Summary:
John and Sherlock are on American soil, looking forward to a short holiday away from all distractions—or for as long as Sherlock can manage. But trouble often comes looking for these two, and now is no different. They have barely left the airport when a body turns up.
It's just an ordinary case. Well, as ordinary as it can be for being, well, a nine. But why has Sherlock's enthusiasm seemed to wane, just a bit? And why does he refuse to give this case up, no matter the consequences?
The first of my ongoing Solved Behind the Scenes series. I take prompts.
A/N: This work is the first of my ongoing "Solved Behind the Scenes" series, in which I basically detail all the cases John and Sherlock solved that we didn't get to see. It takes place between A Study in Pink and The Reichenbach Fall. As I mentioned above, I take prompts. Any case you want our boys to solve, let me know—I could use some ideas!
As the plane finally descended onto the runway, John peeled his gaze off Sherlock and blew out a sigh of everlasting relief. Why Mycroft had sent them on a plane of all things was a complete mystery to him—surely the elder Holmes had known how fidgety Sherlock would get. It was a wonder John had kept him pacified for the entire ride. Though perhaps deduction games on a quiet airplane full of unsuspecting passengers hadn't been such a good idea…
The plane taxied back to the terminals and there was a long wait as the airport workers secured the exit to the airport gate, during which John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock. His tall friend sat next to him in their 13A and 13B seats, gaze wandering among the passengers. Their neighbor, occupying the window seat, shot John a look of barely-veiled disdain. John ignored it. Soon enough they'd be off this plane for good, and they wouldn't have to worry about the many people Sherlock had managed to annoy this time around.
The time to disembark couldn't come too soon. Apparently Sherlock was more antsy than he'd let on, because he bolted from his seat and shoved his way down the aisle, leaving John to retrieve their carryons with a sigh. He bumped his way between the seats, muttering the occasional "Sorry" and "Excuse me," before finally emerging through the gate and scanning the area for Sherlock. He spotted him just beyond the waiting area, pale eyes also scanning the crowd.
"Sherlock!" John called, staggering toward him under the weight of their bags.
"John, there you are." Sherlock swept his arm to point at one of the disembarking passengers as she ran into a man's arms. "Look—I told you she was on her way to visit her secret lover."
"Could be married," John said. "Clothes are expensive enough, she could have been doing work abroad—"
"Nonsense. Look at his left hand. No wedding ring."
Sherlock was right. John turned and shook his head. "Fantastic. Now if you're done offending every man and woman on that plane, could I trouble you to carry your own bag?"
"Oh. Yes. Of course." Sherlock quickly took his bag and scanned the airport. "Where to now?"
"Baggage claim," John said. "And then get a cab."
"Taxi."
"What?"
"Taxi. I just overheard someone mention getting a taxi. We're in America, John—everything has a different word."
"Oh. Right." John glanced up at Sherlock, who still hadn't made a move toward the baggage claim. "Well? Shall we go?"
"After you."
John felt a bit strange being the one in front for once, instead of the other way around, but he quickly navigated the signs of the airport in Ontario, California and found their way to the baggage claim. As they waited for their checked baggage to come round on the conveyor belt, John looked Sherlock up and down, taking in his curious, squinting glances at the different signs and the way he carried himself just a bit too stiffly. John would be the first to admit he wasn't as good at deducing as Sherlock Holmes, but he sure had learned a thing or two from his friend over the past few months.
"Out of curiosity," he began, "have you ever actually been on a plane before?"
"No. My parents never really thought it worth the risk."
John chuckled. "Ah, I can see why. So why did Mycroft…"
"I assume he saw no better alternative. Though it's entirely possible he shipped me out on a plane just out of spite."
"Your brother's a diplomat, Sherlock—"
"I'm well aware."
"—he of all people should understand the importance of—"
"Of sparing the passengers the misfortune of encountering me?" Sherlock turned. "I can't agree more. I'll have to let him know this isn't to be repeated."
"Mm." John nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets, one eye peeled for their bags. As this had been an international flight, he knew they might be waiting for a long time. "So…you haven't said much about the case Mycroft offered you."
"A diversion to get me out of the country, nothing more."
"So this isn't—"
"I intend to stay in California for a few days, give my brother ample time to clear up whatever case he doesn't want me to poke around, and then let him know I'm ready to fly back. Or better yet, cruise back. Better that way to enjoy a trip without being cooped up on a plane surrounded by boring people."
"I'll mention it to him." A familiar black suitcase caught John's eye and he dragged it off the conveyor belt as it passed. "So why'd you take the case?"
"There are some matters even I don't dare meddle with." Sherlock glanced down at him. "Even when I have no doubt whatever Mycroft's busy with must be delightfully interesting."
John was so surprised he almost missed their other bag as it passed by. Sherlock's silent glance at it brought him back into reality and he yanked it off the conveyor belt, very nearly setting it heavily on his own foot. Wincing, he straightened it and gathered their possessions. It wasn't every day Sherlock turned down an exciting case—or an exciting anything—just to be responsible and forward-thinking for once.
"I am capable of good judgement, you know," Sherlock called after him as John rolled their luggage toward the airport doors. The swift trail of footsteps behind him told him that he was not leaving Sherlock behind. He was about to hold out his hand for a cab—taxi—when Sherlock stepped up behind him, gently drew his arm back down, and pulled out his mobile.
John stared. "What…?"
"You don't hail them here, John," Sherlock said. "You call."
John decided not to ask him when he had thought to record the number for a taxi in his phone. Sherlock had probably researched a multitude of things, just so he wouldn't be too out of his depth in another country. Sherlock might not have been much of a social whiz, but he definitely—at least in John's personal opinion—more than made up for it with his genius and resourcefulness.
Yes, this trip to America might turn out to be a bit of fun after all.
Smiling, John took a step past Sherlock, craning his neck to watch for their ride and wondering how long taxis took to arrive in America. No sooner had he moved than a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the silence, and a policeman brushed by John at a run, shoving him back from the road and disappearing down the sidewalk.
John looked at Sherlock; the detective returned his glance, eyes gleaming. They both had the same thought at the same moment. And then, before John could say another word, Sherlock was saying, "Come, John!" and taking off after the policeman, John close on his heels.
The shriek, it turned out, had come from a woman who looked to have also recently exited the airport. Her bags lay abandoned at her sides, her ashen face contrasting sharply with her dark hair, both hands clapped over her mouth so that only her wide eyes could be seen. She stared, unmoving, at the very still, very human form that lay debauched in the road next to the sidewalk. Sherlock moved to get closer, but suddenly a strong arm barred his way.
The arm belonged to the policeman who had brushed past them. He glared at Sherlock and Sherlock glared right back. When Sherlock showed no signs of backing down, the officer finally spoke, his tone bored and final.
"Crime scene," he barked. "No one enters."
"It's not a crime scene yet," Sherlock said. "Where's the police tape?"
"We only just heard the scream, sir. We're working on it. Now, if you'd just stay back—"
"You'll be doing yourself a favor if you let me see the body," Sherlock said.
"Oh, will I?"
John stepped forward, as he usually did when Sherlock's tactlessness and inability to negotiate called for some sweet-talking.
"Sorry for the intrusion, officer, but my friend here could honestly help you. He's renowned for his crime-solving skills—"
"—deduction skills—"
"—back where we come from, and—"
"And just where do you 'come from'?" the officer said, glancing between them as if he'd sooner put them in custody than let them pass.
"London," Sherlock bit off. "This unit—you're worse than Scotland Yard. Their detectives are imbecilic, but at least they know what's good for them and let me help."
The officer glared.
"Please, officer," John said, nodding beyond him at the body, "just…let us have a look?"
The officer stared back at them and showed no sign of budging.
Sherlock scoffed and started to push his way past. "For god's sake—"
"Sherlock," John said, looking again in the direction of the newly-designated crime scene.
Sherlock stopped, looking where John had indicated. In the time they'd spent trying to get through to the policeman, more police cars had arrived and set up tape around the scene. The frightened witness had long since disappeared. But John's attention—and now Sherlock's—was on the pair of detectives, a man and a woman, who now bent over the body, exchanging confounded looks as they examined the evidence.
The evidence, as far as John could tell from where he stood, was in the form of a middle-aged man who lay sprawled on the asphalt, legs bare and shirt unbuttoned. Money was scattered about his motionless form. The man was pretty beaten up, but the worst injury that John could see was a gash across his abdomen. Possibly, John imagined, the cause of death.
The two detectives were speaking just loud enough for Sherlock and John to hear.
"Robbery," the man guessed. "I'll bet that shriek scared off our killer, he didn't have time to do much more than knock the money all over the place."
"Strange way to kill, though," said the woman. "I mean, with a robbery, you'd think a simple blow to the head…"
"It wasn't a robbery," Sherlock said. "Obviously."
The detectives looked up in surprise. The policeman just looked annoyed, glaring at Sherlock.
"What? Can't you see?" Sherlock gestured emphatically at the body. "Like you said, the wound is in an odd place, you wouldn't get away with a stab to the stomach in public like this. So committed elsewhere, then, or earlier, when there were fewer witnesses. Since this is a terminal for international flights, it likely doesn't get much traffic around the clock, so most likely committed here. Not a robbery, the killer was alone and obviously didn't take any money. The possessions were scattered, though. Searching for something, then—the question is, what? I suspect a personal connection, perhaps business. You're looking for a killer with a vendetta, the most dangerous kind, love those—" He rubbed his hands together. "Now, shall we begin?"
"And who do you think you are?" the male detective said.
Sherlock pushed past the policeman, who had been stunned silent enough to barely register Sherlock's movement, and strode toward the crouched detectives, offering his hand.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "And, right now, your best chance at solving this murder."
The detectives stared up at him in complete befuddlement. Any minute now, John suspected, they were going to get a taste of Sherlock's typical treatment of all imbeciles. John decided to step in before anyone got insulted; these people were less likely to forgive Sherlock's antics than Scotland Yard.
"I've been working with him for months, solved tons of cases, caught the murderers," John said, addressing the detectives. "You can call up Detective Inspector Lestrade of the New Scotland Yard in London if you don't believe me, but I can personally vouch for the trustworthiness of this man, and his ability to get the job done."
Sherlock smiled at him. Well, it didn't look like a smile, but John knew it was meant as one.
The female detective stood and approached John, glancing warily at Sherlock on the way. "If you two are expecting to get involved in this case—"
"We most certainly are," Sherlock said.
"—you can forget it. It's against the rules. No outsiders."
"I promise you, officer," John said, "it really is worth it to—"
The policeman now stepped in. "You know, I don't give a damn who you two think you are or what you're doing here. Now a man's just been killed, and my people need to be on their best game to figure out why. I want both of you off this crime scene and out of my sight before I count to ten, or I'll have you arrested for obstructing the course of justice and generally being a nuisance, is that understood?"
Sherlock looked about to protest, but John knew when they'd lost an argument. He shot Sherlock a look that booked no argument.
"Sherlock," he said, nodding down the sidewalk, "Come on."
"But John—"
"No buts." He grabbed Sherlock by the arm and bodily hauled him away. "Let's go. Now."
Sherlock may have had a stubborn streak, but he was definitely smart enough to know when it was useless to argue with John Watson. John knew this, and as he picked up his pace, he released Sherlock's arm, knowing that his friend would follow. Eventually, when they got far enough away, they slowed their pace and fell into step more or less next to one another.
"You realize," Sherlock said, "we left our luggage back at the terminal."
John cursed. "Fuck, Sherlock, you're right…"
"Of course I'm right. And I'm right about our suspect back there. If anyone would just admit to their own stupidity long enough to listen to me."
John groaned. "Maybe we should go back, if only to get our luggage…"
"My thoughts exactly."
John turned, wondering what Sherlock had in mind—the crime scene was between them and their bags—but the detective was already rushing across the nearby parking lot in a dramatic flurry of Belstaff fabric. John shook his head in fond irritation and took off after his friend. Sherlock looked over his shoulder for him—could have bloody well warned me if he expected me to come—and then made a 90-degree turn and started running parallel to the sidewalk. With a huff of annoyance, John changed course and followed him.
Despite being somewhat out of breath as he ran along a few paces behind his flatmate, John was beginning to see what Sherlock was doing. They were circling around the crime scene to where they'd left their luggage, giving the irritated detectives a wide berth. This way, they wouldn't have to cross paths with any of the American police force. It was a strangely…unprovocative angle for Sherlock to take, but John wasn't complaining.
They were about sixty feet off from the crime scene when Sherlock's mobile rang. A satisfied smile spread across his face and he stopped to answer it. John stopped as well and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, panting.
"Who's that?" he asked.
Sherlock grinned, eyes on the policeman's distant figure, who for some reason also had a phone pressed to his ear. "I knew they couldn't resist!"
"What? Who? Couldn't resist what?" John asked, but Sherlock wasn't listening.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said into the phone. "Yes, of course I'm still interested…Why didn't you say that five minutes ago?…No, I'm not far, in fact I never left—Fine." He pocketed his mobile. "John, come on, we can be there in a minute or two if we hurry."
"Where?" John asked, bewildered.
"Oh, John, please keep up—the crime scene! Where else?"
"The crime scene? But they just said—"
"They changed their minds." Sherlock's grin shrank. "Well, of course there's a price to pay for their cooperation, but never mind that. Come, John—we have a murder to solve!"
Again, Sherlock took off, this time headed straight for the crime scene. John just shook his head at his mad friend. And then, with no other choice available—and none he was more eager to make—he ran after Sherlock, still panting and out of breath, but beginning to feel the adrenaline rush associated with a case that he had gone without for far too long.
He had only closed half the distance when his brain, working backwards, suddenly stumbled over what Sherlock had said.
A price to pay for their cooperation.
What price? What had Sherlock gotten them into this time?
A/N: More to come soon!