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]

FROM: Sherlock Holmes: They're all to do with you, that's the point. You cost me everything, you're going to know what that feels like.

[jumpthegun]

TO: Mycroft Holmes: The Alphabet Woman has Sherlock. Find him. Now.

TO: Sherlock Holmes: I don't know who you are. I don't know what any of this is about. Please, can we just talk? I don't know how I hurt you, what I did, specifically, but I'm sorry. All of this? It's not going to fix anything.

[howdull]

FROM: Mycroft Holmes: Perhaps you should have taken my offer, Dr. Watson. Should any harm befall my brother we shall talk again, rest assured. Return to the flat, I shall send word when Sherlock has been retrieved.

[It's said in all but overt words, but Dr. Watson has done enough damage. He'll be lucky if Mycroft does actually contact him again.]

FROM: Sherlock Holmes: Not there. I like coffee, Oxford Street, Starbucks. Tell anyone, bring anyone, he dies before the deadline. Understand?

[jumpthegun]

[It's almost certainly a trap, but John doesn't have much choice. How the hell is he supposed to solve this without Sherlock? The only clue he has is Blink and Ink... Ink and Blink? Whatever the bloody name is. How is he supposed to figure out anything from that?

Mycroft's reply makes him angry, though.]

TO: Mycroft Holmes: If you hadn't ordered me into a car and dragged me off here, I'd still be there guarding him.

TO: Sherlock Holmes: I understand. But this phone is being monitored. You realize he's probably getting my messages?

[Wait... How does she...? Wonderful. His phone is being twice-monitored. John starts walking again, one hand going up to his chest as his ribs shift and stretch and hurt with the movement. Oxford Street. Where is he even to begin with? He'll figure it out. He has to.]

I've put the Diogenes Club on Carlton Terrace bc that's what was used for exterior shots in the show

[howdull]

[Mycroft doesn't respond again, at least not yet. He is busy doing other things; namely, trying to find his little brother and make sure that he's not been killed via association with some poxy little army doctor.

Neither does Sherlock's phone reply either, not right away.]

Excuse me? Hey, mate-- [A cockney man, perhaps around twenty with several piercings and a skateboard, stops beside him.] --you okay, mate? You having a heart attack? Jesus. Mate? Can you hear me?

[As the man is speaking, another text comes through.]

FROM: Sherlock Holmes. I understand. Be there, 8pm sharp.

[Unfortunately for John, Oxford Street is forty minutes by car from the Diogenes Club, a good ten miles in city centre traffic, and it's already 7.]

[jumpthegun]

[Fuck. John is only half-paying attention to the Cockney man, waving him off. Except... maybe. John has nothing but his clothes and his phone on him.]

Y-yeah. [He looks to the stranger, and it's not hard to fake looking sickly and disoriented. He's honestly feeling those things.] My meds. I need my meds, but I live on Oxford Street. My brother was meant to bring them, but I don't... I can't get ahold of him.

[howdull]

[He looks a combination of concerned and suspicious, but this isn't an area known for addicts or scam artists, and John seems dressed in pretty respectable attire.]

What kind of meds? Do you need me to call an ambulance?

[jumpthegun]

[Luckily, faking a medical condition is one of the easier lies for John to work.]

Kerlone, it's a beta-blocker. I've got a cardiac arrhythmia and angina. [John winces and it's not faking when he gasps in pain.] It's not fatal, but I need my medicine in the next hour or it's gonna get bad. I didn't bring money for a cab. Bloody hell!

[howdull]

[That sounds pretty serious, though the name of the medication and arrhythmia get a slightly non-plussed and even more worried look.]

Alright, mate, just deep breaths, okay? I don't have cab money, but I've got a car, I'll run you there. I'm not dangerous, I swear, I'm a uni student. Music. Name's Jake, so-- come on, you'll be okay.

[jumpthegun]

[Oh, thank Christ. John takes a few deep, pained breaths.]

John. My name's John. Music? That's good. Played the clarinet when I was a kid. Mm!

[He would feel worse about taking advantage of Jake, except this is kind of a matter of life or death.]

I dunno how I can repay you, mate. I'm so sorry. Thank you.

[John will follow to wherever the young man's car is. There's a part of him that's worried this man is part of the Alphabet Woman's lot, but she wants him at the Starbucks. If he has been sent, it's just to deliver John. D is for Delivery.]

[howdull]

Alright, John, you're gonna be fine.

[Jake leads John down a couple of streets to a multi-storey car park where his car, a beat up little Toyota, is parked. He's honestly a bit nervous about letting a stranger in, and he's not sure he has the money to cover the congestion charge, but his Mum always taught him not to ignore someone in need.

So he gets John in the car and sets off through London, glancing sideways in concern every so often.]

You sure you're gonna be okay going home? I shouldn't just take you to a hospital? You don't look so good, mate-- John.

[jumpthegun]

[He's starting to feel like death warmed over again. How long ago had he taken that ibuprofen? Ah... that's in his pocket, but he doesn't want to risk taking it in front of his new friend. So, John sits stiffly in his seat looking like he's slowly creeping toward death by agony.]

No hospitals, no. I just need my beta-blockers. I don't want to jump the line on someone who needs more help than I do. I've already got the prescription. They'll have to go through an examine... [He shakes his head.]

Tell me about uni. [And get the conversation off of him.] Where are you going?

[howdull]

[He's worried as hell now, what if this old dude dies in his car?! Right, yeah, distractions can be good for people in pain, right?]

Just at London University, nothing special, second year of my degree. I do cello, kinda hoping to get into a conservatoire after. I know I don't look the part, right? My Mum's always telling me that cellists don't have piercings or have pink hair.

[He's babbling now, taking the streets as fast as he dares while not going too much over the speed limit.]

You'll tell me if you start to black out, right? I don't mean to be funny, but the hospital might be the best place.

[jumpthegun]

I'll tell you. It's fine. It's fine, Jake. [John offers Jake a wavering smile.] I'm pretty sure cellists can look however they want. You're playing an instrument, not putting in for a beauty pageant. [The military man in him tends to agree that pink hair and random piercings don't look very good, but he's going to play to Jake's preferences for the moment.]

Never had the courage to go all out when I was younger. Always thought having colored streaks'd be cool, though. Maybe pierce my ears.

[howdull]

[His lips twitch as if he's trying not to laugh at the image of this sad old man with coloured streaks in his hair, but he's trying to be nice.]

Yeah, well. You're never too old and all that shit, right? You wanna do it, you do it, and then--

[He pulls to a halt in front of some traffic lights and the back door opens, a woman sliding in. Jake's eyes open wide and he twists around.]

Oi! This isn't a taxi, you've got the wrong car, lady. This man is really sick and-- Holy fucking shit.

[That last bit comes when a gun is levelled at him. The woman in the back seat has platinum blonde hair done up in a ponytail. She looks to be in her early thirties, tanned skin, blue eyes. The hand not holding the gun is missing a finger, the index finger, which is why she's holding the gun left handed, marriage band glinting on that hand. She's also wearing large hoop earrings, a necklace with a crucifix, faded jeans, and a blue hooded sweatshirt with the logo of a cartoon panda on the front. She will not be at all familiar to John, nor will her voice which is accented from Somerset.]

Drive.

[jumpthegun]

[D is for Driver. Fuck. His tone is even.]

I'm really sorry about this, Jake.

[To the woman:]

He's just some kid. Let him go.

[howdull]

[He's shaking from head to foot, but he does drive off when the light turns green, barely even hearing what John says.]

Look-- look, lady, I'll drive you wherever you want to go. You're on the run from the police, right? I'll help you get away, but we're gonna have to make a stop. This guy is really sick, like... might die if he doesn't get his meds, and you don't want to add that to all this, right? Let me drop him off and I'll drive you.

[Her eyes are fixed on John, utter hatred written all over her face.]

Shut up, kid. Just drive, Captain Watson and I are going to have a nice civilised little talk on the move.

[jumpthegun]

[It's almost breathtaking, really. He has no idea who this woman is, but he's apparently destroyed her life.]

It's okay, Jake. I'm not dying. I'm just in pain. I've got a couple of cracked ribs. I needed to get to Oxford Street.

[And apparently put an innocent civilian in danger. It hurts, but John twists in his seat to face her, suddenly feeling a wash of calm at the confrontation. This? This is much easier for him to deal with. Put the gun to his head, and he can manage. Put it to a friend's and that's when he starts to panic. He raises his hand, as if to reach for her gun to get the woman's full attention on him.]

You have me at a disadvantage. You know me. I don't know you.

[howdull]

You-- you're not dying? You know-- Jesus.

[Jake looks floored, betrayed, scared as shit, and confused. But he does not want to die, so he keeps driving, just seemingly picking a random route.

As soon as he raises his hand, she jams the gun into the back of Jake's neck at the base of his skull.]

Hands on the dashboard, Captain, I'm not an idiot.

[jumpthegun]

[John's jaw tightens, and he turns back forward, placing his hands on the dash.]

Are you one of my men's wives?

[Because that's the most logical conclusion he can reach.]

[howdull]

[Her expression spasms into grief and rage, before she forces it back to simmering resentment.]

You think I'm just going to tell you who I am so you can go to the police all nice and neat and tidy? You can call me Harry.

[It's a stroke of cruelty that she knows full well will hurt, with the venomous way she spits the name out at him.]

[jumpthegun]

[So, that's a yes. John's expression only twitches. He's in the middle of battle. This is the place where he feels best, feels calm and collected and himself. Sherlock hadn't been wrong about the Alphabet Woman targeting him not being a sensible reason for John's panic attack. If she were just targeting him, that would be something to almost relish. His heart thrums in his chest, knowing he's one step away from a bullet in the back of his head.

Unfortunately, Jake is in danger here, too.]

Okay. Do you want to tell me what I have to do to get Sherlock back?

cw: homophobic slurs

[howdull]

You're really broken up over him, ain't you? Didn't peg you for a poofter, you're a fucking disgrace.

[The hand holding the gun relaxes just a little bit so that the barrel isn't pressed so close to Jake's head and her voice changes a little. More informal, like keeping herself to proper sentences is a lot of work. Sherlock would probably say this indicates a low level of education. Jake's eyes dart sideways, a silent plea for some explanation as to what the hell his life has become in the last hour.]

Simple. You find where he is within three days and you can have him back, at least for now. S'a... what d'they call it? A temporary reprieve, 'cos in the end you're gonna have nothing at all.

[jumpthegun]

[John's eyes harden on the woman as he looks at her in the rearview mirror. His tone is still neutral and he does pick up on the shift in wording.]

Is that what you called my sister while you strangled her?

[If it is, the Alphabet Woman is going to be pressing hard at John's general principle to never hit a woman in anger.]

[howdull]

[Jake blanches and has to jerk to correct the steering. What the hell is going on? This woman killed John's sister? He feels like he's in the Bourne Identity or something.

She smiles and there's something vicious and feral about it, like her sanity may not be completely all there. But it's clear Sherlock was right, she had enjoyed it.]

You think I said anything to her? I waited 'til she was asleep, didn't want her perving on me like a fucking sicko. Oi, kid, take a left, head down to the Thames. We're getting out soon.