Chapter Text
🟨=== POLICE LINE — DO NOT CROSS ===🟨
John Watson had put as much distance as possible between himself and Baker Street.
The reason that had made him pack up and leave was painfully simple: Sherlock Holmes.
After everything that had happened, he just couldn’t bear to stay there, in that flat, with that constant, lingering presence.
It felt like a stab in the back. Like a betrayal.
He couldn’t even look him in the face anymore, not after Mary’s death.
And yes, for a while, he had hated him.
The irrational part of him still clung to that resentment, wallowing in it. But every now and then, the rational side would speak up, offering a different point of view.
Like during those late-night hours of brooding, when a small voice whispered that maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t been all Sherlock’s fault.
No one had forced Mary to jump in the way. And Sherlock, he had already risked his life for her.
She had done it because she cared too much about him to let him die.
Yes. She cared too much.
That was the issue for those who cared too much about Sherlock: they always ended up dragged into his messes, and they paid the price.
Of course, not John. Sherlock had grown used to it. In fact, he seemed to get some twisted satisfaction from throwing himself into mortal danger.
But at least he knew what he was doing. He made that choice for himself. Once.
Then he’d become a husband.
And after that, a father.
Now he had to do what was best for his family. And Sherlock Holmes was not on that list.
John dipped the little pig-pink spoon into Rosie’s half-liquid, thoroughly unappetising mush, lifting it like a paper aeroplane.
“Here comes the evening flight bound for London Gatwick. Requesting permission to land from the control tower…
”He brought the loaded spoon to the little girl’s mouth. He brought the loaded spoon to the little girl’s mouth.
She opened it with gleeful squeals, clapping her tiny hands.
At least she had an appetite.
It had been a difficult time for both of them, and even Rosie had felt it. Being only a few months old didn’t stop her from missing her mother.
John was doing his best to keep her distracted, but for at least a couple of months she’d been irritable and restless, crying almost constantly.
He could only soothe her after hours of rocking her in his arms, until she finally fell asleep on his chest, completely worn out.
And of course, once she was asleep, he wouldn’t dare move her, so he’d stay put on the sofa or bed until she woke up again.
Which always happened exactly four hours later.
And then the whole routine would start again.
Nights weren’t any better. Eventually morning would come, and they’d both collapse from exhaustion.
Lately, though, things had begun to improve. Rosie had regained her appetite, slept through the night, and the crying had lessened drastically. It was a sign.
Things were getting better. They had to. For both of them.
Of course, that didn’t mean forgetting Mary. He would always tell Rosie about her mum, he was certain of that.
But now they had to build a new life. One far away from someone who had brought them nothing but danger and chaos.
So no, John didn’t regret running as far away as he could from him. Not one bit.
And no, not even under torture would he admit that, in truth, he missed him. Terribly.
But there was no going back now. Not after what he’d said.
And Sherlock must’ve got the message loud and clear, because he hadn’t shown up.
Hadn’t called. Nothing.
Better that way.
He didn’t have time to look after him as well.
While John was busy feeling sorry for himself, the phone lying on the table began to vibrate furiously, so much that it spun round on its own axis.
He craned his neck and saw the name on the screen: Lestrade.
Alright, so maybe he hadn’t completely quit the old life.
From time to time, if the occasion arose, he still helped out the detective at Scotland Yard.
He placed Rosie’s little spoon back on its matching dish and picked up the phone.
“Yes, Lestrade?” he answered, with a note of eagerness in his voice.
The idea of leaving the house to help with a murder case, deep down, made him quite happy.
Okay, it was a horrible thing to admit
But honestly, he’d have given anything to use his brain on something that didn’t involve calming a crying baby.
But honestly, he’d have given anything to use his brain on something that didn’t involve calming a crying baby.
“You need to come to the Marble Arch multi-storey car park. The one just past the Tube station.”
“Oh yeah, I know the one.”
“I’ll be waiting. Hurry.”
He didn’t even have time to ask who the victim was before Greg had already hung up.
John sighed and got to his feet, the chair scraping across the old linoleum floor.
Then he bent down and kissed Rosie on the crown of her head.
He adored her scent. He could spend hours just breathing her in when she slept on his chest.
“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s call the babysitter.”
Rosie squealed in delight at those words.
Sometimes John was convinced she understood him, even though she was only a few months old. Ridiculous.
It took him a little while to get out of the house, and another half hour to cross the city to the crime scene.
🎻 🎻 🎻
The car park was just before the Tube exit, and thankfully the police hadn’t closed the entire area.
A few officers in high-vis yellow vests stopped the cab. John stepped out, leaving a twenty-pound note for the driver, who was more than happy to keep the change.
He flashed his ID. The officers let him through without a word.
It was a gloomy autumn morning, and drizzle kept falling in intervals.
The sky, a uniform shade of white, looked weighed down by low, unmoving clouds.
The air reeked of wet asphalt and cold metal.
Beyond the yellow tape, a side lane had been blocked off.
Several officers moved cautiously between markings, their torches on despite the daylight, eyes fixed on the ground.
Farther ahead, beneath the concrete structure, John recognised the silhouette of Greg Lestrade.
“Hey, Greg!” he called, raising a hand.
The detective looked up from his notepad and waved him over. John didn’t hesitate.
“So, what have we got?” he asked, professional curiosity taking over.
The body was lying between a concrete pillar, an empty parking space, and a black SUV.
Now that he was closer, John could see more clearly: it was an adult male, sprawled on his back.
The scene was a mess.
“Well, we don’t know much yet. We’ll need the autopsy, you know that. But it looks like he was beaten to death.”
Greg’s voice was weary, almost resigned, like even all the daily violence in the world wasn’t enough to numb him to how rotten it could be.
John crouched beside the body.
A large pool of blood, now thick and dark, had spread beneath him. He must’ve been dead for a few hours.
He was face-down. His hair, matted with blood, clung to the back of his neck.
His shirt, once pale blue, was torn in several places, revealing bruises, scrapes, and open wounds beneath.
Lestrade handed him a pair of latex gloves.
John pulled them on, then gently slipped a hand beneath the body to turn it over.
If everything else was a mess, the face was nearly unrecognisable.
“Any ID?”
Greg shook his head. “Nothing. Pockets empty.”
“Botched mugging?” John suggested.
“No. Feels too personal. Like someone wanted to punish him for something. Revenge, maybe.”
“Then why take his ID? D’you remember the Stubbylee Park case?”
“The two lads beaten to death by that gang? Yeah, I remember, but this doesn’t look like the same thing. Look at his clothes: those shoes alone must cost at least two hundred quid.”
“So what? Maybe that’s exactly what pissed someone off.”
“I’m telling you, it’s personal.” John pulled a face but didn’t argue. He bent down again to examine the victim more closely.
The right side of the man’s face was swollen, the eye reduced to a bruised, bloated mess.
His lower lip had a deep gash, and his teeth were stained with blood.
A clean cut split the left eyebrow, and his forehead was grazed, probably from hitting the asphalt.
His left cheekbone was a blotchy mix of purple and yellow, a sign of an already developed haematoma.
John gently lowered the man’s shirt collar with two fingers, and went pale.
Several dark, uneven marks stretched across the neck. Strangulation marks.
“I think they tried to strangle him.”
“You’re joking,” Lestrade said, crouching to get a closer look. He looked sickened too.
“See here?” John pointed to the bruises.
“How old would you say he is?”
“Hard to say, but around thirty. Give or take a year.”
“What kind of bastard does something like this…”
“I don’t know, but we need to catch them fast.”
Lestrade changed tone abruptly. “Have you heard from him lately?”
It took John a few seconds to realise who he meant.
“No,” he said curtly, hoping that would end the conversation.
He got down on his knees beside the body.
Carefully, he brushed aside the blood-matted hair from the man’s forehead. Then, slowly, he lifted one of the eyelids.
The eye, bloodshot and unfocused, stared back at him.
John leapt to his feet as if shocked.
Lestrade dropped his notepad and pen, already reaching for his gun.
“What is it?” he cried, alarmed.
“Who checked him?” John barked.
“What?” Greg seemed surprised by that simple question.
“Who checked if he was actually dead!”
“But there was no pulse!”
“He’s still alive!”
Lestrade went pale. “Bloody hell!”
He immediately pulled out his mobile and called for an ambulance.
John was already back on the ground, kneeling beside the man, his heart hammering, hands moving fast.
John Watson had put as much distance as possible between himself and Baker Street.
The reason that had made him pack up and leave was painfully simple: Sherlock Holmes.
After everything that had happened, he just couldn’t bear to stay there, in that flat, with that constant, lingering presence.
It felt like a stab in the back. Like a betrayal.
He couldn’t even look him in the face anymore, not after Mary’s death.
And yes, for a while, he had hated him.
The irrational part of him still clung to that resentment, wallowing in it. But every now and then, the rational side would speak up, offering a different point of view.
Like during those late-night hours of brooding, when a small voice whispered that maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t been all Sherlock’s fault.
No one had forced Mary to jump in the way. And Sherlock, he had already risked his life for her.
She had done it because she cared too much about him to let him die.
Yes. She cared too much.
That was the issue for those who cared too much about Sherlock: they always ended up dragged into his messes, and they paid the price.
Of course, not John. Sherlock had grown used to it. In fact, he seemed to get some twisted satisfaction from throwing himself into mortal danger.
But at least he knew what he was doing. He made that choice for himself. Once.
Then he’d become a husband.
And after that, a father.
Now he had to do what was best for his family. And Sherlock Holmes was not on that list.
John dipped the little pig-pink spoon into Rosie’s half-liquid, thoroughly unappetising mush, lifting it like a paper aeroplane.
“Here comes the evening flight bound for London Gatwick. Requesting permission to land from the control tower…
”He brought the loaded spoon to the little girl’s mouth. He brought the loaded spoon to the little girl’s mouth.
She opened it with gleeful squeals, clapping her tiny hands.
At least she had an appetite.
It had been a difficult time for both of them, and even Rosie had felt it. Being only a few months old didn’t stop her from missing her mother.
John was doing his best to keep her distracted, but for at least a couple of months she’d been irritable and restless, crying almost constantly.
He could only soothe her after hours of rocking her in his arms, until she finally fell asleep on his chest, completely worn out.
And of course, once she was asleep, he wouldn’t dare move her, so he’d stay put on the sofa or bed until she woke up again.
Which always happened exactly four hours later.
And then the whole routine would start again.
Nights weren’t any better. Eventually morning would come, and they’d both collapse from exhaustion.
Lately, though, things had begun to improve. Rosie had regained her appetite, slept through the night, and the crying had lessened drastically. It was a sign.
Things were getting better. They had to. For both of them.
Of course, that didn’t mean forgetting Mary. He would always tell Rosie about her mum, he was certain of that.
But now they had to build a new life. One far away from someone who had brought them nothing but danger and chaos.
So no, John didn’t regret running as far away as he could from him. Not one bit.
And no, not even under torture would he admit that, in truth, he missed him. Terribly.
But there was no going back now. Not after what he’d said.
And Sherlock must’ve got the message loud and clear, because he hadn’t shown up.
Hadn’t called. Nothing.
Better that way.
He didn’t have time to look after him as well.
While John was busy feeling sorry for himself, the phone lying on the table began to vibrate furiously, so much that it spun round on its own axis.
He craned his neck and saw the name on the screen: Lestrade.
Alright, so maybe he hadn’t completely quit the old life.
From time to time, if the occasion arose, he still helped out the detective at Scotland Yard.
He placed Rosie’s little spoon back on its matching dish and picked up the phone.
“Yes, Lestrade?” he answered, with a note of eagerness in his voice.
The idea of leaving the house to help with a murder case, deep down, made him quite happy.
Okay, it was a horrible thing to admit
But honestly, he’d have given anything to use his brain on something that didn’t involve calming a crying baby.
“You need to come to the Marble Arch multi-storey car park. The one just past the Tube station.”
“Oh yeah, I know the one.”
“I’ll be waiting. Hurry.”
He didn’t even have time to ask who the victim was before Greg had already hung up.
John sighed and got to his feet, the chair scraping across the old linoleum floor.
Then he bent down and kissed Rosie on the crown of her head.
He adored her scent. He could spend hours just breathing her in when she slept on his chest.
“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s call the babysitter.”
Rosie squealed in delight at those words.
Sometimes John was convinced she understood him, even though she was only a few months old. Ridiculous.
It took him a little while to get out of the house, and another half hour to cross the city to the crime scene.
🎻 🎻 🎻
The car park was just before the Tube exit, and thankfully the police hadn’t closed the entire area.
A few officers in high-vis yellow vests stopped the cab. John stepped out, leaving a twenty-pound note for the driver, who was more than happy to keep the change.
He flashed his ID. The officers let him through without a word.
It was a gloomy autumn morning, and drizzle kept falling in intervals.
The sky, a uniform shade of white, looked weighed down by low, unmoving clouds.
The air reeked of wet asphalt and cold metal.
Beyond the yellow tape, a side lane had been blocked off.
Several officers moved cautiously between markings, their torches on despite the daylight, eyes fixed on the ground.
Farther ahead, beneath the concrete structure, John recognised the silhouette of Greg Lestrade.
“Hey, Greg!” he called, raising a hand.
The detective looked up from his notepad and waved him over. John didn’t hesitate.
“So, what have we got?” he asked, professional curiosity taking over.
The body was lying between a concrete pillar, an empty parking space, and a black SUV.
Now that he was closer, John could see more clearly: it was an adult male, sprawled on his back.
The scene was a mess.
“Well, we don’t know much yet. We’ll need the autopsy, you know that. But it looks like he was beaten to death.”
Greg’s voice was weary, almost resigned, like even all the daily violence in the world wasn’t enough to numb him to how rotten it could be.
John crouched beside the body.
A large pool of blood, now thick and dark, had spread beneath him. He must’ve been dead for a few hours.
He was face-down. His hair, matted with blood, clung to the back of his neck.
His shirt, once pale blue, was torn in several places, revealing bruises, scrapes, and open wounds beneath.
Lestrade handed him a pair of latex gloves.
John pulled them on, then gently slipped a hand beneath the body to turn it over.
If everything else was a mess, the face was nearly unrecognisable.
“Any ID?”
Greg shook his head. “Nothing. Pockets empty.”
“Botched mugging?” John suggested.
“No. Feels too personal. Like someone wanted to punish him for something. Revenge, maybe.”
“Then why take his ID? D’you remember the Stubbylee Park case?”
“The two lads beaten to death by that gang? Yeah, I remember, but this doesn’t look like the same thing. Look at his clothes: those shoes alone must cost at least two hundred quid.”
“So what? Maybe that’s exactly what pissed someone off.”
“I’m telling you, it’s personal.” John pulled a face but didn’t argue. He bent down again to examine the victim more closely.
The right side of the man’s face was swollen, the eye reduced to a bruised, bloated mess.
His lower lip had a deep gash, and his teeth were stained with blood.
A clean cut split the left eyebrow, and his forehead was grazed, probably from hitting the asphalt.
His left cheekbone was a blotchy mix of purple and yellow, a sign of an already developed haematoma.
John gently lowered the man’s shirt collar with two fingers, and went pale.
Several dark, uneven marks stretched across the neck. Strangulation marks.
“I think they tried to strangle him.”
“You’re joking,” Lestrade said, crouching to get a closer look. He looked sickened too.
“See here?” John pointed to the bruises.
“How old would you say he is?”
“Hard to say, but around thirty. Give or take a year.”
“What kind of bastard does something like this…”
“I don’t know, but we need to catch them fast.”
Lestrade changed tone abruptly. “Have you heard from him lately?”
It took John a few seconds to realise who he meant.
“No,” he said curtly, hoping that would end the conversation.
He got down on his knees beside the body.
Carefully, he brushed aside the blood-matted hair from the man’s forehead. Then, slowly, he lifted one of the eyelids.
The eye, bloodshot and unfocused, stared back at him.
John leapt to his feet as if shocked.
Lestrade dropped his notepad and pen, already reaching for his gun.
“What is it?” he cried, alarmed.
“Who checked him?” John barked.
“What?” Greg seemed surprised by that simple question.
“Who checked if he was actually dead!”
“But there was no pulse!”
“He’s still alive!”
Lestrade went pale. “Bloody hell!”
He immediately pulled out his mobile and called for an ambulance.
John was already back on the ground, kneeling beside the man, his heart hammering, hands moving fast.
🟨=== POLICE LINE — DO NOT CROSS ===🟨