Darkly Seeking
Summary: Sherlock discovers what John really meant when he said, "I've killed people. I had bad days."
Rating: M
Lightning often crashed in London. Pounding, rolling bass beats of nature's drum against the violent white flashes of light that illuminated the night as staccato raindrops fell on the roof. On nights like this even London's criminal element normally went silent, tempted home by warm food, hot tea, and the opportunity to watch crap telly.
Not to mention the opportunity to stay dry.
Fortunately for Sherlock Holmes, one criminal had not done the obvious thing and he was standing in the tastefully decorated foyer of the home of a moderately wealthy lordling while his wife sobbed conspicuously in the parlour. Lestrade said the nobleman had been missing for a little less than twenty-four hours.
The Lady of the house said that he was kidnapped.
Sherlock was inclined to agree.
There was miniscule amounts of dust around the vase of flowers in the center of the room, a sign of a careless maid and of domestic tranquility. The bouquet was one of sunflowers, which fit with the reputation the nobleman had as something of an expert in Japanese culture and hanakotoba. The sunflowers were a declaration of love for his wife. Three photographs were evidence of stability and the adoration in the gaze of Lord Leslie for his photographer (his wife) was not false.
One photograph, though, drew his gaze. Lord Leslie was smiling against the convivial background of an umemi party. He was relaxed, despite his grey morning suit. His tie, though... Slightly faded, so an obvious favorite despite the incongruous use of a Chinese painting of plum blossoms.
"Well?" he demanded, gazing at Lestrade impatiently.
"Wife called thirty minutes ago and said that her husband had been kidnapped. Can't say I agree. However, she is the daughter of a Deputy Commissioner, so here I am. Officially, the last time he was seen was at seven o'clock yesterday evening leaving his offices at the Imperial College after holding office hours for his students."
Sherlock went into the parlour and again observed evidence of domesticity. Several small photographs were scattered around of Lord Leslie and his wife. Together on a white beach (Santorini), laughing on the viewing platform of a building (Chicago), softly kissing each other (anniversary dinner, less than six months ago)...
The wife sat on an antique fainting couch, ankles crossed, mascara running down her face, lipstick smudged, and her nose bright red. Her distress was obvious and obviously genuine. Her fingers shook as they tore at the tissue in her lap. Her breathing was erratic and slight hiccups often escaped. She knew less than nothing, so Sherlock swept past her and back to gaze at the umemi photo in the foyer.
"Well?"John inquired quietly from behind him.
"I believe that the lady is correct. We have a kidnapping."
John gave a slight twitch of his right shoulder. He wasn't surprised, but he tried to sound so when he spoke. "Really? How unfortunate. I was talking with Donovan and there's no note. Not yet, anyway. A banking receipt shows that he paid his tab at the pub at eight thirty-four. They're interviewing the bartender now, but Donovan says that CCTV shows that he left alone."
"How long is he on CCTV?"
"Less than two minutes. There was an outage in that area last night," John replied quickly.
Sherlock frowned inside his Mind Palace and turned to gaze at John. His head tilted slightly before inquiring, "What do you think has happened to Lord Leslie?"
John shrugged genially and sighed. "How would I know, Sherlock? Maybe he had a mistress and decided to run off with her? There isn't a ransom note. If this were a kidnapping, wouldn't the kidnappers already be demanding money?"
Interesting.
Wrong.
Deliberately wrong.
Why deliberately wrong?
Lestrade came closer, shaking his head. "Maybe he's off somewhere sleeping off the booze. Bloody nobs can down some drink."
"How much was the tab?"
"Nearly a hundred quid."
"At a pub?" John shot back, trying to sound astonished.
"That's quite a lot of alcohol, even if you include food, for one man in the course of approximately an hour," Sherlock mused, narrowing his eyes at John. "He may have left alone, but he did not drink alone. Has the bartender offered anything of use?"
"Bartender remembers seeing Lord Leslie, but doesn't remember seeing him with anyone. Says that there were several people who stopped by to say hi, seeing as milord was something of a regular and a bit popular," Lestrade quoted from his notepad. "CCTV is of no help."
John shrugged again and looked out of the window. Lestrade scratched at his five-o-clock shadow, flipping through the notepad as though there had to be something he missed.
Morons. The lot of them.
Sherlock gestured with one hand, catching Lestrade's attention. "He was happy with his wife and was not dining alone last night. You will not find Lord Leslie alive."
It was a long time before the wailing of the wife was a memory that could be deleted from his databanks. Sherlock would happily live a long time before he heard another sound of such despair and desolation.