Title: Midnight Bridge Ketamine pt.1
Prompt: Midnight, on the bridge. Come alone.
Warnings: Mentions (barely, like literally a paragraph or two and not in detail) of suicide
Synopsis: Soon after the 3rd episode of season one, The Great Game, of BBCâs Sherlock, John Watson finds himself investigating once more with his good olâ pal Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock is of course as difficult and distant as always. Letâs begin!
Side note: alike to the original sherlock stories, John Watson will be our narrator
â221B Baker Street, now with that I shall be off,â Sherlock turned his head quickly. âLetâs go John. If they want our work still, theyâll come see us personally.â I rolled my eyes at Sherlockâs usual calm and self-important manner, but followed loyally as he stepped out of the door. The murder victim was left behind with a small pool of blood near her arms, I noted how calm Sherlock had been while doing his deductions, something I should be used to, but couldnât wrap my head around how he stayed so unemotionally attached to a figure of a small, beautiful girl who was newly wed. I sighed.
It was already deduced by Sherlock that it was the maid that did this and the victim was having an affair with her neighbor down the street. The maid figured out and planned to kill the lady of the house before she could take action against the maid. Of course, he didnât tell Lestrade this or anyone else but me because their baffled looks were perfect and if they couldnât see something so simple in front of them as this, then Sherlock sure wasnât going to help. This is naturally coming from Sherlock himself for I could never guess at this.
âWho do they think I am?â Sherlock declared as we burst from the mansion of a house. âJust some servant thatâll do all the work for them?â
âIf I may say so,â I inputed as we began to walk down the frigid street. âThat entire story wasnât too obvious and from those slashes on the wrist, anyone could regard it as a suicide.â I knew that by playing against his words that I could possibly see into Sherlockâs head and figure out why and how he had found this, something I would be able to put into my blog.
âAh, but hereâs the thing that no one thought to look at, clearly,â Sherlock shoved both hands in his trenchcoat pockets. âThere were rope marks indented in her jean pants or indications of them and there were faint lines along her mouth where a piece of cloth could be tied around her head, over her mouth. To add to this conclusion, her lipstick was slightly smudged near the left corner. You could say it was from a heated meeting with her secret lover, but then why would only the corner be smudged and not her whole mouth? Obviously this would mean the maid had tied her up and then went on with her plan.â
âBut why a maid?â I inquired further as we rounded a corner. Sherlock appeared to have a migraine as he rubbed his temple in frustration and then opened his mouth to continue speaking, his curly black hair falling back into place.
âOnly this particular maid would have it out because one, Mrs. Graceland clearly had the man over more than once you would see if you noticed the used condoms, at least three, in the trashcan near the door as we made our way into the room and based upon who Mrs. Graceland was having the affair with, the maidâs husband,â Sherlocked noted. âConvenient and predictable, yes, but impossible, no. Itâs odd you could say that Mrs. Graceland would go after her mere maidâs husband, but if you looked further into the maid, who is named Rachel Carter if you cared to know and is probably still working with Mr. Graceland, youâd figure out that her and her husband had been married for five years and were distant. Mrs. Carter worked all the time and Mr. Carter just wrote for the paper occasionally and enjoyed life.
Now to change the subject to more evidence as to this murderer's motivation being an affair, thereâs the curious case of a missing wedding ring that shouldâve been on Mrs. Gracelandâs ring finger since she was supposedly happily married to Mr. Graceland; so where did the ring go? Easy, it was on the dresser if you bothered to look among her other extravagant rings and earrings in a small, open box, youâd see a special diamond ring of 4 carrots are so, expensive to say the least. She left it there on the dresser while she went over to Mr. Carterâs house since Mrs. Carter was home. Mrs. Carter was smart, she knew what was going on, so she followed, if you noticed, the footprints.
âThe footprints?â I broke into Sherlockâs story, making sure I was following and wished desperately that I had brought a notepad to write every detail down.
âYes yes! The footprints on the carpet, because Mrs. Carter in such a shock couldnât be bothered to wipe her feet as she approached Mrs. Graceland the night after the event took place. They were faint and faded, Iâll give Lestrade that, but not invisible. She probably tried to hide her tracks. Furthermore, did you notice the footprints on the mat?â
âWhich ones?â I questioned as I thought back to the mud covered mat at their front door. The police force had first burst in here when Mr. Graceland had called them and then Lestradeâs team had mudded up it even more. By the time Sherlock and I had gotten to the house, it was practically covered completely with footprints.
âThe ones with a heal indent and instead of being just dirty from mud in the sidewalk was covered in bits of gravel, thin, hardly noticeable; meaning she had been near Mr. Carterâs house which had a gravel driveway. There were bits of gravel stuck in the mat near two outlines of shoes about a size 4 (6 in US shoe sizes) and then there was a single footmark inside the house itself. Now since her stride was comfortable at only a small distance, 170.99026 centimeters then divide that by around 1.04902 centimeters youâd get 163. It just so happens that our dear maid was this exact height. Though Iâm being exact and overly the point being is that I looked into the maid, since she was one of the subjects, and she is indeed 163 as well as suffering from paranoia that her husband will leave her and she needs him because she feels-â
âWould it kill you once Sherlock,â I began to comment as we continued to walk, feeling the sudden urge to point it out. âTo not meddle or look into private affairs?â Sherlock paused a moment, the two of us walking in silence as he flipped over the comment. He then looked down towards me.
âWhy?â Sherlock only wondered. âIt helped me solve the case and so it was useful. Therefore why would I not look into everything I could.â Baffled I paused on the side of pavement to hiss at Sherlock.
âBecause it is undignified and highly rude to look into private affairs without the subject with the private affairsâ permission,â I lectured. âYou know better than me that many people would prefer you to âpiss offâ when you find stuff like that out about them.â
âAnd I wouldnât if it wasnât so plainly visible on the person,â Sherlock only commented as we began to walk once more. âYou never seemed to mind, a reason why weâre still room mates after all.â I blushed as I looked away at a nearby flower shop that caught my eye so that I wouldnât meet Sherlockâs gaze.
âWell thatâs why I said many people,â I mentioned practically muttering it under my breath. I could hear a chuckle from Sherlockâs direction and shot him a curious look, but he didnât take notice and just stared ahead at what we were walking towards. Letting out a sigh, we both continued towards home and a nice cup of tea that was deeply needed at this point.
Upon reaching the flat, Sherlock unwound the scarf around his neck, took of his jacket in one swoop and then collapsed on the couch with a dramatic sigh, taking the plaid blanket sitting on top of it and wrapping himself up. I myself took off my jacket and hung it neatly on the coat rack, even attempted to fix the messily placed coat and scarf belonging to Sherlock and then shook it off because it hardly mattered. Â I took to my own chair where my laptop sat, still overheating from two hours before, and moved it on the table nearby. Sherlock didnât speak for a few moments as he decompressed from whatever he was feeling at the moment, which was most likely disappointed if I knew anything about my companion. With the brainlessness he felt was all around him, there was no doubt that he needed to be left alone to his own thoughts.
âWell I should be heading to my room and getting ready for tonight,â I let him know as I stood to my feet after a minute passed and there was only silence.
âWhy?â Sherlock asked as he opened his eyes and gazed up at me as I walked by the couch. He looked like a mess. His black, curly hair hardly brushed and the dark circles under his eyes didnât need a master detective like Sherlock to tell one that he had spent all night up doing God only knows what. His blue eyes searched my face for an answer, not needing my response, but I said it anyway.
âIâm going on a date if you must know,â I said simply. âDid you want to do something tonight?â Sherlock waved me off and placed his hands on his face, still laying down with the blanket covering the rest of his body. I then left the room for my own.
I began to head down the hall, curious why Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be found, lurking about in the flat, but no matter. She had a life of her own and quite frankly it was none of my business where she was, so I continued to my room.
âHello there John,â I heard as I entered the room. My heart thudded in my chest and I looked upwards in shock, that I quickly stuffed downwards at the sight of a Moriarty examining a revolver in his stable hands.
âWhat are you doing here?â I asked as I eyed the gun cautiously. Moriarty laughed and pointed the gun towards me, motioning towards the door.
âClose that for now,â He demanded steadily as I reached for the door knob with a tense hand and let the door click into place. Moriarty fixed his stance and held the gun at his hip while he leaned on my bedpost.
âIt has been too long hasnât it my dear John Watson,â He smirked as he fiddled with the gun, starring me directly in the eyes. I felt the urge to call out to Sherlock or at the very least to fling the door open and race away, go to my other gun and take my shot. Knowing Moriarty, though I didnât well, this wouldnât go too well.
âIt has,â I managed to respond as I recalled the last time I had seen him with a bomb strapped to my chest and an underground pool involved. âHowever I hoped not to see you anytime soon unless it was behind cell bars.â
âArenât we feeling bold today?â Moriarty commented as he shifted from the bed and began to walk towards one of the walls in the room, swinging the gun in his hand. âDid you have a nice day with Sherlock? A murder case solved? Maybe there was a nice date involved too?â
âI was just about to go on one if you must know,â I was simply repeating myself to answer his questions and it was all quite redundant. He nodded along and returned to his original spot. âIf you would be so kind as to leave now, I must be there in about,â I looked down at my watch. âThirty minutes and I need a shower.â
âBest to cancel the plans if I were you,â Moriarty declared as he sat upon my bed again. âFor this is going to hurt, hopefully Sherlock more than you.â
âThought this was just between you and him,â I mentioned testily with narrowed eyes. It was, or shouldâve been, for I was in no mood to deal with psychopaths or consulting criminals.
âWell Iâm a bit unpredictable,â With that remark, I turned towards the door in attempt to leave, whether it was in irritation for what might happen next or because I was genuinely worried what Moriarty might do. However, with a gun pointed to my back and a couple men who had joined us from the closet, also armed and ready to shoot on sight, I held up my hands and stopped.
âOh and small comment that I should make because Sherlock should be rushing back here right about now,â Moriarty began to explain as he made his way towards me. âWell I made sure he was out of the house and off on some tangent. I had one of my men call him and request he come straight away, donât think he told you because I heard the conversation you guys were having.â
âAnd what about it?â I wondered with an anger deeply rooted in my voice as I placed my hands on the back of my head. Moriarty pointed the trigger closer to that same spot as I did this and I fought the urge to try my hand at playing full defense against him.
âNow I know that you may be dull witted and slow, but you do have eyes and ears,â Moriarty smirked as he was only an inch away from my face and was staring directly into my eyes with a knowing grin. When I didnât respond he made a sigh like sound as he rose back to his feet and clicked his tongue.
âI guess thatâll make this all the more interesting,â Moriarty sang and then turned to one of his men, taking the pen and paper out. âNow unless you want me to shoot you and make Sherlock very very very upset, I suggest that you listen to what I say and do it.â He handed me the pen and I complied as I shrank to the floor on my knees, awaiting what I was supposed to write. âJust write there: âMidnight, on the bridge. Come alone.â I mean, I couldâve written it and maybe Iâll sign it. Ah yes I will, might as well add a little spark of predictability, no point in being sneaky in this situation.â
âThen why do it at all?â I responded as I was kicked downwards onto the floor completely after writing the message. âWhy do something so ridiculously simple?â
âOur little game we play, Sherlock and me, well it gets dull and sometimes, and sometimes thereâs little filler episodes,â Moriarty mentioned as he crouched next to me. âAlso, itâs time to burn the living heart out of him, wouldnât you agree?â
With that and a kick to the face, I found myself blacking out into pure nothingness to the sound of Moriarty laughing.
