Chapter 1
Cloud 8
The gloomy clouds that had punctuated Sherlock's mood all day decided at that very moment to let go, unleashing a chilly deluge. The vibration of the brass door knocker clanking into the plate as he slammed the door set his teeth on edge.
He muttered a curse under his breath as he waved down a cab and climbed in. If he was lucky, Anderson had managed pictures of the crime scene before the torrential rain ruined likelihood of Anderson being competent was, in Sherlock's opinion, plus or minus 32.7%
Almost a week of tedious boredom had left Sherlock exhausted and amped at the same time. The drive to the crime scene felt like pins and needles along the inside of Sherlock's brain. This case had intrigued him from the moment he received Lestrade's text. His mind, now fixed on the details, stretched cautiously. Much like a professional athlete prepared for a game.
The game was on. The rain be damned.
When John found himself back in London after his injury and subsequent honourable discharge, he knew that he didn't want to be a doctor. He had been a trained battle surgeon. Now, due to the shoulder wound that sent him home, he could hope for a spot in a general practice or locum work. With the knowledge of talent lost to him because of the intermittent tremor in his hand came a crushing depression, knowing that chapter of his life was finished.
He saw a therapist who did little for him. Ella told him to pursue his hobbies. Start a blog, or perhaps take photography classes.
On the day that John left for basic training, his sister Harry had given him a digital camera; she muttered something about having a hobby besides shagging. She paused,swept her Watson golden blonde hair from her forehead, and dug for something more to say.
"Use the camera to look for the beauty, so it's not always about war and blood."
He had accepted the gift with a quick kiss on her cheek and forgot about it.
That is, until his third week in Afghanistan, when the sunset had turned the sky into fire. After that, he always had his camera with him and he always managed to capture pictures that people had visceral reactions to. Several of his prints managed to make rounds on the base. Officers and medical staff said the pictures helped when nothing else would; the bleakness of what they were doing was somehow alleviated when John captured something beautiful on film.
So John begrudgingly listened to Ella, his therapist, and started a blog to help acclimate him to civilian life. He decided to write about photography. His first few posts were very brief, as he felt nervous and exposed. Then he read a comment from Mike Stamford, who had been a classmate at Bart's.
"These picture's are amazing John! Is this your new career? Bloody fantastic! We should get coffee sometime. No pictures, though, I got fat! Ha, ha."
John's anxiety slowly dimmed, and he started to wonder if he could make it into a career. He put together a portfolio.
He applied for several jobs, not expecting to get any of them. When he received the call from The Metropolitan Police, he assumed Colonel Moran had something to do with it. He was the best reference on his CV. He went to the interview expecting nothing. His portfolio, after all, was full of beautiful moments stolen while he fought the endless stream of bodies he could barely patch up, and a couple of interesting scenic shots he'd taken since returning to London.
He left the interview with a job that paid barely better than his pension, but the pain in his leg had dulled. He tempered the excitement he felt with a solemness that seemed appropriate for a Forensic Photographer.
It was at his sixth crime scene that he met Sherlock Holmes.
John stood behind his car, the boot open as he selected the items he would need. After three unforeseen trips back to his flat, he learned to pack what he'd need in his car before he left.
He looked up at a sky filled with heavy, gunmetal grey clouds. He would take as many pictures as he could before the sky dumped a bucket of piss all over them. He carried two cameras with him at all times—a department-issued digital camera, and his old Nikon that took 35mm film. Right now, the Nikon was packed in his gear bag. If he were going to beat the rain, he'd have to leave the bag and just take as many snaps as he could.
He slammed the boot shut and walked towards the crowd of people, the police tape bright against the mouldering mason work of the old apartment buildings. John took a few pictures of the mouth of the alleyway. A few close ups of the rusted fire escapes. The lights on the police cars made his flash useless. He checked the pictures on the camera's small screen and with a little huff of annoyance, ducked under the white and blue tape.
When John worked, he tended to see everything through the lens of his camera, looking up only to find things to shoot. It hadn't started to rain, but already the moisture was in the air. It gave the old bricks a sheen that looked slimy.
John took pictures of the ground, the skips, and then he saw it. A smear of crimson and the shape of a boot print. He knelt and took a close up. He lowered the camera and looked at the scene before him. One of the victims lay on her back, her robe spread around her like terry cloth wings. The material was white in places, but as he knelt, John watched the red seep into those spaces. The other body, John couldn't accurately pinpoint the sex from his location. It had been hacked into pieces and strung about the alleyway. He could see no pattern to the gruesome jigsaw puzzle.
He stood, his leg aching from the cold and from the metallic scent that grew stronger the closer he worked to the bodies. John quickly took as many pictures as he could. He felt the tightening in his shoulder and knew that the rain would hit any moment. The dismembered body was a male; John could tell by the gleaming pelvic bone.
John finished taking pictures of the scene. Since the rain would destroy evidence, he decided to keep going. He went over to the DI who stood just to the outside of the parameter, holding a cup of coffee. John could tell the man was overworked by the tiredness that surrounded his eyes. His grey hair stuck up in odd places.
"Oi, Watson! We have a cuppa over here for you. It's getting bloody colder by the minute."
Lestrade held out another paper cup. His gaze darted around looking for a place to rest. He wore a half smile that didn't meet his eyes, but John could tell the DI didn't miss much. He accepted the paper cup of bitter coffee.
"Did you see that game? Worcester was murdered, I felt like we should be investigating that pitch." Lestrade gestured with his cup as he spoke.
Although he had never worked with DI Lestrade before, John immediately found him to be a decent bloke who knew his rugby.
As John and DI Lestrade chatted idly about sports scores, another man joined them. He wore head to toe coveralls. The blue paper made the grisly scene seem comical. No one else had donned the paper coveralls. John hadn't even seen where they were, so he suspected that this man brought them with him.
"I'm the Forensics on this scene. My name's Philip Anderson." His voice was nasally and he didn't offer to shake hands. John watched Anderson give him a quick once over and determine that he wasn't a person of importance.
"Make sure you don't touch anything. The Freak will be here in a mo, and he'll know if you do," Anderson informed him. He curled his lip back, as if he had stuck his nose into one of the overflowing skips.
"The Freak?"
John crept around the other man to capture a few more shots of the alleyway. He checked his camera and felt safe with the number of snaps he'd obtained of the victims. He started to take pictures of the buildings. He noticed a chunk of hair and skin on the brick about fifteen feet off the ground. He zoomed in and took shots of it from several angles. John opened his mouth to point it out to Anderson, but the tall man cut him off.
"Lestrade called him in, although we don't need him. He's a posh know-it-all. He does this trick where he can tell you what you had for lunch, that kind of nonsense. Just wait until you meet him. You'll see."
Anderson watched a woman who was conferring with Lestrade. He puffed up his chest and strolled off to chat with her. She dressed like a woman who was trying to dress like a man. Everything about her was all business except the look on her face when Anderson approached her. The two stood near the front of the alley, both leant in a little when they spoke to each other. He snapped a few photos of them. Their body language, the way they stood, how she tilted her head up and gave him a sly secret smile made John look away.
"Totally shagging." John's nose scrunched up in mock disgust. He felt the first few icy drops of water on the back of his neck, sliding down into his jumper.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag to cover the camera, a trick he learned in Afghanistan to keep sand out.
The rain went from a light misting to an ugly downpour in a matter of moments. John debated wrapping it up and leaving.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement at the mouth of the alley and turned toward it. The silhouette of a man paused there; he wore a long overcoat and the collar was popped up to keep out the rain. John snapped a picture of him, then another as he came closer, struck by the man's appearance. His hair hung in wet, limp curls, and he couldn't tell if they were black or dark brown. His pale features were made paler by the dark hair that framed it. John had just noticed this man's unusual eyes when he spoke.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
The voice that rumbled out did not match the body in John's opinion. This man was long and lean, almost lanky, and the voice was a rich baritone, deep and molten.
"Excuse me?" John blinked for a moment, not understanding. His body automatically turned, and he limped slightly as he closed the distance between them. John stuck his camera into his jacket to give it more shelter.
The man's glowing green-blue eyes followed his motions carefully.
"This is tedious. Please tell me you obtained photographs of the scene before it began to rain."
John watched the tall man jerk away from him and, it seemed, scan everything at once. He wasn't sure if this man could contain the energy he was exuding. The man took out a small magnifying glass and began to look at what seemed like trivial things. His soaking wet coat made snapping sounds as he whipped around cataloguing everything.
"Yeah, I mean, I took as many as I could. Who are you?" John was drenched, his clothing was icy cold and hanging on him. His jumper was no doubt permanently stretched out due to the weight of the water. He didn't care; he was caught in the gravity of this man. It felt like a surge of adrenaline. He was lightheaded from it.
"Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective." Those bright eyes left the scene and looked John over. It made him fiddle with his wet jumper and glance away. The gaze was too intense for mere mortals, John decided.
"Have anything, Sherlock?" Lestrade pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. He hunched over it a bit to keep it as dry as possible.
"I have 5 —no wait,8— possible scenarios, but I need to see the photographs that…?" Sherlock looked up at John, rolled his eyes, his hand sawing back and forth. John noticed how elegant his hands were. They were large, his fingers long yet graceful.
"John Watson,"
"I need to see the photographs that Dr Watson obtained first." He took two large steps towards John.
"Wait a moment. How do you know I'm a doctor?"
"He's a freak. He does that. Give him a few more minutes and he'll drag up your embarrassing secrets. Isn't that right, Freak? Lestrade, call him off or he'll scare this one off too." The woman from earlier joined them. John pushed down a desire to defend Sherlock.
"Sally, I can suggest some product for your hair if you're going to insist on staying the night at Anderson's house when his wife is away." Sherlock turned his back on her to focus on John. "How long will it take for you to print those pictures? May I get them tonight?"
John looked from Sherlock to Lestrade and back again.
"I usually drop the memory card off at the lab at the Met, and they do the prints. It takes a few days, depending on the backlog."
Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.
"Days?! Lestrade I need those pictures immediately. The rain and Anderson have ruined this scene."
"I have the equipment at my flat to view them. I can even print some." The words were out of John's mouth before he could stop them. He barely stopped from smacking himself in annoyance. "Or I could email them. I have a department email address." A part of him didn't want that option; he wanted to spend more time with Sherlock.
"We'll go to your flat, straight away. Come on, John." Sherlock grabbed John by the elbow and started to march down the alleyway, splashing water as he went. John just stumbled along beside him.
"Sherlock! You can't just… oh, why do I bother? Hey WATSON! Just show him the pictures, don't print anything and I want that memory card on my desk TOMORROW," Lestrade said.
Sally called after them.
"You don't want the Freak following you home, Watson. He's a psychopath. He gets off on this. He'll probably keep the pictures you took to use later while he's alone." Sally tipped her head towards Sherlock.
"He doesn't have to follow me; we're taking my car. I'll have the card in your office in the morning, Detective Lestrade." John called back as he walked faster to catch up with Sherlock. The man had stopped walking and looked at John with an expression that he couldn't make out.
"Coming?" John asked he motioned to his car.
"Yes." He shook his head briskly and strode toward the car without looking back. When he reached the kerb, he waited for John to unlock the door.
Before John jumped into his car, he heard Sally call after him once again.
"Be careful, Watson,"
John rolled his eyes and got into his car. He leant over and unlocked the door for the other man, who climbed in. They looked at each other for a moment. It should've felt awkward. Instead, John felt a tightening in his gut and that magnetic pull again. He turned away first and started the car.
The ride to John's flat was short. He tried to control his shuddering while he glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock looked out the window, then pulled out his phone and began texting. He sat incredibly still, but John still felt as if the other man was fidgeting. Impatience seemed to radiate from him, and the longer he sat still, the worse it became. John sighed with relief when he spotted his building.
John lead the way. He left his gear bag in the boot, making a mental note to come back for it when the rain took a break.
His flat was minuscule but tidy. John had covered a whole wall with photographs; prints of his time in the army and pictures of London. Sherlock shrugged off his wet coat, and John took it from him to hang up. Sherlock strode towards the wall of photos without a second glance.
"Tea?" John asked, stifling the odd feeling of exposure as he watched Sherlock study his work.
"Please." Sherlock took in each picture in turn. His eyes roamed over them as if he was reading them instead of looking at them.
"I'm going to change and get started. It should only take me a minute to set up."
He went into is room and changed into dry denim and a Frazier's Chorus t-shirt. It was his favourite shirt, his first concert with his first girlfriend. He grabbed a towel for Sherlock.
"Here, you're still soaking. I can give you a jumper or something if you want to change. I'm pretty sure none of my trousers will fit you." John chuckled.
"Hmmm? What? Oh no, I'm fine. These pictures are fantastic. You have an eye for photography." He took the towel from John and went back to the wall, his eyes dancing over the prints as he towelled his hair.
"Thank you," John ignored his developing blush. He went into the kitchen and turned the kettle on.
He had turned his ridiculously large walk in linen closet into a dark room, and that is where he stored his projector. He pulled it out and set it on a small table.
"We can get delivery, and I can start loading up the digital photos while we eat."
Sherlock pulled out his phone and thumbed what appeared to be a few texts.
"Handled. Should be here in about 10 minutes." He sat down on John's small couch to wait.
John's hands curled into fists. He crossed his arms over his chest and peered at the other man.
"You don't even know what I wanted. And how did you know that I was a doctor and in the army? You spouted out all that at the crime scene. Has someone told you about me?"
"Simple. From the pictures on the wall, I can see you were in Afghanistan. I'd wondered. I knew it was a harsh desert climate because of your tan lines and the deep creases at the corners of your eyes. Your eyesight is fine, so it must be from squinting in the sun." He nodded at John's bare arms. "The brown line stops at your wrist, so your arms were covered. Determining you were a doctor was more difficult, and I admit I cheated. I overheard Mike Stamford at Bart's talking about a friend recently back from the war who decided to be a photographer. That was unusual, so I didn't delete it. I put two and two together."
"You guessed," John smiled.
"No, I deduced. It's what I do. I observe. You like Thai food, based on the amount of takeaway menus from the same place stacked neatly by your toaster. There are no little soy sauce packets that people always grab when they order certain dishes, and that shirt has a curry stain, just there." He pointed to the yellow-brown splotch. "So I ordered you curry. Can we now get on with the pictures?" He tapped his feet.
"That was incredible. Really… amazing." John pulled a stool out and felt how short he was, as he climbed to untie the white sheet he had tacked to the ceiling. He descended carefully, subconsciously protecting his leg.
He busied himself removing the memory card from his camera. He put his camera on his desk and pulled his desk chair with him. It only took him a moment to pop the memory card into his projector.
"I like to see them as large as I can to pick out details I want to work with when I print them. I can do this with the negatives too."
He let the projector warm up and went into the kitchen as the kettle beeped to fill up their mugs. There was a soft knock on the door, and John opened it.
A young man stood in the doorway; he had a shock of blue hair and a ring in his nose.
"Here ya go, mate." The man handed John the bag and walked away.
"Doesn't he need money? Who was that?" John brought the food with him.
"He's a friend, and I never have to pay for food from there. I did the owners a favour."
"Do you want a plate or is out of the container alright?" John collected forks and napkins, as well as their tea.
"I don't eat when I'm on a case. That's for you."
"Right then. Here is the remote. The buttons let you go forward or back. Have at it." John watched Sherlock as he took the small black remote. He paced closer to the white sheet, then back. He strode to the left of the sheet and then to the middle of the room, his body blocking the image from the projector. John realised Sherlock was studying every detail of the picture. From corner to corner.
John ate the delicious, piping hot curry while Sherlock Holmes solved the case in five pictures.
"May I borrow your phone to text Gavin?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still trained on the scene before him.
"Sure. Who is Gavin?" John fished it out of his pocket, stood, and handed it to him.
Sherlock just motioned with his hand, John's phone in the other one texting.
"When you print out the photos, make sure you print out this one." He clicked the remote bringing up the wall of the alleyway and the fire escape. "This one." This time, it was a close up of a footprint next to the head of one of the victims.
"I need all of the pictures you took of this area. Anderson missed that." He pointed to a close-up of the hair and skin stuck to the bricks.
"But this picture explains what happened." Sherlock clicked the remote, and a pile of light grey concrete appeared.
"That is just a bunch of concrete I found interesting. I took those to study the contrast. I like old buildings." John felt silly saying that.
"This isn't just concrete. It's part of the moulding around the windows of this building." Sherlock motioned to the wall in the picture. "We need to go back and look at them. Lestrade will meet us. Defenestration is the cause of death for this victim." He pointed to a body in another photo. "The second was staged to confuse us. That building is privately owned, and I suspect the building developer hired someone to scare the tenants." Sherlock went to the door.
"We?" John's eyes widened, and he licked his lips. "You got all of that from my pictures?"
"Yes, we. Problem? You have an excellent eye. Bring your camera."
"No. No problem." John stood, put his curry leftovers into the fridge and grabbed his well-worn leather jacket and digital camera. "Let's go." He smiled at the taller man.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment. Then a slow smile tipped his lips.
The next day, John wrote a blog about the moulding and how it was the landlord. He left out many of the grislier details, instead focusing on the brilliant deductions of the Consulting Detective.
Anderson was the first from the MET to comment. He asked what defenestration meant.