Pocketlock RP: Part five

While John walked, Sherlock sat in the curve of his pocket, thinking their situation over again.
The police had seen John. He wasn’t sure if they’d gotten a good look at his human companions face or not, but chances were they’d be able to check the CCTV footage from the surrounding buildings, and so it was only a matter of time before they put a name to the mysterious civilian who’d been interfering with their crime scene.
If John found Jennifer Wilson's case, it wouldn’t be wise to take it back to the flat. He didn’t want Dr. Watson to be caught with anything belonging to the dead woman. John, who had been so level headed and willing to help despite the smaller mans unorthodox demands, was turning out to be a precious commodity with which Sherlock was not yet willing to part.
They’d have to examine the case wherever they found it. That wouldn’t be a problem for him, but he wondered how much more cooperation he could expect from John. The man was obviously getting irritated, and there was always the possibility that, if pushed too far, he would simply put an end to this little expedition.




John didn’t quite know what he wanted to do. Helping Sherlock had blossomed rapidly from aiding a wounded man in his flat to being caught at an active crime scene by Scotland Yard. The smarter, self-preservation oriented part of him wanted to lay low at the flat, maybe take a vacation- try and leave Sherlock and all this madness behind for a healthy while. But he knew he couldn’t do that; not morally and not realistically. He didn’t have enough money to move out of the flat he just rented, for one. And of course he couldn’t just leave Sherlock and a potential serial killer behind.
Still, the run from the police was going to be trouble. He’d have to figure out what to do about that later.
Turning the corner John saw the industrial dumpsters Sherlock had mentioned. The small man’s knowledge of London amazed him; not only did Sherlock know the streets, but what they looked like and what was in them. How he knew all of this was beyond John. Still, it had proved helpful, and questions could always be asked later. For now, the mysterious pink suitcase Sherlock claimed was here.
John let out a satisfied exclamation and reached into the middle dumpster, dragging out a small pink suitcase that had been thrown on top. “I think I found it!" he told Sherlock proudly, setting it on the ground and kneeling next to it.



It was all he could do not to scrabble out of the pocket himself the second John found the case. Instead, he waited, rather impatiently for the good doctor to carefully remove him from the interior of his jacket and place him on the ground next to it. His eyes roved it hungrily, snatching and absorbing every detail. He limped around the side, finding exactly what he had hoped to find affixed to the top handle. He smiled.
“This is absolutely brilliant John! In the course of a few short hours we’ve collected all the data we need to be getting on with. We should return to the flat. You’ll want to put the case back now, and don’t forget to wipe it down where you’ve touched it.”



John followed Sherlock’s sound advice, carefully wiping down the handle he had grabbed before using his jacket sleeve to throw the case back into the dumpster. Kneeling down again he carefully transported Sherlock back into his jacket pocket before heading back to Baker Street.
They arrived at the flat without incident, though John was intercepted by Mrs. Hudson in the hall and had to make small talk as quickly as he was able. Finally reaching the relative safety of 221B, John shut the door behind him with a sigh of relief. After locking it for good measure he made his way to the kitchen, where he was able to deposit Sherlock on the table and slump gratefully into a chair.



Sherlock wasted no time in limping over to John’s laptop, taking a seat, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers. There was so much information buzzing around in his head. He’d never had this many details to work from before, usually only being able to work from second, third or even fourth hand information, which was as good as useless. He closed his eyes, ordering every observation and clue for easy access.

“John, tell me, what did you think of Mrs. Wilson?” He asked, eager to see how much his companion had picked up from visiting the crime scene.



John raised his head blearily from where it had been resting on the table. Part of him was surprised that Sherlock was interested in his opinion; he seemed the type to trust only in himself. "Er, well she died of poison," the doctor said, stating the obvious clues he had gathered from their brief time with the body. "Choked on her own vomit. No signs of struggle, so she took it herself." His eyes lit up as he recalled the last thing he had noticed. "Oh, and there was that funny word she had carved into the floor."



“Yes, Rache. You’re right John, Jennifer Wilson did take the poison herself, but it wasn’t suicide. She’s left us a valuable clue. I just need to figure out who Rachel is.”  



"Rachel?" John asked quizzically. "Is that what the word was?" It sounded faintly German to him, but a name was definitely a more believable message. He was also interested in how it could not be a suicide; Sherlock seemed confident in his murder theory, whatever that was.



“Of course Rachel, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Said Sherlock, genuinely surprised. “John, I’m going to need to think about this for a while. You might as well eat your lunch and relax. You’ve been very accommodating.” Sherlock laid back, eyes closing again so as to shut out the distractions the flat offered.  



It was obvious the conversation was over. With a small sigh, mostly of exhaustion from the morning's events, John stood up. He was halfway to the fridge before he remembered- new flat, no food. "I'm going to go get groceries," he muttered aloud, mostly for Sherlock's benefit, and went to retrieve his wallet from the bedroom. Leaving the flat he made sure to carefully lock the door behind him, before treading down the stairs and heading towards the nearest corner store.



As the man left his flat at 221b Baker Street, a CCTV camera turned slowly, following the man until he turned a corner. However, it made little difference, as the cameras on the next street also turned, seemingly of their own accord, silently observing the man from all angles. As he was about to walk past a red London phone booth, this too seemed to react to his presence, letting out a sharp ring, than another, and another.  




John paused briefly, looking at the red phone booth in confusion. Usually you called others from the pay phones; he had never heard of one ringing itself. Glancing around, and realizing that he was alone on the street, John slipped into the small box. The phone kept ringing as he looked at it with a puzzled frown. Almost impulsively he reached out and took it off the receiver. "…Hello?" he asked, completely unsure as to what he would hear.




The phone line was as crisp and clear as the voice which traveled down it. An unfamiliar male voice.
"Look to your left, Mr. Watson. Do you see the camera?" It asked.



Chill traveled down John's spine as the unknown caller mentioned his name. He said the first thing that came to mind as calmly as he could. "Sorry, who is this?" As curious as he was confused, he followed the voice's directions and looked to is left. There was an inconspicuous white CCTV camera hanging from the building next to him.



"The camera, Mr. Watson." the voice repeated calmly, as if it might go on all night if need be.
The camera was trained on the little red phone box, but not for long. Before the befuddled Doctor's eyes, it turned, looking down, deliberately blocking John from its sight.
"Good. Across the street there is a bakery, and another camera." The man prompted.



John's mind was reeling. The thought that somebody, and entirely unknown somebody, who had enough power to change security cameras, was concerned with him was at the same time confusing and worrying. Following the instructions he looked through the smeared glass to the bakery across the street, where he found another camera lurking in the corner. As soon as he looked directly at it, it turned aside as the previous one had. The voice prompted a third and a fourth, until every camera in the vicinity of the phone box was conveniently pointed away. Something was definitely going on, and John was certain he didn't like it.



A long, black car with tinted windows rolled to a silky stop on the street just outside the phone box. It's intent was unmistakable.
"I won't insult you by making some sort of threat. I think your position has been made quite clear, doctor Watson."
One of the black doors was opened expectantly.



With a frown John hung up the phone, which was buzzing with the tone of a recently terminated call. Sliding out of the red box he stared at the spotless car for a moment, before taking a deep breath and shuffling in. The driver shut the door behind him and walked back around to the front. To John's surprise there was someone else in the backseat besides him; a strikingly beautiful woman with long dark hair, who didn't even look up from her phone when he hopped in the car. "Er… hello," he said haltingly, unsure of the entire situation. He never had been good at talking to girls.



The woman was busily texting, apparently unconcerned or even unaware of the man that had just slid into the seat next to her.
She spared him a quick, distracted glance and a small disinterested smile. "Hi." She said, and then turned back to the texting at hand. It was apparent introductions were not her top priority at the moment.



John pursed his lips, put off a bit by the apathetic reply. He looked out the window, only to realize he had no idea where they were. "I'm John, by the way," he said, in an attempt to make any kind of conversation.



The woman didn't even bother to acknowledge him this time. Instead staying focused on her phone.



Well this certainly wasn't going anywhere. John was beginning to tire of being dragged all over London of other people's volition. There had been more than enough strange occurrences for the day, enough adrenaline and mystery. Honestly he just wanted to actually /make/ it to the grocery store. "Any point in asking where we're going?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. When it came back negative he sighed, and toiled on. "What's your name?"



"Uh... Anthea." She said, again, favoring her phone over eye contact with the increasingly irritated man. Finally, the car pulled into a large, dark warehouse, rolling to a stop under dim halogen lights. The driver again exited the car and opened the back door. A feigned pleasantry, seeing as the doctor had been all but kidnapped.



Obviously not her real name… but at least he had something to call her now. Anthea didn't even look up as John exited the car, taking in his surroundings with a cursory glance. Cameras, a dark car, a deserted warehouse; somebody had a flair for the dramatic. John had ceased attempting to predict his life at this point, and as such had no expectations of what he was going to see.



In the room ahead of him, underneath a light slightly brighter than the rest, was a table. In front of that table, stood a man.
He was a big man, dark and imposing. The sort of presence someone might expect to see protecting the president in overblown American films.



John approached him calmly, but cautiously. He wasn't intimidated, he had seen better fighters in the war, but it's was always safest to be wary of potential threats. He halted a few steps away from the man, who remained stoic and silent. "I'm guessing you can't tell me why I'm here either, can you?" the doctor asked irritably. The man looked more like hired muscle than the brains of the operation (whatever that may be).



The man stood impassive.
A voice finally addressed the kidnapped man, but it didn't come from the large, stony man before him.
"Doctor Watson, I'm sorry for the dramatics, but when one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet. Hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."



John looked to the table behind the man. Upon it stood a miniature person, a lanky figure wearing a crisp suit and leaning on a black umbrella. Of course; never seen a tiny person in his entire life, and he meets two in two days. "I'm fine," John coolly replied, remaining standing. He didn't bother to ask how the man knew about his leg- at this point nothing could surprise him. Least surprising of all was the fact that this entire escapade was somehow related to Sherlock.




The tiny man on the table seemed completely unfazed, and continued to smile in a knowing, condescending way. You don't seem very afraid." The man said, perhaps making a reference to the large and imposing man next to him.



A corner of John's mouth quirked up in a wry smile. "You don't seem very frightening," he replied dryly. He didn't like this little man; he seemed very pretentious, and John was still miffed about the whole kidnapping business.



The lack of respect John Watson was generating didn't faze the small man. "Yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity don't you think?" He said, in the same level tone.  "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"



John's brow furrowed. "No connection," he replied automatically. "I just met him yesterday, I hardly know him."



man seemed slightly less amused. "Yes, you did. And within the first 17 hours of your acquaintanceship, you've trespassed on an active crime scene and been forced to escape the police. I can only assume you did not wake up this morning and decided to commit a felony. So you're solving crimes together now. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"



"Sorry, who are you?" John asked coldly. He had had enough of this man's uncanny knowledge of and intrusion into his life. One tiny know-it-all was perfectly enough, thank you very much.



An interested party." The small man said blithely. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."



"And what would that be?"



"An enemy." The man smiled again.



Of course. This was, after all, Sherlock they were talking about. Nothing was going to be normal. "An enemy," John muttered, mostly to himself. His pocket vibrated, and he pulled out his phone. Somebody had emailed him:

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. -SH
Sherlock. He had the laptop with him, he had emailed John's phone. But the laptop was password protected, how...?



The mysterious 'enemy' paused, allowing John to check his phone, but speaking as if there had been no gap in conversation.
"In his mind certainly. If you were to ask him he'd probably say his archenemy. He does love to be dramatic."



Well thank god you're above all that," John replied sardonically. This coming from the man standing in an empty warehouse, whose bodyguard wore sunglasses at night. He put down his phone, but kept it held in his hand.



The tiny man's face again lost its humor. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"



John nearly laughed, though not from humor. He looked down at Sherlock's "enemy" with an un-amused smile. "I really think it's none of your business."



"It could be." He retorted.



"It /really/ couldn't," the doctor coldly responded. The two men stared each other down for a moment, before the phone in John's hand buzzed once again. Another email:
If inconvenient, come anyway. –SH



"You're very loyal very quickly, Doctor Watson. And yet your therapist has made a note, trust issues, it says here." The man snapped his tiny fingers. The man with the sunglasses removed a small notebook from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table, open to a page near the middle, covered in cursive scroll. It was recognizably the one John's therapist wrote in during their sessions.
"Could it be you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"



Who says I trust him?" John retorted. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. This man had uncanny knowledge of his life, down to the notebook his therapist wrote in. Even worse, he was right; John had decided to trust Sherlock, had from the very beginning, for seemingly no logical reason.



It was perhaps a bit strange, to see a full grown man being menaced by another, who only stood about at tall as the humans upturned palm.
The tiny figure stepped lazily around the notebook, swinging his miniature black umbrella, which could only be for show, as he did so.
"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."



John looked up at the ceiling in an attempt to keep calm. When his eyes met the man's once again they showed otherwise. "Are we done?" he said curtly, tone and tight lips betraying his feelings.
He wanted nothing more than to leave.



The man smiled. "You tell me." He glanced at John’s hand, resting on his cane. "I would warn you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, but I can see from your hand that's not going to happen."



"My hand?" John blinked, confusion briefly overcoming his confusion.  How on earth was his hand pertinent to the conversation?



"Show me." The man stated.



With a sigh of exasperation, John stuck his phone in his pocket and held out his hand for the tiny man to see.



The man stared at Watson's hand through half lidded eyes. "Remarkable." He muttered, but in the tone of one who is not surprised by what they've just seen. "Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you."



What's wrong with my hand?" the doctor demanded, withdrawing said appendage with a frown. He didn't like this game anymore.



You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks its posttraumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service—" He was cut off abruptly.



"How the /hell/ do you know that?" John's voice was shaking, full of restrained emotion. It was as if the man had reached deep into him and pulled out the stuff of his nightmares. This day had just been too much.



"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around." he continued, unmoved by Watson’s outburst. "You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. Welcome back."



John was spared the trouble of replying by the buzz of his phone. Practically yanking it out of his pocket he read the email.
Could be dangerous. -SH



man motioned to his bodyguard who laid his hand down flat on the table. "Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson." he said, as he stepped onto the hand, not bothering to spare John another glance. The bodyguard lifted the small man, and walked further back into the warehouse. It was obvious the conversation was over.
"I'm to take you home," Anthea said from behind him, eyes still glued to the phone in her hands. "Address?"



"Er… Baker Street," John replied, following her back to the car. "221B, Baker Street."

000

Back at the flat, Sherlock lay on his back, having taken the 'blanket' from last night and folded it into a serviceable cushion. He rested his bad leg on the edge of the laptop. It was a fact that his kind tended to heal faster than humans, but not that fast. The running and falling and jostling about he'd subjected himself to earlier in the day was taking its toll on him. He hoped he'd be able to conceal it from Watson. His human was going to be annoyed enough when he found out why Sherlock had texted him.
Speaking of, he'd been gone an awfully long time, considering he'd just gone out for groceries...



The sleek black car pulled up to the door of the Baker Street flat. After another failed attempt at conversation with Anthea, John stepped out onto the welcome sidewalk. Climbing the stairs to his room he unlocked the door and walked inside, closing it behind him with an exhausted huff. "Sherlock?" he queried, turning the corner into the kitchen.



"In here." He called. But then really, where else would he be?
As soon as he caught sight of John he could tell something had happened. For one thing, he had no groceries with him. For another, he looked even more irritated then when he'd left. Sherlock had rather hoped that the walk would have provided his new flatmate with a chance to recover from the days minor annoyances. "What's happened?" He asked.



"Met a friend of yours," he replied curtly, taking a seat at the table. He noticed that Sherlock's bandages looked rather worse for the ware, most likely because of their earlier escapades.



Sherlock’s brows furrowed in honest confusion. "A friend?"



"An enemy," John corrected. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Sherlock didn't often interact with people, even among his own kind. So, a bit like John then.



Ah." That cleared things up. It was immensely frustrating though. He'd only gone out of the flat with John once, and already his dear brother was butting in. And by the look on John's face, had been rather heavy handed. But then he always had a flair for the dramatic.



John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "What did you email me for?" he asked quietly, attempting to regain some control of his life.



"Oh yes, I need to use your phone." It was a completely reasonable request.



The doctor scowled at him. "You couldn't use the computer?" he complained, practically moaning. All that trouble, over the use of a mobile phone. The whole day he had been dragged around because of Sherlock, and frankly he was tired of it.



"Didn't want to risk the IP address being traced." He stated, sitting up pointedly.



"Ugh. Fine." Sitting up straighter he dug in his pocket, pulling out his phone and setting it down on the table next to Sherlock.



Sherlock scooted a little closer, wincing as he moved his bad leg to gain better access to the phone. It was much easier typing on the smaller device than on the computer, and in record time (for him) the text was sent. He sat back, satisfied.



With a yawn John sat back down at the table; he had made himself a cuppa while Sherlock was doing his thing. "So what was all that about?" he asked, taking a tired sip.



He wanted to explain, he really did, but he also wanted to avoid being swatted by an irate human, and so he replied with an ambiguous "Just a bit of fishing. Nothing to concern yourself with."



Right," John scoffed, but had a feeling he didn't actually want to know and didn't push it. He gestured his cup of tea towards Sherlock. "Want some while I redress your leg?"



Sherlock sighed distastefully, not thrilled at the idea of having his aching leg worked on again, but he agreed nonetheless. "Might as well." After all, he hadn't actually eaten yet that day.



John poured a bit of his tea into the bottle cap Sherlock had been drinking water out of. "Sorry, no food," he apologized. No food for him either; after all, he still hadn't made it to the grocery store. Once he was done with that he grabbed the nearby bandages, unwrapping Sherlock's leg and setting to work on it.



It was actually impossible for Sherlock to drink the hot tea from the bottle cap as Watson worked. He longed for the appropriately sized dishes and utensils he'd fashioned for himself, which lay back in his warm, comfortable home. Perhaps he could convince Watson to allow him to gather some of his things tonight.



The doctor frowned as he exposed the wound. Sure, it still looked terrible, and none better for the exertion it had undertaken that day, but it definitely appeared to be more healed than one and a half days would permit. "This is closing up faster than I thought," he muttered, mostly to himself, and set about re-wrapping it.



"Hmm, a few days more. I should be able to do without the bandages by then." Sherlock observed. "After a week or so I shouldn't have to bother you for transportation."



"Really? That fast?" John asked in surprise. He stuck the last bit of tape on and sat back in his chair. "You must be a quick healer." He wasn't entirely surprised; a man with impossible anatomy was sure to have a few quirks.



Sherlock shrugged. "We all do. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to heal as slowly as a human. So much time wasted."



"Yes, well, you win some you lose some I suppose." John put back the bandages and sighed. It had been such a long day. "I'm beat," he announced, standing up. Turning to Sherlock he asked, "Anything I can do for you before I get some sleep?"



Sherlock shook his head dismissively. "You've done quite enough for me already, John. Get some rest." He stood slowly, testing his tattered leg, making sure the bandages were fitted well.



He watched his patient stand carefully, and when he was satisfied that he would be okay said, "Alright. Well, see you in the morning then." With that he turned off the lights and strode into his bedroom, about ready to collapse.



It wasn't long after John had left that the phone buzzed, an incoming text message lighting the screen.

You know, the police have identified that new pet of yours. What are you up to? -MH

Sherlock sighed in frustration, not stooping so low as to answer the text. Instead he turned to the computer, and logged onto the net. He had some facts to check.