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John was relaxing on his sofa, trying to read a guide on modern dating (Mike had thought it funny to give him the book, but in the end he read it anyway if only to see what kind of nonsense it would have), when a folder was thrown onto his lap.
He looked up and saw Mycroft standing next to him with a scowl on his face, so he picked the folder up and began flipping through it.
"A serial killer?" John raised a brow as he skimmed through the profile. "You don't usually care for this kind of things."
He looked up again just in time to catch the flicker of annoyance and a pained look on Mycroft's face, which he quickly schooled to neutrality once more.
"I don't," Mycroft confirmed. "Let's just say... I have a personal interest in this one."
After he left, John looked back down at the profile thoughtfully. It was said the victims were all tall women with dark hair who were out by herself, all killed in alleys, although they were never the same alley. The MO was always the same, brutal stabbing and disfigurement, perhaps a personal grudge. Maybe those women reminded him of an ex? Or maybe even someone who rejected his advances?
John's thoughts turned back to Mycroft. What exactly did he mean by personal interest? Did he have a girlfriend matching the description? A sister, perhaps?
Well, nothing to be done about it. If Mycroft gave him the assignment, it meant he suspected the killer would strike again tonight. He closed the dating guide, throwing it onto the coffee table, then got himself ready.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
John sat on a third floor balcony facing the alleyway, keeping his eye on the street nearby. According to Mycroft's intel, the killer was last seen entering a pub nearby and would likely strike before he went home that night, so John was to tail him and take him out before he could do so.
After an hour of so, the man stumbled out of the pub and wandered to the alley where the pub's back door led to. He walked over to a dumpster and hunched over it.
For a moment he wondered if he should cross the street and approach the man there, but that alley was a dead end and so it was unlikely for a possible victim to walk in there.
Suddenly, a tall, dark-haired woman walked into the alleyway he was in and John nearly whistled in appreciation. He couldn't see her face clearly, but he could see that she was wearing a leather jacket with faux fur lining its collar and what could possibly be leather pants. Her legs went on for miles, and he had always had preference for leggy women.
Pity that he couldn't make a move on her, even if he wanted to.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed the man that was previously hunched over a skip bin in another alley stand up straight and make his way towards the woman. John looked at the man closely, making sure he was his target, and waited until the man was fully in the alley, hidden away from passers by.
As soon as the man pulled out a knife, John jumped down behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck, pressing down hard. The knife fell with a clatter as the man instinctively grabbed at John's arm with both hands to try and pull it away.
John glanced at the woman, but thankfully she didn't look back at them. Maybe she didn't hear the clatter.
As soon as the man lost consciousness, John grabbed the man's knife and stabbed his chest, right through the heart. He pushed the man down so he was lying on his stomach on the ground and pushed him to the side, behind a dumpster, before hiding there as well. He would probably dump the body in the dumpster, but he had to wait for the woman to go first. The noise would attract too much attention.
Speaking of the woman...
John peeked from behind the dumpster and noticed that the woman had stopped walking. She was simply standing there, in the middle of the alley.
Was she waiting for someone?
He was just wondering how best to hide himself and the body if someone else went into the alley when he heard someone speak.
"Took you long enough."
John looked towards the mouth of the alley but saw no one there. He pulled the body back even more, trying to blend in with the shadow, then turned to look at the woman and nearly startled when he saw her towering over him.
John cleared his throat, resting his hand on the killer's back as if he was trying to comfort a drunken friend. "Can I help you, ma'am?"
"You have."
John narrowed his eyes. The voice sounded too rough and deep to be a woman's voice, which was why he thought someone else had arrived at the alley earlier. Upon closer inspection, he finally realised that the person in front of him was a crossdressing man.
"I have a personal interest in this one."
John's eyes widened as he looked up at the man again. "You're Sherlock Holmes."
The man lifted a brow. "Depends on who's asking."
Now he understood the annoyance and pained look on Mycroft's face. And here he thought Harry was bad enough.
"Well, go on then. I'm sure your feet are killing you. Go home and get some rest," John said, looking down at the platform boots Sherlock was wearing. No one as tall as him should be allowed to wear any shoes with heels.
After Sherlock left, John threw the body in the dumpster and sent a quick note to Anthea. If they wanted to send another team to take care of the body, it wasn't his business. And then...
And then he tailed Sherlock all the way back to his flat on Baker Street.
He snuck in through an unlocked window and made his way to the living room where Sherlock was sprawled on a sofa in his dressing gown, his feet resting on the armrest. John was almost sad to see the leather pants go.
"You truly have no sense of self-preservation, huh?" John mused as he took a seat in the armchair. "No wonder Mycroft is perpetually stressed."
Sherlock looked offended. "Whatever he does is not my business, just like whatever I do is none of his business," he said. "And are you going to kill me?"
"No."
"So what's the problem?"
"You knew I was coming?"
"Of course," Sherlock drawled. "You're too curious. You want to know why I suspected that man, but I suppose an alley way next to a corpse wasn't a good setting for that discussion."
John hummed. "Out with it then," he said. "Why did you suspect that man?"
"The murder was brutal to hide the fact it was sloppy; the work of a drunken man. The alleys might be random but they were all within walking distance of a couple of pubs. He likely went there with some others, said he was too drunk and excused himself and lay in wait for a victim. Even if he was suspected, the people he was with would say he was there with them and then went home because he was wasted."
"Is that what the disguise is for?" John asked. "You didn't suspect that man specifically, but a drunk man tailing a tall, dark-haired woman."
"Hm."
"Why didn't you get the police involved?" John asked. "There was no need for you to put yourself in harm's way, unless you're addicted to danger."
"Takes one to know one," Sherlock huffed. "And I did. Gary is staking out near another pub. I told you there were a couple pubs we had our eyes on. On that note, how long should I let him be before I tell him not to worry about it?"
"Let him find out from the papers," John shrugged. "And what did you say his name was? Works for the New Scotland Yard, does he?"
"Lestrade, yes, and why do you ask?"
John shrugged. "Just so I know who to gift omeprazole to."
John chuckled, leaning back in the armchair and pointedly ignoring Sherlock's glare, and wondered if he could get Mycroft to assign him to Sherlock.