For John Watson

[howdull]

[Sherlock is still finding pieces of the melted laptop in the carpet.

It had actually been quite an ingenious booby trap to be devised by a fourteen year old boy with only household chemicals to work with but, as Sherlock surmised, rather overkill to keep his mother from finding his extensive porn collection. Not one of their more illustrious cases, but it had been quite entertaining to watch both the boy and mother's faces as he revealed that he did know the how and why. He lost interest after the mother started shouting and John started shouting and the whole thing turned tedious.

He rather thinks John won't actually be doing a full write-up of this one on his blog.

It's been two days since their last case and he's beginning to get more than a little antsy. Lestrade has sent him nothing, just a boring hit and run that he refused to even leave the flat for, and nobody interesting has appeared through the blog. Said blog he is currently scrolling through on John's laptop, having borrowed it again.

He did ask, it's not his fault John hadn't been in the room at the time.]

Bored, John.

[He doesn't even know if his flatmate is even in, but that's hardly a necessity for him to actually speak to John. Frustrated, he throws the laptop across the room to hit the wall, where it summarily breaks. Which is where he can be found whenever John appears, sulking amidst pieces of laptop, both from the melted one of their last case and John's poor broken one.]

Comments

[howdull]

[Sherlock has already forgotten the foreign men, the matchboxes, the whole case. His attention has been drawn by something else as soon as they stepped outside, a tiny smear of blood drawn in the shape of a minute arrow.

He only gets to see it for a moment, however, before John's great lumbering feet are trampling all over it on the way to hailing a cab. Irritating! He steps forwards and simply reaches down to try and grab John's left leg to pull it up so that he can inspect the sole of his shoe.]

[jumpthegun]

What the-!?

[John nearly topples over from the unexpected attack and only just managed to stay upright by reaching back and grabbing Sherlock's coat. The underside of his sole when Sherlock lifts it up from the back is, in fact, now smeared with blood. It's indescribably awkward to stand like this on the pavement with people walking by, though.

The doctor's voice is low and irritated as he asks, letting go of Sherlock as he finds his balance.]

Why is the bottom of my shoe suddenly fascinating?

[howdull]

Blood.

[Sherlock wipes a finger over the bottom of John's shoe to coat it in smeared red, before holding it up for his friend to see.]

Don't you pay attention to where you're going? You may have just ruined a valuable clue, that blood was arranged in the shape of an arrow.

[Not happenstance. Something left for him. He feels the thrill of the chase start to bubble in his gut.]

[jumpthegun]

Yes. Thank you. Could you put my foot dow... I think there's another one.

[John points to the right where there's another little bloody arrow that's been placed on the pavement. It's more to the side to avoid being stepped on, but very much there.]

Sherlock, that blood looks fresh.

[If Sherlock hasn't let him go at this point, John will kick his foot down forcefully to break the hold and start moving. Fresh blood means someone is freshly bleeding. They need to find whomever it is immediately.]

[howdull]

[Sherlock immediately drops the shoe as well as the associated foot and hurries to the next arrow, falling to his knees so that he can examine it closely. The direction is obvious, but why? Who is leaving them? Fresh, yes, but not necessarily freshly bleeding, just freshly painted.]

Woman.

[He glances up at John.]

Possibly a girl, teenager at the youngest. Not the victim, but not forced. Enjoying it.

[jumpthegun]

[John crouches next to Sherlock.]

Enjoying it?

[He can guess the size of the arrows might lead Sherlock to a woman, but John's flummoxed as to how the man could get a motivation out of that.]

[howdull]

Obviously.

[He glances sidelong at John and sighs when he sees that familiar vacant expression.]

Look, the lines are perfect. No wobble, no tremor, this was not done by a person afraid or hurried. They wanted to take their time, savour a well laid plan. And see here, and here, flakes of nail varnish in a frankly disturbing shade of neon blue, she pressed down hard enough to leave those behind. A lasting impression, something she wanted a distinct memory of.

[He stands up and paces in the direction the arrow points.]

Another one, here, on the wall.

[jumpthegun]

Obviously... [That's more muttered to himself with a roll of his eyes as John follows after Sherlock.]

You'd think someone would notice a woman with bright blue nails painting blood onto walls. There's the next one.

[He pauses.]

D'you think this is a trap?

[John has his gun hidden in the back of his waistband, per usual, but he'd really rather not pull it out in the middle of Baker Street. It's not exactly legal. Or at all legal, even if Lestrade looks the other way.]

[howdull]

Yes.

[Of course it's a trap, who paints arrows of blood for the fun of it?]

That's what makes it fun.

[He beams and takes off at a jog down the alleyway.]

What do you think, John? Corpse, or hostage? Oh, I hope it's a corpse.

[jumpthegun]

We like hostages more than corpses, Sherlock.

[Hostages can still be saved, after all.

It's only a moment before John's chasing after him, running to catch the other man up. His eyes dart to the bins and other debris in the alley, looking for an attacker, and his hand hikes his coat up at the back to grasp the handle of his gun, just in case.]

You think it's connected to the case?

[The one they've just taken, specifically.]

[howdull]

Hm, what? Oh-- No, not even remotely, but this is much more interesting.

[He might get back to the matchboxes at some point, but right now there is a trail of arrows in blood to follow.

He starts to outpace John, long legs eating up the distance more easily, and swerves into a nearby building, only pausing to poke his head out again and bark an instruction.]

Stay here, guard the exit.

[jumpthegun]

Wha- Sherlock!

[John stops at the door, watching Sherlock disappear, then looking back at the alleyway. Right. Like hell he's just standing around. The doctor pulls out his gun and moves quietly into the building, ears alert for any sounds of distress from Sherlock or anyone approaching. His eyes are peeled for the blood arrows, as well as anyone suspicious-looking.

He'll be following after Sherlock at a distance, but he's ready to break into a run if he needs to.]

[howdull]

[The short distance in the lead is all he needs to get to the body first. No, not just a body, a message too. He takes in everything at a glance, horror painting his face for once, before he's whirling around to jog back and intercept John before he can get close enough to see.]

No, turn around, not this way.

[He sounds normal, but he looks ashen.]

There's nothing here.

[jumpthegun]

[John's seen Sherlock stricken more than once. That's a look that says something's gone very awry. The game isn't fun anymore.]

I'll just have a look to make sure.

[He tries to move around Sherlock.]

Where did the arrows go?

[howdull]

No.

[It's immediate and he reaches out to try and take hold of John by the shoulders.]

I have told you that there is nothing here, let that be enough for you. Come on, we're leaving.

[jumpthegun]

[He stops, but it's only to frown at his friend.]

Sherlock, what the hell is going on? You've seen something. What is it?

[howdull]

[He swallows, thinking fast.]

Something more fitting for Lestrade and Molly, we have another case to go to.

[The police need to be seen to be handling this for John, he doubts that the man will want Sherlock's brand of brusque detective work on the scene when he is the grieving family member. Not that Sherlock plans to leave it to the police, far too important for that, and the arrows were there for a reason... but he can't involve John. He needs to be protected.]

Or not. Let's go home, get a takeaway, maybe play Operation.

[jumpthegun]

Sherlock. [There's an annoyed bite to John's tone as he shoves the other man's hand off and starts forward. it's not dangerous or Sherlock would be calling for him eagerly. So that means it's upsetting. Very upsetting if Sherlock's suggesting foregoing a case to sit around and eat, not to mention playing a game he never wins at.

The doctor shoves his gun back into his waistband so he has both hands ready. It's probably a body. Probably a familiar body. John's mind turns immediately to Sarah. Oh, god, if she got wrapped up in-

He halts, mind going blank as he stares at the body.

That's not Sarah.

Mousy blonde hair (dyed these days to keep the grey away), a square jaw and a nose that matches his own, beer belly, loud clothes and make-up, the scent of alcohol. Harry. It's Harry. His Harry. Very suddenly, John is motion, dropping to his knees, checking for a pulse that isn't going to be there.]

Ambulance! Call an ambulance now, Sherlock.

[howdull]

John!

[The sharp and stentorian snap of his name does nothing to keep John from barrelling forwards and seeing what he shouldn't. Sherlock allows himself a moment to sigh, before he follows John back in to the room where Harry is.

She's on her side, arranged in a position as if she's a sleeping child, even with a thumb placed in her mouth. There are tiny little arrows ringed around her, all pointing to her body, and a symbol has been drawn on her forehead in blood. She's cold, stiff, she's obviously been dead at least twelve hours and the bruising around her throat suggests she was strangled.

Sherlock places a hand on John's shoulder, it's the closest he can manage to comfort.]

She's dead, John, an ambulance won't do her any good.

[jumpthegun]

No. I can fix this. I can... [His heart is beating too fast. He's a doctor. He should be able to fix this. The symbol and arrows mean nothing to him. Her curled up like a kid barely registers. What John knows is that she's not dead. She can't be dead. The last words they'd spoken were him sniping at her about grabbing a drink together. That can't be the last thing.]

She's not supposed to be here. She doesn't live anywhere near here.

[He's grasping for any logic to make this no real.]

[howdull]

Well, no.

[He removes his hand again and takes out his pocket microscope, snapping it open. Since John has discovered the body, there's not much more he can do from a comforting perspective, he might as well get a proper look.]

The arrows starting from Baker Street, the use of a familial figure, it's obviously deliberate.

[jumpthegun]

[John hears the snap and looks over, eyes partly unfocused. Crime scene. This is a crime scene. He's contaminating it. But this isn't real. It can't possibly be real.]

Why?

[He manages. Harry was never meant to get mixed up in any of his work with Sherlock. She was supposed to be safe.]

[howdull]

Don't know yet.

[He kneels down and begins peering through the microscope as he would at any other dead body, taking in the flecks of blue nail varnish around the throat too.]

Unusual, the killer was a woman. Women don't usually go for strangulation, statistically they're far more likely to use poison or a gun.

[jumpthegun]

[His jaw tightens, watching Sherlock treat his sister like any other body, watching him just... treat it like a case. It is a case. Does that make him the client?]

We have to phone Lestrade. Mycroft. Maybe CCTV saw something...

[Something had to have seen this, seen Harry getting dragged in here. Who would do this? Who murders? Serial killers. Fine. But who else? People you're close to. Not Clara. Clara wouldn't do this.]

Oh, god. I have to tell Clara.

[They're divorced, but Clara deserves to know. He has to let Harry's work know. They must be wondering where she is... or not. There's nothing so reliably unreliable as a drunk.]

[howdull]

Not Mycroft.

[Why would he ever willingly involve his brother in anything? Sherlock's replies are becoming more distant as his mind chases after the answers; forgetting this is Harry Watson, pushing aside the sentimental angle in pursuit of the case.]

But yes, Lestrade. Use your phone, I need mine.

[For taking photographs.

Which he does, as soon as he takes the phone from his pocket.]

Do you recognise the symbol?

[It looks almost like Pashto, but not any recognisable word.]