National Novel Writing Month November 2012
I don't own BBC Sherlock. This story was written as my NaNoWriMo project: it has 7 chapters, 6 of which are in order; the 7th is actually chapter 16 of my outline. It's just over 50,000 words, and technically incomplete, as I do not plan on filling in the missing chapters from 7-15 and 16-?. That said, it's a good read and not half bad for having been written entirely in a month. I hope you enjoy it.
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Sherlock and Greg in London
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Sherlock looked at Lestrade blankly, hard drive freezing for a second before it rebooted.
"New Zealand."
"Yeah, genius. New Zealand. You know, that little country a bit further south and east of Australia? Down Under and Over A Bit?" The question was clearly rhetorical.
"New Zealand, John's in New Zealand. Why is John in New Zealand?"
"He's visiting an old army mate, Pierce, I think his name was. Lives in Christchurch. John's been emailing him back and forth this last six months, and since the earthquakes, well..."
"Earthquakes?"
"Yes, Sherlock, earthquakes. The Canterbury Earthquakes?" There was a bite of impatience to Lestrade's voice, but seeing Sherlock's blank look he covered his face with an open hand and groaned. "Don't know why I even wasted the breath asking, you wouldn't have bothered storing it. September last year and February this year. Couple of major earthquakes hit the Canterbury region in the South Island of New Zealand, did millions of dollars worth of damage, killed over a hundred people. There are still ongoing aftershocks, apparently it's not uncommon to feel three or four in a day. Pierce lives in Christchurch, the largest city in the South Island, which also happens to be where the quakes have been centred. Most of the inner city has been levelled, either from the earthquakes directly or as a preventative measure in case of further quakes."
"Oh." Sherlock blinked. "And... this is where John's gone? Christchurch?"
"Seeing as he's visiting his friend and the friend is in Christchurch... yes."
"But didn't he go to New Zealand not that long ago? It was, what, five, six months back? He went with, oh, that doctor girlfriend. I didn't actually mind her too much. Sarah."
Lestrade levelled a Look at him. "He went in April last year. That's a good fourteen months ago."
"So why has he gone now?"
"He just needed a break, Sherlock. It's normal. People need breaks. They like to get a bit of fresh air, have some time to relax, catch up with some mates, do whatever they feel like doing... John needed a holiday, especially after Dartmoor; that case was pretty rough for all of us."
Sherlock felt a vague stirring of guilt. "That was back in March. It's June, now."
"You two have been frantic with cases since then. I think this is the first break of more than a few days you've had since you got back to London, and the stress does pile up, especially in our jobs. There are only so many atrocities you can handle seeing at a time, y'know. It makes getting away sometimes all that more important."
"Hm." Sherlock reached for his mobile and switched it on. "So he left on Sunday?" "He did, yeah," Lestrade nodded. "I went for a beer with him on Saturday night, he told me he'd told you at least half a dozen times, texted you several more times than that, and that he would write a note and leave it on the table for you. Barring that, I was to keep an eye on you and make sure that you actually found out one way or the other once you came back to the real world."
"Ah," Sherlock remembered his chart in the half-destroyed kitchen. Now that he thought about it, there may have been something scribbled on the other side of it. Oops. "How long is he away for?"
"Two weeks. He gets back on the nineteenth."
Sherlock stared at Lestrade. Two weeks? Fourteen days - well, eleven days, now. Eleven days of no John because John is away and no experiments because the kitchen is unusable and no audience for his genius apart from whenever he could get a case, and that audience would be purely professional from Lestrade ("Just give us the facts, Sherlock, we've got a killer to catch.") and purely cynical from Anderson and Donovan ("Freak's here again. Look at him, he's like a lost puppy without his handler."), and of course there would be the ever increasing itching crawling scratching craving of the drugs...
He swallowed. "Two weeks."
Lestrade must have seen the hint of panic in his eyes; he grimaced sympathetically. "Yeah, well, I know I'm not John, not by a long shot, but surely it's not that bad, is it? You don't need the man present in order to function, after all."
Sherlock didn't reply. Not because he was unsure of the answer, of course not (not that it was really a question in the first place), but because there were other things that required his attention, like... ah! his mobile, of course. He must have left it on silent the last time he used it, and the screen was showing a flashing envelope along with 17 messages received. He scratched absent-mindedly at his arm and tapped them open.
Message 1 of 17
4th June 2011
Thought I'd start early in letting you know via text. I'm leaving for New Zealand tomorrow, Sherlock. - JW
Message received 07:30
Message 2 of 17
4th June 2011
We're out of milk. Also I'm going to New Zealand tomorrow. For two weeks. - JW
Message received 07:35
Message 3 of 17
4th June 2011
Already told you in person six times, but I don't know if you were listening. Or maybe you deleted it. You never know, with you. I'm going to New Zealand tomorrow. - JW
Message received 13:15
Message 4 of 17
4th June 2011
Going to New Zealand. Leaving tomorrow (Sunday 5th June 2011). Back on the 19th. - JW
Message received 19:32
Message 5 of 17
4th June 2011
Greg's going to keep an eye on you while I'm in New Zealand. He'll find some cases to keep you occupied, maybe a nice double homicide or something. And I realise that you won't have realised it, but that sentence was more than a bit not good, especially since I'm a doctor. Hippocratic oath and all that. Don't know when two deaths became preferable to you suffering a bit of boredom, but it is. Possibly because I know what a terror you are when you're bored. You'd likely try and recreate the Great Fire of London in the name of research. - JW
Message received 21:25
Sherlock grinned. He wouldn't go that far. Probably.
Message 6 of 17
5th June 2011
Finished packing. For New Zealand. - JW
Message received 05:30
Message 7 of 17
5th June 2011
The cab's here. I'm going now, Sherlock. To New Zealand. For two weeks. - JW
Message received 05:45
Message 8 of 17
5th June 2011
Cab ride's not the same by myself. Don't miss me too much while I'm away. - JW
Message received 06:14
Message 9 of 17
5th June 2011
Waiting at Heathrow now. For my flight. To New Zealand. - JW
Message received 06:48
Message 10 of 17
5th June 2011
This place is dead boring. Not literally. A body would liven it up nicely, actually. Remember to eat while I'm gone. If you need milk, go and buy it yourself, don't nick Mrs H's. There's a couple of frozen meals in the freezer next to those severed toes. Teabags are in the cupboard above the microwave. - JW
Message received 07:05
Message 11 of 17
5th June 2011
Don't use the white stuff in the sugar bowl, you put lead acetate in there last week. It is actually salt in the salt bowl, though. Sugar is in the blue mug behind the bunsen burner. Don't blow the kitchen up before I get back, please. - JW
Message received 07:30
Sherlock winced and kept reading.
Message 12 of 17
5th June 2011
Man sitting opposite me looks a bit like Greg. Greying hair, blue eyes, about 6'2, slender with swimmer's shoulders. Probably in his mid-fifties. He has two daughters and a dog and is divorced or widowed. Tan line on his ring finger and photo in his wallet. Sturdy leather boots. If you were here you'd tell me that I got everything wrong and why. Hope the flat doesn't feel too empty for you while I'm away in New Zealand. - JW
Message received 07:53
Message 13 of 17
5th June 2011
Flight doesn't leave until ten. Have to check in three hours ahead of any international flight, you know. Waste of time. Spent the last hour reading one of those cheap crime novels you hate. Knew who had done it by the third chapter. Binned it by the sixth. Characters were cliche, the plot was ridiculous, details were vague when they should have been in depth and in depth when they should have been vague - I mean really, we don't need to know that the shade of lipstick she left on his coffee cup was L'Oreal Paris: Infallible: Le Rouge: Molten Caramel, do we now? What on earth sort of colour is molten caramel? And who leaves lipstick on coffee cups anyway? It's only slightly better than leaving it on a shirt collar. I'm sure woman have all sorts of glosses and sealers and things to make sure their lippy doesn't even smudge, let alone transfer to other things. - JW
Message received 09:14
Message 14 of 17
5th June 2011
I'll flick you an email once I've landed, let you know I'm there safe and sound - not that you'd worry, of course not, don't be silly, John. I have an inner You now, did you know that? - JW
Message received 09:18
Message 15 of 17
5th June 2011
I hope you don't plan on spending the whole two weeks in your mind palace. You'd get bedsores and I would not be happy. Exercise, Sherlock, at least half an hour a day. And try and eat a bit. I would mention sleep but that would just be pointless. - JW
Message received 09:24
Message 16 of 17
5th June 2011
If you don't get these texts, I hope you at least glance at the note I left on the kitchen table before you burn it or use it to mop up a spill or flip it over to write on the back because you can't be bothered getting up to find some clean paper. For the record, we have a whole stack of fresh paper sitting under the coffee table. It's been there for three weeks now, you might like to put it away somewhere. - JW
Message received 09:30
Message 17 of 17
5th June 2011
They're calling my flight now. Bye, Sherlock. I'll see you in two weeks. Don't do anything too stupid while I'm gone, will you? Cheers. - JW
Messaged received 09:43
Sherlock stared at his phone for a second, thumb still making absent scrolling motions on the screen.
His immediate reaction was one of mixed relief and warmth. Relief because he knew where John was, had read John's leaving words, knew that he hadn't been waylaid (hijacked, kidnapped, abducted) on his way to the airport or elsewhere; and warmth because it was so very typical of John to send seventeen text messages in two days to make sure that Sherlock knew where he had gone (not that he'd worry, of course not, don't be silly, John), typical that John would use any available method to make sure that Sherlock got the message.
Texts and friends and notes, oh my - and Sherlock chuckled aloud at the fate of that last one, scribbled all over, caught in an explosion, and then drowned in clouds of hydrogen.
A glance at Lestrade showed that he'd gone back to his paperwork and was largely ignoring him, although a smile betrayed his amusement at Sherlock's reaction to the texts.
It was so typical of John to leave a note even when he knew that there was almost no chance that Sherlock would even see it, let alone read it or remember it. Typical that he would then write a snarky text with Sherlock's likely reaction to finding a strange piece of paper on the kitchen table.
There was that twitch of a grin playing about his mouth again. Sherlock had never had a flatmate - never had a friend - who knew him so well as to be able to predict his actions and reactions with any degree of accuracy; but that was exactly what John had done. Mycroft didn't count, they'd grown up together, they shared the same genes, the same experiences, of course Mycroft would know his reactions. Lestrade had known him longer but in a much more professional capacity, and obviously their interactions were limited by time and mental distance. They rarely talked as friends, as Sherlock and Lestrade. Instead it was Detective Inspector and Consulting Detective, both needing information from the other and then going their separate ways once they had what they needed.
But sometimes it wasn't Detective Inspector but simply Lestrade, or even, more recently, Greg. The first name was important information, very significant in social interactions ("Ah, Mr. Holmes." "Sherlock, please."), and a rare oversight on his part. To be fair, he hadn't seen the need for friends until John came waltzing along to upset his lovely isolated bubble; and then of course the friendship between John and Greg had necessitated that Sherlock close some of the distance between himself and the D.I. as well.
Another glance at Lestrade showed the man was still - well, not exactly engrossed in, but definitely busy with his paperwork. Sherlock slouched down in the visitor's chair, debated for a moment, and then tapped his email open. He just had time to see Inbox (2) when Donovan knocked at the door and opened it.
"One for us, sir. Victim found dead in a hotel in Greenwich."
Lestrade was already on his feet and reaching for his suit jacket, "Address?"
"Novotel London Greenwich. Greenwich High Road, SE10. Just off the A206." She cast a disparaging look at Sherlock and added, "Sounded pretty straightforward, I don't think you'd be interested in this one, Freak."
"Donovan, you can ride with the boys. Sherlock, you're with me," and Lestrade was out the door.
Sherlock unplugged his mobile, nodded mock-politely at Sally, and followed the Detective Inspector.
It wasn't until he was in the passenger seat of Lestrade's BMW that he said, with the merest trace of hesitation, "You didn't give me a choice."
The older man lifted an inquiring brow as he pulled out into traffic and switched the dash lights and police siren on.
"About whether I wanted to come with you or not," Sherlock clarified. "You didn't actually ask me."
"Wasn't going to miss the chance to put Donovan in her place, was I?" Lestrade replied. "I get well and truly sick of her badmouthing you and John. Besides which you wouldn't be sitting there if you didn't want to be here, you would have disappeared when we were halfway down the stairs, or else you'd still be in my office, on my computer and hacking into the Met database by now. I know you, Sherlock. Not as well as John does, maybe, but I do know that you sure as heck weren't hanging out in my office for a lark. You need a distraction while he's away, and here one is. I'd have been mad to stop you coming."
Sherlock made a hum of acknowledgement, mind busy absorbing this new information; and yet it wasn't new information, not really. He'd known Lestrade was observant, not to his own level of course, but certainly moreso than most people; and the man had known him long enough by now (six years? six and a half? something like that, anyway) that he'd no doubt have picked up on his habits of temperament and behaviour.
He scratched his arm again, noted the location (left forearm near the elbow), and grimaced. Not only was it annoying, but Lestrade knew he'd done drugs in the past, and it wouldn't take much for him to notice the increased attention to a prime injection spot.
He'd never been an addict, strictly speaking. It had started out purely as research, using himself as a test subject for the drugs that were most commonly cited as being involved in homicidal crime: but then he'd gone from noting his reactions (euphoria, increased heartbeat, pupils dilated, decrease of fine motor skills) to suffering the aftermath (mood swings, depression, a terrible blankness of the mind, destructive urges, itching beneath the skin, cravings for more of the drug) and had told himself no. That was all it took. He was the master of his body, the master of his mind; if he couldn't control himself, who could? And so he had stopped himself before there was any more damage done.
But the urges always resurfaced, be it after a week or a month or six months, and he'd turned again to the drugs ("Relapsed, Sherlock, call it what it is. You couldn't control it and you relapsed.") two or three times in the years since then. Always in the name of research, of course: breaking down the chemical composition of them, noting any differences in the batches, and then of course what was the use of his research if he didn't know how those differences affected the behaviour of the person taking them?
Nicotine was an satisfactory substitute, transferring the urge for illegal substances into something more acceptable both for himself and for those around him; but of course it was impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days, so he generally used nicotine patches instead of cigarettes. Smoking was one of the few habits he shared with Mycroft, along with observation, deduction, and a general dislike of the other sibling. Neither of them used actual cigarettes except in highly stressful situations, and the offer of one was not so much a sincere gesture as a test for emotional or mental weakness.
And speaking of nicotine... "Have you got any patches in here?"
Lestrade barely blinked at the sudden question after a prolonged absence of speech, "Thought you were quitting for good."
"I was, but then John left for two weeks."
"And this changes the situation... how?"
Sherlock snorted impatiently, "Don't be obtuse, Inspector. Do you have some or not?"
"Mmm," the older man hummed thoughtfully, glancing at Sherlock for a moment before turning back to watch the road, "Alright then, but if John asks, I didn't tell you. If I do have any left they'll be in the glove box."
Sherlock opened the compartment and rummaged around, finding several notebooks, half a dozen pens, a couple of half-empty packs of gum, one lens out of a pair of aviator sunglasses, a work tie, two boxes of matches, a record of mileage for the car, and a travel-sized can of deodorant before he finally located the carton of patches. He pulled three out of the box and slammed the glove compartment shut before anything could fall out.
"Hope you're not planning on using all of those at once," murmured Lestrade, his tone falling somewhere between caution and amusement.
Sherlock shook his head, slapping one patch on his inner forearm and shoving the other two in his jacket pocket. "I doubt this will even be a one patch problem."
Lestrade raised a brow without looking away from his driving, and there was definite amusement in his voice when he said, "Well, we're almost there. You'll have your chance soon enough."
Five minutes later they were pulling into the car park at the hotel. Sherlock was out of the car and striding for the main reception before Lestrade had even engaged the handbrake.
The concierge at the counter was in her early thirties with green eyes and blonde hair done up in a professional twist.
"There was a body found at this hotel this morning, where is it?"
"Uh..." she looked uncertainly at him, eyes travelling from his feet up to his torso and over his shoulder. A firm hand clapped him on that same shoulder, then slid down just enough so that it was out of sight of the girl. Lestrade had caught up with him, then.
Sherlock could just hear the restrained eye roll in his voice as he said apologetically, "Sorry about my colleague here, he's fairly new to the whole public relations thing."
There was some minute relaxation from the receptionist. "Not to worry, Mister..."
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," accompanied by a flip of the badge, "with the Metropolitan Police."
"Oh, you're here about the dead woman," the relief was evident in her voice.
Sherlock was opening his mouth to dissuade the concierge of her delusions of intelligence when the hand tightened warningly on his shoulder.
"We are, yes. Can you tell us anything about her?"
"Oh, it was a terrible tragedy, it was, they'd only been here two days," she said eagerly, "They were booked for a whole week, on holiday up from Southampton. Mr Leighton had a business meeting today though, he was flying up to Edinburgh early this morning for it. He'll be back tonight if you need to talk to him. The poor man'll be devastated, it was their tenth wedding anniversary."
"Thank you, Ms Roberts, you've been very helpful." No hesitation, no clumsy pause while Lestrade looked at her name badge; either the name had already been given to him (unlikely) or he'd scanned her unobtrusively for such an item on the way into the room (much more likely). "Now if you'd be kind enough to point us in the right direction...?"
A flash of the LestradeTM Calm Professional Smile Mk II, and they were on their way to the third floor. The woman unlocked the door for them before disappearing back downstairs. They'd beaten the squad car here, then.
The body was crumpled on the floor beside the desk, dried blood from four stab wounds staining the front of her (expensive, conspicuously so) blouse. Long brown hair, brown eyes open wide in what would have been panic or anger, body curvy to the point of plumpness.
Sherlock stooped to check the positioning of the wounds (upper stomach, heart, glanced off the fourth rib, axillary tail of the left breast) before prowling around the room, taking stock of the desk (laptop open and asleep, emails up on screen when he touched the trackpad, pen and notepad untouched, half a mug of tea to the left hand side), the bed (it had obviously used for the usual intimate activities of a husband and wife on holiday, but was neatly made again, though not to professional standards so the maid didn't make it, probably the husband, or wife before she was killed) and room in general (tidy but not excessively so, they'd been here enough to eat and sleep, maybe a few hours of leisure time but that was about it, likely out and about doing the London Eye and the National Gallery and other such tourist attractions).
Finally he stood back, half turning to Lestrade, "John, how long would you say - "
He stopped, stared blankly, then ran a hand through his curls and exhaled roughly. "You didn't hear that."
"Hear what?" Lestrade inquired blandly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Sherlock levelled a half hearted glare at him before turning back to the body, "Quite. Now, this is so simple a child could have named the murderer - "
There was a clatter at the door and Donovan, Anderson, and the rest of the team walked in.
"Oh good, you're just in time. As I was saying," he paced back and forth across the room, gesturing as he explained, "it was obviously the husband. Even a child could have told you that, though not the proper motivation behind it. It's such an obvious answer, and everyone knows it is, everybody's minds automatically jump to either the spouse or the lover, so much so that I don't know why they even bother, I really don't - "
There was a warning cough from Lestrade.
"Anyway. Tenth wedding anniversary, they'd been here two days, obviously been involved in the expected sightseeing and bedroom activities - Sally, if you're going to vomit do it in the bathroom. It's evening or night time yesterday, he comes back from the bar early and sees her sitting at the desk checking her emails. She's left handed, that's her mug of tea. Within the first ten years of a marriage is statistically when most affairs and/or divorces occur, that fits the scenario. He's had a bit much to drink, enough to make him rather emotional and certainly more impulsive than usual. He comes over and puts his arm around her, you can smell the whisky on the back of her blouse. She puts the screen to sleep but not quick enough, he sees she was sending a rather amorous email to a young male workmate, stupid girl."
There was a choked noise from Donovan, which Sherlock ignored.
"He confronts her, she admits she's been having an affair for at least the last six months - that's how far back the risqué emails go, anyway - and then they're both on their feet shouting. He snatches up the letter opener from the desk - he's right handed, the wounds are on her left, they correspond with the angle and distance he'd be striking from - and stabs her four times in quick succession, impulsive, inaccurate, but one of the strikes does the job, it stabs her heart and she dies."
There was silence for a minute as they digested this, and then Lestrade asked, "So he just runs off without even attempting to cover it up?"
"No no no, even he isn't quite that stupid," Sherlock stepped over to the vanity unit, looked it over, and nodded. "He probably had a necklace or a bracelet all ready to give her on the night of their anniversary, something conspicuously expensive with a token band of tin because of the ten years. He'll have taken that with him to Edinburgh - "
"Edinburgh?" Anderson interrupted, "How on earth could you know that he's in Edinburgh?"
"Don't speak, Anderson, it only showcases your ignorance," Sherlock said impatiently, "the concierge downstairs told us that he was in Edinburgh for a business meeting today. Anyway, he'll likely pawn that off while he's away, man like that wouldn't want to lose the money if he can help it. If he's planning to come back to London at all, he'll probably time it for early tomorrow morning - he'll say his flight was delayed or the meeting ran longer than expected or some such excuse - and he will, of course, be devastated by his wife's vicious murder. He'll then discover that the jewellery is missing and will attempt to use that to justify an accusation of robbery gone wrong. The thief broke in, looted for valuables, his wife came back and caught him in the act, he panicked, stabbed her, and ran for it. None of which explains obvious details like multiple stab wounds, the disappearance of the murder weapon, the fact that the victim is nowhere near the door, the lack of damage to the door, the fact that no-one except the husband knew about the expensive jewellery, the fact that the wife left a half-written email to her paramour up on the laptop screen, and so on. But that's the criminal classes these days for you - they just don't think."
There was the usual stunned silence that followed one of Sherlock's monologues. Finally, Donovan asked slowly, "So... where is the murder weapon?"
"The letter opener? He stuck it in his pocket and walked out with it, probably asked the cab to stop on the way to Heathrow so that he could dump it..." and oh wasn't that an idea and he would too, wouldn't he, rich man like that, conspicuous philanthropy, even if there was only a taxi driver to see him give a poor homeless man his jacket... "I've nothing terribly exciting on this afternoon, I'll find the weapon and get it to Lestrade by dinner time."
And with that he strolled out of the room, leaving them to the tedious business of clean-up and paperwork.
Message 1 of 1
8th June 2011
You'll want to keep an eye out at Heathrow for Leighton, he may surprise us and come back earlier than usual. Swab the room for DNA, the only prints apart from the Leightons' will be from Housekeeping. He'll likely have wiped the blood off the letter opener and his prints in the process, but it doesn't matter, the jacket will have his prints and his DNA all over it in any case. - SH
Message sent 13:37
Now, where would the murderer go, where would he go, he was heading for Heathrow wasn't he, alright, so he would have caught a cab from the hotel... Sherlock pulled up a mental map of London highways and cab routes... Greenwich to Hillingdon, he would have joined the M4 at Chiswick, no chance of dumping the weapon after that point so he would have had to do it before then, and probably before he hit Vauxhall, even, there was an increased police presence in Inner London, greater chance of being pulled over by a checkpoint, he wouldn't risk that. The most likely route for a cab to take between Greenwich and Vauxhall then, what was that, that would be the A2, and if Sherlock's deductions were right (and he was always right) Leighton would have stopped at a park somewhere along the way for his magnanimous show of philanthropy. So the park would have to be well lit on the street-side, maybe a bench or something for one of the homeless to sit on in case of any generous passers-by, easy to access from the road, somewhere that the homeless visited even in the early hours of the morning... ah! Lucas Gardens. Peckham. That fit the profile. Now, who from the Homeless Network was in Peckham... Young Mort often covered that area south of The Thames, from New Cross to Camberwell, and as luck would have it there was a cemetery nearby.
(Young homeless boy hanging around a cemetery, he must have lost his parents, oh the poor dear, let's give him some change. Such a violent world we live in today, how tragic, and mooooooving along...)
Sherlock thrust his arm out for a cab just as his mobile chimed. Once again it took a minute or two longer than usual for a cab to pull over, drat the understated suit jacket, but he was soon on his way to Brockley Cemetery.
Message 1 of 1
8th June 2011
Thanks for that, Sherlock, I really need you telling me how to do my job. It's not like I've been doing it for the last twenty years myself or anything. - GL
Message received 13:49
Sherlock grinned.
Message 1 of 1
8th June 2011
I know you're more than competent, Lestrade, but your team certainly isn't, especially with Anderson on Forensics. Wouldn't want anything important to be missed, and I wouldn't put it past the man to make an amateur mistake like forgetting to dust for fingerprints. - SH
Message sent 13:52
Anticipating that Lestrade would be busy conducting staff interviews and gathering evidence from the hotel room, Sherlock sank into his thoughts for the rest of the ride to Brockley. He was just paying the cabbie outside the Cemetery when his mobile beeped twice in quick succession.
Message 1 of 2
8th June 2011
Just get me the jacket with the murder weapon, Sherlock. - GL
Message received 14:15
Message 2 of 2
8th June 2011
One day you'll have to tell me about the origins of this feud with Anderson. - GL
Message received 14:15
Sherlock smirked. One day, perhaps.
He found Mort after half an hour at a curve in one of the lesser frequented pathways. The messy-headed boy obviously had his eye on a potential benefactor, but as soon as he saw Sherlock he left his spot and wandered over.
"Haven't seen you here before, sir."
"That's because I haven't been here before," Sherlock handed him a twenty, "I need your help."
One could almost see the boy's ears prick up, "Well, then, I'm your man."
"A businessman in a cab going past Lucas Gardens in Peckham this morning gave his jacket to a homeless person. It would have been a plain black suit jacket, expensive branding, probably a custom label. I don't know if the person was part of the network or not, but I need you to find them and bring me that jacket. Everything should be still in the pockets, understand?"
"Black jacket, nothing missing. Got it."
"Good. That was for you," Sherlock nodded toward the twenty in Mort's hand, "and this is for whoever has the jacket," he handed him another ten. "I'll be waiting outside the South London Gallery in three hours."
"Thanks, mister!" and the boy was off.
No doubt Mort would catch a bus, it was only three miles to Peckham but for someone of his age and height it would take a good hour and half to walk, and he wouldn't be able to afford the time, not when he had to find the jacket as well.
Sherlock would walk, three miles was nothing and he could cover it in under an hour.
Fifty minutes later he was in a coffee shop in Peckham, and as his mind had very annoyingly decided to remind him of John's text (Message fifteen of seventeen: I hope you don't plan on spending the whole two weeks in your mind palace. You'd get bedsores and I would not be happy. Exercise, Sherlock, at least half an hour a day. And try and eat a bit. I would mention sleep but that would just be pointless.), he had actually ordered a sandwich to go with his coffee. He took his time, so much so that the coffee was stone cold by the time he reached the bottom of the cup, and even then he still had over an hour to wait.
Rather than sit around pointlessly for eighty minutes, Sherlock used the time to explore the immediate area, adding shops, streets, and alleys to his ever-increasing mind map of London. By the time of the meeting with Mort he'd added most of the landmarks within a one mile radius of the coffee shop to his map, and was well satisfied with the use of his time. He ducked through an alley back to the main street and headed for the Gallery.
Mort was waiting for him, holding the jacket.
"Good decision," Sherlock murmured, retrieving it.
The boy looked puzzled, "How's that?"
"Not wearing the jacket. You would've been labelled a thief in two minutes flat."
He favoured Sherlock with a disgusted look, "I'm not daft, mister."
"Mmm. Obviously not. No trouble finding it, then?"
"Smooth as glass of amber rum. Susie had it, she was planning to give it to Jack when next she saw 'im, but she took the tenner in exchange for it no worries."
"Good." He patted the jacket down gently to make sure the letter opener was still in the jacket. It was. Excellent. John's voice in the back of his mind prompted him, and he added, "You'll be alright getting back?"
Mort shot him a startled look, but nodded. "Sure will, sir. Thanks for the job."
"Not a problem."
Sherlock watched as the boy disappeared off down the street before glancing at his watch. 17:45. Traffic would be diabolical. He'd be quicker just walking to the Met, he could make it in forty minutes if he used the shortcuts. Take the backstreets up to Vauxhall, cross the Thames at Lambeth Bridge, then cut across Westminster to Victoria Street and Broadway. Easy.
It was twenty past six when he strode into Lestrade's office.
"Jacket."
Sherlock set the jacket on the desk before dropping into the visitor's chair.
Lestrade managed to incorporate an eye roll into his glance up from paperwork. "I'm sensing a pattern here."
"Twice in one day isn't exactly a pattern."
"It's near enough for me." He nodded at the jacket, "You could have just dropped it in to the lab on your way up."
Sherlock shrugged. "I said I'd bring it to you. The longer I can delay Anderson getting his hands on it, the better."
"He's gone home already. I don't see how that matters anyway, it's not like you can do the analysis yourself. There's a limit to how much we can let a civilian in on, you know."
"I know, I just don't like Anderson," Sherlock smirked.
Lestrade stood and stretched, "Come on then, I'm done for the day. We can leave the jacket at Evidence on our way out. Do you want a lift back to Baker Street?"
Five minutes later Sherlock was once again in Lestrade's BMW, though this time it was heading in almost the opposite direction. The drive to the flat was short and largely silent, Lestrade being tired after a long day and Sherlock being Sherlock, busy with his thoughts and never the type for casual conversation.
The prospect of returning to a silent, empty flat was almost depressing. Lestrade must have picked up on his less than stellar mood (and what sort of a metaphor was that, anyway? 'Stellar'. He certainly wasn't in a mood consisting of gaseous spheres composed primarily of hydrogen and helium with an equilibrium between the compressional force of gravity and the outward pressure of radiation resulting from internal thermonuclear fusion reactions); as they drew up outside 221b the older man turned to Sherlock.
"You'll be alright?"
Sherlock slanted a withering glance his way, "I'm not a child, Lestrade; I am more than capable of looking after myself for the remaining ten days sixteen hours and thirty minutes, approximately, that John is away."
Lestrade muttered something that might have been "Debatable," under his breath before returning to a normal volume. "Mrs Hudson's there, anyway, if you need some human contact. You've got my number, and... well, if you want some company or anything - "
"I know. Thank you."
"Come by the Yard tomorrow and I'll find you something to do - there's always cold cases if nothing else."
Sherlock nodded, "I'll do that."
"Right. Good. See you tomorrow, then."
Sherlock shut the car door and stepped back, turning to let himself into the flat. He glanced at his watch as he walked into the entranceway - 19:05. Mrs Hudson would be watching her evening telly. He wouldn't intrude.
The living room upstairs was cold and dark, lifeless, the antithesis of welcoming. He left the lights off and sank onto the couch until he was lying full length, staring up at the shadowy ceiling.
Eleven days.
Eleven. Days.
He would go mad.
It was fine before John because he hadn't known what it was like to have a flatmate, a friend, like John, and it was fine when John had gone away last time because Sherlock hadn't noticed, but this time he had noticed and there was still eleven days to go (ten days sixteen hours and seventeen minutes, really, but who was counting?) and it was horrible terrible hellish boring boring boring itching scratching craving, and, quite simply, he would go mad.
Oh!
He pulled out his phone and opened his emails.
Inbox (2).
Excellent. He tapped the first one open.
johnhwatson .uk
to
sherlockholmes .uk
Received 23:30
5th June 2011
Sherlock,
How's London holding up without me? Hope you haven't burnt the house down. Emergency number is 999 and ask for the Fire Brigade if you need them. Go and make yourself a cup of tea before you read the rest of this, that's an order. And you'd better have eaten today.
Sherlock rolled his eyes - it wasn't like John would know if he had eaten or drank anything - but complied. They were out of milk. He drank it anyway.
Excellent, not as good a cup as I make, I'm sure, but not a bad effort. Thank you.
You still haven't bought milk, have you?
I'm at Singapore, we have a six hour stopover before the flight to New Zealand. I slept most of the way between Heathrow and here, bless the army for teaching me to sleep anywhere and anywhen no matter the conditions. I had a window seat, there was a chubby Welsh businessman beside me and a young single mother with a baby beside him. She'd been visiting some cousins in Birmingham, she said, and was on her way to Perth to see her sister. I really don't know where a young single mother would have got the money from to go travelling across the world, but she could have won the lottery or been saving for years or anything, really, I suppose.
I know, I know, it's a mistake to theorise without adequate data. It didn't matter anyway, I was just making polite conversation.
Has Greg found you any cases yet? It's only been one day, I know, but I also know just how bored you get when you don't have your flatmate/blogger/best friend to give you an adequate audience for your genius. Don't give me that innocent 'who me?' look, you know it's true.
I'm sure he'll have some cold cases for you, or he can refer you to one of the other departments if they have something exciting going on. Barring that you can always go and annoy Mycroft.
Oh, forgot to tell you before I left - you're paying for any damages to the flat while I'm away. And I'd recommend you get everything fixed before I get back, I'll be happier if I don't know about them. Ignorance is bliss in this particular case, okay? Ta.
I'll flick you another email when I touch down in New Zealand. Might even have a reply from you by then, if you're finished filing everything away yet.
Cheers,
John.
Sherlock looked at kitchen doors and winced. Lestrade had been right, John wouldn't be happy. He stood up from the couch, crossed the room, and slipped into the kitchen cautiously. Any clouds of gas had dissipated, though there was still a decent tang of chemical smell to the air. There was a small crater in the bench, surrounded by a large patch of scorch marks and acid bubbling that flowed down onto the vinyl floor - it was well and truly ruined. He slipped to the other end of the room and opened the window wide before returning to the living room, opening both windows there, and lying back on the sofa.
johnhwatson .uk
to
sherlockholmes .uk
Received 19:05
6th June 2011
Sherlock,
No reply from you yet, are you still organising data? Taking your time, aren't you? I didn't think there was that much new information, but I guess you have to sort through all the extraneous stuff too. That spaniel yelped like anything, it was rather painful.
Sorry this email is a few hours late, I waited until I'd arrived in Christchurch and unpacked at Scott's place.
Flight was alright, had a bubbly American beside me for this leg, one of those perky blonde cheerleader types, couldn't have been above five foot four. She was on a six-week cultural exchange, and from what I saw, it will be quite the change for her. New Zealand seems a lot like England so far, minus the rain - arrival and departure times are relatively accurate, everyone is very laid back and casual about everything, and they don't seem to be much inclined toward everlasting social chitchat. This American girl was almost the opposite - wouldn't shut up, and she'd be the type to be an hour late everywhere she goes. You'd hate her. Left her at the airport in Auckland, luckily. Don't think I could've handled another hour long flight with her.
Sky was overcast when we landed at Christchurch, so I couldn't see the fabled Red Zone - that's what they've labelled the central city district where the earthquakes did the most damage. (If you don't know about the Christchurch earthquakes of September 2010 and February 2011, go and ask Greg. Or google it. It's important stuff, Sherlock, lock it in to at least your mid-term memory.)
Apparently they've demolished over a hundred buildings so far; there's nearly a thousand due for demolition eventually, and that's only in the very innermost area of damage. There's something like ten thousand houses that are damaged to the point of being completely unliveable or else they're on land that's too damaged to keep living there, it sounds like something out of a war zone to be honest. I haven't been into the Inner City yet, haven't even seen much of the rest of Christchurch, really, I've only been here two hours; but we'll probably do that sometime later on this week.
Scott - that's Private Pierce - and his two flatmates are nice guys. We don't call him Scott, though, he's still Pierce over here, funnily enough. That's because one of his flatmates is also a Scott, so they go by their last names - Pierce and McLaughlin. They have an interesting mix of nationalities all over New Zealand, and Christchurch is no different: Pierce has English roots from about five generations back, one set of McLaughlin's great-grandparents were Scottish and he also has a French grandmother, and the third guy, Rangi Walker, is half-Maori.
I think that's all the news for now: as I said, I haven't been here long enough for anything really significant to happen. I'll be sure to drop you a line if there are any mysterious double suicides in the local news or anything.
Don't get into too much trouble while I'm away, will you?
John.
And that was it.
As with the texts, his thumb kept scrolling down the screen as if unconsciously (or maybe not so unconsciously, he admitted to himself) hoping for more information, more communication, more words and sentences and paragraphs that he could read in John's voice as if John was still in the room with him: but there was nothing.
Sherlock blanked the screen with a sigh.
He would go mad, pure and simple, mad mad mad mad mad, and when John returned he would find that his irritating but occasionally endearing genius of a flatmate had turned into an irritating and completely senile genius of a flatmate, and would want nothing to do with him, and it would all be John's fault anyway for going away in the first place, so there.
He stuck his tongue out at the ceiling in a fit of childishness, and then retracted it after a moment as a thought occurred to him.
Unless...
Oh, now that was an idea.
And why not, really, it wasn't like he had anything else to do for ten days fourteen hours and forty five minutes.
He'd just have to check...
Bouncing up from the couch, Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and strode for his bedroom, not bothering to turn any lights on - it was still light enough to see easily, and if his plan worked out he wouldn't be here for long anyway. Into his room, open the wardrobe, steadfastly ignore the false floorboard ("I don't need those, I'm going to Dartmoor!"). Lift the shoebox off the second to top shelf on the right and set it on the bed.
Open the lid of the box and rummage around inside, hoping, hoping, hoping, and yes! Oh, wasn't that just brilliant!
He held it up for a moment before tucking it into his pocket, and then made for the door. There were things to be done.