Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

The Science of Seduction	By : aineko Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 4042 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I own no part of BBC Sherlock and make no profit from this work

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
It wasn't much of a square, more a random open space a couple of minutes' walk from the railway station, and hence a natural haunt for the local homeless. Most of the surrounding properties were either boarded up or heavily padlocked. A mobile soup kitchen was set up at one end, a trestle table next to it held a large tea urn and a few stacks of pamphlets.

There were several uniformed police in the square when they got there, attempting to question the assorted human dross that frequented it. Most of them looked unwilling to help, and would probably be long gone if not for the prospect of a free meal. The coppers knew it too and targeted them as they stood in line.

"Anything?" Sherlock asked his guide. Lass frowned as he looked around, doing his best to look inconspicuous.

"Don't see 'im... Wait. There." Lass almost pointed, but remembered in time. "That bloke there. Handing out the tea. Big bloke."

Sherlock followed the boy's gaze. "Blond, dark coat, red scarf?"

"Yeah. That's 'im been preaching to Tone."

"John?"

"I see him," the doctor replied.

Sherlock nodded grimly. "Right. Thanks, Lass." He slipped the boy another tenner and told him to run along. Lass took off so quickly he might never even have been there.

"Surely the police will -" John began.

"No, they'll think he's been busy here all night," Sherlock cut him off. He strode off, not towards the stall but catching up with one of the uniforms. "Call Lestrade," he said without preamble. "That man next to the soup van, blond, tall, fit, dark coat and red scarf. Knew the victim."

"'Ere, how d'you -"

"Call him!" Sherlock snapped. God, the stupidity! "Tell him Sherlock Holmes said so."

"Just do it," John added quietly, offering an apologetic smile. "Really." The uniform looked sour, but reached for her radio. "And you wonder why the police love you so much," he added for Sherlock's benefit.

"It's not a popularity contest," Sherlock pouted.

"No, but you might try the magic word once in a - where're you going?" Sherlock had set off abruptly and was already halfway across the square before John caught up.

"Wait," he hissed, trying to restrain the detective without rousing attention. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"They're beginning to pack up," Sherlock hissed back. "If we don't move now we're going to lose him."

John glanced swiftly at the soup kitchen. Sherlock was right, the charity workers were winding down, probably due to their customer base disappearing. One officer was talking to one of the soup servers, but otherwise the police didn't seem particularly interested in the group. Sherlock ignored them, heading straight for the stall.

"Hi," he said with a poorly faked smile; John mentally rolled his eyes. Sherlock was beyond a doubt the hammiest of hams when it came to acting, no matter how brilliant he might otherwise be. "Can I see one of those?" he went on now, reaching for the pamphlets the blond man had been about to stick in a box. The man, probably caught off-guard by Sherlock's approach, relinquished a couple of copies.

Sherlock did a swift assessment of him as he took the pamphlets. Mid- to late thirties, slightly overweight, the hair clearly dyed, didn't let religion get in the way of vanity then, one earlobe pierced, no ring or stud but looked to have held one recently, his general appearance at odds with the piety implied in volunteering for a soup kitchen. And - ah - grubby fingernails, a distinct red tinge to them - no way of cleaning up properly. Even a dark smear on the cuff of his sweatshirt where it peeked from his jacket sleeve. Poor planning. Sloppy. A disgrace to the serial killer profession.

Sherlock handed the pamphlets to John. "Look familiar?" he asked in a low voice.

"Hmm." Identical to the one found by Tiny Tone's body. John unfolded one, skimming the contents; essentially a drugs-awareness folder laced with scripture. Choose Jesus. He doubted they got many converts from this.

Meanwhile Sherlock was gabbling away to the blond, who was beginning to look impatient. "No, actually, it's a funny thing," he was saying, "only last week I bumped into this kid, I knew his brother at uni, see, and Tony - well, not doing too good, really, asked me if I could spare a fiver so's he could get himself a hot meal, well I thought he looked a bit -" John wondered briefly if Sherlock was trying to goad the man into some kind of rash reaction, or whether he was just stalling him until Lestrade's arrival. If the inspector was on his way, even. Better be ready to run, just in case.

"- well he admitted he'd pretty much hit bottom but he'd met this religious bloke -" Sherlock was saying. "Said the chap made a whole lot of sense, that maybe he did have the right idea, the church fella, I mean, not Tony, though if finding God helps him get his life straight... Anyway, he said he'd met him down this way on Thursdays, so I thought I'd pop round, I'm trying to find him, see, Tony that is, and I wondered if you'd seen him...?"

"I haven't seen him," the man replied curtly, turning away and placing his box of pamphlets into the back of his van.

"Oh, so you know him?" Sherlock's fake smile had vanished. John let his gaze slide around the square and spotted DI Lestrade talking to the WPC Sherlock had pissed off earlier. The inspector caught sight of them and started walking in their direction.

"- maybe? What's he look like?" The blond man was apparently trying to get himself out of the verbal trap Sherlock had set.

"Oh," John heard the detective reply, "about five-six, skinny, bleached hair, slashed thro-" He didn't get any further; the man ducked suddenly sideways out from behind his stall, shoved a couple of stragglers aside, and ran.

Sherlock grinned to himself as he pelted down the alley in hot pursuit. Ah, he'd missed this! Being flat-bound for days was no fun when it was forced upon one; it felt good to stretch his legs again.

He tore around a corner, John somewhere behind him, his quarry perhaps thirty metres out in front. No problem, he told himself, reaching inside for a little mental boost. No problem...

Except he was...

Winded.

What!

No, damn it, this was not happening. He wasn't... But his prey had slowed down too, up ahead. Good. He'd take the bastard down, John would be along in a moment, nobody need ever know he'd been out of breath. Not even John...

He reached another corner. Which way? He realized he'd taken his eye off the target for an instant's introspection. Idiot!

Right. The man had hooked left before. He'd go right second time.

Sherlock went right.

Into an empty alley.

This wasn't right.

He turned -

- and was thrown against the wall with considerable force.

He hit the bricks hard, seeing sparks as his head made contact. The man was strong, he realized, a considerable amount of his bulk must be muscle, and he outweighed the detective by at least thirty kilos. Sherlock could feel himself struggling to get free. I should have listened to -

John.

Came barreling around the corner, took one look at the scene, and threw himself straight at Sherlock's attacker, pushing him sideways off him. The detective gasped with relief and clung to the wall to keep himself upright. Good old John to the rescue, giving their suspect an excellent demonstration of his army training, hanging on the man's back with both arms hooked firmly around his throat. Sherlock felt like cheering.

Then he saw the knife, light glinting off the blade.

"John!" he cried.

John looked across at him, lost focus for a second.

Sherlock tried to throw himself forward, but he was too weak, too slow...

John slipped.

The assailant twisted towards him.

The knife flashed. And then it didn't.

John screamed and hit the ground, and then he didn't scream any more.

Sherlock fell to his knees and stared at the body in horror. John was...

Because Sherlock had been reckless, because he'd been slow, John was...

He felt weak, groggy. He felt helpless.

"Lestrade!" he screamed.

The inspector came jogging round the corner, saw the tableau in front of him, and froze. Someone else appeared behind him. "Sir?" Donovan.

"Get an ambulance round here now!" Lestrade ordered. She raised her radio and began speaking. "What happened?" Lestrade went on, now kneeling on the opposite side of the fallen doctor, examining him by flashlight.

"H-he..." Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Your scarf, now!" The inspector's suddenly harsh tone made Sherlock jump. It also shocked him back to the here and now. Numbly he tugged the scarf from his neck. Lestrade yanked it from him and wadded it up, pressing the resulting pad against John's upper arm. John groaned.

"Hold on, John," Lestrade muttered. "You'll be fine." He glanced up at Sherlock. "What happened?" he asked again.

"I... he tricked me," he managed. Bright light flooded the scene. "Threw me into the wall. John -"

A paramedic came hurrying up and unceremoniously told him to 'get up, she had work to do.' He was about to protest when Lestrade grabbed his arm.

"Over here, Sherlock. Give them room to help, okay?" He led Sherlock over to the ambulance, where another paramedic took one look at the detective and reached for a heavy crocheted blanket. He draped it around Sherlock's shoulders; the patient just stood there meekly letting it happen, his attention on the action down the alley.

"Again, Sherlock, from the beginning," he heard Lestrade say.

"I was an idiot. John told me to take it easy, but I didn't listen." He drew a shaky breath. "I was... tired. Winded. He... the suspect tried to knock me out. John caught up with us, tried to help me... didn't see the knife..." He shuddered, glad of the blanket.

The two paramedics came back towards the ambulance, wheeling the gurney between them. Sherlock stared; John's eyes were open, he looked a little groggy, though. Catching sight of the detective he mumbled: "Sherlock?"

Sherlock thanked a God he didn't believe in. "Yes, John," he replied, but for some reason it was hard to speak, it felt as if he had something stuck in his throat. He swallowed to clear it. "I'm here," he went on.

"Sir, we need to get him to the hospital," one of the paramedics told him.

"I'm coming with you -" Sherlock began.

"You're coming with me," Lestrade contradicted him. "I want a proper statement from you. Don't worry, I'll see you're updated." He dragged Sherlock away; he wanted so badly to punch the inspector's lights out for doing that. But all he could do was watch helplessly as the ambulance drove off.

He was perhaps halfway through his statement - it was hard to concentrate, his thoughts kept turning to John - when Donovan interrupted them with a "They've got him, sir."

Both men looked up; Sherlock saw their suspect being half-escorted, half-shoved into the tiny square. He felt the anger rising, all he knew was John's pale face as they loaded him into the ambulance, the smell of his blood, the sound of his cry and the terrible silence that followed -

"Sherlock."

He blinked. He hadn't even realized he'd started to move until he felt Lestrade's hand restraining him. He close his eyes, force himself to breathe deeply until he felt his jaw unclench. Swallowed hard; there was that obstruction in his throat again. He hoped he wasn't getting sick again; if he did who would look after John?

His thoughts were getting a little strange again, he realized.

He watched motionless as the suspect was helped into a police car.

At the A&E a nurse took a quick look at the abrasions on his head from where he'd hit the wall. Any dizziness, nausea, blackouts, double vision...? No? Nothing to worry about, then. Sherlock could have told her that.

He asked her about John. All she would say was that he was being taken care of. He insisted. She said sorry but as he wasn't family she couldn't release confidential information. He wanted to yell at her that he was as good as family, more so than the patient's useless drunk of a sister... but he caught himself in time. Getting himself thrown out would be counterproductive. So he bit back the half-dozen insults he'd got lined up and went to pace in the waiting area.

God, he wanted a cigarette. And he didn't even have a patch.

Forty-seven minutes. Still nothing.

Fifty-three minutes, and footsteps came from behind him. Sherlock whirled around. It was Lestrade.

"How is he?" the inspector asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "She won't tell," he said angrily, nodding at the nurse.

Lestrade looked thoughtful. "Let me try," he suggested. Sherlock watched him walk briskly to the counter and showing the nurse something - must be his warrant card. He gritted his teeth. This was ridiculous! Why couldn't they just tell him directly -

Lestrade came back. "John's doing fine -" Good. "- but they want to keep him in for observation -"

"Observation!?"

"Sherlock, that was a nasty cut he got," Lestrade told him firmly. "And he banged his head. The want to keep an eye on him in case of concussion."

"I can observe him at home!" The words flew out before Sherlock could stop them.

Lestrade gave him an odd look; Sherlock reminded himself that the inspector and John were on good speaking terms generally. He would rather not have word of his erratic behaviour get back to his flatmate.

"I'm... concerned about him," he tried to explain. Surely concern was normal? Instead he received another funny look before Lestrade said, "In that case you should realize the hospital is the best place for him. If something should happen..."

He'd be useless, he realized bitterly. He didn't even know basic first aid. He'd been completely and utterly useless in that alley.

"But John's a doctor," he managed feebly. "He'll be fine." I need him with me, he didn't add.

"We'll see what the doctor says," Lestrade said neutrally. It took Sherlock a moment to grasp that 'doctor' didn't refer to John. He kept silent. He didn't trust himself to speak.

The doctor said no. She talked at length about the patient's overall condition, explained that there was really nothing to be concerned about, John was fine, the cut in his arm wasn't too serious and he'd make a full recovery, and there was no reason for concern -

"Then let him come home!" Sherlock exploded. "They're always complaining in the media about cutbacks! Free up a bed then!"

The doctor stood firm. John Watson would most likely be discharged tomorrow morning -

"Most likely!?"

- but he was staying in overnight. And if Mr Holmes didn't calm himself down right now she would have security eject him, forcibly if need be.

"That won't be necessary," Lestrade said. "Sherlock, you're leaving. Now."

"But -"

"Now. Or I'll have you arrested for causing a disturbance, and you can spend the night in a cell. Your choice."

Sherlock glared at him, at the doctor, then turned on his heel and stalked off.
- 6
- 7
- 8
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Science of Seduction