London's Lullaby
(A Day in The Life)
HOUR 1:
Location: The Brownstone, owned by the father of Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Holmes.
Time: 6AM [Saturday]
The sound of screeching echoed through the house like an alarm clock akin to the wails that a large, ancient, scaled bird might make. Joan, alone in her unquiet bedroom, squinted her eyes toward the windows on her left. The towels that hung as makeshift curtains did little to keep the morning sun from bleeding through into her bedroom. Day had not fully begun and the sun had only half risen in the east. The noises continued. After all of her time living at Sherlock's residence in Manhattan, she still could not consider herself used to the unusual hours he kept. At times, she thought him a nocturnal beast only to be awakened by the sound of owls hooting or of raccoons knocking over trashcans, but at other times, like today, he was awake early with his tea, reading a newspaper or listening to scanners—or so she thought.
She made sure her pajamas were in order and yawned down the stairs as the screeching continued. "Sherlock?!" Joan called out loud. There was no reply. She hadn't expected one anyway, so she called again, but louder. "SHERLOCK!"
By this time, she had reached the first floor and eyed his back suspiciously. He was facing the fireplace, which was roaring more strongly than it should have been given the poor condition of the old hearth and Mr. Holmes's lack of care for his least renovated of his New York City rental properties.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
He continued to violently and carelessly play his violin. "Trying to get my instrument used to the warm weather, Watson. Summer is fast approaching. Strings can be delicate given the circumstances they are exposed to. It's a fine instrument. You wouldn't want it to break, would you?"
"Oh gee… That wouldn't be so bad," she scoffed and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to tune his violin by ear.
"You once begged me to play, claiming it would aid my sobriety."
"That was when, finding a violin with your name engraved on it, that I thought you could actually play," she said and began brewing coffee.
After a few minutes of Sherlock tuning his violin, Joan reentered the living room. "So, good morning. I hope you slept well." The coffee had obviously affected her for the better. "Gregson said we were supposed to meet him at the station at three so you could pick up those boxes of cold cases and he said something about a murder on Franklin Street."
"I haven't slept at all, actually. I've been up all night looking through the last box of cold cases. As for the murder on Franklin Street, it was their electrician. You can pick up the cold case files. I am hardly needed for picking up dusty boxes. Take this one back when you go," he said and kicked a box toward her. She sighed and picked it up, sitting it down by the door.
"You should get some sleep," she said sympathetically.
"It's no use, Watson. If I went to sleep, of course, I would only slightly be asleep, really. I would put my body in a state of resting paralysis and dream lucidly so I could still get work done. It really isn't useful to be laying in my bed, half-asleep, in a lucid dream most likely continuing my work in my book, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen. I like to watch my bees when I write. So really, sleep is not really my thing."
"Not really your… thing?"
"Yes. There is no need to repeat what I say. If you did not hear me, you can always ask again and I can repeat myself. Considering I said it in the first place, it is completely plausible to believe that I heard what I said."
"But you're human! You need sleep to survive."
"Whether you are saying this as my apprentice, implying that you are under me, or are you saying this as a doctor whom I have not employed, either way, your opinion has no effect on how I feel about sleeping. It is a complete waste of time."
Joan sighed. "I'm going to be upstairs taking a shower and then I'm going to run some errands. I'll meet Gregson at three so you can do… whatever you're doing…"
7 AM:
"Sherlock?" Joan was dressed and ready to approach the day (at an earlier time than she liked). She came downstairs to find Sherlock asleep on his mattress, which was lying on the floor as usual, without a frame. Sherlock was deeply asleep with a headlamp around his head, the light turned on, and a strange tweezing device in his hands. There was a dead rat lying on the chair beside the bed, which was his makeshift bedside table. Her face scrunched up, she reached over as far away from the rat as she could, and turned off his headlamp. She sighed exasperatedly and went to run her errands.
8AM:
Sherlock sleeps.
9AM:
Sherlock continues to sleep.
10AM:
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, sleeps.
11AM:
Joan Watson returns. Allows Sherlock to continue sleeping.
12PM:
Phone rings. Joan answers. Telemarketer. Sherlock continues to sleep through the noises and Joan's heated debate with the telemarketer on why Sherlock does not need any more Africanized bees for his hive and that he will not be a returning customer, as well as pleading to the telemarketer on the topic that the company should stop mailing him catalogs.
1PM:
Sherlock sleeps. Joan replies to e-mails.
2PM:
Sherlock continues to sleep soundly while Joan goes online shoe shopping.
3PM:
Sherlock sleeps. Headlamp falls off his head and on to the floor—does not wake him. Joan has already left to meet Gregson.
4PM:
Joan returns home with boxes of cold cases and sees that Sherlock is still asleep. She sits them by his bed.
…
11PM:
Sherlock continues to sleep. Joan decides to go to bed.
…
[Let's try this again].
London's Lullaby
(A Day in The Life)
HOUR 1:
Location: The Brownstone, owned by the father of Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Holmes.
Time: 6AM [Monday]
Sherlock was having a cup of tea while sitting at the kitchen table, holding a local newspaper. He had just woken up.
Joan walked in, yawning. "Good morning."
"Is it morning? I can't tell with the curtains drawn. What time of day is it?"
"Six in the morning. Did you just wake up?"
"Yes. I have a revelation. The kitchen would make an excellent rat laboratory. We usually eat take-out anyway, and we could move the coffee maker to the living room, and I don't mind putting the kettle on in a laboratory. That would be exquisite. Just think! We could buy all of the equipment online and have it delivered to the door. Clyde really could use a friend or ten, anyway. A few rats would keep him company, I'm sure.
Clyde, the tortoise, crawled out from behind the newspaper that Sherlock was reading and toward a large strawberry and began taking ferocious bites out of it.
"See, I've been studying him. Look at the width of his shell. He's fat. He overeats so much because he is alone. I guarantee you he will eat the entire strawberry, which is at least five times the size of his own head."
"He's not fat, Sherlock. He's just growing. That's normal for a tortoise."
"Fat," Sherlock said and took a sip of his tea. Clyde continued to eat.
Joan decided that Sherlock was just picking on Clyde again and went to refresh her coffee.
She sat back down at the table and she came to a realization. "Oh, and we're not turning the kitchen into a rat laboratory."
"WE COULD BREED THEM!" He said, completely oblivious to what she had just said, and began looking around the room moving his hands around as though he was measuring table lengths with his mind.
Joan left the kitchen table and Sherlock continued to contemplate while Clyde devoured the strawberry. A few minutes later, Sherlock took Clyde back to his terrarium in Sherlock's bedroom and refreshed Clyde's water. Sherlock's phone began buzzing in his pocket.
"Holmes," he answered casually. Joan heard him from the other room and rolled her eyes. He couldn't just say "hello"—he had to pretend as if he was interesting or cool. Interesting, yes. Cool… no. He buttoned his shirts to the top, never wore a tie, and wore some of the shabbiest old sweaters and at times, wore more than one scarf. Cool was not an option with him. Though, he would probably disagree. …or not understand that the word, when spoken casually, did not usually mean a temperature range.
"Yes, do I understand, of course I understand. We'll be there presently."
Joan looked at him skeptically. "Gregson requests a consult. We must leave immediately to assist the poor man's ignorance in whatever situation he has found himself in again."
Joan looked at him in a scolding manner, but he did not seem fazed, or understanding of her glare. "I hope you are prepared to leave," he said quickly.
"Yeah. We can go…"
"Good," he said and buttoned his vest over his t-shirt. It was probably a good thing. His shirt said, "Allergic to Stupid People. ACHOO!" It was wrinkled and musty. At that moment, a wave of sadness fell over Joan, and she realized that Sherlock would never have anyone to love him and take care of him. He didn't seem to want a relationship like that. It was rare for him to even have a platonic relationship like he had with her, and she knew it. She treated it as delicately as it was, so she never said what was on her mind at that moment—even though she knew he would come up with some snide remark to justify his ways and make them seem completely intentional as if he never wanted anyone to love him.
7AM:
Sherlock and Joan got out of the cab. He paid the driver and walked toward the yellow crime scene tape strung up across light poles and neighboring fences. It was beginning to drizzle rain and the sky was a dark, looming gray that caused Joan to feel as if someone was behind her breathing on her neck. The electricity was strong as if a storm was brewing in the space above them… and in front of them.
A woman was screaming, police officers holding her still, trying to calm her.
Young. Mid-twenties. Twenty-three.
Soft, curly black hair, warm complexion. Latin-American decent.
Extremely upset. Knew male victim very well.
Clean clothes. Early riser.
Expensive jogging shoes. Fun runner.
Ring on left finger. Engaged.
Holding heart necklace. Gift.
The male victim is her father. Male victim is not her fiancé, since she is giving no regard to ring.
He walked past the woman and toward Gregson, who was standing on the porch.
"How may we be of assistance, Captain. I see the male victim's daughter is distraught. Did she see anything? What are the specifics of this crime?"
"How did you know she was his daughter?"
Sherlock just looked at him as if he should be used to his heightened deductive skills by now. With his eyebrow raised, Sherlock's look coerced Gregson into continuing. "Well, that's just it… there aren't any specifics. Her statement was that she stopped by to get a box of her things to put in her car on her way to work. She's in the process of moving out of her father's home. So, she unlocks the door, goes inside, and finds her father lying on the floor of the living room with his hands tied behind his back and his throat slit across the jugular. There was a knife… but we can't find any prints anywhere. There was no forced entry. Nothing was taken. The only thing we found besides the obvious, was some hair in his hand. We're running tests on it now, but it seems too perfect. I think someone is trying to frame someone… What d'ya think?"
"Well, let me see first. Have you taken the body away?"
"No, not yet."
"What time did the man die?"
"Around four in the morning."
"Have you spoken to the neighbors?"
"I've got a guy on it now, but I haven't heard anything. He'll update me if he's got something."
Sherlock tapped his fingers on his lips and squinted his eyes. Dressed as usual in his brown and black Oxfords, a t-shirt, vest, and wool peacoat, he stepped into the scene of the crime. Joan was standing in the drizzling rain carrying his scarf. Sherlock had gotten hot in the cab on the ride over and left her standing outside of the house in charge of his scarf. He was too interested in the crime to pay enough attention to her to teach her anything about solving the case, or so she assumed.
While she was standing outside, Sherlock stood just inside the door with Gregson. He stepped closer to the blood. "Watson, do you see this spatter here? He wasn't facing this direction when his throat was split. I'm sure you can deduce that by now. I've trained you well. This is an interesting knot his hands are tied with… It is not very tight. I would say he was not tied up very long before his throat was sliced open."
"Uh, Holmes… Watson is outside," Gregson said with his eyebrows raised looking amused.
"What?" he mumbled and turned around. "Oh, well. What is my porter doing, then? A useless one at that—cannot even return my scarf when we get outside. She cannot expect to learn anything if she isn't present. Go get her and state again everything I stated to her when she was not present. I do not feel compelled to say it again, considering the second time would be far less exciting. And I'm a bit parched."
Sherlock walked toward the kitchen while Gregson moved exasperatedly toward the door to get Joan. There was an investigator in the kitchen still looking around. Lying in the sink were two glasses, both tagged, and sitting next to them was a yellow number eight. Sherlock turned the water on anyway, and poured himself a glass of water.
"HEY! You can't do that!"
Sherlock took a drink of water. "The only reason those are tagged is because there was no sign of forced entry and Gregson thinks that this man's murderer was invited in, and possibly, given a glass of something to drink, which may still hold the person's DNA. Now, if you, who I am assuming tagged these…" the investigator nodded roughly. "…weren't so stupid, you would most likely realize that these two glasses have already been washed. That's why they're sitting on the in-sink strainer on this side of the sink, rather than the dirty side of the sink. I wouldn't have drank out of one of them had they been on the left side. Why would I drink out of a dirty glass after a criminal? Whoever washes these dishes is obviously right handed. They move from the left to the right and then put them away in the cupboard behind your head on the right of the sink."
The officer didn't say anything. He furrowed his brow and walked out, passing Joan on her way in.
"What did you say to him?"
"Well, I told him the truth, Watson. Honestly, I am sure he was not angry that I am smarter than him and could see through his verdicts. Judging by his personality, he is probably acting like an Africanized bee because of the fact that I called him stupid. …Has Gregson explained to you what I explained to you while you were… not present?"
Joan nodded and ignored how Sherlock had treated the investigator. She felt sorry for him, but there was nothing she could do about it.
"Excellent. Now…" he said and turned around, "do you have any ideas?"
"Well, Gregson said that none of the neighbors noticed anything strange. Do you think he knew the killer?"
"It's possible."
"Holmes," Gregson said and motioned for him to come over to him. Sherlock did and Joan followed.
"We just got the results back on the hair. It looks like the hair that was in the victim's hand belongs to José M. Cruz, a known Hispanic gang runner and illegally unlicensed arms dealer. He's been on probation for the last few months since he got out of prison. We have him in custody back at the station."
Gregson began walking to his police car and opened the back doors. Sherlock and Joan got in. Gregson furrowed his brow and then looked into the car. "I don't know why I just did that for you. Habit I guess." He closed the door anyway and went to get in.
"WAIT!" the daughter called, and Gregson looked up at her.
"Who did you put in that car?" Sherlock opened his door and stuck his head out slightly, causing her to take a step back.
"Oh, don't worry Miss…"
"Adriana."
"Don't worry, Adriana," Sherlock said. "I'm not your father's killer. See. I can get in and out of the car," he said and swung the door back and forth, sitting halfway in the car.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Holmes… Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," he said and got out of the car to shake her hand. He liked showing off his self-proclaimed title. "And in the car is my personal chef, Joan Watson. She's not very good though. We have take-out mostly."
Adriana was taken aback at his humor in her unfortunate situation and his lack of sensitivity.
"What was your father's name?"
"You're working on trying to find his killer… and you don't… YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HIS NAME?!"
"Well, no. I wasn't told. I've been calling him Male Victim. I'm assuming it's something like Juan Garcia. That's common with your culture, is it not?"
"His name is David Medina!" Adriana spat out the words with her brow furrowed.
"Thank you, Adriana Medina, daughter of David Medina. We'll be on our way, Gregson," he said as he got into the car and tapped on the partition divider cage.
Gregson looked as furious with Sherlock as Adriana did as he drove off toward the station with his lights on. Yet, the confidence that Sherlock radiated at the crime scene helped him feel positive that they would catch the person who killed David Medina. The windshield wipers were intermittent to clear the drizzle and the clouds still loomed, reminding Sherlock far too much of London.
8AM:
"Where is Bell today?" Sherlock asked as they got out of the car and walked toward the building.
"Can't you deduce it?" Gregson said sternly and walked into the building.
"Well, I'm sure he's ill, but I didn't want to assume. I have to give you a little leeway when it comes to certain things."
Gregson's lips parted and then pursed. He turned back around and walked toward the interrogation rooms. "Yes, he has the flu."
"I figured. It's been going around, you know. Just last week, Watson was sitting on the toilet with a trashcan in front of her for nearly twelve hours. Clyde and I stayed in a motel that night. Thankfully I didn't get it. Violent diarrhea and vomiting along with dry heaving does not appeal to me in the slightest—even if it gets me out of my monthly refrigerator cleaning duties!"
"Sherlock!" Joan said, trying to hide her hysteria on the details that he expressed effortlessly.
Gregson just glanced at her sympathetically.
The three of them entered the interrogation room.
José Cruz sat looking around the bleak room, chained to the table.
"Well," Gregson said, "what's your alibi?"
"For what?"
"The murder of David Medina. Four AM this morning."
"I was sleeping, duh. What else would I be doing? I've got kids, man. Do you really think I want to go back to prison? Why would I kill some guy who owes me money? I want the money, not him dead. Now I'm not gonna get shit."
"Where were you sleeping?" Gregson asked.
"At home, with my…" he stopped.
"Were you not at home, Mr. Cruz?" Sherlock asked.
He turned his head down and looked to his right. "…I was with my girlfriend. Man, if I want to get out of this bullshit, I got to tell you where I was, but I don't want my wife to know."
"What's your girlfriend's full name and address, please?"
"No, she don't need brought into this like that."
"Mr. Cruz, I need your alibi or you're going down right now. We found your hair in Medina's hand!" Gregson shouted so loud that Cruz flinched at this news.
"I wasn't there! I swear to God," he said and made the sign of the cross across himself.
"I was with my girlfriend, okay!"
"Who is your girlfriend…?" Gregson prodded again.
José Cruz looked left and right. Sherlock could see he was about to give in. Sweat was running across his face like sickening, pitiful tears. Sherlock didn't like being in this man's presence. Sherlock knew he could be crude at times with his words, but he could tell this man was crude and hurtful in his actions, but was the type who would be generously kind with his words, and that's what sickened Sherlock the most. Sherlock would choose to be around someone who was blunt and truthfully hurtful rather than someone who was deceiving, like this man.
"Tell me where you were, Cruz, and I'll get you a doughnut from the break room," Sherlock said.
He looked up at Sherlock annoyed, but gave him his answer.
"I was… I was with Adriana Medina. At the Motel Eight down the street. You can check their records, I'm sure. I paid cash, but they asked for my ID. They probably have footage of when we got there… and when we left."
"But you're not her fiancé?"
"Fiancé? No… I'm married. She knows that. Why would you say that?"
"She's engaged. She's moving into a house with her husband to be in Colorado. That's when she found the body—when she was picking up things this morning."
"What?! But I tho—."
Sherlock left the room and Joan and Gregson followed him.
"What do you think?" Joan asked. "I don't think it was him."
Sherlock grabbed a doughnut and took a bite, along with a cup of coffee. He loaded it up with creamer and sweeteners. "I'm contemplating. I don't think it was him either, really, but that doesn't mean he's innocent. He and the daughter could have easily planned something. There are many ways to exit a hotel room and not show up on the hotel desk's camera. For example, when Clyde and I stayed at the hotel when Joan was sick, no one knew he was with me. It wasn't a pet friendly hotel, of course, the twats! I had to put him in my pocket. Now it stinks of fat turtle and strawberry dung."
"I doubt Cruz put Adriana in his pocket."
"Yes, I agree, Watson. That would be far too impractical."
Gregson pretended as if he wasn't paying attention to avoid any awkwardness.
Sherlock walked back into the investigation room.
"Where's mine?" Cruz said as Sherlock ate his doughnut.
"I was going to ask you more questions, but I changed my mind now. In all honesty, if I was going to give you a doughnut I would fill it with as much poison as I could inject into the custard in the middle, because I really do not like you in the slightest. You're a sniveling, unfaithful, disgusting rat."
"I don't like doughnuts with custard anyway, you prick! If it weren't for this handcuffs I would kick your ass, you little freak."
"Well, I would not like to go to prison for killing you in any case. It really would not be worth the effort. Also, it is was not, not weren't and these, not this," Sherlock said while pointing his fingers on the air as if showing him on a chalkboard how to speak properly. "The whole point of the statement was not to threaten you, but to inform you that I do not like you. I guess I could have said it more like that, but it was much more dramatic that way, do you not think?"
Cruz spat on Sherlock's back as he turned to leave. Sherlock turned around, unfazed, and took his jacket off to clean the saliva off with a napkin that was lying on the table. His vest and t-shirt revealed tattoos on his arms.
"Nice tats. You been to la casa, prison too?"
"No, not the big house. I was in rehab though," he said calmly. "We had a view, landscaping, and real food."
Cruz scoffed and then squinted. Before Sherlock had time to put his jacket and scarf back on, Cruz leaned to his left and spat on Joan's chest. Her blue blouse was covered in saliva, snot, and a little bit of coffee they had offered him.
Sherlock reached forward and began twisting Cruz's ear. Cruz didn't make any noise, but clenched his jaw, until Sherlock began, from behind Cruz, shoving his right pointer finger into Cruz's right eye socket. Cruz's fists were clenched and he began banging on the table. "Sherlock don't!" Joan ordered, but he didn't stop. Gregson, alerted by the noise, came back into the interrogation room. As soon as Gregson touched Sherlock's arm, he stopped casually and put his peacoat back on.
"What's going on?" Gregson looked at Joan.
"It's nothing. I apologize."
"It's on tape anyway," Gregson said and pointed to the camera, obviously mad.
"Cruz spat on Sherlock and then on myself. Sherlock twisted his ear. Like two children…"
Gregson glanced disappointingly at both Sherlock and Cruz and then walked out frustrated.
9AM:
Sherlock and Joan were going through the evidence that the investigators had gathered while the information and video could be extracted from the hotel where the daughter and Cruz had stayed, as well as getting Adriana in there for a more formal questioning.
10AM:
Adriana arrived, and she was tearing up with cuffs around her wrists, behind her back while the police officer directed her to the interrogation room.
11AM:
The police began to question her, but she requested her personal lawyer who came down to the station while the police formally interrogated her.
Sherlock was denied access to speak with Adriana by her lawyer.
He walked down to the holding cells where Cruz was located and stood there for a few moments.
"How much money was Medina indebted to you?"
"About twenty damn grand! You gonna pay up? Those are nice shoes you got… You don't look like you're living paycheck to paycheck."
"You are correct. Good deduction. However, I will not pay a debt that is not mine. I have a housekeeper, turtle, and gofer to support! …As well as a slight addiction to call-girls, but I'm working on that one."
"You have a turtle and a gopher? Do they get along?"
"They do get along… but the," Sherlock stopped looked at him oddly. "Oh, you mean gopher as in the animal," he said and made a bucked-tooth face and nibbling noises. "No, an assistant. Not the rodent."
Cruz looked agitated and sat back down on the floor of his cell. Their odd conversation had ignited something in Sherlock's brain completely unrelated, so he left.
Somehow, the series of events and the motivation for David Medina's death couldn't be found. Sherlock didn't think that Cruz had anything to do with his death because he wanted the money too much, and he couldn't get the money if Medina was dead. The daughter was with Medina at the hotel, but Sherlock figured it was likely she did not know about the monetary arrangement between her secret lover and her father. Sherlock desperately wanted to know why her and Cruz were having an affair, considering she was engaged and preparing to marry another.
Sherlock walked back into the lobby where Joan was waiting. "What did he say?"
"The sum was large. Twenty-thousand, he said."
"Well, it wasn't him then. Like he said, he wanted the money. I don't think Medina had twenty-thousand lying around that he could just steal after he murdered him. …But what if the daughter knew and she was going to help him get it? We don't know how close she was with her father. They might not have gotten along since her mother's death. She probably blamed him for wrecking the car, even though it wasn't his fault. Maybe Medina's life insurance is what she was looking for?"
"…his life insurance?"
"Yeah. That's the motive for a lot of murders. You know that, Sherlock."
"Yes, but this didn't look like an accident. It looked like a murder."
"It looked like a murder that was committed by Cruz. Adriana would have access to his hair."
"That's true. If she won't talk… we need to get back to the house and see what their relationship was like. I didn't see much to suggest she loved him extremely, or that she hated him extremely."
"We need to find out more about her fiancé. What if he knows Cruz wanted money from Medina, somehow got his hair, and then framed Cruz to put him in jail—getting him away from his fiancé, all while using her insurance money to build their life together?"
"That is elaborate, Watson. Very thoughtful, however… fairly unlikely, if I was to weigh in, but I want you to keep thinking about it."
12PM:
When they arrived at the house, the police had finished investigating and the body had been removed, though nothing had been cleaned up yet. Everything was silent, but the energy of an oncoming thunderstorm still lingered in the air.
Sherlock began looking around.
No pictures on the living room walls. Negative.
Well-kept house, possibly by Adriana. Positive.
Adriana's bedroom was still adorned with her decorations. Positive.
Medina's bedroom, smaller than his daughter's. Positive.
Three pictures of her on his dresser. Positive.
Concerning her hysterical tears this morning and holding her necklace which was likely a gift from him, along with what Sherlock could see in the house suggested they had a good relationship, which confused him more.
"I don't really see anything that would seem like they have a bad relationship, Sherlock."
"Well, as a son who likes to distance himself from his father because of a bad relationship, I would agree with you. It looks like she spends a lot of time here."
"But that doesn't help the case any."
"I've said it before and I'll say it again… You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles! When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
"I know…" Joan moaned. They smiled at each other and then looked around the room at a loss.
She looked around a bit more while Sherlock poked around as well.
1PM:
After a while, Sherlock huffed and then said, "it's about time we leave."
"What should we do next? I suggest lunch…"
"There is no time for eating, Watson! Gah! When will you get over yourself?!"
"Get over myself?! Eating isn't a form of vanity or a guilty pleasure. You'll remember, I was a doctor, Sherlock. I think I know what is healthy and what isn't. We need to eat to live."
"Oh, yes. I know. But I cannot eat now. There is too much to do!"
"No, there isn't. We're at a dead end. Maybe a bite to eat will help."
"Right, a bite to eat would be good," Sherlock said and walked out of the room. Joan followed him, relieved he had decided they could eat… until she saw him opening the refrigerator.
"Sherlock! That isn't your food! That belongs to, I'm assuming in his will, Adriana."
"Oh, she is stricken with grief. She is not going to miss four pieces of bologna! I once took a whole watermelon from a dead man's house. Actually, it was tagged as a piece of evidence because it had a bloody fingerprint on it, but it was of no use to the case. I washed it off. You don't eat the rind anyway," Sherlock said as he prepared two sandwiches.
"Look," he said as he opened a cupboard, "they even have tea."
Joan sighed in disapproval, but ate her sandwich anyway. It was prepared plain with no condiments—just bread and two slices of bologna as well as a cup of tea with a splash of milk in it. She couldn't eat them together. Joan didn't even like her tea English style. She waited to finish her sandwich before hesitantly drinking her tea. Sherlock carelessly ate and squinted his eyes at certain things at certain times and then finished his sandwich.
"I'm going to go look in his office again and see if I can find anything about his life insurance, if he has any," he said while chewing his last bite and leaving the room. Joan began to follow, dumped out her hot tea, and put the cup in the sink without washing it like he had. She looked at the two cups before following him in. He was amazingly intelligent… but was she becoming more like him in the ways she hoped she wouldn't? To make herself feel less guilty about her possible personality revisions, she quickly washed the mugs, dried them, and put them away where Sherlock had removed them.
"What do you think about the door being locked? If someone killed him, why do you think they locked the door on their way out? Habit, like it was the daughter? Or for a reason?"
"What?"
"Well, when Adriana stopped by this morning, she said she unlocked the door and came inside, like usual."
"Yes, Gregson told me that. I don't think it really means anything."
"But how did the killer get in? The report said all of the windows and doors were locked."
Sherlock looked at her with a furrowed brow. "Locked the door on their way out."
"Yes, but what would the purpose of that be?"
Sherlock thought for a minute while he looked through the files.
"Here it is," he said softly and read over his insurance information. "It looks like, being an only child, she'll get everything in his will and about one-hundred thousand in insurance… That is, if she isn't a suspect. Even though she's on tape with the alibi of Cruz, she's still a suspect. I would rule him out though. Maybe your fiancé idea is looking more and more probable."
"I still don't understand the lock though. And if Cruz owed him money, he came over here looking for it, they could have gotten into a fight and it could have been an accident."
"No, it was far too intentional. His neck was obviously slit calculatingly. He was tied up, though not well I'll admit, and his throat was slit. This resulted in Cruz unable to collect his money, and allowed his daughter to receive life insurance, whenever this is over if she is not still a suspect."
"But…" Joan tried to interrupt.
"No… Ohhhh no! Really? YES!" Sherlock ran into the living room and looked at the blood stains on the floor.
"Don't you remember?" Sherlock asked and looked at her pleadingly.
"What?"
"Watson, there were no prints anywhere… except Medina's. His daughter's DNA wasn't on the twine and her prints were not on the knife. No one's prints were on the knife."
"But this is Medina's house. His prints are everywhere."
"Exactly! His prints are everywhere!"
"Because it's his house…"
"You don't see?"
Joan was silent.
"He owed Cruz twenty thousand dollars that he didn't have. He would have been harassed until he got it, and probably eventually killed when they realized he wasn't able to deliver the money. His daughter was moving away to Colorado with her fiancé, following him to his new job. We know that much. His wife is dead, and he felt guilty about it. Just look at his house. There are crosses everywhere and pictures of her in his bedroom with the pictures of his daughter. He never moved on, not really. He was in a tight spot, and he wanted to help his daughter. She could use the life insurance money, couldn't she? She is moving away and starting a life with someone where the gang her father was involved with would not follow her…"
"They were involved, so Medina had access to Cruz's hair. You think…?"
"Yes! Medina bound his hands himself, picked up the hair to make sure Cruz would be framed—putting Cruz away keeping him from his daughter's life insurance money so that Medina wouldn't owe him anymore. Medina didn't really have anything left. The only thing he could do is get out of his situation while helping the daughter who he dearly loved."
"But how did he slit his throat with his hands tied behind his back?"
"It was lying on the table—and extremely sharp. You saw the blood spatter. He moved away from the table. All he had to do was run his jugular across it."
"But how do we prove it?"
Sherlock looked at her with his eyebrow raised. "I tell everything I just said to you to Gregson, he gets that look on his face as if everything is falling into place, thanks me, and we go home."
"That isn't proof, Sherlock."
"Yes it is," he said and rolled on the balls of his feet excitedly.
"No, there isn't any evidence."
"There's plenty. I figured it out."
"But you're you. Everyone else isn't you. What if Cruz really is guilty?"
"It isn't likely. I would think it was your son-in-law-to-be theory before I would assume Cruz as being the murderer. No—this man murdered himself."
"Adriana won't get any life insurance. Medina's plan backfired."
"Well, he should not have been such an tactless idiot! He should have planned a trip, or planned meeting up at a pub with mates, or something similar, and then… you know, put a hairdryer in the bathtub. Maybe not so much for a man with short hair, but he could have pretended to accidentally eat something he was allergic too, if he has that. The possibilities are endless."
"Not possibilities that end Cruz back in jail."
"True. Let's get out of here. It's malodorous and I'm famished. We need sustenance! To the station for coffee and doughnuts."
They quickly found a cab and headed toward the station.
2PM:
After explaining to Gregson what happened, he, like Sherlock had suggested to Joan, did believe what Sherlock said, and once everything was arranged, Cruz and Adriana Medina were released back into society. Sherlock was momentarily grumpy that Cruz was set free, but got over it once he deduced the location of the newer, fresh doughnuts waiting to be opened when the current box was empty.
3PM:
Back at the brownstone, Sherlock had his cold case files spread out across the floor before Watson could even take her jacket off. "So, that's what you'll be doing all day?"
"Well, there isn't anything else to do."
4PM:
Sherlock continues going through cold case files. Joan helps.
5PM:
Joan eats dinner. Sherlock refuses and continues to read case files.
6PM:
Sherlock takes a short break for tea and makes a half-dozen of scrambled eggs to eat. Joan watches two shows at once while five televisions remain off.
7PM:
Joan, after rising early, decides to go to sleep. Sherlock continues reading files.
8PM:
Sherlock looks through case files with Clyde.
9PM:
Sherlock puts the kettle on and places Clyde back into his terrarium.
10PM:
Sherlock sits on the computer and looks at lab rat equipment.
11PM:
Sherlock, after evaluating the equipment he would need for the specific tests he would like to do, decides not to turn the kitchen into a rat laboratory.
12AM:
Sherlock begins going through files again.
1AM:
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, continues looking at case files.
2AM:
Joan, restless, wakes up and comes back downstairs to see if Sherlock is still awake.
"You're still up?"
"Yes. Clyde is asleep. I am going through case files. You'll be pleased to hear that I have decided not to turn the kitchen into a rat laboratory."
"That's good…" Joan paused for a moment. "You're always working on files, and while I like to work on them with you, I sometimes wish we could do something else. We never really talk."
"Watson, how many times are we going to go through this?"
"I don't know, I just think you could be a little more open, considerate."
"I could, yes. I try to be a gentlemen. It's how I was raised. I will open the door for you, but don't ask me to make emotionally empowered speeches. Being sensitive and kind does not get you anywhere in a case—remember that, Watson. In order to be precise and clear, you have to remove the disgusting film of emotion and delve into the raw truth. That is the way of it."
"I understand, but… don't you ever want to have a real connection with a person?"
"I have you, Watson. What else do I need?"
"Maybe someone who could love you… in a different way than I do? I care about you, because under your raw truth, you're a good person."
Sherlock was quiet for a minute. She wanted him to open up to her. Hoping that it would get her off of his back for a while on the subject, he did—but carefully, in order to get her to stop prodding at the matter of his sensitivity.
"Watson, I have already had that kind of love. I know the experience, and that is all I need. I have you—my friend and poor porter. I have my little buddy, Clyde," Sherlock said. Clyde crawled out from under the picture of a decapitated man in his late forties. Sherlock laid a piece of lettuce in front of Clyde and he began nibbling on it. "No more strawberries. Too much sugar, fat boy. Lettuce for you."
"He's not fat."
"Yes he is."
"No, he isn't."
"Yes he is fat, Watson. His shell is almost five inches wide now! It was four at most, when he came into our possession."
"Stop deflecting!"
She saw through Sherlock's psychological plan to get her interested in Clyde, and that upset him.
"What do you want from me!?" he shouted at her. "I let you live at my house. I supply you with a job and pay you accordingly and allow you to assist me in cases. I give you plenty of space. My personal life should not matter to you. I understand that we are friends, and I do value that. Your idea of friendship is different than mine. I am not going to help pick out clothes and talk about my feelings with you. I consider Clyde my friend. Observe our relationship. He helps my brain process more clearly and I feed him."
"So you give payment to me… and I help you think? That is an arrangement, not a friendship!"
"I've told you once. Our definitions are different. Why do you care about my emotional connection with a woman who I don't even know or want? I can pay for the sex! What would be the benefit of me finding a woman to, in your assumption, be romantic with," Sherlock spat the last three words out as if they were Hitler, Cruz, and blackmailer.
"I just worry about your mental state in the aspect that… I don't—I don't want to you be… lonely."
Sherlock calmed down and spoke to her clearly and softly.
"The mind is a vast place, Watson. I am never lonely."
He cleared his throat. "Besides… I have you and Clyde, as well as my beehive."
She sighed sympathetically and put her hand on his shoulder as he sat on the floor, holding files.
"I'm going back to bed. You should go to bed too."
"I should, but as you can see, I'm busy."
3AM:
Rain began pattering lightly on a window air conditioner. It reminded Sherlock of his home. He stared forward into the light of the small desk lamp sitting on the floor. His vision turned blotchy when he looked up calmly as thunder rumbled above the brownstone. He decided it was time for sleep, left the files spread across the floor, and crawled into bed for the first time in a long time. Usually he crashed and never recalled falling asleep, but tonight, he felt himself slip into a feeling he hadn't experienced in years as he fell asleep to the sound of the rain.