Chapter Text
The scrape of a key as someone fumbled at the front door pierced the silence and pulled the consulting detective’s attention from the notebook he studied. Clearly this unwelcome intrusion was not someone with malicious intent; Sherlock Holmes knew well the sound of a lock being picked. The visitor would not be Mycroft, as his entrance would be silent and unexpected. Sherlock checked the time. 2:13 AM. Mrs. Hudson had retired several hours ago.
Only one other person had a key.
Sherlock sat silently, listening intently with a smug sneer on his face. Lestrade fancied himself light on his feet, but his approach up to the flat presented every evidence to the contrary. Sherlock heard every creak of every floor board. He rolled his eyes in disgust as he heard the DI trip on a step, then utter a string of curses. It was clear the man was attempting to be quiet so as not to disturb the slumbering landlady downstairs. He was failing miserably.
After a quick knock on the door, Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped into the sitting room, bringing with him the bone chilling dampness of a bleak London night. A heavy sigh bore the weight of the day; his countenance was one of sheer exhaustion. Sherlock thought perhaps the word haggard was appropriate. Dark circles drooped under his eyes, and the stubble on his face was at least in its second day of growth. The DI dropped his soggy hat onto the coffee table, and shrugged off his still dripping coat. Sherlock noted the care with which Lestrade pulled a chair away from the table upon which to drape his coat. It was John’s preferred perch. He made sure no errant moisture made its way to the stacks of papers and notebooks the good doctor had left behind in his death, and that no sudden motion disturbed the makeshift shrine.
The weary visitor sat gingerly in the armchair across from Sherlock. John’s chair, the sentimental (maddeningly so, at times) part of Sherlock's brain supplied, entirely unsolicited. Greg toed off his soaked shoes without untying them, and placed them on the fireplace hearth. He stretched his legs out straight in front of him, pointing his frozen feet toward the fire, revealing the legs of his trousers to be drenched and mud spattered up to his knees. As he leaned back and sunk into the chair, he groaned and covered his face with both hands. Sherlock watched the now familiar, and exceptionally tedious, ritual with resigned interest.
It had been five months since James Moriarty had arranged for Saint Bartholomew’s to be blown up (according to the physical evidence, though there were still details that troubled and eluded Sherlock), not to mention killing himself just for the sake of escaping his boredom. Five months of DI Lestrade attempting to become friend Greg. Five months. Only five months since John Watson had been ripped from his life. Five months since Moriarty had killed his best friend, a final, unexpected, uncharacteristic, though successful, attempt to deliver on the promise that he would burn the heart right out of Sherlock Holmes.
It felt as though it had been an eternity since he had last shared a moment with his friend. Yet some days Sherlock would go about his day without thinking of John’s absence once, fully anticipating the moment the doctor would return from the surgery so they could resume work on a case. It always seemed to take too many hours for the realization to dawn. Those days, despite himself, Sherlock was thankful Lestrade... Greg -- the man who had helped him through the other darkest period of his life -- had promised to be a friend, to be present for him, to remind him that needles and vials did not provide answers, and to assist him in destroying the criminal network of the man responsible for killing John.
The first time Lestrade dropped by uninvited and attempted to make himself comfortable (he had dared to hang his coat on the hook where John's coat had once hung, and then had the audacity to adjust the Union Jack cushion before sitting in John's armchair), Sherlock had suffered a few moments of complete loss of control, cursing and hurling insults, not to mention books and anything else within reach. How dare he attempt to take John’s place? Over time though Sherlock grew to appreciate the company, and slowly realized Lestrade was not attempting to replace John.
Quite the contrary.
Lestrade respected John’s legacy so deeply, he took great efforts to preserve the sanctity of the good doctor’s influence in Sherlock’s life. Lestr... Greg... had also proven he was not nearly as dull as Sherlock had originally deduced him to be, and he had become a worthy accomplice. He was no John Watson -- Sherlock suspected no one would ever live up to the standard set by his late friend -- but if he had to rely on another human being, he was grateful that Greg had offered to step into the void.
Once he could tell the DI had calmed down, his body had relaxed noticeably and his breathing had evened out, though his face remained buried in his hands, Sherlock cleared his throat. “Tea?”
Dropping his hands to the arms of the chair, Greg sighed. “I don’t suppose you have anything a bit stronger? I don’t think tea will cut it tonight.”
“If you mean alcohol, no, my apologies, I have none on hand. A rather pressing experiment required the last of my supply. However, if you’d prefer," He pulled his mobile from his pocket, "I can have something significantly less legal available within just a few moments…” Sherlock cut his offer short when he noticed Greg had once again covered his face with his hands. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“How about coffee? Do you have any coffee?” Greg asked. “I’ll even make it.” He sat up more fully in the chair.
Sherlock thought for a moment. “I believe so. I don’t drink it often, but John always keeps some…” Sherlock realized his slip the same moment Greg did. It had been weeks since he had spoken of John in the present. He thought he had finally rid himself of the annoying error that only seemed to make him feel small and awkward, cause Mrs. Hudson to cry, or, as the case was now, force Greg to use deep breathing techniques. “Kept,” he corrected himself with a cough, “John always kept coffee… For late nights and for the clients who prefer it over tea.”
Embarrassed by his mistake, Sherlock rose swiftly from his chair and stepped to the kitchen. “I’ll make the coffee, though I cannot promise it will be palatable.”
“I just need to warm up. Besides, I don’t know that anything could be any worse than what the guys make in the break room at the Yard.” Greg replied with a yawn. "And try not to drug it, yeah?" Sherlock scoffed in response.
After much searching for the coffee, of course John would have made space for it in the cupboard right above the coffee maker, and a brief internet tutorial on how to work this particular model of coffee maker, the steaming brown liquid began to trickle into the carafe. “Do you take sugar or milk?” Sherlock asked. He noted by the way Greg’s posture straightened that the DI was surprised by the question. It was true, Sherlock had not made a habit of getting to know details about Greg. He hadn’t even made an effort to recall his name before that day at the hospital. But after John’s death, and the realization that there was so very much he did not know about the man he called his best friend, Sherlock acknowledged the unpleasant task of being courteous, and engaging in meaningful conversation, had its advantages.
“Uhm, no. Just black is fine, thanks,” Greg responded, as he settled back into the chair.
Just like John, Sherlock thought. Mentally shaking himself from reverie, Sherlock returned to the task at hand, making coffee for his... friend? Yes, friend. As the stream of coffee slowed to a drip, Sherlock reached for a mug. The one nearest the coffee maker was the striped one John had always used for his own coffee. He couldn’t bring himself to allow anyone else to enjoy it. Not yet. He left the mug to stand as sentinel over the workspace (John's RAMC mug held a place of reverence on the mantel in the sitting room, next to the skull; Sherlock had put it up out of harm's way when he realized, almost too late, that he had nearly hurled the precious vessel at Greg's head) and retrieved the mug John always used for clients. He chided himself for this ridiculous sentimentality that leeched into his consciousness, muddying his daily thought processes, as he poured the coffee and returned to the sitting room.
John would surely mock him.
Sherlock gritted his teeth. Would these incessant, nagging, maudlin intrusion of emotion into his mind never cease?
“Mhm. Not bad,” Greg nodded as he sipped the steaming coffee. “Definitely better than the break room. The next time you’re at the Yard, I’m putting you on coffee detail.” He wrapped his hands around the cup for warmth, and leaned back once more.
“Greg?”
“Yeah, Sherlock?”
“Please understand, for once I intend absolutely no offense in asking this, but, why are you here? Other than the obvious fact that your stakeout went poorly, and the suspect evaded your officers yet again.”
Exhaling deeply, Greg shifted in the armchair to sit up straight. “Sherlock, I really need your help with this one. It... it happened. Again.”
“It?” Sherlock over enunciated the t with a snap, for emphasis. He was certain he knew what the it was, but the fact that Greg’s officers could allow such a heinous crime to occur in their very presence gave him pause.
His expression one of defeat, Greg closed his eyes and nodded his confirmation. “Another shop owner was killed during an armed robbery tonight."
“You were there! You had officers in the store!” Sherlock was aware that his tone was both condescending and shrill.
“I know,” Greg hung his head, his voice thick with emotion. “I know, Sherlock. Which is why I need you on this. He’s smart. And getting bolder by the day. And…”
Sherlock raised his hand to silence the detective. “Are you suggesting that I step away from my current task of dismantling the most far reaching international crime network in the world, not to mention bringing to justice the men responsible for killing John, because you and your officers are so incompetent as to let a thief on a killing spree slip through your fingers, despite having his identification and knowing where he’s going to strike next?”
“Sherlock, wait a minute,” Greg began.
“No. Did he or did he not make his appearance at 9:35 earlier this evening?”
“He did,” Greg nodded.
“Did he, or did he not, empty the register, leave the safe untouched, and then shoot the store owner in the chest?” Sherlock condescended.
“He did,” Greg hung his head once more.
“Did you not have undercover officers on the scene once it was determined the killer was only striking when the actual business owner was working alone in the shop?”
“We did. But Sherlock…”
“Do you not,” Sherlock interrupted, “have security camera footage from each location, clearly showing the suspect’s face? And have you not identified the man?” Sherlock was growing increasingly agitated.
The case couldn’t be any clearer. The criminal had practically gift wrapped himself for law enforcement, yet had successfully robbed four shops, all located in one tight-knit neighborhood, and had killed all four owners, who were also very active members of the community. The businesses varied, so far he had hit a family owned market, a small café, and a florist. This evening’s disastrous attempt to put an end to his criminal career concluded with the armed robbery of a twenty-four hour Asian market, and the slaying of the beloved proprietor.
The thief-turned-murderer grew up in the neighborhood, and had a history of troubled behavior. His family no longer resided there, but many residents recognized him immediately. He had started his spree on the most prominent corner in the neighborhood, and was simply working his way down the main street, like a sadistic game of connect the dots.
Greg looked up, and Sherlock noted the color had drained from his face. His words had been harsh, but he didn’t have time to waste on such simple cases. That Greg missed his opportunity to arrest the murderer was of little consequence to Sherlock. Rather, it was yet another indictment against the effectiveness of the Met as a whole.
“Sherlock, I think…” Greg took a deep breath, “this might be one of the guys you’re after. More likely, he's not working alone, but as part of a team... Or someone is giving orders...”
Unable to contain himself, Sherlock laughed. It was a bitter, hollow sound. “You cannot be serious.”
“Please, hear me out,” Greg pleaded. “When the suspect appeared out of nowhere, robbed the place and shot the owner, my officers were stunned. They were taken completely by surprise. He ducked into the office behind the front register, and by the time the officers should have caught up to him, he had vanished. There are no stairwells, no windows, nothing.”
“Obvious,” Sherlock snorted.
“No, Sherlock, not to everyone.” Greg pulled out his mobile, and showed Sherlock a photograph of a ceiling tile that was slightly askew, “The forensics guys missed this. I was desperate. I stayed after they left. I think he came and went through the roof.”
Sherlock blinked in surprise, “You found that? Well done, Greg.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Greg shrugged uncomfortably. “There’s more though. The bullet used to kill the victim this evening was the same caliber as the first three, but instead of remaining lodged in the body, it passed clean through. The bullets are the same, but the weapon has been upgraded.”
“He’s robbed three other stores; he purchased a new weapon, or stole one.” Sherlock was losing his patience again.
“Because of the time of day that he robbed the stores, at the end of a shift, the bank deposits had been prepared for the next day, and so each till netted him only a few hundred each. The new weapon appears to be a semiautomatic; the black market value of such a weapon would be several thousand.” Greg sipped his now tepid coffee and grimaced. “It is possible he stole one; since they are illegal to own, no one would be stupid enough to report it missing. More likely though, the weapon was provided for him, which means someone has to be, at the very least, funding him. He's getting quicker, and smarter. I do think he's answering to orders and following directions."
“You may think you are helping your case of enticing me to join you, but in reality you are doing quite the opposite. By presenting the new information you’ve gathered, you have proven to me that you are in fact more competent than I originally suspected, and I am now more convinced than ever that my assistance would be of little help to you and your officers.” With that, Sherlock picked up the folder he had tossed aside, flipped to a well-worn page, and held the packet in such a way as to block Greg from his sight.
“Sherlock,” Greg sounded near desperate now.
“Stay as long as you like, Graham. You can finish off the coffee, but please, don’t interrupt me.”
Greg rolled his eyes, cleared his throat, and with a huff of frustration blurted out, “All four of the victims were John’s patients.”
Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, and it took him a moment to collect his composure. He had never been so glad to have something to hide behind. He slowly lowered the folder until he and Greg were staring at each other.
“John… He was a doctor. He worked at that dull surgery. He had patients. A lot of them,” Sherlock stammered. “What does John have to do with any of this?” Even as he said the words, he was afraid to know the answer. A hundred scenarios ran through his mind, and all of them ended with the deceased man’s name being mangled and dragged through the mud. He would never allow such a travesty to happen.
“I asked Molly to examine the body of our most recent victim, and to review the notes from the previous three, just to make sure we were on the right track with the weapon. In reviewing the medical records of all four men, she noted that all four had had their last two yearly physical examinations signed off by John. I suppose that much is not so remarkable.” Greg toyed with the handle of his coffee mug.
“After I discovered the loose ceiling tile in the office, I moved out into the main part of the store, and was giving everything another look, when I saw this hanging on the wall behind the register. It was in plain sight. How I missed it, I have no idea.” Greg pulled up another photo on his mobile and handed the phone to Sherlock.
Staring back at Sherlock were several smiling faces, the most prominent, at least in Sherlock’s mind, was that of one Doctor John H. Watson. “Wha… w-what is this? When was this taken?” Sherlock stared at the photo. Somewhere in his logical mind he knew he should be studying all the faces, but there was only one face he cared about. That face.
Enlarging the photo to focus on his friend, Sherlock deduced John. Pride. Joy. Excitement. His eyes looked so alive. Happy. His posture was one of accomplishment. But he wasn’t dressed as Sherlock was used to seeing him. John wore a bright yellow t-shirt that was stained and covered with paint, and equally filthy well worn denims. And was John wearing work boots? He held a pair of grimy work gloves in one hand. Finally Sherlock focused on the whole group. A dozen adults, varied in age, but all dressed in matching filthy clothes.
Sherlock looked up to see Greg watching him. “What is this?” he demanded again.
“I wasn’t sure myself. The photograph is framed, hanging on the wall with several other framed documents and a few other photos, but next to this one, taped directly on the wall, were two newspaper clippings. The first was John’s obituary." Greg paused and took a shuddering breath. "The other one was a write up about a massive neighborhood cleanup project the residents undertook, trying to drive away the crime that had taken over their streets. Simple things like cleaning up the outsides of the homes and businesses, clearing out the alleys so that criminals would have no place to hide, turning an abandoned lot into a park and community garden. But the main project appears to have been a small clinic set up in an old storefront building. It appears the project was headed up by our friend there,” Greg motioned to his mobile, still in Sherlock’s hand.
“What?” Sherlock swallowed hard. “How long ago was this? It couldn’t have been while he was living here.”
“That’s what I thought too. But then I recalled a case I responded to not quite two years ago in this same neighborhood. It was a completely different place back then. And…” Greg trailed off. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again they were filled with sorrow. “Sherlock, John was with me when I responded to that call.”
“What?” Sherlock jumped to his feet and loomed over Greg, surprising them both with the outburst. “How? Why?” For some reason beyond comprehension he was not able to articulate his thoughts, so he focused his laser exact glare at Greg in exasperation.
“I looked back through my case notes from that day, and it appears that John had seen a patient... a, uhm, child who he suspected was being abused. The child was a repeat patient, and when he mentioned something to the caregiver, the individual in question grew agitated and began threatening John and the surgery where he was working at the time. He came by my office after his shift to show me the file. We were discussing his options…”
“Wait,” Sherlock interrupted. “Why would he go to you? No, don't get defensive. I know you are an officer of the law. But why would he not say something to me? Especially if he were in danger?” He began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace.
“Ah, I had a note about that too. It seems he had called you during his lunch hour, but you were too busy to be interrupted. Mycroft needed you to run one of his errands. You told him you would be back in a few days, and disappeared completely.” Greg rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. “You know, pretty standard you, especially for the early days of John living here.”
"Damn Mycroft" Sherlock grumbled as he threw himself into his chair and slumped down low.
"Where were you, anyway?" Cocking an eyebrow, Greg stifled a chuckle at the sheer petulance before him.
With a roll of his eyes Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "Two years ago? That would have been Peru... by way of North Korea..."
"Hold on..." Greg held up a hand and stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "Peru by way of North Korea? Those two countries don't have any dealing with each other. Do they? God. What were you doing?"
"Ah... There was some... Correspondence... A, uhm tryst, or, more a dalliance really..."
"A tryst? What sort of errands does Mycroft send you on?" Greg's frown was one of repulsion.
"Do you finally understand why I am loathe to find myself indebted to my brother?" Sherlock dropped his hands to the arms of his chair and his dark expression softened into one of contemplation. "Though that was the first case I encountered the very specific expertise of Irene Adler."
"Adler... The dominatrix?" Nearly choking on a mouthful of cold coffee, Greg wrinkled his nose in mutual disgust and stood to refill his cup.
Sherlock hummed his confirmation. "I didn't meet her until much later. When John and I..." The case. Focus on the case. "Right. Catastrophe averted. Didn't end well for her. Back to the task at hand." With a dismissive wave of his hand (which did nothing to allay the weight that settled little by little in the pit of his gut with each reminder of John), Sherlock sat upright and tapped his foot impatiently. "You were telling me about responding to a crime scene with Jo... in this same neighborhood?"
Taking a sip of coffee, Greg took his seat in Joh... the armchair once more. "Right. Residents had reported seeing a dead body in an alleyway. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious, the body just sort of turned up. In the middle of the day." Greg took another sip and rolled his eyes at the incompetence, drawing a smirk from Sherlock. "I offered to let John ride along, since he had nothing going on with you out, thinking he might be able to offer some sort of medical insight. And at the worst, it would really just annoy Anderson, who had been especially trying that day." Sherlock chuckled.
"We arrived just after the medics. The constables who were first on the scene were reporting what they had encountered to Sally and me, and John had wandered over to watch the medics work when they realized the body was a teenage girl, and she wasn't just a body. She'd been assaulted, in every sense of the word." The color had once again drained from Greg's face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Left for dead, but not actually dead. The constables reported that no one had been around when they arrived. The neighbors who called, they just... They didn't check to see if... They just..." Greg flushed with anger. "God. John was furious. Irate. I thought I was going to have to restrain him. By that time a small crowd had gathered at the end of the alley, finally someone was paying attention, and John charged after them, screaming about the sanctity of life, and how dare you, and so on, when an older man stepped out from the crowd and directly into John's face. I took one look at Sally and we both set off at a sprint. I thought for certain there were going to be fists, but then John just stopped."
"Stopped?" Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and scrutinizing every line and twitch of Greg's face.
"Stopped. The other man said something, it was so soft I couldn't hear. John nodded, and then apologized. He apologized. The guy put his arm around John's shoulders and led him off. He didn't even look back, but I could tell he was emotional. Very nearly wrecked." Greg and Sherlock stared at each other a moment, Greg allowing Sherlock an opportunity to let this distressing information settle. With a faint nod from Sherlock, Greg continued. "I found him later at a pub just down the street. The man from the street, an Iain McFadden, and his wife Moira, own the place. Apparently they're old family friends. Knew John's parents, or grandparents, or some such..." Greg waved his hand dismissively, a near perfect emulation of Sherlock's earlier gesture. "They hadn't seen him since his early army days. Iain was outright bragging on John, telling tall tales to anyone who would listen, and Moira was attempting to make up for several years of not feeding John up. It was... Amazing. They clearly adored him. Did he ever mention them to you?"
Sherlock's brow furrowed. He shook his head and looked away. "No. No he never mentioned anyone by that name." Why. Why hadn't John told him? He knew John's parents were deceased, though John never discussed the details. Sherlock had deduced much of what happened, and then confirmed everything with a bit of light hacking. But it sounded as if this Iain and Moira had been quite important to John. Why wouldn't he have mentioned them? Why wouldn't he have told Sherlock about any of this?
Or had he?
Sherlock frowned as the heaviness in his gut from earlier spilled over into his chest, making it hard to breathe. Had John told him about his childhood? Had he ignored John (as John had so frequently accused him)? Or worse, had he heard the information and at some point deleted it? He had no recollection of deleting any information about John's past. He thought he had been very thorough in his collection and storage of all things John.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, stop." Leaning forward, Greg had placed a hand on Sherlock's knee in order to break through his mental descent. Sherlock had only just brought his hands up to his head, instinctively reacting to the mounting ache of opportunities missed, before Greg had startled him back to the present. "Sherlock..."
"Greg, I..." Dropping his hands back to his lap, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a few deliberate breaths. "I'm sorry, Greg. Please continue." He leaned back in his chair and finally opened his eyes, only to see concern etched across his friend's face.
"Right." Greg stood and headed to the kitchen.
Sherlock heard the kettle being filled and switched on. The clink of ceramic. Rattle of a drawer. The refrigerator door being opened. A groan and then the carton of week old milk being emptied and binned. It was all so familiar. Deceptively calming. It's Greg. It's just Greg. Greg. Not John. Not John. Greg.
"Greg." Sherlock joined Greg in the kitchen, and leaned against the door frame as they waited for the tea to steep.
"Sherlock, I need your help with this case. This is... These people knew John. They loved him. And, they need help." Greg's face looked grim.
"When is the next hit supposed to be?"
"In two nights. And these people are stubborn. The owners won't even consider altering their hours, or having extra staff on hand. It's..." Greg chuckled despite himself. "It's no wonder John got on with them so well. Stubborn fools. The lot of them."
Sherlock stared into the mug Greg handed him. "How near to being victimized are the McFaddens?"
"Third in line after tonight." Greg put his mug down on the table. "And I'll not let that happen. Even if it kills me. Help me or not, Sherlock, but these are John's people, and..."
"I'll help." It was barely a whisper.
"Good. That's... Good. I'm glad." Greg nodded. He picked up his tea and returned to the sitting room, Sherlock followed close behind.
"Did you solve that assault case? The girl in the alley?"
"Uhm, no. She didn't see her attacker's face, he had his face painted, and nobody else noticed anything. No DNA matches. No CCTV. The neighborhood was such a mess back then, people stayed to themselves just to avoid trouble."
"If the man committing these current murders is from that neighborhood, and if he follows the pattern of other criminals before him, there is a distinct possibility we may solve your cold case when we catch this man in two days." Sherlock had settle back into his chair. The warmth of the mug in his hands grounded him, and he was able to turn his mind back to the task at hand.
With a consenting hum, Greg took a long drink of his tea.
"There's something else." Sherlock leaned forward, staring at Greg with laser focus. "What else? What haven't you told me? There's something else... Some new element. More than just the murderer's new gun."
With a trembling hand, Greg motioned to his mobile where Sherlock had placed it on the arm of his chair. Sherlock handed it over, anticipation getting the better of him.
"This is... It's new. Tonight was the first. This showed up on the front of the market that was robbed earlier, on the front windows of the next target, and..." Greg blanched. "On the front of the clinic." He flipped through the photos on his mobile, and went still. When he looked back up Sherlock noticed that it wasn't just Greg's hands that were trembling any longer. He reached across and pried the mobile away from Greg only to drop the phone himself as soon as he saw the picture.
"What..." Sherlock flipped through the photos once again. And then three more times to be certain. Graffiti. Yellow. Familiar yellow. Michigan hardcore propellant. The message sprayed on the windows caused the world to tilt just slightly off its axis.
BRING ME JOHN WATSON