The Good Doctor
Chapter 17

Unknown

"We've already checked the body. No ID, fingerprints were burned off, no dental records. Sounds like the warehouse. Think it might be facing a serial killer?" Lestrade mentioned as Sherlock peered towards the bottom of a steep cliff. The blue and red light of the police vehicles flashed behind them. A pair of policemen rolled out the yellow tape to isolate the scene. On the ground below them laid a body, the limbs jutting out at awkward angles. Lestrade turned his attention and glanced at the crude sling Sherlock had fastened from a sheet of some kind. "What's wrong with your arm?"

"Nothing."

"Did you get shot?"

"Yes, but it's none of your concern."

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?" he asked, a bit taken aback.

"I was discharged."

The Inspector raised an eyebrow in disbelief and then trailed his eyes downwards, noticing the consulting detective's lack of trousers. "Are you...never mind." Lestrade didn't want to know. He'd been too busy for the past twenty four hours. Whatever Sherlock had tangled himself into, he would find out later anyway.

"I need to get a closer look," Sherlock said as he brushed past the Inspector to make his way down the incline.

"Mind those rocks," the Inspector warned close behind. Rocks began to dislodge from the dirt and crumble as Sherlock slid further down. He nearly slipped, but caught himself in time. They finally reached the level surface and with one glance, Sherlock discovered all that he needed. He squatted next to the body after pulling on latex gloves and rummaged through the victim's pockets and came out with nothing but a handful of coins that escaped the missing wallet, but judging by his attire, the deceased was definitely a wealthy man. His fit body was clothed in nothing but high quality brand names. Armani. Versace. Rolex. Everything from his watch to his polished shoes was worth more than Lestrade's annual salary two times over.

Catching a glint of light on the watch from the flashlight Lestrade was holding, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He picked up the limp arm and studied the timepiece, scrutinizing every detail. He removed it and exhaled hot breath onto the glass face where a slight smudge showed and to his confirmation, a partial fingerprint was visible for a moment.

"Is that-" Lestrade began.

"-Yes."

The Inspector turned his head and called out for an evidence bag.

Back at Scotland Yard, John Watson stopped in his tracks halfway to an office of one 'Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade'. The place was mostly empty besides a few employees working on cases that were nearly impossible to crack, or catching up on paperwork and the likes. A man near John's left put a folder in a filing cabinet and shuffled back to his desk.

"What is your business? The Inspector isn't in right now," the female behind him asked.

John turned his head slightly and peered over his shoulder and caught sight of a light mocha-skinned woman. She was in the process of putting on her coat and her tight, frizzy hair bounced as she walked towards him.

"I'm waiting for an answer, officer."

At least she just told him no one was in the Detective Inspector's office. All John needed to do was think of an excuse quickly. "I was told to fetch something for the Inspector," he said.

The woman stopped a little bit behind him and crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one hip. "Fetch what?"

"A file."

She hesitated and John wondered if that was too weak of an excuse, so he continued. "A file on Captain John Watson, a missing suspect. The Detective Inspector forgot it in his office and needs it immediately."

She narrowed her eyes a bit, but nodded. "Fine. Carry on then," she said before turning on her heel to leave. John watched the woman as she disappeared around the corner, scrolling through her phone and holding it up to her ear. John took out a small bag that held his small lock-picking tools to gain entry into the office.

John slipped in and shut the door quietly as he could and reached into his pocket. He turned on the lamp that sat on Lestrade's desk and pulled out a small USB that contained a program that enabled him to hack the database and delete his newly created criminal file. John sat back as he uploaded a bug onto the computer. He would be able to monitor any activity the Detective Inspector did. After it completed, someone rapped on the door after rattled the locked handle. In a panic, John spotted a folder on the desk that read 'Watson, John H.' and quickly grabbed it as he stuffed the USB back into his pocket.

"Officer, come out with your hands up where I can see them. That's an order!" The woman from earlier banged on the door loudly.

"Sergeant Donovan, what's going on?" a muffled voice asked from the other side. The woman, Donovan, ignored her colleague.

John looked around for an escape route, something he probably should have done beforehand, but found none. The window wasn't able to open and there wasn't an air duct to crawl through. The only way out was the way he came in. Cautiously, John slid along the length of the closed blinds on the windows that overlooked the desks outside and slowly unlocked the door. The sergeant banged again and tried the handle once more, but to her surprise, it gave way.

Donovan swung the door open, unknowingly hiding the mercenary from view. John heard a small click as the woman released the safety on her gun as she slowly searched the office. John carefully slipped out from behind the door as she jumped behind the desk to see if he was hiding. He made a beeline for the exit as she turned around and caught the sight of his retreating back.

"Don't let him escape!" Donovan yelled out. Various people looked up from their respective desks but saw no one.

"Sergeant, who are you talking about?"

"That officer! He's an imposter!"

A man to her right scratched his head as he glasses slipped down his nose. "But, Sergeant, no one ran through here."

xxx

John huffed as he ran up the endless flight of stairs and across the roof. He was definitely not as in shape as he'd like to be. "Oh, bugger," John muttered as he realized he left his small gadget bag back in that alleyway. He needed to improvise and the only way down was to scale the building or jump. There was no way he could survive. He was stuck. Surely the actual policemen were beginning to swarm around the building, looking for him. John had no choice. He had to go back in if he wanted to get out.

The mercenary slipped back in and heard yells echoing up the stairwell. Great, he thought. John went inside the first door and walked over to the elevator in the dark, empty floor. A few back up lights were on, but for the most part, it was unlit. He pressed the down arrow and waited to the side. After what seemed like a couple of minutes, the doors slid open and two police officers slowly walked out with their guns at the ready. Hiding in the shadows, John grabbed the stolen baton that hung at his belt in one hand and the PAVA spray with the other. Extending the baton, he whacked one of the men in the head and sprayed the other simultaneously before they could react.

"Aughh! My eyes!"

John grabbed the man's radio. "He's on the roof! I repeat, he's on the roof!" he called in before running into the elevator. Once inside, John pressed the button for the lobby. When he reached his floor, the doors slid open and he calmly walked out.

"The roof! He's on the roof!" another policeman shouted, running past the blond 'officer' in the opposite direction.

"I've been ordered to surround the perimeter," John responded as more men headed up the stairs while others filed into the elevator.

The man nodded as he pressed the button for the roof. "Careful, mate. Sergeant Donovan thinks that the bloke's that homicidal Captain."

And with that, the doors slid close as John walked out the front door and back to the alleyway to collect his things, whistling a tune he had learned in the military.

xxx

Letting out a sigh, John rolled out his neck out and flopped backwards onto Harry's bed. There was no way he could go back to Sherlock's flat; Sebastian knew where that was. It was John's fault Sherlock was shot. For now, he needed to keep his distance if he wanted to keep the detective alive. The man was certainly no use to him if he ended up dead. This was between John and Moran, and no one else-well, other than the man Moran was working for.

Tired, John rubbed his eyes and attempted to sleep, but couldn't. Why did Sebastian reveal himself? What did he want? What did his superior want? After all these years...John shook his head. What an odd reunion. He scoffed and rolled over. They had been tortured together in Afghanistan. Back then, they depended on each other for survival. It was either that or die at the hands of the enemy.

He remembered the enucleation he performed to remove Moran's impaled eyeball. He remembered crudely burning the flesh. He was no opthamologist; it was a miracle he hadn't killed the man. Half the time he didn't know what he was doing. John scraped by with what he could remember from his time in medical school which wasn't much.

He remembered having to beg their torturer to let him remove the eye. If it became infected, they would lose their most valuable source of information, he reasoned. John remembered punching Moran several times to knock him unconscious. He remembered the panic that welled up and grabbed his gut, his shaking hands that hovered above his superior's bloody face. He remembered the sting of the whip their captor slapped when he stalled.

He remembered half wishing he would just die.

That Moran would die with him. That there was no one for him back at home. That he was alone.

"Sherlock!"

The detective rolled his eyes at his brother's shouting as he laid on the couch. Mycroft thundered up the stairs and marched into the flat. "What do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock rolled over onto his side so his back faced his seething brother. "Go away, Mycroft. You're giving me a headache."

Mycroft ignored his brother and deftly sat down on an armchair, perching his umbrella to the side. "I was in a rather important meeting when the hospital called and informed me of your extended absence. I thought you would have gone back, but I suppose that was silly of me to assume."

He was met with silence.

"Get up. We're going back. You need more antibiotics. And we need to get that bullet out. If you die, I will never hear the end of it with mother."

"Oh, shut up. I've already taken care of the wound. Now stop pestering me and go start a war or something."

Mycroft sighed and shook his head at his brother's irritable mood. "One of these days, dear baby brother, you will get killed."

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs. "Would you like some tea, boys?"

"No, no need, Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft is leaving," Sherlock called back.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. He's leaving right now, in fact."

Mycroft stood up and picked up his umbrella. "Forget about John, Sherlock. He won't be coming back, I imagine. Move on. Get another case."

And with that, he left.

Meanwhile, Sherlock laid in silence, attempting to sleep when his text tone went off. He ignored it, but a second and third message immediately followed. Curious, he reached behind him and blindly fumbled for his phone on the coffee table.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"We haven't met yet, but we will soon."

"Do you like games?"

Sherlock hastily typed back an answer: "Who are you? - SH"

"Ah, ah, ah. In due time, Mr. Holmes, in due time."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up.

It was dark outside. John had remembered that he had left the code word in the brick wall which was a bad thing to leave around if he wanted to lie low. He had to leave Harry's house anyway, just in case the cops came snooping around, so he grabbed his things and left the house.

He rubbed his gloved hands and tucked them in his pockets after lowering the hood of his mercenary attire farther down his eyes. It was extremely cold. John shivered and cursed at himself for not grabbing another jacket. The street was fairly empty besides a few drunkards loudly loitering here and there. For the most part, no one wanted to venture out into the billowing wind. His mind wandered around until a rough voice broke the silence from a distance.

"Aye, pretty lady. Mind spendin' the night with a gent like me, yeah?"

On the other side of the street, a tall man with broad shoulders trailed a petite blonde woman. "Bugger off, please. I'm busy," she replied.

"C'mon. You're chattin' breeze, that's wot you're doin'. Just an hour? I know a nice gent like meself that's itchin' to meet ya." He smiled and caught the hood of his jacket as it began to slip off. John caught a glimpse of brown hair and a familiar earring glinting in the moonlight.

John slowed his pace to keep an eye out on the stranger. The woman turned around to flick the persistent man off. John raised his eyebrows and gaped. It was Mary Morstan, the journalist he had taken out on a date. It seemed almost an eternity ago.

"I said to piss off!"

"Aye, jam your hype, yeah?" The man raised his hands in defeat and began to walk away. Mary turned on her heel and quickened her pace.

John was about to leave himself, when the man suddenly turned around and pulled something out of his pocket. He aimed a gun at the back of Mary's head. In a split second, John raced across the street and rammed into the man right as the gun went off. Mary turned around at the commotion and screamed.

John grabbed the man's ear. On it hung a single, silver cross with a small skull and bones beneath it.

"Hey! Get off!" The man looked at his attacker. "You! Why are you her-"

John's fist connected with his face, immediately cutting him off.

"Who sent you?" John demanded as he kneeled to grab the mercenary's shirt.

"Stop-

John punched him again.

"-bloody hitting me for Christ's sake!" he shouted. John held his fist and got off of him. The man sat up and spat out blood before pinching his nose in an effort to quell the bleeding. "God," he said through a nasally voice. He looked around for his fallen gun, spotted it a few feet away, and reached over to pick it up. "I don't know his name. And if I did, I wouldn't be telling you, you tosser. I've got a rep to keep, you know."

John crossed his arms. "Did he say why he put a hit out on this woman?"

The other mercenary shrugged. "I dunno but I think you broke my nose, mate." He pretended to tuck the gun into the back of the edge of his trousers. John turned towards Mary and the other mercenary dropped his hand from his nose and aimed his gun at John's back.

"Sorry, Doctor, but I was paid good money."

A shot rang out, prompting Mary to scream and duck, grabbing her head. John's body hit the cement and silence lingered around the trio. Mary hoped to God that the man who had just saved her wasn't dead. If he was, then she would be too in a second.

Another second went by as did another, but nothing happened. She peeked one eye open. The man in front of her didn't move, so she reached a hand out to lift the hood. John's hand suddenly shot out and grabbed her wrist before she could reveal his face, prompting a small squeak from the journalist.

"Oh, thank God. I thought you died."

John groaned as he rolled over and sat up. He had knocked the wind from his lungs when he hit the floor.

Poor bugger, he thought as he stared at the mercenary's dead body. A gaping hole was evident in the side of his left temple. John stood up and turned his head. A clean exit wound.

Moran. It had to be him.

A burst of panic surged through his body. "Take my hand! We're still in danger!" John extended a gloved hand towards Mary who took it without thinking. Fear swam in her eyes as she allowed the hooded man to lead her away.

"What's going on? Why are they after me?"

They ran in silence until John found an obscured alleyway that Moran couldn't have possibly shot through with his preferred sniping gun. The couple leaned on their knees, trying to catch their breaths.

"Wh-who are you?" Mary gasped out. She had an idea, but never having had the chance to meet the supposed vigilante, she just had to ask to confirm her suspicions.

John stood up straight and jumped upwards, catching the bar of the end of a fire escape that stood above them. He heaved himself up and continued upwards until he reached the roof.

"Hey, wait!" Mary called out.

John looked down and dialed 999 on a disposable phone he fished out of his bag.

"They call me The Good Doctor."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the dazed journalist behind, making sure to leave only when the distant sound of sirens made themselves known to the quiet streets of London.

A/N:Wow. I did not mean for the hiatus to be that long. I apologize profusely!
I could probably work for BBC Sherlock. I have their flair for long hiatuses. LOL
I would say life got in the way, but isn't that just the author's way of saying, 'I was lazy'? Haha But things happened, then writer's block manifested big time.
Thanks for being so patient. Reviews are always appreciated, but thanks for reading anyway!

EDIT:
Thank you to the anonymous reviewer who caught my 911 mistake! I left that as a placeholder until I looked up the emergency number but I forgot to go back and change it. Haha