Chapter 2.
A dark haired woman in a white lab coat was seated at a bench, small partially filled vials filling a large tray beside her. She carefully pipetted liquid from each vial to a large sterile container.
She rolled her shoulders and glanced discreetly around her. All together, there were nearly a dozen people engaged in the same tedious task. Ordinarily, there would be one more, but a friend of the woman had come down ill.
She wondered about her friend. Despite the lab coats and clean surroundings, most people working in the room were homeless. Like her, they had been enticed off the streets with a promise of warm shelter from the cold and food.
Although her friend was the only person working at the lab who had a regular job and a place to live, he seemed to prefer the lab to his lodgings. A quiet, gentle man named Chris Cullen with some mental challenges, he was on the janitorial staff of a local research hospital. He saved up parts of his lunch from the cafeteria for her, presenting the bags like flowers. The bits of sandwiches and fruit gave her far more pleasure than any vase of roses could.
In the past week, Chris had unusually begun to question the nature of the lab's work. He was responsible for gathering the used vials from the hospital where he worked.
Rather than empty the hospital's small bins of used vials into waste disposal skips, he put their contents instead into bags which were brought to the lab. The skips were filled with bags containing other rubbish. He'd been told that the vials were being taken for research purposes. Given his relatively low understanding of all things medical, that explanation had sufficed for quite a while. Over time, however, the surreptitious way bags were moved to vans in the hospital garage began to weigh on him.
"I don't think what they're doing is right," he'd whispered one night the week before to the woman. "My mother used to say that if something looked wrong, it probably was. I think taking the bottles from the hospital may be wrong. What do you think?" he'd asked beseechingly.
The woman had only shaken her head warningly, shushing him. The lab supervisor was looking their direction with a frown.
"This is a good thing," she hissed. "Don't ruin it for everyone."
Remembering that conversation now, the woman felt a strong sense of unease. Chris had failed to show up at the lab for two nights running. She was desperately worried for him, but could not summon the courage to breach the well-enforced silence between the workers and their supervisor to ask after him. But she couldn't suppress the fears that whispered through her brain.
What if Chris had been right? Were they all in danger? Had something happened to him? As these thoughts flitted through her brain, her hands continued their movement of vials from tray to container to bag. She turned slightly to glance again at the door and her hands stilled. The supervisor was glaring at her. Her stomach rolled.
"No," came Sherlock's voice behind the door of 221B. A piteous squeak was heard in response. John smiled, leaning against the doorframe to eavesdrop.
"No," said Sherlock again. This time the answer given him was barely audible.
"And…nope," Sherlock drawled, popping out his 'p'. Only a hiccup could be heard in response. John sighed and opened the door to help rescue whatever poor soul was on the receiving end of Sherlock's recalcitrance.
As he'd expected, Sherlock was seated in his usual armchair. His legs were crossed and his face was set in a smirk. John looked right to see the victim standing next to the sofa.
He was a small, greyish man, overdressed for the day in a formal suit and bow tie. He was holding a black suit and cummerbund out. A pile of similar choices rested on the coffee table and sofa. John blew out air as he realized that the man must be a stylist, probably sent by Mycroft to prepare Sherlock for his big day with the Queen.
The man's face was crumpling but, overall, John was impressed that he was still on his feet. Clearly, he was in no way prepared for the onslaught of contempt that Sherlock could unleash on anyone deluded enough to tell him how to dress or what to do. He had no idea who John was, but still looked toward him as a beacon of hope.
"Hello," he said shakily. "I'm Peter Lutton."
"John Watson," John nodded. The man's face brightened.
"Oh, Dr. Watson! I should have recognized you. I read your blog. It's just wonderful," the man beamed.
"Er, thank you," John answered. "Are you here to…?" he left Lutton an opening to explain.
The little man drew himself up. John was reminded of a puffer fish and had to force down a laugh.
"I am here to prepare Mr. Holmes for his audience with Her Majesty. I specialize in providing instruction and style advice for persons meeting with royalty." He leaned in a bit toward John. "It's so important that protocol be followed, you know. All of the details and customs must be observed or, or…" the man stuttered as Sherlock interrupted.
"The sun will stop turning and the world will burn," he said sardonically.
"Sherlock, stop crucifying this poor man," John chided. The behavior he'd witnessed had been relatively mild, but John could imagine the abuse Sherlock must have heaped on the stylist to bring him to tears. "He's right, there's probably lots of things about meeting royalty you don't know-".
"Or care about," Sherlock muttered.
"But should," finished John. "Do I need to remind you that this is your life at stake here?"
"Hardly," Sherlock answered. "If my life depends on which knee I go down on before her holiness…".
"Highness," hissed Lutton, scandalized. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.
"Or even that I get down on bended knee at all, I may as well shoot myself now."
"Yes, well, be that as it may, you promised. And I'm holding you to that so..." John stepped over to the pile of clothes, picking up two suits from the top. "Pick one."
"No." Sherlock said.
"Do it, or I call your mother." John's voice fell into his Captain Watson register, leaving no doubt that he would follow through on his threat.
Sherlock adopted a swallowed-a-lemon expression but sighed and waved a hand langorously toward the suit in John's left hand. "That one," he said grumpily.
"I'm thrilled, Sherlock, really," John said sarcastically, then handed the suit to Lutton.
"Oh, thank you so much, Dr. Watson," he effused. Turning to Sherlock, he said, "I'll have this tailored to your specifications within days, sir. Shall I come back on Thursday?"
"Come back?" huffed Sherlock. "I never agreed-".
"Yes," John cut him off. He put a hand on Lutton's shoulder and guided him to the door. "That will be fine, Mr. Lutton. I suggest you leave now, though. He gets fussy when he hasn't had his nap."
Sherlock gave him a look of pure menace, but whatever he planned to say in response to John's jibe was interrupted by the ringing of his phone.
"Lestrade?" he snapped into it. After listening for a few seconds, a broad smile broke out over Sherlock's face. "A murder," he mouthed toward John. Lutton grew pale and scuttled out the door, leaving behind his collection of rejected suits. John pointed at them and rolled his eyes at Sherlock, who just shrugged.
The call ended and Sherlock leapt from his chair to gather up his coat and scarf. "Barely a six, John, but better than waiting here for Mycroft to inflict some other form of housebreaking on me. Let's go."
"I just got here," John protested. "It's freezing out and I was hoping for some tea." He knew it was hopeless, though, so was already following Sherlock out the door as he spoke.
"Cleaner at a hospital found in the parking garage. So far, so ordinary. But this cleaner was anything but ordinary." They left the building and Sherlock stepped to the curb to hail a cab. "He was developmentally disabled, IQ of 85. Not exactly a criminal mastermind."
"So?" asked John, sliding into the back seat of the cab which, as always, seemed to magically appear as soon as Sherlock required one.
"They found drugs in a bag in his locker. All in vials, most nearly empty. But collectively worth 50,000 pounds."
"He was stealing drugs from the hospital," John said. "Not that uncommon, really. Granted, that's a large quantity, but it's not impossible for someone to smuggle out that much in dribs and drabs. Happens a lot with narcotics, sadly."
"But these weren't narcotics, John," Sherlock said. "They were for treating cancer, chemotherapy agents and the like. Not exactly street drugs, nothing you could easily peddle. Selling them would take a sophisticated operation, not the kind of thing within reach of our victim."
"Maybe he didn't know what he was involved in. Got suckered into taking the drugs, or blackmailed?" John mulled.
"Or maybe he did know what he was involved in," Sherlock answered. He turned his phone toward John so he could see its screen. On it was a photo of a note. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the words were few enough to be quickly deciphered. It read: 'They use them. Taking this. Help."
"He left a note?" asked John.
"He left more than that," said Sherlock.
"What?"
"More precisely, he didn't leave something that should have been there." The cab pulled up at the entrance of a hospital parking garage. Police cars littered the curb. Sherlock was out of the cab before it had come to a complete halt.
John sighed, paid the cab fare, and followed. There were times when Sherlock's devotion to being enigmatic was more trying than others, and this was such a time. It had already been a long day and John had yet to have tea. Sometimes, he just wanted a straight answer. Sadly, one didn't seem to be on offer. With Scotland Yard in attendance, Sherlock would be relishing his opportunity to withhold information, the better to make for a dramatic reveal. John trudged up to Sherlock and Lestrade, who were already deep in conversation.
"We searched his locker and found this," Lestrade held out a mobile phone. Sherlock reached for it.
"Oi! Gloves on," shouted Philip Anderson, the forensics examiner on site. Anderson had suffered from a bad case of hero worship for Sherlock for a time, but had seemingly recovered.
"It hardly matters," Sherlock said disparagingly. "You've already ruined the evidence."
Anderson colored, but didn't argue. It was true.
"Anderson tried to unlock it and failed, thereby costing us any access to its contents," agreed Lestrade. "Why in the hell…oh, never mind. It doesn't matter now." He looked resigned.
Sherlock just smiled. "Yes, because there aren't any fingerprints on hand to open the phone once some idiot has locked it down by exceeding the number of allowed attempts at a password, is there? Good work, Anderson, as always."
"Yeah, that's the weird part," Lestrade responded. "No fingertips to use." He led Sherlock over to the body of Christopher, the janitorial attendant. His fingers were missing.
Sherlock bent to examine the body, muttering something to himself which sounded disturbingly like 'inspired'. He was patting down the man's pockets when a black Jaguar pulled up to the crime scene.
"Christ," breathed John, spotting the car. "Sherlock," he said. No answer. "Sherlock," John repeated sharply.
"What?" snapped Sherlock, turning. He caught sight of Mycroft's assistant striding toward them. Anthea, or whatever her name really was, looked apologetic but determined. She stopped in front of Sherlock, not sparing a glance for the dead man at his side.
"Mr. Holmes, you're needed," she said.
"Yes, that's why I'm here," Sherlock responded calmly. He turned to Lestrade. "No video footage of the garage?" he asked. Lestrade shook his head, pointing toward the shot-out camera mounted on the garage wall.
"Now, Mr. Holmes," Anthea repeated.
"No," said Sherlock. "Go away and tell Mycroft to do something creative with his umbrella for me, won't you?"
"We are going to the palace. Your presence is mandatory," Anthea continued. As she spoke, two large men in dark suits climbed from the Jaguar and started for Sherlock. Behind them, Peter Lutton collapsed against the car, fanning himself, eyes fixed on the body.
John stepped between Sherlock and the well-dressed goons, but Lestrade intervened to defuse the situation.
"Oh, go on then. Nothing more to do here anyway. Call me when you have a chance and let me know your thoughts," he said.
"Don't bother," Sherlock bit out at Anthea. "I'll tell him what he can do with his umbrella and his demands myself." Sherlock rose from his position next to the body and stomped off toward the car. John hesitated.
"You too, Dr. Watson," Anthea said.
"Can I tell Mycroft what he can do with his orders too?" asked John facetiously. Anthea just smiled and led the way to the car.
"Who the hell is Mycroft? And how does he get to tell Sherlock where to go like that?" asked Anderson, sidling up to Lestrade.
"He's Sherlock's big brother. As well as the man who runs most everything in England, to hear Sherlock tell it. Not someone you'd want to cross, though Sherlock does his best to try." Lestrade watched the Jaguar pull away then turned back to Anderson. "But I run this show, and I say back to work!" he barked at the surrounding crowd of police who'd stopped to watch the showdown.
As the officers bagged up the body of Christopher Cullen, a small dark-haired woman pulled her head back around the corner and disappeared into the night.
