Statistical Anomaly

or The Mystery of the Brides in the Bath

Summary:

At first, it's just an unexplained death. But it soon leads Sherlock and John deep into a veritable labyrinth of lies, deceit and duplicity. In the end, it'll be the toughest acid test their friendship has been faced with to date.

An extra episode set pre-Reichenbach, between "A Scandal in Belgravia" and "The Hounds of Baskerville".

Casefic, Drama & Angst.

Gen, no pairings.

Author's Note:

The story is already written, and will be updated every couple of days throughout December. It will be complete by the end of the year.

As always, all feedback is endlessly appreciated! :)

Chapter 1

A note for readers outside the UK:

A Free Clinic, in the UK, is not a general clinic for people too poor to pay for healthcare/insurance, but specifically a sexual health clinic that offers anonymous, low-threshold services like testing for and treating HIV and other STDs, providing emergency contraception etc.

The General Medical Council is the body that governs the registration of medical doctors in the UK, and that has the power to bar doctors from practising medicine if they don't comply with the standards of good practise.

221B Baker Street, London. Sherlock's bedroom, on an overcast Monday morning in early March. The lights are off, and Sherlock is in his bed, still fast asleep, buried so deeply under pillows and blankets that only his dark hair peeks out between them. The clock radio on his bedside table says 9:23 a.m.

In the background, however, somewhere else in the house, there's already a level of activity: Muted voices, and a slight clattering of dishes and cutlery, but nowhere near loud enough to disturb Sherlock's sleep.

A moment later, the silence in the room is broken by the buzz of Sherlock's phone, which is on the bedside table next to the radio. It's a single sound, a text message alert rather than a phone call, but with the piece of furniture acting as a sound box, there's something curiously insistent about it.

Sherlock's hand comes shooting out from under the covers, making a grab for the phone. He misses his target by an inch or so and gropes around blindly for a moment, until his fingers close around the – already silent again – phone. Then the rest of Sherlock burrows out of his nest of bedding. He swings his legs over the side of the mattress to sit up, his eyes on the message on the screen. It's from Greg Lestrade:

Dead body found in bathtub in Peckham.

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock is on his feet and out of the room. He pulls on his blue dressing gown as he hurries down the short passage, then bursts into the kitchen, phone in hand, his hair standing wildly in all directions, but his eyes wide awake and shining with excitement.

SHERLOCK: John? John! We've got a case!

In the kitchen, John is sitting at the table, with a plate with beans on toast, a mug of tea and an open newspaper in front of him. Mrs Hudson is pottering around by the sink, filling the electric kettle. They both look around in surprise at Sherlock's sudden appearance. Sherlock stops short, bewildered by their lack of immediate enthusiasm at the news.

SHERLOCK: A case, John! Lestrade -

But just then, his phone cuts him off, with another buzz signalling a new message. Sherlock glances down at the screen, eager for more details – and immediately deflates. His face falls until he's positively scowling. John frowns at his friend's sudden change of expression.

SHERLOCK (in very different, rather flat tone): No, actually, we don't have a case. (He puts the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown.) You don't, at any rate.

John and Mrs Hudson exchange a confused look. Sherlock makes an impatient gesture with his hand, as if to shoo John away from the table.

SHERLOCK (with a very unconvincing show of indifference): Go on, go to your work, there's absolutely nothing here that you'll be missing.

MRS HUDSON (to John, putting down the kettle): Oh, John? Have you found something that suits you, then?

JOHN (his eyes going back and forth between Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, defensively): Well, yes, but I - I'm only helping out for a couple of shifts every week. It's not like full time, or anything…

He's clearly having second thoughts about it already.

MRS HUDSON (apparently oblivious to his discomfort): Well, that sounds just perfect. Where is it?

JOHN: Erm - just round the corner.

SHERLOCK (to Mrs Hudson): Marylebone Free Clinic.

Mrs Hudson raises her eyebrows.

JOHN: Yeah, well, I know it's not very glamorous. But they're desperately short-staffed, especially on Mondays with the usual after-weekend traffic, and -

SHERLOCK (in a very bored tone, as if reciting a lecture learned by rote): - and John needs to have something to show for when he renews his registration with the General Medical Council next year. Besides, army doctors know all about STDs, of course. (He lowers his voice to a mock-conspiratorial whisper.) Just don't tell anyone.

Mrs Hudson and John both pull a face at this last comment, John not amused and Mrs Hudson downright scandalised.

SHERLOCK (to Mrs Hudson): So, let's leave John to lower London's abysmal HIV infection and teenage pregnancy rates, and I'm going to raise Scotland Yard's abysmal crime clear-up rate, and we'll all be happy. To each his own.

He turns on his bare heel and strides back out of the kitchen. A moment later, the door to his bedroom bangs shut. With a sigh, Mrs Hudson picks up the kettle again.

MRS HUDSON (sympathetically): It's really not going down well with him, is it?

JOHN: We did talk this through. It's going to work. I have time for both.

MRS HUDSON: You should have heard him complain when you missed two clients yesterday.

JOHN (irritated): He can take his own notes once in a while, you know. Doesn't look like they kept him busy for more than three minutes, either, or he wouldn't be so excited about a new case now. And besides, I wasn't working yesterday, I was helping my sister move house.

Mrs Hudson walks over to him to pat his shoulder in maternal commiseration.

MRS HUDSON (warmly): It's alright, dear, you stand by it. I didn't feel good spending Frank's money all the time either, I would have liked some of my own, too. Not to mention a bit of breathing space, now and again.

John automatically opens his mouth to protest against her mistaken assumptions, but then he just puffs out a resigned breath and returns his attention to his breakfast.

In his bedroom, Sherlock has made no move yet to get dressed. He's standing just inside the closed door, his eyes on the screen of his phone again, as if willing the new message to make some other than the obvious sense. It's from Greg Lestrade, like the first, and it says:

Don't bring John.

A terrace of small Victorian houses in a more respectable part of Peckham, mid-morning. The front door of Number 14 is being guarded by a uniformed constable. There are several police cars parked in the street, and so is an ambulance, but its crew stands talking and smoking next to it, clearly with no urgent task at hand any more.

A cab drives up, and Sherlock, now fully and properly dressed in his trademark dark suit, coat and scarf, gets out. The constable waves him right through the door. He's obviously expected.

CONSTABLE: Upstairs. Bathroom.

Sherlock nods.

Inside the house, a second door gives access to the ground floor flat, while a carpeted flight of stairs leads up to the upper floor. Sherlock ascends it. The upstairs flat is brightly lit, and there's a low hum of voices coming from it. The narrow hallway, a windowless space furnished with a shoe rack to one side and a little cabinet to put keys and gloves and such things on to the other, is deserted. Sherlock takes it in with a single sweeping glance - the shoes on the rack, all female; the wallpaper with a cheerful but conventional white-and-lime green striped design; on the far wall, a framed poster of Rio de Janeiro, with a beautiful aerial view of the Sugarloaf Mountain and the Bay of Guanabara; in the wall above the little cabinet, an empty nail that looks like it was waiting for more decorations to be put up; and straight ahead, a door with a pane of frosted glass in it. Behind the glass, the silhouettes of two people can be seen moving to and fro. Sherlock moves towards it.

In the bathroom, which is surprisingly spacious, Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan are examining the scene of an unexpected death. The bathtub - a perfectly ordinary, modern white bathtub - is full almost to overflowing with slightly murky water. The floor, which is made up of wooden boards with a plush white-and-blue bathmat on top, is wet from the bathwater that seems to have splashed out of the tub, or run down its outer side. Towards the end of the tub, a pair of human knees peeks out of the water. The rest of the body is submerged – no more than a blurry shape, with tresses of long dark hair floating on the surface, entirely obscuring the dead woman's face.

Lestrade and Sally Donovan both straighten up and turn around when Sherlock joins them. When Sherlock makes no move to do or say anything, Lestrade clears his throat.

LESTRADE: Right. The landlady downstairs woke to find a huge damp patch on the ceiling of her bedroom. The water had come seeping through the floorboards. She's got a key, of course, so when nobody answered her knocks, she let herself in to check what was wrong. And found this.

With a gloved hand, he gestures at the body of the woman in the bath. Sherlock's eyes roam over the dead body in its curious position - head and torso resting on the bottom of the bath, under water; legs drawn up and resting against the inner side of the tub, knees high and dry. Then they move on to the other fittings of the room.

There is a large round mirror above a washbasin, with a matching shelf underneath, holding a glass with a single toothbrush and several bottles of perfume, creams and makeup paraphernalia. On the other wall, next to the closed toilet, there is a wooden stool with the dead woman's clothes on it: jeans, a black top, and her underwear, the strap of a black lace bra dangling down. Above it, a shelf has been mounted on the wall, with neatly folded fresh towels stacked on it. They're in two different sizes - three in hand towel and two in bath towel size - but they're all in the same white-and-blue design as the bath mat, clearly part of a set.

Eventually, Sherlock turns back to the police officers. Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan have been watching him, Lestrade uncharacteristically anxious, Sally uncharacteristically silent.

SHERLOCK: You want a doctor for this.

Lestrade and Sally exchange a quick look.

LESTRADE (in a curiously guarded tone): A doctor?

SHERLOCK (impatiently): Yes, of course. (He jerks his chin at the dead woman in the bath.) Heart attack? Stroke? Drug overdose? Suicide? You rule all that out first, and then you can call me in again. But there's no point in theorising without sufficient data. (He gives Lestrade a reproachful look.) As I keep telling you. (He sniffs discontentedly.) You could of course have had a medical man here for an expert opinion on the spot, but for some reason that I can't quite fathom, you appear to care little about getting your job done today. (He takes out his phone and holds it up, quoting Lestrade's message.) "Don't bring John." (Sarcastically) It's lovely how you're all in this together. It's not like I was going to lock him in his bedroom to stop him starting that new job of his, you know.

Lestrade and Donovan exchange another look, but Sherlock continues his tirade before either of them can get a word in.

SHERLOCK (with a sweeping gesture of his hand): Well, seal the whole place off until you've got a cause of death. I'll tell you what to look for then.

He gathers his coat about himself, and starts walking out of the room. His hand is on the door handle when Lestrade speaks up behind his back.

LESTRADE (quietly): Look at her, Sherlock. Just really look at her.

Sherlock hesitates. Something in the Detective-Inspector's tone makes him turn slowly on his heel to face Lestrade again. He gives him a long, very sceptical look, but then he steps back up to the bathtub and the silent figure resting in it. Lestrade pulls up his right sleeve, plunges his gloved hand into the water, and gently brushes the strands of black hair off the dead woman's face. When the ripples from the sudden movement subside, her delicate, now slightly bloated features come into clear view, her full lips blueish, her dark eyes closed. It is the face of Jeanette, John Watson's one-time girlfriend who dumped him at Christmas.