Deductions: A Johnlock Fanfic

Chapter Three

Sherlock raised the phone to his ear and listened to the dull dial tone as he waited to be put through. The recipient of his call answered and in a baffled tone exclaimed, "Blimey Sherlock, how do you do that?"

Sherlock frowned, confused as to what it was he had done. "That would be telling, wouldn't it?" he replied, hoping to keep an air of mystery. He was not one to own up to coincidence. Inspector Lestrade snorted, rather unamused. "Well it doesn't matter how you knew we needed you, just get to St Bartholomew's Hospital and-"

Sherlock cut him off, a smirk curved on his face. "I'll meet you in the morgue." He hung up on Lestrade and punched his fist in the air. "Fantastic," he exclaimed. He still held his phone and he dialled the familiar number. "John," he said as the call was answered. "Stop whatever trivial thing you are doing and call a cab."

John froze as he took his phone from his pocket. He read the caller ID and panicked. Sherlock couldn't be calling him now. Taylor would definitely leave him if she thought it was Sherlock was interrupting them. Again. Nervously, he answered the call. Taylor's eyes narrowed . "Ah, yes Harry?" he said.

The crinkle between Sherlock's brow increased. "No, it's Sherlock. I need you to meet me at Bartholomew's hospital. It's urgent." Why would John think he was Harry? He was nothing like Harry.

On the other end of the line, John continued his facade. "What? Our uncle? Oh that's terrible. I'll be there right away." Taylor still looked suspicious, but her expression softened. John hung up his phone and tried to give Taylor an apologetic expression. "That was my sister, our uncle fell off a ladder. He's in the hospital, and I need to be with him. Sorry Taylor."

Her face became sympathetic and she stepped forward to put an arm around him. "Oh John, it's going to be alright." She rubbed his arm. "I'll drive you to the hospital," she offered.

"Oh, no, but thank you. But, Harry will want this to be just family. She's quite sensitive about this kind of thing," he said, trying to sound convincing.

Taylor pursed her lips, looking a little disappointed that she was not considered family. "Alright then. I'll call a cab," she said, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

Once she had left the room, John breathed a sigh of relief. He hated lying to her, but he had no choice. What would happen if she knew he was leaving her for Sherlock ... again? It would not be pleasant.

Sherlock sat on his couch and frowned. Why on earth had John thought that he was Harry? He was nothing like Harry. And then John had gone and mentioned something about an uncle? Did John have an uncle? He said he'd come right away, so he must have known he had to go to the hospital. Was John in danger? he wondered suddenly. Was he trying to speak in code? If he was, it was a terrible code. No one could make head or tail of that. That's when Sherlock remembered where John was. He was with Taylor. He smiled to himself. John was lying to her, so he could be with him. Invigorated, he leapt from the couch and crossed the apartment. He took the stairs two at a time and stood outside 221B, hailing a cab as it passed. He sat inside and directed the cabby to the hospital. John would be there. Of that he was confident. Hopefully he had the sense to leave Taylor behind as well.

The sky above him was grey as the cab pulled up outside the hospital. He paid the cabbie and sprang out onto the footpath. The cold and unwelcoming building loomed up in front of him and he turned up the collar on his coat. With long strides, he walked around the back of the building, to a little side door, where the doctors would bring in the bodies of those already deceased. Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and took out a plain white card. He swiped it through the security lock, the door emitting a small click as it unlocked. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, making his way through the winding corridors of the hospital. He had always liked this part of the hospital. Hospitals in general were white, clean, crisp and gave off that sense of science and order. However, they were also full of the old, the young and the sick. The loud noise that came from both patients and staff as they yabbered away was enough to give anyone a headache. Down here, hardly anyone spoke. It was as though once someone died you could no longer speak in front of them; like they might overhear you talking and become overly jealous, since they could not. Down here, it was not a matter of healing, it was a matter of investigating. Of solving the puzzle, discovering ways to fix the problem. That kind of environment was much more to Sherlock's liking. And so it was with a small smile that he arrived in the morgue, to perhaps the joy or more likely, gruelling tolerance of Gregory Lestrade, Molly Hooper and Anderson.

John hated this part of the hospital. As a doctor, this was the area he preferred to avoid. He liked his patients alive and well, not, well ... not. He always felt that this part was the one that was the most decrepit, as though the hospital thought that because the public didn't look at this bit, they didn't need to spend money on it. The walls were in need of a fresh coat of paint; their original white now looking more ghost grey. The halls were always empty, and left him with an eerie chill up his spine. He didn't think he could ever get used to the quiet; he was too used to chaos. He began to wonder why he was doing this. He could be with Taylor; in the comfort of her warm home, discussing books or politics or some other subject he could never talk to Sherlock about. A small voice the whispered to him, 'Because that's boring. You won't ever be satisfied with a dull life, you will always crave adventure and excitement. This is what you truly love.' John shook his head. He should stop thinking like that. He was happy with Taylor, he just liked helping his best friend as well. Before he could think too much about it, he spied the door to the morgue and with a sigh pushed it open.