Sherlock's Foible
Sophia Conrad
1.1: Introducing: Sherlock Holmes
"Sorry, gotta dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
- Sherlock Holmes
In London, a man named John Watson tossed and turned, suffering from nightmares that forced him to relive the days spent with his battalion in Afghanistan. He dreamed that he and his friends were under fire, and a colleague called out his name. He bolted upright with a cry, panic stricken and close to hyperventilating for several moments until he realized that he was safe, far from the war. With a sigh, he flopped back down onto the mattress, and tried to calm his breathing, but eventually collapsed into a crying fit.
It was some time before the tears subsided, and he turned on the lamp next to the bed, but the sun still had not come up. He sat up, and looked across to the desk on the other side of the room where a metal walking cane sat, propped against the wall. A frown crossed his face, and he looked away, and began to gaze into the distance. He would not be sleeping again that night.
Eventually the sun rose, and John hobbled across the room, leaning on his cane for support. He put down a mug of tea and an apple before sitting down at the desk an retrieving his laptop from a drawer in the desk. In the drawer, underneath where his laptop had lain, sat a pistol - one that was probably not licensed. He opened up the laptop, which automatically loaded up a webpage that declared itself to be: "The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson". The rest of the page was empty.
Later that day, John sat in a room with a psychotherapist that he was required to see.
"How's your blog going?" John's therapist, Ella, asked.
"Yeah, good." John said, and cleared his throat before adding.
"Very good." This time he said it with a little more conviction, but unfortunately Ella didn't believe him.
"You haven't written a word, have you?" Ella asked in a deadpan voice, and John narrowed his eyes. He pointed to the notepad that Ella held on her lap.
"You just wrote 'Still has trust issues.'" He accused, and Ella stared right back at him.
"And you read my writing upside down. D'you see what I mean?" Ella told him, and he gave her a wry smile.
"John, you're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you." Ella told him, looking him straight in the eye. John's face fell.
"Nothing happens to me." He told her in a resigned voice.
OCTOBER 12th
A middle-aged business man walked though a busy London railway station, talking into his mobile phone as he paced through the doors and out into the street.
"What d'you mean, there's no ruddy car?" He complained into the phone. On the other end was his blonde secretary, Helen.
"He went to Waterloo. I'm sorry. Get a cab." Helen told him.
"I never get cabs." He grouched.
"I love you." Helen whispered down the phone.
"When?" He said suggestively, and received a giggle in return.
"Get a cab!" Helen said, laughing. He hung up, and looked around to hail a cab. That was the last phone call he would ever make. Sometime later, he sat on the floor by the window of an empty office several floors up, and pulled out a bottle containing three large capsules. He tipped one out into his palm and ingested it. It wasn't long before he was writhing on the floor in agony. Not long after, he stopped moving. He was dead.
NOVEMBER 26th
Two boys, both in their late teens ran down a dark street in the rain. One of them was holding a collapsible umbrella, and was fighting the wind. The other had his jacket pulled up over his head. A Taxi cab approached, it's yellow service sign lit up and he let out a shout of triumph.
"Yes, yes, taxi, yes!" The boy in the jacket, James, shouted and whistled, but the Taxi drove on by. He let out an exasperated groan, and turned back to look at his friend Garry.
"I'll be back in two minutes, mate." James said, walking back down the street.
"What?" Garry asked.
"I'm just going home; get my mum's umbrella." James told him with a flap of his hand.
"You can share mine!" Garry protested, holding his own umbrella a little higher.
"Two minutes, all right?" James said, and walked away into the night. But it would not be alright, because James would not be coming back. Sometime later, Garry looked at his watch – James had been gone for too long. Garry gave up on the cab, and walked off after James. He never found him.
Later that night, James sat on a window ledge in an empty sports center, crying and clutching at a small glass bottle; a bottle that contained three capsules. He unscrewed the lid, and let out a shaky sob. The next day, the newspaper headline told his fate:
Boy, 18, kills himself inside sports centre.
JANUARY 27th
A party was being held in honor of the latest local MP. A large poster nearby bore the photo of Beth Davenport had just made Junior Minister for Transport, and was dancing the night away. As the music blared loudly, one of Beth's aides walked out of the party to join her colleague at the bar, looking highly frustrated.
"Is she still dancing?" Adrian, Jenny's colleague asked.
"Yeah, if you can call it that." Jenny said, looking over her shoulder.
"Did you get the car keys off her?" Adrian asked, and Jenny grinned.
"Got 'em out of her bag." Jenny flashed him the keychain. Adrian smiled, satisfied and then looked at the dance hall, frowning.
"Where is she?" Adrian asked, looking around. Beth had disappeared.
Beth had managed to slip out of the party and away from her aides and out onto the dark street outside. She rooted through her handbag, but her keys were long gone, sighing Beth looked around feeling helpless.
Later that night, Beth was stone cold sober, and crying her eyes out inside a port-a-cabin that sat on an empty construction site. She held out her hand and grasped a small bottle containing three capsules. Less than an hour later, Beth became the third suicide.
Detective Inspector Lestrade sat at a table, looking uncomfortable as the Press Conference began. His colleague, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, sat down beside him and began to address the reporters.
"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide." Donovan said into the mike, and took a breath.
"We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now." Donovan finished. Immediately the journalists began to clamor for attention.
"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" A reporter belted out.
"Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of..." Lestrade said, before being interrupted by the same reporter.
"But you can't have serial suicides." At this, Lestrade looked annoyed.
"Well, apparently you can." He told the reporter, trying to ignore the young woman who had just slunk into the back of the room.
"These three people: there's nothing that links them?" A second reporter asked. Lestrade sighed, and the woman at the back of the room suppressed a smile.
"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one." Lestrade said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself more so than the reporters. It was then that all the mobiles in the room sounded out an alert. A simultaneous text had been sent. The dark-haired girl at the back at the room suppressed a grin.
Every phone in the room said the same thing: 'Wrong!'
"If you've all got texts, please ignore them." Donovan said, looking at her own phone which displayed the same message.
"Just says, 'Wrong'." The first reporter informed her, and Donovan grimaced. He was at it again.
"Yeah, well, just ignore that." Donovan told him, and then turned to address the group as a whole.
"Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end." She said, but the second reporter spoke up again.
"But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?" He asked her. Luckily, Lestrade intervened.
"As I say, these... these suicides are clearly linked. Um, it's... it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating..." He told them, and every phone in the room trilled once more. Every message read: 'Wrong!'
"Says, 'Wrong' again." The first reporter said, puzzled. Lestrade looked to Donovan, clearly at his wits end.
"One more question." Donovan told the reporters.
"Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?" A third reporter spoke up, this one was a woman.
"I ... I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered." Lestrade said, trying to be gentle.
"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" The reported persisted. Lestrade, who was entirely fed up with the situation put his foot in his mouth.
"Well, don't commit suicide." He said snarkily. The reporter in question looked scandalized, and Donovan covered her mouth before leaning closer to him.
"Daily Mail." Donovan warned him, and Lestrade grimaced before looking back to the female reporter.
"Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." Lestrade tried to reassure the room. But the mobiles trilled again. Once again, the phone's all read the phrase: 'Wrong!', all but one. Lestrade's phone bore a different message.
You know where to find me. SH
Lestrade shook his head, looking severely exasperated, and replaced his phone back in his pocket. He stood up, and looked around at the gathered reporters. They were done here.
"Thank you." Lestrade said, ending the conference. As they walked out of the room, Donovan turned to Lestrade.
"You've got to stop him doing that. He's making us look like idiots." She hissed, and Lestrade rolled his eyes.
"Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I'll stop him." He told her, frowning as the dark-haired girl from earlier sauntered over to join them.
"What now?" Lestrade demanded, once she was close enough.
"Nothing." Came the innocent reply. The smirk playing on the girls face said otherwise.
"Kestrel." Lestrade bit out, clearly irritated. Behind him Donovan rolled her eyes.
"He's bored." Kestrel said with a grin, and then turned on her heel to walk out of the office. Lestrade let out a sigh of frustration as she did so, frowning at the looks she garnered from the younger men in the office. He whistled sharply, jerking them out of their collective trance, before turning back to Donovan. Why did his baby sister have to be so annoying?
Done with the therapy session, John limped through Russell Square Park as fast as he could, leaning on his cane for support. As he walked past a man on a bench, he failed to notice the man staring after him, having recognized him.
"John! John Watson!" The voice rang out clearly, and surprised, John turned. It was a large man around his age who stood up and hurried over toward him, a smile clear on his face.
"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together." The large man said, offering his hand. John blinked for a moment.
"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike." John said, before taking the offered hand, and shaking it.
"Hello, hi." John said, trying to place the name. Mike grinned and gestured to himself.
"Yeah, I know. I got fat!" He told John.
"No." John said, trying, and failing, to sound as if he didn't believe it.
"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" Mike asked, and there was an awkward silence before John said:
"I got shot." They both looked highly embarrassed about the whole deal. Not long after, they were sitting down, side by side on a park bench, both with a take-away cup of coffee clutched in a hand. Mike looked at John, clearly worried, but John ignored him and took a sip from his coffee and sighing before looking back at his old friend.
"Are you still at Bart's, then?" John asked him, Mike nodded.
"Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!" Mike told him and they shared a laugh.
"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?" Mike asked him. John shook his head.
"I can't afford London on an Army pension." John told him with a sad look in his eye.
"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know." Mike said in what was meant to be an understanding tone.
"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..." John trailed off and Mike looked away, awkwardly, and drank his coffee. As he did so, John switched his cup to his right hand, glancing down at the tremors that had overtaken his left one. He clenched his fist in an attempt to control the tremor as Mike looked back to him.
"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike asked him. John suppressed a snort.
"Yeah, like that's gonna happen!" He told Mike sarcastically. Mike shrugged.
"I dunno – get a flatshare or something?" He suggested, and this time John did snort.
"Come on – who'd want me for a flatmate?" John exclaimed and Mike chuckled, thoughtfully.
"What?" John asked him.
"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today." Mike told him, once he had stopped laughing. This caught John's attention.
"Who was the first?" He asked. It was a question that would change his life forever.
In the morgue of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, a strange and unusual man called Sherlock Holmes unzipped a black body bag, peered inside to take a look at the corpse, and sniffed loudly.
"How fresh?" Sherlock asked, and the morgue assistant, Molly Hooper, walked over.
"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes." She told him, and then added:
"He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice." She smiled sadly. Sherlock zipped up the bag, straightened up, turned to her and gave an unconvincing smile.
"Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." Sherlock said in a detached tone. It wasn't long before the body had been removed from the bag and laid on it's back on a table. Molly watched from an observation room next door as Sherlock beat the body in a violent and highly agitated manner. She flinched with each blow, but still watched Sherlock with a look of admiration, if not adoration on her face. Once he was done, she rejoined him in the main room that held the body.
"So, bad day, was it?" Molly asked, attempting to make a joke. Sherlock chose to ignore it and, instead of replying, he pulled out a notebook which he immediately began to write in.
"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me." Sherlock told her in a business-like tone. Hesitantly, Molly tried again.
"Listen, I was wondering: maybe later, when you're finished..." She began. Sherlock glanced over at her over the top of his notebook, did a double take, and frowned.
"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before." He asked her, cutting across her sentence.
"I, er, I refreshed it a bit." Molly said nervously, a blatant lie which Sherlock took in his stride. She smiled at him in a flirtatious manner, and Sherlock chose to give her a long look, obviously missing the subtext somehow before going back to his writing.
"Sorry, you were saying?" Sherlock asked her, carrying on with his tidy writing, and Molly gathered her confidence once more.
"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." Molly said, watching him studiously. Sherlock put his notepad away.
"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." He told her dismissively, and walked away.
"...Okay." Molly said in small voice. That was not what she had meant.
Several floors up from the morgue, Sherlock moved around the complicated lab with a practised ease as he listened to the chatter of his old, not-friend, Kestrel Lestrade.
"You're driving him spare, you know. That texting thing you do." She told him, and when Sherlock looked up at her she was grinning broadly.
"It's a talent of mine." He told her with a wry smile.
"Here, hold this." He told her, and she moved across the complicated lab to hold a petri dish still for him while he gently squeezed the pipette he was holding. As he did so, there came a knock on the door, and Mike Stamford walked in, another man trailing behind him, a severe limp evident in his right leg. Kestrel gave them a smile and handed the petri dish to Sherlock, who had looked up briefly at the newcomers before returning to his work. The injured man looked around the room, staring at all the up-scale equipment before saying:
"Well, bit different from my day."
"You've no idea!" Mike said, chuckling as Sherlock sat down and peered through the microscope.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock asked, still not verbally acknowledging John.
"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked, confused.
"I prefer to text." Sherlock said bluntly. Mike patted himself down, but with no results.
"Sorry. It's in my coat. Why can't you use hers?" Mike asked, pointing at Kestrel who smiled impishly.
"She bites." Sherlock said, clearly not willing to elaborate. John, ever the polite one, fished around in his pocket and then pulled out his own phone and handed it to Sherlock.
"Er, here. Use mine." John said.
"Oh. Thank you." Sherlock said, looking to Mike, before standing and walking over to John.
"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike said, by way of an introduction. Sherlock took the phone from John and turned away slightly to slide open the phone and type rapidly.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked as he hit the tiny buttons, and John frowned. Behind him Kestrel shared a knowing look with Mike. John looked to them for help as Sherlock ignored him and continued to type.
"Uh- Rude!" Kestrel coughed loudly, and shot John an apologetic look.
"Sorry?" John asked Sherlock, clearly lost.
"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked again, eyes flicking up to John before returning to the phone. John hesitated, and looked back at Mike who smiled smugly.
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...?" John asked him, blinking, completely confused.
"I'm sorry, I've been trying to train him, honest. Unfortunately a spray bottle isn't very effective." Kestrel told him as Molly came into the room holding a mug of coffee, and Sherlock looked up upon scenting the caffeinated drink.
"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." Sherlock said, and shut John's phone before handing it back to him. Sherlock watched Molly closely as she crossed the room to hand him the white mug. The lipstick from earlier was gone.
"What happened to the lipstick?" Sherlock asked, watching her closely. Molly gave him an awkward smile.
"It wasn't working for me." She told him. Ever the social-moron, Sherlock stuck his foot in his mouth.
"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He told her, walking back to his seat where he sat and drank from the mug, grimacing at the horrid taste.
"...Okay." Molly said, hopes dashed once more as she turned and went back through the door.
"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked, and John looked around. Kestrel was staring at her nails, Molly had left and Mike was watching him rather smugly. The process of elimination meant that Sherlock was talking to him.
"I'm sorry, what?" John asked, now completely lost, and Kestrel had to stifle a laugh.
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." Sherlock said, looking round at John, now typing away at a keyboard.
"Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock said, and threw John a disgustingly fake smile. John could only look on, a blank expression in place, before finally turning to Mike.
"Oh, you ... you told him about me?" John asked Mike uncertainly. Mike gave him an amused look.
"Not a word." Mike told him, and John turned back to Sherlock.
"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asked.
"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." Sherlock told him, already bored and picked up his great coat before putting it on.
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, rather shocked at the deduction. Sherlock chose to ignore the question, and instead wrapped his scarf around his neck, handed Kestrel her white raincoat and picked up his mobile to check it for messages. There were none.
"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." Sherlock told him in a rather blasé tone.
"We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Sherlock said, returning his own mobile to its home in the inside pocket of his coat.
"Don't ask." Kestrel told John, who looked rather confused.
"Is that it?" John asked, turning to look at Sherlock who walked past him toward the door where Kestrel stood waiting.
"Is that what?" Sherlock asked, turning back from the door to step closer to John once more.
"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" John asked in disbelief.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked him. John looked to Kestrel, who was studiously flicking through her own text messages, and then looked to Mike for help. Nothing.
"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." John protested. Sherlock watched him closely, and then quickly rattled off his deductions.
"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." Sherlock said, summing up John in less than a minute flat. At this, John looked down at his leg and shuffled his feet awkwardly.
"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock told him smugly. Sensing no reply, he turned once more and strode to the door, opening it and walking through, but leaning back through the doorway to add one final comment.
"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street. Oh, and this is Kestrel Lestrade. She's my 'not-friend'." Sherlock told him, winked, and then turned to Mike.
"Afternoon." Sherlock said dryly, and Mike gave him the bird as he left the room, Kestrel following close behind him with a spring in her step. As the door slammed shut behind the pair, John turned to Mike, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. Mike could only grin and nod.
"Yeah. He's always like that." Mike told him, clearly having found the entire debacle more amusing than day-time television. Git.
Later that afternoon, John had returned to his bedsit. He sat down on his bed, still in a minor state of shock and pulled out his phone. He flicked through the contents until her arrived at the last message sent. It simply read:
If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH
Confused, John could only sit and stare at the message, before finally getting up and heading to his laptop. After a few moments longer, which involves manoeuvring himself into the chair in front of the desk, he pulled up a search engine and typed in a query: Sherlock Holmes.
Victim Number Four was different from the others. She sat in an empty room in an old house, wearing a pink overcoat that matched her high-heeled shoes. Slowly, she reached down with a shaking hand to pick up a small bottle, which like the rest, contained three capsules. The others that had come before her, had gone sobbing and incoherent, but Victim Number Four was different. She took one of the pills, and then, as it began to cause her slow and painful death, she left a message.
RACHE...
The next day, John limped along Baker Street, and made his way to the black door marked 221B as a black taxi cab pulled up alongside the kerb. John knocked on the door as Sherlock climbed out of the cab. Kestrel in tow once more.
"Hello." Sherlock said to John, and then leant through the window of the taxi to pay the driver.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes. Hello again Miss Lestrade." John said, walking over to the pair.
"Sherlock, please." Sherlock told him as they shook hands.
"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." John commented, looking at the street they were on.
"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." Sherlock said nonplussed.
"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked him.
"Oh no. He ensured it." Kestrel told him. John stared at them, and they both smiled at John as Mrs. Hudson opened the door and held out her arms to Sherlock.
"Sherlock, hello." Mrs. Hudson pulled him into a hug, before he stepped back to introduce her to John.
"Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson." He said simply.
"Hello." Mrs. Hudson said to John.
"How do you do?" John said politely.
"Come in." Mrs. Hudson said, inviting them in.
"Thank you." John said politely, waiting for her to enter first.
"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the door.
"Yeah." John nodded as Mrs. Hudson held the door open for the three of them to walk in. Sherlock bounded up the staircase first, followed by Kestrel and John brought up the rear with Mrs. Hudson, both of them walking slower. As John reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock opened the door to the living room and Kestrel shot past him, draping herself over one of the armchairs in the room and snuggling down for a 20 minute power nap. Sherlock walked in, followed by John who looked around the room that was full of boxes of possessions and such.
"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed." John said as they walked into the flat.
"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely." Sherlock told him as he looked around happily.
"So I went straight ahead and moved in." He added.
"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out ... Oh." John said, and then realized what Sherlock had said.
"So this is all ..." John trailed off, looking embarrassed.
"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." Sherlock said, walking across the room and piling papers onto of one-another in a half-hearted attempt to clean up. As he did so, John looked around the room until something on the mantelpiece gave him reason to pause.
"That's a skull." John said, pointing out the obvious.
"Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'..." Sherlock said flippantly, and then trailed off.
"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." Mrs. Hudson said, having followed them into the room.
"Of course we'll be needing two." John said in a scandalized tone.
"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here." Mrs. Hudson reassured him, and then dropped her tone.
"Mrs Turner next door's got married ones." She whispered, and Kestrel cackled at the look on John's face. John looked to Sherlock, obviously waiting for him to confirm that they were so not involved, but Sherlock ignored him. Rolling her eyes, Mrs. Hudson walked into the kitchen, only to stop and turn to Sherlock with a small frown on her face.
"Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made." Mrs. Hudson fussed as she walked into the kitchen and began to try and tidy things up. John looked around for a moment, before walking over to the armchair that was Kestrel-free and dropped down into it, watching Sherlock who was still tidying up.
"I looked you up on the internet last night." John admitted, and Kestrel smiled – this would be fun.
"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked, turning to face him.
"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." John commented. Sherlock smiled, clearly proud of it.
"What did you think?" He asked, and John gave him a look that read: You're kidding, right? Sherlock looked hurt.
"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb." John said, clearly not believing a word of it.
"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." Sherlock pointed out.
"How?" John asked. Sherlock smiled and turned away, not saying a word. Mrs. Hudson walked out of the kitchen, her face buried in the newspaper.
"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." She asked him. But Sherlock was busy staring out of the window.
"Four." Kestrel said quietly, having got up to join Sherlock. The pair of them stared intently down at the street. Beneath them, a police car had pulled up, lights flashing wildly.
"There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time." Sherlock said, confirming Kestrel's statement.
"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson asked, confused. Sherlock and Kestrel turned to watch Lestrade pound up the staircase behind Mrs. Hudson – apparently, they had left the door adjar downstairs.
"Where?" Sherlock asked as soon as Lestrade had set foot in the lounge, his tone was strict and to the point.
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." Lestrade told them, looking around the room.
"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different." Sherlock said, immediately scrutinizing him.
"You know how they never leave notes?" Lestrade asked.
"Yeah." Sherlock said, trying not to get his hopes up.
"This one did." That got Sherlock's attention.
"Will you come?" Lestrade told him, shifting his weight anxiously.
"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked, trying to decide on a rating for the case.
"It's Anderson." Lestrade answered reluctantly and Sherlock grimaced.
"Anderson won't work with me." Sherlock said grumpily.
"Wanker." Kestrel muttered under her breath – she didn't like Anderson either.
"Well, he won't be your assistant." Lestrade said, as if that would make all the difference.
"I need an assistant." Sherlock huffed.
"Why can't you use Kestrel?" Lestrade asked, impatient.
"Can't. She's the distraction." Sherlock told him, reminding Lestrade of how Kestrel had a knack for dazzling the suspects into compliance. Lestrade sighed, frustrated.
"Will you come?" He asked, and Sherlock looked out the window once more.
"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind." Sherlock told him.
"Thank you." Lestrade said gratefully. He looked around at the people in the room once more, before turning and quickly fleeing down the stairs. Sherlock managed to contain himself until Lestrade had gone out the front door before leaping into the air, his fists clenched in triumph.
"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" Sherlock exclaimed, dancing about the room. He picked up his scarf and coat, putting them on as he walked toward the kitchen.
"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." Sherlock declared.
"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson reminded him gently, which he ignored.
"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" Sherlock said, grabbing a small pouch and going through the kitchen door. Kestrel waited by the window. Sherlock hadn't quite realized yet that he had forgotten something vitally important. As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Hudson turned back to John.
"Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same." She told him, once again implying that they were a couple. John grimaced, not pleased of the thought of a relationship with Sherlock. He was as straight as a flagpole, thank you very much.
"But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell." Mrs. Hudson said, lost in her memories. At this, John looked uncomfortable. Mrs. Hudson shook herself out of the daydream and turned back around to face the door.
"I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg." She told him in her soft voice.
"Damn my leg!" John exclaimed loudly, going on instinct, and Mrs. Hudson looked back at him, clearly shocked at his outburst.
"Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." John apologized, frustrated, bashing his leg with his cane. Mrs. Hudson smiled sympathetically.
"I understand, dear; I've got a hip." She told him, turning back to the door.
"Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you." John admitted gratefully.
"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson said gently.
"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em." John replied cheekily, unfolding the newspaper.
"Not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson shouted as she went down the stairs. John picked up the abandoned newspaper that Mrs. Hudson had been reading earlier, and opened it to the article on Beth Davenport's supposed suicide. He flicked partway through it, down to where a photo id's D.I Lestrade as the Detective working the case, but before he could continue - Sherlock walked back into the room.
"You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor." Sherlock said, remembering his previous deductions of the man. Kestrel suppressed a smirk. Took him long enough.
"Yes." John confirmed, getting to his feet as Sherlock walked back into the room again.
"Any good?" Sherlock asked, curious.
"Very good." John said proudly.
"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths?" Sherlock pushed.
"Mmm, yes." John admitted.
"Bit of trouble too, I bet." Sherlock added, and behind them Kestrel grinned.
"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." John said quietly, trying to be proper.
"Wanna see some more?" Sherlock tested. He was not disappointed.
"Oh God, yes." John said fervently, and Sherlock grinned, spinning on his heel and leading John out of the room and down the stairs. Kestrel right behind them like a loyal sheepdog.
"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out." John called as they reached the bottom of the staircase.
"All of you?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Sherlock turned back from where he had been standing by the front door, and walked toward her quickly.
"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock told her, pulling her into a hug and kissing her cheek.
"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." Mrs. Hudson said disapprovingly, but she still smiled as they made their way to the front door.
"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" Sherlock said happily, walking out onto the street to hail a black cab.
"Taxi!" Sherlock shouted, his arm raised. Almost immanently a Taxi pulled up alongside the curb, and the trio climbed in. They sat in silence for a while, John watching Sherlock nervously. Finally, Sherlock caved.
"Okay, you've got questions." Sherlock said – it didn't take a genius to figure that one out.
"Yeah, where are we going?" John asked, curious.
"Crime scene. Next?" Kestrel said in a chipper tone.
"Who are you? What do you do?" John said, getting straight to the point.
"What do you think?" Sherlock asked.
"I'd say private detective..." John said slowly, as if he could see something that would be a problem with that.
"But?" Sherlock asked, catching the pause.
"...but the police don't go to private detectives." John finished. Sherlock waved it off.
"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." He told John proudly.
"What does that mean?" John wanted to know.
"It means that whenever the police are completely lost, which is quite often, they call him." Kestrel said, nodding at Sherlock. John looked confused.
"The police don't consult amateurs." He said, and Sherlock almost looked offended.
"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised." Sherlock said.
"Yes, how did you know?" John asked him.
"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said that you trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing." Sherlock told him and then pointed to his injured leg.
"Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." He finished up, but John pushed deeper.
"You said I had a therapist." John reminded him.
"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist." Sherlock told him in a blasé tone.
"Then there's your brother." He added.
"Hmm?" John made a noise of interest, and Sherlock held out his hand.
"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." John handed him the phone, and Sherlock began to check it over as he talked.
"Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already." Sherlock said.
"The engraving." John confirmed. On the back of the phone, clearly visible, was the message:
Harry Watson
From Clara xxx
"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is." Sherlock paused for breath.
"Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch." Sherlock stopped to give him a look.
"You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking." He finished up, and John could only stare in amazement.
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John asked, stunned. Sherlock grinned again.
"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." He pointed to the marks on the phone and then handed the phone back to him.
"There you go, you see – you were right." Kestrel told him with a smile.
"I was right? Right about what?" John asked, confused.
"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock told him dryly, and looked out of the window. To anybody who didn't know him, they would see a man who didn't care, but in reality, he was nervously awaiting John's reaction.
"That... was amazing." John finally managed to say, and Sherlock look around, actually surprised. Kestrel smiled. This one was a keeper.
"Do you think so?" Sherlock asked, genuinely shocked.
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary." John told him, highly impressed.
"That's not what people normally say." Sherlock admitted.
"What do people normally say?" John asked him, and Kestrel sniggered. Sherlock shot her a hurt look.
"Piss off'!" Sherlock admitted, and smiled at John who grinned in return and turned to look out of the window. It didn't take long for the cab to arrive at Lauriston Gardens in Brixton, and they jumped out quickly, heading over to the house that had been cordoned off by the ever-annoying neon yellow tape.
"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked.
"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker." John admitted and Sherlock looked very pleased with himself.
"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." Sherlock said happily.
"And Harry's short for Harriet." John added, deflating Sherlock in a flash. Sherlock actually stopped walking.
"Harry's your sister?" He asked John in disbelief. John kept walking, nonplussed.
"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" He asked Sherlock, who was busy beating himself up.
"Sister!" Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. Kestrel smiled.
"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" John asked him, but was once again ignored as Sherlock began to walk away, clearly annoyed.
"There's always something." He muttered to himself as they approached the police tape where Sergeant Donovan was waiting.
"Hello, freak." Donovan said, greeting Sherlock.
"Bitch." Kestrel acknowledged and Donovan scowled.
"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock said, ignoring the glares shared by the two women.
"Why?" Donovan demanded, irritated.
"I was invited." Sherlock told her, a smug smile in place. Behind him, Kestrel coughed loudly.
"Sorry. We were invited." He said, gesturing to John and Kestrel.
"Why?" Donovan repeated, clearly not eager to let them in.
"I think he wants me to take a look." Sherlock said sarcastically.
"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" Donovan said with a bite in her voice.
"Nobody gives a toss Donovan." Kestrel said, lazily. Sherlock could only grin.
"Course I do. Always will. I even know you didn't make it home last night." Sherlock said, taking in a deep breath through his nose as he lifted the police tape and ducked underneath.
"I don't..." Donovan tripped over her words and then redirected herself.
"Who's this?" She asked, looking at John who smiled weakly.
"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." Sherlock said, turning to look at John.
"Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." He said by way of an introduction.
"Sally here is an old friend." He added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"A colleague? How do you get a colleague?!" Donovan asked, a look of disdain clear on her face.
"What, did he follow you home?" Donovan demanded of John who quailed under her gaze. Kestrel growled softly behind him.
"Would it be better if I just waited and..." John trailed off as Sherlock lifted the tape once more.
"No." Sherlock said, and Kestrel gave him a shove from behind. Reluctantly, John ducked under the tape. As he did so, Donovan raised her radio to her lips and said:
"Freak's here. Bringing him in." The radio could only crackle and whine in response. Donovan walked off toward the house, and the trio could only follow. As they walked, Sherlock was already scanning the area for clues. They had barely reached the old house, when a man dressed in forensic coveralls walked out of the house. A sneer decorated his face when he caught sight of them.
"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock said, clearly not impressed.
"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson said, still sneering at them. Once more, Sherlock inhaled deeply, and then grinned.
"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?" He asked. Anderson frowned, peeved.
"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." He said disbelieving. Sherlock's grin grew wider.
"Your deodorant told me that." Sherlock told him, and Kestrel finally caught onto where this was going. It was all about the sniffing thing.
"My deodorant?" Anderson asked, not quite getting where this was going. Kestrel covered a smirk, and nudged John in the ribs. He too was lost.
"It's for men." Sherlock said, an amused look dancing on his face.
"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" Anderson exclaimed, annoyed.
"Right…" Kestrel muttered under her breath and John had to stifle a laugh as he caught what she was saying.
"So's Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock told him, causing Anderson to look at Donovan, shock etched into his face as Sherlock sniffed loudly.
"Oh look – it's just vaporized." Kestrel said from where she stood next to Sherlock.
"D'you mind?" She asked, nodding to how Anderson stood between them and the door.
"Now look: whatever you're trying to imply..." Anderson started, pointing at him angrily before Sherlock smoothly interrupted him.
"I'm not implying anything." He grinned smugly.
"I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." Sherlock quipped as he walked past Anderson toward Donovan, and then paused to turn back.
"And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." He couldn't resist adding, before smiling smugly and walking on into the house. Anderson and Donovan both looked horrified, as John and Kestrel followed him. As they passed, John made a point of looking at Donovan's knees, and Kestrel started to laugh. Sherlock led them into a room on the ground floor, where Lestrade was waiting for them, already dressed.
"You need to wear one of these." Sherlock told John, nodding toward the coveralls.
"Who's this?" Lestrade wanted to know, looking at John. He was used to his baby sister tagging along now.
"He's with us." Sherlock told Lestrade, as he pulled his woolen gloves off.
"But who is he?" Lestrade pushed.
"I said he's with me." Sherlock said. Lestrade opened his mouth to push, but Kestrel cut him off.
"Greg – Just let it go." Lestrade glared at her balefully and she ignore him. Behind the siblings, John took off his jacket and picked up a coverall, he looked to Sherlock who had only taken a pair of rubber gloves.
"Aren't you gonna put one on?" John asked him, nodding to the pile of coveralls. Sherlock gave him the look, and John wisely backed off wearing an expression that said something along the lines of: Of course not. Why would you need one?
"So where are we?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, impatient as ever.
"Upstairs." Lestrade said as he picked up another pair of latex gloves.
18.02.2013
AN: I know, I know - I'm starting a new fic, while still being in the middle of Tripping Over Fools. Why? You ask? Because I seriously have an inability to focus on one thing alone and I had all the scripts for Sherlock, while transcribing the scripts for Primeval is taking some time. So sue me.
This morning I woke up at 5AM due to severe abdominal pains - Wth? It took me an hour just to make my way up the bed and turn the light on, I couldn't even sit up at all. What did I do to deserve it? Mother Nature and I shall be having strong words... that is, of course, once I beat the tar out of her. So do excuse my sporadicness.
As for Tripping Over Fools - Don't fear, I'm not abandoning it, I simply want to take a bit more time reviewing my thoughts on it.
As to John not being pleased with the implications of he and Sherlock sharing a sexual relationship, I have nothing against those who are otherwise inclined. Heck, I was even rooting for the same-sex marriage bill that just got passed. The simple fact behind this, is that it's never nice for people to just assume something about you, especially when there is no basis for it.
Name: Kestrel Paige Lestrade
Nickname(s): Kess, Ella, Ellie.
Age: 28 (born: July 6th 1982)
Height: 5 foot, 9 inches.
Weight: 126 lbs/9st
Look-a-like: Michelle Trachtenberg
(a) images4 dot fanpop dot com/image/photos/20900000/Michelle-Trachtenberg-michelle-trachtenberg-20920498-1600-1200 dot jpg
(b) ovh dot wallpowper dot com/wallpaper/2013/01/09/High-Quality-HD-michelle-trachtenberg dot jpg
(c) www dot wallpapershdi dot com/walls/4808/michelle-trachtenberg-image_1280x1024 dot jpg
(d) www dot celebritywallpaperbase dot com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/Michelle-Trachtenberg-Wallpaper-6 dot jpg
Family: D.I Greg Lestrade (Brother)
Affiliations: Sherlock, John, Lestrade.
Enemies: Sally Donovan (Minor - No threat), Anderson (Minor - No threat)
Abilities: 1st Dan Black belt in Jujitsu, Red belt in Tae Kwon Do.
Disabilities: Has a slight weakness in left wrist, having broken it a small child; Needs reading glasses.
Fears: Severe distaste of bugs, no matter the kind.
History: Currently unknown.