Pocketlock RP: Part three

The night was long, and haunted by sensations both real and imagined. He started awake a few times, unsure of where he was, heart abusing the inside of his chest. Was that the scratching of paws on cardboard? Was there a human inside his flat? Why was he in so much pain? At one point, he’d even thought he’d felt the hot breath of rat on his bare neck, but there was nothing in the box with him. He put it down to heightened stress and his semi conscious state.

It was an immense relief when he woke once again, and saw grey light filtering through the air holes and knew the night was finally over. He felt… Well, he did not feel himself, after such a stressful night.

Perhaps he could get Watson to read a section of the newspaper to him when he came for breakfast. It would help to exercise his mind along different lines than he had all night.


000


John woke up in the morning a bit dazed, wondering in equal part where he was and why he felt so rested. He had an odd nagging at the back if his mind that more was different than the bed. Yawning, he shuffled his way to the kitchen; and saw the box.

Oh. Right. That.

Being as quiet as he could he removed the mug and carefully lifted the box. If Sherlock was still sleeping he certainly didn’t want to wake him up. Still, his bandages would need changing, and his wound checked for infection.


000


“Good morning John, I trust you slept well.” Sherlock had lapsed back into the position he’d been holding when the Doctor had originally left, eyes closed and hands steepled. He wouldn’t admit it, but it was an immense relief to have the box removed from overtop of him.


000


“Morning," John automatically replied, admittedly a bit surprised to find Sherlock awake. Usually it was John who woke up earlier than others; old habit. He was about to ask if Sherlock slept well, but figured that was a rather stupid question given the circumstances and settled for, “Want some coffee or anything? I’m going to need to work on your leg but that can wait until after breakfast." John placed the box on the kitchen counter; they wouldn’t be needing that for awhile.


000


“No coffee.” Sherlock answered in his usual flat tone, his stomach revolting at the idea of caffeine. “I will attempt to eat eventually, but water will suffice for now… Thanks you.” He added, remembering to at least try to be civil.



He opened his eyes, bloodshot though they were, and took in his flatmates condition. He seemed well rested, and was handling Sherlock’s continued presence with the same professionalism he had last night, which was encouraging to say the least.



“Although, if you could fetch a morning paper, I should like to hear if there have been any updates on the recent chain of suicides.” If his theory was correct and there was more to these deaths than simple desperation, then by his estimate, there should have been a new body found by now.


000


"Sure, I think I can get one," John said plainly, though in his mind he was wondering at Sherlock’s knowledge and interest in the suicides. It seemed his new acquaintance not only read the news, but took a rather peculiar interest in it as well.

Going to the front door of the flat John picked up the newspaper on the threshold, placing it on the table next to the cap of water he had refilled for Sherlock and going to make himself some toast. “So what’s your interest in these suicides, then?" asked John, returning to the table with his bread and some jam. It was mostly an attempt to make small talk while he ate breakfast, but that was not to say his curiosity wasn’t piqued.


000


“Well they’re very interesting suicides.” Sherlock said, sitting up far too quickly, his enthusiasm outstripping his strength. He kept the grimace of pain in check, talking over it to conceal his discomfort from the doctor.

“Three identical suicides, each with the victim found in a place they had no reason to be, each killed via orally administered poison. The first death, October 12th, Sir Jeffrey Patterson. Successful business man, loving wife, loving mistress, died in an abandoned building merely an hour after telling his PA he was on his way to the office.

November 26th: One, James Phillimore, 18, no history of depression or other mental illness believe it or not, left his friend waiting in a downpour, apparently to fetch an umbrella from his nearby flat. Died two hours later in a gymnasium which had shut for the night.

              January 27th: Beth Davenport. Local MP, to the Ministry of Transport. Last seen alive at a party to celebrate her recent nomination. She’d been drunk, according to her assistant, who had removed the car keys from Beth’s purse to prevent her driving home. The next morning Mrs. Davenport is found dead in a container park three miles from her last known location.

All different ages, professions, emotional stability, and incomes. by looking at the victims themselves, it’s hard to discern a link. Why should suicides be linked? Ideally they shouldn’t, but these ones are, blatantly so. The signature circumstances of their deaths lends itself to more than mere coincidence.”

Sherlock was struggling to his feet, eager to unroll the newspaper.  


000


John listened intently, not bothering to conceal his interest. It wasn’t often he paid much attention to the news, especially not the crime part, but the way Sherlock explained it the circumstances seemed much more mysterious than a typical London incident. “Here, sit down, I’ll get that for you," the doctor said, not wanting Sherlock on his feet. Taking the newspaper he flipped it to the right page before holding it up for Sherlock to see. “This what you’re looking for?" he asked. In a small column was a report of a fourth suicide, alongside a statement by one Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. It seems Sherlock had been right yet again; the suicides were now being treated as linked, according to the police. John was beginning to wonder just how Sherlock knew all of this.


000


Sherlock was a bit miffed when John had forced him to sit, being rather used to doing things for himself, but all of this was forgotten as the pages unfolded before him, displaying the latest in the string of suicides.

His eyes tore through the story hungrily, absorbing ever detail. The more he saw, the more agitated he became.

“Wrong, wrong, a little bit right but still wrong. Why? Why are they still insisting it’s suicide?!”


000


"Maybe because they took the poison themselves?" John tried, stating the obvious. “I mean, what else could it possibly be?" Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to trust the police, for what reasons John could only guess. Still, they were the professionals, and certainly had more experience than an ex-army doctor and a five-inch tall man. So if they thought it was a suicide, John was more than willing to believe them.

"And even if it’s more than that, we can’t do anything about it," the doctor pointed out. “They’ll figure it out soon enough, whatever it is."


000


“Anything. Everything. There are multiple factors that could cause someone to take a poison pill. Perhaps they were being coerced, a family member was being threatened, or some third party convinced them they ought to take their own life. Playing upon Mr. Patterson’s adultery, or Mrs. Davenport’s history of alcoholism. It’s happened before. But the locations, the identical poisons, it’s all too tidy, too uniform to be anything but planned, carefully calculated and masterfully executed. The killer is clever, but that’s no excuse for the police  not to have put this together themselves by now. At this rate, we’ll have three more bodies before ‘soon enough’ rolls around.”  He pounded the table beneath him in frustration. He knew he could solve the case, if only he were allowed.


000


He had a point; somebody else could die before the Yard figured it out. John certainly did not like the sound of that. “Even so, what could we possibly do?" he asked, folding up the newspaper again and looking intently at Sherlock. “You can’t exactly go strolling into Scotland Yard to tell them your theories, now can you?" Not with his size or his leg- and even then the police didn’t consult amateurs.


000


“No, of course not.” Said Sherlock, his eyes locked intently on nothing, thinking about what his Human acquaintance had just said. “No, I can’t… The main reason being that I’m not human. But you are.” He felt the corners of his lips quirk upwards. He’d just hit upon a most novel idea.


000


John didn’t quite like the gleam that had sprung into his companion’s eyes. “What do you mean?" he asked hesitantly. A man daring enough to climb up windowsills and fight off rats twice his size certainly had limits far beyond John’s. Who knows what kind of insane plan Sherlock was making?


000


“What I mean, is no human in their right mind would take me seriously,” he said, not bothering to keep the traces of venom out of his voice. “Not being human, my ability to do almost anything of worth has been subject to certain… restrictions. You take it for granted, you know. Being talked to. Being ‘listened’ to. Having the ability and the right to leave the flat whensoever you choose. If I were human, I could solve this. No one else would have to die because of this killers little game.” He put that last bit in more for Johns benefit than any particular moral obligation. Just so long as he could prove he was right, finally have SOMEONE understand how clever he really was, he would be happy.



“As I stand right now, I can’t do these things, impeded as I am, but you Watson, you have no such disability.”


000


John stayed silent for a moment. It was a lot to take in, after all. Up until this point he hadn’t really thought of what Sherlock’s every day life must be like; of his challenges and need for secrecy. It was no wonder he seemed unused to talking to people. Everyone he met must see him as a freak at best, an animal at worst. It would be terrible. “Alright," John acquiesced with a sigh, making a decision for himself even as he said it. “I’ll help. What do you want me to do?" Sherlock’s certainty about catching a killer was compelling, and had stirred up John’s natural moral aptitude. If he could help in any way, he would take the opportunity. And after all, it wasn’t as if they could just sit around the flat all day making strained conversation with each other.


000


The smile on Sherlocks face was one of triumph, which he hid from John by rubbing his face as if he were tired.



“Well, right now, though I’m certain of what I know, I don’t know ‘enough.’ The papers and the internet are no substitute for first hand data. I need to see the latest crime scene.”


000


"And how do you suggest we do that?" John asked wryly. He had said he would help, and of course he meant to, but he had to draw the line somewhere. Attempting to get into an active crime scene most definitely crossed that line.


000


Instead of answering the question directly, sherlock looked John in the eye, an almost mischievous glint in his own. “John, could I possibly have a lend of your laptop?”


000


John sighed, but by now knew it was useless trying to wrest a real answer off the man. Sherlock was quite possibly the most stubborn personality he had ever met. “Fine," he agreed, and grabbed it from the kitchen counter where it was resting. Typing in his password he unlocked the laptop and set it down within reach of Sherlock.


000


Using the pin as a sort of poor mans cane, Sherlock got to his feet and hobbled onto the keyboard, his face not registering anything, despite the violent protest from his shaking leg.

Hmm, this would be a challenge. “I usually use a pencil stub to type,” He muttered to himself, hating the fact that his weakened leg would not support him should he start jabbing away at the keys the way he usually did. He didn’t particularly want John’s help for this one though, his pride demanding he do something for himself at last.


000


John inwardly winced as Sherlock stood up, but knew the small man wouldn’t tolerate being told to sit down again. “I think I saw one in the drawer," he responded, recalling that when he had pilfered through the kitchen the day before there had been a broken pencil in one. Turning around he rummaged through until he found it, a broken shaft with a nub of eraser still intact at the end. He held it up for Sherlock to see and asked, “Will this work?"


000


Sherlock nodded decisively, though his leg shuddered in protest. “That will do nicely. This could take a while, John. I’m not the fastest typist. Perhaps you would like to unpack your things?” He hinted gently, not enjoying the idea of John hovering over his shoulder while he struggled.


000


He got the hint. It had been the same when he was wounded- the need to feel independent and worthy and /able/, not just coddled and aided by everyone else. What Sherlock was going through was no mystery to John. “Right," the army doctor said, standing up and walking to the edge of the room. “Just, erm, holler when you’re done. And don’t put too much pressure on that leg." He gave Sherlock one last glance and left for the bedroom, hoping not to have to fix Sherlock up again when he returned.


000


Sherlock breathed what might have been a small sigh of relief when John understood his meaning and left to straighten his room, and undoubtedly twiddle his thumbs a bit while waiting for Sherlock to finish typing out a sentence. Despite everything he had come to think he was, indifferent, morally and emotionally detached, he liked John. He was useful, level headed, and above all, didn’t waste time asking stupid questions. He’d also given Sherlock what was without a doubt the single greatest gift he could ever have received, though John would probably never understand the full magnitude of his offer of help Sherlock investigate, REALLY investigate the cases he’d up until now only studied from afar.

He grunted as he lifted the pencil, putting as much weight as possible on his good leg.



There was of course, another reason he had wanted his new human alley out of the room. He had an idea that John might not actually approve of his hacking into Scotland Yard’s computer system…  


000


John left the bedroom door open so that he could hear Sherlock should he call. Looking down at his suitcase with a frown he wondered what exactly he was doing. It seemed as if his entire life had been turned upside-down since he had moved into 221B Baker Street. But despite all of his reservations, he found he enjoyed it. It was… refreshing to have somebody to talk to and something exciting to do, even if they were slightly abnormal. His therapist had told him he should write a blog about everything that happened to him. He couldn’t write up /everything/ that had happened to him- his therapist would lock him up- but perhaps he could write some of it. Perhaps it would help him get it all straight.

Speaking of which… he really should be unpacking. With the crisp efficiency of the military John began moving his few things to the lone dresser in the room thinking that maybe, if everything worked out, he would like to stay here for a while.


000


It was maybe an hour later when Sherlock let the pencil drop to the tabletop, exhaustedly doing the same himself, though with more care. He was drenched in sweat, and needed to get his breath back before he even thought about calling John. All in all, he was satisfied with his results. The crime scene had been cordoned off only this morning, the story making it into the paper with breakneck speed due to the latest victim being something of a big name in the entertainment industry.  The police had gone over everything with a fine tooth comb, and now it was time for all good coppers to head back to the yard to scratch their heads. There were some guards left around the crime scene, but after hacking into the surrounding CCTV footage, he was sure he’d found a way in where neither John nor he would not be spotted.



“John!” He called, once again sounding composed, if not looking the part.


000


John had been resting on the bed when Sherlock called. “Find what you needed?" inquired the doctor as he entered the kitchen, displeased to see Sherlock had exerted himself but relieved that his leg still seemed intact. Those bandages still needed changing, however, and he planned to do so before anything else ridiculous got under way.


000


Sherlock perched on the edge of the laptop, feet resting easily on the table. He would have looked the picture of nonchalance, if it weren’t for the strange dampness of his shirt and the tell tale tremor of his left leg.



“Of course I did,” He answered blithely. “I’ve plotted out the rout we will take to get into the crime scene unnoticed, the time at which we will do it, and exactly how much time we’ll have before someone catches on to us. Are you up for a little adventure, John?”  


000


"I’m not so sure about this…" John replied. He was not wholly unprepared for this; considering Sherlock’s nature it was a likely suggestion. “It’s pretty illegal to sneak into a crime scene, you know. And /you/ may not be able to get arrested, but I certainly can." Reaching for the first aid kit he opened it back up again and took out what he would need. “Regardless, that leg of yours needs looked at. I need to make sure there isn’t some nasty infection settling in."


000


Sherlock looked back at John, a little, well, a /lot/ put out by his reaction. “Pretty illegal,” he muttered, just barely loud enough for John to hear. “Worse than murder? Because that’s what will happen again if someone doesn’t put the police on the right track.” He sighed, still making no move to submit to John’s ministrations.  “Fine then, a compromise. You take me to the building and drop me off. I’ll find my own way up to the room the fourth victim was found in and meet you once I’m done. Is that a suitable arrangement?”  


000


John shook his head, but held up a finger before Sherlock could protest. “I don’t want you walking around any more on that leg. I’ll get you into the crime scene if you let me change out your bandages right now. Deal?" He wouldn’t admit it to Sherlock, but the idea of sneaking into somewhere forbidden thrilled him at a deep level. Besides, Sherlock had a point about the murder thing, and he seemed to know what he was doing. If they did it right, nobody need know they had been there at all.

More than that, it seemed the only way to get Sherlock to cooperate with his medical administrations.


000


That small, smug smile returned to tug at Sherlock’s lips. “Deal.” He said, sliding from the laptop so he could lay flat on the table, allowing the doctor easier access to his injury. He knew John would come around, if only he suggested he stay out of the exciting bit.


000


The doctor breathed a sigh of relief and set about carefully tending to Sherlock’s leg. It was still looking pretty gruesome, but there was no sign of infection or crippling muscle damage. Better yet, it had seemed to miss the bone entirely. John cleaned it out again to be on the safe side and applied the same cream he had the night before. Wrapping it up again in clean bandages he looked at his work in approval. It seems he hadn’t lost his touch after all. “Alright, you’re all set," he informed Sherlock, and cleaned up the old bandages as well as the first aid kit.


000


He hardly noticed the pain at all this time. How could he? His eyes were bright, his mind ticking over, his excitement near palpable. Today he would finally get to apply his methods to something truly devious. These weren’t the childs play deductions he made from the safety of his flat. He knew, given the extra data and the added risk, that he would have to complete a solid, believable case out of this. For his own satisfaction, and of course for John, should he be nicked.

He willed himself upright and stood to attention, like a greyhound itching to leave the gate. “We’ll have to leave soon John,” he blurted eagerly. “The longer we wait, the staler the evidence!”


000


Sherlock had never seemed so excited, so animate; John marveled at the change. “You said you had a time that would work best," he reminded Sherlock, giving up on getting the man to sit down and rest his leg. He himself felt the patter of anticipation in his chest, one he hadn’t felt since the war. They were about to do something very real and very risky; and he loved it. In the most unlikely of people he had found a kindred spirit.


000


“The safest time to attempt our entry would be late tonight, around three am perhaps. The most convenient time to arrive would have been early this morning, when the body was fresh. The optimum balance of safety and convenience should be around eleven forty five am. If we leave now, we should arrive with a few minutes in pocket change. Always wise when relying on London taxi service.”


000


For a moment John wondered about Sherlock’s experiences with the London taxi service, but quickly put that out of his mind and focused on more pressing matters. To his astonishment, he realized he already trusted Sherlock enough to agree to this mid-day scheme. “I’ll get my coat," he simply announced. Pulling the familiar coat over his jumper he returned to the kitchen. Looking from Sherlock to himself he pondered aloud, “What would be the best way to do this?"


000


It was something to which Sherlock had given some thought, when the idea of using John as a sort of human taxi service of his own had come to mind. “Your jacket has a breast pocket in the interior lining. No don’t look like that, I haven’t invaded your privacy, it’s a standard design in your brand of coat. I will ride in said pocket, if you’ve no objection. Oh and bring your phone. Not many people speak to their chest. The phone should make you look sane enough.”


000


It seemed Sherlock had figured everything out, down to the last detail. Since his phone was already in his pocket, John reached for Sherlock. His hand hovered near the small man as he struggled with what to say. Sure, he had picked up Sherlock before, but that was in a different situation, and Sherlock hadn’t been in any state to protest. This… this was awkward. John eventually settled with a hesitant “Uhm, may I?"


000


Oh for god’s sake, this should not be giving him pause. Despite everything, the planning, the adventure, his newfound partnership with a man who had shown nothing but compassion and willingness to assist Sherlock in his greatest ambition, he still barely managed to suppress a flinch as the human’s hand reached for him. Curse his feeble body’s primitive reactions. They were getting in the way of work.



“Yes, yes you may.” he said impatiently, more frustrated with himself than Watson.  


000


With trepidation and a great amount of discomfiture John wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s torso and legs, being especially careful near the injured one. As smoothly and gently as he could he slipped the small man into his inside breast pocket. “Are you okay?" he asked, looking down at Sherlock and finding the angle unusual and troublesome. “That didn’t hurt your leg, did it?" He wasn’t sure what to think of moving Sherlock with his own hands; it seemed like such an invasion of his privacy.


000


“Fine, everything’s fine John!” Sherlock called, feeling anything but. His leg did hurt from the slight drop and awkward angle, but he’d never tell John that. More than that though, was the immense discomfort of his proximity to Watson. He’d never been much of a man for physical contact, but here, in this very warm, very dark cloth hammock, he felt himself pressed up against the man’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his enormous heart- almost as large as Sherlock himself- and the deep thrum of his lungs- the size of a small room- filling and emptying of air. He’d felt almost completely at ease with John for a while. It was quite the reality check, being this close and realizing once again how small he really was. But all discomfort aside, he was still excited for the excursion to come, and wouldn’t have left John’s pocket now for the world.


000


John zipped up his coat halfway, leaving Sherlock room to move and breathe but giving the pocket more stability. It wouldn’t do to have his jacket flapping about with an injured man inside.

Inside his coat… this certainly was a new experience. He could feel Sherlock’s every movement against his chest, every rustle and shift. It was strange to say the least. Never before had he felt so big in comparison to someone, so bulky and indelicate. The feeling wasn’t a pleasant one. Still, he couldn’t stop and wonder at it; they had a crime scene to sneak into. He walked down the stairs and out onto the street, raising the arm opposite Sherlock to hail a cab. Realizing he didn’t know where they were going he pulled out his phone and held it to his ear, before asking Sherlock, “What’s the address?" A cab pulled up and he slipped inside, still waiting for the response.


000


“22 Northumberland Street.” he called, relying on the heavy jacket to muffle his voice from all but Watsons ears. He itched to have a look outside. He’d never observed London from the point of view of a normal human in a cab, but he knew well enough to stay put, no matter how long the cab ride took.


000


"22 Northumberland Street," John relayed to the cabbie, resisting the urge to look down into his pocket. He kept the phone at his ear in case Sherlock wanted to talk but relaxed back into the seat, content to watch London race by out the window. He loved the city; he couldn’t bear to live anywhere else. Idly he wondered what the enormous city looked like from Sherlock’s perspective, if it seemed lonelier or more dangerous. It must be entirely different from what John took for granted.


000


They did not speak much during the long cab ride. Sherlock had thought it prudent to keep their interaction to a minimum while in public. But when he felt the cab slow down, and he felt the unmistakable sensation of John exiting into the street proper, he finally spoke up. “There should be an Italian restaurant nearby. Looked like a good place to observe the address until the time comes. Take a window seat and order some lunch. I’m starving.”


000


John did as Sherlock asked, finding a quaint little bistro on the corner next to the address. Taking a seat by the front window he smiled politely at the waiter and took a sip of his water, looking quickly over the menu. He chose the first thing that sounded good and ordered it. “Food’s on the way," he informed Sherlock, his phone at his ear and his eyes looking out over the street. “Are you still all right?" Even with the smooth drive it was John’s worry that Sherlock’s leg could have been jostled too much.


000


“Really John, you are taking this mother hen thing too far. I’ve managed my entire life without assistance and I have, occasionally, endured similar wounds.” Almost true.



“Though I must say you’re taking all of this incredibly easily. Have you stopped to consider what it is you’re doing right now? About to intrude on a crime scene on the suggestion of a tiny man you’ve known for all of twelve hours, who is currently sitting in your pocket? I’m curious. /I/ know my conclusions are correct, but why do you?”


000


John was about to retort something snarky about not being a mother hen but his /doctor/, but Sherlock’s next questions stopped him in his tracks. Yes, he had thought through it a bit, but had he ever considered /why/ he felt the way he did? He certainly wasn’t going to figure that out in time to answer Sherlock.

"You seem to know what you’re talking about, and you haven’t been wrong yet," he said, somewhat evading the question. “Besides, you’re my patient, it’s my responsibility to look out for you, and you obviously seem determined to go." He took a sip of water and avoided Sherlock’s gaze. To be honest he didn’t know why he was doing what he was. It was all so unusual; perhaps unusual enough that he decided to skip his usual amount of sane skepticism and go straight to the rash action part.


000


Inside the pocket, out of sight of the doctor, Sherlock smiled. It was an evasive answer, which indicated that John wasn’t entirely sure why he’d done what he’d done in following his patient’s instructions.  It would have been vexing, if Sherlock wasn’t already sure he understood exactly what had motivated his human flatemate. He didn’t bother to bring the subject up though, feeling a surge of satisfaction that Watson had actually acknowledged the fact that he had been right on all counts so far. It seemed such a small thing, but recognition wasn’t something he was used to, and he found he rather enjoyed it.



Instead, he asked a different question. “John, what do you see when you look at our crime scene?  who’s standing outside, what are they doing?”


000


John peered more intently out the window, looking at the address across the way. “It’s fairly empty, almost nobody’s around at this time of day. A couple people are on the sidewalk but they just walk by and… wait…" He paused as a cab pulled up in front of the address. It stopped there, but showed no signs of picking anybody up or dropping anybody off. “A cab pulled up," John continued, “it’s stopped right now but doesn’t seem to be doing anything."


000


“Get the number, we can worry about it later. We can’t afford to chase tangents now. Investigating the crime scene is time sensitive. We need to get in before they move the body to the morgue!” Sherlock insisted, trying to straighten up and sneak a peek outside of the pocket.


000


John dutifully memorized the license plate number and tucked it away in his mind for reference later. Feeling Sherlock moving he opened his coat a bit more, allowing him to see out the window John was looking through. “So where do we go from here?" he asked, wondering what kind of roundabout way they were going to take into the crime scene. The food came and he thanked the waiter with a brief glance.