Wholock x Reader - Part 9

You awoke early the next morning, curled up in something warm. You sat up, rubbing your eyes and looking around. As you did, what you assumed was a blanket slid from your shoulders, leaving you cold and shivering. Your immediate reaction was to pull it back up. You looked down at the blanket around you, only to find that it wasn't a blanket at all. It was Sherlock's coat. You pulled it off again, not knowing what to think.

Your mind stalled for a moment as you tried to assess the situation. You were still on the lounge room couch of 221B. Meaning you must've fallen asleep while doing your police work.

"Great," you groaned, "Just great." It meant that you would have to do the rest of your task now.

You reached for the stack of paperwork you had been working on the night before, which sat neatly on the coffee table, with your pen placed on top of it. You removed the pen and examined the papers, discovering that they had all been filled out... in your handwriting.

"Morning," a man's voice greeted you from the door of the living room.

"Good morning, John," you said with a warm smile. He walked past you and into the kitchen. Moments later you could hear the kettle boiling. "John?" you called out to him.

"Yes?" he called back.

"Did you come into the lounge room at any stage last night?" you asked. John re-entered the room carrying two mugs of tea. He passed one to you and began to sip at his own. He nodded.

"The Doctor and I came in at about seven to put the shopping away," he replied.

"And?"

"And nothing else," he shrugged. He was lying.

"And?" you asked again, although you practically demanded it. John sighed.

"And you were asleep on the couch, Sherlock was sitting there..." he pointed to the opposite side of the coffee table, "...Jotting down some kind of notes. Nothing special." He smiled at you before taking another drink of his tea. You had a sip of yours. John trailed across the room and settled down into his armchair.

So, it was obvious that Sherlock had been the one to be put the coat on you, considering it was his and that he was the only one home at the time you fell asleep... But it still left the question of who had done your work for you. It certainly wouldn't have been Sherlock Holmes. Just a couple of days knowing him and you knew that he would never bother with anything so boring as paperwork. John would have let you know if he had done it. You highly doubted Mrs. Hudson would do such a thing, let alone know how to forge your writing. That only left one other. The Doctor. Though, why he did it for you, you had no clue.

~~~~

After having a peaceful breakfast with John and finishing your cup of tea, you decided that maybe heading home for a couple of hours might prove useful. You desperately wanted a shower and you certainly wanted to put some clean clothing on. Bidding farewell to John, you put your police vest on and left the apartment.

Around the corner, where the TARDIS had been parked, both Sherlock and the Doctor stood beside it, discussing the latest murder.

"Where are you headed, (Y/n)?" asked the Doctor.

"She's going home, Doctor," said Sherlock. The Doctor's eyes saddened and his face sunk. "Not that sort of home," Sherlock quickly added, seeing how upset the Timelord was getting. "She just wants to grab some clothing and perhaps have a shower, considering she hasn't done so in days and didn't pack anything prior to arriving at Baker Street with you, Doctor."

"Basically what he said," you told the Doctor. "I'll meet you all back here, say, twelve?"

The men nodded and you continued to walk on. You managed to hail a taxi at the end of the street. You stepped into the car and told the cabbie exactly where to go.

The traffic was like murder, as always. Like any other taxi driver, yours took the long way round, making it a whole half hour before you were anywhere near your home. 

"That'll be £18.50, love," the driver said as she stopped outside of your place.

You handed her the money and thanked her. You grabbed your keys from your pocket and entered the apartment. It had been a total of two days since you had been here last, but so much had happened since then, it felt like much longer.

As you stepped inside, your foot crunched onto a pile of five or so letters. You decided that you'd read them later and shoved them into a bag that hung on your coat rack. Running up the stairs and into your bedroom, you grabbed as many outfits as you thought you would need and put them in the bag along with your mail.

You put the bag down on your bed and made your way into the bathroom, looking forward to a very long shower.

~~~~

The Doctor and Sherlock's eyes followed you all the way down the street, until they were sure you were safe inside a cab. As you were driven off in one, the men turned to each other.

"The first was a middle-aged cleaner for a business in town, the second had no job," the Doctor said to Sherlock, continuing the conversation they had been having before you walked past.

"The third one," said Sherlock, "Was a young girl working part-time at a take-out shop. That means that the killer was not aiming for any one gender specifically and certainly not for any particular age group."

"And we know that it isn't their jobs connecting them," the Doctor added. "Maybe the murderer has no pattern in mind and is just on a kind of killing-spree? ...No, that's mad, there has to be a reason."

"You see, Doctor," Sherlock said, pacing up the footpath and pressing his hands to his mouth in his thinking pose, "If someone were to go to all the trouble of killing a person, and not just doing that, but doing it quite efficiently - it couldn't be random. These victims are connected in a way..." He pointed to the back of his neck, "The metal installment, Doctor. If someone or something picked these three very different people, from anybody in all of Britain and on this entire planet to use this technology on, these people would have to have some connection or bear some resemblance with each other. It might be hard to spot. It could even be the tiniest detail that ties them together. Such as, where they attended school or a friend they used to know. Our task is to find their association with one another and the killer. That is what will lead us to the answers."

"Exactly," the Doctor sighed casually.

"Where should we start looking?" John's voice asked. He was standing about five feet away from the TARDIS. Neither of the men had noticed him earlier, they supposed he had not been there for very long.

"I know exactly where to start looking," said Sherlock. "I'm not too sure about the first casualty... but the second two... Young people like them, it would be surprising if they didn't have it." Sherlock walked away from the TARDIS and back to the door of 221B, John and the Doctor following after him.

"Have what?" John said curiously, blinking up at Sherlock from the street.

Sherlock stopped and turned to look at John before he and the Doctor said in unison, "Social media."

~~~~

"I'm back!" you said as you stepped through the door of the living room, carrying your bags full of stuff. Sherlock, who sat at his laptop, mumbled some sort of response. The Doctor was also on a laptop. John's laptop. The Doctor waved to you and muttered a "Hello".

"They're investigating the victims' social media," John said, coming to stand beside you. 

"Right," you said, removing the coat and scarf you had put on at home and hanging them up.

"Would you like some help to unpack?" he asked you.

The two of you walked into Sherlock's bedroom, and John helped you get everything sorted out. You both made an effort to avoid Sherlock's 'Sock Index' (as he liked to call it), in fear that you might 'mess it up'.

You were folding clothing of yours, when John suddenly left the room, informing you that he'd be back.

Curiously, you walked over to the bed, where your bags were and peered into the one he had been unpacking. Your stack of letters lay in a pile beside the bag. Why would John leave so suddenly? Something wasn't right. You flicked through the letters. There was nothing out of the ordinary... Except you could've sworn there were five letters... not four...

You dropped the pile and sprinted to the lounge room. You flung the door open just as the Doctor was taking an envelope from Sherlock. Their heads turned to you and the Doctor tried to conceal the envelope behind his back.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"Talking," the Doctor shrugged.

"Give it to me," you demanded.

"Huh? What?" he asked innocently.

"Give me the bloody letter, Doctor!" you snapped. He hesitated for a moment before handing it to you. You snatched it from his hands and examined it. To your surprise, it was yet to be opened. You tore it open slowly and unfolded the paper inside.

Your stomach turned when you saw the name of the sender.

Dear Ms. (Y/n), the letter read.

We regret to inform you that your fiancé, Lieutenant Corporal Arthur J. Wood, was reported dead on the 16th of April 2014...

The letter went on, but you had read enough. You crumpled the paper in your shaky hands and looked up at the others.

"Why would you try to hide this from me?" you said quietly.

"(Y/n), I'm sorry. It was my fault--" John started to say.

"You had no right!" you screamed. You stormed out of the room, allowing the squashed up letter to fall from your hands.

You needed somewhere you could be alone. You didn't run to Sherlock's room, nor did you just simply leave Baker Street all together. You ran to the first place your instincts told you. The TARDIS.

Once you were inside, you jogged all the way to your old bedroom. It had been left exactly the same as the last time you saw it. It was completely untouched. You closed the door behind you and slid down the cold metal, bringing your knees up to your chest. You sniffled miserably. Tears had already began welling in your eyes.

Why on Earth did you ever let him join the army...?

...

.......


............

Army... The army. The army! You took your phone out from your pocket faster than you ever had before. You typed the first victim's name into the search engine, then the second's, and finally the third's.

"The army!" you said triumphantly, grinning from cheek to cheek.

~~~~

After a minute of awkward silence in 221B, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"John," said the Doctor, scratching the back of his head, "It wasn't your fault. You did the right thing."

"Well it was actually your fault, John," Sherlock said but the Doctor glared at him warningly. "Not your fault," Sherlock added hastily, "Completely not your fault. I meant to say not your fault."

John sighed and sat down in his armchair. He had no idea how he was going to fix this.

Not even the two geniuses knew what to do. They all sat there thinking in quiet.

"I've got it!" you exclaimed, bursting through the living room door and scaring the living daylights out of all three men. "The murderer's pattern! The connection between the victims!"

They stared at you, wide-eyed and in silence. You grinned at them excitedly.

"It's the army!" you beamed.