Stripped
part sixIt had been a guilty pleasure for some time. In the shower, on the toilet, waiting in a queue, lying on the sofa with boredom setting in, it'd been something to do that made him feel good, an exercise in role-play playing to his fantasies. They all started the same way: John Watson entering 221B full of rage, red faced and furious, pacing and ranting with acrimonious abandon. Sometimes Mary'd cheated on him. Sometimes she had the nerve to request an open marriage--an easily deduced sign of sexual dissatisfaction. Sometimes she just vanished, leaving just a note and none of her belongings. Regardless of why, John was always angry. His shouting would be enough to make Mrs. Hudson peek up the stairs in concern and Sherlock, in his patient wisdom, would usher her to stay out of it while he made the tea and quietly listened as John roared on about all the things that made Mary a mistake. He never had to say 'I told you so' because John always got there first, his rantings following a course of praise for Sherlock's foresight while damning his own sentimental ignorance. John did almost all the talking in the little scenarios. It was far more pleasing for it to be from John's lips. And after the hateful remarks and character bashing that John needed to get off his chest, he would promise one simple thing: to never leave again. And they would drink tea and read the paper and go out for a curry at eight and never speak of it again unless John needed to be reminded of Sherlock's better judgment on other matters.
John was always angry. Always red-faced and white-knuckled and seething with hate-hurt. Sherlock never, for his own selfishness and peace of mind, ever considered John might be crying when he finally came home.
It was the only thing his mind could consider now on the dull train ride, the words of his notes blurring as troublesome thoughts got in his way. John the stubborn ass, staying put to prove he could, denying all attempts to help, calm outside and at war inside, drinking, losing, fighting reality with delusions and self-medicating the truth. Becoming Sherlock. Avoiding Sherlock--avoiding anything that reminded him of what happiness had been and could be, that it even still existed. Fake smiles and boarding schools when she grew up to look too much like her mother and the pain that never heals made anew. Sherlock would have paid millions just for the ability to scoop thoughts from his head and throw them away. This wasn't conducive to working, this was not going to solve the case. It didn't even make him feel better. It felt like death. And death felt hopeless.
He forced himself to focus, trying to push all thoughts of John from his mind though it was John that motivated his movements. There were still things to consider, factors that didn't add up, an inkling in the back of his mind that called for his attention as details filtered down, down, down through the mire of pointless worry.
Center, focus--start from the beginning.
Sherlock had been trying to wrap his case up before their weekly meeting. Sitting at the cafe with John was a treat he looked forward to despite the business of his schedule. He never wanted to miss it when possible. He was very pleased when the foot-chase ended within reasonable expectations for John to still be waiting and ran all the way there, not wanting to waste time with proper traffic law, knowing short-cuts, knowing how to get there fast though he never wanted to seem too keen.
Criminal apprehended by Scotland Yard--Non-violent--guilty of theft. No match.
John had been working on his laptop. Never did learn how to type. Working on a new story, The Woman's story. Sherlock wasn't altogether pleased with his choice in cases. There wasn't much to tell until Bond Air was declassified meaning it was just a short story about how Sherlock failed to get a phone. He hoped. He did not need his romantic naivety becoming public knowledge. It was enough to simply live with it day to day.
Assumed alive and in hiding--Violent only when provoked--permanently abstaining from London. No match.
He'd promised Lestrade he wouldn't be long. He still had to give his testimony and evidence to the Yard to flesh out their case after the arrest. Small matter, trivial detail, but important if he wanted to continue to consult. John understood as always, no words need spoken. They'd gotten to see each other and have a brief chat. It would be enough. Like one big gulp of air before descending beneath the waves once more, not ideal but somehow always still enough.
And outside, goodbye, and then a gunshot. One gunshot. Why one?
Sherlock frowned as the train jostled him, his notebooks nearly upset from his lap as an obese woman waddled by with no attention paid to her fat-apron. Something was wrong. Something about the gun.
One shot fired and the people on the street scattered before they finally fell upon himself and John. Temporary chaos but in the wake, not in the moment. Target missed and the shooter runs and at some point tossed his gun away, fleeing the scene. No. Guns are hard to come by, rookie shooter, rookie mistakes, tosses his gun away and runs?
Oh.
Oh!
Sherlock's fingers were all but trembling as he fished his mobile out, phoning Lestrade with too much anxiety in his limbs to allow him to sit still. Wrong, wrong, so wrong and every bit of it right there! He sorted through the notebooks again, opening the first one that now had highlights and pen marks from John's more recent reviews.
"Sherlock?"
"Was the gun you found a match for the slug they retrieved from John?" The people on the train did little to conceal their immediate interest in the conversation in their car, all eyes all but shifting to stare as Sherlock bounced his heels and eyed the map of the closest station on the wall.
"Sherlock, how do--You can't be on this case, Sherlock. Hell, I shouldn't even be on this case."
Sherlock glared, gathering his things as he stood to pace, the station still far too far away and his patience nonexistent. "The gun, Lestrade. It's imperative. Was the gun you found a match?"
There was a sigh and muffled exhale. "Yeah, we got the weapon," the older man said, the weight of his conscious evident in the gravel in his voice.
"Are you still at the hospital with John?"
"Where are you even getting this stuff!?"
Sherlock had run out of all patience for the time being and possibly into the near future. "I'm not the target," he shouted. "John is! Now are you with him or not?"
There was a pause, a curse, and the jostled sound of movement. "Christ, are you sure?"
"The shooter took only one shot, hit John, took off and abandoned his weapon. If he had intended to shoot me, he would have continued firing and even failing that, having not dispatched me, he would have kept hold of the weapon to try again later. He attacked at the cafe and not at my home--my address being well known as my brother remarked on that day. John's address isn't published, however. The fact that John meets with me in the same cafe at the same day and time would make it the best choice for targeting him."
"But who would want to kill John?"
The million dollar question. Sherlock stood at the closed door, begging the train to go faster as mental clarity allowed for deductive genius. "Someone not very happy to have the case of the serial killing cab driver resurrected," he said, his thumb still resting under the cover of the very first case John had scribbled out on paper. "Someone who was too young to understand what had happened back then and only recently has come to understand the monster he was. Or rather, from their perspective, the monster that John has made their father out to be to the public."
"Jesus, how do you know?"
"I don't know. But right now it's the only thing that makes sense."
"Donovan!" Lestrade barked orders, the phone still pressed to his face and his voice ringing clearly for the rest of the train's passengers. "I want you to pull everything on the serial suicide case--Study in Pink. I want the names, addresses, everything you can get me on the man's kids and I need it now! You, get me someone in that hospital. I want a guard posted at Dr. Watson's room at all times, got it?"
"You're not at the hospital."
"No, John was tired, said to go on and let him and the little one have a nap. I'm on my way back right now."
Sherlock scowled as the train finally slowed towards the platform of the station. "The little one?"
"His kid."
"She left the baby with the invalid?" With a final lurch and a hesitant hiss, the train stopped and Sherlock bolted out, still miles away but better serviced by a cab to hasten him along.
Lestrade was rushing on his end as well, his heels echoing on the hallway tile. "He asked, she needed both arms. Not like either of them are going anywhere."
Jumping a short fence onto the street corner, Sherlock hoped that was indeed the case.
John felt... heavy. Like the first time out of the deep sleep, drugged and aching and heavy as though every thought he'd ever had had been attached to his skin by hooks. It almost hurt to be so weighed down but there was only numbness, cold, and the funny patting to his cheek that was far from pleasant but hardly pain. He hadn't been dreaming. Sleep had been too deep to dream. Crawling up from that darkness was a challenge all its own, punctuated by an odd beeping sound he couldn't remember from before he fell asleep. Whoever it was that wanted him awake was redefining the expectations of a rude visitor. That made it rather easy to guess who it might be. He forced his eyes open, using his brows like a fulcrum to wrench them wide enough to see shapes through his lashes, blurs that slowly became things and people as his eyes were made wider and the lack of lights adjusted to.
It wasn't Sherlock. He wasn't sure who it was but the hand over his mouth made sure he could not ask.
"Shhhhh," the stranger instructed and against his shoulder was the blonde head of John's daughter. John's hand stroked along the empty bed sheets beside him in hope of invalidating the sight without such a kindness. The stranger smiled, his face young and full of stupid. "I'll let you go back to sleep in just a minute. See that?" He gestured with his chin to the bedside table, John's eyes following the line of sight to the glint of a knife's edge.
The monitor registered a spike in John's heart-rate.
"I'm going to use that to slit your throat. But not just yet. Or maybe not at all. Maybe I think you should suffer more than that. I don't know. Should be fun finding out." He kept his hand down tight over John's mouth. Another monitor showed a maxed out morphine scale with the drip feeding down the last request. The sleep, the painless sleep, was still clawing at him to return. It would win. "You know, a father's love absolves almost everything. And good people can do bad things for very good reasons. My father, he killed people. For money. For me. That's love, Dr. Watson. That's a real father."
Sleep, God, he was tired, and he could feel the dampness on his face as he tried to fight it, tried to stay awake, tried not to shut his eyes and fall into the darkness while the insane young man held his daughter.
The playful smirk was gone, the cold blank pallet of a killer staring down at John in the dim light. "Tell me my dad was wrong now," he said. "Tell me you wouldn't kill every worthless moron in the world if it meant she'd be taken care of after I murder you."
John tried to raise his hand, to move at all, but his body was far too heavy to move. Even his eyelids felt too heavy as they slowly started to fall.
"Maybe I slit your throat, Dr. Watson. Or maybe me and the baby go for a swim in the Thames together. Do I want to kill you... or do I want to make you kill yourself?"
The sob was spat against the young man's hand, the last of John's desperation as he tried and tried and tried but only fell closer to the black sleep that promised him nothing but madness.
"Wave bye-bye to daddy. Bye-bye~!"
With nothing left to fight the enemy in his veins, John watched the man wave his daughter's chubby little fist for her as all senses rolled back into numbing oblivion.