Chapter 1 15-4-2010
The thrumming sound of the violin below made John pause. He stopped his work, reading his blog comments, and was silent for a moment. It sounded louder and louder, building to a crescendo, until finally reaching a quiet whisper, barely audible from the upper floor. John shook his head; he knew what his flat mate was doing and he had no intention of interrupting him.
John continued reading through the four pages of comments from his most recently written case, pleased with the amount of readership the blog had gained. He smiled happily to himself while moving his cursor to click on a new Word document. John had to start typing up the last case while it was still fresh in his mind or he might forget all the things his partner had said, all the ways to describe his nuance of voice, and the sheer brilliance of the man. It had been weeks since it had happened, and John had his notes, but he had been working more than usual. He started to type, the usual thrill running through him when he used verbs to describe the action.
John's fingers paused over the keys however when he heard a phone go off downstairs. He could feel his heart start to pound, and his blood start to race. He saved what he had written so far and shut his laptop, putting it away. He ran over to his nightstand and checked that his gun clip was full; he clicked the clip in the gun and made sure the safety was on before tucking it into the back waistband of his jeans. He waited impatiently for a moment. He would not give his flat-mate the satisfaction of knowing how excited he was. He knew whose ringtone that was: Sherlock had a special preset for Lestrade.
"John, there's been a murder!" The downstairs occupant yelled from below.
"On my way!" John fisted the air; he had calmed himself down before reaching the main level of the flat however, so appeared to be completely in control of himself.
"Come on!"
John followed the long black coat out of the flat and watched as its occupant hailed a taxi with his usual flourish of impatience.
"Did detective inspector Lestrade say anything, Sherlock?"
"The address, but nothing more."
John saw Sherlock's lips curl into a smile; the way they always did when he got a new case. John smiled as well and turned his head to see out the taxi window. He knew that Sherlock would tell him everything either at the scene of the crime, or when they got home. As much as he was pestered about his blog, he knew Sherlock secretly loved the attention.
The night around them was beautiful and John never tired of it; the dark blue sky, the twinkling stars so far off in the distance. Even the bright lights of London were striking.
"We're here John." One couldn't help but notice the excited tremor that ran through Sherlock's voice.
It had been weeks since their last case and Sherlock had grown restless in that time; restless, and hard to live with. He had brought home a cadaver, just a few days ago, for some sort of experiment with maggots, but John had forbade it from entering the flat. A head, or a few fingers in the tub, was different from a whole body.
Exiting the taxi Sherlock quickly brought John up to speed. Lestrade had called and told Sherlock that it was a young woman, probably in her early-to-mid thirties, who had been stabbed to death. John looked up at the decrepit old building; it looked like it would fall apart at any second. What a horrible place to die, he thought.
They approached the crime scene tape and squad cars, expecting to see Lestrade outside waiting for them. Instead the two were greeted by Sergeant Sally Donovan.
"Freak," she said as greeting.
Sherlock inclined his head so as to say he had heard her but was choosing to ignore her. In fact he wasn't even looking at her, but at the building where the body was.
"Where's Lestrade?" John asked.
"Upstairs, with one of his associates." When she said associate, she pointed at Sherlock.
"What do you mean 'one of my associates'"? Sherlock asked pointedly, looking at her now.
"They got here ten minutes before you did and said they worked with you; marched right upstairs to examine the body."
"They?" John asked, wondering.
"Well, she; there was just a woman."
Sherlock suddenly grew more intense as he stared at Sally and started asking her questions feverishly.
"What did she look like? Where did she go?"
"Anderson let her in, I didn't. He said she was American; she's upstairs, top floor, at the crime scene. At least, I haven't seen anyone come down." Her sentence trailed off as Sherlock ran to the old building. She looked at John and muttered, "How can you handle him?" before walking away to talk to another officer.
John raced off after him, taking the worn stairs two at a time – of course worried they would break – trying to catch up to his friend. He didn't understand why Sherlock would have such a reaction to someone else being here unless…Sherlock had said he had plenty of enemies. What if this was one of them?
They reached the top landing simultaneously and saw that there was indeed a woman talking to detective inspector Lestrade. If this was truly an enemy of Sherlock's, John could say he picked great enemies. John couldn't help but to stare at her. Even from the back, he thought she was gorgeous. The woman was tall, and had olive skin if the back of her legs were anything to go by. John noticed however that she did not seem dressed for a crime scene. In her black lace dress and heels she stood out among the uniformed officers.
Looking around he noticed plenty of the other boys stealing glances her way as well. Well, it'd be hard not to get attention when you wear something as lacy as that, John thought.
"I need you to talk to Lestrade." Sherlock's whispering broke John's hypnotic gaze.
"Oh yes of course."
Sherlock strode over to the woman and grabbing her by the arm, dragged her away to the other side of the building. John thought he had looked angry, but there had been another emotion in those blue eyes that was hard to pick out. He paid attention to the way the woman smiled, as if relieved to see him; she shook off Sherlock's arm and walked with him, almost…equal.
John held his hand out to Lestrade to shake. The DI took it and then sighed.
"How are things going up here?" John asked conversationally.
"Well, the boys are finishing up photographing the scene."
"Ahh, yes, murder." John had almost forgotten the reason for the visit. It seemed like the whole reason they were there was to figure out who this woman was now. At least, John wanted to know who she was.
"If you'll excuse me, I have to speak with one of my boys."
John held up his hand in mock wave and stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself. He found his gaze wandering over to where Sherlock and the girl stood.
Sherlock appeared to whispering furiously to her but the girl kept shaking her head. She pulled something out of her clutch and handed it to Sherlock. John realized it was a letter when Sherlock opened it to read. He saw the color drain from the detective's face; he grabbed the woman's arms in a vice-like grip and his lips moved fast, too fast for even a lip-reader to decipher their words, John thought.
He saw the girl nod her head and Sherlock visibly relaxed. The detective sighed and ran a hand through his hair before looking down at his shoes for quite a few moments. Then, very out of character for the man, he drew the woman in and kissed her on the forehead.
John was still recovering from the surprise of seeing Sherlock get intimate with a human being, when Sherlock grabbed her hand and led her over to where John was standing.
Expecting to be greeted John held out his hand, but the pair walked right past him. John drew his hand back in, among mutterings of "right, OK", and turned around. Of course Sherlock would have gone straight to the body.
John saw that it was a woman, blond shoulder-length hair; she was lying on her back so he could also see that her black top was stained with blood and the floor around her had quite a pool of it. One of her black heels was missing but…John saw it was on the other side of the room.
"Single, probably in her early 30's. Why was she here though?" John heard Sherlock muttering to himself.
"She wasn't single Sherlock." The strange female piped in.
"What do you mean; of course she is. There's no wedding band here, no tan lines to suggest one was stolen." Sherlock indicated the woman's left hand.
The woman knelt down next to the body and showed Sherlock the dead woman's right hand.
"She's most likely American; she had a wedding band on her right ring finger but it's gone now, evidenced by the tan line."
"Ahh yes passport in her coat pocket." Sherlock mused, pulling out said passport. "Yes it would seem she's from Illinois. Deborah Greene."
John was confused for a moment before he understood – if the victim was from Illinois and wearing a wedding band on her right hand, then the woman had a female partner that she could not legally marry. It was legal here in England, not true in America. The couple had probably had a civil ceremony and shown their commitment with wedding bands on the wrong hand – a common sign of civil partnerships and unrecognized gay marriage in the States.
Sherlock handed the passport to a nearby officer and kneeled once again by the body. He lifted her shirt up very carefully, and called John over.
"John, what would you say did this?"
John snapped his latex gloves against his wrists and knelt down next to the body. He ran his fingers carefully over the abdomen, tracing the stab wounds that had clearly caused the woman much pain. He wasn't a coroner, and had never had to deal with dead bodies before Sherlock, but he still knew injuries. He was after all a doctor, and had been an army doctor as well. Nothing prepares you for the grittiness of death so much as war.
"Four stab wounds to the abdomen, carefully placed however. My guess would be the coroner finds they didn't hit anything vital. I'd say she bled out, and that's why there's so much blood pooled around her. She didn't die of the stab wounds; she died from loss of blood. And that could have taken, oh goodness, as long as forty-five minutes depending. As for what…I'd say a butcher's knife probably."
"A butcher's knife…" Sherlock said to himself, standing up. Sherlock took pictures of the wound and stood up to take pictures of the surrounding area.
John and the mystery woman stood off to the side while he did so. John turned to her, holding out his hand.
"Hello, I'm John Watson."
"Yes, Sherlock's told me all about you. She said in American accent.
"Funny, he's never mentioned you." John narrowed his eyes at her answering smile.
"He's not supposed to." She answered calmly, still smiling. John could sense a storm under her composed self, as if it angered her that she was a secret in Sherlock's life.
"Could you two please be quiet, I'm working." Sherlock was back examining the body one last time.
The woman held out her hand and shook John's with a firm grip, ignoring Sherlock.
"Emmaline. Emmaline Holmes, though I prefer Emma."
"So, you're his sister then? Funny he's only told me about his brother." John felt more comfortable knowing their relation.
"No, I'm not his sister; I'm his wife."
John dropped her hand, startled. Sherlock, have a wife? A wife who he had just had some very unsavory thoughts about. And this of course caused the color to rise up in John's cheeks. Emmaline noticed and smiled but didn't say anything about it.
They both watched in silence as Sherlock finished examining the body and spoke to Lestrade for a matter of a few minutes.
"So, Emma is it, how old are you exactly?"
"Twenty-five; I'll be twenty-six in a few months."
"So when did…when did you and Sherlock meet?"
Emma smiled at John's questioning. One could easily tell that he felt uncomfortable.
"We met when I was fifteen. On a plane from New York to London; he told me all about a case he had been called in to solve, by one of Greg's old friends, who had recommended him. I asked him how he solved the crime, and he showed me, by deducing some things about my life and about the other passengers. We stayed in touch, obviously."
"You've known him for ten years?"
"We haven't been together since I was fifteen, if that's what you're asking."
John's next question died on his lips as Sherlock approached the two of them.
"Is your car outside Emmaline?"
"Yes."
"Good, we need to go to your flat now."
John noticed that Emma didn't even ask; she just started to descend the stairs, pulling her car keys from her clutch. Most people would have asked questions about 'why', and 'for what reason', but she seemed, to John anyway, to have a trust in him that he hadn't seen elsewhere.
The ride to Emma's flat was a bit of a long one because they had to pass through much of London to get there.
"So, what did he deduce?" John asked from the backseat.
"Hmm?"
"Sherlock on the plane, what could he tell about your life?"
"Oh; he knew my mom had died, and that I was going to stay with my grandparents."
John didn't even bother asking how Sherlock had known; he knew by now that his friend's science of deduction was an almost sure thing. They drove for a few more minutes and John looked out the window, surprised at where they were. He and Sherlock lived in Westminster, and it appeared that Emma lived in Camden, in a very posh apartment building.
"What do you do exactly?"
"My grandparents left me money when they died, but I'm a doctor." Emma trotted up the stairs and opened the door, moving aside as Sherlock raced up the stairs and into the building.
John smiled and followed Sherlock up, Emma right behind.
"What kind of doctor?" John continued his inquiry as they walked up the flights of stairs.
"Psychology."
"Oh that's lovely; where do you work?"
"So many questions doctor."
John paused on the stairs for a moment. "How do you know I'm a doctor?"
Emma paused to turn around and look down at John. "Sherlock's told me all about you remember?" She smiled at his confusion. "I might have been a secret from you, but you were not a secret from me." She explained.
"Oh, right, yes." John stared for a moment. "Why were you a secret from me?"
"Because my husband is delusional and thinks I can't take care of myself." She replied. "And I work at Bethlem Royal Hospital."
"The hospital for the mentally ill?" John asked, wanting to clarify.
"That's the one."
"Emmaline, key." Sherlock huffed impatiently from a flight above them.
Emma rolled her eyes and hurried up the stairs to her door. She opened it for Sherlock and he walked carefully inside. Emma walked around the flat turning on lamps and overhead lights as she went.
"Thank you." Sherlock murmured, running his hand down the length of her bookcase.
"Sherlock, what are we doing?" John asked, not quite sure what they supposed to be doing here.
"Shh."
John rolled his eyes but stayed quiet. He too decided to take a look around, even if it was for a different purpose than Sherlock's.
Emmaline's flat was furnished in neutral warm colors that made John feel right at home. She had a large bay window with a seat that looked out over the city. Her walls were painted light beige and black-and-white photography adorned her walls.
"Who did these?" John asked.
Sherlock looked up at his inquiry and saw what his friend was staring at.
"I did." He looked back down at the floor, tracing something invisible with his eye.
John looked back at the photos, taking a closer look at them. Most of them were photos of crime scenes. A few were of Lestrade, and the police force, some were of Emmaline. There was even one of Mycroft hanging, where he sat by a Christmas tree in Emma's flat. So clearly, he had spent the holiday here at some point. There was one photo, set aside from the rest, of a smiling Emma and Sherlock, arms wrapped around one another, taken near the same tree.
He worked his way around the apartment and took a quick peek inside the bathroom. It's walls were painted grey with little red balloons painted on the wall across from the counter, reaching up, up to the ceiling, almost as if it was flying up to the sky.
He walked back out into the living room where Sherlock was now on eye level with the floor and examining the rug.
"Would you like some tea?" Emma poked her head out of the kitchen to ask the two gentlemen.
"Tea would be lovely, thank you." John continued his search of the flat, moving on to the bookshelf. He could see she was an avid reader, and enjoyed many of the classics. Many of the books had worn spines, suggesting she had read them more than once.
He worked his way around to the kitchen, noticing Sherlock had now lifted up the window seat and was perusing its contents. They could be here hours before he was done searching everywhere.
"Do you have the faintest idea of what he's looking for?" John asked Emma, as she handed him a cup of tea.
"Probably looking for someone who might have broken in. I noticed the doorjamb open yesterday but I thought it must have been him."
"Does he often break into your flat?"
"Only when he's been waiting a while outside. Or wants to show how clever he is." Mostly to avoid people he thinks are following him, she thought. She smiled faintly as she went to take Sherlock a cup.
Left on his own for a moment John took the time to admire exposed brick work over the refrigerator and stove that looked like restoration work. He noticed a small photo frame near the pantry and got up to examine it. It was a black-and-white photo of Sherlock, taken from the side. He looked at least three years younger than he was now.
"Are you hungry John?" Emmaline came back into the kitchen.
"Famished actually." John put his empty cup of tea on the counter and turned from the photo.
"Does Sherlock often forget to feed you?"
"Only when he's too busy to remember that people normally eat."
Emma grinned and set about looking for something in the pantry. John went back to his seat at the island and waited patiently. She moved on to the fridge and brought out a plate. She set it on the counter before John.
"Do you like bread pudding?"
"My mother used to make it for me."
"I'll hope that's a yes." She smiled, removing the plastic wrap from the plate.
Emma handed him a spoon and poured him some more tea before returning to the living room to check on Sherlock. John quickly devoured the slice of pudding that had tasted almost as good as he remembered his mother's to taste.
"Emma, what are these?"
John went out to the main room, wanting to know what was going on. Sherlock was pointing to faint scratch marks in the wall next to her front door.
"They aren't mine; I haven't had anyone over except for you last week." She held up her hands in evidence that her nails were unscathed.
"Emmaline, pack a bag." Sherlock was staring uneasily at the marks.
"I keep a packed bag in the trunk, just in case."
"Wait, what's going on Sherlock?" John felt very behind.
"Someone broke in and left a note here for Emmaline. It'll be safer if she comes to live with us for now. I'm afraid she's no longer safer on her own." Sherlock's voice sounded sad.
Emma knew that it was because they had been separated for three years in the hope that it would keep her hidden from whoever Sherlock was afraid of. It seemed, that his plan had not worked.
"What note?"
Sherlock handed it to him before departing the flat and running down the flights of stairs. Emma followed him, stopping only to grab her purse and a coat. John opened the letter and read:
My dear Emmaline,
It is pointless trying to hide any more
I know who you are and who you are connected to
I hope that you enjoy the present I left for the three of you
John turned the note over but there was no more. It wasn't even signed. John raced after the other two and hurried into the backseat of Emma's car.
"What does it mean, 'present'?"
"It obviously means the body." Sherlock answered the, to him, silly question. "Whoever left that note for Emmaline also killed Deborah Greene."
They pulled up to 221B Baker Street and Emma parked the car. Sherlock grabbed her case from the trunk and John hurried ahead of him to unlock the door.
"I'll clear out a drawer and make some room in the closet." Sherlock said, setting the case down on his bed.
"I'll just be in my room." John pointed upstairs and departed the main floor. Emma smiled and waved; Sherlock didn't even notice, having departed into his room. John backed out the door before walking upstairs into his bedroom.
He pulled his laptop back out, and opened the previously closed Word document. He needed to finish this last case and start jotting down notes about this new one. He didn't want to forget anything. This was by far the most interesting thing that had happened since he had met Sherlock.
He heard music come on downstairs, probably the CD player – it didn't sound like the violin – and went back to his writing. He occasionally heard a murmur of conversation from downstairs but he couldn't make anything out.
When he finished with his writing he put his laptop away and decided to go downstairs, to see if they needed help with anything. He trotted down the stairs and opened the door to the main level but stopped in his tracks. Sherlock and Emma were dancing: they were swaying back and forth with their eyes closed, holding each other. John smiled upon seeing the pair so deeply absorbed; normally Sherlock would have heard the opening door. As it was he was busy burying his face in her hair.
John shut the door, affording the couple their much-needed privacy, and went back upstairs to change into his pajamas. It was late and sleep was sounding better by the second. He stooped down to pick up his gun from his discarded jeans and decided to clean it before sleeping. He hadn't done so lately and a clean gun was a good gun. He sat down at his desk and set to his work, making sure every piece shone. When he was satisfied he made sure the safety was on and took the clip back out.
He set them side-by-side in his nightstand drawer and curled up against his pillow; pulling his blanket up to his chin, he snuggled down into the comfort of his hard mattress. John reached a hand out and pulled the string of his bed-side lamp. The light went out and the room turned dark.
A/N: Edited first chapter! If you guys still see any mistakes, please let me know; I am human and I don't have a beta, so please review!