Intentions 3: Every Intention

Nothing ever turns out the way you hope, even when you have every intention of doing the right thing. No-one knows this better than the Holmes family.

Chapter One: Better Places

September 2013

The view was astounding.

Stopping dead and forgetting about the effort it had taken to walk up to the top of the rocky hill in the sweltering heat, John stared in awe.

"Not what you expected?" a wry voice asked.

"Not even close," John said honestly.

When he'd agreed to this he'd pictured sand. It sounded stupid now; an entire country just made of sand and houses made from some faded, chipped white stone. In John's defence, that was all they really ever showed on television when the news did a report from Afghanistan.

But this…

They were stood at the edge of Band-e Amir park and John was pretty sure he had never seen water such a deep and vivid blue before. It was as if someone had coloured the lakes in with a felt-tip or poured a liquid sapphire.

Surrounding the lakes were deep luscious greens of trees and bushes.

It was hard to believe such colours existed in nature.

"They never show this," John murmured.

"They never show a lot of things," was the bitter reply. "Come on, we only have so long here before we need to return to Kabul and I don't want to waste it with you gawping."

Hefting the rucksack on one shoulder, John gave the view one last longing gaze.

"And put those fucking straps on both shoulders. Don't be a moron, John."

Rolling his eyes, John swung the left strap around and wriggled into it properly. "Did you seriously just bring me out here to see the sights?" he asked curiously.

"Need to meet someone," Bastian replied. "He won't come into the city so I have to pay pilgrim and go to him. Still," he said glancing around. "There are worse places I suppose."

Yeah, John thought looking up at the clear blue sky. There were far worse places.

London: January 2010

John nearly walked into Sherlock's coat as the man did an abrupt turn at the front door.

"Stay," Sherlock ordered, waggling a finger at John's face.

"You said I could help," John complained, glaring. It was pissing with rain and he was already at the bloody crime scene.

His father could be an inconsiderate arsehole at times.

Sherlock flapped his hand at John which he had learned to read as 'I'll deal with you later, fourteen is still far too young' and then bounded in the building and up the stairs. Refusing to get wet, John stepped inside and shrugged at Alan who was one of the new officers working under Lestrade.

Squinting up the spiral staircase, John could see the forensics team hovering around. They stood out vividly in the dingy old house; their plastic-y blue contamination suits making them look like something out of a cheap science fiction film. As it was, the house was rotting, an old Victorian build that had been gutted at one point and now simply sat, stagnant and waiting.

It looked like the sort of house that would attract a murderer, John thought as he hunched his shoulders and glanced back out into the rain. The police lines were up and a small crowd were approaching, the flashing lights of the police cars occasionally illuminating the craning necks and eager glances.

"You in or out?" Sally asked as she moved to go past him and into the street.

John shrugged. "Waiting for orders on high," he said with a grin.

Sally glanced up at where Sherlock had gone and, presumably, where the body was. "Poisoning," she said with a shrug. "Nothing you haven't seen before."

It sucked that his dad still made rules about the types of death scenes John was allowed to see.

With a nod, John stepped further in, daring to start climbing the stairs.

"John," came the bellow.

Good job he'd already started up the stairs!

"…consider letting him do this?" Anderson was complaining as John reached the right level.

"Shut up, Anderson," Sherlock huffed from where he lay on the floor, studying the ring of the woman who-

Christ, that was a vivid shade of pink!

Wincing, John shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at Anderson. If there was one thing he had been trained to do well on a crime scene, it was that.

"He's not even wearing a suit," Anderson added as he took in John's appearance.

"He isn't a moron," Sherlock muttered. "Come here," he said, reaching out a hand to John.

A little unsure, John wandered over, peering close.

"See this?" Sherlock asked as he slid the wedding ring off the woman's finger. "What does this tell you about the state of her marriage?"

John reached for it and studied it. "Uh…" he narrowed his gaze at the hand it had come from. "Easy to slide off so…hasn't put on any weight since she married or removes it often?"

Sherlock nodded. "Which is more likely?"

"Oh for God's sake," Anderson huffed. "This is a crime scene, not a classroom."

Sherlock waved him away, as if he were an irritating fly.

It always amused John that Lestrade never said a word when Sherlock did this; John had a sneaky suspicion that the man was picking up tips.

"Um-"

"Look at her clothes," Sherlock encouraged.

Right. "She…matches," John murmured after a glance at his father. Sherlock nodded patiently. "So…she puts a lot of stock in appearance. More likely that she removes the ring often. And…she knows all about the importance of clothes so…she wants to look single?"

Sherlock nodded. "Anything else?"

John looked back at the ring again. "It's dirty," he offered, thinking of his grandmother's pristine looking rings. "And if she likes things to look nice and she wants to be proud then…the she would clean it so…another sign that she doesn't like her wedding ring?"

"Which suggests what about the marriage?"

"Unhappy," John decided. "And she wants people to know that."

Sherlock winced a little. "Perhaps. Conjecture and an unnecessary divergence," he added with a slight sniff. "Look at the inside," he added, reaching out and turning the ring slightly in John's hands. "See how polished it is?"

John nodded.

"That's a sign that she takes it off a lot – it gets polished by her skin as she pulls it on and off."

Huh. John studied that and tried to commit that lesson to memory.

Sherlock pulled him back a little. "And her hair?"

It was a mess. Even John could tell that. "She hasn't done it up so…knew there was no point? Bad weather or thought she'd get a chance to stop somewhere?"

He remembered that one from a case three months ago. It was still a little baffling to accept that some women spent almost half an hour on their hair, sometimes more.

Seemed like a waste of time to John. There were way more fun things to be done.

Like Call of Duty or Fifa.

"What's the problem with the weather theory?" Sherlock asked.

John looked outside. "It only just started raining," he said with a sigh. "Okay so-"

Sherlock shook his head. "Have conviction," he said, standing up as he tapped away at his phone. "Of course it was bad weather; she'd been in a gale force storm – she didn't use an umbrella, her coat is still saturated and her collar was turned up. We didn't have a storm like that so where did?"

John stared up blankly and slid his gaze to Lestrade who rolled his eyes. "You aren't fucking omniscient," Lestrade muttered as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I have google," Sherlock deadpanned. "There. Wales," he said, flashing the phone at John.

"That's cheating," John complained.

"You think everything is cheating," Sherlock muttered. "Why, I have no idea. You were hardly raised with high moral standards."

"Just lucked out," John muttered as he sat back properly and rested his chin on his knees. The woman's face was turned away from him but he frowned at the mark she had scratched into the floorboards. "What does RACHE mean?"

"It's German for revenge-" Anderson began to announce before Sherlock absently slammed the door shut in his face, still tapping away at the phone.

"You have a better idea?" Lestrade asked as he stared at the door.

"Logical explanation would be the name 'Rachel'. The victim wanted us to find her or…" Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "Where's her suitcase?" he asked.

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked. "I haven't…there isn't a suitcase."

Sherlock stopped dead, his head shooting up like a meerkat on that annoying advert.

"No suitcase?" Sherlock asked sounding almost breathless with anticipation.

John watched him, unsure whether that was a good or bad thing.

It turned out to be a bad thing.

"I'm not getting in there," John said, planting his feet solidly on the ground as Sherlock peered into the industrial bin.

"You're smaller; you can root around better," Sherlock argued.

"Watch my lips," John emphasised. "I am not getting in that bin. I am not going to school on Monday still smelling like bin juice."

"Then I would suggest you have a shower at some point over the weekend," Sherlock snapped.

"It's not my case," John argued.

Sherlock stared at him, long and hard for at least a minute.

Then, miraculously, relented.

"Words cannot express how disappointed I am in you," Sherlock muttered as he hoisted himself up. "I am your father and I ask you to do this one thing-"

Unconcerned, John leaned against the wall, careful to avoid the rain using the overhanging roof from the building. "You used that on Wednesday when you made me get milk."

"Did I?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious. "What a waste of parental disappointment," he sighed.

"That's what I thought," John said. "But then I figured, why argue? Your own fault if you don't use the parent card well."

"Hm," Sherlock said, wincing as he lowered himself down. "What if I implied I was sick in some way?"

"You're in now," John said, peering and wondering if he could get a good picture. "See the case?"

"It was dumped three hours ago. Of course I can see the case," Sherlock huffed. Seconds later a bright pink suitcase was hefted over the edge of the bin.

John made the mistake of darting out into the rain to have a look at it, curious as to what might be inside-

Sherlock jumped down from the bin and caught him shoving his hand across John's face to smear bin juice.

Horrified, John pulled back. "Dad," he whined.

"Simply sharing a valuable life lesson," Sherlock replied with badly disguised amusement. "It's foul, isn't it?"

John wiped what he could off his cheek and tried to aim his hands back at Sherlock.

September 2013 – Band-e Amir, Afghanistan

Band-e Haibat was, according to Bastian, the largest lake in the park. It was easy to believe, John thought as he followed Bastian down the hill and towards the Bazaar.

It was a relief to see people again. There was something beautiful and peaceful about how easy it was to isolate yourself here but John always had found people to be the most fascinating thing when he travelled.

Travelling…sure, that was what he was doing he thought as he looked around.

To the side he could see a group of soldiers. They were at the edge of the lake, taking pictures and chatting to some of the locals.

"Do they come out here often?" John asked curiously.

"The Taliban crawl around these parts," Bastian said as they weaved into the crowd. "They know that this attracts tourists, visitors. Security here needs help sometimes."

"When you said that your contact wouldn't come into the city-"

"He's not a fucking hermit, John," Bastian muttered. "Travelling can be dangerous, that's all."

They were doing it, John thought as he hefted his rucksack. But then Bastian could shoot like some sort of super soldier and seemed to know anyone worth knowing.

An English accent made John glance back over at the soldiers. It had been an age since he'd heard one other than his own and usually he tried to blur that into an American twang as much as possible. Nothing too over the top but enough to back up the lie he'd been telling for...

Christ, he thought with a surprised sigh. Had it really been that long?

"Best brew I've had in years," a red headed soldier boasted with a grin as he toasted the woman that had handed him the tea.

The soldier looked a few years older than him. A northerner. Impossible for John to tell whether he'd ever been in London, whether the solider had heard of the fake-

He cut the thought off and looked away.

No-one seemed to remember anymore. Sherlock Holmes was a mere blip in the media; a name that made headlines for almost six months in total and then interest turned to something else soon after he had-

For a moment all John could see was the figure on the roof, Lestrade screaming out John's name as he tried to pull him back.

There had been blood on the pavement. It had been bitterly cold and there had been blood on the pavement.

Even after two and a half years the memory of that still ached. Still could drive him from sleep, screaming out for-

"John?"

Bastian had turned, shading his eyes with some concern as he stared at John.

"Coming," John said with a last look at the soldier.

It hardly mattered now, did it?

Shouldering his bag, John followed Bastian, ducking his head as he walked by the soldiers.

He didn't want to remember.

And, more than that, he didn't want to be found.

Especially by his fucking Uncle.

Next Chapter: Breaking News