Weighing His Words
Chapter Three:
His Intruding Light.
"Look sir," I exhaled frustratedly. "I don't think that somebody was in my flat; I know it."
"And how are you so sure?" The constable asked in a bored tone, twisting the scratched wedding around the third finger of his left hand.
My temper was fast unravelling, taking with it my common sense. I blew an irritated breath through pursed lips, struggling to contain my indignant reaction when words like paranoid and nervous drifted across his consciousness. I'd explained the situation twice already but still he was yet to believe me.
"The door was forced open," I said matter-of-factly. I almost regretted my tone. Almost.
A bushy eyebrow disappeared into his contrastingly receding hairline."Miss, are you sure that you didn't simply forget to lock it?"
"Very." I was beginning to wish I'd thought this idea through more thoroughly. I felt the tell-tale heat of a blush working its way across my face, an equal mix of embarrassment and frustration. I clasped and re-clasped my hands without looking at them. I would not look down, I would not look-
Gosh, my nails needed filing.
"And what precisely was stolen?"
I raised my head and bit my lip. This was the root of the problem – lack of evidence. "Nothing," I admitted before adding hastily, "As far as I'm aware."
If the officer had appeared disbelieving before, it was nothing compared to the sceptical look that now graced his sallow face. He straightened, attempting to feign a well-mannered attitude but it just came off measured and condescending.
This time I couldn't stop the scowl spreading across my face when I heard the non-too flattering comments dotted about his skull. If I'd wanted to be treated like this, I could have arranged a Sunday lunch with my mother just as easily.
"Listen love-"
I don't know about you, but I really object to being called that.
"Well I am terribly sorry for wasting your valuable time," I interrupted smoothly before pivoting sharply away. As I turned, I had a sudden, savage impulse. I skimmed his surface thoughts before twisting back and adding, "But I'm sure page thirteen of the limited edition Marvel comic, the one you've got stuffed under the desk, will still be there at the end of your shift."
It was riding that brutal impulse that I shot him a hugely false, one-hundred watt smile and stalked away, not bothering to wait for a response. All I'd wanted was some simple reassurance. It was unbelievably unsettling to know that a stranger had rifled through my home. Scratch that, unsettling wasn't the right word; it was downright scary.
I'd never used my telepathy that way before and it gave me a shameful thrill to have finally done it. I had a moment's concern for flaunting my abilities, but ultimately dismissed my worries with righteous humour. I fiddled mindlessly with the zip of my open jacket as I headed towards the spotless glass doors. I could just about make out my reflection in the proud, polished floor of New Scotland Yard. But given my visual arrangement, it was hardly surprising when I ran headlong into some poor unsuspecting party. Some poor unsuspecting party with very hot coffee, I might add.
I hissed in pain and sucked air through my teeth as the brown liquid soaked my shirt, burning the skin beneath it. I scratched at it reflexively, swatting furiously to lessen the scald.
"I am so sorry," the man spluttered, casting about uselessly. "Are you alright? Are you burnt?"
His brain informed me this behaviour was decidedly out of character with his unflappable personality. I tore my eyes from the dark stain that'd spread across my front to look at the man. His salt-and-pepper hair was unruffled in the way that male cuts often are; although I'd bet that this particular man's wouldn't have the guts to nap up on him. He had an expression of such undisguised horror that I immediately took pity on him.
"It's fine. It wasn't that hot," I said with a half-forced smile that was meant to be reassuring, suppressing annoyance for my ruined blouse; I'd only got it the day before last.
"Are you sure?" He asked with genuine concern.
When I nodded, he stooped to pick my bag from where it had fallen. I mumbled my thanks when he handed it back. Scrambling for something to say, I failed to come up with anything. What did people say in awkward, protracted situations like this?
"Did you want to come upstairs?" he offered after several heartbeats of silence. "There're some bathrooms up there, if you want to get cleaned up."
I shook my head. "It's kind of you to offer but I'm going home now anyway."
"Oh right." The man scratched behind his ear inattentively, seeking a polite way to take his leave. "Well, once again, I apologise. I wasn't looking where I was going."
"It okay. I can't say I was paying very much attention either, to be honest." I nodded toward the disposable cup in his hands, "I hope there's still some left for you."
Lestrade swirled the ribbed, half-empty cup in a tiny circle, watching the coffee slosh against the edges. "I think there's enough to keep me functioning," he replied with a laugh, the corners of his eye crinkling as he did.
I coughed uncomfortably and seized the opportunity to escape. "Well, it was...nice meeting you-"
"Lestrade."
"Lestrade," I echoed. "Well, I certainly hope your day gets better."
"And I, yours," he said with an amused look. "Have a nice day miss." He dipped his head for a final time and left, making his way towards a discreet door.
I watched him go, noticing how he focussed straight ahead rather than down. Confidence, I mused mildly, could be an elusive thing. Suddenly aware of the chucking great stain down my front, I hurriedly tugged the zipper further up in the hope I could hide the worst of the mess. Walking to the building's automatic entrance, I stepped onto the street and stifled a grimace when I felt a raindrop fall on my forehead. I hunched my shoulders and ducked my head, trying to take up as little space as possible. Voices poured into my unshielded mind, and for a moment I resisted the compulsion to erect a barrier. The lively drone of humanity was oddly comforting and I felt strangely sorry when I finally shut it out.
I hadn't moved ten paces into the sparse crowd before my morning took yet another unsuspected turn. I could identify the chaotic, yet distinguished, click and hum of this mind even through my figurative padding.
"Ah, Spencer."
"Sherlock," I said diplomatically. I struggled against a groan when he proceeded to analyse me. Shifting uncomfortably and pretending not to notice, I concentrated on his companion; whose thoughts were, by contrast, far less intrusive. "John, how are you?"
The shorter man looked at me warmly."I-"
"He's fine," Sherlock interrupted bluntly. Those intimidating eyes were pinned on me again and I shuffled under the weight of his stare. I turned my head and picked out a passer-by at random, lifting the surface thoughts from their head.
Stupid rain. Why does it have to be so cold anyway? The innocent monologue came from a dieting secretary who wished she'd had that second bagel.
I turned my attention back to the doctor, sensing he was about to speak.
"Well apparently I'm alright," John rolled his eyes. "But what do I know?" His usual smile softened the jibe. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"Reporting an intruder – somebody broke into her flat," Sherlock supplied impatiently. Without any further preamble, he touched a hand to my left breast. He was scooping up a lone pearl of coffee that had somehow escaped blotting, but that point was lost on me.
I went to bat him away furiously, but his hand was already gone."Hey! What-?"
"Sherlock!"
The man in question was unfazed by our reactions. He brought his fingers to his lips.
Two and a half sugars. Black. Ground, not filtered.
"Lestrade's in. Come on John."
"Sherlock! You can't just touch people up like that and then walk away!" John's mental track was filled with unsuppressed horror at his flatmate's disregard for my personal space.
"Hmm?" The sound was absent. He eyeballed my shocked face briefly. "Oh, right," he added dispassionately. He'd already moved on to other things, having deemed the in-progress conversation to be of no further value. Sherlock strode into New Scotland Yard without uttering another syllable, chin firmly up, rearranging his navy scarf.
I shut my mouth and pursed my lips. A violent blush made my face feel like a griddle plate. I not-so casually crossed my arms under my breasts.
John, for his part, looked mortified. "I'm so sorry Hannah, I can't take him anywhere."
I was speechless for a few seconds longer, still largely surprised. Then I started to chuckle hopelessly – the only way I could relieve my embarrassment. "It's okay, I guess. I'm getting the idea that it's just him, isn't it?"
"Pretty much so, yeah," John smiled crookedly. "You know, we are just outside a police station, you could report him for assault," he joked.
"Tempting, but I'll let this one slide," I grinned back. I shot a perplexed look in the direction of the pristine glass doors and shook my head to myself. "I'd, uh, say it happens all the time, but it really doesn't." Truthfully, I don't know why I wasn't more horrified. It might have been the candid, almost innocent way he thought - especially considering his fascination with the minuet - but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Mind you, noticing everything like that, what a-
I clamped down hard on that particular notion, kicking it firmly out of my mind.
"Once again, I'm-"
Sherlock reappeared suddenly, barely suppressing his agitation. "Yes, yes, yes, we're all sorry. That's all people ever do: apologise. Now hurry up!" John muttered darkly in response, but complied all the same. Sherlock's eyes swivelled in my direction and he arched a dark brow. "Coming Spencer?"
Like I had a choice.
...
Sherlock flung open the glass door, barging into the airy room without a hint of remorse.
"Show me," he commanded, continuing some undisclosed conversation.
The man behind the desk sighed wearily and nodded a dismissal to his curly-haired colleague, seemingly familiar with his visitor's behaviour. The woman, however, was clearly displeased with Sherlock's presence and openly shot him a glare. He returned it with uncharacteristic cheer.
"Run along now Donovan," he called to her retreating back, taking childish delight at getting in the last word. His eccentric glee increased when she flipped him off.
The man – Lestrade, I realised suddenly – regarded Sherlock witheringly. "Must you antagonise her?" He asked. He leaned forward and propped his forehead on his fingertips, massaging his temples.
"Don't be ridiculous Lestrade," John interjected dryly. "It's too much of a sport."
Sherlock harrumphed and sank into the recently vacated chair, lazily outstretching his legs.
"Do have a seat Sherlock," the older man said sarcastically, exhaling heavily. He waved a hand in the direction of the nearby sofa. "Go ahead – you might as well make yourselves comfortable."
Even without being in the room, Donovan's black thoughts still hovered on the edge of my awareness. I shook my head absently, trying to clear the irritated cloud that'd formed. The movement attracted Lestrade's attention. His eyes widened with recognition.
"I saw you, didn't I, just a moment ago downstairs? I didn't realise you were with them."
To tell the truth, I hadn't either. "Actually, I was brought here under duress," I said, trying my best not to look as completely uneasy as I felt. I hadn't the foggiest as to why he needed me. Sherlock scoffed loudly, which made my fingers twitch at my side. I smothered the impulse to fling him an irritated look. I rolled my eyes but amended my clearly inaccurate statement. "He decided he wanted me up here. In fact, you know what, I'll go. It's really not a problem. Sorry for-"
"Stay."
I twisted to look at him, raising my eyebrows at the order. I pressed my lips together, but ultimately thought better of arguing. Next I'd catch myself 'playing dead' at his behest. "Fine." I directed my next question to the DI, "I'm not intruding, am I?"
"Hardly," he snorted. "He does what he wants most of the time. And gets away with it."
John stirred from his position on the low settee, righting a crick in his neck. "Yeah, why is that anyway?"
"Because, John, I am the best." Sherlock's voice contained not a hint of modesty. "They call on me when they haven't a clue – which is always. You ought to know that by now."
John's tone said that he'd heard this more than once, "Oh yes – that's the one."
His friend was showing off, but I wasn't naive enough to think it was for my benefit; I got the distinct impression that he made a habit of it.
"Defensive posture John," Sherlock admonished distractedly without so much as a lifting his head. "Try not to make it so easy for me."
His flatmate made an exasperated noise but rearranged himself all the same. How he lived with the man, I didn't know.
"Photos Lestrade," Sherlock instructed brusquely.
The Inspector wordlessly passed him the glossy prints. He flipped through the stack, sparing each one no more than a fleeting glance. Completely forgetting myself, I honed in on his thoughts and listened raptly to his process. He picked apart each article individually, spotting microscopic indicators that I couldn't have ever fathomed.
Wounds –initially deep but get shallower, suggesting that the killer subsequently hesitated. The perpetrator's indecision implies a personal connection to victim, but not so attached that they couldn't commit to the action. The lesions have an unusual scatter; the angle indicates a shorter assailant around the height of 5'5". That fact coupled with the proportionally shallow depths would insinuate a lesser strength- that of woman.
"Case closed." He'd decided that it would be more dramatic to exclude the explanation. "It was the cousin." His face displayed none of the inner satisfaction or pleasure I knew he felt at solving the puzzle.
"What?" Lestrade stammered around a mouthful of coffee. "Come off it. That was too quick, even for you."
"Elsa Beckett. Thirty-eight. Five foot five. She's the victim's cousin." Each fact was plainly enunciated, as if he were speaking someone exceptionally slow.
"The cousin?" Lestrade's expression was careful, as was his question.
John looked on humorously, relishing the fact he wasn't the recipient of Sherlock's intellectual contempt. If I was honest, I too was enjoying the break.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Aren't I always?" He remarked lazily.
Lestrade smacked his open palm on the desk. "Damn it. We didn't even pick her up." He pulled the desk phone closer and lifted the handset, jabbing numbers frustratedly. It was only moments before he was barking down the receiver. "Donovan, run a search on an Elsa Beckett. Then, when you've found her, bring her in. Collins can go with you." There was a pause while the person on the other end responded. "It really doesn't matter who figured it out, just get to it." He hung up without waiting for reply and went to gather up the photographs. Sherlock stopped him.
"Pass them to Spencer."
"It's Hannah," I corrected irritably. He ignored me. No surprises there. The DI handed them to me, wearing a puzzled expression, and I took them reluctantly, thumbing blankly through the pile. I grimaced when I reached a particularly gruesome one and quickly moved on. "What am I meant to do with these?"
"Look at them," he instructed. "Tell me what you see."
I studied them in bewilderment. "A dead body. Why?" I looked to John for an explanation, but he shrugged his cluelessness.
Sherlock sighed impatiently, "Do it properly."
Like that explained anything. I took a deep breath. "Okay. I see multiple stab wounds but some look deep, some don't. And there's blood, a lot of blood," I said tentatively, recalling what he'd concluded earlier. I looked down again and swallowed hard. "A violent death."
"Suggesting...?"
"That the murderer was either angry or a sadist," I said in a voice that was as small as I felt. I traced the wounds with my eyes and corrected myself. "No, I think they were very, very angry."
"Murder weapon?" His intolerance was a burning itch.
"How should I know? A knife, maybe?"
Sherlock shook his head disgustedly. They always go for the simplest option.
That annoyed me. What was I? A forensic scientist?
"Well, I apologise for my limited, uninspired guesswork, but my degree didn't exactly cover pathology. Although, if I was honestly striving to show off," I directed the words in Sherlock's direction, "I'd say this was unplanned; impulsive, almost. Jealousy would be my best bet."
Both John and Lestrade looked surprised at my outburst, but more at the tone than the content, I guessed. Sherlock however, was unimpressed.
"Pure conjecture." He steepled two sets of long fingers and studied me over the tips. "Conversely, let us suspend reality and assume you are correct: how do you know?"
Well, I'd taken what his thoughts had told me and gone out on a limb, but I had no idea how to phrase that without, you know, broaching the whole 'Hi-I'm-telepathic' thing. Not a conversation I desired to see through anytime soon.
"People always leave a remnant of their intent," I said by way of explanation. "Evidently that extends to the mark left on dead. I might not be a doctor or a scientist, but any idiot – namely myself – can see that the attacker was exceedingly angry."
Sherlock grunted, apparently unconvinced, but changed the subject abruptly. "Who did you say was in your flat?"
"I didn't." I was surprised when it came out through gritted teeth.
He narrowed his eyes. "Enlighten me." His deductions had slowed, which brought his mental volume down considerably; to an almost normal level. The rhythm and pattern of the hum was vastly different than that of the other men in the room, but then again, I'm not sure why that surprised me. This new, lower and smoother murmur of thought was by no means less fascinating than his standard, albeit intriguing, din.
I stared up at him, attempting to place myself in the scheme of his logic. Where did I stand? It was a good question. We both knew we weren't discussing my intruder. No – he'd moved on, intent on analysing and cataloguing my mismatched reactions and patchwork lies. There I was, standing exposed under his intruding light; waiting for him to either log and file me away, or erase me and forget my existence. My mind was flooded with a subtle tidal wave of complex theories and conceptions that were just sitting there, on his consciousness, waiting to be applied. Dear God, he saw everything.
I wanted to crawl under a rock. Gone was the social feeling of comfort I'd felt earlier; I'd lost myself in the intricate possibilities of his intelligence. A growing sensation of panic and isolation crept up my spine, wheedling its way towards my neck and settling tangibly around my shoulders. I blinked, melting back into my own body. Although it had only been for a few surreal seconds, I reddened with the realisation that I had been staring. I gulped; feeling very intimidated and broke eye contact.
"Well?" He was oblivious to my prying. Of course he was.
I dared a look up at him and spoke quietly, "If you're so clever, Mr. Holmes, why don't you figure it out?"
He remained silent but I heard the challenge resonate in his mind.
Oh yes. The game was most definitely on.
A/N: Sorry for the wait! I found this chapter really difficult to get going and it's definitely not my best. Once again, a whopping thank you to the following people for taking the time to leave a note: sarahelizabeth1993, chilly, SexyKnickers, SensiblyScrewy, NotxYetxDead, Silvermoon of Forestclan, miss vertigo, xxkissesandcuddlesxx and last, but by no means least Black1Han1d. You guys helped my keep my mojo! Kudos also goes out to anyone, anywhere, who is following along.
This fic is challenging, in many respects – so go ahead, I've declared open season on any errors!
