NEGATIVE IMAGE
Sally finds something surprising on a drugs bust.
It was a normal crime scene. Sherlock came bounding across the parking lot, complaining as usual, and within minutes, Sally had to turn away. He made it so impossible to focus on the job at hand. Shaking her head, she saw John carrying an expensive Nikon DSLR. She drifted over, eyebrows raised. "Nice camera, John. Is that the D90? I've been admiring that one ever since it came out."
He looked at her for a moment, and then glanced down at the camera. "Really? It's way too complicated for me. I don't know what Sherlock was thinking. A basic point-and-shoot is more my speed. Here, take a look"
To her surprise, he handed her the camera. She blinked a moment, and then raised it to look through the viewfinder. She expertly adjusted the aperture setting and slid the lens through its range of zoom settings. "A camera like this can do anything—it can be as simple as a point-and-shoot without you needing to do anything, or it can let you control everything. It's got one of the best sensors Nikon's ever had." She lowered it, relishing the feel of it in her hands. Sturdy, solid, but not so large and bulky it would be difficult to carry around.
"Thanks." She held it out to John, trying not to let the regret show on her face. "Maybe one day I can afford one of those. I'm still working with my D40, which is practically a dinosaur at this point."
"You like photography, then?" John asked, surprised.
"Oh yeah. Ever since school. I've got a bunch of film cameras back home, but nobody does film anymore, and it's getting harder to get it developed. It's not like I have a lab to develop my own. But transferring to digital gets pricey. I've been saving up."
John looked thoughtful as he fumbled with the dial, switching the camera back to AUTO. He glanced over at Sherlock and then back to Sally, then handed her the camera. "Here. Take it."
"What? Do you need me to show you how to use it, or something?"
He just smiled at her. "Are you kidding? We don't have that kind of time. I'm saying, take it. It's yours."
"But…" She had to have misunderstood. There's no way he was giving her this £800 camera. It wasn't possible. He didn't even like her. "I can't … what will the fr … Sherlock say?"
John shrugged. "He won't care, and believe me, I'd be much happier with something simpler that fits in my pocket so I don't feel like a ruddy tourist all the time. Seriously. It's like his Stradivarius—it deserves to belong to someone who can appreciate it."
She was completely stunned. She looked at him and glanced over at the freak, who was watching. She started to hand it back to John, not wantingthat confrontation, but he just shook his head at her and insisted. "Really. Take it. Have you got a bag you can use? I left mine at home."
Sally had never felt quite so speechless. She nodded. "You're sure? You don't even like me."
He actually laughed. "So, start giving me reasons to! Honestly, keep the camera. It's just the kit lens, and I don't think there are even any pictures on the memory card. I'd rather use the camera on my phone." He gave her a firm nod, tucked his hands in his pockets to prevent her from handing it back, and walked away.
A few minutes later she saw him talking to Sherlock and saw them both look her way. Was Sherlock going to come tear his precious camera from her hands? Her fingers curled reflexively around the camera. But no, he just gave her a nod and turned back to berating Anderson.
She would never understand those two. Never.
#
Sally trudged up the stairs to 221B, all seventeen of them, and tried not to be appalled that she'd come so often that she actually knew that.
Really, it was the Freak's fault … no, Sherlock's fault, she corrected herself. She was trying to get out of that habit. Her opinion hadn't changed, but John, biased though he was, had been right about one thing—calling him that was unprofessional. And she was trying to be nice.
Of course, she'd be feeling more charitable if they weren't on another wild goose chase 'drugs bust' again. She didn't think the fr … that, isSherlock was ever going to get out of the habit of taking evidence away from the crime scenes. Apparently the concept of a controlled evidence chain was something he simply couldn't understand.
She had to admit that she felt badly for John, though. He covered when … Sherlock crossed a line, but she had never seen John cross one himself. He was just, for god knew what reason, fond of his flatmate even if, for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why. She could almost have seen it if John were gay because there was no question that Sherlock was easy on the eyes, but he wasn't. She'd thought for years that he had taken some kind of mental damage in the war, until Sherlock 'died.' It had been clear then that John loved him on some, weird, freakish level of bromance.
Sally was the first to admit that love didn't answer to logic.
She felt sorry for the landlady, though, as she let them upstairs. It couldn't be easy, having these two as tenants—especially now she was back to getting paid less in rent than before John lost all his money ransoming Sherlock. (Poor sod. If you're going to pay a fortune, you'd at least hope to get something worthwhile for your money.)
Not that John had seemed to get any real use out of his fortune, she thought, as she started rummaging through the things on the desk. He hadn't even bought … hold on. This was a new laptop. Well, good for him. At least he'd gotten something before all that money disappeared. He was devoted to that blog of his, and even she had to admit it was entertaining. She'd almost missed it during the years Sherlock had been gone.
She shifted a pile of papers and found another laptop—must be Sherlock's. Hmm. That was new, too. A gift from that creeper brother of his, probably. She slid open the desk drawers, trying to focus on the job at hand. She looked around the room and her eyes lit on the television. Had it always been so large? She didn't think Sherlock was a telly kind of bloke, though it was probably a welcome distraction for John of an evening.
Forehead crinkling, she looked around the room again. There was something different about it, but she couldn't put her finger on it. It was just as cluttered as ever. The furniture was the same as she remembered it … or was it? Hadn't that chair had a broken leg last time she was here?
She wandered over to the kitchen. Had they always had two fridges? (Remembering the eyeballs, she resolved NOT to look in either of them.) She didn't recall seeing a dishwasher last time she was here, either. The stove looked the way she remembered, but the pots were new. Hadn't she heard John complaining about Sherlock ruining one with some kind of experiment on human spleens just last week?
She scanned the flat again. It was curious how many little, expensive things they had that she didn't remember. John must have bought them all before Sherlock was kidnapped two months ago.
Except … Was that … ? It was. A Nikon D800 DSLR on the bookcase nearest John's usual chair. This model was only just out, she knew. She turned it on and flipped through the stored images. At first, she hurried through, and then her photographer's eye realized—they were good. Very good. Shots from inside the flat. Shots of London streets and architecture. Kids chasing pigeons in Trafalgar Square. Portraits of homeless people that made her feel she almost knew them. She had no idea Sherlock was so good at photography.
Then, she came across several images of the freak himself. Backlit and playing his violin by the window. His hands steepled in front of his face as he stared intently into the distance. An uncommonly caring look as he bent to talk to a child.
This was John's camera. Not Sherlock's.
But, hadn't he told her that he didn't know how to use one properly? Clearly that was not the case. There was no question that the person who had taken these images knew exactly what he was doing—which meant he had lied to her when he gave her the camera several months ago.
She looked around, and saw a camera bag tucked in the corner and glanced inside. As if the camera in her hands didn't cost enough, there was a small fortune worth of lenses and flashes in here.
She straightened and took another look around the flat, noting again all the new items. Come to think of it, the hallway and the stairs seemed less run-down than usual, too. The entire building had a fresh feeling. It had never been run down, exactly—the landlady was too responsible for that—but it had had the feel of any house maintained by an elderly woman with two rambunctious tenants. 'Lived in" would be the kindest description.
Now, though? There was that indefinable feel of a house that was being actively cared for. It wasn't any neater or cleaner than it had been, but the air was somehow fresher, the light brighter, as if money for its care was no object.
Yet, she knew John had given all that money for Sherlock's ransom, so how was this possible? She scanned the room again, suspicions flaring. Of course, they had caught the kidnapper … had she ever heard what had happened to the actual ransom? Her fingers clenched around the camera as her eyes rested on Sherlock's violin. John had said it was a Stradivarius? Weren't they the pinnacle of violins? The most expensive in the world?
Of course. The answer was obvious. Sherlock's creeper brother. He must have been so grateful to John for sacrificing his fortune to save Sherlock that he'd been giving gifts. It was the only explanation.
She glanced back at the camera, tempted to scroll through more of the photos, but already feeling like she'd intruded. She placed it back on the shelf where she'd found it, and got back to work.
##
