Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John H. Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are the intellectual copyright of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.
A/N: This story, although set in the modern 21st Century, is highly influenced by the structure of the original stories about Sherlock Holmes.
I'm highly enjoying writing this- and I hope anyone who reads it will highly enjoy it too!
Rated T, but this may move up to M as events unfold later on. Enjoy! :)
Doctor John Watson flinched as the flat door to 221B Baker Street slammed harshly shut. For a moment he sat completely still, gazing over at his companion – Sherlock Holmes, who had his long thin legs drawn up towards him so his knees were close to his chest as he sat on the armchair that he preferred while consulting. His shoulders were hunched up and his slender fingers were tapping in a swift rhythm upon the top of his knees.
"What is it John?" He snapped waspishly, not even troubling to look at John as he spoke.
"That's the fourth case you've turned down this week, Sherlock! I thought you were bored-"
"I am bored!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly, gesturing his hands up to the ceiling. "Everything about me is bored! That, however, does not mean I am willing to accept mundane cases!" He stood up as he spoke, placing particular stress upon the word mundane, and began pacing back and forth across the room.
"So missing people are mundane now, are they?" John questioned in an exasperated way.
"Not all missing people, just that missing person." He answered curtly; not ceasing his pacing back and forth, the way he always did while agitated. "Mrs. Brochard knows exactly where her husband is and does not want to acknowledge it, which means Mr. Brochard is not a missing person at all."
"Why would she come to you if she knew where her husband is?" John shot back, knowing that Sherlock could easily piece together tiny observations and formulate them into the larger overall picture which was seen by him, but very rarely by others; those others included John himself.
"How am I to fathom the way people's silly little minds work?" He snarled almost at once. "Tell me, what did you observe about Mrs. Brochard?"
"Well…" John started, knowing he was now venturing into Sherlock's own territory; Sherlock had stopped his pacing and was bouncing slightly upon the balls of his feet. "She is a business woman in the city, she spends a lot of her time working on a computer, she goes to the gym in her free time while not working, and she was rebellious while she was young, probably a punk, going by her age…"
"And tell me exactly how you came to those conclusions?" Sherlock inquired, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.
"The way she was dressed; she had a line where the edge of her wrist presses into the desk while she types; her bag was not the normal size of a work bag, it looked like there was a pair of trainers packed into the bottom." John explained, going through point by point; feeling more and more annoyed at the look of maddening superiority that was presenting itself on Sherlock's face which usually indicated that everything he was saying was incorrect.
"In essence you are correct John, but you've merely glazed over the surface!" Sherlock commented, a slight tone of enjoyment in his voice now. "You see, but you do not observe!" He began pacing back and fro again like an imprisoned man desperate for freedom. "She is indeed a business woman who works in the city, in Harkens & Farris where she is an editor and spends a lot of her time typing. You were also correct about her spending time at the gym while not at work; in fact, she was there this morning, it is on her way to work – that is obvious from her hair. As to her being rebellious in her youth; she had two small scars, one on the left side of her nose and one at the very edge of her right eyebrow – she probably had them pierced during her adolescence and has allowed them to heal as to present a more professional working appearance. Her hair, also, looks as though it's dyed professionally, but it looked dry, damaged – probably from her dying it frequently herself when she was younger. She met her husband at her work, they married while she was still very young, very quickly after meeting one another. They regularly spend time in America, in their partner offices in San Francisco, California. Mr. Brochard has intimated several times that he would prefer for them both to emigrate and take permanent positions over in San Francisco; but Mrs. Brochard has repeatedly refused this, probably because of her elderly mother who is now in the late stages of dementia; she doesn't want to leave her mother alone, even though her mother no longer remembers anything about her daughter. Mrs. Brochard knows exactly where her husband is, because she has tried to track him down herself… she was not correct in where she was looking, her husband has gone to America without her – he has taken up a position in the offices in San Francisco." Sherlock spoke very fast, pulling deductions from out of the air which John could not understand from whence they came. A thrill seemed to rush through Sherlock as he spoke – like some great burst of adrenaline and energy was igniting from the nerve endings in his brain and coursing all the way through his tall body.
"Right… wow…." John breathed quietly, inwardly marvelling. "Explain…?"
"You already observed that she was a business woman by the way she was dressed; her laptop case was not fully zipped shut, she probably closed it quickly as she reached the underground station to come here. Inside the unzipped compartment there was headed notepaper, Harkens & Farris, the firm name, with an address and her name as editor underneath. She went to the gym early this morning, before work, and showered there – being a professional woman she takes pride in her outward appearance, but her hair was drawn back into a loose ponytail; the gym doesn't provide the means to style your hair – a hair dryer at the very most, so her hair wouldn't be as styled as if she had done it at home. Also, she had a muffin wrapper sticking out of her coat pocket; she'd been to the gym today so she could afford to treat herself. She is still a young woman, very early thirties at the most, but her wedding ring is worn, roughly ten years old, which would make her around twenty when she got married. She wasn't particularly well spoke, she employed both incorrect verb tenses and grammar in the short tale that she graced us with, not exactly the first candidate for the job of an editor – so she was selected for her job through other means; she married the boss, and there is a considerable age gap between them, he possibly may have been married previously. The business trips to San Francisco are obvious, I would have thought, her bag had an insignia of the Golden Gate Bridge, she was in America when her last bag broke. IT couldn't have been a leisure trip because she wouldn't have brought back a work related bag. The handles of the bag were slightly worn and had residue of those airline stickers that stat where a person is travelling from and to; she has made many similar trips and stuck the stickers in the same place each time. AS of her elderly mother, she was wearing a locket around her neck; it was old, slightly tarnished – not the kind of item she would choose to wear – it is of sentimental value, a family heirloom. She was fingering it as she spoke of work, there were clouded finger marks upon the metal which looks like she has been touching it a lot recently – she likes her work, but she has strong family ties. A family heirloom that she has been given already, probably by a mother who is still alive. Why would she have been given it while its old owner is still alive, and why would she be playing with it more recently? Her mother knew that at the time of her death, her mental capacity would not be complete – she may not be able to pass it on the way she would wish at the end, hence dementia. Her playing with it shows that she is worried about her mother; she doesn't want to leave her. The only reasons he came to us this evening is because she has spent today on the phone to as many members of her husbands' family and friends that live in the UK; the hair above her right ear was ruffled, the way that holding a telephone to it creates. She would try all of the family, and friends, within the UK first, because she doesn't want to admit that her husband has gone to San Francisco and taken up a post in the offices there, just as he had intimated that he would like to. She knows that he has done so, and cannot bear to think that he has gone and left her behind; indeed, it's likely that he has met a new woman over there, which explains why he has said nothing to her of going to America and, to her, has vanished completely." Sherlock accounted for each one of the points with a well observed deduction; once he had finished speaking he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and began bouncing upon the balls of his feet once more. John reeled for a few moments in silence, taking in all the information that Sherlock had presented – all of the tiniest detail and highest observation, and all at top speed.
"And why, tell me, could you not just tell her those things, rather than turn her away still in ignorance?" John asked eventually, Sherlock snorted loudly.
"She knows exactly where he is, she is in denial. I am a consulting detective, not a private detective… I do not spend my time tracking people down when their seeker knows where they are, but does not want to face the obvious." He answered slightly contemptuously. John didn't reply to this, Sherlock's need for stimulation was obvious – but his refusal to take any case that was not completely enthralling could be infuriating at times. "Why is there nothing exciting happening John?" He ejaculated finally. "There must be something interesting going on somewhere!" His brows were furrowed into a scowl on his pale face, a look that John had become very accustomed to when cases were running thin to the ground.
"Is there nothing on the blog?" John put forward the suggestion, but in an instant it was shot down in flames.
"Nothing more exciting than the case Mrs. Brochard presented to us." He snapped; picking up John's laptop which was lying on the table closest to him and tapping harshly upon one of the keys, the laptop had clearly sprung to life because less than a second later he put on an irritating whiny voice as he read out a message which must have been sent to the blog.
"'Dear Mr. Holmes, I think my wife is having an affair. She's been spending a lot of time at the office and last week she went away on a business trip, but turned her phone off for the entire time.' Boring!" He closed the screen of the laptop and placed it back down on the table. "Consulting detective John, consulting! Not, I'll track down missing people or find out whether a spouse is having an affair when it is clearly straightforward! I don't spend my time pointing out the obvious!" He cried in exasperation.
"Funny, that's exactly what I thought you spent your time doing…" John muttered quietly, but Sherlock had heard him – he made an impatient noise and threw himself onto the sofa. He lay, knees drawn up close to his chest and his back to John for a long time.
During that period John picked up his newspaper – which he had discarded onto the coffee table next to the arm chair he was seated in when Mrs. Brochard had first made her appearance – and began scanning through it, identifying any articles that may be of interest to his friend. There were, however, none that would give any satisfaction to Sherlock; every article, whether it be about a Conservative MP being embroiled in a monetary scandal, a famous author downgrading her status from billionaire to millionaire because of the amount of money she had donated to charity, or even the article saying that the State was inquiring into the disappearance of several young people within the care system, all would be considered simple, mundane, or boring to Sherlock.
"Aren't you working on any experiments?" John asked, Sherlock's heavy sighing had become so frequent that it seemed to punctuate the space at minute intervals. "I noticed that you've got a severed arm in the fridge?" John pointed out tentatively.
"Yes, I'm waiting for Molly to get back to me about that… we haven't quite identified whose it is…" Sherlock's voice was muffled as he faced in towards the sofa.
"You have a severed arm, and you don't know whose arm it is?" John questioned, slightly disbelievingly.
"Nope. All I know is that it was taken to St. Bartholomew's' immediately after being severed from its owner. Molly then contacted me and told me that something that I had been waiting for had turned up-"
"You've been waiting for a severed arm?" John cut across Sherlock.
"Severed arm, leg… any limb would have sufficed, it wouldn't have made much difference." He replied nonchalantly. "I just want to measure the contraction of the muscle fascicles in the first 72 hours after they have been separated from their owner."
"You wanted… Jesus! So you're telling me that severed arm in the fridge has been cut off in the last day, and you haven't even attempted to find out who it belongs to?" John stammered eventually.
"Belonged to John." He corrected, "Well clearly they haven't missed it much… it was cut off within the past 22 hours and we've not been contacted at all about any missing arms…" Sherlock answered lazily, "You would have expected that if it meant anything to him, he would have picked it up instantly."
"If it had meant anything?" John repeated under his breath, closing his eyes and rubbing one hand across his forehead. Sherlock remained silent, not moving from his position on the sofa while John fathomed the strange peculiarities of his friend.
"It's not as though he could have got it re-attached anyway!" Sherlock eventually broke the silence between us, "Take a look at it, you're more of a medical man than I… How do you reckon it was severed from its owner?"
"I gather that you're going to tell me whether I look or not…" John didn't move; while Sherlock was correct in his statement about John being a more informed, better qualified medical man, his abilities to observe and reason were greatly less informed than of his friend. As Sherlock grew increasingly bored his tendency to display those highly attuned senses even just to antagonise John also increased. Boredom drives most people to seek distraction, and Sherlock's distraction lay in giving opportunities for John to analyse, and then rip everything that John had observed to shreds and produce forth the real reasons, which, after they had been pointed out, often seemed quite obvious!
"It is unusual. In the majority of the instances when a severed limb is found and taken to a hospital like Barts, it's the result of a car crash or another trivial incident." Sherlock started, John didn't pick him up about using the word "trivial" in relation to a car accident. "And the limb has not been clearly truncated, there are ragged edges to the muscle tissue and bone… but in this case the arm has been cleanly sliced off, just before the joint of the elbow. When I first collected it from Molly I was sure that she had made a mistake and given me an arm from someone in the morgue; but no, it was the right one – found only an hour previous to my collection, outside a disused warehouse. It was still oozing blood, that is how we know how fresh it is." Sherlock was speaking with far too much relish in his voice than would have been accepted in public situations, luckily in the privacy of the Baker Street lodgings he could speak that enthusiastically and only have to put up with John's remonstrations. "It is a completely straight, clean slice – I think probably done by a heavy meat cleaver… or possibly a guillotine – nothing else would be able to create that neat an amputation… so, even if the person had wanted to have their arm re-attached it would have been impossible… the nerves, bone, everything have been separated too neatly for it to be re-united successfully." To Sherlock that was everything about his experiment justified; if there was no possible chance of the arm being re-united, then any other actions done to it were acceptable. John cleared his throat, meaning to ask whether he had managed to measure whether the muscle fascicles had contracted any since the arm had first arrived, when there was a loud ring on the doorbell. Neither John nor Sherlock endeavoured to answer the door at once, especially after Sherlock announced in a rather annoyed way;
"It's not a client." Both of their interests waned in the ringing doorbell – sure that Mrs. Hudson would answer it if no one else did. That was correct, less than a minute after the doorbell had run John and Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson's footsteps upon the staircase.
"Boys!" She called, "Boys, you've got a visitor!" John looked up, interested, from his paper, and even Sherlock's interest had been aroused – momentarily at the least – as he moved from the lying position he had assumed on the sofa. Sherlock had just placed the soles of his shoes on the wooden floorboards as Detective Inspector Lestrade swept into the room.
"It's you…" Sherlock stated, not at all putting any effort into hiding the disappointment, and slight annoyance, in his voice.
"Yes, it's me." Detective Inspector Lestrade said, then lowering his voice until it was very quiet, he added: "Unfortunately."
"Afternoon." John nodded cordially towards Lestrade. "I'm reckoning this isn't a social call?" John asked, sounding only a little bit hopeful, but those hopes were soon dashed by Lestrade.
"Unfortunately not." Lestrade replied, shaking his head. "We think we're in need of Sherlock's insight on a case."
"What kind of a case?" Sherlock asked abruptly, putting his long fingers together in front of his face.
"Murder." Lestrade answered, but before he could say even another word Sherlock cut in over him.
"Tsssss…. Boring." Sherlock dismissed it instantly.
"If you would let me finish…" Lestrade continued in an obvious annoyance. "We think it is a murder, but we haven't been able to completely rule out the possibility of suicide. It is within the department that is currently undergoing a government enquiry in accordance with the disappearance of several children and young adolescences."
"And?" Sherlock questioned.
"Why do you assume there is something else?" Lestrade shot back.
"I don't assume, I know… You would never come to me with a case unless there was something remarkable about it that none of your policemen can get their silly little brains around…" He stated plainly; Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a few tight-drawn moments and then sighed, his features softening.
"There seems to have been two attempts to kill him… We're not sure yet which one worked, and we don't know whether they were done by the same person or two different." Lestrade admitted, "It is odd… the forensics are still at the offices just now, they haven't moved the body yet. I came to ask whether you would grace us with your presence before we do move anything." Lestrade waited expectantly for Sherlock to make some kind of vocal or physical motion as to whether he would oblige the invitation, but Sherlock sat in silence staring blankly into the space in front of him. John silently hoped that Sherlock would accept, as otherwise the rest of his day would be consumed by his continual moaning that nothing interesting was happening. Eventually, after another few moments and in an increasingly awkward silence, Sherlock asked;
"Where?" Lestrade seemed to deflate, letting out a huge sigh of relief, taking this as Sherlock's assent to consulting in the matter.
"Tavistock Place, near the Education Centre." Lestrade answered.
"We will follow right behind you." Sherlock spoke to Lestrade curtly, who took his statement at face value, turned and left the flat. There was silence for another few moments, then Sherlock seemed to be re-invigorated in an incredibly excitable burst of energy – his eyes lit up and his pale thin cheeks flushed with colour as he could hardly repress his excitement, probably which would be regarded as inappropriate and out of place for the incident which he had just been informed of.
"Ready John?" Sherlock announced, moving very quickly out into the hall passage way; John followed, getting out of his arm chair and sensing that he was going to have to move fast to keep up with Sherlock in the excited state that was currently occupying him. In one swift movement Sherlock swept his coat from a rack near the top of the stairs – which incidentally held a considerable number of other odd objects, such as John's old walking stick and a sword with a curved blade – and put it on as he bounded down the stairs, John following closely in his wake. "A twice tried murder, or suicide… in a department under inquiry… sounds like this might prove interesting!" Sherlock was rubbing the palms of his hands together in the way he often did when contemplating the prospect of a new case.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed that- I certainly loved writing it! I'd be grateful at receiving any advice or constructive criticism for how I can make it better- so if you have any, drop me a message or a review! Thanks :)