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

[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.

[jumpthegun]

I write a blog about you. How are you not gonna be on the list? H. High-functioning sociopath.

[Congratulations, Sherlock. You've jumped up two murder slots. The sound of sirens is louder now, the slamming of doors.]

We need to find whoever did this before she gets to B. No one else should die because of me.

[And honestly, he has no idea who he pissed off enough for someone to want to murder because of him. Let alone commit serial murders. A woman he'd slept with once who hadn't taken his Casanova days terribly well? But he doesn't remember any of them missing a finger.]

[howdull]

John, I will catch whoever did this.

[A solemn promise, it's the closest that Sherlock can get to real comfort. He doesn't do hugs or gentle cooing words, he doesn't fuss or cry, those are the realms of the Mrs. Hudsons of the world. He will help by catching a killer, because that's what he does better than anyone else in the world.

There's no chance to say anything else before the scene is overrun with police. Lestrade gently leading John away to have a few quiet words that end in sympathy being expressed and a promise to try and do this as much as possible without awkward questions. It's a whirl of investigation in clinical latex gloves, until a smear of blood on the ground is all that's left of Harry Watson, her body being delivered to Molly.

Take him home, mutters Lestrade to Sherlock, and for once he gets a nod of obedience.]

John-- come with me, there are no more clues to be found here.

[jumpthegun]

[John meets Sherlock's gaze at that promise and nods once, short and emphatic. They will catch whoever did this.

The doctor is stone-faced while speaking with Lestrade, which apparently he finds more concerning than the alternative. He does let Sherlock take him home, though, where John goes through the mechanical motions of making tea. Once that's done, he brings out a cup for Sherlock, and seats himself in his customary chair. He's forgotten to make himself a cup, but that's fine.]

Where d'we go from here? What's next? Try to find the next victim?

[howdull]

[Perhaps someone else might have thought of making sure that John was alright and that he got something inside him, that he maybe tried to talk about it, or even just that he went to bed. But Sherlock doesn't think of that. He knows if he were to suffer a personal grief, then throwing himself into the work, into the game, would be what helped get him through.

So he fishes his phone out of his pocket and slides it across the coffee table to John.]

Here. That symbol, take a proper look and tell me what you think.

[It doesn't mean much to Sherlock, though there are a number of things it could be. But he's hoping John might have more luck. The symbol looks like this.]

[jumpthegun]

[John picks up the phone and stares down at a picture of Harry's ashen forehead, smeared with blood. He wants to scream, to throw the phone, but pushes that down once more. Harry. They have to solve this for Harry.]

Pashto. It looks like the start of some sort of word or part of a letter. There's not enough of it to tell-

[John stops, just staring ahead for a moment.]

The blood was fresh. You said it yourself. Freshly painted. The woman. That woman. She's still around. She might still be around Baker Street. We should go look for her. Nine fingers, blue nail polish. Not hard to find.

[howdull]

[Pashto, Pashto. He doesn't speak Pashto yet, that's a gap in his knowledge that he's been intending to fix since he learned that John was on tour in Afghanistan. Now is as good a time as any.]

Don't be ridiculous.

[His mind is already on languages, the filter for kindness going out of the window.]

It was freshly painted a few hours ago, it's highly unlikely that she stopped to risk being caught. Pashto suggests a woman you met over there, or perhaps one that you served with.

[Mycroft really would be the next port of call, he would have access to Baker Street CCTV, but Sherlock refuses to entertain it. He will not owe his brother a favour.]

[jumpthegun]

[John lets it roll off of him for the moment. The alternative is lunging over the table and punching Sherlock. While that has some appeal, it won't help Harry.]

I met and served with a lot of women in Afghanistan. They were most of the logistics at the base, nursing staff.

[Well, comparatively a lot to what it probably once was. Certainly, the men outnumbered them by scores.]

I don't remember any of them having nine fingers.

[howdull]

Obviously not, or the suspect pool would be significantly smaller. We can assume that she has since lost the finger, which makes it more likely she was serving alongside you. Loss of a digit is fairly uncommon in domestic settings.

[He pushes himself to his feet, tea left abandoned and ignored on the side.]

I'll be back in a few hours.

[jumpthegun]

[John rises.]

I'm coming with you.

[He has no idea where, but the idea of sitting around in the flat, making phone calls, making arrangements... it's more daunting than the thought of charging into the firing line.]

[howdull]

I'm going to the library to learn Pashto, I don't speak it currently.

[Does John really just want to come and hang out at library for a few hours?]

[jumpthegun]

[Given the alternatives...]

I can check some other texts there. See if the symbol turns up.

[howdull]

John.

[His expression softens just marginally to something much more uncomfortable.]

You need to call Clara, I'll send Mrs. Hudson up.

[jumpthegun]

[John's expression shifts, he swallows. No, no. If he's angry, he can manage. If he's focused, he can do this. He needs to be doing something to help Harry. Except there's really nothing he can do on his own at the moment, and the police are doing what they do, Sherlock's going to go learn Pashto.

He sinks back into his chair, tone going flat.]

Yeah. Funeral home, too. I'll do that.

[There's something hot and burning in his chest that he tries to ignore. He pulls out his phone and just holds it for a bit, not even watching to see Sherlock leave.

While the other man is away learning Pashto, John will go through the motions. There are people to call... Clara first, then Harry's work. Clara is the hardest. She sounds genuinely pleased when she answers. God, he'd always liked her. She's sobbing not two minutes into it. Harry had been the one to walk away from her, after all. He doesn't know any of Harry's friends, but there's family to tell. John just sends out an email. He can't do calls with cousins and the like he barely talks to, as is.

Mrs. Hudson helps with finding a funeral parlor, at least, brings him tea he doesn't drink and biscuits he doesn't eat.

When Sherlock returns, he'll find the doctor sitting where he's been left, scrolling through a list of Afghan War veterans. None of the names are particularly jumping out at him.]