Three Is Company

Doctors Often Lie

"Reginald Musgrave." The Doctor grumbled from the other end of the phone, his voice heavy with sleep. There was some satisfaction to know that John would soon be interrupting his peaceful evening. If John had to sacrifice his relaxation, it was only fair that the Doctor be inconvenienced as well. 
"It's John." John explained. "Listen...I'm on babysitting duty. Or rather, I followed Irene to the bar."
"About time." The Doctor snapped, perhaps forgetting his formalities after their last encounter had gone so poorly. Perhaps he wasn't even asleep, but his mouth was just swollen from John's punches.
"Well I think she's in the back alley, she went out there with some man I didn't recognize. I wanted to know what I should do. The police are here, too."
"The police?" Musgrave exclaimed.
"It's...well it's my friend, actually. He's under cover."
"That's not good." The Doctor insisted, his voice finally shaping back into the more recognizable tone of disappointment. That was the Musgrave John knew and...tolerated.
"Well what then? Should I go break them up?" John wondered.
"Yes! Yes, for God's sake, that was half of your job!"
"What was half of it?" John whined.
"Not letting her get outside with a man in the first place! As soon as he realizes...well that's when things get ugly!"
"So you think there's danger now?" John clarified, dropping his voice into a whisper just in case Greg could hear his conversation over the music.
"Quit asking questions, and follow orders!" Musgrave demanded. John scoffed, not even doing the Doctor the liberty of saying goodbye. Instead he went back towards the bar, slammed the phone onto the receiver, and stormed out into the alleyway to make his point clear. No boys, Doctor's orders. John pushed open the backdoors, not even bothering to answer Greg's insistent calls from where he sat at the bar. There were more important things than catering to Greg's whining, especially when Sherlock's freedom was on the line. The back alley was just as he feared...silent. The moon was shining enough light between the slimy bricks to make it obvious, no one stirred, not even a dead body was hidden among the garbage. But then what? Where had they gone, if not where they promised to be? John's heart rate was beginning to increase, he feared not only for Sherlock's freedom but also his safety. Victor's appearance was a sure way to escalate into violence, but would he always reign victorious? Would Victor meet his match with someone who was not surprised at the aggression, someone who knew how to fight and who could match the madness with skill? If John did find a body tonight, who's to say it won't be wearing a red dress? John trotted into a run, following along the alleyway until he could see by the light of the neon signs. A large billboard displaying the name of the bar in bright lights was enough replacement for the moon, and it was under this yellow luminance that John could see the Volkswagen shaking. At first this stopped him in his tracks, collecting his breath and sighing one final one in premature relief. Well, that particular motion was a good sign. It meant that, presumably, all secrets were already out. John felt almost silly, wondering if he might accidentally make eye contact on the other side of those foggy windows. For a moment he turned in circles, remembering Musgrave's demands, though taking into consideration of course the awkward moment he might invite himself to. Perhaps there was no danger here at all, the moment of reveal had already come and gone. Could he relax, then, and go back inside? John dug his heel into the gravel parking lot, turning one final circle before deciding to give up on this particular mission. It would appear that the worst of it had passed. So long as the man was a good lover there would be nothing to worry about. Victor would not appear tonight. John had almost reached for the door handle when he was interrupted by the slamming of a car door, a sound so unexpected that John nearly jumped out of his shoes. A massive sigh followed, one of exasperation and exhaustion, and one that was much too deep to be taken for Irene. John suddenly felt pressured to move faster, wondering if the woman's suitor would not appreciate his hanging around outside, invading their privacy. Though he was caught, caught halfway between scrambling inside, when a voice summoned his utmost attention.
"Come on then, Mr. Watson. I think it's time that we leave." It was a deep voice, though recognizable. Somewhere between Sherlock's beautiful baritone and the fabricated octave that Irene squeaked in its place. Something more hostile...yet remarkably familiar. John hesitated, squeezing his eyes shut and praying that he was allowing his imagination to run wild. Certainly the voice wasn't... John pulled his hand away from the door, turning hesitantly to face his addressor. As he feared. There was a smile on that face, on that upturned, mischievous face. Again the man laughed, laughing with the dress pulled down around his waist to act as a sort of skirt, allowing for his bare, bloodstained chest to be revealed. And in his hand appeared to be something wriggling, pink and fleshy...
"Is that a tongue?" John whispered, bearing his teeth and nearly breaking down into tears.
"It is. It liked to wag a bit too much. It had a lot of things to say." Victor chuckled, giving the thing a little wiggle so that the long, dangling thing danced within his fingers. John felt like his stomach had suddenly been filled with cement, as if the world had suddenly exploded at his feet. So he failed, didn't he? The lack of screaming foretold the worst case scenario. If that man had survived his tongue removal he would have been putting up a fight or at least trying to file a complaint. The silence was deafening.
"Get in the car, Victor." John muttered, dropping his face towards the ground and shuttering madly.
"Think I should get him out first? Maybe prop him up in a tree or something?" Victor wondered, turning around on his heel with his proud, obnoxious smirk.
"Get in the God d*mn car, Victor, before we both get hauled out of here in a vehicle far less comfortable!" John demanded, storming towards the little Volkswagen and holding his hand out for the keys. He wanted to smack that smug little face; he wanted to send Victor to his own early grave. How much easier this would be if the wig had not fallen off, revealing Sherlock's curls, matted and sweaty against his forehead! How much easier it would be if Sherlock actually had two physical roommates!
"You're driving?" Victor wondered, sounding a little disappointed.
"Yes, I'm driving. You're drunk."
"Irene was drunk."
"It's the same body!" John growled, waving his fingers insistently. Victor scoffed, tossing a set of keys across the hood of the car to land them precisely within John's waiting palm. John pursed his lips, grabbing at the door and sliding into the driver's seat and forcing himself not to look. He knew that there was a body; he could already smell the metallic scent of blood. From the rear view mirror he could only make out a suspicious lump, a black shape spread across the whole of the backseat. Did he need any more confirmation than that?
"I do love a man who takes control." Victor chuckled, giving the tongue another wave before sliding into the passenger seat with ease. He seemed not to notice the dead body that took up the whole of the backseat, as if that bleeding corpse was nothing more than some spare luggage. Instead Victor kicked his bare foot upon the dashboard, reclining the seat so that he could lounge across the stained fabric. John turned on the engine, realizing that he had to get out of here before Greg came looking. Certainly the cop would realize there was something amiss, the disappearance not only of his best friend, but of one of his possible suspects! Surely Greg had taken notice of Irene as a regular. She was quite hard to miss. John kept the lights off as he backed up into the road, the tires spinning helplessly on the gravel before finally finding traction and starting off in the right direction. Victor was entertaining himself, playing casually with the tongue, admiring the clean cut that had been made across the base of it.
"You have a knife?" John presumed.
"Yes sir." Victor sighed. "Irene carries it for protection. Sherlock never checks his pockets. We've always got one."
"Just in case you have to kill someone?" John scoffed.
"Well of course."
"You don't think there's a better option?" John growled. "Is murder really the only solution you can think of?"
"We've got secrets to protect, John. If rumor spreads about Sherlock, and about his pastimes, well certainly the police would jump onto him as a prime suspect. As soon as they discover there's anyone mentally unstable in their midst suddenly all their watery eyes go pointing in that direction."
"Well we wouldn't have that problem if you just never killed anyone. Who cares what the police think if you're completely innocent?" John snarled. Victor hummed, as if that seemed a perfectly reasonable suggestion.
"Much more boring that way." He complained.
"Well give me that knife, anyway. We'll have to get rid of it." John insisted, holding out his hand as he kept the other on the wheel, trying to stay between the lines of these curved, unpainted country roads.
"I should like to keep it, actually. No need hiding a murder weapon that no one's looking for."
"Not yet! What do you think we're doing with him, just leaving him there?" John exclaimed.
"Musgrave will figure it out." Victor sighed. "He always does."
"Without him you'd be in a jail cell." John pointed out.
"I wouldn't be. Sherlock would be." Victor defended. "And then we'd be sent to a nice room, and given a cozy white jacket, like we're giving each other hugs constantly."
"I won't let that happen." John assured. "No prison, no hospitals."
"You'll keep us safe. I know you will. Sherlock's little love bird." Victor chuckled, passing one of his bloody fingers underneath John's chin in a gesture of falsified affection. "And so romantic, too. I've never seen him writhe like that. Except of course with Musgrave."
"Musgrave?" John shot immediately, daring to take his eyes off of the road for one moment in order to gauge Victor's reaction. That tongue was forked (the one in his mouth, not in his hand), and it would seem as though even the most innocent of lies would be told to get the drama started. Victor's goal was to infuriate, and at the moment he was getting exactly what he wanted.
"Oh yes. The Doctor didn't tell you about his little experiment? Hm. That man has one foot in the dungeon of the ethics committee, that's for sure."
"What are you talking about, Victor?" John demanded.
"Maybe ask Reginald when you see him next."
"I'll stop this car and force you to tell me if it comes to that. Now what on earth does Musgrave have to do with...with writhing?"
"Poor little Doctor demonstrated himself the other night. The night you interrupted. Musgrave had to know for himself just how to summon Irene, that's why you met her that night instead of your own lover. That old man gave it everything he had, you should have heard him..."
"They slept together?" John demanded, nearly slamming his foot on the breaks as his eyes went dark, the weight of this newfound confession descending like a boulder on top of his head. For once in his life John nearly forgot about the dead body in the back seat, as it would seem there was a more pressing matter ahead!
"Oh no, not that far. Reginald was a gentleman; he didn't even dare a kiss. Though he straddled his patient, and he got to work."
"And Sherlock let this happen?"
"Sherlock understood the medical dilemma." Victor explained. "He knew that it would help in the long run."
"And...and what?" John wondered, waving his hand desperately for more information.
"Do you want to know if it worked?" Victor wondered, leaning across the passenger seat without his seatbelt buckled, placing one of his hands upon John's shoulder and pressing his lips close to John's ear. John shivered, pulling away in apprehension. Despite the familiar shape of Sherlock's body in the corner of his eyes there was that sour bite to his breath, that threatening aura that acted as a poison.
"Of course it worked, John. Sherlock's only been touched by foul hands before. He's never been loved like that. He was seeing stars by the time Irene came to take his place. And Musgrave, too...that Doctor was enjoying himself."
"I'll kill him." John decided at last, remembering Musgrave's ramblings inside of the pharmacy, his confessions that might as well have been of love! Certainly he had tricks up his sleeve, able to talk his way around getting as close as possible without the commitment and the requited admiration. If Sherlock wouldn't have him as he was, well then why not frame it as an experiment? As a part of the therapy? John gritted his teeth, deciding that as soon as he pulled up to Reginald's door he would offer another punch for good measure. That wasn't just a personal offense, that was a disgusting trick against the man they both swore to protect.
"I thought you were preaching pacifism? I thought murder wasn't a man's best friend?"
"It is tonight." John growled.
"Good. I wish I could see it, John." Victor sighed, settling back in his seat as he let his fingers drape down the rest of John's arm, cherishing the touch before finally settling his hand back to his side.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean I'm calm. Terribly calm. My anger is exhausted. Sherlock's coming back soon."
"Sherlock? No, wait...he can't come back yet!" John insisted.
"Sorry darling. Such is the way of the diseased."
"You're going to make me explain this? This...this body, that dress?" John demanded. "Why I'm driving his car at midnight?"
"You'll figure it out. Or maybe it's time for the truth?" Victor suggested. "He always wanted the truth."
"No...no that'll hurt him more!" John demanded.
"Oh ya? And who told you that?" Victor sighed. John blinked, stealing another glance towards those evil features, now softening. The mischievous glint that was fading away.
"Musgrave told me that." John muttered. Victor hummed in agreement, poking his fingers into the severed tongue for good measure.
"Doctors often lie." Were his last words, already dropping back into their appropriate baritone. John glanced apprehensively, though he could see that Victor had dropped into his quiet state, the transition process. John had about thirty seconds to either make up the best lie ever told, or begin to formulate the best way to deliver the truth. The whole truth. Would it do some good after all? Was Victor for once attempting to benefit Sherlock's life rather than muck it up further? Certainly Musgrave's character was growing dirtier by the second, but would he really keep away a potential treatment method all for the sake of keeping his patient close? What would happen if Sherlock found the strength to bypass these personalities? What would happen if he learned the truth and benefited from it? Well, separation of course. The loss of a patient, the loss of a friend. Perhaps something much more, especially if Musgrave was going through such crude experimentation. Was it time to interrupt the Doctor's plans after playing along for so long? Was it time to present Sherlock with the truth of his own being, the truth of his own self? It was that or drive the car into the river, hoping to destroy the evidence of the crime before either the cops or the perpetrator discovered it. The man in the passenger seat began to squirm, his fingers gripping tighter at the tongue as if finding it to be a relaxing way to pull himself back into his body. The squishy flesh must have felt like a moist, warm stress ball. John grabbed at it, trying to wrench the tongue from Sherlock's fingers before he could contemplate exactly what he was holding. That would probably be the worst way of introducing him to the corpse in the backseat. Thankfully Sherlock's grip was not strong, and with some effort John was able to pull the thing out of his fingers. Unfortunately it was much too unpleasant to hold for long, and instead of throwing it from the car window as he originally intended, John suddenly became incredibly squeamish. At the touch of the rubbery muscle and the bristle of the taste buds John's fingers released involuntarily, dropping the tongue into the cup holder where it would have to stay. Already Sherlock's eyes were opening, blinking as if waking from a terrible dream. Oh John wished it was only that...only some terrible dream.