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It starts when Stamford tells John he knows someone with a flat to let, cheap enough even in the middle of London for John to afford. John wonders what the catch is but agrees to meet the landlady. He can’t think about leaving, hiding himself away in a quiet town in the country, where gossip would have everyone looking at him with pity for the stiffness in his shoulder, the limp his therapist insists is psychosomatic. If it means he can stay in London he can live with annoying neighbors or a nosy landlady.
The next day he gets shown around the flat by a sweet older woman who, he finds out, will make him tea but is not his housekeeper, takes ‘herbal soothers’ for her hip, and is named Mrs. Hudson but her husband is deceased – or rather, executed. She says that like it was a good thing.
He also finds out why the flat’s so cheap. A previous tenant died here, and since then she’s had three other potential tenants leave, complaining of strange noises and drafts. Mrs. Hudson says she’s had the place looked over and will make any repairs necessary. John can live with drafts and doesn’t mind noises, as long as they’re not the kind that make him wake up in a rush of sweat and adrenaline, grabbing for his gun. For what Mrs. Hudson’s charging he can put up with air in the pipes and creaky stairs. He’ll give it a go.
So the lease is signed and John is free to move in with what few possessions he has. He unpacks quickly and all he can think, as he looks around his rooms, is that they should be so much more full. If he had a roommate, maybe, the flat wouldn’t feel like it should echo.
Still, he is trying to get back to leading a normal, civilian life, and his therapist is encouraging him to write a blog. He has nothing to write about. He tries looking for a job, something part-time, and lands a place at a clinic, where they need someone to come in just a few days a month, to cover shifts when something comes up. They can’t offer much, but that’s perfect for John. He’s not up to much yet, and this is just enough to supplement his pension.
So he drifts through a week, picks up a shift at the clinic, and in the evenings he stares at the blinking cursor on his computer, trying to think of something more to write than ‘Stared at the wall for three hours. Improvement over yesterday, when I stared for four.’ He’s erasing that very sentence when he suddenly becomes aware of a high, keening sound, just as the pitch changes and it becomes recognizable as a violin. He would think it’s someone playing on the street, from how faint it is, but it’s very distinctly coming from inside the flat.
“Hello?” he calls, feeling a bit silly for addressing an empty flat. “Who’s playing that?”
The violin falters and goes silent.
He waits for a moment but the silence remains. Finally he shrugs and turns back to his computer. A chill rush of air runs down his spine and he snaps his head back around, but there’s still nobody and nothing there.
He can’t concentrate on anything for the rest of the evening.
He’s almost forgotten the incident three days later, convinced himself he’d dozed off in his chair and dreamed the whole thing. Until he came home from the grocery to find a strange man in his living room, staring out the window.
The man is tall, wearing a long, dark coat and scarf, with a riot of curly black hair. Too startled to react at first, John wonders for a moment why the man isn’t dripping with sweat and then realizes the room is freezing, despite the warm day outside.
Then instinct takes over and John tenses, ready for anything this intruder might do. He must make a noise, though, because the man turns and looks at John. His skin is amazingly pale in contrast to his dark clothes and hair, and his eyes are so sharp John feels like the man knows everything about him from that one glance.
Then the man notices that John is looking at him in return. He furrows his brow, and takes one large, deliberate step to the right. When John watches him, the man’s eyes widen in shock. And then he vanishes.
John feels unsettled after that, he’s not quite sure if he wants to stay in the flat. He doesn’t want to move out, no, he’d never find another place to stay that would be nearly so affordable. He’s not crazy, he saw that man, the man he’d never seen before but when he looks up the previous tenant on the internet he finds that man’s picture above a short newspaper article - Sherlock Holmes, whose death had been mysterious but ultimately ruled due to natural causes, he’d only made the papers because his brother had some minor position in the government.
He’s not crazy, but he’s seen a – his mind stumbles on the word – ghost.
He wants to find out more about this person, and from the name he finds a blog, The Science of Deduction, that tells him a lot about things like how to identify hundreds of types of tobacco ash but little about the person who would catalogue that for fun in the first place.
John’s jumpy now, though, constantly wondering if the ghost is watching him, invisible. The thought that he’s showering or changing clothes in a haunted apartment makes him feel defensive and awkward. He wakes up in the middle of the night to stare suspiciously at his empty bedroom.
One night, though, the room is not empty. The man, Sherlock Holmes, is standing there staring at him. John startles fully awake, fingers twitching reflexively for his gun before he remembers he put it in the drawer across the room for just this reason. Bullets won’t do anything to a ghost and he doesn’t need to be shooting up the flat.
The ghost doesn’t do anything, just stares.
John has to say something. “Look,” he starts, then flounders. “Look, this is my flat. I don’t know if you can hear me or understand me but you’re dead and this is my flat now and it’s really weird that you’re, what, watching me sleep?”
“Please,” the ghost sneers. His voice is faint, hollow, but his tone is clear. “As if there’s anything you could do to stop me, I’m incorporeal and insubstantial.”
John thinks he understands the blog a bit better now. “If you’re insubstantial, you can’t do anything to me.”
“Why would I want to do anything to you?” The ghost sounds honestly confused.
“Well, isn’t that what all ghosts do? Wail and throw things and scare people?”
“How should I know?” the ghost – Sherlock – replies. “I’ve never met a ghost, and that sounds horrendously boring.”
“Never met a ghost?” John exclaims. “You are a ghost.”
“Then throwing things and such is not what all ghosts do, because as you’ve so helpfully pointed out, I am a ghost and I don’t do that. Now. You can see and hear me clearly, the others could only vaguely sense that I was here. I propose we share the flat.”
This whole situation is absurd, so John says “I don’t suppose you’ll help pay the rent.”
Sherlock gives him such a look.
------
Having the ghost as a flatmate is every bit as strange and unsettling as having the ghost as an intruder. He doesn’t moan or rattle chains but he plays violin at three in the morning and asks John odd questions at inopportune times.
He knows things before John tells him, deduces them from John’s tan lines and clothing and model of phone, things like John is an army surgeon recently returned from the Middle East, and his sibling gave John his phone after a bad break up. The only thing he gets wrong is Harry’s gender. He seems surprised but pleased when John says his ability to read someone like that is brilliant.
Once, after John comes home from the clinic, Sherlock doesn’t answer his hello, and stays silent and invisible for four days straight. When he reappears he asks John to conduct experiments for him, and gets annoyed when John says he can’t and won’t get Sherlock any human eyeballs.
He reads the newspaper and various websites over John’s shoulder, complaining about how slowly John reads. He gripes constantly about the stupidity of the police, especially without him there for them to consult. He explains to John what he did in life, and speculates about what a blow his death must have been to the arrest rate of a DI Lestrade.
Sherlock follows with special interest the articles about certain deaths in London. Suicides that he says are not suicides, linked because the people have no reason to commit suicide, or to be where their bodies are found.
“I could solve this,” Sherlock growls at John, “if only I had the rest of the data. They don’t print everything and I can’t get access to the Yard’s files anymore.” He pulls at his hair in frustration and flops onto the couch.
“Would you at least move so I can sit down too?” John asks. Sherlock just glares. “It is my couch,” John points out. When Sherlock refuses to move, John sits on his feet. Or rather, in his feet. He tries not to twitch at the sight of Sherlock’s toes sticking out of his side, but he does shiver because touching Sherlock is like bathing in ice. He mostly deals with the cold that surrounds Sherlock by wearing thick jumpers.
Sherlock sighs like he’s the one being inconvenienced and withdraws his feet. Then suddenly he bounds upright, full of excitement. “You can go!” he says. “You can go and explain to Lestrade and get the case files for me to look at.”
“Are you- are you joking?” John says. “Can’t you imagine how that conversation would go? Hi, I’m John, and my flatmate is the ghost of a dead lunatic detective so could I please look at your case files? They’d lock me up.”
“Oh, don’t be so dull,” Sherlock scoffs. “Lestrade knows me – knew me. I could tell you what to say to convince him.”
“And how would you do that? Aren’t you stuck in this flat? I thought ghosts were supposed to haunt one place.”
“And I thought we’d already established that I don’t conform to your idea of a proper ghost. Let’s experiment, maybe I can haunt you instead of the flat.”
“Oh, what a lovely idea. I could go through life haunted by the ghost of a madman,” John says sarcastically. Still, he hauls himself up with his cane and walks to the door. He steps onto the stair and looks around. “Sherlock?” he asks softly.
“I’m here.” Sherlock is standing next to him, one step down. Their heads are almost level. “Try going out on the street.” John does as Sherlock asks.
Sherlock can stay with him, it seems. They walk around together and John tries not to look at or talk to Sherlock much, tries to keep in mind the fact that only he can see him. Sherlock experiments a bit more but it seems there’s a limit, he is tied to John now and if he tries to move more than a few meters away it becomes difficult and tiring.
Sherlock keeps suggesting directions, and John’s fine with walking wherever Sherlock wants… until he realizes Sherlock’s directing him toward Scotland Yard. “Nope.” He stops and ignores the looks he’s getting from strangers. “I’m not doing that today.”
“How about this,” Sherlock offers. “Go in and ask, and if he’s not there I won’t ask again.”
John sighs. “What was the detective’s name again?”
“Inspector Lestrade.”
“Inspector Lestrade,” John repeats, and startles when a man walking by stops and turns.
The detective eyes John wearily. “Please tell me you’re not my wife’s new solicitor.” Sherlock snorts, and John has to restrain a hearty glare at what Lestrade would see as empty air. He’s sure Sherlock did that on purpose.
“No, I’m not… but I need to talk to you.”
Lestrade straightens up. “Do you need to make a report?”
“No,” John hesitates. “It’s just…” He looks around at the people passing them. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?” Lestrade looks at him a moment more, then invites John to his office. John follows him in, sits in an uncomfortable chair, and thinks about where to start.
“I’m John, Doctor John Watson and I- this is going to sound crazy.” He pauses. Lestrade just waits, and John takes a deep breath. “It’s about Sherlock Holmes. He-”
“Tell him I was murdered,” Sherlock puts in casually.
John can’t help it. “You what?” but then Lestrade’s tense and looking at John like he might attack. John grits his teeth and says “Sherlock Holmes is a ghost and wants me to tell you he was murdered.” This doesn’t make the tension go away. “Sherlock!” John says.
Sherlock pulls his head out of a filing cabinet. “Tell him he owes me for the case with the fish.”
John passes this on to Lestrade. Lestrade loses some of the ‘I think you’re crazy’ tension and starts to look more angry.
“Oh, and tell him those suicides are murders too, I’m annoyed that he confiscated half my belongings, his wife is sleeping with her solicitor, and Anderson is still the biggest prick in the building despite that being quite a task.” Sherlock sounds bored. John’s not sure whether repeating what Sherlock said will make things better or worse, but he repeats it anyway, leaving out the part about the detective’s wife.
“You certainly sound like you could be quoting Sherlock,” Lestrade says, “But I’ve seen other fake mediums and psychics and some of them can be very convincing. So. What’s something only Sherlock could know?”
Sherlock’s silent for a moment. “Tell him I never thanked him for giving a crazy junkie a chance. For listening to me.”
Lestrade freezes when he hears that. When he speaks again his voice is thick. “I’ll let you see the files. If I find out you’re telling me anything less than the absolute truth, I will do everything in my power to see you locked away forever.”
“Ha! Yes!” Sherlock is ecstatic. Lestrade opens the file cabinet Sherlock had had his head in and pulls out a folder. He hands it to John, and John opens it, flipping at Sherlock’s direction to whichever page Sherlock wants to look at.
Suddenly the door opens. “Inspector, a fourth-” This new detective stops when she sees John. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“No, go on,” Lestrade says.
“A fourth body was just found,” she continues. “Same as the others. But she scratched a note.”
Sherlock looks like he might collapse from joy. Lestrade tells the other detective he’ll be along in a moment. When she shuts the door again Lestrade asks John what Sherlock makes of it.
“He looks obscenely happy, it’s kind of creepy. And he says he needs to see the crime scene,” John translates.
Lestrade rubs his temples. “Trying to get me in trouble from beyond the grave…” he mutters. “Come along, then.”
John comes, although he’s actually rather nervous about the crime scene. He’s seen bodies before, of course, and blood and all manner of unpleasant things, but now… he can see Sherlock. What if he can see other ghosts? What if they’re not all so nice as Sherlock?
Sherlock keeps pace with him. “Could be dangerous,” he murmurs, but his face is – John can’t help but think it a terrible pun – alive with excitement. Somehow Sherlock’s words brace John. He’s made it through danger before, and he can again.
The other detective is waiting with the squad car. “Who’s he?” she asks when she sees that John is coming with them.
“He’s coming,” Lestrade answers shortly. Still, she asks again in the car. “He was a friend of Sherlock’s,” Lestrade tells her, “And don’t even start, Donovan.”
“Doctor John Watson,” he introduces himself.
“The freak had a friend?” Donovan asks anyway.
Beside him, Sherlock tells him, “If she gets too annoying just ask her how long will Anderson’s wife be away.” But they arrive at the crime scene before long, so John doesn’t have to say anything else to her.
Sherlock is straining at the edge of his limit away from John as John slowly trudges up the stairs. When they get to the room a thin, surly man is waiting. “Anderson,” Sherlock says with distaste. “Kick him out, I won’t be able to do anything with him here.” John quietly asks Lestrade if Anderson might leave.
Lestrade sighs, and orders everyone out. In a moment there’s just the three of them and the corpse. “I might have known,” he addresses the room. “You’re just as difficult dead as alive.”
Sherlock pays no attention. He’s already busy scrutinizing the corpse. It’s a woman wearing an eye-searing shade of pink, and there’s a note scraped into the floor by her left hand. ‘Rache’, it reads. Sherlock says it should be ‘Rachel’. He instructs John to feel under the collar of the pink lady’s coat, remove her wedding ring, and look up on his mobile weather reports for other areas.
Finally he announces to John, and through John, Lestrade, that the woman worked in the media, was a serial adulteress, and was only supposed to be in London for one night. He wants to know what happened to her suitcase.
Lestrade stares at John. “You might just be serious about Sherlock,” he says. “But there wasn’t a case.”
“Of course there was a case. Just look at the mud drops on her leg. But if the case isn’t here, then… ah. Ah! Pink!” He goes dashing out of the room. He disappears through the closed door, then after a moment sticks his head back in the room. “Come along, John, if you please.”
“No,” John says, annoyed. “Not until you explain.”
“It must be so boring in your head. Fine. She came to London with a case. From the state of her hair she never made it to a hotel, so she didn’t have time to drop the case off anywhere. She’s color-coordinated her outfit, shoes, and nails, so she’s likely to have a matching suitcase. If she came to London, met the killer, and then died, where did her suitcase go? He must have taken it, probably accidentally. When he realized that, he would have to dump it. We need to search the bins in the area. Don’t tell Lestrade, he’ll want to take the case.”
John tells Lestrade anyway, because he likes not being charged with obstructing justice. Lestrade thanks him, opens the door, and announces to the officers in the building, “We’re now looking for a pink suitcase, has anyone seen it? Have people start searching bins in the area.”
They actually do find the case in short order, and Sherlock insists on being let to look at every single item in it. Still, he’s dissatisfied when he’s done, and lets the police take it for evidence with little complaint, and then declares they’re done at the crime scene. John gives Lestrade his number, in case Lestrade needs him again, and then goes to catch a taxi back to the flat.
He makes it to a busier street, and is about to hail a taxi when the pay phone he’s standing next to rings. John stares at it for a moment – who makes a call to a public phone? – but when it keeps ringing he eventually answers it.
A quiet voice is on the other end. “There is a camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?” John looks, and the camera swivels itself away. This repeats with two more cameras, and then the voice tells him to get in the car that pulls up.
“Don’t,” Sherlock says, and John knows something is wrong, but he doesn’t have his gun and he can’t see how to get out of the situation.
A woman is waiting in the car, typing on a Blackberry and thoroughly ignoring John. He tries to make conversation even as Sherlock warns him that it’ll be useless, tells him she won’t even give John her real name. She doesn’t.
They arrive at an empty warehouse. The man who meets them there looks perfectly innocuous, except he has the power to abduct John off the street, knows where John lives, and apparently has access to his psychiatrist’s notes. Then he gets down to business. “It has come to my attention,” the man says, “that you claimed to be a friend of Sherlock’s. Sherlock did not have… friends. I have records of everyone who ever worked with Sherlock, and you are not among them. Added to the fact that you have been, until recently, overseas and in combat, there is no way that you could possibly be an acquaintance of his. Who are you?”
“John Watson. I’m a doctor.”
“I know that much, and more. That is not what I mean. Who are you?” He taps his umbrella against the floor, impatiently.
John looks to Sherlock, who is glaring at the man. “Tell him the truth,” Sherlock advises. “His name’s Mycroft. Unfortunately, he’s my brother, and he won’t leave you alone until he knows everything about every inch of your life.”
“There’s two of you?” John mutters under his breath. But he sighs and tells everything to Mycroft, adding in Sherlock’s explanations while omitting his insults. Mycroft’s face shows no expression; John can’t tell what he’s thinking.
Until John finishes. “You’re very good at this. I would almost believe you’re telling the truth. Who do you work for? Where did you get your information?” Mycroft asks.
“From me, you great idiot,” Sherlock growls, and swipes at Mycroft’s shoulder. His hand passes through and Mycroft shivers, so slightly that John wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been expecting it.
“He just touched you,” John says. “That’s why it’s cold. Touch him again, Sherlock.”
“Hah. You’ll have to believe that, won’t you, there’s nothing John can do to make you cold.” Sherlock sticks his hand back in Mycroft’s shoulder and waves it around a bit. Mycroft shudders and steps back.
“This requires more observation,” he says, under his breath. John can barely hear him. Then, louder, he says “You’ll be returned to your home, for now.” The for now is ominous. Mycroft gestures towards the car, and Anthea comes to collect John.
“Ok, what just happened?” John says quietly.
“My brother,” Sherlock explains. “He always was fond of drama. Overprotective, too, so I believe he blames himself for my death.”
“That… that’s kind of horrible,” John says. Anthea looks at him suspiciously, but then forgets about him again in favor of her mobile.
Sherlock’s lip curls. “Hardly. He’s likely only upset that he failed. And now you show up and he can’t prove you’re lying about seeing me, so he’ll spy on you until he’s convinced.”
John almost groans. He needs to have a long conversation with Sherlock when they get home.
But when John has finally limped up all the stairs and set aside his cane, he finds out that Sherlock has other ideas. “I need to think,” he says, and disappears. John sighs and puts the kettle on to make himself some tea.
John tries to content himself with tea and telling himself he will talk to Sherlock later, but the faint sounds of a violin distract him. “Sherlock?”
No response. “We need to talk, Sherlock.” The only answer is the violin shrilling up to an annoyingly high note. “How do you even have a ghost violin?” John bursts out. “I don’t understand anything about how your existence works!”
Suddenly Sherlock is back with a rush of cold air, inches from John’s face. “John! I need you to send a message. Where’s your phone?”
“Send it yourself.” John is tired of these demands, and is determined to get some real information out of Sherlock. So far, the only way he can see to do that is to deny Sherlock what he wants until Sherlock focuses on him. He takes his phone out of his pocket and sets it on the table.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says. “I can’t send it myself.” To prove his point he reaches for it and his fingers pass right through.
“Then since you’re not going anywhere any time soon, you can take some time out of your oh-so-busy schedule to explain a few things to me. Let’s start with who is your brother?”
Sherlock sighs. “He’s the British government. Next question?”
“No, wait, hang on. You mean he holds a position in the government?”
“I mean he is the government. He does whatever Parliament, the Secret Service, and Her Majesty’s other agencies can’t. When he says he’s going to watch you, expect hidden cameras to turn up in the flat by tomorrow. He always was overprotective and since he considers himself having failed in protecting me, I’m sure he’s only gotten worse.”
“But how did he know about me?”
“Oh, he’s likely worked out that I was murdered, no matter what the autopsy reported. So now he’s trying, in his pathetic, misguided way, to avenge me. Which means finding my killer. Which means keeping an eye on anyone connected to me.”
“That’s – God,” John rubs his temples. “Yes. That’s my next question. Who murdered you and why? And why didn’t the police know?”
A flash of annoyance crossed Sherlock’s face. “That’s something I’d like to find out as well. I know Lestrade was suspicious but someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to cover it up. And I- I don’t remember anything from the day I died.
“So have I satisfied your curiosity? Can we get on with catching a serial killer now?”
“Er, right,” John mutters. He picks up his phone again.
“These words exactly – ‘what happened last night at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out,” Sherlock dictates the text for John, and gives him an address. “Have you written it? Good. Send it to this number.”
John hits send, then realizes he has no idea who he’s just texted. “Did I just talk to a serial killer?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says brightly. “That was the number of the pink lady’s phone. It wasn’t in her bag, so it’s probably-” John’s phone rings. It’s the number he just texted. John doesn’t answer. “-so it’s definitely in the possession of the killer,” Sherlock finishes. “Now. There’s a café across the street from that address. You can get something to eat while we wait.”
John sighs, and grabs his cane again. He also takes his gun, because this day has been unsettling enough and he doesn’t trust Sherlock’s brother not to abduct him again.
At the café, John sits at the window and orders a small dish of pasta. He’s eaten most of it when Sherlock sits up straight and says a taxi has pulled up across the street. John twists around to look. “Don’t stare!” Sherlock warns him.
The cab idles for a minute, then starts to pull away. “After him!” Sherlock cries, bolting through the door. John is startled enough that he follows without thinking, remembering just in time that unlike Sherlock, he has to open the door to go outside. The taxi is picking up speed on the street, but Sherlock dashes down an alley, leading John through a twisting maze, over buildings and down side streets.
“If we catch him just repeat what I tell you,” Sherlock says. “Play along.” John hasn’t run like this since he left the army and is breathing too hard to answer. Just at that moment, though, they come out from an alley just ahead of a cab that stops just short of John’s legs. Panting, he goes around to the side and opens the passenger’s door.
“Damn!” Sherlock says. “Just arrived from America! He’s not the killer.”
“Uh, hello?” the American says.
“Tell him you’re with the police or something,” Sherlock instructs, no longer paying attention to the passenger.
John smiles and lies through his teeth. Real cops are looking his way, though, so he closes the cab door and runs again.
He’s breathless and trying not to laugh when he gets back to the flat. “That is possibly the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” he gasps. “How did you know he was American?”
“His bags,” Sherlock answered. “The airline labels were still on them.”
“Hah. Is this seriously how you worked when you were alive?”
“Of course.”
As John climbs the stairs, Sherlock is looking at him with a now-familiar expression. “Are you deducing me?” John asks.
“You were shot in Afghanistan but not in the leg. Your therapist is actually right about one thing, your limp is psychosomatic. I’d suspected but tonight you proved it.”
“I did?”
“You forgot something at the café and you haven’t even noticed yet.”
Suddenly John realizes. “My cane! I’ll have to go back and get it.”
“Or,” Sherlock suggests, “You could realize that you just ran after a cab, and caught it no less, and work on not needing the cane.”
“Right,” John says. His leg is twinging now that he’s thinking about it. “Not actually as easy as that.”
“The body is just a vessel, John, the mind is what’s important. I should know, I don’t have a body to worry about anymore.”
They climb the stairs, but at the top John sees the door is unlocked. “What-” he starts. Sherlock brushes past him and looks through the door.
“Damn it, Lestrade, why now?” John hears, so he opens the door.
“What!”
Lestrade is in the flat with Donovan, Anderson, and a couple of other officers. Mrs. Hudson hovers worriedly over the scene.
“Drugs bust,” Lestrade answers him cheerfully.
“He used to do this to me whenever I annoyed him,” Sherlock grumbles. “Never mind that he almost never found anything, he just liked to remind me what he could do.”
“I’m sure Sherlock could tell you I used to do this to him,” Lestrade echoes, but John notices he’s careful not to let the other officers overhear. “Sometimes he needed to be kept in line. Now, I don’t really know you and I sure as hell don’t trust you yet. I hope this won’t need to be a regular thing. Has Sherlock figured out anything else yet?”
John can’t tell if Lestrade’s tone is mocking. “Almost never found anything?” he mutters. “Come on, Sherlock, what do you have for the nice inspector?”
Sherlock sighs and starts rattling off information. “The killer is innocuous to the point of invisibility. He has the freedom to move through crowds and choose his targets, and they trust him immediately. He has to have a car or he would have noticed when the pink lady left behind her case… Did you ever find out who Rachel is?”
“Yes, her daughter,” Lestrade holds up a hand like he knows what Sherlock would say to that. “But Rachel is dead, or technically never was alive. She was stillborn, years ago.”
“Dead?” Sherlock seems confused. “Then why would she think about Rachel as she was dying? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Is he serious?” John asks Lestrade, then remembers Lestrade can’t hear Sherlock. “Why would a mother think about her daughter while she’s dying? You were human at some point, right?”
“For all his brilliance he never really understood emotions, I think,” Lestrade tells him. “I can’t imagine being dead would help much with that.”
“John, if you were about to die, what would you be thinking?” Sherlock asks.
“Oh God oh God let me live?” John replies.
“Oh, use your imagination,” Sherlock says, exasperated.
John looks at him steadily. “I don’t have to.” He can feel where the bullet went through his shoulder.
Sherlock actually pauses for a moment, before continuing with his point. “I mean, if you were clever. Really clever, like she was – no offense, John – but she had to have been clever to keep all those lovers secret; she wasn’t just thinking about her daughter, she scratched her name in the wood. That took effort, it would have hurt. And her phone, it wasn’t in the suitcase, she must have known something was happening and planted the phone – John! Get your computer. There was a mePhone account in the information on her suitcase, her phone can be tracked.”
John gets his laptop and starts it up. Sherlock tells him the account name. “And the password is – all together now – Rachel!”
Downstairs, the bell rings. Mrs. Hudson goes to answer it, but John barely notices, he’s too busy watching the screen. It takes the website a moment to load, and longer to connect with the GPS. Mrs. Hudson comes back and says something, but John doesn’t listen.
The GPS map comes up. It says the phone is at 221 Baker Street.
“Damn it, if you’ve got the phone,” Lestrade starts, then turns to yell at the other officers to look for it. John denies it, calmly at first and then louder when everyone ignores him.
Mrs. Hudson cuts in. “John, please, there’s a cabbie waiting for you outside, he’s very insistent,” but John didn’t order a cab and snaps at her.
He instantly feels bad about that but Lestrade is threatening to take him in if he’s got the phone, and John’s temper is growing. Everyone in the flat is trying to talk at once and no one will listen.
“John.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet but it cuts through all the noise. John glances at him and sees someone coming up the stairs. Lestrade goes to search with the other officers for the phone John doesn’t have.
“Not now, Sherlock.” John starts after Lestrade, but Sherlock grabs his shoulder. Actually grabs, his fingers don’t slip through John’s flesh like they should. And then, slowly, Sherlock’s fingers sink into his skin, and John goes numb wherever Sherlock touches.
John’s body starts to move, but John’s not controlling it. He tries to stop and can’t. He tries to speak, and can’t. All he can do is watch his body’s actions and think bloody murder at Sherlock.
The cabbie leads Sherlock-in-John’s-body outside. He’s perfectly innocuous, an older man with a sort of quietness around him, the kind one wouldn’t look at twice in a crowd, the kind one would think nothing of getting into a taxi with.
“You could have me arrested, right now,” the man says. “I wouldn’t run. But you’re interesting. And you’re interested in me, I know.”
“How did you do it?” John’s voice comes out wrong, with Sherlock’s accent and cadence. “There weren’t any signs of a struggle, not with any of them.”
“See, that’s the really interesting part,” the cabbie answers. “I don’t kill them. I talk to them, and then they kill themselves. If you get in the cab and come with me, I’ll show you. But if you have me arrested, you’ll never find out what I said.”
-Sherlock- John thinks at him. -Go back inside. Tell Lestrade, have him arrested. Please.-
Sherlock gets in.
The building they stop at is empty, a school that has closed for the night but is unlocked for the cleaners. “Another question,” Sherlock says. “How do you keep your victims from simply walking away?”
“Like this,” the cabbie says, and pulls out a gun. “Let’s go inside.”
They go in to an empty room, and sit at an empty desk.
“Someone will remember you, you know. You took me away with half a dozen policemen about, they’re not that stupid. And Mrs. Hudson saw you. That’s a bit of a risk, isn’t it?”
“Nah. This is a risk.” The cabbie takes two tiny glass jars out of his pocket. In each is one pill. Sherlock simply looks at him. “You don’t understand yet. That’s all right. I like watching people’s faces when they figure it out. There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle. Take the pill from the good bottle and you live, the bad one and you die. Whichever one you don’t take, I will. I promise not to cheat.” He pushes one of the jars across the desk. “Did I give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You decide, and then we both take our medicine.”
Sherlock uses John’s hand to pick up the bottle. He examines the pill inside. “Fifty-fifty odds…”
“You’re not playing the odds. You’re playing me.”
Sherlock smiles at that, sharp and tight. “So I am. Let’s see… You live on your own, you have children but you don’t get to see them. How long ago were you diagnosed? About three years, I’d say. What is it?”
“Aneurysm, in my brain. Any breath could be my last.”
“And because you’re dying, you decided to murder four other people?”
“I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can have with an aneurysm.”
“No… there’s another factor here. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow, this is about your children.”
-Sherlock, what are you doing?-
-Solving the case,- Sherlock thinks back at him.
-You’ve solved the case. You know who did it and how.-
-But not the why. I need to know the why, and I need to know if I’m right.-
Living with Sherlock had given John an idea of what the man had been like while alive. Now, John knows exactly how Sherlock thinks, the kind of risks he’s willing to take to prove himself to himself.
“Oh, you are good. I’ve got a sponsor, you see. For every person that I kill, money goes to my kids after I die.”
“Who would sponsor a serial killer?”
“He just likes to have a bit of fun, watching all the silly little people run around. None of them compare a bit to the proper geniuses, and he’s so much more than even that. But I doubt his name would mean anything to you. No one says his name. Enough chatter, though. Time to choose.”
“This is getting rather boring, though. I could just walk out of here.”
The cabbie lifts his gun. “You take the fifty-fifty chance or I shoot you in the head. Funny thing, no one’s picked the second option yet.”
“I’ll have the gun, please.”
-Sherlock!-
-Don’t interrupt. Can’t you see it’s not a real gun?-
The cabbie points the gun and pulls the trigger. A bit of fire comes out, the gun is a lighter.
“I know a real gun when I see one.”
“None of the others did.”
“Well. This has been interesting. I look forward to your trial.” Sherlock stands and heads for the door. John is so relieved, now they can call Lestrade and have this murderer arrested properly.
“Before you go, did you figure it out?” The cabbie’s voice halts Sherlock. He knows how to read people, almost as well as Sherlock does. He knows exactly how to keep Sherlock from walking out the door. John shrieks silently at Sherlock and tries to move his hand, but Sherlock steps away from the door and back to the table.
“Of course.”
“Which one, then? Play the game. Humor me, tell me which one you’d pick. Just so I know whether I could have won.” He watches Sherlock pick up one of the bottles, and takes the other one himself. “Oh, interesting. Shall we? Come on, really. Let’s see whether you beat me. Are you clever enough to bet your life?”
Sherlock opens the cap of his bottle and pulls out the pill. He examines it closely, holds it up against the light, sniffs it. He brings it closer to his mouth, John’s mouth.
“You get bored, don’t you? The fact that you're here at all proves it. You’re so clever… But what’s the point of being clever if there’s no one to prove it to? You’re addicted to this… You’d do anything to stop being bored.”
-no no no Sherlock please- panic snaps through his mind and suddenly John has control again. He drops the pill, draws his gun and fires.
The cabbie drops.
John’s body is wrenched away from him again. He watches helplessly as Sherlock moves over to where the man is bleeding on the floor. “Was I right?” Sherlock demands. The cabbie gasps silently; John thinks he’s trying to laugh. “Was I right?” When the dying man makes no response Sherlock changes tack. “Who funded you? Your sponsor. I want a name. Give me a name!”
“No.” The cabbie’s head flops weakly on the floor.
Sherlock steps on his shoulder, where the bullet hit. “A NAME!” he roars, pressing down, hard.
“Moriarty!” the cabbie cries, his face a rictus of pain. He goes limp.
Then Sherlock is gone, no longer riding in John’s body. John sees him, barely, a faint man-shaped shadow, as though he’s too tired to manifest fully. He wants so badly to yell at Sherlock, to beg him never to control him like that again, to be afraid of this power Sherlock has. But looking down at the body, he can’t quite feel anything at all.
Somehow he’s outside when the police pull up, sirens and lights breaking the still night. Lestrade ushers John to the back of an ambulance, where paramedics wrap an ugly orange shock blanket around his shoulders. He tells Lestrade everything, leaving it up to him to decide what should actually be reported. Lestrade tells him it’s likely this will be a clear case of self-defense, given that the cabbie was a serial killer and had threatened John, had pulled what appeared to be a gun. He tells John they won’t really need him anymore, and if he has to he’ll pull a couple strings to make sure John gets left alone for a few days.
John walks away from the ambulance. As he reaches the edge of the crime scene, Sherlock appears beside him again, slightly less translucent than before. “Good shot,” he says.
“Right.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” John lies.
Sherlock’s expression shows he knows John is lying. “You have just killed a man.”
“Well, he wasn’t a very nice man, was he? That’s not the part that bothers me.” John can’t quite look directly at Sherlock.
“Then what is? You’re not likely to do any time for this, and he was, as you said, not a nice man.”
If Sherlock were anyone else, John wouldn’t believe he didn’t get it. But this is Sherlock, the bright, brilliant madman, and John thinks he honestly doesn’t understand. “You stole my body, Sherlock. I couldn’t do anything but watch, and you risked my life for a game.” Sherlock looks surprised, as if the thought had barely occurred to him. “I know you don’t have your own body anymore, and I can only imagine how boring that has to get. But you don’t get to use mine. You don’t get to- to possess me. Never again.”
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s voice is soft, hesitant. Like he’s not used to apologizing for anything and isn’t sure it’ll work. When John looks up at him he’s looking away. “I won’t, ever again.”
“This is how you’ve always been, isn’t it? You risked your life to prove you’re clever, and now you just have to have something to do. You’re an idiot, you know that?” And just like that, John’s not nearly as upset.
Sherlock grins. “Do you want dinner? There’s a good Chinese place near Baker Street.”
Before they can leave, though, John spots a familiar face. “Sherlock, your brother’ s here.”
Mycroft Holmes steps in front of John. “Congratulations, I hear you’ve just caught a serial killer. Well, not caught as such.”
“You can blame it all on Sherlock,” John tells him. “I was just along for the ride.”
“Is this going to be a common occurrence?” Mycroft asks, “Playing at detective like he did?”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“Oh, how often he gets bored, I suspect.”
“John,” Sherlock says. “Will you turn away for a moment?”
“What are you going to do?” John asks him, sharply.
Sherlock stares at Mycroft. “Something I suspect you won’t like. But it will be the definite proof he needs, to convince him to leave you alone.” John turns around.
“Where are you-” Mycroft’s voice cuts off and John glances back, just for a second, to see Sherlock’s fingers sinking into Mycroft’s shoulder. After a moment Sherlock steps back into John’s line of sight.
“Go on, then,” Mycroft says behind him. “Go home.”
John walks away.
“So, dim sum,” Sherlock says as they walk. “I can predict the fortune cookies, you know.”
“No you can’t,” John says.
“Well, almost. You did get shot, in Afghanistan?”
“In the shoulder.”
“The shoulder, I thought so. The left.”
“Lucky guess,” John teases him. It’s amazing how relaxed he feels now.
“I never guess.”
“Yes you do. Who’s Moriarty, by the way?”
“Absolutely no idea. Want to help me find out?” Sherlock’s smile is sharp and dangerous.
John can’t say no to him.