A/N: If you haven't read the updated prologue, some things may not make sense from here onwards. Just so you know!
The House of Bricks
Chapter One: The Return of Sherlock Holmes
Three floors. Greenhouse just visible to the left of the main building. Victorian décor – no, Victorian style décor, it was barely five years old. Probably constructed less than a decade ago.
The Lamont family had only moved in seven years ago, he remembered. Must've been in the papers. He scanned over the door – no signs of forced entry. Slight smell of alkali, probably a cleaning agent. No mud on their porch, no traces of an animal. Sherlock peered at the doorbell after he pressed it, noting the obvious trace of a gloveless hand within the last week.
The lock clicked noisily as it opened. Unlikely the killer had slipped in through the front door – of course, that had been ruled out the moment he had seen the open window in the west wing from the cab. He would have to have Anderson check it for fingerprints, he realised, suppressing a shudder.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes," the maid opened the door. She was five feet and four inches tall, dressed in an ill-fit black dress. A uniform, then. Natural redhead. Her manicure was at least three weeks old, he noted as she gripped the door, holding it open for him.
"You must be Miss Richards," he greeted her, smiling just warmly enough. Her face coloured slightly and she stepped backwards, her back straightening a notch and her pupils dilating. Ah.
"Y–You know my name," she stammered slightly, wiping her hand suspiciously on her skirt. "I'm honoured."
"Inspector Lestrade informed me," Sherlock lied smoothly, gazing brightly at her. Her face fell slightly and she folded her hands in front of her. Left-handed, the ink stains of a recent smudge were still on the side of her palm. Of course, Lestrade had yet to see him – Mycroft had sent him a full profiling of everyone in their household, well-informing him of their names and histories. Tabitha Richards – the personal maid of the victim, loitering in the entrance hall. Dull.
He looked around the dark entrance hall, noting the low-hanging chandelier and the distinct lack of mirrors. The shadows cast would have been able to hide a twelve-year-old child, at most, creeping against the walls – the wallpaper was completely smooth and rarely touched. Improbable.
He was watching still the maid out of the corner of his eye, glancing curiously at him. He turned to her and slipped his hands into his pockets, searching for his notebook. "If you'd take me to the study, please?" he lilted his voice slightly and she coloured again, turning sharply on her heel. Mary-jane shoes, he noted, bought less than a month ago. Irrelevant.
"Follow me," she said, sounding slightly strangled and trying desperately to hide the rising colour in her neck. He exhaled slowly and fell into step behind her. The corridors hardly showed signs of use – there must have been a more direct entrance to the hou– ah, of course. Stupid. Obviously, there would be a door through from the garage – he had seen the Rolls Royce's tyre tracks in the driveway.
He spotted the door to the right as they rounded another corner. Here, the scuffles began to show – scratches on tables from keys, mirrors with several fingerprints began to appear. Male, judging from the size, so the head of house. There were only two in their family, after all. He climbed the flight of stairs and noted the large stride, a heavy step taken every alternate stair.
The study door was a heavy mahogany, well-polished. There was no lock. How disappointing. It was ajar, but nothing was visible from the outside. No scratches visible in the shadows. He stilled as the sound of footsteps came towards them, taking Tabitha's hand and leading her further down the corridor.
Lestrade's voice. He still recognised it, obviously. Sherlock hurried further down and tucked himself against the wall around the corner, pulling Tabitha with him.
Sherlock inhaled sharply as he came into view – John was with him, lacking days of sleep. Lestrade's shirt was two days old – his wife must have been away – but John's clothes were pristine and recent pressed. His left hand was steady and his face hard despite the new worry lines. Sherlock had last been to Baker Street within six months, but John's hair had greyed further. Stress. Worry. He watched curiously as Lestrade lead him towards the study.
So the Scotland Yard consulted John, now. Unexpected.
They entered the crime scene together and Sherlock crept along the wall to listen. The first question. How long has she been dead? he mouthed along with John's words. His voice sounded hoarser than he remembered, but the question was still familiar. It had always been his favourite, his opening line at the scene. Ever the doctor.
Ah, twenty-six hours after death. Full rigour mortis achieved, the pallor would have reached full potential as well. John must be crouching over the body – look at the hands, then the hair – while Sherlock tried to guide him with sheer will, watching warily through the door. If John was with the Yard, Sherlock should have come back when they had left.
He chose to stay. John's posture betrayed the slightest hint of fear.
John sat back on his ankles and began to speak. It wasn't confident, Sherlock noted. It rose slightly in tone at the end, which John only ever did when speaking to Harry. He slipped inside the room, alert as the crew looked up. He pressed a finger to his lips and they averted their gaze. He straightened and crossed the room as John continued examining the corpse. Sherlock shifted his attention to the source of the wind slowly carrying through the room.
Window open, body behind the study's desk. Lying on her back. Fall pattern – the bullet must have knocked her down with the impact, so it had come through the open window. No sign of struggle, her limbs were previously occupied. Distracted, then. If she hadn't heard the killer, it must have been a long-distance silenced shot. Nearest building: the Harringtons' house. He looked back over his shoulder as John began speaking again.
"Ambidextrous, plays the guitar," he caught. He nodded in approval, although he would check himself – John always saw, but he was never looking. Anderson looked up and saw him, his eyes widening. Sherlock winked at him for good measure and Anderson's lips flattened into a hard line, facing the window. Ignoring him. Perfect.
He padded over to John, leaning over him. Interesting – he smelled like coffee. Sherlock inhaled again and raised an eyebrow. Sweet coffee. The other members of the crew were silenced as he stepped forward, Lestrade's mouth opening and closing rather like a goldfish. John's back remained turned to him, resting his elbow on his knee.
Sherlock fixed his eyes on the girl. The light grey woollen jacket she was wearing – she was leaving the house, so why was she in the study? He looked to the desk and spotted keys sitting spread near the bowl. Cars. She was sixteen years of age, possible driver. Home-schooled, so she wouldn't have been going to school. Perhaps to a friend's? Why not a chauffeur?
John looked lost when he met Lestrade's eyes, completely missing the concerned surprise. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know, there's nothing to go on with."
Sherlock snorted. "Well, I wouldn't say that."
He had to straighten abruptly as John jumped up, fumbling for the gun Sherlock knew he kept. Within three seconds he was held at gunpoint, tucking his hands neatly behind his back to look straight at John. He felt the gun falter and John's mouth fell open, running his eyes over Sherlock's face. Sherlock forced himself to breathe slowly, having known it would happen.
"John," he breathed, the gun dangerously close. Trembling aim.
John's right fist clenched and Sherlock's eyes shifted, but he didn't move. "Sherlock?" he said tightly, not lowering his gun. He blinked rapidly, as if Sherlock would simply disappear if the tears washed him away. Ridiculous, Sherlock thought, but – ah, sentiment? John was in pain.
Sherlock didn't move.
Lestrade had sealed his lips tightly together, turning slightly pale. Stress. A pause before an exhale, deliberate. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye, determined not to meet John's gaze. (He was straightened up in a military stance. He hadn't shaved with a blade.)
"I'm here to help," Sherlock breathed slowly, reassuring him and trying to analyse the gun without lifting his head. Loaded, but only recently. It was still dusty in some places, showing the disuse. John hadn't been active. How boring, what on earth had he been up to? He looked out the window and squinted for a place to set up a sniping rifle. Mistake, he noted, noticing John's hand move just a fraction of a second late.
He saw it coming, wincing before it hit him. It was a punch strong enough to knock him back in a stagger, catching the wall for support. Anderson's face shifted into a grin. Idiot. He reached up to touch his cheek, gingerly pressing on it. It would probably bruise in the next few minutes.
"Oh," John was beginning to hyperventilate now, looking distinctly more alarmed. "You're real." His eyes were wider, his eyes dilated in horror. He seemed to be leaning on his left leg, the psychosomatic limp beginning to plague him again.
"It would seem so," Sherlock instantly regretted it, seeing fear cross John's face again at his callous sarcasm. Caring was not an advantage, Sherlock reminded himself. He turned to leave until John calmed down, suddenly aware that they were being stared at.
"How are you alive?" John asked softly to his back, keeping his voice steady. Hesitant stress on 'alive', he noted. Tremor in the voice.
Sherlock had, of course, been prepared. He smoothed his face into nonchalance and turned over his shoulder. "My body is perfectly intact, John," he frowned just so, turning his head in a display of confusion. The gun in John's hand trembled ever so slightly – no longer acclimatised to violence? "Why on earth wouldn't I–"
"You. were. dead," John bit out each syllable with as much malice as he could muster. Sherlock bit his lip and maintained his curious gaze. Lestrade had been sat in a chair in the corner, Anderson administering his inhaler. Sherlock watched John carefully, noting the clenching in his hand even as he lowered the gun. Desire for violence.
"Obviously not," he said offhandedly, cocking his head to the side. "Now, John, we must–"
"I saw you jump!" John shouted at him, clenching his fist. Restraint of some kind, Sherlock noted. Tension in his own hands, tucked neatly in his pockets. "You made me stand and watch you throw yourself off and..."
He trailed off and his eyes clouded. "You didn't have a pulse," John said absently.
Sherlock pulled the familiar small ball out of his pocket and extended it out to him, confident. John took it hesitantly and rolled it in his hand, closing his fingers and his eyes. Revelation, dull. John would understand what he meant. "Under the arm," Sherlock offered anyway, seeing John's utter silence.
John squeezed it in his hand, oddly calm. "Sherlock, I was devastated," he said, much softer. Barely audible. Sherlock paused and surveyed him carefully, noting the sagging shoulders, the gun hanging loosely. Surrender.
Sherlock reached out to pat him on the shoulder, the only form of comfort Mycroft had ever given him as a child. It soothed John somewhat, leaning into his touch. "I had to," Sherlock added the edge of pain to his voice. "Moriarty had a gun trained on you, I wanted–"
John began to laugh weakly and Sherlock fell silent, raising an eyebrow. The tension seemed to flow out of his body and he seemed at ease again. Odd. Recalculate – he seemed pleased to see Sherlock. Unlikely...
"What?" Sherlock asked, confused. John sobered immediately and met his gaze seriously.
"Saving my life," John said flatly. "God, Sherlock–"
His fist collided with Sherlock's right cheek again, knocking him onto his back. He blinked in surprise, looking up at him. John was leaning over him, pleased with himself. He was leaning on his right leg now, the limp gone again. Interesting.
"That," John announced to him. "Was for three bloody years."
Sherlock rest his head back against the wood of the floor. It was sturdy, the floor wouldn't have creaked when the killer had come into the study. He closed his eyes. "Worth it. I've broken the web, John."
He opened his eyes and found John frowning at him. Confusion at something he said – wasn't it perfectly clear? "What?" he asked after a pause.
Sherlock sat up. "Moriarty's web, obviously," he said slowly.
"Really?" John leaned back against the desk, left eyebrow raised. He was impressed and hopelessly trying to avoid showing it, then. Therefore, he hadn't expected that. Sherlock noted it for future reference.
"Yes," Sherlock nodded, edging his face with a look of slightly vacancy. He pressed softly on his cheek, slightly burning from the impact.
John folded his arms and nodded back, a silent pact of agreement building itself between them. They stared at each other for a moment before John extended an arm to him, pulling him upright. Offer of forgiveness, Sherlock knew. "That," he said as carelessly as he could. "Was for saving my life."
"Which time?" Sherlock asked, running through them. The Black Lotus, Moriarty's Game, The CIA in Irene Adler's house, Baskerville and Moriarty's sniper. John gave him a distinctly withering look at that, folding his arms. Annoyance? Why?
Sherlock backpedalled. "Not good?"
John smiled ruefully. "Bit not good, yeah."
Ah. He sagged back against the wall. It was hollow, he noted absently. How strange. "I'm sorry," he said. "Won't happen again."
John snorted. He put his hands on his hips – he only ever did that when he's disappointed, and Sherlock knows he's not done. "Yes, well, let's not promise things like that."
Sherlock flickered his gaze up, injecting the slightest bit of exaggeration into the pain in his face. "John–"
"Later," John called over his shoulder, already looking over the body. He gestured to her and stepped aside so he could have a better look.
"Have a look, then, Sherlock," he offered.
But Sherlock had already seen enough from his vantage point while John was talking, so he shook his head. "She was going– ah, no, she'd just gone out," he told them, mentally berating himself for missing the detail. "Probably drove to a club, judging by her clothes and the alarmingly pink makeup."
One of the assistants wearing the same shade of lipstick touched her face self-consciously and Lestrade seemed to recover slightly, moving to stand at his side. He was still pale, but he was breathing normally. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he turned to Sherlock. "How do you know that?"
Sherlock stared. "What do you mean, 'how do I know that?'" he frowned. It was so obvious, how could they not see it? "Her coat, Lestrade, does anyone wear a thick woollen coat around their own home? She was on the way out or back, this study is between the garage door and her room, isn't it? Her coat was wet when she entered the house – haven't you learned anything?"
Lestrade fixed him with a perplexed stare. "Sherlock, the coat isn't damp, we've checked–"
"Bloodstains," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There are thinned patches near her shoulders, where it would have been most wet at the time of death. Can't you see?"
Anderson opened his mouth and Sherlock decided to continue. "Of course you can't, you're all idiots." He took out his phone and searched for the weather reports. "Yes," he confirmed. "A light shower just over a day ago, she was on the way back from the outside."
"A club?" John asked. "How on earth–"
Sherlock pulled the coat just open to reveal the entire black sequined dress. The hem of it had been peeking out the entire time, did none of them notice it? "She was back at six-thirty, maybe seven in the morning – where else would you be wearing this all night? It's obvious!"
"But what was she doing here?" Lestrade asked, walking around to examine her clothing more closely. Sherlock resisted the urge to call him an idiot again – the dress had been handmade, the stitching was uneven at the seams. Irrelevant.
"Keys," he breathed, eyeing them carefully on the desk. "Car keys, probably returning them here. Her father's. So she stole the keys and drove, came home and was shot returning them." He spoke as he moved over to the desk, waving his hand above the bowl.
"That's amazing," John said, shaking his head disbelievingly. Sherlock stilled and looked over, stiffening. He had rather missed that, Mycroft never complimented him – especially not hiding in the recesses of his house and staying out of sight.
"What else?" Lestrade pressed. Sherlock moved to the bullet-hole in the wall, running his finger along the outline. Impossible, it couldn't be–
He dropped to his knees and looked at the wound on the side of her head. John cleared his throat and Sherlock snapped his head up, eyes wide. "What is it?" John asked, a warning edge to his voice.
"The diameters are different," Sherlock breathed. He leaned back against the desk and looked between the bullet hole and the house. "The nearest sniping point is the Harringtons' but the pivot of a sniping rifle wouldn't allow you both these shots..."
He trailed off and moved to the window, leaning out looking down the wall. No signs of scaling or climbing, so he shifted his attention back to the house. "Killers of that caliber wouldn't shoot twice, either," he continued, muttering rapidly. "She must have been threatened by more than one person..."
"So?" Lestrade asked him, folding his arms.
Sherlock whipped around excitedly. "Isn't it obvious? Two killers, both gunmen. Christmas!"
Reviews are welcome!