The photograph shows two people, a man and a woman, lying back to back on a cheap and worn light brown carpet, the woman facing a old, dark red couch with frayed fabric near its base, where it rests against the carpet. They are bound together by silk scarves, which seems incongruous given the condition of the carpet and the couch. They are positioned so that the tops of their heads are in the same place, even though the man is ten centimetres taller than the woman. The scarf binding their heads together, crossing their foreheads and their ears, is green. They are also tied together across the chest, at the waist, and at the woman's ankles, which is mid-calf for the man, with blue scarves.
The file indicates they were moved after death, placed liked this once they had each been shot in the head, in different rooms of the small house. The bullet wounds have been fairly expertly cleaned so that there is little blood on the scarf binding their heads. Roberta Moresy, thirty-four, was a primary school teacher. Her husband, Alex Moresy, also thirty-four, was a delivery driver. Neither of them have any previous criminal records, nor have they any apparent enemies. Both were active members in their church, and generally well liked. They were reported missing after both of them failed to arrive at work on Monday, and the patrol officers who went to their house to check on them found them in the living room in the position shown in the photograph. The medical examiner estimates they died sometime between ten pm on Saturday evening and two am on Sunday morning.
The file also indicates no disturbance in the area, and none of the doors or windows have been forced, although the front door was unlocked, but shut when officers arrived. The female victim's sister reports they often left their door unlocked when at home during the day, but that it would be unusual to do so overnight. No suspicious or unidentified fingerprints were found at the scene. Neighbours reported no unusual activity or persons in the area that night, and no one recalls hearing a gunshot, or gunshots. The female victim was shot in the bathroom, the male victim in the kitchen.
No suspects have been identified and all potential suspects have been cleared by the police. As of April seventeenth, the case has officially gone cold.
(November)
"Did you call John?"
"That's the fifth time in the last ten minutes you've asked me that. Yes, I called John. He's on his way."
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock said, blinking, trying to clear his vision, which was oddly hazy, so that the figure of the man standing next to his gurney was blurred around the edges. Sherlock frowned – why did Sam have that graze on his cheek? He refocused, with an unusual amount of effort, he thought. "I'd have remembered if I asked you."
Sam rolled his eyes.
"No, you wouldn't. You have a concussion."
"Also absurd. I'd remember that, too."
Sam dropped his head into his hands and Sherlock sat up – he was clearly fine, because he wasn't the one sporting that graze with a bruise on his cheek, nor with the scrapes on his knuckles. Sam looked as though he'd been in a fight, but not too bad of one. Although Sherlock wondered what the other bloke looked like.
"Yes, you do! Don't get up again!"
"What do you mean, again?"
"Do I have to get them to strap you to the bed? For God's sake, lie back down or I'll arrest you myself for being a bloody idiot! You tried this three minutes ago and nearly gave yourself a second concussion on the bed railings just sitting up! And you've been asking me if I called John at least every other minute since they put you in the ambulance!"
"I don't need an ambulance," Sherlock said with absolute certainty, although he seemed to remember something about a paramedic, but dismissed it. "And you have no authority as an Interpol agent to arrest me. I'm completely fine."
"You are bleeding from your head because some bloke in the pub clocked you with a beer mug!" Sam shot back, but he was repressing a grin when he said this. Sherlock found this reaction somewhat unreasonable. Surely a head wound – which he didn't have – wasn't cause for amusement?
"Don't be ridiculous, no one has any reason to hit me with a beer mug," he countered, but there was some hazy memory nudging at the back of his mind. They had been in a pub, hadn't they? And John had been on his way from an unusually long day at the clinic to join them? Had there been some kind of row? Sherlock could almost hear raised voices and he frowned, narrowing his eyes, trying to remember. Something else was vying for his attention, though.
He looked up quickly then regretted it, dizziness sweeping over him. Swallowing against it, he tried to focus on Sam, who had his eyebrows raised and an I-told-you-so expression on his face. Sherlock ignored that for the more pressing matter.
"Did you call John?" he asked.
Sam threw up his arms but was saved from answering when the offensively pale blue curtain that gave them absolutely no privacy from the rest of the emergency room was twitched back and a familiar figure stepped in. Sherlock's heart leapt at the possibility that was John – so Sam had called him, good – but it was a nurse, in dark blue scrubs, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail, her light blue eyes giving him a knowing look.
Sherlock blinked hard, trying to bring up her name. He felt vaguely drugged, then wondered what they'd given him, opening his eyes again, trying to see an IV line. The nurse and the memory of an IV line were suddenly linked and he felt certain he'd seen her before, and knew her.
"I thought so," she was saying and Sherlock tried to refocus again. Where was John? Had Sam called him? "When one of the A&E nurses on a break told me they had a patient with the odd name of Sherlock, I thought it couldn't be a coincidence."
Sam was looking at the nurse, Sherlock noted. Quite intently. Sherlock forgot trying to recall her name and thought about this – also, where was his phone, he needed to call John – because Sam didn't know this nurse, did he? What was so interesting about her?
"Sandra," Sherlock said, without thinking about it. Yes, Sandra. He remembered now. But of course, he'd always remembered. He wondered why it was so hard to think straight, and where John was, and why no one was calling him. Surely John should be here?
"You know each other?" Sam asked. Still looking at Sandra. She looked at him, and smiled. Sam smiled back.
"Yes, I was his nurse here once before," she said and extended her hand across the foot of the bed. Sam gripped it, holding it a moment longer than Sherlock thought necessary. "Sandra Casey."
"Sam Mitchell."
"Sandra, have him call John," Sherlock murmured and wondered at the flash of exasperation on Sam's features at that.
"I've already called him," Sam sighed, but looking at Sandra, not at Sherlock. That wasn't right, was it? He should be talking to Sherlock about John. Sherlock's eyes drifted shut, he felt tired suddenly and wondered if he could get a blanket or perhaps two. He wished he were at home, in bed, curled up next to John, where it wasn't cold and there weren't squeaking shoes and yammering voices everywhere.
"No, no," a voice said and he felt someone smack his cheeks. "Don't you dare. Wake up, Sherlock, right now."
Sandra's eyes were evaluating him when he managed to open his, her expression focused and concerned, clearing somewhat when he met her gaze. Then she glanced over her shoulder and her expression shifted somewhat, only a bit, but Sherlock caught it. He frowned – what was that?
"Has he been seen by a doctor?"
Sam had moved farther up the other side of the bed, standing next to Sherlock's elbow, looking at the nurse.
"They said they'd get to him as soon as they could, but Friday night, he's not the worst off right now."
"That's probably true, but I'll see what I can do," she said, straightening up, glancing down at Sherlock, but only briefly. "Stay with him until John gets here, don't let him fall asleep – "
"I'm here!" a very familiar voice said and Sherlock's lips stretched into a warm hazy smile. This was lovely.
"John!" Sherlock said, starting to sit up again, but two firm hands on his chest, one Sandra's, one Sam's, pushed him down. He scowled at both of them – were they taking sides against him now? They'd only just met. That was hardly fair.
"Sherlock, what the hell happened? Who – Sandra? What are you doing here?"
"Helping out," the nurse said shortly, nodding at John.
"Nothing happened," Sherlock insisted, feeling much warmer now that John was there. They could go home. He could curl up in their bed with John like he wanted to.
But why was John wearing that pinched expression? Sherlock didn't like that expression, it usually meant he was not going to get his way. He disliked not getting his way. He much preferred it when John gave into what he wanted.
"I'm fine, we can go home now that you're here."
"You're not going anywhere!" John snapped and Sherlock scowled then felt oddly dizzy. Why did his head hurt? "Sam, what the bloody hell happened?"
"Some idiot started a row in the pub," Sam sighed.
"What, with Sherlock?" John asked, and Sherlock snickered at the shocked expression in his husband's voice. It was too endearing. He reached for John's hand, wondering why he was standing so far away, and John switched places with Sandra, folding his warm hands over Sherlock's. Sherlock examined them vaguely, trying to interweave their fingers so that their wedding bands were side-by-side. It was surprisingly complicated. But he liked the way the light gleamed off the metals.
"No, Sherlock's skull just got in the way of someone's beer mug," Sam sighed and Sherlock looked up, surprised at this. He'd been hit? He didn't remember that. Sam must be wrong. "He was unconscious for fifteen, twenty seconds, I think. I was a bit busy trying to get a couple blokes away from us."
He gestured to his face and Sherlock noted that he had a graze and a bruise on his cheek and scrapes on his knuckles. Had he been fighting? Oh yes, he'd just said.
"Has he been seen by a doctor yet?" John asked and Sherlock snickered again.
"You sound like Sandra," Sherlock commented and John stared at him, then sighed.
"Let me see," he said. "Sandra, can you help me out here?"
She moved around the bed and Sam stepped back smoothly for her, earning a smile as thanks. Sherlock began to chuckle, then hissed when John's fingers moved the bandage carefully and pressed against the crown of his head, which was inexplicably tender.
"Doesn't look like there's any glass, but he could use a few stitches."
"No stitches!" Sherlock snapped, then hissed again as John's fingers moved along his scalp, sending a cold wave down his neck, leaving him feeling more dizzy now, and suddenly nauseous. "John, stop, it's making me sick."
"Lie back down," John ordered and Sherlock obeyed without question. "No, don't close your eyes, Sherlock. You can't fall asleep, all right? Listen to me, right now."
"I'm listening," Sherlock muttered. He felt John take one of his hands and squeeze it and Sherlock tried to squeeze back, but it felt difficult, as though he were moving through water.
He heard the curtain twitch open again and tried to refocus. Everything seemed too bright but hazy at the same time, and Sam still looked indistinct around the edges, as did Sandra, and even John. He tried to focus on John, who wasn't watching him now, but turned away. Sherlock followed John's gaze to see someone new standing by the curtain, in dark, crisp clothing. A uniform. Ah, a police officer.
"Agent Mitchell?" the officer asked. "We're ready for you now."
"I need to go," Sam sighed. "Sorry about this, John."
"Did you start the fight?" John asked.
Sam snorted sarcastically and Sherlock saw Sandra smile again, the corners of her eyes crinkling ever so slightly.
"Hardly," he said. "Call me when you can."
John nodded and Sam glanced at Sandra again.
"Good to meet you, Sandra," he said, smiling. He extended his hand again and she took it, not quite a handshake.
"And you," she said, giving him a smile in return. Sam was gone then, with a whisper of the curtain, and the click of his shoes and the officer's sounding loud compared to the squeak of the nurses shoes on the floor outside.
"I don't suppose you're going to admit to starting the fight, are you?" John said, looking back at Sherlock, who was glad to have the attention returned to him again. He loved John's brown eyes, which were so bright and dark.
"What fight?" he murmured. It was the wrong thing to say. John's eyes were darker now, and unhappy.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked. Sherlock tried to focus.
"Two," he said and John sighed.
"That's good at least. Look, focus, follow my finger."
This seemed inane but Sherlock's eyes moved after John's finger anyway, but he felt slow, detached. Sleepy. He wanted to go home and sleep – why were they even there?
"I think he'll be all right," John said, looking over at Sandra, who was still beside the bed, watching with folded arms. "But this needs to be cleaned properly and stitched. I know they're busy out there. Can you get me the supplies?"
"Absolutely," she agreed and there was another rustle of the curtain as she disappeared. Sherlock saw John's eyes again, watching him carefully and tried to smile, to show he was fine, but it was tiring and he felt stiff now, and his head was beginning to ache.
"Sherlock, you can't go to sleep. I know you want to. Stay awake."
"Can we go home?" Sherlock murmured.
"Yes, soon," John promised. "We'll get you sewn up and then we can go."
"I need my wallet," Sherlock said then, suddenly.
"Your wallet? No, you don't need your wallet. Just wait, Sandra will be back soon. We'll get you sorted out."
"I need my wallet," Sherlock said, sitting up and then feeling dizzy again, but he set his jaw against it, because it made no sense. He needed his wallet. This was important. Whatever else was going on could wait. It was vital John know this.
"Whoa, whoa, Sherlock, lie down, you're going to make yourself pass out!" John snapped, pushing him back down, but Sherlock shrugged off John's hands, trying to sit up again. He felt one of John's forearms against his chest and then he was back against the pillows, breathing hard, the dizziness making silver spots dance on the edges of his vision, darting away when he tried to see them.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on breathing but John was smacking his face lightly.
"No, no sleeping!"
"I need my wallet, John."
There was a sigh and movement and the rustle of plastic underneath the bed. Sherlock opened his eyes at this, and saw John standing, holding a white plastic hospital bag in one hand, fishing Sherlock's wallet out with the other.
"Here," he said, pressing the stiff leather into Sherlock's hands. "Hold onto that, then, if it makes you happy."
"Not for me," Sherlock muttered. He flipped it open, wondering why his fingers felt so awkward, they were never awkward, he'd trained them so well on the violin. He snarled and managed to get them to cooperate but now it was hard to focus, to see what he was looking for. He gave another growl then found it suddenly, pulling out the crisp white business card.
"Okay," he said to John, trying to pass it back. He felt John's fingers close around his again and his wallet was gone, back in the bag with his shoes, which they'd stolen when he'd come in – now his feet were cold, he realized.
"All right, back," Sandra said and Sherlock grunted, extending his arm to her. John gave him a puzzled look but Sherlock ignored him, waving the business card once, emphatically. She passed the supplies off to John, who sorted quickly them on the small wheeling table beside the bed, then took the card. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, his arm dropping back down.
"You're giving me your friend's business card?" she asked.
"Yes," Sherlock murmured. He saw John and Sandra exchange a look and felt annoyed – this was taking too long.
"John, get on with it!" he managed to snap, but his voice seemed distant, and it was still so hard to focus. How long had it been since that had begun? He tried to remember, and there was something about a pub, and an ambulance, and some shouting, but it was hazy, and John was there and he wanted to go home. He said this last bit out loud, with as much conviction as he could muster.
"All right," John said, sounding displeased but looking less so. "I'm going to clean it, which will sting, then give you something against the pain. You'll need to hold still. And no falling asleep. Can you do that?"
"And then we can go home?"
For some reason, this made John's lips twitch into a smile.
"If you're good, then yes, we can go home," he agreed.