Disclaimer: I do not claim rights or ownership to the Sherlock series, all praise goes to the creators of the show. I am only writing this fanfiction for creative and purposes (basically I have no life except for one at a keyboard!) I do claim ownership, however, to my OC Whitney Morgan and any other character I introduce that is my own.
Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the story. :]
And a lovely thanks to the wonder ThouArtPenguin for assisting me in the editing and mending of this story 3
They really aren't kidding when they say Britain can have some shit weather.
Of course it had only been three hours since my flight landed in London when the thought arose, but then again the weather was shit for nearly the entire plane ride. From Halifax, Nova Scotia to London, England, not a sliver of blue in the sky unless you looked down and caught a glimpse of the teal sea, and mistook that for the sky.
London, England wasn't actually a bad place though. Of course I knew the weather wasn't always cloudy and such, city was nice, the people were kind enough, every time I looked to my right I saw some sort of bakery or another. Not all in the genre of cookies and muffins but I think the gist of it is pretty clear, it was the obvious choice when I was given my vacation (and I say 'vacation' solely due to the fact that it is a friendlier term than 'forced military leave'.)
The weather had nothing to do with that decision either, sorry.
Although, it wasn't just the pleasant corner shops and the quaint little flats that got my head set on travelling to England, more specifically, London. It was a friend of mine. We hadn't spoken in three years but hardly any harm could be done by a light little visit, right? Besides, I'd taken the time to find his home address. That effort couldn't just go to waste, especially for someone I'd known for seven years.
In fact 221B Baker Street, London, England was embedded in my brain by the time I got off of the train and called a taxi. But of course I couldn't go to see him straight away, and before flying out I'd taken the precautions to rent a flat nearby which called for me to drop off my luggage there and do the usual thing people do when they buy a new place to live. Temporarily.
It was with my bags in my hands that I stepped off of the taxi, having paid the driver and wishing him a good day, that I waltzed up to the door of my new flat and rifled around in my pockets for the keys. From my side I withdrew the silver key engraved with 225A and unlocked the door. For the first step into the apartment air fresheners introduced themselves as sweet scents of summer days and orange plants. It brought a pleasant mood over the entrance-way, through to the living room, then the kitchen, and up the stairs to the bedroom and bathroom. It was a small little place for about a hundred fifty pounds a month, I could make due.
I spent that morning depositing my items in the closet and folding things neatly in drawers and pruning the flat to the best of my abilities until it was nearly dark and the streetlights had flickered on. With a coat over my shoulders, a scarf under my chin and a hat atop my head, I left my flat and began walking down the lonely sidewalk. Shadows of the few people on the street and the rare stray animals scampered across the walls of buildings. Some would cross paths, others wouldn't. I heard a bark or a growl in the distance and felt apprehension crawling up my spine, but I was at the front door of 221B Baker Street before it could be taken seriously.
With a steady fist I rattled my knuckles along the wooden door. From inside a door opened and shut, probably someone leaving their room, footsteps increased in volume as they grew nearer to the door until the lock clicked and the door opened. A woman of short blond hair that flew out at odd angles and eyes the imitation of diluted coffee, stood before me. Steep laugh lines, she appeared to be in her fifties but hardly a wrinkle on her face. She would be a kind woman, you could tell from the lightness of her eyes and the way her face became pleasant once she greeted me at the door.
"Oh, hello dear. Can I help you?" She had a sweet voice, very friendly.
"Hello, does John Watson live here? I'm a friend of his... I hope my assumptions of him being here aren't wrong."
"Oh! Of course not, John's just gone out for awhile." I bobbed my head in understanding, burying my tremulous hands in my pockets. Well maybe some other- "But why don't you come in for some tea and we'll wait for him?"
I fancied the thought for a few moments before taking her kind offer, replying with, "Yes, that would be lovely Mrs. …" Of course I knew her name, I had the papers of everything on John and his living style. I was military, for Christ's sake, it was my job.
She understood my hesitation and answered, "Mrs. Hudson, dear." As she ushered me through the door and cut off the cold breeze by closing the door behind her, from around my neck I unraveled the scarf and slid off my coat, hanging them both over my forearm as I followed Mrs. Hudson down the hall to the stairs. Up we went until we were in front of a door that led into a flat room. My eyes glazed the area, observing.
"This isn't your flat." I could tell from the few things lying around, none of them seemed of her... type. I'd at least expect a few crochet needles or the like.
Mrs. Hudson chuckled lightly as she withdrew from my side and into the kitchen. "It's John's and Sherlock's. I'm sure they won't mind if you're in here. You are John's friend after all." I watched her disappear into the kitchen and listened to the noise of her preparing the kettle. I sat in the nearest armchair, folding my coat and scarf over my lap. Was this woman always so trusting of strangers? For all she could know I was sent here to kill somebody.
"Who's Sherlock?" The question wasn't needed, I already knew, but it helped to play ignorant in this situation.
"Oh, John's flat mate. He's a bit strange, but you get used to him." My eyes flickered to a skull just on a shelf across from me as well as a few other oddities displayed around- I swear I could make out a jar of some human organs on a bookshelf, but I didn't dare question it. "Speaking of…" She walked out from behind the counter to the shelf that held the skull, and grabbed it. "I'm getting sick of this thing Sherlock keeps around." Once the skull was tucked away, probably in a hiding place that wasn't checked regularly, she returned back to the tea making. I chuckled lightly at this.
"So you're their landlady then?" Yet another bit of information shared in the report.
"I am." She said.
"Ah." I relaxed in the chair and glanced into the kitchen. "So when did they move in here?"
"Today, actually. I'm quite curious as to how you found out he was living here on such short notice..." Perhaps it was just my left ear failing me but I swore I sensed suspicion. Ah, maybe she wasn't as ignorant as she seemed. Still, she did let me inside.
Due to this, and in order to assure her, my next words were truthful. "I was in the military with John, we have sources keeping an eye on him to make sure he's safe. I'm taking time off; they told me he was in London so I thought I'd visit him. That and I'd like a taste of British culture in my life."
"That's really sweet." Mrs. Hudson's words held the presence of a light smile, and, eventually I was shown that smile when she entered the living room next, this time carrying a tray of teacups and a pot. She set them on the table across from me and settled herself in the comforter to my side. "How long were you in the military with him?"
"Seven years. Then he left and I served another three after that, now I'm here."
She seemed surprised by the way her eyes increased in size and her brow shot upward. "My goodness, you don't look like you've spent ten years in the military!"
A light chuckle shook my shoulders. "I enrolled when I was eighteen. John and I were stationed in Afghanistan together, that's how we met."
"It must be a hard life," she commented and took her teacup in her hands. I'd already taken mine and had lifted it to my lips to take a long sip.
"It is, but I couldn't imagine not living the way I do. It makes up for the things I lack."
My eyes fixated on the tea swirling about the cup's insides. I trailed along the patterns of the cup with my thumbs, becoming lost in the swivels and flowers. "Like what?"
I lifted my head to peer at her. "Pardon?"
"What could you be lacking?" Her eyes had softened, the diluted coffee becoming a peppery chocolate, intense and curious. I subconsciously cleared my throat after finding something seemingly distracting my voice.
"Well..." I truly pondered it for a while to come up with some earnest and heartfelt answer. It's a shame and a relief that I couldn't answer, due to the door to 221B creaking open before I could give my though out reply. Both Mrs. Hudson and I's heads turned to see whom the visitor coming up the stairs was, and I half expected it to be John. It wasn't, instead a figure in grey shot through the door, a vibrantly pink suitcase at his side and his eyes flicking around madly. The intensity of his irises surprised me as they were directed on Mrs. Hudson, then myself. I took in his face, his posture, his emotions, making mental notes. The most alarming and… Pleasant thing about him seemed to be his eyes. They were nice. Yet I couldn't say the same about the pink suitcase to his side. What was with that anyways?
He tore his gaze from me and looked to Mrs. Hudson again.
"Who is she and why is she here? I could probably figure it out myself but I'd rather we just get to the point." Taken aback by his bluntness, I leaned back and raised an eyebrow.
"Sherlock!" She seemed appalled by his manner of speaking. To be honest I felt it quite refreshing, different than the usual discretion of those I served with and knew. Instead of reacting rashly I simply set down my tea, stood to step around the chair and held out my hand.
"Whitney Morgan, I'm a friend of John's. You must be Sherlock, his flat mate, right?" He didn't shake my hand, so eventually I just let it drop and wrapped it around my coat. For a few moments his eyes trailed over me, making his observations quite obvious. I was used to such looks, being military and all, the one place where it wasn't considered rude to judge a book by its cover.
"You're not his type." Sherlock spoke tersely.
Playfully (and lightly curious), I said, "Care to elaborate?"
He did not hesitate. "The amount of grey you wear is overwhelming and plainly boring, my thought is you're the eggs and toast for breakfast sort. Mediocre, and the crumbs are still on your lap. You appear too young to be a high school friend of John's and judging by what you're currently wearing you are living from a wealthy family, that coat in particular is quite expensive. You're hair is up with a few strands dangling in front of your face which makes it seem like you're wishing for someone in particular to push that strand behind your ear, typical movie moment. You tried to make it look like you don't care when really you care too much and often over think things from the wrinkles on you're forehead. You probably met John one day at a café, you too were enveloped in a conversation and he told you about his blog while you sip some coffee that has far too many syllables and laughed atrociously. You two exchanged numbers and he never called back so you thought it would be appropriate to visit him and get the date but it isn't appropriate because you're not his type. You're ordinary and John likes action, though he doesn't like to admit it."
He turned sharply on the heels of his feet and sauntered over to a cabinet, dropping the suitcase next to it. From the cupboard he pulled a package, pulled out three strips that looked like Band-Aids and slapped them on his arm. Nicotine patches, I observed. Smoking problem? Obviously, but I noticed how he kept his back turned to Mr. Hudson as he did this. Perhaps she wasn't supposed to know of a smoking problem; perhaps I wasn't even supposed to be watching him.
He collapsed on the couch across from us, pulling out a phone and typed something quickly before tossing his phone to the table. No reaction seemed proper for his actions, but I settled for sitting back down and sipping my tea.
Mrs. Hudson looked completely appalled with what Sherlock said.
"Don't worry," I said to her. "Since you know the truth it just makes this much funnier."
"What truth?" Sherlock muttered from the couch, seemingly bored as his cheeks puffed with a large breath of air.
"A lot of what you said was true, save for a few tidbits." Mrs. Hudson glanced to Sherlock, then to me. In return I sent a sly wink and set my eyes on Sherlock as he thought. I saw his questioning in the narrowing of his brow, the direction he turned his eyes when he thought, the emotions behind them.
"You and John met at a library then. You were talking too loud, the librarian hushed you, you laughed, he laughed, and you continued talking."
"Wrong."
"Your…hair. Something about your hair."
"I couldn't care less about-"
"You're a woman, of course you care about your hair." My eyebrows shot up as I lifted my tea. He can't be serious... "It's up, but unkempt and you're a brunette. You're some sort of businesswoman, maybe a secretary. You had it pruned like a bush this morning but it eventually fell out and you're too lazy to fix it."
"Closer, but I don't care about my-"
"Keep telling yourself that, it doesn't make you special."
"Right." My grip tightened on the teacup, taking the last sip of the liquid inside.
"Oh don't look so hurt, I'm simply trying to prepare you for future events."
"Why? I'm a stranger." He opened his mouth to speak then shut it again.
"Good point," and he returned his concentrated gaze the ceiling. I refilled the small porcelain teacup, catching Mrs. Hudson's disapproving gaze toward Sherlock. It was in vain, of course, he was too busy staring at the ceiling and had even begun to take deep, steady breaths. In a moment's time I felt all but invisible. Then again, I also heard footsteps in the hall. They grew closer, closer, something clanked against the floor with each second step. A walking cane, I assumed. Eventually the noise stopped at the doorway and I took a glance over my shoulder.
"John!" I cried out at once, the familiar figure a sight for sore eyes. The eyes, the hair, the posture, the clothes were all like I remembered. Of course the cane as well, but I often looked over it.
"Whitney? What in the world are you doing here?" He limped onward, an awestruck smile slowly tugging at his features. He was surprised, but he was pleasantly surprised.
"I'm in Britain, thought I'd pay an old friend a visit." I rose from my chair, leaving the tea on the tray. He stopped in front of me, smiling, glancing to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson simultaneously. "So," I began. "Do we hug like old friends or just stand around like buffoons?"
"Will an arm work?" He managed a joke and with his free arm he wrapped my right side in a haphazard hug. With my own arm I did the same, and we released a few moments after. "You've met Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock then?"
"I have... but one seems a bit peculiar." My eyes landed on Sherlock, John got the message. As if to purposely interrupt our conversation as well, a heavy breath escaped the peculiar individual.
John noticed, turning his attention to Sherlock. "Right... What are you doing?"
"I'll just be going then..." Came the light hearted sound of Mrs. Hudson.
"Bye Mrs. Hudson," I answered back as she departed from the flat. Now, back to Sherlock. Neither of the two paid her any mind.
He lifted up his arm. "Nicotine patch." Called it. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London, bad news for brain work."
"But good news for breathing."
"Breathing," Sherlock scoffed. "Breathing is boring-"
"Necessary." I interrupted quickly, just as John began to lumber past me with his cane. I'd remembered him using it briefly before he left but never had paid much attention to it.
"Are you using... three patches?"
"It's a three patch problem, and so is your 'friend'. She's a problem, not worth three patches but... tenacious."
Snorting, I said, "That's the nicest thing he's said to me since I got here. You should've heard his deduction of how I know you. Apparently he doesn't think I'm your type. I'm not enough action for you, and we met at a cafe or library while you told me about your blog. By the way, when did you start a blog?"
"Three years ago." John's eyes turned accusingly to Sherlock. "And who are you to determine who my type is? I don't have a type!"
"Oh hush John, of course you do." My 'three patch problem' countered. "I would know."
"No you would not! I've known you a little over twenty four hours, you do not-"
"You could've asked him to dinner first before inviting him to live with you, Sherlock." I remarked, chuckling lightly to myself as I leaned over to clean up the left over tea from Mrs. Hudson and myself. As I turned to deposit the dishes in the kitchen, I felt eyes burning into the back of my head. John glaring, most likely from my little comment.
"It would've been a waste of time."
"Like your deductions of me."
"Perhaps you'd like to shed some light then?"
"Maybe some other time."
"So be it."
"WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP?" Both Sherlock and I barley moved at the caterwaul that came from the evidently unhappy John. I made a zipping motion over my lip then leaned nonchalantly on the counter as John regained his composure. "I'm sorry Whitney, but perhaps we can get a coffee some other time? Chat a bit, right now I'm a bit busy." I shrugged nonchalantly, and went to leave, but as soon as John's attention was off of me I stopped and observed. It might've been a bit rude, but Sherlock had peaked my interest. "Now," John began a bit more calmly to Sherlock. "You asked me to come, I assume it's important."
Sherlock's eyes fell shut only to pop open as if in remembrance. "Oh yes, I need to borrow your phone."
"My phone?"
"I don't want to use mine, there's always a chance that the number will be recognized. Its on the website.
"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."
"I didn't get the chance to ask." Sherlock's head lolled to the side, his eyes locked accusingly on me. I pushed off the counter with a shrug and planted myself back in the armchair across from Sherlock.
"I was on the other side of London!" Came John's reply.
"You made impressive timing then." I remarked. Neither seemed phased by the fact that I still lingered.
"There was no hurry," Sherlock assured. Dumbstruck, John stood for a moment, finally reaching into his pocket and withdrawing his phone. He held it out to Sherlock who simply held a hand up. John dropped it in his hand, obviously irked by the small gesture.
"So this is about the case?"
"What case?" I asked.
Sherlock answered. "A case..." As if it were obvious.
"Oh for Christ's sake, John?"
"A murder case. That's what Sherlock does. He... solves cases. He's a consulting detective- don't ask."
"No, no, the suitcase. Not the murder case." Sherlock said.
"Case-ception."
"That wasn't funny, Whitney." Sherlock. Again. "Anyway, the murderer took the case with him. His first big mistake."
"Alright," -John. "Okay, he took her case. So?"
"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it."
"Risk what exactly?" I asked as if I were going to receive an answer. I didn't really get one.
Sherlock simply continued his orders to John. "On my desk there's a number, I want you to send a text." He took the phone that had been handed to him only moments before, and held it back out to John. Oh, the nerve of this one…
"You brought me here… to send a text." John mirrored my surprise, though while he most likely found it frustrating I was quite amused by the entire ordeal.
"Text, yes. The number on my desk." Obviously un-amused by Sherlock's obliviousness, John limped over and retrieved the cell phone. Perhaps Sherlock did notice though, for a moment later he asked, "What's wrong?"
"I met a friend of yours while I was out…" Perhaps I expected a different answer.
"A friend?"
"An enemy."
"Oh. Which one?" I couldn't keep from snorting aloud. Sherlock glanced over, kept his eyes on me for a moment, and then he turned back to the ceiling.
"Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?"
"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"
"Yes."
"Did you take it?"
"No-"
"Pity, we could've split the fee." Again, I choked out a laugh. I seemed to be the only one finding this amusing, funny even. "Think it through next time."
"Who is he?" John asked.
"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number." With that, John turned and waddled to the desk where he began scanning the surface area.
I turned to Sherlock. "Can I be of assistance? This all sounds very exciting."
"You can make sure you don't get in the way, I doubt you'll be of any real assistance."
"Right."
From the desk, John spoke to Sherlock. "Jennifer Wilson?" He read aloud from a piece of paper. "Wait. Wasn't that the dead woman?"
"Yes," an exaggerated Sherlock replied. "That's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"
"Yes."
Have you done it?"
"Hang on!"
"These words exactly: 'what happened at Lauriston Gardens, I must have blacked out. Twenty two Northumberland Street. Meet me there'." He rose from his laying position and reached for something near the cupboard. The bright hot pink suitcase, which he had brought in earlier, was placed on the stool between us both. He sat in the chair beside me; unzipping the case and revealing it's contents. My eyes glazed the top items briefly before turning to John to see his reaction.
"That's the Pink Lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case." He said.
"Yes, obviously." -Sherlock's terse reply. From this John stared at it in deep thought, perhaps he was thinking the same thing I was. Earlier Sherlock did say that the murderer took the case. I didn't see Sherlock as the murderer type, but then again I'd only known him for a hardly half an hour. "Oh, and perhaps I should mention I'm not the murderer." He finally said. Well, that's a relief.
"I didn't say you were…"
"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case is a perfectly logical assumption."
"You must get that assumption a lot, then?" I questioned.
"Quite."
"How did you get it?" -John.
"By looking. The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if he was in the car. Note that nobody could be seen without suspicion with this case, especially not a man, which is statistically more likely. It obvious that he felt compelled to get rid of it the moment he realized he still had it. It wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough fro a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find it."
"You realized all that because the case would be pink?" John asked.
"Well the case is pink, obviously."
"Well I wouldn't have gotten that."
"Because you're an idiot, no don't be effected by that, practically everyone is. Now look, do you see what's missing?"
"From the case? How could I?"
I thought for a moment, glanced to Sherlock, biting my lip. "Her phone...?" I said. "And John just texted it, didn't he?" It was a shot in the dark. Something that you would think would happened in movies, and I was quite surprised by Sherlock's answer.
"Right. She had a string of lovers, she would've been careful. She wouldn't have left it at home or anywhere unprotected so the murderer must have it."
"You made me text the murderer…" Came John, a bit taken aback by the revelation. I would've laugh at his facial expression but now I was leaning forward, enveloped in this story, but as soon as I had been sucked in, I was kicked back out. A ringing from John's phone caused our three heads to turn. The same thoughts began to churn through our head, and then Sherlock smirked.
"He's panicking. He killed the girl; he gets a text from this supposedly dead woman… I love it." I said, mirroring his expression. He looked a bit impressed really, but he didn't seem the type to hand out praise graciously.
"How did you-" John spoke to me, deciding he'd rather not hear my reasoning he turned to Sherlock. "Have you talked to the police?"
"Four people are dead," Sherlock shot up from his chair and grabbed his coat. "There's no time to talk to the police."
"So why are you talking to me?" John asked.
The other man frowned. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull." Well it didn't take him long to notice. "Don't worry, you do a fine job filling in."
He had already begun tying his scarf when John spoke next. "What about Donavan?"
"What about her?"
"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."
"Yes… then again I said danger and here you are." With that he spun on his toes and marched out the door. I exchanged a glance with John, smirking widely.
"You have to admit it's interesting." He groaned outwardly and stood. In a fluid motion I swung my coat over my shoulders, tucked in my scarf and placed my hat on my head to follow suit of Sherlock. Beside me John kept pace, eventually catching up to Sherlock as he exited the flat and took a step onto the street. The cool breeze welcomed us and the night sky had grown darker since I'd arrived in the flat. "So where are we going?" I chipped.
"Who said you could come?" Sherlock questioned, glancing at John.
I was currently trailing behind the pack. "Well you never said I couldn't so I took it as an invitation."
He paused for a moment, mulling this over in his head, then, "Northumberland Streets, it's about a five minute walk from here."
"You think he's dumb enough to go there?" John asked.
"No, I think he's genius enough. I love the smart ones, always so desperate to get caught."
"What for?"
"Recognition, John. Appreciation. A long last of spotlight. It's the fealty of genius. It needs an audience."
"Yeah…"
"This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city." Sherlock turned, glancing down the streets. "Now that we know his victims were abducted that changes everything. All of them were taken from crowded places, busy roads. Think, who hunts in a crowd?"
"Who?" John asked.
"I haven't the faintest. Hungry?"
After Sherlock had made an unexpected right we had landed ourselves the window seat of a small diner. The waiter (who Sherlock expressed he knew from a case awhile back) strode up to us when we entered.
"So, is there anything I can get you?" The man asked. I snuck a glance to the two beside me then looked back to him.
"A peppermint tea would be nice, thank you." He made a quick note on a notepad then turned to John and Sherlock.
"Might as well eat," he advised to John. "It may be awhile before we spot anything. I don't want anything."
"Right… Just something small. Surprise me," he told the waiter who turned on his heels and to the kitchen. I drummed my fingers along the brim of the leather seat.
"So what are we spotting?"
"Something, anything suspicious." Sherlock kept his eye on the scene outside, surveying the roads and sidewalks in search of something in particular. At least that's how it looked.
"Alright." The waiter came into view not a few moments later, setting a cup of steaming tea right in front of me. "Well while we're waiting do you care to do another deduction of me? I'm curious as to what you can think up now." Now he reluctantly tore his eyes from the scene outside and they squinted as they observed me. At the same time I took him in, acknowledging the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the bright blue-green of his eyes, the curly hair that fell over his forehead. I turned my gaze downward, not a single hair or speck of dust on his suit. Not a crinkle or a wrinkle in his shirt or jacket unless it was due to his sitting position, even then it seemed neat and clean. He sat straight and tall, unwavering in his stance.
"I… You-" He rested his chin in his hands, really observing this time.
John, on the other hand seemed at a loss. "How is he able to get my sister's drinking problem from just my phone and he can't get anything from you?"
"You're trained to hide things well," Sherlock finally concluded and I rewarded him with a light smile. He continued. "That's why it's more difficult than others to figure you out. You're purposely trying not to be yourself just so I'm left in the dark."
"At least you could figure that out." I met his pose, resting my own chin my hand and leaning forward, forever a smile on my face. I quite enjoyed this little guessing game of ours. "But now it's my turn. From what I can tell you've been at this a long time, you're privileged, obviously. You see things others don't, think about things people often leave from their head. By the time you were eleven you could tell a crack head from heroine addict just by the way they walked. You didn't have many friends in school, you were too busy studying the sciences and to be honest not a lot of people fancied hanging around you anyways. This being said you had a loving mother and father who would jump in front of a train for you, but they could never imagine the pain of having so much going on in their mind like you did. That being said I suspect you have a sibling… a brother I'd say. Excuse me if I'm wrong. Older than you and probably acting as your superior, that's why you stand so straight and tall. You don't like the feeling of being less important than somebody, especially since sibling rivalries are quite fierce…"
John had that look on his face again, something of utter awe and shock. Perhaps for a moment he was about to praise my observations (or something of the sort), but instead he settled for something a bit less meaningful.
"I- my God. You two are a match made in heaven."
Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "You're different."
"Thank you."
"I didn't say if that was a good thing."
"I know it isn't." I hid myself behind my tea, sipping back the hot liquid. Sherlock and I still had locked eyes, and then something flickered to the left of my vision. A cab stopped at the sidewalk. No one entered, no one left. "I don't suppose that could be important."
They both picked up my reference and turned their gaze to the cab. The man in the back turned his head, eyes catching on the diner. Now, that was suspicious. Sherlock's eyes too, caught this and he proceeded to scramble out of his seat and to exit the diner. Setting my tea on the table, I followed with John not too far behind. Sherlock lead the chase toward the cab, which had begun peeling out of it's spot and heading down the road. As we set our feet in the spot the cab once was in, it had already made it's way down the road.
"I got the license plate!" John called.
Sherlock answered, "Good for you," before placing his fingers on his temples and furrowing his brow in deep concentration. I could see the gears turning in his head, finding routes, a pattern, something that could be of use for us. "This way!" He called then began at a sprint down an ally. John and I followed quickly after, sprinting at high speed after Sherlock, even though we didn't know where he was taking us. My best guess was he had it in mind that he planned to catch the cab. Into a building, out of a building, up a flight of stairs to the rooftops, jumping over hurdles and even jumping onto the top of another building. Sherlock made it across safely, I made it across easily having been well accustomed to such actions. John, on the other hand, stalled for a brief moment.
"Come on John!" I called over to him from the roof opposite. "Just like old times!" I caught his bitter chuckle before he made the leap and we began descending a staircase to the street again. Quickly we cut into an ally way, the taxi crossed in front of us. We were too late, but we continued down another ally, which brought us to an open street where we saw the vehicle make it's way toward us. Sherlock was the one to leap in front of the moving vehicle out of the three of us, makes sense since he seemed the least sane, but I could relate. The taxi's brakes screeched and Sherlock maneuvered around the car to open the passenger door.
"No…" He muttered to himself upon finding the person inside. Tan skin, bleached teeth. "Californian."
"Is there anything I can help you with?" He asked, "Are you the police?"
"Yes," and Sherlock flashed a badge (where he got it, I didn't know). "No there's nothing you can help me with… uh… Welcome to London." He shut the door to the cab and backed away.
"Where in the world did you get that…" John made a grab for the badge, reading it aloud. "Detective Lestrade. Scotland Yard Police."
"I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can have that one, I have a collection of them back home."
"You've got to be kidding," I snatched the badge from John, inspecting the name. Sure enough it definitely did not have Sherlock's name on it. "This is great, really great." I went to hand it back to John but he shook his head, having no interest. With a shrug I pocketed the trinket.
"So have you two caught your breath yet?" Sherlock asked. He hardly had to wait a second before he had our answers and we were racing back down the street to flat 221B.
"That was utterly ridiculous," I breathed out as soon as we were in the safety of the flat. John, chuckling breathlessly, was leaning against the wall to regain himself.
"That was the craziest thing I've ever done."
"And you stormed Afghanistan." Sherlock joked back with him and was greeted by both of our laughter. Of course he was speaking only to John about Afghanistan, but he and I had been in the same division during the mission that took us there. If anyone were to know what 'storming Afghanistan' was like, it'd be John and I.
"So basically it was just a cab that happened to slow down..."
"Yeah." Sherlock replied.
"Then what were we doing?"
"I was bored... and I wanted to prove a point." He turned his head toward the door, calling out, "John will take the bed upstairs Mrs. Hudson!"
"Says who?" Came his reply.
"The man at the door," and just like that, he smirked and there was a knock at the door. Both John and I were taken aback, but I watched as he walked to the door. Then I saw it. He wasn't limping anymore; he didn't even have his bloody cane. But, as Sherlock had most likely planned it, the man at the door did. When John opened it wide I saw the waiter from the diner with the cane in hand.
"Sherlock texted me," he said. "Said you forgot this." The man held it out and a quite awestruck John took it in his hands, thanked the man, and closed the door. He turned to Sherlock who was still smiling smugly.
"Sherlock!" Came an unexpected call from upstairs, followed by footsteps thundering down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson, with a look of distress faced us. "Sherlock what have you done? They're making a mess!"
Sherlock didn't waste a second, not even for further explanation, in a flash he was sprinting up the stairs in long strides. John and I followed suit, Mrs. Hudson trailing behind. When we burst into the flat I realized Mrs. Hudson was right. The place was a right mess with papers, oddities and stuff just strewn haphazardly around the floor. People I'd never seen before mulled about in search of a thing unknown to me. Though, what did catch my eye was the off-grey haired man simply relaxing in an armchair as he watched people pick through the flat's belongings.
"What is this?" Sherlock asked, to which his 'friend' in the armchair replied,
"A drugs bust."
"Him?" Came John's blatant response. "Have you even met him?"
"John-"
"I'm pretty sure you could search this entire flat and not find a-"
"John!"
"What?" John turned, catching Sherlock's eyes. For a moment they shared a silent moment until John next spoke. "No..."
"What?"
"You!"
"Oh shut up!" Sherlock turned back to the armchair. "You shouldn't be breaking into my flat just for a pretend drugs bust."
"It stops being pretend if we find anything." He answered.
"Oh please," -Sherlock. "I don't even smoke." He pulled back the sleeve from his arm, displaying his nicotine patches as proof. From the chair, the man stood and pulled back his own sleeve in which a patch was stamped down firmly.
"Neither do I."
"I'm sorry," I finally broke through having had enough time in the dark. "Who are you?"
"Detective Lestrade, Scotland Yard. I don't believe we've met." Lestrade extended his hand, to which I took and shook in good nature.
"We wouldn't have since I only just arrived in London this morning." He gave a look of confusion. "I'm a friend of his flat mate here to visit."
He released my hand and I placed my own in my pocket. It struck the cold metal of the badge I'd received earlier, and I had to bite my lip to keep from grinning inappropriately. So, somehow this guy got annoying enough for Sherlock to pick pocket him? I'd like to stay around to see that, I'm pretty sure I'd get a good laugh or two.
As our exchange was happening though, Sherlock had peered into the kitchen to inspect those who were going through his things.
"Oh," he groaned and turned to Lestrade accusingly. "What is Anderson doing here?"
"He volunteered," the Detective supplied. I turned to see a man in a blue plastic suit poke out from behind the wall upon hearing what I presumed to be his name. "In fact, they all volunteered. Not necessarily on the drug squad but very keen, nonetheless."
"And, not to mention, we've found the case." Anderson called over. "A case that was said to be in the hands of the murderer, and look where we found it!"
"Because he just found it and brought it back. I'm sure he would've told you at some point or another." I said, though I was sure Sherlock was the independent type. That and he showed a particular distaste in this lot so they'd be the last he'd tell.
"I'm sorry, who are you?" Anderson asked. I inhaled, catching a whiff of strong scented deodorant. A woman of dark hair had peered around the corner, the scent intensified as she walked past me to look at something on a table. My mind reeled with the possibilities and my instincts became a bit playful. My thoughts climbed to drastic assumptions, I was officially distracted.
"Not your type, but she is." I jerked my head at the woman who spun around at the remark.
"Excuse me?" Anderson asked.
"You're deodorant is starting to sting my eyes, you both wear it. And there's an outline of a ring on you finger under the glove... but she doesn't have one. Are you really cheating on your wife or is it just for funsies?"
"A wonderful deduction, if I do say so myself." Sherlock mused with a cocky grin. Anderson and the woman spun, glaring hate directly into Sherlock and myself. Lestrade had both of his eyebrows raised in surprise, and the tension in the room had become nearly palpable. Oopsies, did I do that?
Lestrade looked to Anderson and the woman. "We'll be talking about this later..." Heads dipped in shame; they nodded and cast each other awkward glances. It took a few moments for the tension eased, but even then it wasn't entire gone. It was only broken by the words of the accused woman.
"So, another one?" She asked in a hushed voice, to no one in particular either.
I frowned. "Another what?"
"Freak."
"Oh come on, we're not in middle school anymore."
"Hmph."
"We found Rachel," Lestrade spoke to Sherlock, averting my attention from the girl. "Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."
"Her daughter... why would she write her daughter's name?" Sherlock mused to himself.
"Never mind that," came Anderson. "We found the case, and in the hands of our favorite psychopath!"
"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high functioning sociopath, do your research." Sherlock spun to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in, we need to question her."
"She's dead."
"Excellent!" I arched a brow. "How, when, where and why? Is there a connection? There has to be."
"I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel is Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter."
"It doesn't make sense... why would she do that?"
"Oh, I don't know." Anderson said again. I took the time to notice how nasally his voice sounded and grimaced. "Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yeah, sociopath, I'm seeing it now."
"No, she just didn't think of her daughter. She scratched her name in the floor with her fingernails. That takes effort. She was leaving a message, a clue."
"You said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he, I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow." John helpfully implied, though I didn't think it would be exactly right. How in the world would he use a dead child against a soon-to-be dead woman?
"That was ages ago, why would she still be upset?" The room went silent at Sherlock's ill choice of words, no one quite understanding how he could have such a lack of… understanding for such an emotional topic. "Not good?" He asked John, having sense the increased tension.
"Bit not good, yeah."
"You know, he's right." I said, eyebrows arched as eyes fell on me. "Well, she'd be upset still but that's the sort of thing that would influence an unhappy marriage. She couldn't look at her husband the same way after that so she turns to the affairs. It's her long-term way of coping, but then again Sherlock said she scratched her name in the floor with her fingernails. It's a clue."
"Right, you, I'm really starting to like you." He pointed a finger toward me, I shrugged in response. He began pacing through the room, his thinking nearly making itself palpable in the air around us. "Jennifer Wilson, string of lovers, she was clever. Very clever. She's trying to tell us something!"
"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson's voice suddenly sounded. "Your taxi's here Sherlock."
"I didn't order a taxi. Go away." He waved her off with an arm.
"Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"
"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson." John told her. Now Sherlock was getting very antsy and his steps grew louder with the frustration building inside of him. His hands rose to his temples as if to block out the sounds around him, it wasn't going well.
"They're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers-"
Then Sherlock exploded, and let me tell you, it was quite the sight. "Shut up! Everybody shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe! I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."
"What? My face is?"
"Everybody quiet and still." Came Lestrade. "Anderson, turn your back."
"Are you kidding me?"
"Anderson!" The man did as he was told which caused a light snicker from myself to form. I shushed it immediately.
"What about your taxi?" Came Mrs. Hudson's frail voice once again.
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled. The woman, frightened by his outburst, turned and hustled her way down the stairs. I sat back in one of the armchairs, watching Sherlock intently. I did hope he'd apologize to her later. But at that moment it was the last thing on his mind, something had just dawned on him. "Oh. Ah... She was clever, clever, yes. She's cleverer than you lot, and she's dead!"
"Offence taken." I muttered.
"Do you see? Do you get it? She didn't lose her phone. She never lost it! She planted it on him! When she got out of the car she purposely left it in there because she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."
"But how?" Lestrade asked.
"Wh-… What do you mean how? Don't you see? Rachel!" The room was still utterly silent, trying to work out what Sherlock was saying. My mind was buzzing like a nest of honeybees; gears were grinding against each other as what he was saying slowly began to make sense.
"It's a fucking password." I chuckled lightly. "It has to be, that's how she remembered! Honestly, you'd never forget the name of your stillborn daughter so there goes your worries of ever forgetting your password. Her phone has a tracking app, most likely, that's what it's for. That's how she's leading us to him."
"Exactly! John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address." Sherlock set himself down next to his laptop, opening a tab whilst John picked up the little tag on the luggage.
" .uk."
"She was busy, constantly. That would mean she did her business on her phone, she didn't have time for a laptop. So it's a smart phone, it's email enabled so there's a website for her account. Her username is her email address and like Whitney said her password is..."
"Rachel." Came John.
"So we can read her e-mail, so what?" Anderson. I rolled my eyes, coming to stand behind Sherlock to watch him work. Anderson really is a bit of a dunce.
"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the entire street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. Like Whitney said, we can track her mobile phone through GPS. She is leading us directly to the killer."
"Unless he got rid of it." Said Lestrade.
"We know he didn't," John told the detective. "We texted it earlier and he called back."
"Come on..." Sherlock urged the computer to speed up its locating process. At the same time footsteps began ascending the stairs to stop at the flat's door.
"Sherlock, dear, the taxi driver." It was Mrs. Hudson again.
From his spot at the chair, Sherlock shot up and walked over. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" Ouch. I turned to glance to the two but my gaze lingered. Up the stairs, behind Mrs. Hudson, a shadowy figure approached. Bad news, I thought instantaneously just at the sight of him, but any further observations were left to the wind as John spoke next.
"Sherlock? It says it's here in 221 Baker Street." Sherlock had sped to the computer, confusion masking him as he tried to work it out in his head.
"How could it be here?"
"Well maybe it was in the case when you brought it back. Maybe you dropped it." Lestrade offered.
"What? And I didn't notice it? Me?"
"Guys," Lestrade turned back to his people. "We're also looking for a mobile phone.."
Sherlock didn't seem to notice as Lestrade spoke. His eyes had narrowed in thought, situated on the floor and standing perfectly still. I observed, watching carefully as well as trying to figure it out.
From his pocket, Sherlock's phone buzzed. The man at the stairs began to walk away.
"Sherlock," John asked as Sherlock stared at his phone screen, reading the new message. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." I didn't believe that for a damn second.
"So how can the phone be here?"
"Don't know." Yes you do.
"I'll try it again."
"Good idea." Sherlock began his steps out of the flat, to which a curious John asked,
"Where are you going?"
"Just out for some air. Won't be long." And he was gone, coat and scarf already on as he proceeded to make his way down the steps. For the longest time I sat in thought of what in the world was going on. I even dared to ask myself how I got involved in this. Hadn't I just gotten here this morning, now I was tagging along on a murder case? Bloody bonkers it was. That, and who would've thought anyone like Sherlock Holmes existed? With his peculiar behaviors and way of working things out. What had John gotten himself into? What had I gotten myself into? Wasn't this military leave supposed to be so I could gather myself before heading back out into the field? Now I'm in this environment and-
"Sherlock just got in a cab. He just left. "John said, peering out the flat's window.
"What?" I shot up, peering out of the window to see as the cab drove off down the street. That was when the pieces violently shot together. The cab driver, Sherlock's text, the murders. "Holy shit." I said aloud, startling John.
"Alright guys, time to pack up. We're done here." As Lestrade called out this order, having given up since Sherlock left, I was already heading out the door at full sprint, only pausing to call back to John.
"I'll be right back!" I said, then exited the flat building. Down the street I ran again, through the road, across sidewalks. My flat would've been a regular ten-minute walk from 221 Baker Street, but with my legs flying at high speed it only took my half of that. I burst into my flat and stormed into my room, pulling out my suitcase that still had one last personal object of mine inside.
A PSS Silent Pistol, my only souvenir from the military other than the memories. I put it on the inside jacket pocket of my coat and burst out of my flat again. I made my way back to Baker Streetm and as I neared the door I saw John hailing a cab and jumping in. Without wasting a moment I hopped in the other side.
"Lestrade and his people left, but you know where the phone is. You figured it out."
"So did you." John said, pulling his mobile from his pocket and dialing what I assumed to be the police. His laptop, beeping away with the search screen still up, sat on his lap with the location of the mobile on the mini map.
"It took a minute." I answered.
"Christ," John muttered, then eventually he began speaking into the phone when the police picked up. He spoke the address, the information, everything until there was nothing else to tell and he hung up. By that time we were in front of the place, the location of the phone (and most definitely Sherlock). There were two buildings, both identical to each other.
"You take the right, I'll take the left." I said and we both burst into a sprint to the buildings. I burst into the door, pulling out the PSS as soon as I knew John wouldn't see it. No real reason for my secrecy other than I didn't want to seem like a paranoid nut case, still carrying a gun. I weaved through the hallways, searching rooms with the weapon held at the ready.
Then, after a few moments, I heard the echo of voices in one of the large rooms. I peered around a corner to a door-less room where the voices were originating. Keeping well hidden in the darkness of the hallway, I blanched as my eyes fell on the cab driver and Sherlock sitting across from each other at a long table; fit to sit nearly three dozen people. I held up the gun from my hiding place, figuring that bursting out into the scene would only cause a mess; if I had to I'd shoot from my cover then high tail it out of here.
As I inspected closer, I noticed two bottles standing upright on the table. Each had a single pill in it; each would most likely mean one of their deaths. The cabbie took his bottle and opened it, catching the pill that fell out in his palm.
"Oh, interesting." Said the cab driver. "So what do you think? Shall we?" He lifted the pill to his lips. My aim focused steadily on the man, prepared to shoot. "Do you really think you can beat me? Clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored... a man like you." He was edging Sherlock on, and he even opened his own bottle and took out the pill, holding it to the light. "Forever the addict. You'll do anything, anything at all to stop being bored..."
They both lifted the pill to their lips. That was when my finger pressed firmly against the trigger, but the sound that erupted was not from my own gun, but instead another. A bullet, creating a sizable hole in the glass, had breached the window behind Sherlock and the cabbie collapsed with a gun wound oozing blood from his heart. My own gun had ripped a bullet through his chest, right beside the other wound. The double impact had caused the man to throw his arms wildly in the air, tossing the pill in my direction and at such a distance so it dropped to the floor and stopped just a few feet from from me.
A thought passed through my head, and I ducked out of cover for a moment to retrieve the pill (unseen by Sherlock as he inspected the bullet hole in the window) and place it in my pocket before racing down the hall with steps as quiet as I could manage. The entire time I couldn't keep my thoughts off the pill in my pocket or the gun that had fired. The gun that hadn't been mine.
When I exited the building, John was waiting for me, his hands in his pockets.
"You shot him." I said to which he nodded. It was in the way he was standing, that and I could see the paleness of his hidden hands. They weren't shaking, John wasn't like that, but he always paled at the thought of taking another life.
"Yeah... I did."
"I did too." Discreetly I peeled back my coat to display the handle of the gun in my coat, causing John to breathe out a relieved laugh. "Guilty as charged."
"You know, I've wondered about you for a long time." It was a sudden sentence that I wasn't prepared for, but I answered.
"Yeah?" I asked as we both turned to walk away from the building. The sounds of police sirens had begun to sound in the distance.
"Yeah. I wondered what you were up to after I left. After you came to me earlier this evening, over that time I began to wonder how in the world you got so smart." He chuckled well heartedly; I met him with my own light laughter
"A lot of things can happen in three years, John. A lot of things did happen, actually."
"Like what?"
"They..." Fuck it, I thought. "They've involved me in the covert missions. I went through special training. My main ability was to be able to be a breathing lie detector test, to figure out people, to size them up and size them down. I guess that's why I can see eye to eye with you're flat mate."
"You're like Sherlock then." He presumed, to which I shrugged.
"Only a little. I couldn't compare to Sherlock, but the fact that I was specifically trained helps quite a bit."
"Right," he said. For a moment I thought he was going to say something, but a bit too late due to police cruisers and ambulances to pull into the parking lot. John and I ducked to the side as paramedics and police officers rushed through. In no time at all Lestrade and his crew were investigating the scene and Sherlock was being escorted out of the building. Sub-consciously I fingered the pill in my pocket. John and I both watched as he was sat on the end of an ambulance with a blanket draped over his shoulders. He kept removing it in annoyance, only to have it be replaced seconds later. I snorted in laughter at the sight of it, until Lestrade walked up to him. From distance I couldn't hear a word they said, but I could see their lips moving with conversation. Eventually Sherlock had turned to see John and I, shrugged Lestrade away, deposited the blanket and began making his way over to us.
"Nice shot," he said to John in particular, but he turned a sly glance my way.
"Yes, yes it was."
"Well you would know."
"Hm, would I?"
"Well you did just shoot the guy." I said plainly. "Oh come on, he was a shit cabby anyway, killing people and the like."
"He was, you should have seen the route he took to get us here." Sherlock's comment both urged giggles out of the lot of us. Passerby's gave us strange looks at the sight of us.
"Shut up!" John muttered. "We're on a crime scene, we're not supposed to giggle."
The three of us fell into a silence; the only noises our footsteps and that of the investigating business behind us.
"So, were you really going to take that pill?"
"Oh course not." Sherlock answered to John. "I was stalling, drawing it out.
"Of course you were," I said
"I wasn't, I-"He didn't get the chance to finish the rest of his sentence. At that moment in time John had reached forward and had nudged his arm, causing him to turn away from me because of the distraction.
"Sherlock," John said. "Sherlock, that's the man I saw earlier." Both of our attentions were directed to John, then to the spot he was staring at. I followed his gaze and landed on that of a man exiting a slim black vehicle.
Sherlock frowned. "I know exactly who that is."
"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited, but that's never really your motivation, is it?" The man said lightly.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded.
"As always, worried about you." He quite plainly said.
"I didn't know you were concerned..."
"Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"
"Oddly enough, no." John and I exchanged a look before turning back to the conversation.
"We have more in common than you'd like to believe," the man continued. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer, and you know how it all upsets mummy."
Wait.
What.
John and I looked at each other again, the same thoughts going through both of our heads. You've got to be kidding me.
"I upset her?" Came Sherlock's taken aback reply. "Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."
"So that's your name-" -Me.
John, interrupting me- "No, no wait. Mummy, who's Mummy?"
"Mother, our mother." Sherlock supplied, and then continued upon seeing John and I's confused expressions. "This is Mycroft, my brother. Putting on weight again?"
"Losing it, in fact."
John still hadn't settled. "He's your brother?"
"Of course he's my brother."
"So he's not... I don't know. A criminal mastermind?"
Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, obviously distasteful of his sibling. "Close enough."
"Oh for goodness sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government." Mycroft explained, to which Sherlock readily spoke back.
"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis… Good evening Mycroft," Sherlock said as a farewell. "Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic." That was it and we departed soon after, Sherlock taking long strides while John had stuck back. To speak with Mycroft alone, I presumed. I had no intention to speak with him; in the end I simply followed Sherlock.
"So you were in the military with John." He said once I'd taken up stride alongside him.
I smirked. "What gave it away?"
"Two bullet holes well aimed, one from someone with military history and the other... well, it is suspected that they could be of the same history. That and while we were chasing the cab, you called out, 'Come on John, just like the old days'. The old days as in military services."
"Now I'm curious, what else did you figure out?"
"You truly couldn't care less about the state of your hair." To this I tossed my head back in a full-blown laugh, not a snicker, or a snort. A genuine laugh, the first since I'd arrived in London.
I hesitantly patted my hair down atop my head. "It's that bad, huh?"
"Quite." I let the rat nest lay as it did on top of my head. "And..."
"And?"
"Your laugh isn't atrocious."
My laugh died down a bit at his words, his semi compliment. I faintly remembered earlier, his first deduction of me and I managed to crack at light smile at what he was referring to.
I examined his expression. His eyes were solid and set straight forward, shoulders slack, but his jaw was clenched in the slightest. Eventually he noticed my stare, which I met with a grin.
All I managed to say in return was, "I'm taking that as a compliment, just so you know."
And he, of all people, cracked a light smirk at this humorous and completely serious statement. Of course there was nothing else to say after that, simply smile and treat it as the normal do. It would also have it that, at the same time that John would return from his little conversation with Mycroft.
"So," he fell into stride on my right side, Sherlock was stationed on the left. "What'd I miss?"
"My laugh isn't atrocious." I told him.
"I didn't say it- Wait, what?" Now, much louder than before, I launched into a complete caterwaul of a laugh. No mind was paid to the glances and glares we got our way form the noise.
No mind whatsoever.