Many thanks to my new Beta strangegibbon (I had previously written TSylvestrisA but that was not correct. My brain has been fried from late nights and early mornings. My apologies.) She has already been such a huge help in refining my thoughts into the story before you. This chapter is based on the Arthur Conan Doyle story: The Man With The Twisted Lip. Hope you enjoy!
Sherlock's eyes bored into the computer screen as he clicked through numerous newspaper articles. Through the varying subjects, one thing remained constant about the stories: Neville St. Cloud. It wasn't that he found Neville's articles interesting; he was doing research for a case. Neville's disappearance had left Sherlock without much to go on. Upon learning that he was an author from a small newspaper, Sherlock had begun to read his articles looking for clues and one particular article about the numerous people living on the streets had stuck out. John announced that he had come back with the milk he had been bothering Sherlock to go out and buy.
"Sherlock what have I told you about taking my laptop?" John sighed as he brought the milk to the fridge.
"It's for a case," Sherlock said flatly.
"I don't care. I told you to ask."
"I shouldn't have to. We've been living together for how long now?"
"That doesn't matter either. You have no concept of personal space, do you?" John snatched the computer from Sherlock's lap and carried it across the room to the desk. Sherlock huffed and curled up on the couch.
"If you would ask, it would be a different matter. Sherlock? Oh, you're ignoring me now? That's just plain childish."
Sherlock tuned out all the noises of John's displeasure and began to think.
When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock was still on the couch.
"Sherlock? You awake? Sherlock."
"Go away. I'm thinking."
John shook his head and decided to make a cup of tea.
Sherlock flew to his feet and clapped his hands to his head causing John to jump rather violently.
"Of course! How did I not see it sooner?!" he exclaimed, rushing from the couch where he had been meditating for nearly three hours to the rack where his coat and scarf were hung. John, who had become used to these sudden outbursts, quickly tossed the morning paper onto the table and rushed after the world's only consulting detective as he burst through the front door and into the street.
"You've solved the case?" John asked as Sherlock searched Baker Street for a cab.
"No, I'm just going to pick up some milk. Of course I've solved it! And here was I thinking that you were starting to catch on…" Sherlock muttered. John had long ago learned to ignore his flatmate around these points in the case as this was usually Sherlock's time to show off - God help anyone who came between the man and his ego.
A cab pulled up to the curb and Sherlock hastily opened the door, barking directions to Scotland Yard. John barely had time to close the door before the driver took off, encouraged at the mention of a fifty quid fare.
"So are you going to let me in on your miraculous deduction or are you going to make me wait so I'm just as out of the loop as Lestrade is?" asked John, hoping to guilt Sherlock into sharing. The detective gave an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes.
"It does you no good if I tell you so I'll simply make it easier for you to come to my conclusions. First, state everything we know so far."
"Fair enough. Neville St. Clair was last seen by his wife on Monday night at the second story window of the cafe on the Thames looking very distressed. When his wife went inside to see what was wrong, the shopkeeper would not let her up the stairs. She ran outside, spotted a nearby police officer and told him her story. He made the owner let them upstairs where Neville was nowhere to be seen but a beggar by the name of Hugh Boone had taken up residence in the room."
"Good so far."
"The officer thought that Mrs. St. Clair must have been seeing things but then she spotted a present that her husband had said he would be picking up for their children. The officer called for backup and they find Mr. St. Clair's jacket sunk in the Thames just outside the window on the other side of the building. The pockets were filled with coins that Boone had probably gotten from his begging. Boone was brought in for questioning but he's got a clean record so they can only keep him for so much longer."
"Very good. And the letter?"
"Mrs. St. Clair received a letter that she claims was written in her husband's hand. If the date on that letter is right, that means Neville is in fact alive. But we don't know how…"
"Correction: You don't know how. I do."
"Well, care to enlighten me?"
"John, John, John… all the facts are right in front of you. You just have to see them as a whole." Sherlock chastised. John rubbed his brow, searching for something he was missing.
"I'm trying, I really am, Sherlock."
"Try harder. Here." Sherlock handed John an envelope.
"What's this? Wait… This is the letter that Neville sent his wife. How did you get this?" John inquired, a feeling of dread settling in his stomach. "Lestrade wasn't going to use it so I took it for my own work." Sherlock said dismissively. John's stomach dropped.
"You stole official evidence?"
"Borrowed. It's not like they would find out about it. Their standards have really dropped lately…"
"Maybe because you keep stealing their evidence!"
"Borrowing."
"What? Like how you 'borrow' my laptop? Or how you 'borrow' my gun when you're bored?"
"Exactly."
Rolling his eyes, John opened the envelope and read through the letter.
I'm so sorry for causing you to worry but I promise you I'm fine and that I'll be home soon. I love you.- Neville
"It all seems fairly straightforward to me." John said, turning the paper over in his hands. "No watermark, no code, not even any strange phrasing."
"The paper, John." Sherlock hinted, closing his eyes.
"What about it? It's just a piece of dirty paper?" observed John, noting the dark smudge in one of the corners.
"Exactly," replied Sherlock with a smile.
"The smudge? That's what this is about? What's so special about a smudge?" John asked.
"We're here." Sherlock exited the car and handed the driver a wad of money.
"You're not going to tell me the rest?" John asked, disappointed.
"The answer is right in front of you, John. Just look!" Sherlock yelled as he flew into the building. They made a beeline to the lift and rode to Lestrade's department as John examined the brown smudge, hoping the stain would magically reveal the answer. As he ran his thumb across the paper, some of the stain transferred onto this finger and he looked more closely, rubbing his index finger and thumb together. The brown spot faded from view but left his skin slightly darker than the rest of his hand. He frowned and tried to think of what the substance could be.
"Do you have it yet?" Sherlock inquired. John paused for a moment and then shrugged.
"No. Don't have a clue."
"Shame. I had such high hopes." Sherlock chided as the elevator doors opened. John frowned and followed his flatmate out into the hallway.
"I mean, it's almost like makeup." John muttered. Sherlock faltered and then resumed walking. He turned his head to direct a grin at him. "Wait, that's it? Its makeup?" Sherlock remained silent but a twinkle in his eye told John he was right. As they stepped into Lestrade's office, things suddenly fell into place.
"Lestrade! Show me to Boone's holding cell and get me a drink. Water, if you would," Sherlock requested, as John pieced together the little scraps of information. He wondered if admiring Sherlock's ability would ever get old to him.
"Why should I act as your bloody waiter, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked tiredly.
"Because I've solved your case. I just need to see Boone in order to prove it," he said stepping out of the way for the Detective Inspector to lead them to Boone's cell.
"Hello, Greg," John waved awkwardly from behind Sherlock.
"Has he finally lost it, John?"
"Nope. I actually get what he's talking about this time. It all makes sense." John said beaming. Lestrade took a deep breath and visibly gave in.
"Fine. This way. He's in an interrogation room right now. There's a water cooler along the way. You can bloody pour it yourself, though," said the DI bitterly. Sherlock huffed and fell into step beside him. "So how did you do it this time? Did St. Clair's ghost come to you in the night and tell you the secret?"
Sherlock gave a dismissive scoff. "No I simply observed. Oh, I believe this belongs to you, by the way," he said pulling the letter from John's pocket.
"Is that..? Sherlock! This is evidence and you stole it?" Lestrade demanded.
"Borrowed! Why does everyone insist on accusing me of thievery?"
"Just leave it, Greg. I tried earlier too," John sighed.
"You knew about this too?" Lestrade accused.
"Found out on the way here…" John admitted. The Detective Inspector shook his head and snatched the letter out of Sherlock's hand.
"If it were anyone else…"
"John. Fill me a glass of water," Sherlock said as they approached the water cooler. John rolled his eyes but filled the paper cup and handed it to Sherlock who carried it the rest of the way to the holding cell. Lestrade stopped at a door marked "Interrogation 2" and gestured them inside.
The three filed their way into a small, dark room with a window looking into a nearly empty space on the far side. Beneath the window sat recording equipment and a bank of monitors showing various views of other side of the one way glass. Lying on the table was a rather dirty looking beggar sporting a head of shocking red hair and a vicious looking scar that ran from his left eye to his chin, twisting his mouth into a perpetual snarl. His clothes were worn and patched and looked as though they had seen many years of street life.
"May I?" Sherlock asked looking towards the door leading into the room.
"Go ahead. Just don't do anything stupid." Lestrade said with a trace of a plea in his voice. Sherlock nodded and pushed the door open while John and Lestrade settled in to watch the show. They watched the beggar stir slightly as he entered but Sherlock paused and let the man fall back into his slumber. He made sure to close the door as quietly as he could and then made his way to the table.
"I have a bad feeling about this…" Lestrade whispered.
Sherlock positioned himself near Boone's face and pulled his scarf off of his neck. Water in one hand and scarf in the other, he paused, readying himself.
"Oh don't do what I think you're going to do…" Lestrade pleaded to himself. John watched, on the edge of his seat to see if his theory was correct.
Suddenly Sherlock threw the cup of water into Boone's face and proceeded to attack the man with his scarf. Lestrade flew into the interrogation cell shouting obscenities, John following closely behind.
"Sherlock! What the hell? I told you not to do anything stupid! Can't you follow a simple damned request?!"
Both John and Lestrade stopped as they saw Boone.
"Good work, John. I knew you would figure it out eventually," Sherlock said glowing with pride as he stepped away from the man on the table.
Boone, who had appeared to be a dirty beggar a moment ago, was still sputtering in surprise. His face now looked very strange. Sherlock's cleaning methods seemed to have healed Boone's scar, leaving nothing behind but normal skin. Lestrade took a step closer and realized what had happened.
"Wait… You're Neville St. Clair!" he exclaimed.
"Excellent observation, Detective Inspector. Though John was able to figure it out without me presenting Mr. St. Clair to him directly,"
"How did you figure this out?" Lestrade inquired. John moved to get comfortable, knowing Sherlock would start a prolonged explanation.
"The letter that Neville wrote had a smudge of his make up on it. He used to be a stage actor and became very skilled in applying his own. In his years of being a newspaper reporter, he once did an article that required him to research the life of a beggar, so he disguised himself and found that he made a decent bit of money. He decided to stick to this life and he becomes the dirty Hugh Boone while his wife thinks he is at work. His friend at the cafe gave him a place to make his transformation in exchange for a cut of his profit. His wife was him in the window and thought he was in distress but in reality, he was caught by surprise. Neville knew he had limited time so he made the transformation to Boone and moved to rid the room of St. Clair's presence."
"Is this all true?" Lestrade asked the disheveled looking man on the table.
"Yes. My wife thought I was in trouble but I was just in shock of her seeing me. I knew she would come up to see what was wrong and I wasn't ready to give her answers so I put my makeup and beggar outfit on and knew it would look suspicious if my other clothes were seen. I managed to fill my coat with coins but the police arrived before I could throw the rest. I knew they wouldn't find a body and I wasn't guilty of anything so it was only a matter of time before I was released and I could go home."
"So clearly Boone is not guilty of murdering St. Clair. That, of course, would involve suicide. Neville knew that you wouldn't find any other leads and therefore would be forced to simply release him, leaving him free to return to his family."
"All that from a smudge on a letter?" Lestrade scoffed.
"That and the internet. Do you not pay any attention to what I do around here?" Sherlock asked slightly put off.
"You figured that out from the letter I sent?" asked Neville meekly, pulling his orange wig off, revealing matted brown hair underneath.
"And the online archive of your articles. Your wife enlisted my help to solve your murder but obviously that is no longer the case. Seeing as technically no crime has been committed here, I would say that Neville is free to go, wouldn't you, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked.
"I guess so. I'll have one of my people escort you out. I do suggest that you try to find some real work though," Lestrade warned.
"Of course. Thank you so much. I won't forget this," Neville called after Sherlock as they exited the room.
"Well this is going to make a great addition to my blog," John said excitedly, "I'll have to change the names of course… Hmm. The Scarred Beggar. No.. The Man With The Twisted Lip. Yes. I like it."
"Yes, yes, John. Your readers would be lost without you," Sherlock waved dismissively. "Now Lestrade, What do you have for me?"
"Already? You just solved a case. Don't you ever take time off?" Lestrade asked incredulously.
"Breaks are bad for our walls. And John's gone and hidden his gun…" Sherlock pouted. "You must have something for me."
"Not really, Sherlock. Look, I'll call you when we have a case," Lestrade reassured. He eyed John sympathetically as Sherlock turned for the door, suddenly very quiet. John shot Lestrade a pointed look that clearly said 'soon, please'.
"Come on, John. I want to do a new study on the effect of room temperature on fingers post mortem."
Hurry…