Hello! The idea for this fic came around while I was writing for my song prompt fic and I decided to chase this idea down and coax a full story out of it. One thing of note: I am neither consulting detective nor doctor nor resident of the United Kingdom. As such, I've done my absolute best to make sure that the deductions, the medical jargon, and the English-isms are as close to being right as humanly possible. If there's a glaring mistake, please let me know. If not...call it creative license. ;) I appreciate you taking the time to read this (and review it!).
You are all fantastic. :) Enjoy!
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Ch. 1: Servat regina colorem
It all began innocently enough…if the poisoning of an Estonian ambassador can be considered innocent, that is.
Sherlock Holmes had received the call from Detective Inspector Lestrade about 25 minutes past 3:00 in the afternoon on a drizzly Tuesday. And when I say Sherlock received the call, I of course mean that John forcibly removed the phone from the man's trouser pocket (a motion that Sherlock most certainly did not protest) and answered for him. Sherlock, of course, was far too engrossed in the mold cultures that he had lying about the kitchen counter.
When John had finally managed to convince Sherlock that there was a poisoning and that would be far more entertaining than mold, the two men had hopped into a cab and gone across London to the ambassador's private estate. John and Sherlock were ushered into the building after being thoroughly examined by some somber-looking men in unassuming black suits. John was merely glad that he'd decided to leave his Browning handgun at home.
The consulting detective swept into the room—the dining room, by the looks of it—and proceeded to take a few moments to get acquainted with the space. He walked around the whole room twice, stopping every few feet to examine the mahogany table, the fibers of the carpet, or the windowsills. John, on the other hand, made his way to the body and Lestrade.
"John," the detective inspector said, "thank you for coming. This is one of the more bizarre things I've seen in my time."
"Coming from you, Lestrade, that says a lot," John replied, shaking the inspector's proffered hand. John knelt by the body and accepted the pair of latex gloves from the young technician standing by his side.
"It actually says nothing at all, since you people seem to find even the simplest cases bizarre." Sherlock swooped down on the other side, appearing out of nowhere like a gigantic bat with his ridiculous coat. The tech said nothing as she handed him a pair of gloves as well.
"Hey, if you'd rather that I not call you whenever we have cases, Sherlock, that can be managed," Lestrade warned.
"No, no, let's not pull him off cases just yet, please," John said hastily. He turned to frown at Lestrade. "You don't have to live with him when he's bored."
"Now, look here, John-'''
"Can we get back to the body, Sherlock?" John asked.
Sherlock frowned a little but turned his attention to the ambassador at his feet. He whipped out his magnifying glass and ran it to and fro whilst John checked the body's core temperature and the swollen, red patches of skin that had appeared on the man's neck and chest. John moved his hands to the side as Sherlock's glass came to rest on the skin over the man's heart.
"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked. "Why did you call this in as a poisoning?"
"Isn't that what it is?" Lestrade inquired.
"It's precisely what it is. But the presentation is anomalous and frankly I'm surprised you called it correctly." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the glare that John was giving him. Oh. "No offense intended," Sherlock added, looking up at the inspector.
"Right…" Lestrade said slowly. But he shook his head and continued to speak. "We didn't find any evidence of a physical injury that might have been caused—no bullet holes, no knife wounds, no blunt force trauma—nothing. Our techs noted the discoloration of his skin and the swelling. Of course, Molly will check for signs of a heart attack or stroke, but my gut tells me this wasn't natural."
Sherlock nodded his chin towards the magnifying glass that was still lying over the ambassador's heart. "It wasn't natural, Lestrade. Not unless you count a poisonous injection to the heart as being a natural way to die." Lestrade quirked his eyebrow at the man and John leaned over to look at the skin under the glass. Sure enough, there was a small puncture mark right over the heart, which seemed to be the central locus of the patches of reddened, swollen skin.
"How on earth did you know that was there?" John asked, eyeing his partner.
"I looked for it," Sherlock answered, shrugging his shoulders. "Molly's blood tests should be able to tell us how this man died." He stood up and offered John a hand up as well.
"Bloody brilliant," Lestrade mumbled, jotting notes into his small notebook. Sherlock had the grace to blush. John nudged him in the ribs, a small smile playing on his face.
"Alright," Lestrade said to the pair of techs that were standing nearby. "Let's get this guy out of here." The three men moved out of the room and Sherlock was tallying off all of the observations he had made on his trips around the room and his deductions about the murderer.
"The killer is most likely a man, although-'''
"Wait," John interrupted. "I thought…statistically, isn't poison chosen more often by women than men?"
"Statistically speaking, yes, more women choose to murder by poison," Sherlock stated. "However, as a doctor you are well aware of the force that it takes to drive a needle into the chest cavity. A woman is less likely to have the strength necessary of getting the needle in."
"Well that's a little sexist," Sally Donovan said as she passed by. Sherlock glared at her.
"I speak only of what I observed, Donovan. Not only was the needle that delivered the poison driven into the man's chest cavity, but there are tracks in the carpet as well, and they are far too big to belong to a woman. It is within the realm of possibility that the murderer is a woman with calculable strength and big feet, but it is more statistically likely that we are looking for a man." Donovan rolled her eyes and walked away.
At that moment, one of the med techs poked his head out of the doorway and called. "Detective Inspector? Mr. Holmes? You might want to come and take a look at this."
The three men looked at each other before moving back into the dining room. The techs had gotten the body onto the stretcher, but they were circling the spot where the body had lain and looking down at the floor. They approached.
"What is it?" Lestrade asked. One of the techs pointed, but Sherlock was already there. He was on his knees and using a pair of forceps to pick up the item that lay on the ground. It was a small card, roughly the size of an index card but much more elegant. Sherlock saw that the paper was thick, creamy white in color, and tooled around the edges in fine shimmering gold filigree. The side he was holding was blank. When he flipped it over, he saw three words elegantly scripted in violet ink.
Servat regina colorem
John watched as Sherlock's face was drawn into a deep frown. "What does it say?" he asked. Sherlock stood and handed him the card. John snapped on an extra glove and took the card from him. He read the words and frowned as well, only his frown was in confusion. Lestrade read the words over John's shoulder. Both men turned to watch the pacing detective.
"Sherlock, what does it mean?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock halted in his tracks and turned to face the two other men.
"Servat regina colorem," he said, "is a chess term. It refers to the start of a game in which the queen's piece is relegated to the colored space that matches the queen herself. In chess, the queen is the most powerful piece as it can move in any direction."
Sherlock stopped speaking and locked eyes with John, who had visibly flinched at the word 'game'. Sherlock had returned only one year ago from their latest set of games.
"Do you think someone's trying to play games with us again, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice just above a whisper.
Sherlock's stare was both fire and ice. He plucked the card out of John's hands and threw it into an evidence bag, sealing it aggressively. He handed the bag to Lestrade and then stalked over to the window to stare out of it.
The silence in the room seemed to stretch on to eternity.
