A/N: Happy Easter everyone! He is risen! And a big thank you to all who have followed, favorited, or reviewed my story! Those emails always bring a huge grin to my face. :D I hope you enjoy this next addition.
Chapter 3: Learning More
As I enter the flat I immediately see Sherlock in his customary "thinking pose," lying on his back on the couch, hands pressed together beneath his chin, eyes closed. That posture brings me a sense of relief that is surprisingly strong, and I pause in the doorway just to appreciate the moment. Then I speak,
"What's the case?"
"Hmm?" Sherlock's eyes pop open. "Oh, right. Kidnapping."
"Kidnapping? Like an actual kid?" I shrug out of my jacket and throw it over the back of my chair, my gaze not leaving Sherlock's prone form.
"Yes, a child. Around the age of three." Sherlock sits up quickly, turning so he can look me in the eye.
I am horrified. "A three-year-old? Why did you only say 'if convenient'? What if I hadn't come as quickly?"
"John, of course you would come." Sherlock gives me his we-both-know-what's-going-on-here face, and I try to ignore the stab at my dignity. "And anyway, I have already begun."
"Yes, well," I stammer, looking around the room. "Still. This is serious, Sherlock!"
"Of course it is, John." Sherlock's voice gets sharper, colder. "I understand the dangers of a kidnapping. Time is critical."
"I know." Immediately I feel bad. Why am I acting this way toward Sherlock? I couldn't wait to get home, and now I'm lashing out. "I'm sorry. What should I do?"
The crease of annoyance in Sherlock's forehead smooths out. "Lestrade left a copy of the file on the table. Take a look, then let me know what you think."
"Of course. Not like I'll get it right, though." I grab the file and flip it open.
"Let's not be too hasty. And as past has shown us, your wrong conclusions often lead me to my correct ones."
"Right." I recall a conversation in Baskerville. "What was it you said? I'm a conductor of light."
Sherlock blinks. "Yes. I'm surprised you remembered that."
"Of course I remembered it, you git. I only had a handful of nice things you said to me to remember while you were gone." As soon as I say it, I regret it. I close my eyes and sigh, trying to think of words that can undo what I've just done.
I turn away from the file to look at Sherlock. He's staring at me, but I can't tell what he's thinking. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
He remains quiet for a long time, but I don't break eye contact. Then he nods.
"Kidnapped child, John."
"Yes, right." I look back to the file, trying to ignore my elevated heartbeat. It has to be from the thrill of the case and the worry for the child, not the experience of staring into Sherlock's eyes. The low lamp light had given them flecks of gold often unseen in the bright green and blue.
Get yourself together, Watson. I scold, narrowing my eyes and reading the file. As I begin to comprehend the details, my stomach turns to ice.
Sherlock begins to speak, "Yes, so. Parents divorced, father received custody because the mother is an alcoholic. The child's been gone since last night but they didn't come to the police until this morning."
"They?"
"The father and the housekeeper."
"Do they have any suspects?"
"Questioned the two of them immediately. Tomorrow we'll visit the ex-wife and see what she has to say."
"Lestrade's bringing her in?"
Sherlock shrugs. "It's the smart thing to do, so probably not. Her address is in there, we'll go ourselves."
Is the point worth arguing? I decide not. "Alright. What are you expecting?"
"I'm expecting answers. Yes, I do believe it would be wise to bring your gun."
I hadn't even asked the question. Frustrating how he does that sometimes. Amazing, brilliant, and fascinating, yes. But frustrating. Fascinatingly frustrating. Ooh, alliteration.
You need to go to bed; you're starting to sound drunk.
"Good, yes, okay." I clear my throat and put down the file. "I should get some sleep, then, if I'm going to be handling dangerous weapons."
"If you must." Sherlock waves me off, then stops and holds out his hand, palm up. "Wait. First, give me back the file."
"You haven't memorized it yet?" I half-tease, taking the necessary steps to hand it over.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but I think I see his mouth twitch in amusement. "No. I need to double-check something."
"Sure." I stifle a yawn with my hand. When I lower it and look back at him, I see he is watching me.
"What?" I ask, feeling slightly self-conscious.
It takes a moment for him to respond. "Nothing. I thought I saw… But it's nothing."
I eye him suspiciously for a minute, but I am incredibly tired and not willing to engage in a battle of wits with Sherlock Holmes.
"Let me know if you decide you really did see something." I say and turn to go back to my bedroom.
I don't see Sherlock open his mouth once more, only to close it with a sad expression on his face.
I wake the next morning not feeling rested at all, but as I turn in my bed and start to let my mind drift, I recall the three-year-old child awaiting our attention. All I want at that moment is to go back to sleep, but I force myself to sit up instead.
As much as I want him to sleep, as well, I hope Sherlock spent all night figuring things out.
I pull myself out of bed and rub my hands over my face, trying to wake myself up. Once I gain the energy to move I pull on a black t-shirt and then a neutral gray jumper.
I take a quick detour to the bathroom, where after I do the normal morning activities I splash water on my face, which does wonders to make me feel awake. Then I head to the living room and find Sherlock pacing back and forth.
"Something wrong?" I ask.
Sherlock stops when he hears my voice and turns to face me, his gaze probing as he seems to be searching for something. "You tell me."
I am confused. "Well, there's a kidnapped child we need to find."
Sherlock does not dignify that with a response. I can't really blame him.
He then asks, "Are you ready to go?" and grabs his coat. I notice he's wearing a dark maroon button-up shirt. It contrasts nicely with the pale skin and the contours of his throat.
You need to go back to bed, John.
"Sher-lock, I haven't even had breakfast." I hear the whine in my voice, but it is always harder to run around chasing bad guys when I'm hungry.
"Jo-ohn," Is Sherlock…mocking me? He's mimicking my tone. "There's a missing child."
"I'll just get some bread with peanut butter." Two minutes, then I will be a much better help and make up for whatever the time delay may cost us.
"We're out of peanut butter."
"Sherlock!" I whirl around. "How?"
I answer with him, our voices blending. "An experiment."
He looks slightly taken aback.
"You are not as unpredictable as you might think." I point at him and then finish making my way to the kitchen. "I'll grab a biscuit, and we'll go."
When we get to the street I allow Sherlock to hail the cab while I focus on my biscuit. As a doctor I know it's not the healthiest thing for me, but my experience with Sherlock has taught me to eat what I can when I can. Not a lot of room for being picky in that equation.
The cab arrives and Sherlock gives the cabbie what I assume is the mother's address. We settle down and I watch the buildings go by as we drive.
"I may make a scene." Sherlock warns me as we travel.
"How do you mean?" I ask. A "scene" from Sherlock can mean many different things.
"I'm not entirely certain yet. It depends on how she acts."
"You mean like receptive versus antagonistic?"
"Perhaps. It also depends on how recently she's been drinking, who else is in the room, and how we explain our presence. There are too many variables for me to say as of yet. Just go along with whatever I do."
"I'm not much of an actor." I protest.
"No," Sherlock smirks. "But I am."
No arguments here.
When we reach the mother's house, however, it appears that Sherlock's plan may be put on hold.
"Idiots!" Sherlock cries as we get out of the cab, making our way around police vehicles. "They'll never get the information if they go about it this way. Did they bring the whole Yard?"
I look around at the many vehicles surrounding the residence and I almost think Sherlock's not exaggerating.
"This ruins your plan, does it?" I ask, truly curious about how he was going to make a scene.
"Oh, yes," Sherlock pulls the caution tape and pauses just long enough for me to duck under before continuing his hurried pace. "They've gone and made her feel attacked, now she's certainly not going to give us anything useful. Stupid."
I'm beginning to see where the acting part would have come into play. After all, Sherlock makes people feel "attacked" just by being himself. "You were planning to make her feel welcomed?"
Sherlock spares me a glance, trying to measure the sarcasm in my tone. There is none, so I just cock an eyebrow and wait for his answer.
"Something like that, yes," he looks away and we enter the house.
The residence is not large, but the inside is nicely furnished. Middle to upper class, I would say, although if that mirror is framed by real gold I'd definitely switch my vote to high upper. I'm sure Sherlock sees much more than I as we glance around, but analyzing how much money they have seems less important than finding the mother and the police.
We did pass several cops on our way in, but our presence is so natural during cases now that rarely does anyone ever ask us what we are doing. It's useful in times such as these, where we aren't technically supposed to be around.
"Do you suppose Lestrade is here?" I ask Sherlock as I follow behind him. I'm checking doors as we pass, but Sherlock stares resolutely ahead, apparently privy to some information I'm lacking.
"Of course, I saw his car outside." Sherlock brushes off my query and jogs up a staircase, taking them two at a time. I curse his long legs as I run to keep up.
"How do you know where to go?" I wonder as we reach the top.
"I stop talking," Sherlock says, immediately making me feel like a child, "and I listen."
I'm not sure whether an apology or silence would be better after a statement like that, so I settle for a very small, "oh," and try to ignore the heat of embarrassment running up my neck.
Now that I'm quiet, I understand Sherlock's frustration with my talking. There are muted voices coming from a room at the end of the second-floor hallway and, now that I'm paying attention, a faint scent that seems out of place. I can't name it, but it throws me off. Knowing Sherlock, that was another clue to the whereabouts of the mother and the others.
We reach the door and Sherlock stops suddenly, holding out an arm to catch me as I practically run into him. He places a finger to his lips and then holds his ear to the door, listening. I listen too, but I can't make out any distinguishable words. A woman speaks, and then a man, and then…silence.
Sherlock and I exchange a glance and then he opens the door, striding in like it's Baker Street. I follow, more amused than embarrassed.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade's shocked voice is the first thing I hear. "What're you doing here?"
"Trying to solve a case. I do believe it was you who asked for my help?" Sherlock heads to the edge of a bed, and my eyes follow his movement.
Sitting on the floor, her hand handcuffed to the frame of the bed, is what I assume to be the missing boy's mother.
"You handcuffed her to the bed?" I ask Lestrade, the annoyingly familiar feeling of confusion taking over. "Uh…why?"
"Use your eyes, John!" Sherlock admonishes. I do as he says and look more closely.
The woman is handcuffed to the bed. Obvious enough. It's her left hand that's cuffed and her right hand is gripping something very tightly.
I notice the lights are off in the room and the shades are drawn. Looking back, I realize this could be another way Sherlock knew which room was the right one.
Besides Lestrade there are two other cops in the room. Their stances don't appear to be threatening. More like they were…pleading?
"She handcuffed herself?" I wonder out loud.
"Very good, John." Beneath the inherit sarcasm I hear a string of real pride in Sherlock's voice. "Can you tell me why?"
I open my mouth to respond but Lestrade cuts me off.
"That's enough, you two. She refuses to come in for questioning. Says she'll do it right here."
The woman speaks for the first time. "There's too much noise out there. And too much light."
"Late night, then." I say.
"It certainly was." Sherlock is pacing around her, getting every angle. He would be circling like a bird of prey if it weren't for the bed. "Spent most of the night drinking. The second night you've done so, judging by your stench and the state of your blouse. Did you go somewhere with cameras? A good attempt at an alibi, but we'll need to actually see the footage to be sure. I also – "
"Sherlock!" Lestrade cuts him off. Sherlock and I both look at him in surprise. "Sherlock, we know that already."
"Oh. Well, then, what don't you know?" Sherlock faces Lestrade head-on and clasps his hands behind his back.
"We don't know who took the child."
A trace of confusion flashes over Sherlock's features. "She did. Obviously."
"No, we've found the footage you were just talking about. She was out drinking during the time of the kidnapping." Lestrade seems very confident in Sherlock being wrong. He seems to expect Sherlock to back down, maybe even apologize. The thought makes me want to laugh.
"Yes, of course you did. She still did it." Sherlock waves his hand at Lestrade dismissively and looks back at the mother. "The question is, how?"
As I watch, the woman sticks her tongue out at Sherlock. He smiles.
"Okay, thank you, I've got enough to go on now. John?" Sherlock turns to me and motions toward the door. "We're done here."
"What – but – now wait a minute!" Lestrade splutters after us as we head out. "What do you know, Sherlock? You have to share your information with the police."
"I don't have to do anything." Sherlock replies arrogantly. "I can't imagine how it would be helpful to you to know she paid someone to do it, or that her son is not currently in this residence but this is where he stayed last night."
"If you're just saying that to impress me – " Lestrade starts. Sherlock sighs and then inhales, and I can't keep the smirk off my face for what is to come.
"In the kitchen, crumbs on the floor indicate a messy eater around the countertop. She wouldn't eat there, her placemats are used enough to suggest habitual dining at the table. So, a young child sat on the countertop to snack while mummy cooked. Next: in the living room a box of children's toys is pushed hastily away and the arm of a bear is hanging over the edge. Normally the maid puts it away properly but she was distracted by trying to coax the young boy away without letting him take anything. Empty hanger in the closet above small pairs of shoes shows they probably took the boy's coat when they left. All that combined with the mother's obvious hatred of the court ruling, the desperate need to have her child returned, and the money to make it happen point to her being the instigator of the kidnapping and that the child must have remained here at least part of yesterday."
I can tell Lestrade is fighting between being angry and being impressed. "Where did this maid come from?"
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Oh, didn't I mention her earlier? She must be the one with the child now, though she wasn't the one to take him originally. You have her," Sherlock nods toward the mother on the floor "on videotape out drinking, securing her alibi once again. She has enough money for a gold-inlaid mirror and a house too clean for that of a drunk. Therefore, maid."
Lestrade is quiet for a moment, and Sherlock turns again to leave. I turn with him, and then we hear behind us, "What are you going to do now?"
"Investigate." Sherlock replies without turning back and exits the room. I follow.
I match pace with Sherlock as we leave the house. "What are we going to do now?"
Sherlock grins at me, eyes flashing, and my breath catches in my throat. "We're going to get the boy."
A/N: It would be great if you could take a moment and let me know your thoughts on this chapter. Either way, I appreciate your readership!