This was ridiculous. Sherlock held his mobile to his ear for what seemed to be the millionth time that day; but it wasn't; it was the seventh. The phone on the other end rang for a little while before switching to the answering machine. Sherlock sighed. Another message. "John, please. I'm sorry. Stop being an idiot and call me back. You know this is Sherlock," Sherlock hung up yet again, "for the seventh time."
Yes, it had been two years. Yes, he hadn't informed John the he wasn't dead; but he tried! 'It's just a trick. A magic trick.' Hadn't he noticed the change in tense? Oh well, it was a long shot.
John was gone; that much seemed certain. Mary said she'd help, but she had either; not bothered, not remembered, or has not been successful yet.
Molly had agreed to accompany him to crime scenes for the time being, though. She would have to do. She was actually quite qualified; but she wasn't John. Sherlock couldn't believe what he was thinking; sentiment wasn't going to be an advantage at this admittedly difficult time.
The ring-tone of his mobile caught his attention. He answered quickly without looking at the caller ID. "John!"
Throat cleared at the other end of the line. "Um… sorry Sherlock, it's Lestrade. We've got a case for you if you want it…"
"Thank you. Text me the address and other details."
"Hold on Sherlock, why did you think I was John? Is something going on?"
"None of your concern, Lestrade." Sherlock promptly hung up before Lestrade could reply. He'd phone Molly as soon as he got an address. He could finally distract himself from his own mind.
Sure enough, the text came and Sherlock informed Molly to meet him there. He wasn't sure if he could do this.
…
Molly arrived almost exactly the same time as Sherlock, if not a few seconds behind. Lestrade met them by the sealed door to the crime scene. He tarred the police tape off the door, allowing them to enter.
"This one's got us all baffled…" he sighed.
"Mm. I don't doubt it."
Lestrade opened the door and led Sherlock and Molly down the stairs into the basement.
At the foot of the stairs, a large hole had been knocked through the brickwork of one wall. They went through the hole and Lestrade switched on the mobile lighting which has been set up in the room. As he switched more lights on, the "skeleton mystery" which Sherlock had been reading earlier was revealed.
A white-painted wooden table was at the far end of the room and seated on a chair behind it was a skeleton dressed in an old-fashioned suit. There was a carafe and a glass and what looks like a writing set on the table in front of it. The corpse is holding a syringe in one skeletal hand.
Frowning, Sherlock was already zooming in on details of the scene before he walked across the room, laid his pouch of tools on the table and got to work, examining the corpse in minute detail. Molly stood nearby, her notebook open and pen poised.
Sherlock sniffed at the body and tried to decide what he is picking up; was it PINE? SPRUCE? CEDAR. NEW MOTHBALLS. Another scent: Carbon particulate; fire damage.
Sherlock straightened up and shut his magnifier. "What is it?" Molly asked. Sherlock didn't pay much attention to her, though. He retrieved his phone from his pocket and held it up high to try and get a signal. "You're on to something, aren't you?" She asked again.
Sherlock decided to respond this time, however. "Mm, maybe…"
A whisper, John's voice, invaded his ears; "show off," it muttered.
"Shut up, John," Sherlock mumbled in response to this obviously imaginary whisper.
Lestrade's eyes flickered across to him. "What?" Molly asked, concern in her voice. Sherlock only walked around to the other side of the table to continue his investigations.
Sherlock carefully used tweezers to lift the lapel of the skeleton's jacket. Molly still stood some distance away, waiting to write anything down. Lestrade leaned close to Sherlock and spoke softly, "This gonna be your new arrangement, is it?" he asked.
"Just giving it a go," Sherlock replied.
"Right. So, John?" Another question from Lestrade.
Sherlock expertly controlled a quiver at the corners of his lips. "Not really in the picture anymore." Controlled voice; trying to remain above it all.
He moved away from the table and turned back to look at the whole picture. Cement dust drifted down from the ceiling as a distant rumbling broke the painful silence of the room.
"Trains?" Molly offered as an explanation.
"Trains," Sherlock confirmed. She was every bit as talented as John; so why did he miss him?
He dropped into a squat and called up a mental compass showing the orientation of the room. He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth he zoomed in on the corpse. Molly walked across to the body and looked at the bones in its neck. Sherlock stands up and walked over to join her.
"Male, forty to fifty," she stated, "Oh, sorry, did you want to be...?"
"Err, no, please. Be my guest…" Sherlock dismissed.
Another whisper. This time more persistent, echoing around Sherlock's mind. "You jealous?"
"Shut up!" Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. Molly glanced nervously at Greg. Something was obviously affecting Sherlock. Sherlock took out his magnifier to look more closely at the hand holding the syringe while Molly continued investigating the skeleton.
"Doesn't make sense…" Molly almost whispered.
"What doesn't?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock gently blew away the dust around the hand and continued blowing towards the edge of the table. "This skeleton – it's... it can't be any more than..." Molly began.
"Six months old," she and Sherlock stated in unison.
Sherlock found a hidden compartment in the side of the table. He opens it and slid out a book from inside it. He blew the dust from the cover, gave it a sarcastic glance and showed it to Molly. Upon the cover were the words; 'How I did it – by Jack the Ripper'. "Wow!" Molly gasped.
After a few more moments of idle talk which, in all fairness, was pointless; Sherlock started to pack his pouch of tools. Another whisper. "Smart arse." It was definitely John; but mocking as it echoed even more. Sherlock grimaced, his hand throwing themselves to his head. He knew he had to calm down.
His teeth clenched as he tried to shoo away the whispers as quietly as possible. "Get out." Sherlock quickly regained composure and what little was left of his sense of dignity. He was about to rush off; back to Baker Street, back to the safety and privacy of his own flat. "I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you."
"No, please – insult away!" Lestrade insisted.
Sherlock grabbed his tools and turned to leave when the mocking whisper returned; "You forgot to put your collar up!" It was almost laughing at him now. More echoing.
"The… the… the corpse is… is six months old; it's dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale..." Sherlock displays the screen of his phone to Lestrade "...a week ago."
"So the whole thing was a fake?" Lestrade seemed a little disappointed by the result.
"Yes." Sherlock wanted to be out of that room then and there.
"Looked so promising!" Greg sighed. Sherlock was gone. He needed to be somewhere private.
He shrugged off the whispers as remorse, guilt, not enough sleep and not enough nourishment. It would be fine after he had a good night's sleep, had a decent meal and talked to John.
It will be fine. Won't it?
…
Ok, I know this is just copying the excellent writers at the BBC at the moment, but it has a point! It is an important scene and what this fanfic is based on; so that unfortunately means some copying (Sorry – I PROMISE this will be the only instance of that in this fic! Swear on my life!)
That's the nasty defence of my actions out of the way (sorry about snapping, it's pretty late at night). Hope you forgive me and read the next chapter and maybe review; reviews are good and greatly appreciated. Please, please, please let me know what you think! :)
