Chapter 1: The Song of Fallen Angels~
The sundown bleeds through the windows of Baker Street, and for a moment it is as if Midas has spilled his blood into their living room, and Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stand baptised in light, in the middle of some very pressing debate about something, oblivious to their surroundings, unaware of the wealth of light they are cast in, anointed in liquid gold.
"So you see ,John, it couldn't have been the butcher's dog, because the dog was at the groomers at that time. So, they had to have planted the poison on one of the pets...but which one, WHICH ONE?"
Sherlock is pacing madly about the room, where as John stands still like stone, fist to his chin like the marble-cast "Thinker", an anchor for Sherlock, in the world that has spun about them in a burning orbit of ruin for too long.
It is roughly 2 weeks after their excursion in the Caribbean, being abducted by pirates, and their mutual near-death experience that John has written down for his blog as "Baskerville Island", but never posted, as he was no longer allowed to post anything about Sherlock, being that, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, he was still dead and gone.
But life had gone on, as it had always done, in sleep-walking London. The ever busy, criminally active City, that always seemed so oblivious, to Sherlock and John anyway, as to the true drama that went on in the world.
For in the end murder hadn't been in the hearts of cloak-and-dagger villains, and street-corner "Jack the Ripper" types, like John used to believe. No, it had been lying in the hearts of close-of-kin, of people one knew, of people one trusted...Sometimes even in the hearts of people one loved. This was the real drama, forsaking all "Hollywood", "who-done-it" glory! John had known it all too well, in the discovery that the man who had raised him was actually his uncle posing as his twin-brother, John's real father, that he had murdered for jealousy.
And thank God that Sherlock and John had been extremely busy with a sudden influx of little puzzles these last 2 weeks, (never mind that they were still recovering from electric shock) because the initial pain of this domestic betrayal, of learning that his real Dad was dead, of dealing with the experience of being clinically dead for ,as Molly later reported it, around 20 minutes ( a lot less than Sherlock's 1 day and 10 hours after he fell from St. Bart's...John was amazed that this was the SECOND time Sherlock had come back via Lazarus syndrome) and dealing with... well... the experience as a whole, the having been captured and drugged and severally dehydrated... Dealing with the very recent execution of his Uncle Sal, that he had believed since he was in primary school was actually his cruel father that had disowned him...It was all just a little too much for him. Had he not had the puzzles, and ever-vibrant Sherlock keeping him on his toes, he would probably have slipped into a series of black moods, that he might not have risen up from for months ,or even years.
Sherlock. John smiled at him as he spun about the room, long dark coat flapping like a raven's wings, chattering, still on the hunt.
John was speechless, letting the "bloodhound" follow the scent on his own, just content ,for now, to watch him. To be able to lay eyes on him, now, after his not once, but twice death,(this second time having clinically died with him) was an absolute ,and unlooked for, miracle. John was dumbstruck, mortally stricken, platonicly, maddeningly, head-over-heels, or whatever in love with this raving lunatic! Sherlock would say "highly functioning sociopath" but John had written that off as a fancy way of explaining to people that he was completely bonkers, and absurdly ok with it.
"THE PARROT!" Sherlock boomed.
"Sorry?" John gasped, drawn out his thoughts about the last 2 weeks, about their entires lives, too quickly, like when one is constrained to step out of a hot bath and into a cold room.
"THE PARROT, JOHN! It had to have been the parrot! The pork's blood was on its talons, but there were no bloody little bird footprints. It's blatantly obvious, so obvious that I even missed it! Yes, we have a criminal genius on our hands. Not the butcher...no, but the butcher's wife, the veterinarian, wanting to kill her husband in a more satisfactory way than murder. Wanting to see him hanged for murder, framed, falsely accused, astounding reputation as a moonlight clergy man destroyed, and then snuffed! My phone! Gah, where did I-, need to text Gavin, tell him it's the woman he needs to bring in..."
On went the chattering. John smiled at him, gone light in the head. To think the world was 1 day ,10 hours, and 20 minutes absent of him. The thought made John feel like he needed to sit down, so he did.
Suddenly there were footsteps on the stairs.
"Sherlock? There's no need to text Greg; he's here!"John called from the living room, where he had sunk up to his shoulders in his arm-chair.
Sherlock bounded into the room, as eager as a young wolf does after his prey, eyes shining like the eyes of young wolves do in the dark, hair looming about his face, wildly tousled like the night in its wind. John laughed in delight. To be so in love with the very spirit of the Dark, was a strange phenomenon. To be saved by the sword of damnation, the greatest irony the world had ever witnessed. It was the story of Doctor John Watson's life, and, despising all the pain that had penned it in despair's black ink, he was proud to call it his own.
Sherlock was smiling eagerly, toothily, blood-thirsty young wolf, eager for the drink that would ease the pain in his throat. Now he would get his blood, now he would expose the truth, and justice would reign.
"It was the parrot! -The veterinarian wife of the Butcher/Cleric? , arrest her, she's the one who murdered their 4 -year- old granddaughter, for the sole purpose of revenge against his hypocritical ways. Practically human sacrifice, was a marvellous case, have any more?"
Greg stood blinking, dumbly. John face-palmed. Lunatic, and a sociopath indeed.
"You mean the kid that...that they...that she...was her granddaughter?" Greg gasped.
"Yes. And she killed her ,brutally, not by weapon, but by disease, so that she could frame her husband for it, and see it destroy him. There I solved the case. Now do you have anymore, yes or no?"
Greg stood gaping at Sherlock...and John cleared his throat.
Sherlock turned to look at him with an air of innocence that made it impossible to stay angry and offended with him forever. He blinked,
"Oh, yeah...It's...probably a bit...uhmm...upsetting...what happened to the little girl, isn't it?"
Greg and John nodded, patiently, and Sherlock waved a hand in the air looking for words...
"I ...well...it's...not good...Sorry?"
They smiled, and he smiled back, thinking that he must have said the right thing, that time anyway.
"Actually, I really do have another case for you...A personal one."
"Wonderful!" Sherlock laughed. John yawned.
"Have a seat ,Greg, you've had a long day. I'll call us in something to eat, is every body ok with that Thai place?"
Sherlock didn't answer, but Greg smiled, and thanked John who momentarily disappeared from the room, gone to ask Major if he was ok with Thai too. Major Sholto had lived with them on Baker Street, in 221 C, since Sherlock had proved his innocence in the fire-fight tragedy, and was their self-appointed body-guard. He was currently down-stairs "pumping iron" trying to unwind from today's events, unable to keep up with swift Sherlock.
"Your wife..." Sherlock said, out-of-the-blue, taking his seat.
Greg smiled, "Yeah, you never can just wait for me to tell the story, can you?"
"Why would I? It saves a lot of time if I just observe you. Your wife...soon to be ex-wife if she has her way...has disappeared...And because you still love her, you are concerned. No, she hasn't run away with a lover, you have reason to believe it is something more sinister than that...Am I right?"
Greg smiled, "I'm...glad...that I've got you on my team."
"So am I. You'd be lost without me."
John came back in the room, laughing. He was right of course, he just didn't need to say it.
"Easy, mate...Get any more modest, and we might be able to put your picture in the paper." he laughed, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder firmly, and sitting down beside him.
"Picture...modest?"
"It's a joke, Sherlock! A bloody joke! Honestly!" Greg teased, and John shifted in his seat.
"Yes. I know it's a joke, but what does it mean?" Sherlock asked, brows twisting in what looked like almost painful puzzlement.
Greg rolled his eyes. John was more patient.
"Well, if you were more quote/unquote "modest", the word "modest" has a two-fold meaning, and the other meaning of the word is to cover one's self, so I meant that if you were more "modest" you could appear in the paper without giving His Majesty Queen of England a heart attack!"
Sherlock sniffed, at the reference to Mycroft.
"I don't need greater modesty. I just need a sheet. His Majesty might be less inclined to have his people come and abduct me if I wound up in the papers dressed like that."
They all started laughing but then Greg's face took on a dark look.
"His wife-soon-ex has mysteriously disappeared, not with a lover, but in a more macabre fashion. Hasn't told me the rest, and I haven't observed any farther, though it's been tempting, because he wanted to "tell" the story." Sherlock practically hissed, impatiently trying to force himself not to "see" said story. Really and truly trying to level with his "human" friends. They were flattered.
"He's right, she's gone. Without a reason, without a trace. She said it was going to be months before she started moving out, because her boyfriend was going to help her, and he's in Italy closing the deal on a contract. And then "poof" she's just vanished, no signs of break in, none of her stuff missing, nothing that mighta told me he'd come back for her early. In fact, the only thing that WAS different about my house this afternoon ,when I went home for a nap, was that, beside our bed, there's always been this little angel statue, that her grandmother gave to her, I think. It usually stands up, is made like that, real tall and skinny and has folded hands like its praying or something...Well...today...I find it on its face. And the alarm clock is going off , turned up crazy loud. She's gone. No reason why. Just that statue on its face, like a bad omen. Gives me the creeps..."
"Right because you still love her, and you don't want anything bad to happen to her. Don't worry about possible abduction, she wasn't. She has left of her own volition, and since there are no signs of the business man lover, it tells me that she is most likely cheating on both of you, and had a rendezvous with the third-party. What does the third-party want? That's what we have to solve for; we'll have your reason before 20 hundred hours , Gavin, not to worry."
"Cheating...on BOTH." Greg's eyes went wide, and he looked off into space, visibly saddened.
John could have punched Sherlock then, but Mrs. Hudson was bringing their food upstairs, and food was the only thing that John could focus on, when it was physically present. He might punch Sherlock later. Maybe...
Sherlock stared off into space himself. Honestly, so blunt as he is, he never says the entirety of what he's thinking, his mind is too complex for that. Something about this situation was very troubling, even to him, which is why he had decided himself, no need to be talked into it, that this was more than a cheating scandal, and that he needed to take the case, even if it was as short-lived as 20 hundred hours tonight...