BBC Sherlock Howard, Misplaced - Survive

Lestrade took someone to 221B for the second time, this time at John's request.

Compared with the first time without thinking, the detective hesitated in agreeing this time, and even tried to decline politely, but in the end he couldn't match John's tough attitude.

There were no more people coming than last time, but it still made the living room of this apartment a little crowded.

"John, I must say, you probably can't expect us to find anything anymore," Lestrade said frankly. "I don't promise anything significant this time around."

"I don't care. Lestrade, as long as I think there's something missing, I won't let it go."

Military paranoia? Maybe, John thought.

Or maybe he's paranoid because he's Sherlock.

"He's always been that way with you—I mean, asking you to do stuff—"

"Not a word of thanks, yes. But when he's done some great reasoning, you have to praise him with the most exaggerated words."

Lestrade let out a breath, and took out a cigarette from his pocket, "Would you like it?"

"No, I don't smoke. Also, that stuff will kill you."

The detective smiled wryly, "You look more and more like him. He said that too."

"He's the last person to say that. He's a heavy smoker himself."

"But he doesn't care how long he can live, he only focuses on the present. The relationship between life and him is just two parallel lines. He knows that time is passing, but Sherlock never cares."

John opened his mouth, but didn't have time to speak. Lestrade seemed to believe Sherlock was dead, and even tried to convince him the other way around?No!He's Sherlock, he's Sherlock!

A police officer walked up to Lestrade with a zipper bag, "This should be the deceased's cell phone, we can decode it, maybe we will find something..."

"cannot!"

John was taken aback by the loudness of his voice.Eighty percent of the people thought he was rude.

"Sir, we have to do this. If you insist on doing this, you will be obstructing the official business."

"You can't take his phone. Absolutely not."

He knew Sherlock would never want to.Had it been him, John believed the detective would have made the same decision.

He will not betray him.

"Sir, I can understand your feelings."

What mood?What the hell mood?He, John Watson, is fine now!It's just roommates running away from home!

"However," the junior policeman said again, "he is already dead, you must hand over the relevant evidence to the police, this will help the investigation—"

"Who did you say died? Who died?"

John felt the veins on his forehead twitching, becoming stronger and stronger.

The police rummaged through the information bag and finally pulled out a piece of paper.

He looked at the doctor confidently, with impatience in his eyes.

"Decedent's name: Sherlock Holmes."

A scream accompanied by a loud noise attracted the attention of everyone in the room.

"Dr. Watson!"

It was Lestrade's voice. John knew very well what he had done, he just raised his fist and hit the face of the young man who didn't know what to do, and taught him a lesson by the way - I believe he will not be ignorant in the future.

"Jones, you go out first and take the others with you."

Turns out the guy was called Jones. "Hey, he's in the way!" Jones screamed, holding his nose.

"Get out!" Lestrade emphasized again, raising his voice.

Now the young man with a fresh blood had no choice but to leave with his head down.

There are only two people left in the living room.

John held tightly the transparent zipper bag he had just snatched from Jones in a panic, his palms were sweating, and his clenched fists trembled slightly.

Like someone just took something important from him.It's like the blanket that accompanied him to sleep every night when he was young. Whoever washes it, he will fight desperately.

"John."

Don't call him that.There was someone else in the world who would call him in that monosyllabic word, and it would remind him of that man's deep voice.

"Just call me Dr. Watson."

A look of astonishment flashed across Lestrade's face, but he soon realized it.

"I won't arrest you for what happened tonight. If you want to keep Sherlock's phone, you can keep it. There is one more thing I want to tell you."

Lestrade dug another zipper pocket out of his coat.

"Found it in Sherlock's armchair," the detective said, handing the doctor a pair of gloves, "tucked in the seat cushion. It's hidden. I just found it when I searched."

It was a black envelope without any writing on it.

John pulled the rubber gloves on, "So, what do you mean?"

"At that time, I was still thinking about what to do with it. After all, it was a personal letter, and it was Sherlock's personal letter. After seeing your reaction, I decided to leave it to you."

Lestrade handed the bag over, looking at John with half-shocked, half-grateful eyes.

"……thanks."

He opened the bag and read it.

Inside was a hard card with only one sentence on it.

"Goodbye, John."

Ink typography.Not handwritten, but printed?

John frowned. "It wouldn't be him. He'd write it—"

"Are you sure, Dr. Watson?"

"My God."

John sighed weakly.He is not so sure about this question.

"Do you have any ideas? What are you going to do?" Lestrade's voice sounded again.

"You are a detective, what are you going to do?"

"Let me take it for forensics, and look for the fingerprints and other clues on it."

"we can only do this."

Lestrade nodded and left.

That feeling of being ripped apart surrounded John again.

He lay back on the couch and turned off the lights.

This is Sherlock's second favorite place after the kitchen, and he often lies here for half a day, just like the doctor now.

Sherlock's indigo silk pajamas hang nearby.

John stared at it dreamily.He was tired but couldn't close his eyes.

The night was too dark, and the moonlight was blinding.He couldn't sleep because of the shadows.

Lestrade had informed John of the results of the investigation over the phone.

Sherlock's fingerprints were on the letter paper and the envelope, and they all matched.

"John. Uh, no, Dr. Watson. I know this is hard to swallow, but I want you to…"

Before Lestrade could finish, John hung up.

He rubbed his sore eyes, blinked vigorously a few times, and a little tear came out.

John had been looking for messages from Sherlock, hoping the detective had left something besides the envelope.

Colleagues said he was emaciated.

Insomnia has become the norm. John knew that he would still haggard.

He sat at his desk and took out his notebook from the drawer.

No one can help him now.

He scribbled on the paper for a while, until he realized that he could no longer write, and he stopped writing in a little disappointment.

Too little, too little he could think of.

On the paper was a relationship analysis checklist for Sherlock.

We can only start here.

He has no choice.

If there is anyone who will play a part in Sherlock's epic drama for free, besides John Watson, it must be Molly Hooper.

No matter how much she denied it, how much she tried to deny it, the girl would eventually accept Sherlock's ridiculous request.

As long as Sherlock lowers his figure occasionally, softens his attitude, and is a little bit meaner - say a few words of praise that are not heartfelt at all, and blink a few times those blue eyes that are sometimes cold and sometimes smart, it will often get his wish.

Not even a bribe.

Yes, that's what John assumed - Sherlock started directing and acting himself.

He could always easily fool John's five senses.Being able to hide himself in a cage, scared to death by what he called a "completely safe simulated environment", or being depressed for weeks after the case was closed had John's heart hanging high - the result?It turned out that he just wanted to get the doctor's sympathy, and to add fuel to the flames, to get permission to buy cigarettes!

He is a formidable genius.The only guy who could stand against him was dead before his eyes, and he was Sherlock, and his judgment could not be wrong, let alone judging whether a person was alive or dead.

John remembered Sherlock once describing Moriarty in this way:

"He is like the spider at the center of the web, and he knows every thread in his criminal network."

Obviously, this is by no means a compliment.But hearing it in Moriarty's ears might have been a compliment.

Or maybe this is just a commentary on "cunning", neither praise nor derogation.

But the Sherlock in John's eyes is not far from this description.

He certainly wouldn't want to be side by side with that criminal consultant. Moriarty had put all his heart and soul into taunting him, making him his defeat, and ended up on the roof, drinking himself.

John never knew what Sherlock did during the days when he asked Lestrade to leave home, he only knew that he stayed away for several nights, and when he saw him again, Sherlock was standing on the roof of Butts Hospital.

John couldn't hear him calling, and the detective couldn't hear the doctor's screaming.

They became completely separate entities at that moment, two separate destinies, and he could see him, which was the most painful thing for John.

The gunshot rang out, and John passed out instantly.

When he woke up again, he was on the sofa in 221B.

Lestrade told him it was all due to the anesthesia needle, "Someone targeted you somewhere, I don't think I need to go into details later. You and Sherlock must have seen such a trick."

John nodded almost obediently, his consciousness still a little fuzzy."Where's Sherlock?" he asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "I don't know, no one knows where he went."

That night, Sherlock returned.

They had a perfect understanding of not talking about anything that happened during the day, but how could John hold back?Before going to bed, he finally asked him:

"everything fine?"

What’s wrong with you? What happened to Moriarty? Sherlock, don't be so silent.I can tell if your silence is thinking or something else.

"Very good."

John had difficulty swallowing for a moment, and he swallowed hard.At the risk of Sherlock losing control of his emotions, he said:

"Moriarty..."

"He's dead." The trill was barely audible in Sherlock's voice, so John thought he had misheard.

"Why does he..."

"Suicide."

suicide?

Sherlock's eyelids close slightly.In just a few hours, he looked as if he was seriously ill and his face was pale. "John, I beg you, stop asking."

John naturally shut up when he saw him like this, and he never asked him about the missing days, and the time he missed when he was hit by an anesthesia needle.

Sherlock was like a spider in the center of a web.

The web he weaves is tangible, but unintentional.

You can foresee how twisted and difficult life can be after falling into his web.You have always had the right to choose whether to wade through the muddy waters. His life circle is the whole of London. From the prosperous downtown area to the deserted alleyways, it is nothing but his footprints.

You want to escape, but you can't escape.When you struggle, he always finds a way to lock you up.

In the end, you will find that you have treated him——

Desperate.

Just in between.Like Molly Hooper.

Compare her to a butterfly.Deep in it, in a web as formidable as his creator.

But the girl's case seems to be not so simple. Doesn't her loyalty to him also contain the word "love"?

Then she might be in love.This example is not good and not comprehensive enough.

John's footsteps stopped at the door of Barts Hospital, a page torn from a notebook in his breast pocket.

—So, what about John Watson?

He'd always known that the road could be difficult and dangerous, but he was like a moth to a flame, wanting to get closer to the center of the fire - even Sherlock has a burning heart.

He is not afraid of being burned by this dangerous man.

He thought about leaving, thinking about getting a new roommate, and thinking about whether he was suitable for living with a high-functioning antisocial personality.

But he's standing here now, at the hospital gate, looking for Sherlock.

Perhaps he should have realized earlier that he, too, was devoted to him.

Under the long-term pollution of disinfectant water and the projection of lights, the corridor looks pale and feeble. John walked familiarly with resolute steps, and the place he was going to now became a flickering hope.

Where could Sherlock be?He bought a cabin with a bad leak, he showed up in a dilapidated church, he stayed overnight in a family's garage.

221B is not his home, London is.Any cool chair can be his bed.He and his little apartment were just a resting place, a more comfortable resting place.

A resting place where he is willing to stop for a while in a world where every second counts.

God.

This is simply harder than finding a needle in a haystack.

The doctor gently pushed open the door of the laboratory, and the murmurs from the past no longer exist, and it may have been lubricated recently.

John lifted his head and let out a long breath.When he took a deep breath again, his nasal cavity was filled with the unique pungent smell of chemicals, which made his stomach churn. John frowned in discomfort.

The days with Sherlock hadn't even occurred to him before, what made all of this jump into his mind?

There are too many changes and no changes, as if they are all marked.He just doesn't want to pay attention, but he can't do what he wants.

Like a few more beakers, a new Bunsen burner, and a few books on the platform - it can be seen that it is definitely not Sherlock, who stores all available information in his head, even though the information is out of order, just a A combination of out-of-the-ordinary knowledge - but enough to make strangers dumbfounded.

He was looking for any clues that Sherlock was still alive.To prove to Scotland Yard, but also to prove to himself.

John finds Molly Hooper behind the microscope.

"Molly."

He nodded to her.It's funny, if calling each other's name directly is a way for doctors to express familiarity, then John spent months and still failed to get the woman in front of him to remember his name.

He remembered the awkward look on Molly's face after introducing Sherlock to her boyfriend.

"Uh, sorry, you're..."

"John Watson."

He didn't know what the expression on his face would be at that time, his voice was rare and cold and flat. Molly seemed frightened, but the girl's boyfriend smiled even brighter.

"Nice to meet you."

The slender man walked right past him, holding out his open palm, but Sherlock didn't even look at it.

That was Moriarty, and maybe he was trying to embarrass John—or was he just not paying attention to John?

Everyone knew him as a doctor and his surname. From the first meeting to working with him, they always called him: Dr. Watson.

So much so that John was not used to them using other words in the end.

He is by no means unfamiliar with them, but keeps a distance.

He didn't know what was wrong.

"Dr. Watson? Why are you here?"

Molly seemed surprised.She was holding a tube of unknown chemical reagent in her hand, and was about to unscrew it, but she gave up the idea after seeing John.

She washed her hands. John sat down in a seat he was most familiar with, and although there were very few opportunities to sit and rest during the days when he and Sherlock were busy here, occasionally they would sit in a chair after a whole busy day Go, just accompany, don't have to say anything.

"There's usually only one reason I'm here."

Once upon a time, because Sherlock was here, he would be here.

Just because of Sherlock.

It didn't take long for the confusion on Molly's face to disappear, whether she knew it or thought it didn't matter.There was a trace of sadness in her eyes, presumably she understood.

"I'm very sorry."

"No, you must be more painful than me."

John saw Molly sitting across from him, and he was able to make out her face—a pair of slightly swollen eyes, red lips that were made up, forming an obvious contrast with her tired face.

She smiled awkwardly, "You can see that too."

"I can't see much. So, the rest, I hope you can tell me."

The table was overly messy, and the reagents on the test tube rack were as still as a pool of stagnant water, so Molly averted her gaze.

"……What do you want to know?"

John's throat was dry for a while, and his voice suddenly became hoarse.

"About Sherlock. All, the details... him."

"Doctor." Molly sighed helplessly, "how can I know more about him than you?"

"Molly, this is not a game. If you can, just tell me everything about him, starting from the moment the name started popping up in your memory."

Yes, these people knew Sherlock Holmes without John Watson.That detective, John had never met.

It's unknown if we can get some information from it.

Molly pursed her lips, but she had a tormented expression.

"Dr. Watson, you look more and more like him."

Are we alike?

He suddenly remembered Sherlock looking back in front of him.

This was the second time John heard this sentence, and he didn't give himself time to think, and softened his tone: "I'm sorry, Molly, it's really not... It's all important to me."

He heard her sigh. John knew that Molly was a strong girl, and even though she would burst into tears occasionally, she was always like a new sprout after a storm, still smiling in every dewy dawn, staying by Sherlock's side without regret.

"That was a long time ago, conservatively ten years ago... There was a case, a murder case. That was the case that introduced Sherlock to me and Lestrade. I remember it was late, about ten o'clock, and I was I was about to get off work, but I saw a man rushing in, yelling: "Give me the corpse I want!"

I couldn't figure out what was going on, and thought it was an extra, or some stupid prank, until the detective came across the corridor a little guilty, and he said to me with his mouth: "he Give him whatever you want. 』

What he wanted was a filed body, and I told him that, and Sherlock started pacing restlessly, clenching his fists and growling from time to time, and at one point I thought he was bipolar.Finally, he calmed down a little and said, "It's not as simple as you think. 』

I didn't understand what he was saying, but the next sentence was: 'I know you have no plans tonight, otherwise you wouldn't be working so late.Instead of watching everyone get together on a Friday night, keep yourself busy so you can forget about the loneliness for a while. 』

It really... works for me. "

"So, you just pushed the body out to him?"

"That's right. And then, as you can see, aloof, willful... that's it. He's not bad, but... so honest, I'm sure he'll express every feeling, no matter the consequences. Like he's already Criticized my makeup several times, but I'm used to it."

"...Is there anything else you want to tell me? Actually, you can open up. I wouldn't mind if you called Sherlock a complete jerk."

Because he has heard even the most ugly words.

"You wounded a police officer for him, didn't you?"

Molly gave a hard smile, "I heard."

"Well, badnewsstr□□elsfast."

"Dr. Watson, actually, I've always been jealous of you."

John's eyes widened. Why did the conversation turn to him?

"I have nothing to be jealous of..."

"Probably everyone knows, since that Christmas, when he exposed my feelings to everyone. Yeah, I like him a lot, but Sherlock only cares about you."

God, don't think of me as your imaginary enemy.

Sherlock and I just happen to live together.

"He and I are just roommates..." John explained with some trouble.

"I knew he should go to the opera with you," he added hastily. "I suggested it to him."

"The Phantom of the Opera?"

"Yes... how do you know?"

Molly's expression suddenly stiffened, even distorted.

"What are you talking about, Dr. Watson?" She smiled wryly:

"That's the ticket he asked me to buy."

John couldn't remember when he left the lab.

After seeing Molly's desperately depressed appearance, the doctor found an excuse and left in a hurry.

It was dark.The dark blue skyline extends infinitely, spreading to an unknown void in all directions.

Out of habit, John walked out the back door of the hospital and turned into a narrow alley.

The mottled concrete walls still have traces of rain washing, and the water pipes in the corners are dripping, and the humidity all year round has made moss grow there. Normal people should not want to walk in here.

His casual shoes stepped on several puddles on the ground, and he could be easily recognized from the sound. Most of the alley was dark, except for the street lamp at the entrance of the alley and a wall-mounted street lamp in the center that was flickering and flickering.

And John is standing here now, in the middle of the alley, some distance away from the end of the alley, he can hear the constant flow outside, but it seems like a world away.

This lamp must have been installed by someone nearby. John thought, this is where the monotonous white light of the street lamp is not enough. This lamp is old, and it feels that there is some poor contact, and the color of the bulb is actually dim yellow, which makes its brightness even lower.

At the same time, there is no denying that this was a beautiful mistake.The elegant curves and design are mesmerizing.

The doctor thought of all the things that happened in this alley.They had just left the laboratory at that time, it was late at night, there were only two or three pedestrians on the road, Sherlock suddenly pulled him into a narrow alley, and walked straight forward without saying a word.

After a while, the detective suddenly said:

"John, look up."

Sherlock paused, and began to slow down.

The doctor obeyed obediently.In the gap between the two buildings, there is only the tip of the iceberg of the sky full of stars, without seeing the whole picture, but it also surprised John very much.

"I didn't know London could see so many stars," he said.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Sherlock asked lazily.

They walked all the way, passing the dim yellow streetlight, and John saw Sherlock's cheeks flushed slightly, almost like a drunken blush.

He smiled at him, it was so simple, clean and impressive.

Sherlock.

John remembered that he had to continue to inquire about the news, so his pace quickened, from short steps to fast running - he didn't know the use of being anxious at this time, maybe he just wanted to tell himself: If he could find out the truth sooner, Sherlock would be able to return to 221B.

As a good law-abiding citizen, John always obeys the traffic rules.But when he thought of this, the headlights had already blanked out his vision.

glaring.Compared to the harsher screeching of brakes, it was like an ax cutting through his hamstrings, and John spun, kneeling on the street.

"Oh God!"

Pedestrians are standing on the sidewalk a few meters away, looking here, their curious eyes are like thousands of needles piercing into his flesh.The driver murmured and got out of the car.There was endless confusion in the sapphire blue eyes.

"It didn't hurt you, did it?"

It was a woman.She flicked her short, smooth blonde hair and brushed a few strands behind her ears.

"No." John replied, recovering from his panic quickly, he stood up and patted his trousers.

"How did you suddenly run off the sidewalk, my God, what happened to you?"

John was a little embarrassed: "I'm sorry."

After hearing this, the woman tilted her head thoughtfully, her confusion and worries dissipated, and she showed a mischievous smile:

"I was quite frightened. How about treating me to a meal?"

Sherlock woke up.

He didn't open his eyes, he was keenly aware that the bed was unbelievably soft, the sheets were extremely tactile and silky, and there was a very obvious difference from 221B.

What's more, the smell, whether it's his original room, the living room, or even the doctor's room - there is a familiar smell that he can't describe, and that is the only thing that can make each other relax after every adventure way.One thought told him that even if a grenade were dropped there, 221B would always be the safest, most indestructible shelter for him and John.

It is definitely not a problem with the building. The windows are not bulletproof glass. How can ordinary red bricks and cement withstand the power of blasting?

But Sherlock always felt that as long as he stayed there, no matter how the surroundings changed, or the sky fell or the ground cracked, he could lie on the sofa comfortably and stay in danger.

But not anymore.

The situation of the detective is strange and uncertain.He should continue to sleep to prevent things from developing further into the unknown, and the twitching fingertips left a stain on his almost perfect disguise.

The door lock knocked, and it felt like a high-tech product. It might be fingerprint recognition or face detection, but it couldn't be voice control.

someone is coming.

The heels tap the floor in a deliberate, even joyful rhythm.

Sherlock suddenly felt a corner of the bed recessed, and a scent penetrated his nostrils, and now he can say with certainty: it was a woman.

The hollow was getting closer and closer to him, and finally, overlapped with his.

There was a woman on top of Sherlock.

The perfume the man was wearing happened to be called "Queen".The detective has done analysis and research related to perfume, but he has not seen anyone using this one so far, maybe it is too high-profile.

The woman is kissing him, no, it's not that simple, the lips are just a medium to transfer matter.Liquid trickled down Sherlock's throat, and it was water, just plain water.

How long has he been without food and drink?The parched throat was moistened, and even though Sherlock's brow was furrowed in resistance, the swallowing reflex continued.

"Just the right time and dose. You're awake."

The detective opened his eyes somewhat indignantly after hearing the woman's words. They were too close, but Sherlock could still make out her identity from the features around her eyes.

"Irene Adler."

"I'm flattered, Mr. Detective."

"No need."

"Your skill at ending the conversation is really first-rate."

Sherlock closed his eyes, determined not to talk to her, but changed his mind after a while.He straightened up and looked around.

If there is no accident, this will be where he will stay for the next few days. He must first figure out the mystery hidden in it before he can formulate the next plan.

There is a low cabinet on the right side and the left side of the bed, made of red cedar wood and exquisitely carved, it must be expensive.Each low cabinet has two drawers with lock holes, not sure if they are locked or not.The room has no windows, but has indoor air conditioning, set at 77 degrees Fahrenheit, and all electrical switches are on the control panel next to the bed.There is a desk in front on the left, and a single sofa—the same style as the one he had in 221B.

There is only one sofa.

Sherlock suppressed the strangeness in his heart and looked the other way.It was a transparent cubicle, a bathroom, with no external walls, only glass as a partition.

What was even more unbelievable was that there was no shower curtain beside the bathtub, and there was no shelter beside the glass, and the rail that should have been hung with a curtain was empty.Oh, it must have been taken down for his arrival.

Just for the stunned look on the detective's face.But Sherlock didn't do what the other party wanted, and was even overly cold.

"I think you know enough about this room, and you won't find anything new after looking at it."

With a casual tone, Irene walked towards the sofa and sat down: "So, you must be wondering why you are here."

"It's impossible to say no."

"Then, please beg me."

"It's still early."

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet Irene's.It is too early for him to humble himself.

The woman laughed contemptuously, "There are no rules to follow here, because you have no possibility of escaping, I advise you to give up as soon as possible. I will find someone to deliver meals to you every day. Don't think about verbal threats or lures. There are more monitors in this room than you can imagine, and they are listening 24 hours a day. I like to surprise, and the time of visit is random. You must be very happy to see me.”

"Obviously not."

"Oh, don't jump to conclusions. Then, as a welcome ceremony, I can let you ask a question. I won't be so kind in the future."

Sherlock didn't expect any satisfactory answers.He didn't think about it, just said casually:

"You took so much trouble to bring me here, why?"

Irene's expression was more haughty than he had ever seen in anyone.

"In order for you to remember, who is the woman who beat you."

A folded piece of paper was stuffed in John's pocket.

When the doctor took out the key, it fell to the ground.

He picked it up and read the words on it again.

Mary Morstan.

It was a lovely, charming woman, and somewhat unpredictable.At the end of the dinner, John also admitted his compensation, and was about to pay for it out of his own pocket, but the woman stopped him.

"GoDutch!" Mary had that mischievous expression on her face again, her big eyes blinked, and John accepted the proposal.

Throughout the night, from ordering food to self-introduction—every link was driven by Mary.If—this could be called a date, it would be demeaning to be a man, and he wondered what Mary would think, that he was cowardly and unmanly?But she finally took the initiative to exchange numbers with him.

John felt that his performance was terrible. If judged by the standards of the past, it was really bad.