The Resurrection Ritual
Three hundred and one, Sherlock thought, counting the holes on his ceiling, his hands positioned behind his head and his foot bobbing up and down impatiently. He closed his eyes and listened to the cabbies zoom by on the streets below, the chatter of the people creating a dull sound he could only describe as ringing. There was a rustling on the walls somewhere, letting him know that Tony, the mouse he'd taken to speaking to on the considerable number of days he was alone, was having breakfast. He kicked at the edge of the couch, hoping to rouse the thin layer of dust that had seemed to form on and around him.
Ah, the impatience of an addict. Former addict. Sherlock had "slightly" relapsed into his drug habits due to dying (ugh), but with Moriarty's return, going cold turkey had been necessary. It was anything but fun. But now that he was clean (or as clean as John needed to believe) and Moriarty's return had actually been the most phenome- nally dull resurrection Sherlock ever had to tackle, there was that period of time where there was nothing going on. He needed a case. Or perhaps a box of nicotine patches.
"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's considerably loud voice rang out into the stairwell. "They're here!"
He didn't know why Mrs. Hudson still felt the need to make such pronouncements in that Wagnerian manner. Of course he had known that the Watsons had arrived. He heard them downstairs, choosing to add their noise to the ringing in his ear and the absolute bore of the winter cold. No need to get up or get dressed.
"Right," John said, making his way into the flat, carseat in hand, snow still melting on his shoulders. It took him a second to take stock of Sherlock's state on the couch, wrapped up in nothing but a quilt and a zarape he acquired on one of his cases. "Wrong of me to suppose you would put on trousers for this."
Sherlock made a dismissive noise and rolled over to face away from John, like a burrowing ostrich. John left the baby carrier by the door and proceeded to take off his coat, asking Sherlock how on earth Baker Street was warm as an enchilada. Sherlock ignored him.
"Good lord," Mary followed, bundled up in a warm magenta coat with a smaller bundle of coats in her arms. "John, I'm putting her down in your room. Any warmer in here and she might slip right off my fingers. Deal with the other baby, will you, love?"
John made a noise to let Mary know he'd heard, coming back into the living room with a sigh. Sherlock turned to face him like John was forcing him to eat his veg. His friend simply made a face and marched into his room to grab a proper pair of trousers.
"Mary's wearing lipstick," Sherlock pointed out, his voice slightly dry from under use. He followed John into his own bedroom, reminding John of the delicacy of the sock index. "A different shade from usual. Something going on? We've talked about postpartum depression and how its common in new mothers-"
"It's not postpartum, it's dinner," John said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "What is the point of making appointments with you ? She dressed up because it's her first night out since the baby."
There was a pause in conversation, followed by the ruffling of Sherlock's clothes as he put them on. "Is there an occasion?" He finally asked, sliding his socks on.
"Of course you don't celebrate it," John muttered, half-talking to Sherlock. "It's only your bloody birthday."
"My what?" Sherlock asked, his back stiff straight as he quickly, deftly buttoned up his shirt. "Oh. It's the sixth?"
"Yes."
"But Mrs. Hudson still has the Christmas lights on."
"She thought it would seem more festive for dinner tonight," John said as his friend shrugged into his jacket. He always forgot how shoddy and unsophisticated he was next to Sherlock bloody Holmes. But no matter. It was his birthday. Being just a tad nicer would be a good enough present from him.
"I don't remember mentioning my birthday to anyone," Sherlock pointed out, slipping into his shoes and following John back to he living room. He noticed the kitchen table was cleared, a stack of plates and trays laid out. Oh god, it was a buffet.
"Your mum might have mentioned something over Christmas," John said, sitting in his chair. "They're coming as soon as their plane lands in Heathrow. Molly and Les- trade are supposedly pooling on a proper present. Rumour has it Mycroft may even make an appearance."
"Since when did we become so domestic?" Sherlock spat out, glaring at the open door of the flat. "Birthdays are just a marker of age. I don't really feel like being told, 'congratulations for not dying, oopsie, too late you already died twice.'"
"Sherlock," John began, keeping in his mind the image of the Great Sherlock Holmes saying 'oopsie.'
"No, not doing it. Tell them I'm busy," Sherlock said, about to grab his scarf and his coat when he froze.
Sherlock honestly believed there was rarely anything on God's green earth that bypassed him, but this...what on earth was this? He lifted his chin, like he was trying to catch it with his nose, that scent. It was a scent he had not had since childhood, one that reminded him of his personal adventures on the high seas, the excitement in the air as Mycroft was coming home from boarding school, the tea his mother would steep especially then he was upset. But that, of course was impossible. Wasn't it?
Suddenly, though not surprisingly, a candlelight glow appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Rousing in an impromptu a-capella to the tune of Happy Birthday, Mrs. Hudson ascended the stairs with Molly, Greg, Mary and little Scotty Watson behind. The candle lit up the whole stairwell, the cake shining from all the royal icing, almost the exact same way Sherlock's 7th birthday cake had. The scent that had arrested Sher- lock was now lingering pleasantly in the air like it was trying to blow out the cold from outside.
"Happy Birthday Sherlock," Molly said with that too-thin smile of hers, and John clapped a hand to his back as a warning and a greeting.
"T-thank you, Molly," Sherlock stuttered slightly (when did he ever stutter?) turn- ing his head slightly. It was the cake. What on earth was in that cake? "Where did you get that cake?"
"Oh, Speedy's downstairs is selling cakes now," Mrs. Hudson reported in that cheery way of hers. "Gave it to me special when they I told them it was your birthday."
"Many happy returns, Sherlock!" Lestrade said suddenly before Sherlock could scoff at Mrs. Hudson's insistence of dallying with the shop owner. They were all set- tling in the living room, the cake and the food being set in the kitchen. His flat had sud- denly hummed and buzzed with noise and light, the layer of dust had disappeared as Scotty babbled happily in her father's arms, perfectly proper development for a child of her age. The scent lingered in the stairwell but followed its source to the kitchen, making Sherlock feel slightly disoriented and taking a step towards it. "Molly has been searching for ages to get you a proper gift."
"Well, not exactly ages," Molly said, tucking her hair behind her ears. It was a lie if Sherlock ever saw one. The blush on her cheek, the way she couldn't look at him, those were her tells. It fascinated him that no matter how badly he treated her, she still managed to act like a lovestruck girl around him. He had hoped she would have outgrown it by now. "But anyway, here," she said, recovering something from her bag, handing it to Sherlock with a more confident smile.
"You have to promise not to start on that until tomorrow," Lestrade said. "But hopefully it will take you a while to figure out."
A case. Molly and Lestrade had given him a case file. How entirely un-domestic of them, Sherlock thought, fighting to curl his lips into a satisfied smile. His excite- ment was absolute. Given Molly's expertise in the field, she would know when a body was mangled enough to warrant study. Lestrade would have conveniently failed to solve it, bless him.
"Thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock said, nodding to the Detective Inspector in a seeming salute. He turned to Molly.
"When will you learn to hate me, Molly Hooper?" He asked her. The question was serious, the tone only slightly playful. In spite of the end of her engagement and her discovery of his relapse, she simply smiled back.
"Never," she said, finally and absolutely. "You can come see the body anytime you like during my shift. Lets have cake, shall we?"
Ah yes, Sherlock thought, his sweet tooth getting the better of him as he smelled violets in the icing. in the air. Cake. Now more than ever, he was determined to find out how on earth a baked good reminded him of the violets in his father's garden back home. He could hardly afford sentiment nowadays. Look where it got him. (Dead. Shot. There are worse things.)
True to his promise, Sherlock waited until the next day to open up the case file. John had come over to pick up the serving trays Mary had left behind last night. Being a nurse at a 3-doctor surgery gave her less flexible time than her husband, but John was more than happy to play house on his days off. Charlotte Scott Watson wasn't a huge fan of the surgery-provided creche, preferring to spend her days strapped on daddy's chest when he wasn't out solving crimes.
"Oh god, did you put the liver in Mary's tray?" John asked from his place in the kitchen, putting the clean trays away in the boot of his car while Sherlock watched Scotty. It still baffled John how a high functioning sociopath like his best friend managed to be so good with kids. He and Molly nearly blew their gasket when Sherlock first asked to hold baby Scotty. Mary claimed she knew he had it in him all along, pointing out that babies were much easier than people.
Cleaning out the tray and reentering the living room, John had to pause for a moment to watch the scene unfolding on the couch. Scotty was sitting on Sherlock's lap, her bright blonde hair leaning against his long torso, her pacifier placed securely in her mouth. She was turned toward her godfather, her small and chubby fingers holding a death grip on Sherlock's shirt. Scotty's bright blue eyes were rapt with attention, looking at the file Sherlock was reading aloud to her.
Where was a camera when John needed one?
"MP Forrest Walter," he said in a clear voice, enunciating so Scotty could try to mimick him. "One of the oldest of the members, found dead in his home yesterday morning. Cause of death can't be determined because his heart was sliced out of his chest...oh, that's impressive. Here's a photo."
John snapped out of his moment when he heard that last sentence. "Sherlock," he said with grit teeth. "Are you reading a case file to my daughter?"
Both Sherlock and Scotty looked up at him like they were surprised that he was still there. Sometimes it irritated John how attached Scotty was to her godfather. Sher- lock looked down at the baby and closed the file while she reached for it with her hands, opening and closing her fist.
"Please. She can't understand what I'm saying let alone realize she was looking at a cadaver," he said, placing the file on the coffee table and standing with Scotty in his arms, bouncing her a little to make her giggle and drop the pacifier on the floor. "It's good for her language development and visual recognition."
"I will tell you what's good for her language development, thank you very much," John said, plucking his daughter from Sherlock's arms, Scotty naturally wrapping her arms around her father's neck. "Now, you were saying something about a heart?"
Sherlock grinned a little. Good to know some things never changed. He was about to continue when the winter wind blew into the apartment in a loud gust, banging the door open and making Scotty jump in surprise and cry. Sherlock turned his head toward the offending wind like he wanted to strangle it with his bare hands, but paused when a smell followed. It was spicy and strong, an undertone of rich, dark chocolate following. It was...seductive to say the least. It reminded him of the woman, the way she managed to arrest him and bore him at the same time. His hand twitched and he shook his head, as if willing the smell away.
"Leave Scotty with Mrs. Hudson," he said, grabbing his coat and scarf. "Ask Lestrade if he can take you to the crime scene."
Then he marched out the door, leaving John bewildered. "Where are you going?" he asked.
"To see a man about a cake!" Sherlock replied, thundering down the stairs and out the door. John looked down at Scotty, who didn't seem to notice that Sherlock was gone. He sighed.
"Why did we have to name you after him, hm?" He asked his daughter, bouncing her a little as he went downstairs to see if Mrs. Hudson could watch her for a bit.
It took Sherlock thirty steps to get from his door to Speedy's, and if anything, the smell had gotten stronger. He entered the cafe with a sweep of his coat, turning this way and that. The owner, who seemed all too self-satisfied to be a serial adulterer, greeted Sherlock kindly and asked after his birthday cake.
"It was fine, where's the chocolate cake?" He asked distractedly, studying the pas- try case. No chocolate cake to speak of. The owner seemed surprised.
"Oh, Addie's just sliced it in the back," he said with a jerk of his thumb. "Should I get you a slice, Mr. Holmes? On the house."
Sherlock blinked in confusion. No matter how good his sense of smell was, no way he could have smelled that, especially in this cold.
"No, no thank you," he said, about to leave when a gasp came from one of the tables near the kitchen. He turned just in time to see a young girl, no more than ten years old, pop up out of her seat and approach him. She was more than unusually tall for her age, her deep black hair swishing about her face like stiff ribbons, her cheeks still red from the cold outside. Sherlock turned to her.
Recently orphaned, judging from the state of her eyes. Just came from outside. Pupils dilated , yet focused on me, meaning she's more than keen to talk. No way to get out of this one.
"Are you...Sherlock Holmes?" She asked tentatively, though he knew that she knew the answer to that question. He decided not to grace her with a reply.
"Oh my god," she said, seconds away from bouncing off the walls. Her eyes, if possible, grew even wider."Your scarf's a little skewed, your coat collar tucked in...were you in a hurry to leave your flat?"
Sherlock blinked. He hadn't expected that.
"My name is Ariel Danes, and I am your biggest fan," she declared happily, extending a hand out to him. Sherlock scoffed.
"That's quite a declaration, Miss Danes." He said.
"Oh but it's true," a new voice said, finally emerging from the kitchen. "I don't know how many times I've caught her trying to grow bacteria cultures in my fridge." Both Sherlock and Ariel Danes turned to the source of the voice, standing by the kitchen door.
"But Adelaide," Ariel argued, purposefully lengthening the vowels in her name. "It's SHERLOCK HOLMES."
Sherlock turned to face Adelaide, whom he quickly identified as the cake maker. Chocolate on the side of her lip, nicked a taste of her own frosting. He thought to himself. Bags under her eyes indicate an unusual amount of stress. No ring, not married. Detached earlobes, almond eyes, brown hair, shares no features with Ariel. Not her daughter. Ariel was left to her by her mother, recently deceased. Burn on her wrist means she can be clumsy, comfortable shoes means she's on her feet all day.
Then she laughed, bringing Sherlock out of his deductions. She stepped towards them, patting Ariel's head affectionately before smiling up at Sherlock. Then he realised, all those scents, the ones that led him to the cafe in the first place, came from her. It was in her fingers, her smeared cheek, her lips. It sounded illogical, but he knew he was right.
"Good to meet you at last, Mr. Holmes," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Ariel visits your website daily. Can you really tell a woman's eating habits by her perfume?"
Sherlock was about to open his mouth when Adelaide interrupted.
"I'm sorry, rude of me to just barge into your fan meeting," she said, giving Ariel a look. "My name's Adelaide Evans, and my ward will just kill me if I don't give you a slice of cake."
So that's how he ended up sitting at a booth in Speedy's, a fan and a baker across him, scarfing up the second slice of cake he's had all week. That was more than he had scarcely allowed himself to have in years. When he was high, nothing could satisfy the munchies more than cake, so Sherlock had been wary of the dessert. Until now, that is.
"Adelaide's cakes are amazing, aren't they?" Ariel gushed, her wrists on the table as she just seemed to drink in the sight of Sherlock. "She doesn't need a recipe or anything, she just bakes them when she can't sleep, which is all the time lately. Classic sign of insomnia," she said, saying that last sentence while looking at Sherlock like she was asking for confirmation.
"The scents," he manages to say. "Disturb my work."
Adelaide raised an eyebrow at the sentence, but didn't say anything. Obviously not the first time she's heard that. Ariel, however, picks up something else.
"Please, can I see your experiments, Mr. Holmes?" She asked. "I read on your blog you were working on the viscosity of bodily fluids, I would give anything to see that."
Sherlock, clearly pleased that Ariel had proved herself more than just another member of the Empty Hearse (or his 'little fan club' as everyone insisted on calling it), curled his lip into a smile. "Sorry, not when I'm working on a case," he said like he wasn't sorry at all. "I should be going to the crime scene."
He stood up to adjust his collar and his scarf when Ariel actually sprang up from his seat. "Can we come?" she asked like Sherlock was going to a theme park. "Please, Mr. Sherlock, can we?"
Obviously, Sherlock loved an admiring audience as much as the next drama queen, but experience told him that he ought to look to the next adult in the room for confirmation. Adelaide looked at her ward with much amusement, smiling as well. She looked up at Sherlock, standing.
"We promised your Aunt Ro we would come to her place by seven," she gently re- minded Ariel. " We can probably stay for ten minutes."
"You actually want to come along?" he asked them incredulously.
"Yes," Adelaide and Ariel answered simultaneously as Sherlock stepped into the cold. He eyed the two warily. Although having extra heads (extra distractions) at a crime scene was never a good thing, he felt like there was more to be found out about these two. Adelaide, especially. He was going to find out how she made those cakes. It was like another case. John could call it the Cake Conundrum in his blog and be done with it.
"Alright, but only if you don't touch or say anything."
"Brilliant! See Adelaide, I told you today was going to be a good day!" Ariel chirped as the cabbie pulled up in front of them like she was having the time of her life already. Adelaide merely smiled down at her and then at Sherlock.
MP Forrest Walter, although minor, had been the oldest of the members of Parliament. A former soldier, Walter was known to have policies as strict as Maggie Thatcher, and a particularly mean streak to him. Everyone chalked it up to loneliness, the man was never once attached to anyone officially. His colleagues still couldn't decide if they would be upset over his loss or not.
MP or not, the circumstances surrounding his murder was more than interesting to Sherlock Holmes. Leaving Adelaide to handle the introductions with Les- trade and John, Sherlock made a beeline to the living room of the apartment, where the blood pool was still present. Ariel had sucked in a breath with the thrill of being in her first crime scene, which made him grin. John had a similar reaction a few years ago.
"Lot of blood," Lestrade said right away. "Heart was cut out here."
Right. Time to deduce. He did a brief walk around the living room, stepping over the blood. He made a few noises as he observed, pulling out his magnifying lens as needed.
"Would you like to try, or should I just wow you with the answers?" Sherlock asked, looking over at his young guest. She stuttered a little before Sherlock took over.
"Right, Forrest Walter. The dust on every space in his flat suggests he rarely came to this area. He could have hired a maid to clean, but there are dirty dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor, so no maid. No maid, no close family meaning he has trust issues. Nothing is out of place in the room, except for this feather," he said, picking up a brown and white feather under one of the couch chairs. "Eagle feather, I'll know more with a reference."
He walked over to the bookshelf where he pulled out a book on British Birds. "He wears a silver ring on his left hand, but he's not married, meaning he's a virgin."
"A what?" John asked incredulously. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Don't be sexist, John, men can wear purity rings too," he said, looking around the room again.
"He was also gay," Adelaide suddenly said from where she was standing, making the heads in the room turn to her. She took a step back at the amount of eyes suddenly on her and pointed to a photo by the bookshelf. "The only photo in this entire flat is of himself as a young soldier with a mate. People can be sentimental, but that kind of sen- timent is personal, intimate, especially if he had trust issues. Gay."
"Right," Lestrade said, looking over at Sherlock. "Anything else? Possibly the identity of the killer?"
"No forced entry, so he had to have known her," Sherlock said. "That much is obvious."
"Sorry, her?" John asked, looking around for anything he might have missed. Sherlock seemed a little exasperated and pointed to the floor.
"Scuff marks from a pair of heels, judging by the size, she's about a 40," he said, turning to Adelaide. "Nobody else has come in wearing heels, so they have to be the killer's. I'll have to look at the body before—-"
"And that's our ten minutes," Adelaide interrupted, placing her hands on her niece, thanking John, Lestrade and Sherlock.
"I'll come see your experiments next time!" Ariel exclaimed as Adelaide almost dragged her out of the room, the door closing behind them. Greg and John turned to Sherlock, who didn't seem to notice that they had left.
"Got yourself a girl from the cafe, did we?" John teased as Sherlock scoffed.
"Shut up and let me do my work," he said, opening the first page in the book to reveal that it was actually a box, an orange bottle of prescription pills inside. He handed it to John, who read out the name.
"Heart medication," he concluded. "prescribed by a Doctor Rosalie Douglas."
"Ironic that he had a heart condition, given the circumstances," Sherlock noted. "Judging by the amount of blood, I'd say he was alive when his heart was cut out. The spatter alone is quite indicative."
"I did tell you it was a wicked birthday present," Lestrade chuckled. He took Sherlock's absent reply as a form of agreement to his statement.
End of Chapter One