SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

following orders

John stood on the sidewalk, watching his friend until he could no longer see him. Standing there alone, John wondered if his entire life would be waiting on the detective and that all other relationships would cease to being his second priority. Perhaps if he had never met Sherlock, Alana, Elise, and Mrs. Hudson would all be fine. Then again, it was only through Sherlock did his family happen. In frustration, John pivoted quickly on his heels and walked back to the apartment. When he had entered the flat and closed and locked the door behind him, he flopped down in Sherlock’s sacred chair.

It was strange sitting in the forbidden furniture, for if he had taken a seat in it when Sherlock was around, he would be perhaps beaten and violently cursed out. He didn’t think it sacrilegious, though, to sit in the chair, he just believed it would give him Sherlock’s mind and he would be inspired by some new theory that would send him on a sensible chase. That is, if they even considered their chases “sensible.” John pulled out Sherlock’s phone and turned it on, expecting to type in a password. But instead, he had immediate access. John smiled, believing it was by his own cleverness the phone opened for him.

John browsed the icons and found, to his surprise, certain voice recordings and notes were labeled JOHN. Bringing the screen closer to his face, he moved his thumb over the microphone icon and clicked it. The first recording began loading.  John’s heart palpitated as the wheel moved faster, faster, and faster until it disappeared. John’s heart stopped for a moment, and he was almost tempted to shake the phone as if that would speed up the process. But in due time, static crackled from the speakers and Sherlock’s voice was heard.

“John, it’s Sherlock. If this is John, good. If not, you already know the plan. At eight o’clock, three men will pick me up. Andrew Brooklyn, who you’ve probably just met, is taking me to Manchester. How I know this, the details are irrelevant, so you can stop smiling at my cleverness.”

John’s face straightened and he cleared his throat.

“In Manchester, they will interrogate me on Acelya Marinca. Of course, I’ll see how long I can hold them off until you can arrive. I staggered our departure on purpose. I want you to come tomorrow morning, bring three handguns, the two glocks and the colt. Extra ammunition and my coat...and scarf. On your way, stop by St. Bart’s Hospital and tell Molly to give you ‘my supplies.’ After that, get a cab and get to Manchester by six o’clock that night, Heaton Park. Also, select some find members to bring with you. No need to train them if you pick a good selection. Lestrade can help you….don’t ask for Mycroft, he’ll keep changing his mind, delaying time. And one last thing, John, read the notes and then delete them. Delete this voice message; take the battery out and memory plate out, burn the phone.”

The phone beeped. John stood up, his eyes still on the screen, and walked over to the window. He looked out at the street, his mind whirling and Sherlock’s voice pounding against his ears. His instructions came in waves, fading in and out as John’s thoughts interceded once in awhile. Point an index finger in the air and moving it back and forth in thought, John went over to the hook and grabbed Sherlock’s coat and scarf. He then went immediately into his room and packed a light suitcase along with the required guns. A surge of energy rose in him and a strange heat rushed over his body. John smirked, he felt like Sherlock. Hungry for the game. Desiring nothing but the chase. Lusting over evidence and clues. Completely and utterly in love with the entire mystery.

John exited the flat, locking it behind him. He rushed down the stairs and out the front door. A few cabs passed by him, but he soon hailed one down and jumped inside.

“Where to, sir?” the cabbie asked in a gloomy tone. A toothpick hung lifelessly from the corner of his gaping mouth.

“Can you get me as far as Manchester?”

The cabbie scowled at John through the rearview mirror. John fidgeted in his seat and grabbed Sherlock’s coat beside him. Pawing through his friend’s large pockets, he found several bills, all fivers. Hoping the stack of banknotes would satisfy the driver, John waved them in his face along with one of his persuasive smiles.

“Fine.” The driver snatched the bills, counted them, and started up the engine. The ride to Manchester began.

John hadn’t destroyed Sherlock’s phone yet, as he planned to look at the notes later, but he did wish to make a few phone calls. Sighing in frustration, John said, “Excuse me, sir, can you pull over? I need to ring a few people?”

“Should’ve done that before we started,” the driver growled.

Under his breath, John declared, “This is going to be quite a bothersome drive.” He cleared his throat and said in his most pleasant, “I know, and I’m terribly sorry. But once I make these phone calls, I can wait until the next stop.”

The driver mumbled something and swerved the car up against a curb where a phone booth stood. John got out, entered the booth and began punching in the numbers. A dial tone sung and then the end picked up. “Hello? Is this Charlie Garner?”

“Yes, it is. Is this Watson?” came the smooth, pleasant voice of the young Charlie Garner who had accompanied five years back on a zombie escapade in London.

“Yes, yes it is. I hate to be calling you, but can you meet me in Manchester, Heaton Park?”

“Something with Sherlock?”

“Yes, he needs our help. But he needs other people to help him. Know of any?”

There was a pause and John could hear Charlie thinking. “Um, no.”

In dry sarcasm, John replied, “Good, good, anymore?”

“Yeah, another friend, a good mate of mine, he’s an older bloke, but got skills like the finest military man on base. His name’s Simon Chesterfield. That’s all I’ve got because they’re all I trust. Shall I bring them?”

“Of course. Thanks, Charlie.”

“Anytime.”

John hung up the phone and quickly dialed Lestrade. The phone picked up, and it was Sergeant Donovan.

“This is the—,” her cold voice began before John cut her off.

“It’s John Watson, may I speak to Lestrade?”

“He’s not here at the moment, can I take a message? Or does it have to do about Sherlock?”

John hesitated. If he said it was about Sherlock, Donovan and he would be on the phone for three hours denying how his need to talk to Lestrade was important. If he said it wasn’t about Sherlock, she would pull teeth to know what it was really all about. “Nevermind, just tell him to return the call.”

“On what number?”

“Nevermind.” John hung up and returned to the cab, slightly dampened by the last phone call, but he knew he couldn’t let it weigh on him for the rest of the trip. As he stared out the window, he began wondering about Acelya Marinca and her connection with Sherlock. Why did Alana feel the need to help her escape the gang? Why was Sherlock hesitant to tell his real relationship with Acelya? John mashed his fingers against his forehead, hoping to press the stress and confusing out before his brain collapsed. With Sherlock, no matter how much information he was given, he always felt left in the dark. But he knew, just like when he fought in the war, that he had to follow orders, even if they didn’t make sense. He had to have faith in his leader, and if that was the only reason why he carried out the orders, then so be it.