London – A flat around the corner on Montague Street, September 8 th , 2005
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
The annoying, persistent sound continued for at least ten minutes until a grunt came from the heap of dirty clothes on the sofa.A bony arm shot out of the heap and long fingers snatched the mobile from the coffe table and brought it under the bundle, the room becoming quiet once more as the ringing sound was dealt with.
An hour later, heavy steps resounded on the old stairs leading to the flat, the footsteps stopping at the open door. A disgruntled sigh followed and the footsteps resumed, the owner of said footsteps opening up the curtains to let light into the room which was followed by the window being opened to let fresh air waft into the space.
"How could you survive here? And when has been the last time you left this flat, by the way?"A scolding voice said, sighing again when there was no response.
The man checked the leftovers on the kitchen table, taking great care to not touch the mould growing out of the jars that had begun taking root near the spoiled food. Another sigh escaped the man's lips as he threw the person on the couch a very unhappy look. The place was a mess, as usual, and was starting to smell like a dumpster.
"Sherlock, I'm talking to you...Would you make do me the favour of not behaving like a grumpy fifteen year old and answer me?" The man's voice grew steadily louder as he approached the sofa, lifting the smelly clothes and reveal the body of an emaciated young man.
"Christ, Sherlock…Go and have a shower. We'll talk later…" The older man took a disgusted step back and let the other sit up and stretch.
"It's good to see you again, Lestrade…Is my dear brother so worried about me that he had to belittle himself so much to send his lackey to check on me?" The man named Sherlock sneered in a cool voice, his cat-like eyes narrowing as the light hit them.
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade would have loved to erase that mocking smirk from his face with a well delivered fist, but he knew that it would satisfy the boy too , he decided to simply ignore the boy's reply. Instead, he diverted the topic to what was more pressing at the moment.
"Shower first, Sherlock. Then we will talk about the case." Lestrade told Sherlock, sitting down in one of the cleaner parts of the sofa.
He didn't miss the interested sparkle in Sherlock's eyes and smiled as he saw the boy literally sprint to the bathroom, only to slower his stride a few seconds later. Sherlock didn't want to come off as too eager to hear the details of the case, but there was no fooling Lestrade. The only thing Sherlock loved more than a case was…well, nothing really.
"And make sure to use a good amount of soap, please!" Lestrade advised, the advice itself swallowed by the bathroom's door closing with a loud noise.
While waiting for Sherlock, Lestrade decided to be brave and inspected his fridge, a decision he soon regretted. He went outside and entered the first Pret-a-Manger around the corner. There, he bought a selection of sandwiches and a few bottles of fresh juices, hoping to find at least some tea and coffee at the flat.
When he returned, he found Sherlock sitting on the sofa, this time clad in a fresh , and without a doubt really expensive, bathrobe. The DI threw him a chicken and bacon sandwich and sat down in front of the young man, the coffee table's joints groaning with a complaint under his weight.
He waited for Sherlock to sniff at the food and take the first bite before taking a mouthful of his own tuna and cucumber baguette. For a few minutes, they ate in silence. Lestrade was the first to speak,"You need an housekeeper, Sherlock. Or at least a really accomodating and obliging flatmate."
"I don't need a flatmate" Sherlock responded in a curt voice.
"If it is because of Victor, I hate to repeat myself, but-" Lestrade stopped when he saw the defiant, yet tired look on Sherlock's face.
"You came here for a reason, didn't you? And it wasn't to make sure that I was fed and clean or to complain about my flat's state of tidiness, I'm sure." Sherlock said before taking another bite of his sandwich.
"Do you remember when I said that if you finally allowed yourself to be treated for your addiction and stayed away from drugs for a year, I would let you help me? Unofficially, of course." Lestrade asked slowly, watching the young man carefully.
He was sure Sherlock would suffer a whiplash as he lifted up his face from his sandwichso quickly that some pieces of chicken and bacon fell from his face.. The DI fought back a grin full of satifaction at his reaction and savoured the moment. It wasn't that often that someone could surprise the great Sherlock Holmes.
"If you've finished to bask into your moment of bliss…" Lestrade teased, watching as Sherlock put down his sandwich and leant his back on the sofa, his hands in a praying pose just under his chin.
Lestrade mimicked his relaxed attitude, finding a more comfortable position on the armchair. He s smiled and said, "You want me to illustrate the case, don't you? Well, I think you're familiar with the latin expression "do ut des". Tell me about that little errand that Mycroft entrusted you with and I will satisfy your curiosity."
Sherlock let out a huffy breath. The case that Mycroft had bestowed upon his shoulders had been both intriguing, to say the least, and mystifying at the same time. He zoned out for a minute, thinking about what had happended three days before.
Three days before
Chester Square, Belgravia, London - September 5th, 2005
Chester was one of, if not the most, expensive address in Britain. Most of his residents were wealthy owners with a foreign connection and the woman Sherlock was searching for, Mrs. Norton, was no exception. Wife to a rich american lawyer, she spent her days hidden away in her white stuccoed, terraced flat while a sequence of equally affluent men and women fought each other for the chance to have a meeting with her.
Dressed as a delivery-man, Sherlock Holmes waited patiently at the door chewing on a pen to make himself seem more convincing. Unfortunately, Mrs. Norton's assistant refused to let him in and Sherlock knew he had to try more drastic measures.
"One of my assignments is to receive and check her mail. There's no need for you to see her and deliver this package to her personally." Mrs. Norton's assistant said with a slight huff to her voice, looking down at Sherlock as if he were just a pest that needed to be disposed of.
"But the sender asked for it in their request! It's my first week on the job, ma'am, and I don't want to lose it. Please…" Sherlock whined, making sure to sound as distressed as he could and giving her what most would call "puppy-dog eyes".
Suddenly, a shadow appeared behind the woman and asked in a lithe voice, "Is there any problem, Louise?" The assistant turned and explained the situation to the newcomer. A second later, the door opened completely and a tall, dark-haired woman took a step forward.
"Well, I think he seems quite inoffensive, don't you agree, Louise? Please come inside. What's your name, boy?" She inquired, looking at him with an eyebrow raised.
Boy… Sherlock knew quite a lot about her just from his initial glance. She was just three years older than him, but she oozed such confidence and aplomb. He couldn't deny that she looked gorgeous, dressed in an elegant and sheer chiffon kimono that left very little to the imagination. The kimono had a deep slip that started mid-thigh to show long and tapered legs and the long neckline that put on display the curves of her breasts. The crimson silk, adorned by the Baroque-inspired floral print, flattred her pale complexion, and her black hair was gathered up in a sophisticated chignon.
"A-Adam. T-That's my name, ma'am!" Sherlock faked a stutter, still chewing the pen before lowered his gaze shyly.
"So, Adam, what is this package that you are so adamant to leave only into my hands?" The woman asked, her voice oozing sexual appeal and sultry promises.
Sherlock held out a small box wrapped in blue paper and offered her his pen and the register, "Y-Your signature, please, ma'am." They were now inside in the hall with the door shut behind them, the assistant giving Sherlock a wary look while the young man waited patiently. Sherlock watched Mrs. Norton write down her name before he tutted his disapproval, "No, Ma'am… You signed your name wrong."
The woman glared at him and asked, "What are you saying, boy? That I don't know how to write my own name?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the assistant entering one of the doors, probably to go alert the security. He knew he only had a short amount of time to get what he wanted out of the woman in front of him. Dropping his disguise, Sherlock looked at Mrs. Norton and watched her raise her eyebrow again in question.
"Maybe you just forgot your name…Ms. Adler." Sherlock mused, her surprised look making him smirk as she quickly recovered from her shock.
"Intelligence, a preference to disguise himself… Mr. Holmes the younger, I presume?" She answered with a question of her own, his stunned silence welcomed by a sweet laugh, "Is Mycroft that desperate that he had his little brother come to find me?"
Sherlock ignored the reference to his brother, as he usually did, and replied, "Your holiday is over, Ms. Adler. It seems your country requires you."
"Dr. Adler, please. I was a psychiatrist before MI6 recruited me. I spent five years helping a lot of people work thorough their problems before I discovered that I could help them in…Well, let's just say...in a more pleasurable way." She finished with a suggestive wink.
"Well then…Your expertise is needed, Dr. Adler." Sherlock said, ignoring the suggestive look she was giving him.
"And what about you, Mr. Holmes? Do you need my expertise, too?" She inquired, her gaze running down to his crotch and then back to his eyes, her lips pulled up to give him a smirk that held promises of pleasure.
He stared back at her before taking a step back. It was an eloquent answer and not one she received often, he was sure, if the look of surprise that flashed across her face was any indication.
"Well, it's a pity, Mr. Holmes…I'm sure we would have had a good time together. Who knows? Maybe one day you will take me up on my offer." Dr.. Adler mused.
Sherlock got close, one of his arm extending to retrieve the pen and the register and, in doing so, getting a whiff of her expensive perfume. The enticing fragrance titillate his nostrils and made his mind wander to thoughts he had vowed to abstain from. He distanced himself swiftly and, without realizing it, he put the pen back in his mouth and started to chew on it.
"Do you want a cigarette?" Dr. Adler asked, opening one of the drawers from the nearby bureau and taking out a pack of cigarettes.
"No, thank you, Dr. Adler. I don't smoke." Sherlock lied, his eyes darting to the cigarette pack quickly before back to her.
"Irene, please. And don't you start to lie to me, Mr Holmes. We are not so intimate as to start with the games...yet." Irene said as she closed the drawer, "You use that pen like a cigarette. And you eyed the cigarette pack as it were a glass a water after a long walk in the desert." Sherlock lowerd his gaze to the floor, disappointed at his own lack of control.
"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself…I saw the edge of a nicotine patch on your arm, too. The fact is, Mr. Holmes, that someone's either a smoker or a nonsmoker. There's no in-between. The trick is to find out which one you are and be that."
"Thanks for the advice, Doctor. It's been a pleasure" Sherlock expressed his gratitude and didn't wait for her reply, running out as he heard the security approach them.
Irene Adler looked smug as she watched her bodyguards following him outside, murmuring to herself, "Oh, it's been a pleasure indeed, Mr. Holmes."
"Sherlock? Hey mate, are you ok?" Lestrade's worried voice asked as it brought him back from his blinked and got up, "Mycroft's case? Boring as is everything concerning my brother. Now, your case, Mr. DI."
Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh. One day, he would win a battle of wit with that insufferable git that was Sherlock Holmes… Someday, but not today, clearly.
"A dear friend of mine, Father Timothy, found a young woman wander outside his school which is just outside London. She was trying to get inside by climbing over the gates. She was frightened and almost hysterical. They brought her inside and tried to figure out who she was and where she came from, but it was all in vain. She didn't say a word. It seems like she's lost the ability to speak. She refused to eat and when she went to sleep, she had violent nightmares." Lestrade began, resting his elbows on his knees.
Sherlock merely nodded to the information while Lestrade continued, "They called the police, but the officers just took her fingerprints and told my friend and the nuns that the best they could do was to put her description into their computers. You know they can't do anything until someone reports her missing. My friend managed convince the nuns to let her stay at the school's dorm for a few more days, but yesterday, the headmaster decided that they could not do anything for her and brought her to the hospital. There, they gave her a shot of something, some sedative I think. I don't know what it was for. To help her relax or something…They said her vocal cords seem to be fine and that there's no brain damage. They decided to keep her under observation for a few days and then send her to a psychiatric department elsewhere once they were finished. It's an horrible place, Sherlock. She has a family, someone who is waiting for her at home, and she needs help to return back to them."
Lestrade paused, waiting for a reaction from Sherlock, but the man seemed to have zoned out again. After a few minutes of waiting, Lestrade started to get impatient and thought that Sherlock didn't care about the case at all. He started to get moving when Sherlock spoke.
"Aphasia. Or traumatic vocal impairment, if you prefer, it's her disorder. Mostly caused by a stroke or some other brain disease. I don't find this case of yours very interesting, Lestrade. I understand that you want be the good samaritan and help this woman, but I don't see how it would useful for me to help you." Sherlock sighed exasperatingly, looking up at the DI.
Lestrade get close to Sherlock and hissed, "I don't care if you find this case intriguing or not. This girl… She doesn't seem crazy. She looked terrified when I saw her. She saw something or experienced something that literally stole her voce. Timothy told me that everytime she went to bed, she blocked her door with a chair and that she woke up several time screaming, unable to tell anyone what is plaguing her dreams. She's alone and afraid and needs someone to give her an helping hand. She's not less important than the spies that slip away from your brother's hands."
The DI moved to the entrance door, "And don't forget that if you find out who she is and help me bring her back to her family, I will allow you to be a consulting detective, as you like to call yourself. Take or leave, Sherlock… What do you say?"
Sherlock seemed to ponder on his options for a while, then got up, "Which hospital did they bring her to?"
Lestrade smiled brightly at him and Sherlock reprimanded him before he went to his bedroom to change into something more appropriate, "Don't look at me like that…It's going to be a colossal waste of my precious time. I'm already sure of that. I'm accepting only because I can't stand you begging me to take this case."
"Sure, Sherlock. If it makes you feel better…" Lestrade's laugh followed and Sherlock couldn't help but look smug. He was just a tiny step away from finally being a consulting detective.
King's College Hospital - General Neurology - September 8th, 2005
An hour later, when Sherlock and Lestrade arrived at the hospital, they found out that there was someone paying a visit to the mysterious woman. Sherlock looked the man over and began making a mental note of his physical appearance. The man was of average height and fair haired, his eyes focused on the woman in the bed. He was sitting on one of the chair by the bed while the woman slept.
When they opened the door, the man turned and Lestrade recognised the man to be Dr. John Watson, the doctor who had performed the preliminary test on the woman's vocal cords.
"Dr. Watson, what a pleasure meeting you again! How is our girl today?" Lestrade asked, smiling at the doctor with ease.
The younger man smiled back at the DI and replied, "We just gave her a mild sedative to help her sleep. She deserves some rest, the poor thing… Any news about her identity?"
At the DI's negative answer in the form of silence, Dr. Watson's attention shifted from Lestrade to the other man who was walking straight towards the little wardrobe in the left corner of the room. Lestrade answered the doctor's obvious next question by telling him, "This is my…collaborator, Sherlock Holmes. He's assisting me with the investigation."
Sherlock didn't pay attention to their exchange, his focus zeroed in on examining the woman's clothes inside the wardrobe. On one of the top shelves, he found a single glove. Next to it, a small gold ring featuring two hands clasping a heart surrounded by a tiny crown. He then checked her blouse, her trousers and finally her trench coat, smelling the lining.
Behind him, the two men observed his actions in silence until Lestrade cleared his throat and inquired, "Found anything, Sherlock?"
The dark-haired man turned, an annoyed expression on his long face, "Obviously your friend didn't think about preserving the evidences on her clothes, so he, or one of his colleagues decided to wash them. Thankfully they didn't touch her coat-"
"And why were you smelling it?" The blond man asked, watching as Sherlock took a second to observe him.
"Her perfume. The top notes are citrus smelling, such as lemon, orange blossom, mandarin. The base is composed of sandalwood and musk while the heart brings out rose and pure jasmine, among the others. Sunflower by Elizabeth Arden, I would say. It is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish a perfume from each other and cases have more than once within my own experience depended upon their prompt recognition." Sherlock explained slowly, as if speaking to a child who did not understand how to read or write.
Dr. Watson eyed the newcomer with curiosity before asking Lestrade, "Your collaborator is a perfume's expert?"
"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." Sherlock said while offering his hand to the doctor to shake, giving Lestrade no chance to speak.
"John Watson, nice to meet you, Mr Holmes." Dr. Watson replied, shaking Sherlock's hand firmly.
"Just Sherlock, please. Oh, and by the way…Afghanistan or Iraq?"
Dr. Watson's hand fell immediately from Sherlock's grasp, his eyes wide with surprise, "How do you-?"
Sherlock let out a chuckle and said, "It's quite obvious you're thinking about enlisting for military service, Dr. Watson. I will make a list of the several telltales that gave you away, not including the pamphlet you're using as a bookmark on your book, but I think someone is waking up…"
When the other two men turned, a pair of worried chestnut eyes were fixing all of them. She regarded the two strangers warily before looking at Dr. Watson and relaxing slightly. If they were conversing with the good doctor that meant that they had to be good people, right? Her eyes landed on Lestrade and shone with recognition before they went to Sherlock for a moment.
"How are you, my dear?" Dr. Watson asked in a reassuring voice that seemed to restore some confidence to the young woman, who let out a shy smile.
"Very good…Now DI Lestrade here is back with a collague to ask some more questions, correct?" Dr. Watson asked as the the older man nodded and said, "Yes, that's why we're here-"
"This is a Claddagh ring." Sherlock interrupted, holding up the ring he found earlier. "It's a traditional Irish ring. I-I knew a girl who used to wear one…" His voice faltered for a moment, but no one seemed to notice it, "On the right hand, when the point of the heart toward the fingertips, the wearer is single. When the point of the heart toward the wrist, the wearer is in a relationship. On the left hand with the point of the heart toward the fingertips, the wearer is engaged. When the point of the heart toward the wrist, the wearer is married. How were you wearing it?"
The woman looked at the ring for a long moment before she looked up at Sherlock. With a hand, she pushed back the brown hair that was obscuring her view and then let out a frustrated puff, shaking her head.
"Of course, no one remembers how she wore it when she was found, am I correct?" Sherlock sneered, both Lestrade and Watson a bit ashamed at his reprimand.
Sherlock put the ring on the bedside table and moved to turn the woman's hands so that he could inspect the palms, but she retracted them quickly.
"I need to see your hands…Lestrade, Doctor, tell her to let me examine her hands!" Sherlock demanded, raising his voice and missing how the woman frowned at him. She turned to the bedside table,and opened a drawer, taking out a notebook and a pen. She wrote something down before she showed it to Sherlock.
"It says "You could have just asked…politely." John read, chuckling with Lestrade as he joined in on the laughter.
"May I take a look at your hands, please?" Sherlock asked after scowling at the two men.
This time, the woman offered him her opened hands with a soft smile. He observed them painstakingly, his long fingers tracing the lines on the palms as if he were reading them before shifting his attention to the fingertips.
"Tiny cuts on your left hand's fingertips…Do you recognise this kind of cuts, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock asked as the doctor approached themand took a closer look.
"Of course…I still have some scars on my hand from my first year…So, you're a future colleague, aren't you?" Dr. Watson asked the young woman, but what he received was an apologetic half-smile.
"Check your database for any female medical student who have been reported missing and you will find her identity." Sherlock instructed Lestrade, moving away from the bed while Lestrade let out a frustrated curse and followed him, replying in a hushed tone, "It's going to take days, Sherlock… And what if no one has reported her disappearence?"
"They're going to discharge her tomorrow… If no one is going to come forward, they're going to bring her to a psychiatric clinic for a week and then let her go God knows where." D. Watson said, joining the men in their discussion, "There's nothing wrong with her physically…She just can't speak. I saw something similar happening to a friend of mine once. He was a paramedic and he was called to a house in Croydon where a mailman went mad and cut his entire family open with a hedge trimmer…Then, I don't know why, maybe he heard a voice in his head or felt so bad about everything he had done, he cut off his own arms. Had to dial 999 with his nose."
The woman was far enough to not hear the story, but noticed immediately the men's distressed looks and watched them curiously, tilting her head to the side.
"My friend's ambulance was the first to show up at the house. He took one look and passed out cold right there. He was a tough guy…He had served in Kosovo for six months. When he woke up, he had no idea who he was and didn't recognise his own family. Then, one week after that, he woke up and his little daughter was sitting on his bed. She gave him a kiss, and said "I love you, Dad…" and…Well, he told me that in about two seconds, his whole life came flooding back to him."
"Are you saying that she just needs a kiss and everything will return as wonderful as before for her?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, ignoring the glares he got from Lestrade and Dr. Watson.
"No, of course not. I'm just saying that she needs time and peace. That way, she will remember who she is and her way back home. I'm sure that, as good as that clinic would be, they would not have the time nor the money to give her the help her she deserves." Dr Watson concluded.
Lestrade, who had remained silent all that time, finally spoke and said, "I have an idea…Sherlock, you still have a spare room, don't you?"
Sherlock took a step back from the DI, approaching the door, and stated firmly, "No, Lestrade. You asked me to help you find her identity, not to take an amnesiac in foster care!"
Lestrade followed the young man outside the room and murmured, "It's just for a few days…Until we have some trace…"
"No. That's my final answer, Lestrade." Sherlock growled, turning his back to the DI to reach the elevator, but Lestrade halted his retreat by taking his arm.
"Then I will tell your brother that you're not ready to work with Scotland Yard and be a consultant to the police" Lestrade told him, his voice stern to the point where Sherlock knew that he was not joking.
"This is blackmail, Lestrade…" Sherlock breathed out in slight surprise, "You're a policeman. How could you?"
"Take or leave, Sherlock. Take the girl with you or leave forever your dreams to be a consulting detective". Lestrade said, his ultimatum hanging in the air.
"You don't even know if she will accept…" Sherlock tried to dispute, but Lestrade smiled confidently.
"You see… I can be very persuasive when I want." Lestrade grinned as he turned to head back into the woman's room, a displeased and disgruntled Sherlock following behind him.