Chapter 2 – Visiting Hours

The ride to the station was silent, and besides carrying out the booking in procedure, Lestrade seemed reluctant to break the silence, but eventually of course had to.
"Alright, you know the procedure probably as well as I do. Do you have a lawyer or anyone you'd like to ring before they pull you in for questioning?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in questioning and then lowered it. "Oh of course, they won't let you question me because you're too close to the subject. Not that there is much point in questioning me, we both know the answers; No I didn't do it, and Yes I probably could prove it, but not the way you want me to."
Lestrade couldn't help but smile a little at that, despite the situation. "Sounds like you don't need a lawyer, knowing it all already."
"Obviously. Oh but I will take the phone call though."
Lestrade grimaced slightly.
"Technically the phone call allowance is only to contact legal representation."
"I'd say being the British Government makes Mycroft 'legal representation', don't you?"
"Well then, go right ahead." Lestrade said, gesturing to the phone on the wall and taking a few steps back to give him a little privacy.
Sherlock nodded and took up the phone, leaning against the wall as he held it to his ear and dialled. His brother answered on the 3rd ring, as ever.
"You never phone if you can avoid it. What's happened?"
"Well you know prisons, still stuck in the 20th century with their one phone call policy."
Sherlock could practically hear his brother rolling his eyes the other side of the phone. "Sherlock." He groaned in exasperation. "What did you do this time?"
"Not what they think I did. Unfortunately I find myself without a viable alibi." Sherlock informed him.
"I see. I'll review the security footage you appear in, see if I can assemble a timeline for-"
"That's not what I'm asking" Sherlock cut him off, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Lestrade had kept his distance, and lowering his voice. "I want you to erase any information regarding where I was last night."
"Sherlock? Are you asking me to cover up a crime for you?"
"Technically not a crime, just something I'd rather not come out."
"Hmm." Mycroft replied, and Sherlock could almost picture him poring over the file Anthea had no doubt just placed in front of him, efficient as she was. He would know any second, but Sherlock knew he could count on his discretion, and of course censure. "Oh Sherlock. Of all the women and all the days. What will John say I wonder?"
"Don't you dare Mycroft! I'm trusting you to ensure he doesn't find out. Through the wrong means at least; if she chooses to tell him that's her choice, and you will not take that from her." Sherlock spat, beginning to regret his decision to involve his brother. But if he hadn't, he was sure Lestrade would have at some point.
"I was just referring to your pending prison sentence." Mycroft answered with mock innocence. "What will you tell him when he asks?"
"I'll deal with that when it comes to it. All you need to concern yourself with is the deletion of those files. Now if you'll excuse me I believe there's a cell waiting for me." He went to hang up the phone but his brother's voice called him back.
"Sherlock. Before you go; does Mary know of your current predicament? You said it would be her choice to tell John, but are you allowing her to make an informed decision? She does seem to care for you somewhat, do you really believe she'd abandon you to prison?"
Sherlock hesitated a second, his hand subconsciously shifting to the still pink scar of the bullet wound on his stomach.
"I believe she'd do anything to protect her relationship with John. She may care for me 'somewhat' but she cares for him far more. Now if that's all..." He hung up the phone with no hesitation this time, and turned back to Lestrade, who leaning against the wall playing on his phone had apparently heard nothing, or nothing of significance at any rate.
"Any good? He gonna come down here and sort it all out for you?" He asked hopefully.
"I wouldn't count on it." Sherlock replied, falling into step with Lestrade again as he led him further down the corridor and into a bland, uniform looking cell.
"But he's your brother! Surely he must care that-"
"'Caring' is something Mycroft tries not to do." Sherlock reminded him.
"Well yeah, but you can't tell me he doesn't care about you, I've seen it too many times not to believe it." Lestrade stood his ground.
"Perhaps. And that's why he's doing what I've asked of him, and nothing more."
Lestrade shook his head, turning to leave, and lock the cell behind him. "I never will understand you Holmes brothers."
Time moved slowly in the prison cell, even with his brief questioning breaking it up. Boredom threatened to tear his mind apart, making sleep elusive. So he disappeared into his mind palace for the night. They hadn't given him a lot of information about the murder he had supposedly committed, but he sorted through the facts he did know, drawing a few conclusions, but nothing that would be a strong enough support for his case, and nothing that could solve the real one without more data. It was a dead end.
He tried to avoid thinking about what had happened with Mary, but the night was long, so it was inevitable. There had always been a small spark between them, nowhere near as strong as the one between her and John, but it was there. She was smart, daring, and read him like a book, while still managing to keep her own secrets. He'd stumbled on that combination only once before and it had tempted him then. But under normal circumstances, Sherlock would never have acted on his interest, even if she weren't married. It was the wine that was their downfall. Surprisingly potent, even after a good meal, it had lowered their inhibitions just enough for them to make a mistake. Even now he wasn't sure who had really started it; had she turned their banter into flirting, or had he misread her friendly nature and taken the step further? Did it really matter when they'd both been willing participants in the end?
He was so deep in his mind, replaying the earlier part of the evening to see where things went wrong, that he didn't hear his cell being unlocked and anyone coming in until they spoke.
"Sherlock?"
John's voice was certainly enough to startle him out of his mind palace, sitting bolt upright on the cot and staring at him with wide eyes.
"John! What are you doing here? I um... Thought you were away. Doctory stuff."
"I was coming back today anyway, but got the first train when Greg called." John explained, looking at his friend with concern, while Lestrade nodded behind him.
"Ah, yes of course. Lestrade. How is the case coming?" He inquired, trying to buy himself time to get his head together, or at least away from his previous thought pattern before facing his friend.
"What case?" Greg shrugged bitterly "They have your prints, a CCTV match and you don't even have an alibi. As far as the Yard is concerned that's case closed, just waiting for a trial date. I haven't the authorisation to investigate further, that's why this is where you'd come in if you weren't in a cell. If you'd just tell us where you were-"
"Sorry." Sherlock cut off his ranting, sitting up and leaning back against the wall.
Lestrade angrily turned away, giving John a this-is-what-I've-been-dealing-with look before letting himself out and leaving John alone with Sherlock.
John's jaw set in resolve, and he marched forward, grabbing Sherlock's wrist in a firm grip and yanking his sleeve up, checking his arm for fresh marks. When he found none, he checked the other arm, a little gentler this time, then examined Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock remained passive until he was done, then asked coldly "Satisfied, Doctor?"
"That you're clean, yes, but that's not the real issue is it?" He sighed, seating himself beside Sherlock on the bench, "So what's going on, Sherlock? What were you doing on Friday night that you can't tell the police? I don't believe it's that there is simply no-one to confirm it, Mycroft has pretty much all the surveillance in the country at his command, he could back up your location at the very least." He paused, waiting for Sherlock to fill him in, and was surprised to find Sherlock silent, looking determinedly away from him.
"Sherlock?" He tried again, seriously concerned now "Come on, you know you can tell me anything? I know I may not have handled the whole drugs thing to well in the past, but this is different... You're on murder charges Sherlock, that's, what, 10 years minimum, for a crime you didn't even commit? What could be worth that?"
Again, Sherlock didn't answer, and John felt a pit of dread settle in his stomach. Sherlock had shot Magnussen in front of at least a dozen witnesses, a SWAT team no less. When he was set on a course of action, he didn't care who knew and what they thought of it. For him to suddenly care, worried John more than anything else could.
"Okay, so you really don't want the police to know, fine. But could you at least tell me? I'm your best friend, and I've... Done regrettable things myself and withstood everything you've thrown my way so far. And I am seriously worried about you right now, and just want, no, need to know what's going on with you, and if there is anything, anything I can do to help."
"I think you should go." Sherlock finally reacted, still not looking at John, and if the thickness of his voice was anything to go by, fighting back tears.
John jumped out of his seat, turning to face Sherlock and holding up his hands in a peaceable gesture. Sherlock's request broke his heart, but he wasn't ready to give up on him yet.
"Okay, okay, I'll stop asking, but please... Let's just... Let's think of another way to get you out of this mess, eh? If we can't prove it wasn't you who did it, we'll just have to prove who did, right? I mean you must have some idea where to start. And I'll be your eyes and ears to the outside world, it'll be just like those cases where you couldn't be bothered to leave the flat, but without skype."
Sherlock let himself face John now, his face it's usual emotionless mask, yet 1000 emotions seemed to flicker behind his eyes. Finally they set on resolve, the twinkle of a case to solve coming back into them, as a small smile crept up his cheek.
"Fingerprints." He stated, a clue and challenge for John.
"Fingerprints" he echoed "They said they found your fingerprints on the scene."
"Yes, but they didn't say what they didn't find."
"Aaaand you've lost me already."
Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance, a good sign that he was back in the game.
"They said they found my fingerprints, but they didn't say if they found both sets. If someone else is using my fingerprints to commit crimes, they must have lifted them somehow, most likely from a glass, either stolen from Baker Street or a cafe I visited, most likely Baker Street, as it's be less likely to have contamination from other prints, but either way, that would only give them one set of prints."
"So?"
"So, the victim was bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat. If you was going to kill someone with a baseball bat, how would you hold it?"
John shifted his stance, his hands subconsciously shifting as he pictured it in his mind. "With two hands." He said cottoning on.
"Precisely, maximise the force of the swing. If the prints implicate me in the crime they'd have to be on the bat, and if the perp put them there it would only be one set, he could have fashioned a glove with my prints that he wore on his right hand, and a normal glove on his left to avoid leaving his prints as well." Sherlock explained.
"That's fantastic, so we just need to tell Lestrade about the prints, he'll check the evidence and you'll be home free." John concluded, but Sherlock shook his head.
"Oh John, as if it were that simple. You think I wouldn't have told them already if that were the case? Missing prints is not enough to prove my innocence, plenty of crime scenes don't have complete sets of prints; as long as there are a few it's enough. No, we need to find the person, and preferably the glove he used to leave my prints."
"Yeah about that, how does someone make a glove of your fingerprints anyway? A bit sci-fi isn't it?" John pointed out.
"Oh yes, but entirely possible." Sherlock replied "They'd just need to create the mould of my prints then cast it in some kind of flesh imitating gel or wax, then attach the products to the glove. That means whoever it was must have some kind of engineering or design background to make the mould in the first place, that narrows the field a little, and then there is their apparent grudge against me. Either Lestrade or Mycroft should be able to give you access to the records of those paroled or released from prison in the last 6 months, and those I helped put there. Start there and see if any of them match the profile."
"Right, I'll do that." John nodded, a little relieved to have something to do that could help Sherlock. "You just wait here, and I'll take care of it."
"Well I'm certainly not going anywhere." Sherlock smirked back, making John laugh a little as he made his way hesitantly out the cell, as though reluctant to leave his friend behind. Sherlock kept smiling until his friend disappeared, then the mask dropped into a grim expression, leaning forward on his knees and hanging his head in shame. John's concern for him had been almost more than he could bear, he'd prefer it if John had shouted at him, maybe even hurt him as he probably deserved.
Only a few minutes later he heard footsteps approaching his cell, and the door opened. Mary stepped meekly into the room, thanking one of Lestrade's young officers who had let her in. They both waited until the door closed again, before Sherlock spoke up.
"Does John know you are here?"
"I saw him in the lobby, he's talking to Lestrade. He text this morning saying he was coming straight here from the train station, and why. I left Charlotte at The neighbours and came straight down. Sherlock I... If I'd known, I would never had asked-"
"I know." Sherlock looked her straight in the eyes.
"Thank you." She almost whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. Sherlock simply nodded, and Mary tried to pull herself back together. "You'll get out of this, I'm sure. John is pretty determined to find the guy himself, and I'll do what I can. And if worst comes to worst we can always break you out of jail." She attempted to joke, though the smile didn't reach her eyes.
"And then what?" Sherlock returned her humourless smile.
"Go on the run I suppose."
"You know that's not what I mean." He chided her gently. "What about us? You, me and John."
"We carry on, as we did before. As friends." She shrugged.
"Do you really believe our friendship can survive this?" He asked earnestly.
"I don't know, I hope so. I don't want to lose either of you, and I never meant to come between you and John. I guess I've made quite a mess of things." She admitted looking down at the ground.
"No. We have." Sherlock corrected. Her eyes rose to his again, and she nodded once, before turning to leave.