Jane and Sherlock drop in on Edward Van Coon...
Or: the one in which Sherlock has feelings and Jane has a fit of giggling.
AN: Hey friends. Here's another chapter. I must admit I've taken quite a lot of liberties with this revamp of TBB because, let's face it, it's not one of the better episodes (at least to me). But then again...fuck it it's an AU! I hope you guys like it because I had a blasty blast writing it, and wasn't expecting some of the things to happen the way they did. (No, seriously, I think I was on crack.) Anyways. Thanks for reading as always, and comments are most appreciated!
Sherlock spends the remainder of the cab ride observing Jane in the reflection of his window. He flexes the hand that she held, and runs his thumb over the pads of his other fingers amplifying the sense memory of her warm ones laced through his. It wasn't the first time she'd grabbed his hand, but usually it was only out of necessity or as a means to an end. This was different. Something he was unaccustomed to; it was a gesture of comfort. (Why? Why does she do these things?)
Jane bites her bottom lip in thought as she stares out her own window, not really paying attention to the sight of London rushing by them in its usual swirl of chaos. Not for the first time, he wonders what the world looks like through her eyes. If the incident with the paint was any indication, her colour blindness was back, or most of it anyway.
She explained it once to him. It wasn't just the grey tones that bothered her; it was the fact that the world reflected the lifelessness she once felt inside of her.
The thing about Jane Sherlock was coming to realise, was that she was a vector of purpose. When she became invalided that all changed, and the world she had known for so long suddenly vanished, leaving her bereft and directionless. Based on his understanding, her psychosomatic blindness disappeared when she felt useful somehow. (But surely Jane knew how instrumental she was? She was incandescent; his conductor of light.) It was perplexing to say the least. She sighs, and Sherlock focusses on the reflection of her once more.
Her hand comes up to scratch the side of her face absently where a strand of hair brushed against it, and Sherlock is reminded of how it was Sebastian's hand that had caressed her cheek moments ago. The memory, strong in his mind's eye, is vivid enough to make his blood boil all over again. He saw the perverse glint in Seb's eyes, and the way his gaze raked over Jane from head to toe made him nauseous. And when he touched her and Sherlock saw her recoil, her back hitting the wall — trapped (a feral kind of fear like a wild animal coming over her ready to attack or go down fighting) something inside him snapped like a tightly coiled wire.
He looks down at his palm again, frowning slightly. No one should touch Jane. It was just…wrong. For the life of him he couldn't figure out why this thought kept circling around and around in his head, but he knew it was right some how. (No one should touch her. No one but him.) Sherlock threw this alarming bit of information into a metaphorical box in which he slammed the lid shut and stored it in the darkest corner of his Mind Palace. Now was not the time to be distracted by this ridiculous, maudlin introspection.
He looks over at Jane, indulging one last time in the way the weak March sunlight highlighted the gold and ash in her hair and brought out the green in her hazel eyes. She turns to look back at him just then, the corner of her mouth rising in a soft smile (his eyes flick to it and he notices a fine dusting of freckles on her bottom lip), and he turns away.
The cab glides to a stop in front of a block of posh-looking flats, and Sherlock leaps out, leaving Jane to pay the fare much to her annoyance.
"You owe me twenty quid," she grumbles as she strides up to where he is examining the building's door buzzers and subsequent residents. He squints into the security camera mounted about the buttons and depresses the one marked 'Van Coon' and steps back to look up at the various geometrical balconies. He hits the button again already knowing it's futile. (The paint was a message meant for Van Coon alone. A threat, then. Obviously.) Chances of him being inside are slim if he has any shred of intelligence.
"The floor above. Just moved in," Sherlock says and points to the paper label with the name Wintle scrawled across it just above Van Coon's.
"Okay…?" Jane says not seeing the point. (As per usual.) "Are we going to wait 'til he comes back then?"
Sherlock doesn't deign to answer this, instead he buzzes the new tenant. Like shrugging on a jacket, Sherlock changes into a different persona, hunching his shoulders slightly in a show of modesty and biting his lip.
"Hello?" the tinny voice on the other end says with amused surprise. (Female. Perfect. Smile diffidently.) Sherlock shifts to the right a bit to make sure the woman (single; late twenties; most likely has a proclivity for the tall, dark, and handsome; most likely doesn't like arrogance due to her independence) can't see Jane through the camera.
"Um, hi. I live just below you. I'm not sure we've met." (Widen eyes slightly, furrow brow plaintively.)
"No. Well, see, I've just moved in…"
"Right…" (Rub back of neck. Fumble with words.) "Actually I – I seemed to have locked my keys in my flat…" (Bite lip again furtively.)
"Oh! Do you want me to buzz you in?" (Franklin Effect: she'll like him even more after she's afforded him a kindness, which will make this next part easy.)
(Sigh in relief, smile in gratitude.) "That would be great. And…can I use your balcony?"
"…Sorry, what?"
"Balcony?" Jane asks, but Sherlock pays neither one mind as the doors click open and he rushes inside.
…
After Sherlock charms his way through Ms. Wintle's flat with Jane in tow, (much to Ms. Wintle's disappointment) he stands on the balcony with his palms pressed together coming up to rest against his lips. He looks over the railing for the third time, and breathes deeply (and hopefully subtly) through his nose, regulating his heart rate and focussing on nothing but the task at hand. Detaching his transport which was prone to ridiculous reactions such as panic, from his methodical mind.
"Do you…?" Jane's voice cuts through his thoughts. "Do you want me to go? I could —" she makes to step up on the bottom rung of the metal railing.
"No!" Sherlock shouts, and yanks her back down. "Go down stairs and I will let you in through the front door," he growls, summoning as much aggression as he could to bury the sound of his pounding heart.
"Okay, fine. But you better let me in this time," she says firmly stabbing her finger into his chest with frustration. Sherlock is amused at her sudden flare in temper, and after thinking about it, admits it probably was a bit confrontational of him to grab her by the waist and bodily move her away from the edge like he did. He waves a negligent hand.
"Yes, yes all right. Now leave, you're in my way," he says and flings his leg over the railing, resolutely ignoring the clanging against his ribs and ringing in his ears. Before she can say anything else, he jumps and lands somewhat gracefully on the balcony below and opens the sliding glass door with ease. (Not locked. Interesting. Make note.)
Van Coon's flat is posh and modern just like the rest of the building implies with a minimalist feel; all white walls, digital thermostats, and uncomfortable furniture. His eyes rake over the tableau consciously, and subconsciously cataloguing the minutiae in front of him to store for later. He makes his way through the sitting room and pokes his head around the corner, finding a bathroom, sparse with nothing but hand soap on the counter. The kitchen was Spartan just as the rest of the flat with nothing but a coffee cup and an abandoned carving board with the remains of toast and jam. He makes his way down the hall to the bedroom, and tries the doors. They are locked, and his senses go on high alert. The front door buzzes, but Sherlock doesn't hear over the sound of him shouldering open the doors with a bang.
The breath leaves him in a whoosh.
There on the bed was a man sprawled backward over the duvet, his legs hanging off the edge with a gaping hole in his right temple.
For a moment the past and present collided, and Sherlock blinked rapidly against the images of his traitorous memory.
"Victor." The name leaves his lips unbidden. He almost starts forward when the door buzzes again, and Jane's voice pulls him out of the flashback. It's too soon —all of it. Seeing Sebastian at the bank today caused the images from that night to crash over him without warning. It's too much…
"Sherlock? You all right? Any time you want to let me in…"
Not Victor, no. Van Coon.
He lets out a gusty breath he hadn't know he'd been holding and catalogues the room one more time, the memories fading. He wipes a hand over his face and goes to let Jane in.
"It's not suicide," he says earnestly, cutting off her sarcastic and annoyed comment. Her brows come together and she assesses him from top to toe.
"Sherlock? Are you okay?" she says, concern colouring her tone. "What suicide?" she pushes him aside and looks over the flat.
"No, Jane, not suicide," he says somewhat frantically and drags her into the bedroom so she could see because someone else had to…
"Oh," Jane says under her breath, her face grim.
"You see? Look. The angles! They're all…wrong," he says, and breathes in sharply through his nose. The next thing he realises, he's being ushered out of the bedroom and made to sit on the hard leather sofa. "What are you doing?" Sherlock says as Jane comes over with a glass of water. "You'll contaminate the crime scene." He takes a drink, regardless.
"I don't care about the bloody scene," Jane says and perches next to him. She takes his wrist and keeps time with her watch.
"I'm fine, Jane," he says but doesn't make to pull his arm away. Her fingertips are soft and warm, and if he were wont to be honest with himself, he would consider that his existence was currently anchored to that small point of contact in the midst of the sudden swirling detritus in his head. He's not honest with himself, however, and he throws this other bit of disconcerting information to the back corners of his mind.
"Of course you are," Jane says softly with a wry smile. Suddenly he is ashamed at himself, and his eyes dart away from hers. She clears her throat, "See I told you this would happen, er, if you didn't eat breakfast," she throws out lamely.
Sherlock looks at her in surprise because a) that was patently untrue (he had eaten her toast earlier this morning much to her irritation) and b) as a doctor and a PTSD sufferer, there would be no way that Jane wouldn't know, for all intents and purposes, the beginnings panic attack when she saw one.
"You know…" she continues. "Low blood sugar and all."
At first he didn't know what she was playing at, and his hackles rose of their own accord at what ever it was she was trying to imply. But she looks up at him sheepishly and unsure, a faint blush staining her cheeks, and he realises what she's doing: she's giving him an out. He takes it.
"Yes, um, quite careless of me," he says continuing with the charade. He drains the remainder of the water in the glass, and slips it into his coat pocket for safe keeping. It would be Bit Not Good if their fingerprints were to wind up as evidence. Sherlock gets to his feet, and without anything further, pulls out his mobile to call the police.
-oOo-
Jane looks down at Van Coon's body, her back straight, and a deep frown creasing her brow. What did Sherlock see when he looked at him? To her it looked like a suicide: a hole in the right temple, the gun by his hand, and above all a locked room. She really didn't want to bring it up — it had been a weird day for the both of them — but she worried that Sherlock was too close to this case to see properly. It was remembering the sight of his face when he finally opened the door that made her mind up.
"Are you sure, it's not suicide, Sherlock? I mean, he could have just lost a lot of money. It's not uncommon among city boys," she says eyeing him warily as he rummages through a suitcase. He only pauses for just a moment before answering.
"Not suicide. Just look at the evidence, Jane," he snaps. "Take his case for example. Been away three days by the looks of it."
"And?"
"He was clearly right in the middle of something. Look at the way he kept his flat, and what that says about him; the man was meticulous. Suicides take planning especially for people who work so hard at hiding their suicidal ideations. Van Coon's behaviour wasn't out of the ordinary in the slightest to suggest he was unstable; he was a man to have all of his affairs in order. He wouldn't be inclined to come straight home and off himself like some dramatic soap opera star." Jane makes a face at the comment, but concedes the point. Living a double life — one where everyone believed you were functioning on the outside while on the inside you fell to utter shit — did take a lot of meticulous planning. She would know. "He wouldn't have left his clothes in the case and the flat the way it is, and he definitely would have left a note."
"Right. Okay," Jane says letting his deductions sink in. She can't help but glance around for said note, however, just in case.
"Look at this. Something was in this case. Tightly packed, and fragile most likely."
"Er, I'll take your word for it," Jane says as Sherlock absently holds a pair striped boxers by the hook of his index finger while his other hand continues to rifle. He looks up at her sarcastic tone.
"Problem?" He arches his trademark eyebrow.
"Yeah I'm not about to root around through some bloke's dirty underwear," she snorts looking at him pointedly.
He looks down at the boxers still dangling from his finger, failing to see what was wrong with the picture. He puts the underwear back with a look that says, 'suit yourself' and strides over to the foot of the bed. "Then there are the symbols at the bank. What's their purpose? If you wanted to convey a message why not e-mail?"
"Maybe he wasn't answering," she says.
"Ah. You follow," he says taking out his pocket magnifier.
"No…"
Sherlock huffs an annoyed breath out of his nose and leans in over his prone form. "Think, Jane. What kind of message does everybody want to avoid? What about the letters you were looking at this morning?"
"What the bills?"
"Exactly. Threats. He was being threatened," Sherlock says and carefully plucks a wad of paper out of Van Coon's mouth. He holds it up to the light, and Jane can see it's folded into a paper flower. She hands him an evidence bag.
"Bag the toothbrush, will you?" A young man in a plain suit and tie says from the doorway before walking into the room.
"Sergeant. We haven't met," Sherlock says making his way across the room. He takes off the latex glove of his right hand and offers it in a handshake to which the man looks down at disdainfully.
"I know who you are," he says with a bit of a sneer, and Sherlock drops his hand. "And it isn't Sergeant. It's Detective Inspector. Dimmock. I would prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of my evidence."
Jane and Sherlock share a wry look before he hands over the evidence bag with the flower. She can't help but sneak a glance at Sherlock's coat pocket where the small water glass from earlier is harbouring.
"Where's Lestrade? I've phoned him, is he on his way?"
"He's busy cleaning up after your last fiasco and so he handed this one over to me. I'm in charge."
"What a fledgling like yourself all on your own?" Sherlock remarks in a scathingly impressed tone that makes the young DI's face turn puce. Jane clears her throat in a mild warning. The men stare at each other a little longer in challenge before Dimmock adjusts his tie in an effort to remain professional.
"Well it's obvious we're dealing with a suicide."
"Obvious? Hardly," he derides.
"What d'you mean? It's the only possible explanation of all the facts," Dimmock says.
"The only expl —" Sherlock cuts himself off pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's only one explanation of some of the facts." The 'you imbecile'was implied and not said, thankfully. "You've latched on to an easy solution and chosen to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with the like."
"And that would be…?"
Sherlock levels a look at him, clearly at the end of his patience, but he has the foresight to glance at Jane to which she imperceptibly shakes her head. "The wound was on the right side of his head. Surely you noticed?"
"And?"
"Van Coon was left handed," Sherlock says and holds out his hands gesturing around the bedroom as if it were obvious. "Requires a bit of contortion, don't you think? Awful lot of trouble just to off yourself," he says bluntly and pantomimes putting a gun up to his right temple with his left hand exaggerating the task. It's so ridiculous that Jane covers her mouth with her hand to suppress a giggle much to the horror of the young DI that probably still had his decency left intact.
They are, after all, still in the presence of a man who just died.
'Semantics,' Sherlock's bored voice echoes in her head. Which was strange because he was standing right in front of her. Oh god. She was hearing him in her head now. And he was bloody standing right there. Arching that stupid eyebrow. It was just too much.
"I'm sorry," she says, trying to stifle the escaping laughter as she turns her back to the two of them. She manages to stop the utter guffaw from coming out of her mouth, but just barely, her shoulders shaking and her eyes stinging.
"Are you all right, Miss?" Dimmock says, and she feels a hand on her back. It's at that moment when Jane realises that she got it all wrong; the young DI, still wet behind the ears, thinks that she's crying not laughing. Because she's a girl, probably and therefore 'delicate.' For some reason this is even funnier, and Jane found herself in one of the strangest predicaments she ever thought possible. And completely incapable of composing herself. She wipes the back of her hand against her watering eyes. "I know these things can be hard and if you need a moment —"
Suddenly, Inspector Dimmock's comforting hand is shoved away, and she is being gathered close to Sherlock's chest in an embrace.
"I'll take it from here, Inspector. You know how it is. Hormones," Sherlock says, and Jane wraps an arm around his waist so she could surreptitiously pinch him in the side as she tries rein in a new torrent of giggles. There was definitely something wrong with her. "We'll meet you in the sitting room in a moment," he says seriously and he makes his way to the bathroom with her sheltered under his arm.
"Take as much time as you need," Dimmock says softly, and Jane wishes she could see Sherlock's face, but she knows if she lifts her head from his shirt she'll most definitely lose her shit.
"There, there, Jane," Sherlock says just to spite her, and when they finally make it to the bathroom she thumps him hard in the arm as they both dissolve into fits of laughter. She tries to shush him, but it's no use, and she resorts to putting her hand over his mouth as his baritone chuckle only gets louder. It was a small flat after all, and the last thing they needed was to be thrown off the scene for being completely inappropriate.
"You are ridiculous, Holmes," she whispers when she's finally calmed down enough to use actual words again. His quiet laughter continues to roll though his chest, and she presses against his lips even harder until he is forced to lean with his back against the door while she leans almost drunkenly against him. He stills just then, his eyes widening slightly, and she is struck by the swirl of gold in his technicolour irises.
"Gold and blue," she murmurs happily, and Sherlock frowns. She blinks up at him, still grinning like an idiot, and he goes to say something, no doubt full of snark against the palm of her hand but she stops him. "God don't you dare with all that. Do you want to get thrown off this case?" she says, her cheeks aching.
He quirks an eyebrow then, a mischievous gleam in his eye. Before she has a chance to register it, his tongue darts out and practically slobbers on her hand. She barely manages not to yelp in disgust and she jumps away.
"Really?" she says, holding her hand out. "You're so immature."
"This from someone who finds corpses amusing," Sherlock drawls, folding his hands into his trouser pockets. "Coming?"
"Yeah hang on, I have to disinfect this," Jane says and wiggles her fingers. He chuckles again as she turns on the sink and uses some of the hand soap on the counter.
"I'm sure Inspector Dimmock will overlook the fact that you're getting your fingerprints all over everything if you start 'crying' again. He feels the need to protect your particular sensitivities."
"Shut up, you," she says flicking some water at him and drying her hands on her jeans. "Let's get this over with."
"Yes, let's," Sherlock says and before they leave the bathroom, he puts his arm around her again and looks at her as if daring her to challenge him otherwise. She shakes her head and they join the perplexed DI in the sitting room.
"Are you all right," he asks Jane, and Sherlock tightens his hold just barely.
"Oh, yes. Quite all right. Sorry for the trouble," she says trying to sound bashful. Sherlock drops his arm and strides to the middle of the room.
"As I was saying, it is highly illogical for a left handed man to shoot himself in the right side of his head. Are you getting this down, Inspector? Therefore someone broke in the flat and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts," he says and ties his scarf where it had been hanging lax around his neck before.
"Hang on…" Dimmock says just now pulling a notepad out of his jacket pocket. "How do you even know he's left-handed anyway?"
Sherlock hangs his head in a dramatic display of the long suffering. "Look. At. The. Flat. Inspector! I'm surprised you didn't notice: coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug with the handle pointed to the left; power outlets, the left ones used habitually; pen and paper on the leftside of the phone because he answered it with his right and used to take messages with the left. Shall I continue?"
Jane pinches the bridge of her nose. "I think you've quite covered it."
"Oh I might as well go on," he says waving a dismissive hand. "I'm at the bottom of the list. Butter on the right side of the knife because he spread it with…any guesses?"
"All right, all right, you've made your point, 'Professor of the Left-Hand Emporium' give it a rest," Jane says putting her hands on her hips.
"But the gun…" Dimmock says a little at a loss.
"He had it with him because he was being threatened. He was waiting for the killer."
"He was threatened?"
"Today at the bank," Jane pipes up. "Someone left him a message of a sort."
"And he fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock says impatiently.
"And the bullet?"
"Went through the open window in the bedroom, obviously."
"Yeah, sure," Dimmock scoffs, "what are the chances of that?"
"Very good considering once you draw up the ballistics report you will find that the bullet in his head was fired from a different gun. Once you eliminate the impossible, no matter how improbable, must be the truth," he says rocking on the balls of his feet with his hands smugly clasped behind his back.
"Where did you get that load of tripe?" Dimmock says.
"It's not tripe," Sherlock says incensed. "It is fact."
"Then how did the killer get in? The room was locked from the inside."
"Very good Inspector. I knew your father promoted you for a reason. With questions like that you're sure to make Chief in no time."
"Okay," Jane says and pushes Sherlock towards the door a little. "You've officially used up your allotted sarcasm for the day." She shoots an apologetic look over her shoulder at the flustered DI.
"Call me when you have a decent lead!" Sherlock growls just as Jane pushes the arrogant sod out into the corridor.
AN: You guys know the drill...all underlined words will be updated in 'Afters' shortly. Thanks for reading!
