Sherlock (BBC) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 2
Title: Survival (Chapter Two) - please click HERE if you missed chapter one
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC series)
Genre: Angst, drama, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,365 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
A.N.: Well, I think we can safely say I wasn’t expecting that kind of reception. Thank you so, so much for all the LJ comments and reviews, alerts and favourites on FFn - every one of them has meant the world to me. I never imagined even five people would approve of my scribbling so, well... Wow! Hopefully this next chapter doesn’t disappoint you!
As with the last chapter, I have to thank the brilliant, kind betas that have been so brilliant about working on this with me. Thanks to them no one will have to suffer my stupid mistakes! So, many thanks and much love to the wonderful interjection, velveteenkitten, infinityuphigh and patchsassy. The lovely smash_leigh has been away this week, but she’s been wonderful about letting me know so I absolutely must say thank you to her as well.
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 2
ooo
Ten days. Ten full days (barring the foolhardy, dangerous two hours he spent visiting his own grave, tearing his heart out watching Mrs. Hudson and John talk and mourn) in his bland, one-bed Catford flat, all for recovery. It strikes him as a disgusting waste, but there is no Dr. John Watson or DI Lestrade here to take him in hand when he pushes himself too far and so he will have to err on the side of caution for the moment. He should probably remain in bed for at least another week to be on the safe side, according to the new, John-like voice muttering in the back of his head. Nevertheless, he finally has the information he needs and can afford no more wasted time.
The food is all tinned, stock switched every couple of months by either himself or one of the more trustworthy in his Network, however he has only ever kept four outfits here and now has barely one wearable one remaining. He also needs hair-dye (bleach first, or the colour will not take), a pair of cheap spectacles (he has various fake lenses in the cupboard), a new phone and watch, and new shoes. Pens and notebooks, perhaps, as the ones stored in the cabinet have begun to submit to the ravages of time - the paper is obviously a few years old and the ink is slow. Aside from that he can manage well enough, he’s certain. The overnight bag and emergency supplies (first-aid kit, torch, Swiss Army knife, batteries, revolver plus bullets, battered copy of Red Harvest and insulated flask full of teabags) are all in serviceable condition (though it may be wise to buy new teabags anyway) and he does not have any patience for luggage. Carrying more than one suitcase and a small bag from pillar to post would draw attention, not to mention the annoyance it would cause him to be dragging too much through airports and stations. The idea of Moriarty’s web being confined to Britain is, after all, utterly ridiculous; most likely there will be cells worldwide, and they will all need to be torn apart before Sherlock can rest anywhere.
The disguise Molly gave him, along with the last one he left here a couple of years ago, works well when he looks in the mirror, particularly with the slight fluff even he can’t bring himself to call stubble lining his cheeks. He leaves confidently enough, although he turns towards the centre of Catford rather than heading towards the station.
The phone, it transpires, is the easiest to acquire. He walks into the first shop he sees and leaves ten minutes later with the most reliable smart-phone available, free internet and e-mail for the year and fifty pounds of credit to spend on texts (calls, he reminds himself, Sherlock texts so Robert must call). Clothes and shoes take a little longer, mainly due to Sherlock having always preferred tailored suits and therefore not having much idea of where to start. It takes an hour, but between the closest thing Catford has to a department store and several small charity shops he manages well enough. Glasses and watch - simple. Stationery - insultingly so. He has always loathed shopping for anything at all and the tedium is horrific for his mind. He finds himself analysing everyone he sees, then everything he sees, and the inability to voice any of it has the potential to drive him mad.
The pain still plaguing him helps. The throb of his knee and shoulder ground him, keep his mind on what it is he’s doing and why, and - although he still finds it a trial of the worst sort (so dull, dull, dull) - the banality of the activity and the chaos of his mind are bearable if they are for them.
He passes by the painkillers when he enters the pharmacy, unwilling to take the edge off when the sharp pangs and dull aches are so vital to him. Bleach, two packs of hair-dye (a rich, honey blond, as far from his true image as he dares and close to the sandy brown he had worn for Mr. Clarke’s passport). Scissors. When he approaches the counter the girl looks him up and down, looks at the dye and claims it will suit him.
“Thanks,” he manages, almost choking on the word. The girl (Sheila, according to her name-tag, although judging by her age Sherlock doubts that to be the truth) is orange and wearing a bright pink bra under her white shirt; the ensemble clashes unbearably with the highlights in her hair. Not that it is a difficult feat - they are blatantly more yellow than the intended blond.
She beams. “Yeah, honey. You’ll look good. The dark hair is kinda dreary. You’re cutting it, too?”
“Yes,” he smiles, and knows that it is a tight, forced expression but this girl has nothing to do with him and is wasting his time. John would be elbowing him by now, telling him to be nice and that she’s only doing her job. “Just a trim, don’t want to waste money on going to get it done.”
“Save up and go to one of the salons in the city in a month, right? ‘S what I do. The dye’s on three for two - supposed to end yesterday, but it’s telling me on here, so d’you want to grab another box?”
This time, the smile is very nearly real. “Thank you.”
He picks up multivitamins and nicotine patches on the way back to the till, and by the time he leaves has spent double what he intended and refuses to consume another half an hour of his life attempting to buy tea-bags. A job for another day, perhaps, however right now he is in pain and irritable and highly likely to draw attention to himself by causing a scene if he has to speak to another grinning sales assistant. Instead he turns towards home, using the short walk to catalogue his purchases and determine packing order. Once he has changed his hair, he needs to leave - before nine tomorrow morning will suffice. There is so much to do and very little time to retain the element of surprise. As soon as they move to new targets, new jobs, the assassins will be on their guard again. If he intends to remove them from the picture, it must be immediate.
He considers his options as he climbs the stairs; weighs the advantages and disadvantages of various ruses as he scatters his purchases on top of his duvet; frustrates himself with projected risks during his hunt for Robert Clarke’s paperwork. Planning how exactly to entrap and neutralise three top-level assassins is perhaps not the thing to focus upon whilst trying to cut one’s own hair, he discovers. His fingers bear the evidence and his hair ends up a good inch shorter than intended, however the change is almost startling and distracts him entirely. He appears younger than usual, his eyes that bit larger and his cheekbones somehow less pronounced. Once the scruffy mop is bleached and dyed, he dresses in one of the jumpers he found hidden in the first charity shop and heads back to the mirror.
He barely recognises himself. Looking again (properly noticing all the small changes), he can see the tiredness around his eyes, the slightly unhealthy pallor replacing the porcelain of his complexion, the small loss of weight brought by over a week of illness and lack of care for himself. Sherlock has never been one to worry about the mundane necessities of food and sleep, one reason among many for Lestrade’s (and Mycroft’s) approval of John. He could be an overworked student, an underpaid actor, or perhaps an unappreciated office boy. With the glasses (slightly green lenses, subtly distorting his eye colour, and wide frames to hide his damned cheekbones a little) and new jacket (too much like John’s, honestly, however he had been unable to resist even though he recognised it as sentiment), he will blend in perfectly. There is no true trace of Sherlock Holmes left upon him.
The thought shakes him to his very foundations; he has never held any desire to be anyone but himself, for all the obvious reasons, despite the difficulties he has faced time and again in dealing with and being accepted by his peers. The truth of his ‘death’ has not been something he has had the time or inclination to consider, but he finds himself suddenly drowning in it - in the knowledge that everything he is, even more than the already acknowledged (not 'accepted' though; he will never just lie down and accept it) loss of his reputation and distortion of his work, has been torn from him; his heart, his core, has been burned away just as Moriarty promised at the pool. It is terrifying, worse than standing on that ledge had been, and Sherlock pushes the concept away forcefully. He will live again once this is over. Once he can go home to 221B Baker Street without causing the deaths of the three people he cannot bear to be without. Then he will clear his name (he knows that Mycroft will facilitate that, as surely as he knows that his brother had something to do with ‘Richard Brook’ - however unwillingly it was), get back to work and his experiments, and live.
For the moment, survival will suffice.
ooo
He begins with the two living across the road and five doors down from 221B, trusting Lestrade to be putting in a ridiculous number of hours in an attempt to retain his job and, therefore, be in marginally less danger (went to all this trouble, plus their employer is dead? Unlikely to take any unnecessary risks at this point). The stockier of them he has no name for (early forties, gang tattoos, unattached, Birmingham accent with hints of German), and in all honesty Sherlock finds it hard to care enough to find it out. He walks in through the back door five minutes before David said his colleague is due to return and heads up the stairs without trying to muffle his approach (an arrival is expected - the attempt at stealth would arouse more suspicion than an assured walk). He steps up behind him and slices his throat before the man even bothers to turn. He even has the leeway to direct the arterial spatter away from where it could be seen from the room’s entrance or windows, and it is the easiest thing in the world, much as he knows John would elbow him and mutter, “A bit not good,” should he ever express such a sentiment. This man threatened Mrs. Hudson though, a woman who has treated him with so much more kindness and patience than she ever needed to, and if his removal from the world will make her safer there is really nothing else to be done.
The second man, the man assigned to ending John Watson’s life, is more difficult to bring down.
His name is Major Elliot Buckner, of the Third Division. He served in Afghanistan at the same time as John, dishonourably discharged from the British military only two months after the attack that sent John home with a painful hole in his shoulder and a limp his mind fabricated. Buckner is, according to Sherlock’s information, an uncommonly nasty piece of work. He is loath to waste what few resources he has, but gives himself a half-dose of Etidocaine to be on the safe side - if this man is as skilled as Sherlock’s information suggests he would be a fool not to.
The former Major is also, it would seem, uncommonly clever; Sherlock has arranged the first man’s body to look entirely natural, albeit facing away from the door. Buckner, however, still enters the room with a Glock in one hand and a flick-knife in the other and wastes no time in raking the latter across the palm Sherlock instinctively raises.
It stings, his right hand turning slick and red, but it is nothing more than a shallow scratch - no long term damage to worry about. Buckner is larger than Sherlock and obviously fancies his chances at battering and then questioning the thin intruder, moving to strike his temple with the Glock rather than shoot him. Back-step, back-step, block, strike, and the already slick and greasy handle of Sherlock’s knife becomes that bit wetter and harder to grip when the blade carves into his opponent’s shoulder. It enters the joint at the exact position of John’s bullet wound; Sherlock knows it will be painful and the position makes the injury seem almost poetic justice.
It is Buckner’s turn to pace backwards, to block and guard as he retreats across the still-clean carpet. Sherlock has lost the advantage of underestimation though, and lacks the military training of the Major. It cannot be more than a minute before his knife is knocked to the floor and he is forced to yank the gun from his jacket; but even that is a desperate move, doing no more than placing them on even, dangerous footing. Wary of a Mexican stand-off, Sherlock goes for the path of greatest surprise and uses his injured hand to slap Buckner across the face, stunning him and obscuring his vision with blood just long enough for him to twirl behind the larger man’s left shoulder and ram the barrel of his revolver into the base of his skull. He might lie, later, and say that he hesitated. In the moment there is barely an inhalation before he squeezes the trigger.
Buckner spasms as he falls, his own gun discharging into the floor, and there are shouts from next door. Knowing all that he does about crime scenes, Sherlock’s instinct is telling him to clean up, to ensure he has left no clues to his identity or whereabouts, but there is little to nothing he can do in the time he will have before the police arrive and he cannot afford to jeopardise his freedom now. The revolver is old and not one he has ever been seen with, Swiss Army knives are mass-produced… They would have to rely on shoe-prints and fibres, none of which would correlate to the Sherlock Holmes still being alternately reviled and pitied in the papers. Even in the event of Lestrade being assigned to this one (unlikely, after the mess Donovan and Anderson have made of his reputation at the Met), there would be nothing to connect him if he takes Buckner’s knife. Best to leave, and leave quickly.
He does so the same way he entered the building, sliding on the fake glasses and tugging on a pair of thick, dark gloves to hide his red-streaked hands before he reaches the door. The reminder of the cut, of the blood that could have dripped from his hand to the floor, worries him for a moment. There is so much in the room already though; it would take truly horrendous luck on his part for them to find the one or two drops Sherlock left behind, the smear left on Buckner’s face having been obliterated by the bullet’s exit (and if not, if they do test every drop, there should be no records thanks to Mycroft’s years of paranoia and - God help him for even relating this to his brother - good sense). He pushes the thought aside, clenching his fist and keeping his strides even.
He is at the perfect distance when the cars arrive, able to see that Lestrade is absent without drawing attention to himself; DI Dimmock exits the second patrol car instead and offers 221B no more than a cursory glance before heading towards his scene. Sherlock - Robert Clarke - checks his watch twice before turning away and heading for the Underground. The key for his locker is still tucked into his sock, digging in to the sole of his foot and irritating him far more than he expected it to. With any luck, he will make it just in time for the eleven-oh-eight tube and reach the next flat by one. He can wash and change, deal with his hand and perhaps eat, then head out to Lestrade’s two-bed terraced house in Hammersmith. It’s been years, but he knows the way there like he knows the best places for a proper cup of tea in central Camden. He has, after all, managed to make his way to it once before after a beating, despite being concussed, bloodied and still high. The DI’s wife had not been too pleased to find Sherlock passed out on her front step first thing in the morning, but Lestrade had hauled him in and tossed him onto the settee - where he had stayed for almost four days. He’d even made him three fish-finger sandwiches in under an hour in order to satisfy his affected curiosity regarding the differences between brands.
He should be paying more attention, close as he is to the police and a crime scene; still, he can’t help reminiscing a little as he heads for Baker Street station. He is so caught up in the memory of Lestrade grumbling away whilst watching the news with him that he is only fifty yards from John, at best, when he notices the blonde hair and military walk.
Sherlock is not proud of the way he panics, hurrying to cross the street and angle his face just enough to hinder recognition. Not that it matters - John’s eyes are fixed on the ground, his brow furrowed and shoulders slumped (slightly thinner, his clothes unironed for all that they appear clean, obviously hasn’t slept well in the past few days if the purple and red rings around his eyes are anything to go by, hands fisted in pockets defensively, skin still holding the grey hue Sherlock remembers from after the fall), and he seems completely oblivious to the people around him. It is very much a man “going through the motions,” as the phrase goes - Sherlock cannot look away from him. He stops in the street, turning to watch John head for the flat, their flat, 221B Baker Street, and resolutely ignoring the echoing misery throbbing at the heart of him.
Someone jostles him (mid-fifties male, retired early due to cancer in his kidneys, nosy), knocking him towards the kerb in his hurry and complaining, “Don’t just stop in the street, mate! Bloody tourist.“
He would snap back, if he were Sherlock Holmes. For now he has to turn and walk away, stop himself watching John eventually notice the police cars so close to his home and probably deem it nothing to do with him, and continue to the station. He may have the time to indulge his desire to be so close to his home for a few minutes (next train is due at eleven-fourteen, then eleven-eighteen), but he does not have the security. He takes quick strides, pitching his speed to appear in a slight, unremarkable hurry to work or a social meeting, and manages to reach the platform seconds before the delayed eleven-oh-eight departs. His bag bashes against his leg when he rushes to board, drawing a grunt, and three students (two law, one chemistry, all bunking off their afternoon lectures) smile his way sympathetically. Robert Clarke grins and shrugs in return, then heads the opposite way down the train to snag a seat, whilst in the privacy of his head Sherlock sneers.
His intention is to change at Moorgate and head for Clapham South, but the lunchtime rush begins early and he can’t bring himself to shove his way through the rest of the sardines. He remains seated; there is a basement flat in East Ham he can use for a couple of nights, less than two-hundred yards from the station and very convenient for the tube to Hammersmith. By the time they reach his stop the carriage has emptied out considerably as well, and Sherlock’s exit is unhindered. Which is just as well, considering his stomach is beginning to protest its two days of neglect rather viciously; John always complained of how irritable he gets when he is hungry like this.
Perhaps that is why he is so looking forward to the probable violence of the evening.
ooo
… And there we have chapter 2! I hope you enjoyed it, and if you have the time I would love to know what you thought. No flames, please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing.
Continue to chapter 3...
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC series)
Genre: Angst, drama, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,365 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
A.N.: Well, I think we can safely say I wasn’t expecting that kind of reception. Thank you so, so much for all the LJ comments and reviews, alerts and favourites on FFn - every one of them has meant the world to me. I never imagined even five people would approve of my scribbling so, well... Wow! Hopefully this next chapter doesn’t disappoint you!
As with the last chapter, I have to thank the brilliant, kind betas that have been so brilliant about working on this with me. Thanks to them no one will have to suffer my stupid mistakes! So, many thanks and much love to the wonderful interjection, velveteenkitten, infinityuphigh and patchsassy. The lovely smash_leigh has been away this week, but she’s been wonderful about letting me know so I absolutely must say thank you to her as well.
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 2
ooo
Ten days. Ten full days (barring the foolhardy, dangerous two hours he spent visiting his own grave, tearing his heart out watching Mrs. Hudson and John talk and mourn) in his bland, one-bed Catford flat, all for recovery. It strikes him as a disgusting waste, but there is no Dr. John Watson or DI Lestrade here to take him in hand when he pushes himself too far and so he will have to err on the side of caution for the moment. He should probably remain in bed for at least another week to be on the safe side, according to the new, John-like voice muttering in the back of his head. Nevertheless, he finally has the information he needs and can afford no more wasted time.
The food is all tinned, stock switched every couple of months by either himself or one of the more trustworthy in his Network, however he has only ever kept four outfits here and now has barely one wearable one remaining. He also needs hair-dye (bleach first, or the colour will not take), a pair of cheap spectacles (he has various fake lenses in the cupboard), a new phone and watch, and new shoes. Pens and notebooks, perhaps, as the ones stored in the cabinet have begun to submit to the ravages of time - the paper is obviously a few years old and the ink is slow. Aside from that he can manage well enough, he’s certain. The overnight bag and emergency supplies (first-aid kit, torch, Swiss Army knife, batteries, revolver plus bullets, battered copy of Red Harvest and insulated flask full of teabags) are all in serviceable condition (though it may be wise to buy new teabags anyway) and he does not have any patience for luggage. Carrying more than one suitcase and a small bag from pillar to post would draw attention, not to mention the annoyance it would cause him to be dragging too much through airports and stations. The idea of Moriarty’s web being confined to Britain is, after all, utterly ridiculous; most likely there will be cells worldwide, and they will all need to be torn apart before Sherlock can rest anywhere.
The disguise Molly gave him, along with the last one he left here a couple of years ago, works well when he looks in the mirror, particularly with the slight fluff even he can’t bring himself to call stubble lining his cheeks. He leaves confidently enough, although he turns towards the centre of Catford rather than heading towards the station.
The phone, it transpires, is the easiest to acquire. He walks into the first shop he sees and leaves ten minutes later with the most reliable smart-phone available, free internet and e-mail for the year and fifty pounds of credit to spend on texts (calls, he reminds himself, Sherlock texts so Robert must call). Clothes and shoes take a little longer, mainly due to Sherlock having always preferred tailored suits and therefore not having much idea of where to start. It takes an hour, but between the closest thing Catford has to a department store and several small charity shops he manages well enough. Glasses and watch - simple. Stationery - insultingly so. He has always loathed shopping for anything at all and the tedium is horrific for his mind. He finds himself analysing everyone he sees, then everything he sees, and the inability to voice any of it has the potential to drive him mad.
The pain still plaguing him helps. The throb of his knee and shoulder ground him, keep his mind on what it is he’s doing and why, and - although he still finds it a trial of the worst sort (so dull, dull, dull) - the banality of the activity and the chaos of his mind are bearable if they are for them.
He passes by the painkillers when he enters the pharmacy, unwilling to take the edge off when the sharp pangs and dull aches are so vital to him. Bleach, two packs of hair-dye (a rich, honey blond, as far from his true image as he dares and close to the sandy brown he had worn for Mr. Clarke’s passport). Scissors. When he approaches the counter the girl looks him up and down, looks at the dye and claims it will suit him.
“Thanks,” he manages, almost choking on the word. The girl (Sheila, according to her name-tag, although judging by her age Sherlock doubts that to be the truth) is orange and wearing a bright pink bra under her white shirt; the ensemble clashes unbearably with the highlights in her hair. Not that it is a difficult feat - they are blatantly more yellow than the intended blond.
She beams. “Yeah, honey. You’ll look good. The dark hair is kinda dreary. You’re cutting it, too?”
“Yes,” he smiles, and knows that it is a tight, forced expression but this girl has nothing to do with him and is wasting his time. John would be elbowing him by now, telling him to be nice and that she’s only doing her job. “Just a trim, don’t want to waste money on going to get it done.”
“Save up and go to one of the salons in the city in a month, right? ‘S what I do. The dye’s on three for two - supposed to end yesterday, but it’s telling me on here, so d’you want to grab another box?”
This time, the smile is very nearly real. “Thank you.”
He picks up multivitamins and nicotine patches on the way back to the till, and by the time he leaves has spent double what he intended and refuses to consume another half an hour of his life attempting to buy tea-bags. A job for another day, perhaps, however right now he is in pain and irritable and highly likely to draw attention to himself by causing a scene if he has to speak to another grinning sales assistant. Instead he turns towards home, using the short walk to catalogue his purchases and determine packing order. Once he has changed his hair, he needs to leave - before nine tomorrow morning will suffice. There is so much to do and very little time to retain the element of surprise. As soon as they move to new targets, new jobs, the assassins will be on their guard again. If he intends to remove them from the picture, it must be immediate.
He considers his options as he climbs the stairs; weighs the advantages and disadvantages of various ruses as he scatters his purchases on top of his duvet; frustrates himself with projected risks during his hunt for Robert Clarke’s paperwork. Planning how exactly to entrap and neutralise three top-level assassins is perhaps not the thing to focus upon whilst trying to cut one’s own hair, he discovers. His fingers bear the evidence and his hair ends up a good inch shorter than intended, however the change is almost startling and distracts him entirely. He appears younger than usual, his eyes that bit larger and his cheekbones somehow less pronounced. Once the scruffy mop is bleached and dyed, he dresses in one of the jumpers he found hidden in the first charity shop and heads back to the mirror.
He barely recognises himself. Looking again (properly noticing all the small changes), he can see the tiredness around his eyes, the slightly unhealthy pallor replacing the porcelain of his complexion, the small loss of weight brought by over a week of illness and lack of care for himself. Sherlock has never been one to worry about the mundane necessities of food and sleep, one reason among many for Lestrade’s (and Mycroft’s) approval of John. He could be an overworked student, an underpaid actor, or perhaps an unappreciated office boy. With the glasses (slightly green lenses, subtly distorting his eye colour, and wide frames to hide his damned cheekbones a little) and new jacket (too much like John’s, honestly, however he had been unable to resist even though he recognised it as sentiment), he will blend in perfectly. There is no true trace of Sherlock Holmes left upon him.
The thought shakes him to his very foundations; he has never held any desire to be anyone but himself, for all the obvious reasons, despite the difficulties he has faced time and again in dealing with and being accepted by his peers. The truth of his ‘death’ has not been something he has had the time or inclination to consider, but he finds himself suddenly drowning in it - in the knowledge that everything he is, even more than the already acknowledged (not 'accepted' though; he will never just lie down and accept it) loss of his reputation and distortion of his work, has been torn from him; his heart, his core, has been burned away just as Moriarty promised at the pool. It is terrifying, worse than standing on that ledge had been, and Sherlock pushes the concept away forcefully. He will live again once this is over. Once he can go home to 221B Baker Street without causing the deaths of the three people he cannot bear to be without. Then he will clear his name (he knows that Mycroft will facilitate that, as surely as he knows that his brother had something to do with ‘Richard Brook’ - however unwillingly it was), get back to work and his experiments, and live.
For the moment, survival will suffice.
ooo
He begins with the two living across the road and five doors down from 221B, trusting Lestrade to be putting in a ridiculous number of hours in an attempt to retain his job and, therefore, be in marginally less danger (went to all this trouble, plus their employer is dead? Unlikely to take any unnecessary risks at this point). The stockier of them he has no name for (early forties, gang tattoos, unattached, Birmingham accent with hints of German), and in all honesty Sherlock finds it hard to care enough to find it out. He walks in through the back door five minutes before David said his colleague is due to return and heads up the stairs without trying to muffle his approach (an arrival is expected - the attempt at stealth would arouse more suspicion than an assured walk). He steps up behind him and slices his throat before the man even bothers to turn. He even has the leeway to direct the arterial spatter away from where it could be seen from the room’s entrance or windows, and it is the easiest thing in the world, much as he knows John would elbow him and mutter, “A bit not good,” should he ever express such a sentiment. This man threatened Mrs. Hudson though, a woman who has treated him with so much more kindness and patience than she ever needed to, and if his removal from the world will make her safer there is really nothing else to be done.
The second man, the man assigned to ending John Watson’s life, is more difficult to bring down.
His name is Major Elliot Buckner, of the Third Division. He served in Afghanistan at the same time as John, dishonourably discharged from the British military only two months after the attack that sent John home with a painful hole in his shoulder and a limp his mind fabricated. Buckner is, according to Sherlock’s information, an uncommonly nasty piece of work. He is loath to waste what few resources he has, but gives himself a half-dose of Etidocaine to be on the safe side - if this man is as skilled as Sherlock’s information suggests he would be a fool not to.
The former Major is also, it would seem, uncommonly clever; Sherlock has arranged the first man’s body to look entirely natural, albeit facing away from the door. Buckner, however, still enters the room with a Glock in one hand and a flick-knife in the other and wastes no time in raking the latter across the palm Sherlock instinctively raises.
It stings, his right hand turning slick and red, but it is nothing more than a shallow scratch - no long term damage to worry about. Buckner is larger than Sherlock and obviously fancies his chances at battering and then questioning the thin intruder, moving to strike his temple with the Glock rather than shoot him. Back-step, back-step, block, strike, and the already slick and greasy handle of Sherlock’s knife becomes that bit wetter and harder to grip when the blade carves into his opponent’s shoulder. It enters the joint at the exact position of John’s bullet wound; Sherlock knows it will be painful and the position makes the injury seem almost poetic justice.
It is Buckner’s turn to pace backwards, to block and guard as he retreats across the still-clean carpet. Sherlock has lost the advantage of underestimation though, and lacks the military training of the Major. It cannot be more than a minute before his knife is knocked to the floor and he is forced to yank the gun from his jacket; but even that is a desperate move, doing no more than placing them on even, dangerous footing. Wary of a Mexican stand-off, Sherlock goes for the path of greatest surprise and uses his injured hand to slap Buckner across the face, stunning him and obscuring his vision with blood just long enough for him to twirl behind the larger man’s left shoulder and ram the barrel of his revolver into the base of his skull. He might lie, later, and say that he hesitated. In the moment there is barely an inhalation before he squeezes the trigger.
Buckner spasms as he falls, his own gun discharging into the floor, and there are shouts from next door. Knowing all that he does about crime scenes, Sherlock’s instinct is telling him to clean up, to ensure he has left no clues to his identity or whereabouts, but there is little to nothing he can do in the time he will have before the police arrive and he cannot afford to jeopardise his freedom now. The revolver is old and not one he has ever been seen with, Swiss Army knives are mass-produced… They would have to rely on shoe-prints and fibres, none of which would correlate to the Sherlock Holmes still being alternately reviled and pitied in the papers. Even in the event of Lestrade being assigned to this one (unlikely, after the mess Donovan and Anderson have made of his reputation at the Met), there would be nothing to connect him if he takes Buckner’s knife. Best to leave, and leave quickly.
He does so the same way he entered the building, sliding on the fake glasses and tugging on a pair of thick, dark gloves to hide his red-streaked hands before he reaches the door. The reminder of the cut, of the blood that could have dripped from his hand to the floor, worries him for a moment. There is so much in the room already though; it would take truly horrendous luck on his part for them to find the one or two drops Sherlock left behind, the smear left on Buckner’s face having been obliterated by the bullet’s exit (and if not, if they do test every drop, there should be no records thanks to Mycroft’s years of paranoia and - God help him for even relating this to his brother - good sense). He pushes the thought aside, clenching his fist and keeping his strides even.
He is at the perfect distance when the cars arrive, able to see that Lestrade is absent without drawing attention to himself; DI Dimmock exits the second patrol car instead and offers 221B no more than a cursory glance before heading towards his scene. Sherlock - Robert Clarke - checks his watch twice before turning away and heading for the Underground. The key for his locker is still tucked into his sock, digging in to the sole of his foot and irritating him far more than he expected it to. With any luck, he will make it just in time for the eleven-oh-eight tube and reach the next flat by one. He can wash and change, deal with his hand and perhaps eat, then head out to Lestrade’s two-bed terraced house in Hammersmith. It’s been years, but he knows the way there like he knows the best places for a proper cup of tea in central Camden. He has, after all, managed to make his way to it once before after a beating, despite being concussed, bloodied and still high. The DI’s wife had not been too pleased to find Sherlock passed out on her front step first thing in the morning, but Lestrade had hauled him in and tossed him onto the settee - where he had stayed for almost four days. He’d even made him three fish-finger sandwiches in under an hour in order to satisfy his affected curiosity regarding the differences between brands.
He should be paying more attention, close as he is to the police and a crime scene; still, he can’t help reminiscing a little as he heads for Baker Street station. He is so caught up in the memory of Lestrade grumbling away whilst watching the news with him that he is only fifty yards from John, at best, when he notices the blonde hair and military walk.
Sherlock is not proud of the way he panics, hurrying to cross the street and angle his face just enough to hinder recognition. Not that it matters - John’s eyes are fixed on the ground, his brow furrowed and shoulders slumped (slightly thinner, his clothes unironed for all that they appear clean, obviously hasn’t slept well in the past few days if the purple and red rings around his eyes are anything to go by, hands fisted in pockets defensively, skin still holding the grey hue Sherlock remembers from after the fall), and he seems completely oblivious to the people around him. It is very much a man “going through the motions,” as the phrase goes - Sherlock cannot look away from him. He stops in the street, turning to watch John head for the flat, their flat, 221B Baker Street, and resolutely ignoring the echoing misery throbbing at the heart of him.
Someone jostles him (mid-fifties male, retired early due to cancer in his kidneys, nosy), knocking him towards the kerb in his hurry and complaining, “Don’t just stop in the street, mate! Bloody tourist.“
He would snap back, if he were Sherlock Holmes. For now he has to turn and walk away, stop himself watching John eventually notice the police cars so close to his home and probably deem it nothing to do with him, and continue to the station. He may have the time to indulge his desire to be so close to his home for a few minutes (next train is due at eleven-fourteen, then eleven-eighteen), but he does not have the security. He takes quick strides, pitching his speed to appear in a slight, unremarkable hurry to work or a social meeting, and manages to reach the platform seconds before the delayed eleven-oh-eight departs. His bag bashes against his leg when he rushes to board, drawing a grunt, and three students (two law, one chemistry, all bunking off their afternoon lectures) smile his way sympathetically. Robert Clarke grins and shrugs in return, then heads the opposite way down the train to snag a seat, whilst in the privacy of his head Sherlock sneers.
His intention is to change at Moorgate and head for Clapham South, but the lunchtime rush begins early and he can’t bring himself to shove his way through the rest of the sardines. He remains seated; there is a basement flat in East Ham he can use for a couple of nights, less than two-hundred yards from the station and very convenient for the tube to Hammersmith. By the time they reach his stop the carriage has emptied out considerably as well, and Sherlock’s exit is unhindered. Which is just as well, considering his stomach is beginning to protest its two days of neglect rather viciously; John always complained of how irritable he gets when he is hungry like this.
Perhaps that is why he is so looking forward to the probable violence of the evening.
ooo
… And there we have chapter 2! I hope you enjoyed it, and if you have the time I would love to know what you thought. No flames, please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing.
Continue to chapter 3...