A/N Re-reading this chapter, for some reason, is painful for me. It's not particularly bad, I guess, just... nnrgh. Whatever. Enjoy!
Thanks to Sylvia Griffin3, Natalie Nallareet, & ThePhoenix'sSong
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
[2/10]
"The British Museum."
John couldn't believe it. All of that, the guilting (whatever Sherlock wanted to call it, there was no denying what its true identity), the pestering, the long taxi ride that he sat through in eager suspense- and then they'd stepped out to be greeted by a rush of fresh, cool autumn air, a scattering of pigeons, and the towering structure that was familiar to any London visitor or resident.
"Yes, a nice architectural design, isn't it?"
"You brought me to the bloody British Museum."
"Well, it's not just a pleasure trip, you know," Sherlock shot back, a hint of irritation beginning to creep into his low voice- and it was completely without its source, John thought furiously. He couldn't honestly expect cheerful willingness when he'd just heavily implied danger in the mission they were on, only to turn up here. "There is a crime scene- oh, look, they've blocked off the whole place."
Indeed, if one would look through the throngs of people mulling about, it would be to see an impressive quantity of police tape plastered across every entrance to the place. Sally Donovan assumed the same position she had the first time Sherlock dragged John to a crime scene- poised on the other side of a yellow tape barrier, walkie-talkie in hand, leaning slightly against the museum's stone wall and watching them approach with a sort of bemused disgust on her face. She also gave the same acknowledgement of their arrival into her communicating device- but with an addition that John didn't fail to notice: "Freak's here, brought his pet along."
"Excuse me?" he found himself asking, torn between offense and disbelief.
To his amazement, she didn't look the least bit perturbed. Instead, she slipped in a low "don't fool yourself that you're anything more to him" as Sherlock lifted the tape and the two of them stepped through.
"Be nice, Sally," Sherlock chided, and she rolled her eyes.
John stared at the ground, watching his feet take each step forward. Don't fool yourself that you're anything more to him. He was so intent on this that he hardly heard Sherlock's quiet murmur.
"You know..." his voice was caught in one of those rare moments of awkwardness, of humanity. John glanced up, puzzled, to see the other's face turned away slightly. "You, well... I don't... think of you as a pet."
He realized that they'd both stopped walking. "Okay," he said slowly. "Not a pet. I'm flattered."
"No, I mean... you're... my friend." Clearly, the words were costing him, and John couldn't keep an incredulous expression from coming over his face, though whether it was in response to the words he was hearing or the tone which they were being spoken, he didn't know. This is ridiculous. It shouldn't take someone this much effort to say this. But why does it feel like such a heavy compliment from him?
"Are you implying that you actually care about someone?" he asked, keeping his tone light, amused. But Sherlock only looked more uncomfortable than ever.
"John-"
"Sherlock, you came!" At the sound of Lestrade's voice, Sherlock's face closed over, became as cold and impassive as ever.
"I said I would."
"Yeah, well..." The Detective Inspector was breathing a bit heavily (he had clearly hurried over to greet them), his dark, puppy-like eyes moving back and forth between Sherlock and John. "You might've run into something on the way... dead squirrel on the road that implied the assassination of the Prime Minister..."
John stifled a chortle. Indecent. Your girlfriend's missing. Act like you care, for God's sake. He ignored the pressing thought of Sherlock's earlier words, about how caring didn't, and would never, help. It was true, in a way. Caring hadn't helped Sherlock at the pool. If he'd been able to run away before that laser had found his forehead, when John had been holding Moriarty back... of course, then he would probably be the only one alive right now...
"Just show me the crime scene."
"Right." Lestrade nodded hastily, then turned left. The other two followed quickly. "It was in the special exhibitions area, only here for a couple of months."
"Tell me about the diamond."
"Well, it's big-"
"How big?"
"Ten carats, uncut. Not the hugest thing we've ever seen, but still has its value- but here's where it gets tricky."
"The curse," Sherlock murmured.
"Yeah. So, there's a legend that the gem can see into the soul of each person to set eyes upon it. And then they'll experience either good or bad luck from that day on for the rest of their lives, based on how pure their spirit is. Rubbish, but the crowds love it. Which is a bit bizarre... so many modern Londoners convinced that their souls are all sparkly, I wouldn't be so-"
"This is it?" Sherlock cut in as they had arrived before a single, empty glass case. It was small, John observed, a little over a cubic foot, perhaps. A simple, wine-colored velvet cushion lay inside. It was the only exhibit in the whole room, and roped posts clearly meant for crowd control ran back and forth before it.
"Yeah."
"So..." He slipped under the ropes and stepped up to the case as Lestrade ushered out the other policemen in the room. John stepped up to Sherlock's shoulder and watched both of their faint reflections in the glass. Sherlock's eyebrows were drawn together in concentration as he muttered to himself. "They move along quickly, stare into the thing for five, ten seconds, let it evaluate their soul" -his mouth quirked up a little there- "and then move along so the next person can have a turn." Then his voice rose. "And there's nothing here at all, you're sure?"
"Of course," Lestrade promised from the other side of the room, where he was standing back and watching warily. "Nothing at all."
"John, I need gloves."
John opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. No use. He plodded over to Lestrade, who, grinning apologetically, fished a pair of thin, blue latex gloves out of a box in his coat pocket. John tossed them over to Sherlock, who caught them one-handedly, eyes not moving from the case. He pulled them on as John returned to his side, and instantly began to feel the case- its corners, the hinged back (which was shut with a small, inconspicuous padlock), the plain wooden pedestal that it sat on.
"How long has it been here?"
"A month, I think."
"It was uncut?"
"Right."
"And was it ever taken out for cleaning, or inspection?"
"Every morning, before the crowds came. They liked putting the extra shine on it."
Sherlock didn't reply, but instead set about running his fingers over the padlock. Then, in a quick movement, he jerked it open. "Nice of you to take care of that, though it would have been useful to know the numbers it had been set at-"
Lestrade swore under his breath. "Unlocked? I told them not to touch anything!"
Sherlock froze, his pupils dilating slightly in the glass reflection. "And you're sure they did? The lock wasn't set to open?"
"No, definitely not... we checked the numbers, even if we didn't touch it."
His frown now slightly more pronounced, he resumed his inspection of the case, now opening the door and removing the velvet cushion from inside. There was a faint depression in it where the diamond had undoubtedly rested, its dark edges crisp against the paler hue of the rest. Replacing it, he set everything back in place, observed the clear glue securing the glass to the wood, poked at it with his fingertip, and then stepped back.
"Interesting," he murmured, "very interesting."
"Well?" Lestrade prompted.
"The cleaner. Every morning. You have a tape of him?"
"Yeah, a tape of him coming in and finding the thing empty. It disappeared before this morning. Sometime in the night, though the guard didn't seem to know a thing about it... and it is on twenty-four hour surveillance, yes, but-"
"I need those tapes, Lestrade. Bring them to my flat, I can't think with all these policemen around."
"Well, yes, all right, but did you find anything?"
"It was theft," Sherlock murmured.
"Yes, of course it was-"
"Somebody non-superstitious, obviously, even you could have figured that much out... but he was none too careful..."
"What do you mean, none too careful? There's nothing here, nothing!"
"That's what the cleaner wanted you to believe. He's in on it, but..." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the line of glue again. "...Unwillingly... ah, I see. Yes. Well, someone came in late last night, working for a boss, nicked the gem, and ran out. The tape's been fed a loop, clearly. But he's done a messy job, the boss isn't satisfied with it... so he sends in a second one to do the rest of the work. He replaces the case and the pedestal because the first mucked them up so much. He isn't perfect, either, but that makes sense, because he was nervous, so he probably came in closer to the morning... it also would have been getting lighter if things were that close, which of course would result in some jitters, museum opens at ten o' clock, everyone must come on at least a couple of hours earlier, including cleaner boy- that's when he 'found it,' and... the security system on this thing really is awful. Unless... ah, there we are. A security man- probably the night guard- and the cleaner. There you go."
"And you're just going to leave it at that," John muttered.
Sherlock smirked. "Of course not, if you care to hear the reasoning."
Lestrade rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall, watching with an air of bemusement.
"This entire thing" -he gestured towards the case and pedestal- "has been replaced, that's clear by several things. For one, the padlock is new, set to the right combination but stiff, shiny, sharp. Stiffness also goes for the hinges on the case. If it was removed for cleaning every day for a month, then they'd have loosened up by now. On the cushion, a clear imprint where the diamond rested, but the cleaner boy is a nervous man, his hands would shake slightly when handling the diamond, and it wouldn't always settle into the same place like that. There's no need to replace all this if all you're going to do is take the diamond- in fact, it would be safer not to. So, clearly, someone came in and made a messy job of it. Yes, it was early at night, because the glue's already dry from when the second one, the cleaner boy, had to clean things up. When he- a security man, it had to be, for everything to be this neat and tidy with the system, he clearly just shut it down- when he reported back to his boss and his boss saw what a mess he'd made of things, another man, doubtless the cleaner boy, was sent in to replace everything, though it took him a while to set it up. He clearly did so before he brought the whole thing in. But he was nervous, you can see that in the shaky glue lines- his hands were trembling rather absurdly, because it was getting close to dawn and the arrival of the other staff. This is quick-dry glue, but not that quick-dry, because it's very strong. It's ten, ten-thirty now, so he must have finished up polishing everything off just around when others were about to come in- let's set it at twenty minutes before. About seven-thirty, he was done and got out of here, just in time. Security man tied it all up into a neat little package, and now everything looks perfect. So find out who was on security last night, and the cleaner boy, you've got them. The only question," he added to himself in an undertone, "is who they were working for..."
"So, that's it, then?" Lestrade asked. "You expect us to arrest them?"
"Yes, of course. And ask them who they did it for, see if you can squeeze a few words out of them... easy case, I wish you hadn't wasted time calling me in."
John couldn't help a wisp of a smile from condensing on his face. Sherlock never failed to amaze him, no matter how 'obvious' he considered things to be. The Yard was lucky to have him as a consultant. And I'm lucky to have him as a friend...
"Now." Stripping off the gloves, Sherlock tossed them back in Lestrade's direction- the DI just barely caught them- and tucked his hands back, comfortably, into the pockets of his trench coat. "What about Sarah Sawyer?"
John's stomach jerked violently, and his eyes widened as he looked back and forth between the two men. Sherlock tossed him a rare hint of a grin.
"I can send you what we have," Lestrade sighed wearily.
"Excellent. John, shall we?"
Pausing only to cast an apologetic glance Lestrade's way, he hastened after Sherlock, a bit confused by the sociopath's apparent and rather sudden show of heart. He hadn't reacted at all, really, when John had first told him about Sarah, so why care now? He glanced sideways at the taller, dark-haired man as the two of them paced down the museum's front steps. He seemed as impenetrable as ever, his pale eyes slightly unfocused, the edge of his bottom lip pulled in slightly as he bit at it, his hands deep in his pockets, so that the sleeves bunched up slightly around the edges. One lifted out, fingers stretching out in a wave as he signaled a taxi. How was it that he could be like that, almost kind one minute, then, the next, behaving as though he didn't even have a companion?
Odds are, you'll never understand him, John thought to himself as the taxi that had been beckoned pulled up at the curb. But that doesn't mean you can't- Sherlock let himself in first, pulling the door shut behind him. John stood there for a moment, disbelieving. When there was no change, he yanked it open again and slid in, scowling at the other, who was smirking faintly, his face turned to the window.
"What was that for?"
"What was what for?"
"You shut me out."
Sherlock shifted to face him, still wearing that little smirk, and twitched his shoulders slightly in something that may have been a dismissive shrug. "But that didn't stop you from coming after me."
To that, John had no retort.
