Author's Note: I don't own Elementary, or any of the characters here-in, nor do I own the original Sherlock Holmes's works from which these were inspired. Also, slight warning for a rather descriptive explanation of a corpse below, so if that is not your cup of tea I suggest you skip this story. Critiques and criticism are always welcome, enjoy the story!
Chapter 1: Moon River
The phone beeped at three twenty-seven in the morning. Most people would ignore a beeping phone, but in the brownstone a beep could be the only warning before something caught fire, exploded, or overflowed. Joan groaned, and rolled over before reaching blindly for the phone. She nearly knocked it off the bed side table as she grabbed it with one hand and reached for the switch for her bedside lamp with the other.
"Watson!" Sherlock's voice was piercing even with him being over two flights below her, but his footsteps on the landing were louder. She managed to click on the light just before he knocked. Holmes was a man constantly moving between two polar opposites, stricture structure and unstructured chaos. Still he was a man of habits; so, as always, he knocked twice before throwing open the door without so much as a sound from her. "Ah, good, you're awake."
"Sherlock, it's three a.m." her voice was scratchy with sleep and she had to push her hair out of her face to get a clear look at him.
"Your ability to observe the obvious is astounding, Watson." He didn't bother to look at her, instead focusing in on her closet and throwing clothes onto the bed. "I am sure you are also aware of a text message you received within the last two minutes."
"And you expect me to believe that wasn't from you?"
"Why would I text you when I could simply walk up two flights of stairs?"
"I don't know, maybe because it's three in the morning." The sarcasm in her voice was biting, eyes narrow in annoyance. Her fingers shoved away the covers as she looked at the fact that he had thrown out two shirts, one tank top, one pair of jeans, and only one sock. She sighed as she straightened the clothes out as he was digging through her shoes.
"Repeating yourself will not make me more likely to sympathize with your sleep schedule, Watson." He pulled out her sneakers, or as he called them trainers, and considered them for a moment before thrusting them back inside and pulling out a pair of ankle high black boots instead. Joan checked her phone, noting the text message was from Gregson asking them to meet him a mile and a half down river from the Brooklyn bridge, on the Manhattan side, "Besides crime never sleeps, Watson."
"Apparently neither does Gregson."
"Yes, most unfortunate that." He said as he was looking at her expectantly, and she shot him her coldest glare before he promptly walked to the doorway and turned his back to her. He was tapping his fingers impatiently against his elbow as he leaned against the doorjamb, "It would appear to be something of a delicate matter if Gregson has been called in at this time of night, and it must be of some unique circumstance if he's also calling in our assistance."
Joan threw on her shirt and began pulled herself into the jeans he had thrown out for her. "Any idea what we'll be walking into?"
"No," he threw the word over his shoulder as Joan managed to find another sock and pulled on her boots.
"Not even a guess?"
"No data, it is bad form to theorize before you have any evidence. It biases judgment." He turned around as she finished zipping up the other boot and was about to grab for her brush and make up when he grabbed her elbow. "No time, I already called a cab."
"Sherlock-"
"You look fine, let's not keep the good Captain waiting." He quickly moved down the stair, letting go of Watson's elbow so she could trail behind them. As Watson made it to the landing she heard the two distinct beeps of a cabbie horn, Holmes assisted her into her coat before donning his own. "Best grab an umbrella, it looks like rain."
"Let's hope it's not rain, and that the crime scene has coffee."
It was rain, when they entered the cab it was misting, and by the time they reached the crime scene it was pouring. Joan opened her umbrella as they exited the cab, Sherlock paying the cabbie before joining her beneath the cover as Gregson hurried up to them. He handed them both gloves that they immediately put on.
"Glad you could make it, I was about to wrap everything up here." The captain said, as he moved them through the ticker tape, giving orders to a few of the cops to keep the news van that had driven up away from the scene. "We've got a tarp over the area when the rain started, but if you can make this quick Holmes -"
"Don't worry about your crime scene, Gregson." Sherlock replied, with no small amount of arrogance, "It is obvious the victim was found in the river and thus most of the evidence is gone already."
"Yeah, this way." He led them both over to an area between two large flood lights. The bright white light mixed with the lights of the four patrol cars lining the scene and made it all look rather eerie, faces changing from white, to blue, to red. There was a large blue tarp outlining a certain area of pavement, and it was there he was bringing them.
"Alright, lift it up so we can show Mr. Holmes what we got." said a voice to their left, and Joan realized instantly it was Detective Bell. It seemed he didn't sleep either. Three officers quickly raised the tarp showing them their grotesque prize.
"We got a call around two this morning, a transient saw some one dump something into the river and went to grab the nearest police car. The local patrol found this." Gregson said, indicating a rather large blue trunk. "And we found her inside." He pointed to the obvious sign of attention, the body of a woman. "White female, age mid-thirties, brunette. That's about all we have on her until we get her to the lab."
"Any description on the suspect?" Sherlock asked as the tarp was rolled aside and the lights directed over the scene.
"No, just his car. Black, four door sedan, nothing else." Gregson replied.
Joan and Sherlock leaned over the corpse, she was deathly pale from having quite a large amount of her blood drained. Her body lay face up on another large blue tarp, eyes still open, but unfocused and facial expression neutral. Joan touched one arm, noting that rigor mortis had already passed. Across her torso and mainly her breasts were a series of gashes and slashes, everything from puncturing to superficial. The rest of her body appeared untouched as they both examined her.
"We're thinking the perp was enraged, judging by the fact he stabbed or slashed her at least 15 times. We'll get a full count at the lab." Gregson explained, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He had gotten up and began to pace, his eyes on the corpse in front of him as he circled her. Joan remained kneeled, looking over the wounds.
"Obviously she hasn't been in the water very long, no sign of bloating. There is a slight blackening to the end of her fingers, so I would estimate time of death between two and three days. Let me know if your coroner agrees."
Gregson nodded as Sherlock stopped at her ankles and leaned over again. "She's been bound, before death judging by the bruising. Was she still bound when the trunk was opened?"
"No. No sign of anything holding her, just shoved in. No blood either, so obviously she was killed someplace else." It was Marcus Bell who answered him this time as he watched Holmes pick up his pacing again. "She was also nude, no personal effects found in the trunk either."
Sherlock nodded gravely, his left forefinger tapping against his lips as he made another circuit around the corpse. Then he stopped, and quickly went prone, making him eye level with the side of the victim's torso. Head tilting in concentration. "Her breasts have been removed." He said after a moment.
"Are we looking at the same body here, Holmes?" Gregson said as he crossed to stand by the consulting detective. His eyes on the body beneath him, and confused as he stared down at her.
"Not the mammary nor the fat around it, obviously." Holmes explained after a moment, reaching out a gloved hand to lift the breast and expose a pair of crescent shaped cuts where the breast met the rib. "It would seem our victim had implants, and our perpetrator felt need to remove them. Then used the marks to try and cover it up" He looked down, gazing at the body of the woman before he pointed to a particular wound on her right side. Tt did not fit with the rest as it was between two ribs and was far enough removed to be a good six or seven centimeters from the nearest gash on her chest, and much more precise than the several gashes around her breasts. "I am guessing that wound there is the ultima ictu, the rest were done post mortem."
Sherlock stood up again, gazing down for more information as he and Gregson began speaking in a rushed conversation. "I am guessing you've already had a rape kit drawn up?"
"Yeah, but with her being in the water we're not expecting much." Gregson replied as the crime scene photographers began taking photos of what he had pointed out.
"And nothing at all was found with the body?"
"Some blood under the fingernails, we already retrieved that and sent it back to the lab, but there is a good chance it's her own. Also a bit of dirt on her feet that we did a scraping of."
"Good, if you'd give me the reports on the findings there it would assist me greatly."
Joan was barely listening, her eyes focused in on the face of the woman. "I think I know her." Joan said suddenly and everything around her hushed, as she gazed down at the face. Sherlock crossed to her, kneeling down beside her. "I've seen her on television, doesn't she run a cooking show?"
Sherlock stared down at the face for a moment before pulling out his phone, and quickly bringing up a search engine before pulling up a photo and placing it beside her. "I believe we have ID'd your victim, Captain. Paula Aberdeen, host and chef of What's Cooking Tonight."
Joan frowned, something else was catching her attention now. She lifted a hand and pulled away the hair that had been plastered by the water. There it was, "Sherlock." He turned back to her again, pocketing his phone as she pointed to it. "There's a gash here, corner of the mouth."
"So there is," He leaned close enough that his nose almost touched the corpse's cheek before he pulled a small pen light out of his pocket and thrust it toward Joan. "Take the torch, and I'm going to get her mouth open."
"Are you sure that's necessary?" Asked Bell, but Sherlock merely waved a hand dismissively before shoving his gloved hands against Ms. Aberdeen's teeth, and pulled open the jaw with little resistance.
"Now, Watson, if you would please." He held her jaw open and head leaned slightly back as Joan leaned over to get a better look.
It only took a few moments before Joan found what she was looking for, her brows pinching as she shone the light a few more times before sitting back. "Her tongue's been cut out."
"Yes," replied Sherlock "Yes, it has."
The crime scene was cleared, and Sherlock had insisted they come along to notify next of kin despite Joan's instance. Sherlock Holmes's ability to understand that a victim's grief was zero, and Joan felt a head ache coming on before they even reached Ms. Aberdeen's upper east side apartment.
"Apparently she has a live in boyfriend," Sherlock explained as he was still using his phone to search for information on their victim. "A rather mousy man who works in IT by the name of Richard Cummings. They've been paramours for almost five years if this is to be believed."
They stopped outside the rather new construction apartment complex. It was rather distinct with it's wave shaped balconies and couture shops on the bottom floor, as well as the rather large glass doors leading to the apartment proper. They were quickly allowed in and led to the tenth floor where Ms. Aberdeen's apartment was. They had only knocked once before the door came bursting open and there was the face of a their man. Mr. Richard Cummings was every bit as mousy as Sherlock had said, his brown hair was combed over, face gaunt and unshaved, his clothing rumpled and eyes darkened by lack of sleep. When he saw Detective Bell's uniform he paled.
"Are you Richard Cummings?" Asked Detective Bell.
"Yes, uh, I'm Richard." His voice was as mousy as his appearance, and it wavered with nerves
"I'm Detective Bell, with the NYPD, and these are my associates Ms. Watson and Mr. Holmes. We need to ask you a few questions." Bell waited a few minutes and Richard quickly let them in.
"Uh, sure. Just follow me." He led them down a rather wide corridor to a large living space, the walls crisp white with matching white floor tiles. Joan's heel clicked against them as her eyes took in the space. It had two recesses around a rather large television, the recesses painted gray with a white repeating circular outlines, a waist high lemon tree sat in one recess, while the other held a beautiful golden statue of Buddha in the lotus position. The place was expensively furnished, and felt barely lived in with very few personal effects. A sheepskin rug sat under a mahogany table and around it were low backed white leather seats, two recliners and a three seat couch. He offered them the couch before taking one of the recliners himself, his body language all the more tense as he sat forward in the chair and his eyes on Bell.
Bell seemed equally tense, it was easy to see next of kin duty was not his preferred job. "I'm here for inform you that the body of Paula Aberdeen was found this morning near the East River."
"Oh god," Richard paled more than either of them thought possible, Joan stood immediately afraid he was going into shock, but he let out a stuttered breath and seemed to regain himself.
Joan slowly sat back down as Detective Bell continued. "When was the last time you saw Ms. Aberdeen?"
Richard was still pale, shaking as he looked down at his hands. He swallowed loudly before responding, "A week ago," and Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"You two were living together, yes?" Sherlock's vocals were sharp, as he looked down at the man in his chair. "You are going to have us believe you haven't heard from her in a week?"
"We, uh, we had a fight." He stuttered out as he tried to shy away from Sherlock's intense gaze.
"Why don't you just tell us what happened, ok?" Bell said, encouragingly and shooting a look at Sherlock that had him backing away from the man. Richard nodded slowly, before continuing.
"We were at the Saint Joseph's Charity Ball, I didn't want to go but Paula insisted, said that we were expected to be there and it would be bad for the show if she went alone." His words stopped and started, at times stuttering and Joan felt bad for him. "She spent the whole night with this dark haired guy and I finally had enough. I told her I was done with it, I was going home. She laughed at me, told me that I was over reacting, but I told her I'd had enough. Every time we went to one of these functions she was just. . .not Paula anymore. Anyway, she said if I wasn't willing to support her then maybe she just wouldn't come back home at all. I didn't think she was serious until she didn't come back that night."
"And you haven't heard from her since?" Bell asked, suspicion obvious in his tone, but Richard didn't seem to notice it.
"No, I mean. . .she did this before, right before the show aired. I thought it was just that she needed some time alone." He was nervously ringing his hands now, his eyes averted
"Has anyone seen Paula since then?" Sherlock asked, his gaze causing Richard to pale again.
"No, I-I called some of her friends, but none of them had heard from her."
"You didn't file a missing person's report?" Bell pressed.
"No. I was worried but I figured she told her friends to not tell me if they'd seen her. I never thought -" He lost it then, head in his hands as he shook with muffled sobs. Joan frowned up at Sherlock. It was enough to keep him from pressing until he had calmed down.
"We found a blue trunk at the scene, did it belong to you?" Sherlock finally asked, voice clearly showing irritation.
"A blue trunk?" Richard parroted, before shaking his head, "No, we never had anything like that."
Sherlock nodded then as Bell rose up and informed him he needed to come down to the station to make a statement. He didn't argue and soon they were downstairs, but Sherlock stopped outside the patrol car. "Go ahead, Detective Bell." He said, his hand on Joan's elbow stopping her, and a slight tug keeping her by him. "We'll head back to the brownstone. Tell Gregson to email me the test results when he gets them." And with a tug he began walking them down the street, Joan almost having to jog to keep up with his sudden pace.
"What the hell was that about?" She hissed at him as he finally slowed down and let go of her elbow.
"Well it should be as obvious to you as it is to me that Mr. Cummings was lying about the trunk, if not about everything else. We are going to wait until the detective leaves and then we're going back to that apartment."
"We're going to break in?" Joan's voice was venomous, eyes narrowing at him.
"Yes, now if you'd please stop attempting to appeal to my morality with your gaze and follow me , we can do so without being interrupted." With that he turned and began marching back the way they came, giving her a few moments to decide before she hurried along after him. "The point of being a consulting detective, Watson. Is that we can do things outside the official capacity in order to find and catch criminals, and that sometimes means doing things outside the scope of the law. The sooner you get rid of your puritan ideal of good the better it'll be for both of us."
Joan rolled her eyes as he opened the door for them both and started the trek back up to the tenth floor.
