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 dog tags, on closer inspection, are not real army issue. They're more the thin metal ones that can be bought from most alternative clothing shops for teenagers to wear as a fashion accessory, there's no engraving. The fatigues, up close, are also more fashion items than real army issue, and they don't fit particularly well. Too short in the leg and too baggy at the waist.]

Sometimes when she visited to check I remained where she placed me, she would hum lullabies to herself. Melodies we hum subconsciously are always ones we have heard recently, generally not lullabies or nursery rhymes for adults. However, I detected a thickness to her humming and a change in her breathing that suggested tears, therefore a lullaby to bring her grief. Likely the death of a child, possibly what pushed her over the edge and it might explain why Harry was positioned in a facsimile of an infant.

[He pushes up to his feet quickly and very nearly falls right back over again, swaying violently. Lack of food, a head wound, and the loss of circulation to his feet all contribute to that. He forces himself to keep moving, though, there's no time to wait around.]

[jumpthegun]

[John grabs hold of Sherlock to steady him, blanching slightly at the sudden movement that rocks them both.]

Lovely. [His ears pick up the wail of sirens.] We'll want to get you to hospital. Bart's. We can work from there while your head gets looked at and you get a shower and some food.

[Sherlock absolutely needs a shower along with the food.]

[howdull]

Dull.

[That one unimpressed word and a twist to his lips are all he intends to give that suggestion, he's not going to go to hospital. He just swings towards the bathroom instead.]

I'll shower here, dress in my own clothes, and we can be on our way.

[jumpthegun]

Sherlock, the police are going to be breaking down this door in about three minutes. You haven't eaten or drunk anything for two days. You need to rest.

[Says the man running around with second-degree burns and broken ribs.]

Lestrade already wants to cuff me to a bed. He'll add you to the list, you know? And he's going to want to take a statement.

[howdull]

[He just meanders into the bathroom and half shuts the door, even he has shame enough not to want even John to see him in this state, and starts peeling off filthy clothes. He raises his voice to be heard through the door.]

He can take a statement when we've finished solving the case, time is too much of the essence to spend any of it on unnecessary tasks.

[jumpthegun]

[A part of him agrees. A part of him feels bad about it. John goes downstairs to give Sherlock some level of privacy, collecting the note from the Alphabet Woman and putting it in his pocket before unlocking the front door. Better that the police don't have to actually break down the door. He also checks outside for Molly's car and offers her a thumbs up. Hopefully, that'll settle her down and make up for him being... something of a dick to her.

The wail of sirens is fast-approaching.

He shuts the door and heads back upstairs, looking around for any other clues about the Alphabet woman in the house itself. He does stop by the room Sherlock was in, though.]

If you want out before the police get here, you'll need to be fast, Sherlock, and we'll be piling into Molly's smart car.

[howdull]

[Sherlock is as fast as he can possibly be in getting clean. He doesn't have soap, so there's only so much he can do, and the hot water is turned off so the shower is freezing. But he can sluice off the filth and, with it, the worst of the smell. His hair is brutally scrubbed to get the blood out as best he can, possibly the most rapid shower he's ever had.

He's out just as Sherlock says the word 'car', stumbling into his clothes even as he opens the door. If John is particularly observant, he might notice a fresh looking needle mark in the crook of his left arm before that arm disappears inside his coat. He likes his Belstaff, but not so much over bare skin, still there's not much option since his shirt has been destroyed.

Sherlock sweeps past John and heads for the stairs, calling over his shoulder for all the world as if John is the one holding them up.]

Come along, then. No time to lose.

[jumpthegun]

[John is being more observant than usual of late, and he catches sight of the mark. His mind runs to the Alphabet Woman and what she might have injected his friend with, though, not what Sherlock might have been doing to himself. He'll leave off asking until they're at their next destination. It might be the morgue where he can make a proper examination of the idiot, and Molly can fetch them anything they need to get Sherlock stabilized. Also maybe a nice morphine drip for John.

They step out the front door to the not at all distant blare of sirens. Molly is standing next to her car looking nervous, wringing her hands. When she sees the pair emerge, her face lights up, and she starts to come around the side of the car.]

Sherlock! Are you okay? The police are nearly here.

[howdull]

[He's getting steadier on his feet the longer he's on them, which is good because he doesn't have the time or inclination to be falling over. He gives Molly a tight smile, though it's mostly distracted.]

Excellent deduction, I assume you gathered that from the sound of the sirens? If you don't mind, Molly, I'd like to get going. You can take John and I back to the flat and then go from there, your assistance won't be needed after that.

[jumpthegun]

[Molly wilts.]

Y-yeah. [And quickly hops into the car. She wants to ask why they aren't waiting for the police, but Sherlock doesn't seem like he's in a very good mood. Maybe he wants to have a lie-down. ] Um... there's not much room. And isn't your... sorry. But John's just told me your flat's blown up.

[John frowns at the seating situation, but there's really not much time to be concerned about dignity.]

Get in, Sherlock. I'll sit in the center with my legs over you.

[Ish. Realistically, he's going to be sitting mostly in Sherlock's lap.]

[howdull]

[He doesn't notice the way Molly wilts, nor does he notice the way she draws herself up and squares her shoulders as if she's dressing herself in armour.]

No, you can't do that. You'll-- sorry, but you'll make your injuries worse, John. And Sherlock, if you're hurt then-- well. Um. You two take the car, one of you can drive, right?

[Sherlock blinks at her for a moment in surprise, but he doesn't question it because it seems logical. He just stares for a few seconds, before clucking his tongue in impatience.]

Keys, then, Molly.

Oh! [She says, flushing.] Right. Yeah. [She fishes them out of her bag and holds them out.]

[jumpthegun]

[John blinks in surprise as Molly holds out her keys. It's only have a second before John goes around to grab the keys. In a moment of madness he also leans forward and kisses Molly's cheek.]

Thank you. I'm sorry. Where should we bring the car back to? Your flat or Bart's.

[Because Molly is getting her car back as John slides into the driver's seat with a grimace.]

[howdull]

[She flushes as bright as the setting sun and takes a few hurried steps backwards.]

Um. Uh.

[Come on, Molly, think!]

Barts is fine, no hurry, I'll get a lift with the police. Or a taxi.

[Sherlock folds himself into the passenger side and nods to her, but he can still hear the faint tick tick tick in his head and it makes him impatient, which translates to snappier than usual.]

Hurry, John. And give me your phone, I need to send a text.

[jumpthegun]

[John digs his phone out and flashes a tired smile up at this impossibly kind and over-worked woman. Well, a bit nosy and a bit too observant for comfort, as well, but John owes her a hell of a lot at this point. Maybe he'll open up to her about Harry a little. Later. Much later.]

Okay. We'll see you later.

[He pulls away as the lights from the police cars appear in the rear view.]

Why are we going back to the flat? How the hell did you get captured, anyway? Did you actually just walk out with her? I was joking.

[howdull]

Because my shirts are at the flat.

[He is not running around London in just his Belstaff and trousers, thank you. He sends off a quick text to Mycroft's number. He notes the new phone, but it doesn't matter, Mycroft will know it's from him in a moment.]

TO: MH: Found, obviously. I require the following couriered to my flat: IV equipment, six bags of saline fluid, oxygen mask and canisters, blood pressure medication, seizure medication. SH.

[He glances up at John as he types, fingers moving swiftly without him needing to look.]

You also need to call any of your former COs or whoever was in charge of that sort of admin work and find out if any of the men you served with have committed suicide since returning.

[jumpthegun]

[The reply from Mycroft is almost immediate.]

FROM: MH: This game is becoming tiresome little brother. You will find the requested equipment and a new set of clothes at your rooms at the Hilton. Do let the good doctor know.

[John's mind turns immediately to Major Sholto, but he can't imagine James has been keeping up with many people.]

I can try the VWS. Mm... Maybe Major Jones. [John never got on with Peter terribly well, but he'd been John's first CO over in Afghanistan. 'Lobster' Jones, a few of the men used to call him behind his back. He'd been burned red like a lobster most of the time. It probably contributed to the foul temper.]

Or Major Hargreave. [He'd been the only other one apart from James, a no-nonsense sort who'd simply been there to see top brass orders carried out firmly and efficiently. No one particularly liked the man... but no one had particularly disliked him, either.]

Uh... how exactly d'we get back to your flat, anyway?

[John isn't over in this part of the city often.]

[howdull]

TO: MH: I'm not going to the Hilton. I'd rather die; which I will, if you don't send the equipment to the flat. Your choice, Mycroft.

[He might anyway, he knows what he's dealing with here, but there's no need to worry John until it becomes absolutely necessary. He tuts.]

Pull over, I'll drive. You can start ringing your former Majors, there's little enough time to lose.

[Has John mentioned Major Jones and Major Hargreave before? He doesn't remember, but maybe he deleted it. He often deletes stories about John's army buddies, they're full of drinking and girls and other boring things.]

[jumpthegun]

FROM: MH: And shall I tell Mummy to have them put 'Refused perfectly acceptable and secure lodgings to his death' on your gravestone? Or perhaps Dr. Watson's? I do wonder how he might fare without you against his 'Alphabet Woman.'

[John casts Sherlock a sidelong look. He doesn't particularly trust the man's driving skills.]

I don't exactly have their numbers on hand. I'd have to look them up on the Internet, probably.

[Or again, call VWS first to get some contacts. Or, well... Bill might have their numbers, and he remembers the other man's phone number.]

Mm... There's someone else I can try first.

[He pulls over and winces as he pulls himself out.]

Don't wreck Molly's car. And don't text while you're driving.

[howdull]

[John's new phone is rubbish, it can't even access the internet. Why would he buy one that can only text and call? It's practically archaic! He thinks it through for a moment. Cost, obviously, but why would he not just use Sherlock's credit card? Some stupid sense of honour? Didn't have the credit card with him. Judging by his clothes, that's more likely, they have a style that John might not necessarily choose himself. A gift, then. From Molly. Which means the phone is too.

Why would she not buy one with internet capability? She makes adequate money at the morgue. Irritating.

He tosses the phone onto the passenger seat as he gets out for John to pick up when he gets in, and strides around to get in the driver's seat.]

Yes, calling Bill sounds like a good idea.

[Seems the most logical conclusion.]

Reply to Mycroft first and tell him that such blatant attempts at manipulation are pathetic, and he can send it to the flat like I asked.

[jumpthegun]

How did you... never mind.

[Bill is the only logical conclusion from other people to call, probably. He sighs. Reading through Sherlock and Mycroft's exchange makes John's brows furrow with concern.]

What did she inject you with, Sherlock?

TO: MH: The flat. Blatant manipulation doesn't become you.

[Hopefully, that sounds enough like Sherlock. It's a moment to punch in Bill's number after that, but he waits to get an answer from Sherlock before hitting send.]

[howdull]

[Sherlock swings into a one way system with no hesitation. He might not know anywhere outside of London that well, but he can see the whole of his great city in his head no matter where he is, he can easily get them back to the flat.]

Crushed and diluted ricin solution, but it's irrelevant currently. Best estimated guess based on current respiratory distress indicates that the full effects are unlikely to hit for another six to eight hours, and death is unlikely to occur for a further eighteen to twenty hours. Plenty of time to get back to the flat.

[Honestly, he's not about to die in the car, nor does he sound too worried about his own impending mortality.]

The best chances for surviving ricin poisoning are hydration, blood pressure monitoring, preventative measures for seizures, and oxygen. All of these are things we can achieve without involving a hospital. Now will you call Bill?

[jumpthegun]

Ricin!? Jesus Christ, Sherlock!

[C is still for Consulting Detective, then. D is for Drugged? Jesus. Jesus! Yelling at Sherlock isn't really going to do much for the situation, though. There's another text to Mycroft:]

TO: MH: Send activated charcoal and tubing for stomach flushing, as well. JW.

[And he finally dials Bill and lets it ring through.]

Hey, Bill. It's John. John Watson. Sorry to bother you, but I was looking for some phone numbers for our old COs. It's for a case. Major Jones and Major Hargreave. Or... maybe you know. [He pauses for a moment.] Bill, have you heard of anyone in the unit dying in the last couple of years not overseas?

[It's the gentlest way he can think of to ask after potential suicides.]

[howdull]

[Although John will be on the phone, a message comes back from Mycroft almost at once. The elder Holmes is, after all, even better at deduction than the younger. He knows what this must be, and how likely it is for Sherlock to survive.]

FROM: MH: Take care of my brother, Doctor Watson.

[He worries. Constantly.

Bill sounds almost obnoxiously cheerful when he answers the phone.]

John! Yes, the case you texted me about, right? Sounds intense, I can't wait to read about it on your blog-- Hm? People dying... I've been to a couple of funerals, heard about a couple more. Remember Tommy Openville? Thyroid cancer, about a year ago, really sad. Aarush Khatri, he got hit by a car about eight months ago. Um... Danny Matthews, he killed himself. You remember him? You were on the mission where he got shot, weren't you?

[Tommy Openville had been a plump lad from Leeds, fresh out of school. Not very disciplined, more in it for the guns and impressing the girls. Aarush Khatri had been a middle aged Indian born Brit, quiet and generally friendly. Danny Matthews had been a bit of a party man, but generally nice. Got himself shot in the stomach and John saved his life, had even got him stable before he was shipped out still comatose, but there had been no reason to think he wouldn't make it.]

[jumpthegun]

[Stomach wound. Something cold and heavy settles in John's chest. Eleven minutes and fifteen seconds. His tone flattens out.]

Yeah, I remember. Sorry to hear about them. Don't think I'll be needing those numbers after all. Thanks, Bill. Keep a weather eye out, okay? Might be some trouble. You might want to think about taking a holiday out of the country the next little while.

Just one other thing, d'you remember if Danny had a wife?

[howdull]

No. Wait-- yes, actually, I don't remember her name but now that I think about it, I remember Danny mentioning her. She served too, not in our unit, but I think he said they met at basic training.

[He doesn't really see how this is of relevance, but he's always happy to help.]

Don't suppose you want to tell my boss that I'm allowed a holiday, eh?