They exited the pub, stepping into the dark London evening. The wind swirled up and attacked exposed skin; John shivered, drawing his hands up in his sleeves and hunching his shoulders, trying to keep the biting cold off his neck. Steve didn't seem bothered, or at least didn't show it. John supposed that kind of behaviour was part and parcel with growing a beard.
Steve raised a hand, and a cab glided smoothly to the curb. For a second they both stood, motionless, before Steve gave John a strange look, as if asking why he was simply standing there. John huffed a bit before he clambered in; this was what Sherlock usually did, under the excuse of his height making it more difficult for him. That's bollocks and you know it, Sherlock! It's simple science, John. John grinned, then stopped after Steve gave him another questioning look. John quickly focused out the window on the building opposite.
Steve slammed the door shut and called the address to the cabbie. Chewing something, the cabbie nodded and mumbled a few indecipherable words before putting the cab in gear.
John gazed out the window, watching the blur of dull, textureless color that rushed by. Steve was quiet, perhaps looking out as well. The silence grew as the seconds went by, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. John started tapping the armrest with a finger, then realised it was absolutely the loudest sound in the car and stopped. After what was probably a full three minutes John turned towards Steve and cleared his throat. "So…where are you staying in London?"
Steve, in fact, hadn't been looking out the window; he had been scrolling through his phone, and didn't look up when he answered John's question. "I'm staying at my sister's. Where do you live?"
Oh, so this was going to be one of those back and forth conversations. "Baker Street."
"Baker Street? That is quite close to the scene. Afford the rent on your own?"
John shifted in his seat. "No, I live with someone."
"A woman?"
"What? No, not a woman! A flatmate. His name's Paul."
"You don't like him?" Steve put away his phone and leaned back, peering at John through the foggy, square lenses of his glasses.
"When did I say that?" John asked, a tad on the defensive.
"Well, you're face was hardly cheerful when you mentioned his name. It's easy to dislike a flatmate, if they're difficult to live with."
John bristled. Steve was perceptive, he could give him that. Of course, John could simply have an extremely readable face. It was true; he didn't exactly feel fond of Paul. He'd moved in about three months prior, the seventh of flatmates that John had gone through in the past two years. John usually put in ads for collage students studying abroad; at the very least it guaranteed that they wouldn't stay for long. A few months were usually the maximum. Paul was from Belgium, and was quiet, studious and reliably tidy. He paid his rent on time, washed his mugs the very moment he finished his tea, and spent about ninety percent of the day in his bedroom. He was, unequivocally, the easiest brand of person to flatshare with. And yet, somehow he still managed to be phenomenally irritating.
"No, he's easy to live with." John said slowly. "A nice bloke."
Steve tilted his head. "Then why—"
"Boring as all get out." John interrupted. "But nice."
"That bothers you?"
"It…he always seems like he's living his life on a schedule. At ten, he boils water. Eleven until five, he studies. Five, he eats something canned, then he studies some more. Six, calls his mum on the phone, talks about his day, though I don't know why he wouldn't just play a recording of his voice repeating the same damn conversation into the phone, it would save him time." John shook his head. "It's like living with a clock."
"A clock."
"Yes. A clock that pays rent."
The cabbie spoke up. "I once 'ad a flatmate who thought 'e could pay rent with a clock. A grandfather clock. Said it was worth twice the amount, all I 'ad to do was fix it and sell it. I told 'im I'd clock 'im if he di'nt get the gawdawful thing out my 'ouse and my rent to me in the next hour. 'E's livin' with 'is mum now."
There was a brief and somewhat shocked silence. "Did he pay his rent?" Steve finally asked, after visibly struggling to think up a proper response to the perplexing narrative.
"Nah. Never got the clock, neither, and I swear, I never—"
"Oh! We're here, aren't we?" Steve said jovially.
The cab pulled over to the curb. Steve made to get out of the cab, before remembering to reach in his pocket for his wallet.
"Don't worry about it, Steve." John searched for his own wallet. He felt like he should treat the cab ride; after all, the man was taking him along to his work after talking to John once. At a pub, no less.
The cab had dropped them near a car park. They set off for it, walking quickly. John could see the familiar activity of a crime scene near the front of the lot; he recognised the buildings behind from the newscast. The crime scene itself was a mass of police cars, evidence markers, and tape that was flapping wildly in the stiff wind. A small wall-less marquee protected the area—though the snow had, by then, stopped falling—and was lit by bright spotlights set up along the sides and the headlights of the cars, since the sun had gone down hours before. Investigators milled about, scarves wrapped tightly and coffee cups clutched in shivering grips, while pedestrians passing by slowed down every so often to gape at the sudden grim change to the normally bland scenery.
Peering past a few detectives as they approached, John could see the victim, lying on the blacktop in a small dark pool. No longer covered in the sheet, John saw that it was a small man, on his back, in jeans and a dark coat.
"John!" Lestrade looked surprised, striding over from where he'd been talking with another officer. "What're you doing here?"
"Was around. Thought I'd say hey." John didn't want to elaborate, but he still needed an explanation for the man silently standing a few paces back, surveying the crime scene with interest. John nodded in his direction. "Met Steve here, and we shared a cab. He's an Inspector from Dublin."
"Oh?" Lestrade smiled and held out his hand over the police tape. "Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector. You working on this case then?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes." They shook hands, after Steve had flashed his badge to another inspector, who had been eying him suspiciously. "This mans Irish, I believe?"
"Samuel O'Neil. Shot to the head."
"No need to update, I received information already from the station." Steve reached inside a pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded sheaf of paper, a stamped police insignia visible in the corner. "Real estate agent. Shot to the head, most likely a rifle with scope, long distance. The best guess we have is a hired gun."
"Really?" Lestrade said with interest, crossing his arms.
"Yes." Steve flipped through the papers. "A few idle threats from different people over the past few years, but none particularly distinctive. The man had a habit of doing more then paperwork with his client's wives, despite having one of his own."
"Oh, well." Lestrade glanced back at the body. "That narrows it down a bit." His phone rang, and he took it out and glanced at it. He looked relieved. "Finally. The shot came from northwest, from what we could gather. So I suppose it could have been from one of those buildings." He nodded to a row of apartment buildings across the lot. "I'll have some men search them top to bottom."
"Would we be able to look at the body?" Steve asked, looking up from his papers. John started. We? He glanced at Steve.
Lestrade looked just as surprised as John felt. "Well…" He looked at John, then the body. "Actually, John, I did need to ask you something about the bullet wound. My ballistics investigator's off heaving in a bucket, and he's apparently too far gone to check his damn phone. I figured your background gave you experience in that type of thing."
John laughed. "Army surgeon. So, yeah, a little."
"Not normal protocol, but then, when did I ever follow that. Think you could make a rough guess at the calibre?"
"Well, I could try."
"See, you're already making more effort then my officer. I bet he turned off his phone, the bastard." Lestrade lifted up the tape so they could pass under.
They approached the body, and simultaneously knelt at its side. Lestrade handed Steve a pair of gloves, which he pulled on without looking, after taking off his own and stuffing them in a pocket. John didn't receive any for himself, but he expected as much; him passing the tape was already pushing it. He contented himself with leaning over the man's head, studying the wound, and under his request having Steve turn it on its side so John could see the exit. It was massive compared to the entrance. "I can't be positive on it, Greg. It was a far shot. Forty, maybe? Defiantly up there."
"Guess it'd have to be." Lestrade's phone rang again, he walked away to answer it.
"You were an army surgeon?" Steve asked curiously, twisting the head back to its normal position.
"Yes, I was."
"Iraq?"
"Afghanistan."
"Oh." Steve was now staring intently at the wound on the man's head; small, precisely in the center of the forehead, skin burnt dark around the edges. "Detective Inspector?"
Lestrade clicked off his phone and walked over. "Greg, please. Did you find something?"
"Did you have a chance to gauge the angle of the wound?"
"No, we didn't, not yet." Lestrade seemed surprised. "Usually that's left for the coroner."
"Well, you should really do it as soon as possible, considering your men are going to be searching the building in a moment. Every minute counts, regardless of how long it's been." He turned to John. "Do you have a pencil?"
"A pencil?"
"Or anything of the same shape, really."
"I have a pen." Lestrade handed him a blue ballpoint. "You aren't going to stick that—"
Steve promptly stuck it directly in the bullet wound. Lestrade sighed.
Steve pushed the pen about halfway in. It stuck out at an upward angle. Taking out his phone, he tapped on it for awhile, and John was confused until he suddenly held it to the man's head, and realised he'd downloaded a digital protractor. "Detective…" Steve paused. "Greg. Do you have another pen?"
Lestrade looked around, aghast. "Don't bloody well tell me you lost the other one inside the man's head!"
"No, no, not at all. I need it to calculate the trajectory. I suppose I could use the one in the head, however…"
"Oh, no, here," Lestrade quickly gave him another, red, pen. Steve used his papers to write on for a few minutes, thick brows furrowed in concentration, and John supposed he was doing calculations that he himself had forgotten since year twelve Physics. John got to his feet, still looking down on the body, and shook his head. Married…though he didn't seem to keen on the idea. He could possibly have children, though. John turned to Lestrade, who was just putting away his phone. "Did the man have family, at all? I mean, besides the wife?"
"Eh? Oh, yeah, I think he had a toddler." Lestrade looked tired. "Somehow the kids are always the ones left with the short end."
John nodded. He remembered his own childhood; his parents' constant battle, with him and his sister doing their damndest to keep smiling through tense meals at the dinner table. Of course, his mother never reached the point of placing a hit on her husband, but John wouldn't be surprised if she'd thought of it at times.
"The height, Greg?" Steve spoke up, crossing out a figure.
"Of the man? Five seven."
"And the distance from the apartment building?"
Lestrade had to make a call to his men. "Thirty six metres, give or take."
He went back to scribbling, crossing out, and more scribbling. John checked his phone for the time. Nearly nine. To be completely honest, he was a bit saddened when he saw no message or missed call from Cheryl. Must be really over, then. He put away his phone.
A few minutes later, Steve called Lestrade back. "The sniper would have had to have been between the third and sixth floor, most likely the fourth or fifth."
Lestrade relayed the information back to his team. Hanging up the phone, he gave a tired smile to Steve. "They're checking now. Thanks for that, afraid I wouldn't've been able to calculate that myself with a gun to my head." He paused. "Not trying to be funny."
"Don't worry, Greg, I probably forgot how to do it the moment I left high school." John thought a bit, then chucked. "Probably the moment I left the class."
Steve got quite a worried look on his face, and glanced back down at his calculations. "I apologise if I've made you two feel inadequate in any way."
Lestrade snorted. "Yeah. Don't worry, we're used to being made feel like idiots. At least…" He ran a hand through his greying hair and sighed again. "Anyway, the paramedics'll be coming to pick the body up soon. Listen, Inspector—"
"Steve Daniel. Steve." He stood, dusting off the knees of his trousers.
"Steve. Call me if you have any more info on O'Neil, or anything else." Lestrade searched his pockets, looking more and more frustrated until he finally pulled out a linty business card. He handed it to Steve, who took it, used the pen to scrawl the information down on his papers, then handed both the pen and the card back to Lestrade. "No point wasting them on me; doesn't seem you can really afford to spare them."
"Oh, cheers. Don't supposed I could have those papers, then?"
Steve tucked the sheaf back in an inner pocket and grinned, momentarily deviating from his professional air. "My only copies, Greg. Tomorrow I can send the information over, if you wish. Well, John," he said, turning to him. "I'm heading back to my sister's."
"Oh! Alright, then." He held out his hand, and Steve pulled off his gloves before shaking it. "Interesting case?" John indicated the crime scene with a jerk of his head.
Steve gave him a strange look, and John wondered if he was sounding interested to a degree that was worrying this man. He attempted to look more sombre. "Interesting enough." Steve let go and took out his mobile. "Oh heavens, look at the time."
"Past your bedtime?" John inquired, before he could stop himself.
"My sister gets her knickers twisted if I'm late coming in. Says I wake her up."
"Ah. Hey, listen, before you go," John said quickly, as Steve turned to leave. "Don't you think we should exchange numbers?" As soon as the words left his lips, he was struck by a vivid image of a lanky teen with unfortunate skin, stuttering the same brand of question to a bored girl. Oh, fantastic.
Steve looked ever so slightly suspicious, and he tilted his head to the side as he studied John closely, as if expecting him to fling out a feathered boa and burst into a Broadway song. "I mean," John added hastily, "In case one of us thinks of something? To do with the case?" Every bloody time…
"Well, I suppose. Might be a good idea." Steve started typing on his phone, though he still gave John a doubtful glance every once in awhile.
As soon as he relayed his number Steve hurriedly left, giving a wave to John that immediately turned into a wave for a cab as he reached the curb. John gave a half-hearted wave back, which he realised was pretty much pointless as he saw the cab tear away.
He sighed, though not from exasperation. If he was honest with himself, he would admit he felt almost refreshed, standing once more in the heart of excitement, even just for the day. A nice reprieve from the white fiberboard ceilings and paper covered beds at the clinic.
He's particular, Steve. John thought, finishing imputing his name in his phone. Nothing abrasive or necessarily dislikeable, but he certainly isn't neck deep in pleasantries and small talk. Though, living in Britain…he supposed that was a bit of a reprieve in itself.
John scrolled through his contacts, just to make sure he actually saved the information correctly and didn't misspell it Stebeor something. Yes, all in order. Though just when he was about to exit the contacts, he noticed the one just above Steve's. Quickly he turned off the display, putting the phone back in his pocket, and took one last glance at the half packed up scene before heading to the street to hail a cab.
Good evening ladies and gentlemen! Just a quick note to say that if I got any police/crime scene/body/cab/grandfather clock related information wrong, I'm truly sorry, I am not an expert in any of those things. I am also sorry in advance for any mistakes I make in the future. Thanks for reading, people! You're all awesome.