A couple of things I should mention before we start (although as I write this, I have already written the entire chapter):
Firstly: 'The Peckham Boys', the gang mentioned in this chapter, and probably in some later chapters too, are a real gang. I do not have any link to them, all the information mentioned about them is sourced from Wikipedia, I have merely borrowed their name and invented them a symbol. No offence is intended to anyone.
It's probably a good time to reaffirm that I don't own 'Sherlock' or any of the characters from the show.
Finally, I should mention that Sherlock was being incredibly awkward while I was writing this, as he kept insisting on switching tenses and going out of character. Both should be patched up, but I apologise if it suddenly switches from the present to the past, or vice versa. Enjoy!
When they returned home, John had physically forced Sherlock to sleep, ignoring all his protests: "How do you expect me to think, if I'm asleep, John?", and frogmarched him into his room. He'd then, rather annoyingly, refused to leave until Sherlock at least lied down, and had stolen his phone. Frustrated, bored, Sherlock had reluctantly closed his eyes, though not until he heard his flatmate retreat to his own room, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right. He was the one that was right.
Much to his irritation, he woke late: the LED display on the clock by his bed showed it to be gone ten. With a growl of frustration, he noted that John would have already left, so he had no one to berate for not waking him up. Muttering under his breath at the human body's ridiculous and inconvenient need to rest, he marched into the kitchen.
He noticed several things. The first, was that John had been running late too: there were crumbs all over the counter that he had not cleared up, as well as an unwashed plate shoved hastily next to the sink. When he was feeling charitable, he might have washed it, but John had let him sleep, so he didn't. He also noticed his phone sitting next to this unwashed crockery, flashing faintly. He narrowed his eyes, noting the fingerprints on the screen that John had left as he moved it from location to location. Annoyed as he was at the theft, he noted that John had not thought to look through it, for which he felt grateful. It was nice to know that someone respected your privacy: he imagined the first thing most employees of Scotland Yard would do, would be to have a good investigate.
There were two unread messages, and he read them absentmindedly, as he hurried back to his room to get dressed. The first was from John:
I told you people need sleep. I finish at four.
Sherlock frowned at the friendly jibe, but sent him a reply, 'Dull. SH.' before turning to the second message. His heart leapt as he saw the name. Lestrade. The text was short, confirming another body had been found, and an address, where it could be found.
Sherlock grinned to himself, sent the DI a message to confirm his presence shortly, and dressed quickly.
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The latest victim was sprawled in a side alley adjacent to a pub. Sherlock could see the body as he ducked under the police tape this time. This one was female, and very young, if he wasn't mistaken (and he wasn't mistaken, ever), probably still at school. She'd been shot through the chest, and again the bloodstains on the fence were immaculately done, but Sherlock imagined that this girl had been dead for a lot longer than it appeared at first sight. He was only a few feet from her, about to bend down and get a proper look, when his way was barred by a most unwelcome officer.
"Sally," he said, acknowledging her with a nod, and making to sidestep round her, but she moved with him, blocking his way.
"Hello, freak."
"It's nice to see you haven't run out of insults," he commented icily. "Tell me, what lie have the police force concocted to feed the public about the first body?"
"Unexplained gang violence," she answered coolly, crossing her arms. "Tragic accident."
"But you know that's wrong," Sherlock said, wondering if it was unacceptable to shove a member of the police force out of his way.
"No," she corrected him. "We know it didn't happen yesterday."
"Well," Sherlock replied, cocking an eyebrow, and smirking. "This gang went to an awful lot of trouble to make it look like it happened yesterday, when it didn't. And then, out of charity of course, they leave a symbol, just to make it easier for us to catch them."
"Yes they did."
"I'm sure it's just artistic leanings," he said sarcastically. "A mistaken shooting, and they choose to keep the body for nearly a week, just to put it somewhere else and make it look as though it happened there. I thought you lot were meant to be perceptive."
She glared at him.
"Where's your 'colleague' today, anyway?" she asked, shifting her weight onto her other foot, and changing tack. "Or has he finally seen sense?"
"I don't believe John's whereabouts concern you," he answered loftily, and Donovan was saved the task of thinking of another cutting remark by the arrival of Lestrade. Sherlock spared her a withering stare, and turned to his preferred member of the police.
"Any news on the branding?" Sherlock asked him eagerly, not bothering to greet him properly. All the social niceties people tended to insist on wasted so much time.
"Yes," Lestrade said, giving a wry smile. "It's associated, generally with the Peckham Boys, but –"
Sherlock frowned.
"That's not right."
"It is," Lestrade assured him. "They don't usually use it, its not really wise for a criminal gang to leave a trail of clues for the police to follow, but it has been associated with some of their graffiti, and apparently its become a bit of a tradition." He looked at Sherlock. The uncertainty in his face did not match the conviction in his voice. "It does fit, Sherlock. They're not exactly known for their respect of life."
Sherlock frowned, cataloguing the little spiked symbol in the back of his mind as something to associate with the gang, but there was something off, still. The Peckham boys were well known for committing murder, trafficking drugs, and even petty robbery – so their being responsible for a few more murders did not surprise him. But why advertise their involvement? Why give him a clue?
"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored."
Sherlock shook his head to clear it. This case was not related to Moriarty. It was clever, but there were gaping flaws that he would have thought to tie up: he was…more thorough, more elegant. He removed the symbol from the forefront of his mind, nonetheless still examining it with interest at the back, and he and Lestrade moved over to the body, where there were a few stray forensic scientists examining every square inch of the corpse and its surroundings.
Pointless. This body was a carbon-copy of the last. They needed to look outside the time-of-death, and DNA samples here. Why had nobody noticed that?
He crouched next to the girl, scanning an expert eye over her frame. Only child, early teens, probably raised by her single father – no, mother. That's not important. She's linked, somehow, to this mysterious 'scandal', this knowledge that no one's allowed to have, and live. She knew too. How? She's completely unremarkable. His eyes spot a glint of silver around her neck, which he fishes from underneath her t-shirt. It's a small pendant, in the shape of half a heart, broken. Engraved in tiny silver letters, is the word 'friend'.
"Why does it say that?" he asked, looking up at Lestrade. The other man bends over the fragment of silver, but Sally Donovan is still hovering nearby, and she answers first.
"You are joking," she interjects incredulously, laughing at him.
"No, Sally," Sherlock yawns, pointedly. "Unlike you, I do not possess a limitless supply of wit."
She scoffed at him, and Lestrade intervened.
"Can you two stop bickering for a moment, please? This is a crime scene."
The two don't stop glaring at each other, but Donovan does at least see fit to answer his initial question. Sherlock doesn't see why she can't just be civil to him, it would allow things to be done much quicker, and then allow them both to get away from each other as fast as possible.
"It's half of a 'best friends' necklace," she informs him, rolling her eyes at his ignorance. "Her best friend," she folds her arms, and looks witheringly at him, "wears the other half."
"Thankyou," Sherlock answers, forgetting that she's there as soon as he's got what he wants, and he turns back to the dead girl on the pavement. He needs to see her house, and preferably speak to both her mother and her 'best friend'. This knowledge, they have already established, is most likely linked to a person in the public eye. The use of the word scandal suggest either some kind of illicit activity, such as taking drugs, or a relationship that will be deemed unacceptable in the eyes of society. So, this girl has either spotted this person of note engaged in said illicit activity – and he hopes that's not the explanation, because it means they've hit another dead end – or she has learned it from the people around her – word of mouth. Logically, large quantities of people can't know, or there would have been a lot more disappearances and murders. Also, the probable nature of the information, is information that people only share with those they trust: her 'best friend' and her mother seem the most likely candidates. Of course, that means they're also, probably, in danger of being targeted. That's not important at the moment.
He isn't relishing the task of trying to coax information out of grieving women, and would really rather John was around to be the shoulder to cry on, the comforter, so he can focus on the questioning. He's capable of being both those things if he wants, and he takes satisfaction in the knowledge that he can behave at odds to his own personality at will. It takes skill, self-restraint, and an acute knowledge of human behaviour and reactions; and he possesses all of those things. It's just – well, this is a clean shirt.
I need you, it's important. SH.
Sherlock, I'm working. I said I'd be off at four. JW.
It's almost four, and I need your specific skills. Might be dangerous. SH.
It's one. You're holding your phone. I will see you when I finish. JW.
Sherlock grits his teeth. Stupid, stubborn doctor. At least, he supposes, he'll be spared John's incompetence, and actually get the information he needs. He sends one last text, jabbing the 'send' button with unwonted venom, and stows his phone inside his coat.
I hate you. SH.
Smirking in satisfaction, he takes the file on the dead girl that Lestrade passes him, and makes his way to the nearest main road to look for a cab. He gives the cabbie the address of the girl's place of residence, and settles down to read the notes on her – Isabel Shaw. He feels his phone vibrate against his chest, and ignores it. The file has confirmed his deductions about the girl's upbringing, he notes with a self satisfied smile.
What really nags at his mind, as he reads through the notes and records about the dead teenager, is the little spiked circle burnt into her neck, burnt into Daniel Yates' chest. It's very odd. He can't imagine a notorious, violent gang, going to great lengths to protect the reputation of a petty celebrity who has gone off the rails. His phone vibrates again, and he pulls it out with rather more force than necessary, frustrated at the dead ends he seems to be running into. Both messages are from John. Right now, he'd rather they were from Lestrade.
Sherlock almost snarls at the phone as he puts it away again. He doesn't need an apology, he would like a hand, a second eye, an audience, someone to argue with over his morality. He marvels that John hasn't realised that.
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Twenty minutes of weeping mother and teenage girl later, and Sherlock is wishing John were there only on the grounds of possessing a gun. Sherlock's not sure whether he'd shoot himself or the two women across the table, however.
Himself, probably. He'd rather avoid a court date, proceedings can get incredibly dull.
He's outdone himself to get information out of these two. He's made them tea, he's smiled and nodded, he actually let the distraught best friend fling her arms around his middle and cry into his (clean, damn her!) shirt. He's offered comforting hands, he's even volunteered several methods to deal with bereavement. He's rather pleased with both his performance and tolerance, but he can feel the frustration bubbling beneath his carefully crafted exterior. All he's managed to get so far is "I miss her", "It's too hard" and "Everybody loved her". He exercises enormous effort not to point out that clearly everyone did not love her, or else she would not be lying dead on the pavement a few miles away.
Patience, he realises, is essential when dealing with incredibly emotional people such as those in front of him, but Sherlock likes to exercise as little patience as is possible. Generally, he sees patience as a waste of time. He wants to go down to Bart's morgue and have a more thorough investigation of both bodies, and it looks like he's going to be stuck here all afternoon. He reflects rather bitterly that John got off extremely lightly with the woman he questioned yesterday. She was not as determined to be unduly awkward.
He refocuses his attention, his eyes scanning the women in front of him. The mother, unsurprisingly, bears a striking resemblance to the girl at the crime scene: hair dyed blonde, and the same green eyes. The best friend – who introduced herself as Scarlet Vlascenko, with a faint Russian accent – contrasts strikingly from both mother and daughter. She's very pale, with dark red lips, and hair that's almost black, but not quite. Her pale blue eyes, not dissimilar to his own, are very red: he can see tiny capillaries emerging in the whites. He's deduced that it's her that has the secrets – it's obvious from the way she holds herself, and the locket around her neck balled in her fist. It seems very likely that it's these secrets that got her best friend killed.
"Scarlet," he says, making his voice hesitant enough to sound considerate, but sure enough so she knows he does want an answer. "This is important. Is there anything – anything at all – that you only told Isabel, and no one else?" He pauses, and draws in a breath, placing a hand on her shoulder, stroking it gently with one thumb. The girl relaxes a little. "It's important." He looks her in the eyes, with an expression both sympathetic and very serious. "It might help me find who killed her. You do want them brought to justice, don't you?"
Scarlet breaks down again, and Sherlock swallows his annoyance and slides a comforting arm around her, shooting a sympathetic smile over her head at the dead girl's mother. She actually seems to be coping better. Unfortunately, he realises that this is only because she doesn't want to show herself up, and not for any interesting reason relevant to the case.
"There was one thing," the teenager manages, and she glances at the older woman, looking anxious. Ah. She doesn't want her to hear. This could be promising. He asks, very politely and sensitively, if the mother might give them a moment, and she does so, retreating to another room. As soon as she is gone, the girl seems more inclined to speak, and Sherlock feels a little stab of hope and interest.
"She was the only one who knew," Scarlet began, her wide eyes looking up him, scared. She takes a deep breath, and manages to speak between sobs. "She knew I…I liked girls."
She turns away from Sherlock, hiding her face, as if he's going to judge her, push her away. Sherlock curses the shallowness of youth, and society in general, so quick to stereotype and hate that it's prevented her from telling him something that might be important. He's in no position to judge anyone. He tells her that most of the London police force think he's sleeping with his male roommate, and she cheers up a little, and becomes more open, pleased that they share some kind of common ground.
He can just imagine John, choking, assuring the girl that whatever the police think, this is definitely, definitely not true. Bless.
"Anyway, there's this one girl who I'd been seeing for a while," she says, and stops again, looking worried. "I mean, I really like her, but she's a lot older than me, and I couldn't tell anyone except Isabel. She was really nice about it."
She dissolves into sobs again at this point, at the mention of her friend. Sherlock's interest is caught, and he notes the use of the past tense for future reference. This looks like it might fit very well into his theories.
"How much older?" He asks.
"She was 25," Scarlet says, and licks her lips nervously.
If this girlfriend was in the public eye, Sherlock thinks, this could certainly be a scandal. Not only is Scarlet ten years her junior, but she's also underage. Someone might very well want to cover this up. Was murder really necessary, though? Surely a superinjunction would have sufficed.
"What was her name?" he coaxes. Scarlet screws her face up, and Sherlock becomes more and more convinced that the person is one of note. She wouldn't be so apprehensive if there wasn't a chance he would recognise the name. He feels like smiling at his own brilliance, but doesn't. It would no doubt be considered insensitive.
"Virginia Smith."
Sherlock is disappointed not to recognise the name, but stores it in his memory to Google as soon as he leaves the house. A knock at the door breaks the silence that has appeared while he thinks. Before going to answer it – is it rude, to answer the door at someone else's house? – he indicates to Miss Shaw that she can return to her own kitchen. Then, he excuses himself, and wonders if this visitor is going to be interesting, or if it's just a sympathy visit.
As it turned out, interesting.
"John," he says, staring at the doctor in surprise. His sudden appearance has rendered him speechless, and he doesn't like being surprised.
"They let me off early," John tells him. Trust him to state the blindingly obvious. Sherlock knew an escapee when he saw one. "Lestrade told me where you'd gone."
Sherlock let the man in, and led him through to the kitchen, briefly introducing everyone. He let the boredom in his voice become apparent as he did so; he'd got what he came for.
He articulated this last point slightly more sensitively, and they make their farewells: Sherlock with thinly veiled glee, John all irritating sincerity and sympathy. He noticed Scarlet's eyes flicking from him to John and back again, and regretted his little anecdote to get her to open up. Honestly.
They left the house, Sherlock gratefully breathing in lungfuls of London air. As they fell into step, side by side, he turned to John.
"We're going to the morgue, I need cheering up." He took out his phone, smiling a little at the chuckle that escaped the doctor at his comment. "I don't suppose you know who Virginia Smith is, do you?"
