Hi guys! Before we start, I want to say that this is my first Sherlock fic. I'm writing it for fun, but I will do my best to keep everyone as much in character as possible. I do not own anything, except for my own characters and plot. The action starts a little before "The Empty Hearse", so, obviously the 'canon' will change a bit.
Also, English is not my first language, so I apologize for all the mistakes. Please, feel free to point them out. I'd love to hear your opinions regarding the story! :)
There was something mesmerising about chaos. It seemed almost impossible to comprehend every single detail, to understand the meaning of every single piece composing that raw artistry; yet, when someone looked closely enough, the anarchy suddenly started to make perfect sense.
The purse, dropped carelessly to the floor, the single high-heeled shoe, red and provocative, or even the cup, stained with delicate, but noticeable lipstick; everything was a part of a well-orchestrated spectacle, meticulously closed off from any audience and re-enacted by only two people –the killer and his victim.
Deciphering the chain of events that had happened behind closed curtains turned out to be incredibly difficult. There was no one who could help in that matter. The history of this particular murder had to be discovered based solely on that surrounding chaos. Chaos, which thrilled her to no end.
Victoria Radcliffe was ordinary most of the time. She lived in a small apartment, she went to work every day of her life and she certainly had her ups and downs, just like every other human being. She was perfectly common; yet standing on a crime scene, so perfectly orchestrated, everything started to feel different.
Her eyes took in everything around, starting from the most obvious evidence, ending on the smallest details that could prove immensely important, or completely irrelevant. The scene surrounding her was directed by someone else, but during those few minutes spent in the room, Victoria felt like she had just stepped into that person's shoes. And it felt thrilling.
She looked around, focusing her eyes on the lifeless body that was facing the floor; the woman's cheek pressed against the cold surface of the wooden panels and her limbs outstretched and weirdly angled. The victim must have been running, when someone shot her; the shoe, missing from her foot and lying a couple of feet away, pointing to a rush, just as her discarded purse. Blood surrounding the woman's head came from a single gunshot wound on her occiput, so the killer must have chased her and fired his shot as soon as he got a chance.
The victim's face was frozen in the expression of utter shock. She didn't want to die and she certainly didn't expect to. Maybe it was a simple break-in gone wrong? No. It couldn't have been. The unlocked doors and closed windows conveyed a very clear message: she must have known the killer. The woman had willingly invited her executioner into the flat, not knowing anything about his vile intentions.
Victoria turned around and looked towards the door. All of the locks had been unlocked, but judging by the marks left on the wood, the victim was meticulous when it came to providing for her own safety. She wouldn't have opened them for just anyone. No… Lack of personal photos and the sterile-like environment could mean only one thing: this entire place was a hideout. The woman wanted to run away from something, but what was it? Or who?
The killer was someone she'd known, but he didn't murder her with passion. A single gunshot to a carefully picked spot, spoke rather of a person wanting to simply do the job, without emotional engagement. He had to believe in himself; every other person would have fired at least one more shot, just to be safe. The wound was too precise to be the outcome of an ugly feud or a mistake. The killer knew what he was doing and he did it bloody well.
"Radcliffe? Radcliffe!" Someone shook her arm, forcing her to blink away her trance.
Greg Lestrade stood before her with a baffled expression; one she got accustomed to, over the past year of working alongside him. It usually meant that her mute analysis started to bother everyone around. Everyone expected detectives to be vocal, since it was the key to a successful investigation, after all. Victoria trusted Lestrade to remind her of that, every time she spaced out yet again. Thus far, it seemed to work pretty well.
"Oh, yeah, sorry, Greg," she muttered and cleared her throat. "The victim must have known the killer. She would have never let him into the apartment otherwise, judging by the number of locks on the door and the way they've been constantly used. She was obsessed with her own safety. There are no personal things in sight, so my bet would be to assume that this place served as a hideout of sorts."
Lestrade looked around with a weird expression on his face, until his eyes landed on Sally Donovan, who busied herself with examining the discarded purse of the victim.
"Donovan, what do you think?"
"It's hardly a crime of passion, as it usually is when the victim knows the killer."
Victoria forced herself to remain calm and not react to the unpleasant tone of Donovan's statement. She didn't know why did Sally dislike her so much, but their cooperation could be described as strained, to put it mildly.
"Usually doesn't mean always. Look at the lock, Donovan. They've been used every single day and unlocking them takes a good minute. Our victim wouldn't have bothered to go through all the effort to let in a pizza delivery guy," Victoria snorted and crouched down next to the deceased woman. "Not a crime of passion, but an interesting one still. The killer came in here with the intention to kill, it wasn't a mistake on his part. The wound is almost surgical, which means he knew it would have killed her. This guy was a pro."
Lestrade joined her, observing the wound from a close distance and he finally sighed.
"Fine, he must have known how to handle a gun. But if they've known each other, she probably was aware of his skills. Why would she let him in, if paranoia forbade her from even having personal things here?"
Victoria snorted and stood up, looking at Donovan.
"It's rather obvious, isn't it? Sergeant, did you find her ID?"
"Yes. Margaret Williams. And how is it obvious?"
"Well, our Margaret here was betrayed by her ally. Oh and by the way, I seriously doubt that it is her real name."
Both Lestrade and Donovan looked at her with completely baffled expressions and Victoria bit her bottom lip, trying to refrain from another stupid comment.
"What are you bloody talking about?" Lestrade asked, but his voice wasn't entirely annoyed. She could have sworn that it bore hints of admiration.
"She let the killer in without hesitation, so he must have been someone close and trusted. As soon as she realised her mistake, she started running but her heels slowed her down, hence the attempt to leave them behind. The distance from the door indicates that she must have been pretty fast for such a tiny thing, even in stilettos. Usually, people try to hide, to shield themselves from the gun pointed in their directions, but Margaret turned her back on the assaulter, clearly trying to reach something," Victoria muttered and took a couple of steps towards a lonely cupboard, which hadn't been examined by the forensics yet.
The furniture seemed completely meaningless though; a vase with a dried flower and an electronic clock standing on the top of it were hardly interesting. At first glance, there was nothing special about the shelve, but when Victoria crouched down next to it, suddenly the reason for Margaret's desperate chase became obvious; a gun was strapped underneath the drawer, hidden from the preying eyes by a modest, white tablecloth.
A smile graced Victoria's face as she grabbed the weapon and unlocked it with a distinctive click. She raised it above her head, enabling their colleagues to see the hidden gem.
"Her initial instinct wasn't to shield herself; it was to fight back. So if you're asking me if I think 'Margaret' is her real name, the answer's no. No secret agent of sorts would have used their real name."
The room fell silent for a moment and Victoria slowly stood up, trying to ignore her raging heartbeat after cracking yet another crime scene. She knew that convincing Lestrade to her version of events would prove to be easy. The year they'd spent working together served as a proof to that statement. As usual, Donovan would turn out to be worse; she would probably be hell bent on proving Victoria wrong, obstructing the investigation and pestering Lestrade about how weird it was to let a newbie dictate any terms. But in the end, it would all come down to one thing: Victoria being right.
"It's possible that she just happened to have a gun." Lestrade had finally managed to find his words, but Radcliffe knew that he was far from arguing with her theory.
"Also, wouldn't a secret agent try to fight her opponent first?" Donovan added and Victoria sighed.
"She did. Why do you think she's made it this far into the room, when the killer had a gun? She must have distracted him, or hurt him to buy herself enough time to reach her own weapon. A slight miscalculation on her part," she explained and looked out of the window, allowing a slight smirk to appear on her face.
"I'm not buying it. There's no way in hell that we're dealing with two secret agents, one of them gone rouge," Donovan stated, crossing her arms over her chest.
Victoria opened her mouth to argue with the sergeant, but she closed them a mere second later. A smile appeared on her face and she said:
"You're probably right. I don't know what I was thinking." She couldn't see Donovan's face, as she was too busy watching Mycroft Holmes getting off of a black Jaguar, straightening his immaculate coat and looking upwards, only to find Victoria staring right at him through the window.
"I'm glad we agree," Donovan said with satisfaction, while Lestrade walked towards the window, joining Victoria.
"Bloody hell," he cursed, as Mr Holmes entered the building. "You're right again."
"Of course I am, Lestrade," Victoria laughed in response and turned around to find Donovan with raised eyebrows and a look of pure contempt. "Although I admit, without such a convincing proof, my theory would sound a bit bonkers."
At this time, a man walked into the apartment and looked around, his gaze stopping on the deceased woman for a miniscule moment, and then proceeding to search the room.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm afraid I have to take over this crime scene," the man stated and Victoria smirked. "This murder is a matter of national security."
"Of course, Mr Holmes," Greg answered and shot a sideways glance towards Victoria. "We've figured as much."
"I sincerely doubt that, Detective. Please, feel free to have a well-deserved rest. I'm sure you've done tremendous work here."
Victoria ignored the shivers running up her spine after hearing Mycroft's words. She had the misfortune to meet this man on few occasions, but he had always seemed to be as dangerous as he was during the first time. Maybe it was because of his obvious wealth, or maybe it was the effect of the position he held; one of huge power, according to Lestrade's gossips. Or maybe it was his eyes. Those cold, piercing eyes that made her feel naked, but not in a good way; like her very soul was completely exposed.
"Yes, well… Um, my people are at your disposal, Mr Holmes," Lestrade offered and straightened his own jacket, while Mycroft smiled weakly.
"It won't be necessary. Have a good day, Detectives, Sergeant."
Victoria didn't want to wait for another cue to leave. She moved forward, trying to ignore another set of shivers that coursed through her body when she passed Holmes, under the scrutiny of his terrifying eyes. The shivers hadn't stopped until she walked out of the building, inhaling the moist, thick London air.
"He gives me creeps too," Lestrade muttered, joining her on the sidewalk. "His brother was a pain in the arse, but I swear he wasn't nearly as bad as him."
Victoria looked at the DI with interest. Times, when anyone from Scotland Yard talked about Sherlock Holmes were so rare, that she learned to avoid the subject at all costs, realising it wasn't something pleasant. Figuring it out wasn't hard, especially considering Anderson's personal mission to come up with more and more ridiculous theories about the fake death of an undeniable genius. Everyone felt guilty for believing that Sherlock Holmes had been a sham, for ruining his career and letting him take his own life.
"You're very much like him, you know?" Lestrade asked after a moment of silence.
"Mycroft?"
"No, of course not. Sherlock!"
"Are you trying to say that I'm a high-functioning sociopath, or maybe a proper genius?" she chuckled, seeing Lestrade's embarrassed expression.
"You're not as brilliant as him. You're human. But sometimes, like today, I can just see that spark. Radcliffe, you're one helluva detective, definitely better than most of us. He would have enjoyed working with you, even if he'd probably try to conceal it under a bunch of insults. He was a mean prick, after all."
She smiled at her boss' words, knowing that it took a lot for him to say them. Greg Lestrade might have been at peace with losing a consulting detective, but there were moments, when he sat in silence, muttering something about stepping into Sherlock's shoes. His face always expressed deep sadness, whenever he did it. The younger Holmes could have been a mean prick, but he still managed to make people care for him. Somehow.
"I wish I could have met him. Working with him must have been like having an epiphany most of the time," she said gently and Lestrade burst into laughter.
"Yeah, well, you'd probably feel that way. Most of us felt like blithering idiots."
"Is that how you feel when you work with me?" Victoria asked and Greg's laughter died down.
"No. You're nowhere near as intense as he was. He had this gift. One in a million, completely impossible to obtain. You know how to watch and observe, how to connect the facts, but he… He was just bloody brilliant."
"Well, then," she said and looked towards the sky. "Let's just pray for Anderson to be right."
