John kept his expression open and polite. It was his doctor face, honed by years of working with patients who were crazy, senile, liars, or all three.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
Mr. Giles ran a shaking hand across his forehead. Bleak, blue eyes looked back at John, the lids red-rimmed, and beneath them, dark circles sank deep into his wrinkled skin. Exhaustion or emotion or both bleached the butler's complexion to clotted cream and John hastily stepped forward to catch his elbow as he swayed sideways.
Thankfully, Mr. Hiddleston's assistant noticed the old man's distress and kindly offered them access to an empty meeting room. A corner of the spacious office contained a full service tea cart, complete with an electric kettle and individually wrapped snacks. After making sure Mr. Giles was seated comfortably at the mahogany table, John plugged the kettle in and sorted through the wide selection of biscuits. Alas, there were no Jammie Dodgers to be found.
He handed the trembling butler a steaming cup of chamomile tea. Hopefully, it would take the edge off his anxiety. Tea always made John feel better. Over his five-year friendship with Sherlock, he'd consumed gallons worth of PG Tips. Investing in stock might be a good idea really.
"Take as much time as you need," John said with a smile.
The elderly man nodded, huddled over the steaming cuppa.
Sherlock stared out a wide window, hands shoved into the pockets of his long, black Belstaff coat. Water slid down the large pane partially obscuring the view of the city. The rain alternated between a soft patter and thunderous downpour, as if it couldn't seem to make up its mind.
John made tea for himself and Sherlock, taking care to add a generous amount of sugar for his friend. The man could use the calories. Settling for the ginger biscuits, John placed the tray onto the table where Mr. Giles sat sipping his tea.
Picking up a second packet of biscuits, John tossed them at the back of his friend's head. Sherlock's hand shot up and he snatched the missile out of the air a second before it could hit its mark. A wide smirk reflected clearly in the window.
"Nice catch." John shrugged off his disappointment. "You need to eat."
Sherlock turned around and stuffed the biscuits into his coat pocket. "I'm working. You know my rule."
Yes, John did know the rule. However, the rule was stupid and bound to get Sherlock hospitalized one day. Sure, a few medical articles indicated a possible link between improved cognitive focus and intermittent fasting, but Sherlock took it too far, like he did with most things. Honestly, it was like trying to herd a cat sometimes.
"At least drink your tea." He slid the cup across the table.
His friend rolled his eyes, but took a seat and accepted the tea without further argument.
Good. Their little exchange had succeeded in distracting Mr. Giles. His breathing had steadied and the color had returned to his face.
Sherlock leaned forward and smiled. "So. Tell me about the murder of Rebecca Frost."
The old man's brow furrowed. "Why are you smiling?"
John winced. "He's just pleased you're looking better than you were out in the lobby." He shot a warning glare at Sherlock, who made no effort at all to agree or even school his expression into something less gleeful. "Why don't you tell us what happened?"
The butler took a shaky breath. "Ms. Frost came down with bacterial pneumonia ten days ago. She was always a bit frail. When she was a child, an illness damaged her lungs making most physical activity impossible. It's why she turned to music. This particular virus hit her hard. Doctor Bingley, her primary physician, gave Ms. Frost an injection of antibiotics and over the next three days, she appeared to improve, her appetite and strength returning. Her breathing was still labored, especially at night, and supplementary oxygen was necessary while she slept."
He took a sip of tea. "Last Friday, I came into her room to see if she needed anything before I turned in for the night. Manuscript papers lay scattered across her comforter. She enjoyed working while in bed, but they weren't normally in such disarray. When I approached, she turned on her side and whispered, 'Someone is trying to kill me.' Her words were slurred. I thought she was half-asleep and experiencing some sort of night terror."
"Did she have a history of nightmares or sleeping problems?" John asked.
The old man stared into his tea cup as if an answer lay hidden somewhere in the dregs. "No, I'd never seen her like that before. I told her not to worry, that it was just a bad dream. She relaxed and nodded off. I left the door cracked. Whenever she was ill, I slept in the room across the hall from her in case she needed my help.
At 3 o'clock in the morning I woke to an odd beeping sound. Once I gathered my wits, I realized it was coming from her room. I hurried inside and found her in bed. She wasn't breathing. I called an ambulance, but by then it was too late."
His voice hitched. "She was already gone."
"Were there any signs of a struggle or disturbance in the room?" John asked. Often people jumped to strange conclusions at the sudden death of a loved one and Mr. Giles was clearly suffering from lack of sleep, not to mention emotional trauma.
"No, nothing like that. Her skin was still warm to the touch when I found her and the room was exactly as I had left it."
"Did you discover the source of the beeping?" Sherlock asked.
Mr. Giles shook his head. "I believe it stopped shortly after I arrived in Ms. Frost's room, but I'm not certain. I confess I was distracted by the arrival of the medics and the ensuing chaos."
Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Aside from Ms. Frost saying someone was trying to kill her, what has you so convinced she was murdered? What aren't you telling me?"
Mr. Giles hesitated. "There were tears in her eyes, dripping down her face. So much so, the ink smeared on a piece of music she'd been in the middle of composing."
Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and sighed. "You'll have to do better than that."
The butler leaned forward. "Ms. Frost never cried a single tear in the twenty years I knew her. She thought crying was repulsive and a sign of weakness. Furthermore, she never would have allowed her composition to be damaged in such a manner. She took great pride in her work."
"What did the coroner say?" John asked.
Mr. Giles stiffened. "He said her medical history made it clear she died of respiratory failure caused by a sudden relapse of her pneumonia. I doubt he did a thorough examination."
John resisted the urge to shrug. Some viruses could go latent for a few days before coming back with a vengeance. Bacterial pneumonia in particular was known for its tendency to be resistant to certain antibiotics and often resulted in chronic infection. The second bout was often far more dangerous than the first.
"Why aren't you going to the police?" John asked.
"And risk the media finding out? They'd have a field day. No, this needs to be resolved quietly. I want Ms. Frost remembered for her life, not her death." His blue eyes glittered with unshed tears. "She wasn't just my employer for the last twenty years. Ms. Frost was my family and my dearest friend. Please tell me you'll find whoever hurt her."
John glanced at Sherlock. The man's face remained impassive. So, it was going to be up to him then. He always got stuck with this part. Trying to tell a distraught person there hadn't actually been a murder and that they needed to seek out a different kind of help was awkward at best. At least Sherlock hadn't called the client a moron and stormed out of the room.
He pasted on his doctor face once again. "Mr. Giles, we truly appreciate you contacting us." He paused, searching for the kindest words possible.
"And we'll be taking your case," Sherlock finished.
John goggled at him. Why on earth were they taking the case? It wasn't even a murder.
The butler's shoulders sagged. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Holmes."
"I'll need to examine Ms. Frost's room."
"Of course." Mr. Giles pulled out a pocket planner from the inside of his coat and set the tip of his fountain pen against a page. "Would tomorrow at noon suffice?"
Sherlock failed to respond. He was far too busy staring out the window. A blot of blue ink blossomed across the paper. The butler stared at Sherlock for a moment before finally turning to John.
Well, Sherlock didn't have any social engagements which would interfere. If it weren't for murder cases and his refusal to cook, the man would never leave the flat. John checked his own calendar on his mobile. He had a date scheduled with Abigail tomorrow, but it wasn't until early evening. He couldn't imagine it taking very long for Sherlock to determine the case wasn't really a case. It was beyond him why Sherlock was bothering to waste his time on it in the first place. Perhaps the detective was deeply moved by the old man's sad story.
Right. And Mycroft was the Queen of England.
"Noon tomorrow should work just fine," John said.
The old man penned in the appointment, then pulled out a sheet of monogrammed stationary, and wrote something down on it. He passed the page to him and the parchment caught on the dry skin of John's hand, releasing a fragrance which smelled faintly of pine. Unbelievable. The stationary was scented. People actually spent money on this sort of thing. Of course, Sherlock had all his clothes personally tailored, so nothing should surprise him at this point. He glanced down at the paper. Mr. Giles had written the manor's address on it. It was located in West Sussex, roughly an hour away from their flat.
Sherlock stood, flicked up his coat collar, then strode out of the room. No wave or word of goodbye. He didn't even bother shutting the door behind him.
Mr. Giles gazed at John, his expression bewildered. "Was it something I said?"
John cleared his throat. "No, no. Sorry. He's just busy thinking now, working on the case as we speak."
God, that sounded lame.
A faint smile spread across the butler's face. "I can see similarities between Ms. Frost and Mr. Holmes. The brilliant ones are always a bit strange, aren't they? She had all the appliances in the house tuned to the key of A. That way, if the phone, microwave, or doorbell were to go off at the same time, the resulting sound remained harmonious. I grew rather fond of her quirks over the years."
Mr. Giles' smile faded away. "I truly appreciate you both taking on my case. I know you'll find whoever is responsible."
"We'll do our best to find out the truth of what happened."
John shook the old man's hand and then hurried from the room. His friend had been known to desert him.
The moment he stepped outside, the heavens burst open and buckets of water sheeted down. He was soaked in a matter of seconds. Wiping the rain out of his eyes, he spotted a cab across the street.
He ran across the road and opened the door. Lo and behold, there sat Sherlock, fiddling with his mobile. As soon as he slid inside, the cabbie took off, headed in the direction of Baker Street. It would be wonderful if they actually made it home this time. He shifted in his seat and his water-logged shoes squelched against the floor.
Sherlock glanced at him. "You know, if you'd left when I had, you would have avoided the downpour."
"If I'd left when you had, I would have very rudely abandoned an old man in an office." He shot an accusing glare at his friend. "He's already confused enough as it is. Why do you insist on encouraging him?"
Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and gave John his full attention, pale eyes assessing him. "You don't think it was murder."
"An elderly woman with chronic respiratory disease contracts bacterial pneumonia. There are no signs of a struggle or forced entry. Sounds like natural causes to me."
"Based on those facts alone, I would agree with you, but you're not seeing the whole picture."
"What am I missing then?"
"There were oddities in Mr. Giles' account of what happened. Her warning. The beeping noise. Her tears."
John threw his hands up in the air. "She could have had a bad dream. He could have had a bad dream. And, Sherlock, human bodies do odd things when they die. Tears aren't abnormal."
"Those are all very reasonable explanations for what Mr. Giles described, but they're not the only possible answers. There may be more to the story than meets the eye. Only first hand data can provide a final answer regarding her death, be it natural or not."
John sighed. "Fine, but you better not make me late for my date with Abigail."
"I wouldn't dream of it. You'd have a very upset woman on your hands, and your subsequent efforts to appease her would distract you from our case. Inefficient."
John shook his head. "I'd be the one upset. You haven't even met her. Abigail is laid back."
"I don't need to meet her, to know her. The photograph on your mobile tells me more than enough. Besides, this is your seventh date."
"What does it matter?"
Sherlock stared at him. "She's a thirty-seven year old pharmaceutical rep. Agnostic. Owns an orange tabby cat. Travels frequently for work. Responds to your text messages in under three minutes. Besides your early dinner reservation at The Wolesely, she's arranged for a classic film marathon at the Prince Charles Cinema for the two of you tomorrow evening."
"I told you about the last one. Do you have a point besides showing off?"
Sherlock sighed. "You won't be leaving the cinema until after midnight."
"So?"
"How can you possibly be so thick and still be alive? The cinema she chose is across the city from our flat. I expect it's only a few blocks from her place. She intends to invite you in for dinner."
He blinked. Oh. A slow grin spread across his face. "So, I'll be enjoying two dinners then."
The first would involve actual food, while the other, well, wouldn't. Although Abigail did fancy chocolate.
"You'd better wear something other than your horrid jumpers. She has a wool allergy."
John studied his friend's stoic face. "You're just making stuff up now."
Sherlock shrugged. "You'll find out sooner or later."
They fell silent. The only noise came from the purr of the cab's engine and the pelting of the rain against the windscreen.
He cast a sideways glance at his friend. Sherlock had to be taking the piss out of him. Abigail would have told him by now if she was allergic to wool. He'd worn a jumper to every single one of their dates.
John's smile returned, wider than the first. Sherlock had a possible case to distract him, while he had an excellent evening to look forward to. Things were looking up.