could not change her but he wanted to, and when the conversation circled back to her drinking, to Clara, to
the fact that a 'functioning alcoholic' was still an 'alcoholic', well that would be the end of that. No, John was not ready just yet.
Distance was one of the only means he had left for preserving their relationship.
To: Harry
Sorry, busy. Got plans with a friend tonight. Maybe during play-offs?
1 New Text
From: Harry
w/ that shirlok guy? dont cyber 2 much what would mom say?
delete
Fine, if Sherlock had to admit, he was worried. Perhaps Mycroft had seen John as a distraction or an enemy. A bad influence - which honestly, John a bad influence, ha.
No, Mycroft was too intelligent. He encouraged Sherlock’s social persona, the one that existed only when cameras were rolling. Sherlock’s foray into internet friendship would have been considered a positive step.
Perhaps John was being debriefed, which was better for John. Honesty was important in relationships - especially long distance ones.
The acid had finished its meal of the table and was starting on the floor. Perhaps John really had wizened up and lost his number.
Sherlock moaned.
He had no data. There were a million pathways that could be traversed, thousands of instances that did not quite exist and he had no idea which John had taken. There was no way to predict the outcome because he had no idea of the present circumstances. Simply put he was going-
3 New Text
From: John
Who the hell was that guy?
From: John
Either way, I’ll look up the information. I know some people in Calgary, I’ll give them a call.
From: John
Seriously though, what the hell?!
A sixth victim of the Canadian Killer has been found strangled outside The Globe Theater this morning. An anonymous tip was sent to Scotland Yard at three o’ clock leading police to the body.
The victim is 42 year old Mark McMahon. He was visiting family in Manchester and was staying in London for the night. His family reported him missing two days ago.
Police ask that those with any information regarding this investigation come forward.
“Our thoughts go out to Mark McMahon’s family here, and in Canada as well as to family of the other victims. We have
our finest working on this, and we ask for the public’s co-operation at this time.”
From: John
Called around - nothing promising. They didn’t know each other. Not close in age, social situation. London is the only link
From: Sherlock
NO
From: Sherlock
There’s something that all the victims share, what is it?
From: John
They all came as tourists to London
From: Sherlock
Exactly
From: John
What about the bullets? They say they were shot six times but the bullets are missing
From: Sherlock
Oh, that. He digs them out. Quite a labour intensive process. He’s either doing it for trophies.
From: John
He digs them out? How’s that possible? He’d need to have complete privacy in order for that to work.
He finishes his shift early. People look at him and then through him, his uniform straight. His smile comes easy. His hair is sorted, every inch of him unremarkable. He takes the marble steps three at a time, and looks.
His eyes linger on a trio of young girls laughing, speaking in carrying tones of how hungry they are, how tired. Too many at one time, maybe not quite right.
A group of school boys pose, fake Burberry and incomprehensible English, no good. He walks past the fountain, pushing past harried office workers rushing to catch the next bus.
He walks across to a different building, and sits on the steps.
He pulls out his phone and pretends to take pictures of the pillars, the flags.
A girl sits five steps down and to the right. Her hair is coloured a strange shade of red and she is talking loudly on her phone.
“It’s Home away from home. Here I’ll take a picture and then call you back after I’ve sent it.” There’s a click and some the chatter of buttons before the girl redials.
“There, did you get it? I know! It’s great here - yeah, tell Dan I miss him too. I love you. Yeah, ok. Bye.”
Perfect.
John’s flat is clean.
When he came back, nothing sat right. Living in Alberta felt like giving in to his past. He knew too many people in British Columbia.
He couldn’t be bothered to learn French properly and he did not think cereal-box ingredients counted towards bilingual status. Saskatchewan and Manitoba reminded him too much of where he trained as a teenager, which left Ontario.
Not the boroughs. He’d be too alone. No one to hold him accountable, or notice if he just side-stepped out of people’s lives.
He needed the bustle of the city, which left inner-city Toronto. Military training dictated the fold of the bed, the crease of his trousers. Habit necessitated the morning workout regime, and the five minute shower.
Most people have bookshelves, trinkets.
Most people, John knows, are reflected by their walls, what they surround themselves with.
John does not want to see himself reflected, afraid of what he might glimpse.
To be more precise, John’s flat is empty.
As a result, any time spent in the flat is used thus: eating, sleeping, blogging. He reads the paper at Tim Hortons, spends his Sundays sitting in Queen’s Park, or if the weather turns too cold, at Sarah’s.
Amongst her fake flowers and dated medical textbooks they sit on the chesterfield and watch Corner Gas, Kids in the Hall, or some brainless American programming.
Their romantic relationship stalled forever in the just-friends phase, to which John protests to Sherlock over text. Not that Sherlock could be bothered to care.
John has a sneaking suspicion that during those texts, Sherlock has an automatic reply typed out.
When the silence becomes demanding, John calls Sherlock. Most of the time, Sherlock answers. Although John has rang through to his voice mail a number of times only be called back.
He doesn't know why he keeps leaving messages, but he does. A small part of him likes knowing that he's managed to become a part of another person's life.
Or rather, Sherlock became a part of his life, and John had to adapt.
If someone had told him that he's be fielding calls at 3:00 AM on a constant basis, and love each call, he would have laughed them off. Or shot them.
For all his complaints, the anger, the strange that Sherlock has brought in to his life, John is somewhat happy.
His happiness can't prepare him giddy feeling he gets, followed by horror when he receives two new messages.
From: Sherlock
John, I need you
From: Sherlock
He’s taken another
“What is this Sherlock?” Lestrade brandishes a slip of paper. “Why has a one way flight been submitted as an investigation expense? £2500? That’s first class,” his voice is rising.
Sherlock lifts his head from the morgue table where the late Mark McMahon resides.
“Your investigative skills continue to amaze me, Detective Inspector,” he drawls, his gaze sliding back to the corpse.
“I need my Doctor here in order to help me find this killer.”
“This Doct- your Canadian boyfriend? You’re charging Scotland Yard to fly your boyfriend to London?”
“Do you always ask questions you know the answer to?”
From: Sherlock
Open your email - you’ve got five hours
From: John
You bought me a plane ticket? Sherlock I can’t afford that
From: Sherlock
The girl was abducted last night - she’s got a total of two days left before he kills her like the others. Do you want to help or not?
From: John
Christ, Sherlock. You better be at the airport.
Turns out handguns are against TSA regulations.
Lestrade settles behind his desk, the blinds closed and the door shut. A cup of hot coffee is cupped in his hand and for the first time in a week he contemplates resting.
The door rattles and his hopes are dashed.
“The Freak is bringing someone else in on the case,” Donovan starts without preamble. Andersen is close behind, and half of his department.
Lestrade sighs and takes a sip of his coffee, buying time.
“It’s that John fellow.”
“What, the Canadian?” Andersen asks.
Cooper calls out, “do we have to feed his snow dogs?”
To which Moore replies, “do we have to feed him? I don’t think we have enough maple syrup.”
Donovan turns around and shoots them all a glare.
“I think you lot are all missing the most important aspect of this conversation.”
Lestrade is almost grateful until Donovan finishes, “Where are we going to build the igloo?”
Sherlock is at the airport.
So is Scotland Yard.
“Why are you here,” he asks Lestrade, teeth gritted. Lestrade shrugs.
“Me and the boys-” Donovan clears her throat, “and girls, wanted to give your Canadian fellow a proper welcome.”
“See if he’s real or if you’re just having us on,” Andersen smirks from the back.
Sherlock jams his hands into his pocket and wander over to the greeting area, passing his time by matching incoming people with those lingering around the arrival gate.
Waiting for Grandmother, obvious.
Picking up a friend they’re infatuated with. Lose the flowers; try to not be so predictably desperate.
Ah, those two are siblings, just look at those shirt sleeves.
Lestrade follows Sherlock and stands in silence for a moment, watching the arrivals with, what Sherlock expects, sentimentality.
“Is he really coming Sherlock?” Lestrade murmurs, low enough for just Sherlock to hear.
“Of course he is,” Sherlock snaps. “They had to de-ice the wings in Toronto. Honestly, you aren’t even paying attention.”
Donovan smiles, “case of the nerves, lover boy?”
Sherlock ignores her and checks his phone.
Not that Sherlock would ever admit to being nervous. John is after all, a colleague- a friend even. They get on well enough; John answered his calls no matter the time.
He was willing to visit him in London, he could probably be convinced to stay too, if Sherlock timed certain aspects of his stay right.
The arrivals board flashes an update and John’s flight number states Arrived in green pixels.
Perhaps he should have let the Yard pick up John, but then, Sherlock’s still curious. He wants to see the way he walks, the way he sets his shoulders.
There’s too much that he would miss, and all of the information to be gathered is bright, and
fantastic and new. And yes, Sherlock knows what it means when a friend from the internet boards a plane with money you’ve provided. He had considered the implications, but he knows that John is coming for the case, for the Canadians.
And no he isn’t jealous, because he knows that he can hold John’s attention a thousand times better than any Canadian.
Seven hours and fourty-five minutes later John feels compact and wrinkled. He’s flown to the Middle East to fight in a war he didn’t really believe in with a pretty good chance of death, and he can confidently say that the flight from YYZ to LHR was torturous.
Beyond the question of how can a child cry for seven hours straight, they should have fainted. It is physically impossible, there’s still the Sherlock conundrum.
Sherlock had once sent a picture of himself to John in the early days. It was a bad angle and the man had looked nearly eight feet tall.
Now, as John shoulders his duffle bag and waits for his turn at immigration, he starts to wonder, what possessed him to drop his life and jump on a plane.
And why, for all that his leg twinged and his head spun, and the crush of people seemed to press in, John has never felt so much like falling in love as he does while standing in line, waiting for an adventure.
_______________________________________________________________
From: John
Just got in. Waiting in line.
From: Sherlock
I know
From: John
Right…I’m guessing you’re here already?
From: Sherlock
We don’t have much time.
John nods and smiles his way through the immigration officer’s questions, trying not to shift his feet too much. When he is waved through has to force himself to walk past the baggage claim and into the Arrival’s greeting area.
Even as unobservant as he is compared to Sherlock, it would have been hard to miss his welcoming committee. Pasting on a grin and hoping his nerves were in check he made his way to the tall, dark haired man, and the ten odd people surrounding him.
“Mr. Holmes”, John greets, extending a hand.
Sherlock smiles and returns the gesture. “Dr. Watson.”
The silence lasts for a moment before the rest of the crew start chipping in.
“Thought you weren’t real-”
“You lost me twenty quid-”
“Do you really use snow dogs?”
The wattage of Sherlock’s smile dims and he rounds on the group that seem to be clamouring for John’s hand.
“Don’t you have a serial killer to apprehend?” He asks in a cold tone.
Lestrade shrugs, “well, apparently we can’t solve this case without your doctor,” he nods to John, and shakes his hand, “and since we somehow financed his trip, it would be terribly rude not to meet him.”
John looks between Sherlock and Lestrade and gives his best ‘I completely understand this conversation’ smile. “Right,” he claps his hands at this, “well, shall we start then?”
Sherlock wraps a hand around the strap of John’s bag and tugs until he lets go.
“We have work to do, John. Let’s go.” He wants to get John out of the airport and away from the Yard as fast as possible. If John is to find out about his personal quirks, of which he’s already quite well versed, he wants the experience to be in his presence, when he can contextualise the situation with logic.
“I can carry my bag, honestly-” John’s left to trail behind Sherlock as he sweeps form the terminal. John pauses to turn around.
“Thanks for coming to meet me, great of all of you. I’ve got to uh…well, thanks for coming.” He finishes, before chasing after Sherlock.
“How long do you give him?” Anderson pipes up.
“Before he runs away, screaming?” Donovan fishes out her wallet, “five pounds on three hours .”
Lestrade shook his head, “I’m not sure, but I say he makes one week.”
A chorus of “I’ll take that bet” rise from the group assembled behind him.
The girl stumbles, her hand wraps around a lamp post and the arm of her companion encircles her. She tries to say ‘no’, or ‘help’ but the lights flash and pierce her, pin her down until she’s all but swaying and motion sick.
The other person tries to steer her straight, but she crumbles and begins to dry heave, trying to force herself to vomit.
“Aite der luv, you orite?”
Someone walking by leans down to her.
“She’s fine,” says the other.
The girl wraps her hands around the eye-smarting coat. Manages to choke out an agonised, "drugged," before she's tugged up.
“She just had one too many. Taking her home.”
The cab is silent. John tries hard not to stare, so he watches Sherlock’s reflection. His hand keeps reaching for his phone, before he remembers that the only person’s text he’d be checking for is right across from him. He clears his throat.
“So, I noticed that the flight was booked one way.”
Sherlock gives him the once over before nodding.
“I’m not sure how long this case will go on for, it’s best to not make too many plans until then.”
John nods, “right. So I’m staying…”
“At 221B Baker Street.”
“Isn’t that where you live?”
“Hmm, yes. My flatmate moved out last week”
“Again? How many has that been in the last month?”
“Only two or three,” Sherlock waves his hand as if to dash away the memory of them, “I’ve already deleted them. They were boring.”
John shakes his head and smiles.
“How do you know that I won’t bore you - after all this is our first time together. What if we’re not compatible?”
Sherlock shrugs, dismissing the possibility.
“I already know what I need to about you. Seeing you in person only confirms that theory.”
John smiles, and turns his gaze back to the reflection of the man in the window, watching as the image of London and Sherlock meld and travel through each other like ghosts.
No sooner have they pulled up outside of a quaint Victorian type entrance than Sherlock is tugging John back into the cab, only opening the door to throw John’s duffle inside and yell, “Take the bag upstairs if you would Mrs. Hudson.”
The door shuts as a voice calls out, “I’m your landlady-”
“What- what’s going on? Sherlock?”
Sherlock just grins and waves his phone in John’s face.
John frowns and grabs the phone from Sherlock and reads the message.
From: Lestrade
Girl brought in with the same drugs in her system as other victims. Claims she was abducted. Bringing her in once she’s processed.
The phone is plucked from John’s hand and disappears into Sherlock’s wool coat.
“So, we have somebody who might identify the killer?”
Sherlock frowns. “No, she was drugged quite heavily; I’d be surprised if she could remember her own name. She’s useless. I need to see her clothes.”
John mirrors Sherlock’s frown.
“Now, I wouldn’t say useless, she might have some information-”
“No John, don’t be stupid. Any information she might have had is suspect. I need to know where she met the killer.”
“Well, she’s a tourist, like the others. So a tourist site.”
Sherlock scowls. “All of London is a tourist site. Some have taken the tube, others took cabs. Some went on tour buses,
others went to museums. They all intersect somewhere, John. And wherever those points meet, that’s where our killer hunts.”