Not quite the month I was expecting. ^^ This story really likes being written and who am I to deny it? Thank you for all the lovely reviews. Everyone that likes this chapter better say thanks to Assonant who reminded me that I was writing this story. S/he made my muse chatty and happy.
Do you really think I own Sherlock? If I did I'd feel bad for everyone watching the show, it would take me forever to get episodes out, and I'm just not motivated until the muse bites to the bone.
I'm playing with line breaks, please bear with me.
John Hamish Watson
John awoke the ringing of Harry's phone. She was out for the day doing whatever crime bosses did nowadays so John quickly answered. "The Watson household, how may I help you?" He does not give his name as that would give the game away; the guess would probably that he is hired help for the shop.
"I'm reporting that Sherlock is on the move. He returned to London yesterday, and had accessed the files on the murder of John Hamish Watson. He seems angry and should probably be approached with caution." A monotone voice says. John almost grins into the phone; Sherlock is back and will soon have figured it out.
"Does the press know?" John asks. He knows who is talking and knows the line is secure.
The voice draws a sharp breath, "Not yet, but they are like a blood hound, they won't stop until they get the story. Would you like us to keep them unaware until the goal is reached?"
John thinks for a second then gives his consent, "Yes, though deaths will be kept at minimum. Warn the Passorna Family that they will be getting a visit soon. Who knows by now that Sherlock Holmes still lives?"
"Just Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, his assistant- who is called Camellia for today, and Molly know he can still walk and talk."
"Good, your money will arrive soon, thank you for being of service." John says and waits for a reply.
It forth comes a few seconds later, "Always a pleasure to serve the Watson Family. Stay safe, stay strong." The phone disconnects then and John is left with a wide grin and a lighter heart. Sherlock is back in London, where he belongs, and soon John will be with him.
The first thing Sherlock notices after escaping the clutches of his dear brother's assistant, is that something is off with the murder. Yes, the man has John's face, clothes, and groceries, but the gun is missing. Plus the cane is not quite right; the chemical burn for one of his later experiments is missing. It is not a new cane either, Sherlock would have known if John had gotten a new cane. This led to the inevitable conclusion that this was not John, but was supposed to be him. Whether the body was purposely misleading for Sherlock or for the rest of the world, or simply a miscommunication, John was probably in danger. Sherlock's hyper aware mind focused on that one thing, John was possibly in danger. John was not supposed to be in danger, or at least not danger that Sherlock could not control. John needed danger to some extent to survive and Sherlock was not interesting in stifling something that made his doctor so interesting, but the idea of John being in over his head and possibly being hurt by someone simply because Sherlock decided to jump of a building to stop John from getting a sniper bullet though his head made Sherlock's blood boil. His eyes narrowed and he filed away bits of data that he observed. Right now he needed to focus on the important not the inconsequential.
Why was John targeted?
Why had someone gone to such great lengths to make everyone think it was John?
Who knew John intimately enough to pull off a fake John in less than three months?
And who had the connections to do so?
The questions answered themselves and Sherlock wondered what he had done to make his brother so angry. It was now null and obsolete though, as even Mycroft would pay for touching Sherlock's doctor. Mycroft was not a singular option, of course. There were others who could have done it- the mysterious Harriet, who gave a lover's phone to John to keep in contact, Clara who had occasionally bothered to set up lunches with John on days there were no cases. Of course a third party who had collected enough data to create an almost believable John Watson was also a possibility. There simply was not enough data without seeing the crime scene first hand, pictures could only show so much.
Plus, the gunshot wound did not appear to have been what killed the man in the photo who was not John. It would seem a likely cause but it appeared to be post mortem, Sherlock was willing to bet the man died of natural causes and was given surgery and a shot after death. Who had connections to do that though? The answer lead back to Mycroft, but it was not Mycroft. There was evidence to support that, and his brother knew the consequences of touching his doctor. Sherlock whipped out his Blackberry frustrated and typed in "Harriet Watson" simply to see what would come up. He was surprised to see a shop called Mortuary which was a family business and little else. Sherlock had never thought in his many deductions and analysis of John Watson that a family business, dealing mostly with murderers who wanted to start clean, would be part of it. His homeless network had often talked of Mortuary citing it as a place to go to find safety.
Mycroft Holmes & Harriet Watson
It was a business meeting of the most interesting kind. A high end restaurant that made even some of the rich and powerful diplomats he entertained uncomfortable, yet Harry seemed at ease. Or more accurately, he supposed, at ease but pretending not to be. It was all small talk right now with Mycroft responding without thinking, all mundane safe topics. That was until Harry sighed and splayed her hand on the table, "I know this isn't a social meet, Mr. Holmes, so care to tell me why you have had me kidnapped on my way to a job interview?"
"I don't think you actually need that job, Miss. Watson, your mother and father left you a sizeable inheritance." Mycroft replied smoothly.
Harry snorted quietly, "My brother just died, Mr. Holmes, he always wanted me to stop drinking and support myself."
"A bit too late isn't it, Miss. Watson?"
"I would have preferred to do it before he passed away but it didn't work out that way. Now if you'll excuse me, I must leave." With those worlds and a sniffle, Harry abruptly stood and stormed out of the restaurant. Mycroft was sure; the tears streaming down her face were false. Pointing it out would not have been beneficial to his cause, but his theory had been cemented, Harry knew something and was more then she appeared.
"If you weren't lesbian, and I wasn't gay, Harriet, it would've worked out." Mycroft murmured to himself as he sat alone sipping wine at his table, absentmindedly noting that the rest of the bottle was missing, along with his phone.