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]

[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.]

[jumpthegun]

[Because Mycroft has the full British intelligence service to call on, that's why. John feels himself beginning to shake slightly as he goes for his phone--the phone Harry had given him. This isn't right. This isn't right. He forces himself to breathe, aware that he's starting to go into shock. Breathe, think, do what Sherlock tells him to, crush down the emotions.

It's all a lot easier thought than done with Harry lying there.]

Pashto... Arabic? I dunno.

[His focus is down on the phone now as he tries to hold it steady to dial.]

Lestrade? No. No it's not. Get to Baker Street. Homicide. We're... I dunno. An alley near the flat. There were blood arrows. It's my sister.

[His voice breaks on the word.]

Fine. I'm fine. Yeah. See you soon.

[John just lets his hand fall to his side, the phone clattering on the ground. He stares blankly ahead, still on his knees near Harry's corpse.]

[howdull]

[Lestrade's voice can be heard tinnily through the dropped phone for a second or two before he hangs up from his end, organising squad cars and a crime scene team to go to the scene and investigate what's happened.

John's sister... could get complicated.]

Look more closely, John, it could be--

[He tilts his head to look at his flatmate and cuts himself off. Even he, rarely, knows when he's about to go too far.]

I mean, step outside, get some air, something like that.

[jumpthegun]

[Sherlock's voice barely registers for a long moment. John turns his head toward the other man, and he sees his mouth moving. Maybe it's about something important. A few seconds later, he blinks and snaps.]

I'm fine.

[He has to be fine. This is Harry. He has to be fine for her, to figure out what's happened to her. When was the last time they talked in person? Months. It's been months.]

Look more closely at what?

[howdull]

No, you're not. Elevated heart-rate, short and panicked breathing, pallid skin tone. You're not fine, you're in shock and going into grief.

[Irritating.

He needs an assistant for his cases and John is the ideal one, but he won't be if he's crippled by emotion the whole time. And he does feel sorry for him, he's come to quite like the ex-army doctor. Not many men will kill another for you so quickly after meeting.]

Go outside, I will deal with this. Better, go home, get Mrs. Hudson to make you some tea.

[jumpthegun]

[And again, it takes a moment for Sherlock's words to process, but when they do, John reaches out and grabs the other man's arm in a tight grip, halting whatever he's doing.]

This is my big sister. I'm not bloody leaving until we find out what happened to her. What am I looking more closely at? We haven't got much time before the police turn up.

[howdull]

[Good. That earns John a smile, inappropriate but there. He should have known John would get angrily productive, that's far better than weeping and wailing. He pulls his arm free and bends down to gesture to Harry's discoloured throat.]

There's something wrong with that bruising pattern.

[There's the distinct imprint of seven fingers and two thumbs, seems like the killer might be missing her index finger on the right hand.

Sherlock goes back to Harry's head as John looks at the throat, fingernails just catching on a tiny piece of paper he can see sticking out from the corner of Harry's lips. It comes out slowly, carefully. It's a page from one of those books to teach children the alphabet: A is for Apple, that sort of thing. Only 'apple' has been crossed out, and now it reads A is for Alcoholic.]

[jumpthegun]

[John crouches down again, this time with more purpose. He's still in shock, but by God will he not be told to go and sip tea while someone else deals with this. He owes Harry this much. It's the very least he can do. The very least.]

Nine fingers. Right hand's missing one.

[That narrows any potential suspect list considerably, at least. How many nine-fingered women can there be in London? John looks up from Harry's neck to see Sherlock tugging on a piece of paper. His eyes narrow.]

They killed her because she's an alcoholic?

[Anger. Focusing on the anger helps. This doesn't particularly make sense, but it's a clue. Now they just have to keep an eye on, oh, every single bloody drunk in the city.]

[howdull]

Don't be ridiculous.

[Why would they kill her because she's an alcoholic and then go to all the trouble of setting this up? That makes no sense whatsoever. Sherlock's eyes scan the page again, fingers tightening enough to make the paper crumple, as he grins.]

It means this is just the first. A in a long line down to Z. Oh yes, yes... yes, but why? And why her? Why you? You're obviously the target, your sister, arrows outside your flat, stands to reason that B will matter to you too.

[jumpthegun]

[John's eyes flash, and he grabs hold of Sherlock's collar.]

This isn't a game. Don't you dare treat it like the game. She's family.

[His family, he means. John lets go of Sherlock after a moment, though. For now, that's sufficient warning. He can hear the distant wail of sirens.]

I don't have 26 people in my life who're that important. If we're going alphabetically, she'll run out at five.

[He's exaggerating a little bit, but not by much.]

The police are gonna take us in for questioning. What do I not tell them?

[howdull]

[But it is the game. It's a good job too, he always does his very best work when the game was afoot, it brought far more focus and excitement than a mere case. He's about to explain as much to John when he's successfully sidetracked.]

I advise that you tell them everything.

[There's nothing needs hiding yet. He does pocket the piece of paper, however.]

They are the police and should supposedly be able to assist with hunting down the criminal class.

[jumpthegun]

Fine.

[Look, they don't exactly always operate within the bounds of the law. John's willing to throw just about everything else to the wayside for this particular case.]

I dunno who's gonna be next. Maybe put a watch on the people who've commented on my blog.

[Something occurs to him, and John speaks without really thinking about it.]

You're J. Junkie.

[howdull]

[He draws himself up, clearly irritated.]

Don't be ridiculous, I'm clean, and I have never been a junkie.

[John wouldn't even know he used to have a drug habit if Lestrade hadn't conducted that ludicrous false raid, and even then they hadn't found anything. He'd rather that John believe he did weed or some other such 'soft' drug, the disappointment would be irritating otherwise.]

I doubt I shall be on the list, we've only known one another a short time, it will be dedicated to those of importance to you.