Strange noises were nothing new at 221B Baker Street, though these most often took the form of explosions, violin screeches, or on one memorable occasion the characteristic clattering of a rattlesnake. The startled shout-and-thump from the sofa, though, was definitely a new one, especially given that the sofa was occupied by a sleeping, solitary Sherlock Holmes.
Or the sofa had been so occupied. John turned in time to see Sherlock, now wide-eyed and very much awake, sitting up between the sofa and the coffee table, nostrils flared as he gasped for breath.
"Sherlock?" John abandoned his breakfast and rushed into the living room, wondering if this was the result of some chemical experiment brought on by boredom. Or perhaps he'd just rolled over and fallen off the sofa, and the shout had been one of pain, not fear.
"John," Sherlock whispered tightly. He thrashed clumsily to disentangle himself from his dressing gown and the blanket John had draped over him last night, when he'd realised Sherlock was on the sofa for the duration.
In the year and a half they'd been living together, he'd never known Sherlock to have anything resembling a dream, much less a nightmare. And he was never anything but graceful, or at the very least dramatic.
Abruptly, John shoved the coffee table aside to make room to kneel down beside Sherlock. He tugged Sherlock off the floor and back onto the sofa. Still struggling to catch his breath, Sherlock drew up his legs, pressed his heels to the edge of the cushion, and bowed his head to his knees. John wrapped a hand around Sherlock's wrist to feel his pulse: fast but strong, which was a relief.
John bit back his questions and retrieved the blanket from the floor to drape it around Sherlock's shoulders. He braced for a protest that didn't come, and Sherlock's docility only increased John's concern. Gently, he rested a hand on Sherlock's back, feeling the rise and fall of his shoulders as he gained control of his breathing, and John started to breathe easier as well. Whatever had happened, it seemed to have no lasting effects.
"Tea?" John finally offered, starting to rise.
Sherlock's hand lashed out, catching John's forearm. He looked up, his eyes dark, pupils dilated. "Stay," he said. It came out more like a plea than a command.
All of John's worry came back in a rush. He sat back down with a little nod, reassuring Sherlock, "All right."
Slowly, Sherlock released his grip and rested his forehead on his knees again. He dug his long fingers into his hair and clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles went white.
John looked at the imprints of Sherlock's fingers on his forearm; bruises were already forming. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, too worried to be angry.
"No."
"Right," John agreed. He got comfortable, wondering if he should try and rub Sherlock's back or if he should just sit quietly. Sherlock hated to be touched, though, so John just sat beside him and stared at the back of Sherlock's head, wishing he knew how to help.
By the time Sherlock's BlackBerry buzzed an hour later, everything seemed back to normal, or so John hoped.
They had spent ten silent, tense minutes on the sofa. Then, without warning, Sherlock had shrugged off the blanket and asked John, "Are you going out?"
"Hadn't planned on it. Did you need something?" John asked, wondering if the incident, whatever it was, had ended.
Sherlock shook his head. "No. Just... don't go anywhere."
Confused, John nodded his agreement. "All right."
With a brusque nod, Sherlock left the living room and disappeared through the kitchen. A moment later, John heard the shower running, and he returned to his cold breakfast. When Sherlock emerged, he was dressed in one of his perfect suits, his eyes sharp, wet hair as tamed as it ever got.
"Coffee," was all he said as he swept through the kitchen and into the living room, where he sat down at the table and opened his laptop, expecting John to play waiter.
Still worrying over the morning's strange incident, John gave in and carried his mug and Sherlock's to the table. "Anything interesting?" he asked, opening his own laptop.
"No." Sherlock scowled as if he'd expected otherwise.
John leaned back in his chair and shook his head as he skimmed the top story on BBC News. "French separatists are asking the UN to force the D'Angeline government to restore Ville d'Elua to its original name, Paris."
"That's not its original name, and it won't happen."
Surprised by the comment, John glanced up at Sherlock, whose attention was still fixed on his own laptop. "You've heard of France First?"
"It's France d'Abord, and they're radicals playing on anti-D'Angeline prejudice." Sherlock did look up then. "They forget the D'Angelines are French. They're essentially rebelling against themselves."
"Since when do you know anything about international politics?" John asked, wondering if Sherlock had been replaced by an evil twin some time in the night. Or, well, a less-evil twin.
Sherlock met John's eyes, his expression absolutely neutral. "In 1817, the English-D'Angeline alliance ended the French Revolution, restoring the ousted D'Angeline government to power. The France d'Abord movement didn't gain momentum until the UN Slavery, Indentured Servitude, and Apprenticeship ruling in 1963 ruled the D'Angeline voluntary education system as apprenticeship and therefore legal," Sherlock said without hesitation, as though reading from a textbook.
John stared at him. "Dear god, you sound like Mycroft."
Sherlock turned his attention back to his laptop. "Terre d'Ange is too isolationist to hold Mycroft's interests. He loathes the idea of a government whose national policy is 'live and let live'."
"Surprised you don't live there."
Sherlock looked up, eyes wide. "What?"
"You know, to avoid Mycroft," John said, startled by Sherlock's reaction. Not for the first time, and surely not for the last, he wondered what Sherlock was thinking. "Or — Oh, is it the religion?"
"For a writer, your linguistic skills are deplorable. Is what the religion?"
John gritted his teeth, sipped his coffee, and told himself to ignore Sherlock's tactlessness, as he always did. "Terre d'Ange — Land of Angels. The whole society's based on the idea of angels visiting them in the mythical past. Some of them still think they have angelic ancestry, don't they?"
Sherlock huffed and looked away again, tapping sharply at his keyboard. Before John could say anything more, the text alert interrupted. Sherlock snatched at the mobile as if he'd been expecting the text, though he barely glanced at it before he rose.
"Murder," he told John as he headed for the door. "Coming?"
John took one last gulp of coffee and nodded. "Details?"
Sherlock shot him a strange, haunted look. "Nothing confirmed," was all he would say.
The taxi dropped John and Sherlock at a side street in an upscale district of warehouses turned into lofts, expensive boutiques, and antique stores. Yellow tape cordoned off half the street and both the east and north sidewalks around a brick and glass three-story building. A white tent outside the building served as a staging area for the police. John followed Sherlock into the tent without challenge. By now, they were recognised by most of the officers under Lestrade's command.
"Good morning, Greg," John said almost cheerfully.
Lestrade was drinking coffee with a desperate air, still dressed in his blue coveralls. "You say that now," he answered in warning, letting John know that this was going to be bad.
They'd developed a routine at crime scenes. Sherlock would break the rules, John would follow them, and Lestrade would pretend that the two cancelled one another out. So it was perfectly normal for John to reach for one of the blue coveralls on the folding table in the tent, following the rules at a scene of crime.
What wasn't normal, though, was the way Sherlock divested himself of the coat and scarf he wore like armour, and everything seemed to stop. When he actually ripped open a jumpsuit package and pulled the plasticised cloth over his perfect suit, John swore he felt the world tilt sharply.
John exchanged a look with Lestrade, who was struck silent. Apprehension churning in his gut, John followed his flatmate's example and suited up, including gloves and booties. John had taken to carrying a small assortment of necessities on cases — lockpicks, paperclips, a roll of gauze bandaging, paracetamol, and a small torch. He transferred the torch to an outside pocket of the jumpsuit, considered for a moment, and then added the paracetamol. Today seemed a likely day for Sherlock-inflicted headaches.
"Sherlock..." he began, and then went dead silent as Sherlock actually pulled a white hood over his untamed hair.
Licking dry lips, John followed Sherlock inside the building and into the cargo lift. Lestrade stepped in behind them, pulled the gate closed, and pressed one of the control buttons. As the lift rattled and began to ascend, John glanced at Sherlock. He could recognise the signs of Sherlock's fierce concentration, but his demeanour was subtly changed by something that in another person John would have called distress or even fear.
John found himself wishing he'd brought his gun, which was ridiculous. They were surrounded by police officers. He told himself they were safe, though he resolved to stay close to Sherlock's side, just in case.
The lift stopped at the first floor. Through the open wooden gate, John could see a huge space that stretched to the far side of the building. The wall was entirely glass, showing the rainy gray morning sky. Cloth-draped metal tables filled the space, most of them with built-in sewing machines. To the left, the brick wall was almost hidden behind huge spools of fabric and bolts stacked on shelves. The prevalent colours were red, orange and gold. Partially dismembered mannequins were scattered throughout the space on metal stands, a few of them wearing fantastically impractical outfits.
"Theatrical costumer's?" John guessed.
"Atelier," Sherlock said, as if that explained anything.
John held back his sarcastic response. On a good day, Sherlock was stroppy enough without provoking a lecture on observation and relative stupidity. And today was proving to be a very, very bad day. So John kept silent, trailed along in his wake, and hoped that the puzzle would be enough to occupy Sherlock's brain.
Police were everywhere, combing the tables and floor for any evidence. The way they were avoiding Lestrade's eye spoke eloquently of the serious nature of the crime, making John wonder if the victim was famous. Lestrade ignored the other officers as he led the way to a doorway at the far end of the workshop, by the huge wall of windows, where Donovan was waiting.
"What've you got?" Lestrade asked.
She barely glanced at Sherlock, though her mouth was set in a tight line. "My contact at the tax office got back to me, confirmed she's got dual-citizenship."
"Shit," Lestrade muttered.
"You learned all that in the... forty minutes since Lestrade called me? Well done, you," Sherlock drawled. "I can't believe you get paid for this. A child could've found out more by looking up the victim on Twitter."
"Don't," Lestrade snapped. He favoured Sherlock and Sergeant Donovan both with equally fierce glares. "Save it for another day."
Ignoring Lestrade, Sherlock stepped into the doorway and stopped so abruptly that John bumped into his back. Silhouetted against the rain-grey windows that continued into the smaller back room, he looked like a shadowy ghost. John touched his arm without thinking. When Sherlock's head turned fractionally, John jerked his hand back.
But this time, Sherlock turned back and touched him in response, a brush of fingers over John's artificial blue sleeve, before he walked carefully into the room. With each step, Sherlock paused to look around, taking in every detail. John followed, trying his best to emulate his example, though he knew it was hopeless. The things he noticed — the cleanliness of the kitchenette, the smell of lavender, the general arrangement of the furniture — weren't things that would solve the crime.
The room had been turned into a small but posh loft. Kitchenette to the left by the windows, desk to the right with fashion sketches pinned to the wall above. Just beyond the desk, the living area had a leather settee, armchair, and immense television hanging on the wall. An unmade double bed was tucked diagonally into the far left corner against the windows, blankets thrown back in a rough triangle as though the occupant had awakened in the middle of the night. Sturdy metal racks filled the corner opposite the bed, packed with brightly coloured clothes on wire hangers.
The victim was partially obscured by the settee. John could see one graceful, dark-skinned arm, fingers curled slightly, manicured nails cropped short and painted a garish shade of red that matched the riot of fabrics in the workshop. Her black hair was sleek and straight, cut in an almost boyish style.
Sherlock prowled around the room for a minute before he returned to the dead woman and crouched down on the balls of his feet. John circled to the other side of the body, avoiding the blood that had spread in violent tendrils from her back. The pattern was all wrong, but John couldn't quite put his finger on why.
As he knelt down, he glanced up and saw droplets of blood on the drop-ceiling and the recessed light overhead. "God," he whispered. He tried to imagine the quick, strong knife strokes that could have splattered blood on the ceiling without making more of a mess in the area.
Sherlock looked at him, then followed his gaze. His frown deepened as he turned his attention back to the dead woman and whispered, "Béni Elua vous garde."
John didn't speak D'Angeline. "Elua?" he asked, fixing on the only word he recognised. According to legend, Elua was the son of Christ and Mother Earth. With a small group of angels who had defected from Heaven, Elua had founded Terre d'Ange. Supposedly, their blood had intermixed with the original French who'd lived there, granting their descendants a measure of grace and extraordinary beauty.
"She was D'Angeline," he said, pointing with one gloved finger at the dead woman's back. "An adept of Eglantine House. You can see her marque."
The little bottle of paracetamol rattled in John's pocket as he retrieved the torch. He snapped it on and directed the light where Sherlock was pointing. Fine black lines were barely visible under the dark, congealed blood. A brief search showed more lines on her ribs and shoulder blades, curves following her spine all the way up to her shoulders. He recalled something about the marque being tattooed in small stages, starting at the base of the spine, finishing just below the hairline.
"Doesn't this mean she's no longer an apprentice?" he asked, pointing at the finely drawn lines at the nape of her neck.
Sherlock nodded. "The marque is designed so that by the time the apprentice pays the cost of the marquist — the tattoo artist — the House has recouped the cost of the apprentice's training. To 'make one's marque' means the apprentice has finished training and repaid his or her debt to the House and is now an adept."
"Well, someone wanted her marque eradicated." John began to move the light over her back, counting the wounds. "None of these wounds were deep enough to have been fatal. Almost every line is cut, though..." He sat back on his heels, looking at the pattern of the blood as an idea struck him. "There are no signs of a struggle. I don't think she fought back. She wasn't even awake for any of this — small mercy."
"Good," Sherlock said very quietly.
John glanced up at him. He'd never known Sherlock to express sympathy over a victim. "Did you know her?"
Sherlock looked across the body to meet John's eyes. He nodded. "Zoe nó Eglantine-Moreau. She's — she was my designer."
"Your —"
"Clothes, John." Sherlock shook his head and looked back down. "My family has a contract with Atelier Moreau. She founded the company only three years ago," he added softly.
"So, we'll find your name in her records," Lestrade said.
Sherlock nodded again. "All of us, yes. She had us come here twice a year for measurements."
"When's the last —"
"Four months ago." Sherlock glared at Lestrade for a moment before turning his attention back to the dead woman. "John?"
"Right," John said, and resumed his examination. "Time of death late last night, between, say, midnight and three, maybe four. Death most likely brought on by the exsanguination, but..." He extended his hand and glanced questioningly at Lestrade, who nodded his permission, so John touched the back of her head, carefully feeling beneath her sleek black hair. "Aha. She was struck, knocked unconscious."
Lestrade nodded. "What hit her?"
"It didn't have a sharp edge. Her scalp isn't cut. Maybe something lightly padded?" John guessed.
Abruptly, Sherlock turned to look at the settee. "She wasn't struck — she was tripped, guided forcefully down. Her head hit the back..." He unzipped his coveralls enough to get out his magnifier.
"Then why move her here?" John asked curiously.
Sherlock began examining the back of the settee, focussing on the seams. "The light, John."
John looked up at the recessed light that he only then realised was directly overhead. At night, the apartment would be well-lit, but the positioning of the body beneath one light was definitely deliberate. Theatrical.
Feeling a bit ill, John rose and went to stand with Lestrade, back turned so he didn't have to look at the beautiful, dead woman. "She died in the night. Sherlock was home the whole time."
Lestrade turned to face him. "Didn't ask," he pointed out.
They both knew Lestrade would have asked, eventually. "He knew that poor woman," John answered.
"So did the rest of my family," Sherlock snapped. "If you want to make accusations, look to Mycroft. He's the one who can't keep his weight steady for a month, much less six. Now stop wasting my time, both of you, and come here."
With matching sighs, John and Lestrade walked to the settee, where Sherlock brusquely pointed out the fine, glossy black hairs caught on the seam. He rose, towering over them for a moment before they also stood. "Lestrade, text me the details of the murder weapon. John." Sherlock beckoned and quit the scene without another word.
They walked two blocks in the rain before finding a taxi willing to stop. John was too busy shivering and missing the stifling desert heat to hear the destination Sherlock spoke through the driver's window. When they slid into the backseat, John shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to resist the urge to push Sherlock's wet hair out of his eyes. He looked like a drowned kitten, an illusion made even more heartbreaking by the false mask of determination he wore.
"You said the dead woman was from Eglantine House. Which one is that?" John asked, hoping to distract Sherlock from whatever dark thoughts were running through his brilliant mind.
"They're artists. Theatre, writing, poetry, song, dance, gymnastics." Sherlock glanced at him. "Costume and clothing design."
"And she's the one responsible for..." John gestured at Sherlock's clothes.
"Not entirely. She advised on colour and fit, but only designed formalwear. Mycroft used her services far more than I ever did." The words came out brusque and blunt, but John could hear the tension in Sherlock's voice.
"Right. You fooled Lestrade, I'm certain, but I know you, Sherlock," John said, looking out the window instead. London was grey and bleak and it should have all felt normal, except for Sherlock's behavior.
"And how did I 'fool Lestrade'?" Sherlock asked acidly.
"By keeping this all to business." John looked across the seat and it was Sherlock's turn to look away. "You didn't just know that woman. You were friends. You care."
Sherlock huffed and busied himself by searching his pockets. He took out his gloves and shoved them at John. "Put those on."
John was momentarily startled into silence. Sherlock's leather gloves cost more than John made at the surgery in a day, possibly two. Besides, they'd never come close to fitting him. "Don't be ridiculous," he finally said, keeping his hands hidden in his own jacket. His fingers would eventually warm up.
With an irritated huff, Sherlock pulled off his scarf and closed the distance between them. John opened his mouth to ask what he was doing, and then snapped it shut as Sherlock wrapped the doubled scarf around John's neck, tugged the ends through, and tucked the cashmere against the low collar of his jacket. The fabric was still warm from Sherlock's body.
"You're cold," Sherlock snapped to forestall anything John might say. He turned deliberately back toward the window. "You were distracting me."
If the mythical Elua himself had got into the cab at the next corner and struck up a conversation, John wouldn't have been more shocked.
When the cab pulled into a half-circle drive sheltered by a carved stone awning, John thought they'd arrived at a small hotel, though not one that was familiar. High, sculpted hedges hid the street from sight, turning the grounds into a secluded park.
A black-uniformed servant rushed to open the door. Leaving Sherlock to pay the driver, John got out of the taxi and surreptitiously looked for a name badge, but there was no indication of where they were. A private club, John guessed, though it didn't look anything like the Diogenes.
Sherlock finally joined him, taking his elbow to lead him toward the pair of huge oak doors, carved with a floral design John didn't recognise — not that he was looking. Instead, he stared at Sherlock's hand, fingers starkly pale against the black shooting jacket. "Are you sure you're all right?"
Puzzled, Sherlock answered, "I'm fine."
He only released John's arm when the oak doors swung soundlessly open. Beyond, the dark lobby was tiny, barely the size of the sitting room at their flat. The carpet was deep red, the walls papered in an intricate red and black pattern. The room was entirely empty of anything resembling furniture. Instead of a reception desk, there were six doors — two on each interior wall.
"Where exactly are we?" John asked very softly, trying to quash the urge to drag Sherlock back out. Behind them, the oak doors had closed, and he had no idea if they'd open again.
"We need information," Sherlock said as the nearest door to their left opened.
John stepped forward, putting himself between Sherlock and the man who stepped into view. Instinctively, John assessed him for any threats, but there was nothing immediately apparent to explain the subtle sense of menace about him. He was in his late forties or early fifties, dark brown hair silvering at the temples, neatly trimmed beard and moustache, black suit, white shirt, black tie.
Silently, John swore that if this was some sort of criminal headquarters, he'd kill Sherlock. Or at least shoot him somewhere painful.
The man looked each of them over in turn, taking his time in a way that made John bristle. Right as John reached the edge of his temper, the man spoke, and John realised that the day really could get stranger.
"Welcome, gentlemen, to Mandrake House."