Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^ Thank you to Brown Eyed Girl-62, Sandylee007, sweetmarly, and guest for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!
Chapter Two: A Fool and His Case
Sherlock leaned away from the microscope to make a small notation on the pad of paper just beside him. His experiment was going very well, but it was important to watch it closely or he'd have to start all over again; the variables were just too delicate.
Quiet. It had been so blissfully quiet. He hadn't had a quiet stretch between cases like this in years. But it wasn't the bad kind of quiet. It was a clam easy quiet that let him think. No background noise to filter out, no conversations to ignore, and no lingering gazes that seemed to burn the skin they rested on.
It had only been a week since his last case, as short as it was, but he'd had plenty of experiments to keep him occupied, and nothing to distract him from them. He would need a case soon, but they came in regularly these days, so he wasn't concerned. He leaned towards the microscope once more, then leaned back again, rubbing his eyes. They were dry and irritated. Sherlock reached back to the kitchen drawer just to the left of the sink and pawed around for saline solution which he had kept there... but he didn't find it. Instead he felt only neatly organized utensils.
Irritated, Sherlock went through the bother of turning around and peered in the drawer, but there was no saline. He slammed the drawer shut with a growl and peered around the flat. This was John's fault. Where would he keep the saline? Sherlock concentrated, bringing up and sorting through conversations he's shared with his former flatmate, searching for the data he needed...
"Sherlock, you need to organize this flat! Why do you think I thought it was being used for storage when I first saw it?" John had reached over to an already open kitchen drawer and pulled out Sherlock's saline. "And you can start by keeping medical supplies in the medicine cabinet!" He'd stalked out of the room then, towards the loo. He'd paused before he got there and added, "And your eyes work fine. If you'd get some sleep every other day they might not protest so much!" John had turned back around then and tromped the rest of the way to the loo.
Sherlock blinked open his irritated eyes and rubbed them again. Had it been several days since he'd last slept? He'd lost count. A wicked smirk grew on his lips at the realization. It had been so long since he'd been able to so that! He practically skipped to the loo, giddy to have his focus back where it belonged.
Sure enough, the saline was in the cabinet above the sink. Sherlock snatched it up and strolled back to the kitchen with smug satisfaction. He paused at the table and tilted his face up to administer the drops so that his eyes would behave. Once he was done, Sherlock tossed the saline back into its rightful drawer with a flourish before seating himself in front of the microscope once more.
He hummed quietly to himself as he meticulously observed the microscopic world before him, watching his influence take over it. When he paused to make another notation, his left hand groped uselessly in the empty air beside the microscope. Sherlock blinked, and looked over at his outstretched hand. Where was his tea? It was always just to the left of his microscope. The difference was so jarring that it took him a moment to remember that he hadn't made his own tea in a long time.
John had been the one making his tea lately.
Sherlock stared blankly at the empty space for a moment before growling in frustration and rising again in order to make his own tea. The kettle and the tea were in a lower cabinet to the left of the stove. John had taken to keeping many things he frequently used there, hoping to keep them out of Sherlock's experimental reach. Sherlock smirked to himself as he filled the kettle with water, cataloging all the experiments he could wreak upon it. There was no one here to stop him now, after all.
He was just reaching down to retrieve a suitable mug when his phone trilled. Sherlock set the mug down on the counter with a sharp clatter and laboriously fished his phone out of his jacket pocket.
"What?!"
"Fine, don't work the case then. I really don't have time for this today, Sherlock." There was a rustle of fabric as Lestrade undoubtedly peered around a heavy set of drapes. "It's all I can do to keep the media circus from breaking through the front door."
Sherlock perked up, his tea, and his experiment, forgotten. "Case?" Lestrade wasn't lying about the media circus. His dismissive tone was part of a reverse psychology ploy he'd attempted in most of his recent cases. Naturally, the ploy had utterly failed in its purpose. Sherlock was always able to tell which were the fascinating cases, and which weren't.
So far this one sounded mildly promising. Granted public opinion was grievously flawed in identifying what was truly interesting, but that combined with Lestrade's poorly veiled effort to bring Sherlock on made it more likely to be interesting. The reverberation of Lestrade's voice and the sounds of the drapes he'd pulled aside let Sherlock know the case involved a rich family, possibly a politically connected one as well.
"Yes, Sherlock, a case! You still work those, don't you?!" Lestrade was exceptionally terse given his long experience working with Sherlock, another point in favor of a good case.
"What's the address?" Sherlock asked, already walking into the sitting room and reaching for his Belstaff. Lestrade barked the address at him, and Sherlock memorized it. He terminated the call, slid his phone back in his jacket pocket and slipped his arms through the sleeves of his Belstaff. Instinctively he turned his head over his shoulder and yelled, "John!"
Sherlock stilled and blinked.
John.
John was gone, and Sherlock knew he was better off for it! The sooner he broke bad habits the better. Sherlock finished pulling his coat on with a rough flourish and practically leapt for the stairs.
The address Lestrade had given him turned out to be a large, elegant town house, close enough to the heart of the city to be convenient for any travel within the city, but in a neighborhood that did its best to make anyone forced to work for a living feel uneasy. Every building on the street held elegant architecture and foreboding gates.
The police had done a moderately competent job of beating back the swarm of paparazzi, but the size and volume of the crowd was almost palpable. When Sherlock stepped out of the cab the flashes were blinding, but he had never been someone who was easily intimidated.
Shouted questions filled the air as Sherlock strolled up to the front door, and, nodding to Donovan, who stood guard at the door, reached for the handle. He had just begun to turn the handle when a single query broke through the ambient cacophony:
"Mr. Holmes, why is Dr. Watson not with you?"
Once the questions was out there, more followed.
"Is he ill?"
"Have you had a falling out?"
"Has Dr. Watson gone into hiding?"
"Is his absence part of another case?"
Sherlock's gaze narrowed, but his hesitation on the threshold was only milliseconds long, and had hopefully gone unnoticed.
Lestrade met him just inside the foyer, a curious expression washing over his previous frown as his eyes met Sherlock's. "Where's-"
"Do you have a case for me, or don't you?!" Sherlock snapped, cutting off the question before it could be properly voiced. John and he were not attached at the hip!
Lestrade raised his eyebrows warily, but had the good sense to start presenting the facts of the case without further comment.
"This is the house of Mr. Andrew Wallingford. Approximately two months ago, Mr. Wallingford received bypass surgery at Charing Cross Hospital. His recovery was going well, until two weeks ago. He developed a high fever, upset stomach, and intense joint pain. He went for a follow up with his doctor and was prescribed antibiotics. At first he seemed to recover, but after his follow up visit his symptoms relapsed, dramatically worse than they had been before. He spent the last three days admitted to intensive care, and he passed away this morning."
"And we are meeting at his town house because you suspect foul play," Sherlock surmised.
Lestrade shrugged. "He was wealthy and active in politics, that and he was only forty, with a relatively unremarkable medical history; he should have recovered smoothly."
Sherlock glanced sidelong at Lestrade. "Has Mycroft put you up to this?"
"Sherlock," Lestrade sighed, exasperated, "I'd rather be safe than sorry. Something doesn't feel right."
Sherlock made a small non-committal noise, his eyes moving over everything he could see from just inside the foyer. The ceilings were high, arching delicately overhead with intricate molding adornments. The walls were paneled in wood, and the floor was marble. A long staircase rose up from the entrance hall to the second floor. The walls held skillful oil paintings tastefully displayed and lit for viewing. This wasn't so much a home as it was a place of business, but that was often the case for men such as Mr. Wallingford, the only privacy they could expect was in their personal rooms, and even that was limited.
"I presume the family is here?"
Lestrade nodded. "They're gathered in the living room. They requested you, actually. They suspect it was hospital error."
"Find a room where I can speak to them individually," Sherlock commanded, striding off into the entrance hall and turning left. Lestrade rolled his eyes and went to secure a room. It was doubtful if Sherlock would even use the specific room Lestrade selected for him, this was probably just busy work. Sherlock could walk into almost any building and find his way around with uncanny ease, but that was just part of how he operated.
Sherlock was relatively silent when he entered the sitting room, but he was immediately noticed. A middle aged Caucasian women with brown frizzy hair leapt up from the sofa and hurried over to him. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Homes," she enthused, reaching forward to grab his hands. "We know you can get to the bottom of this!"
Sherlock nodded and pointedly withdrew his hands. "Mrs. Wallingford, I presume?" It wasn't a presumption, really. Her clothing was expensive but poorly styled. Her hair was utterly untamed, and an elegantly cut diamond of at least two carats in a platinum band rested prominently on her left hand. Her body was still slim, and the way she walked broadcasted her history as an athlete, most likely a sprinter. She made an effort to smooth her clothing once her hands were free, demonstrating some concern for her physical appearance.
Mr. Wallingford had done something nearly unthinkable in rich and well connected families. He had married for love…well, lust anyway. Most likely Mrs. Wallingford was a woman from a middle class family that had just enough connections to make the marriage permissible. She likely had a stylist and several other staff dedicated to making her as refined and 'presentable' as possible. Whether Mr. Wallingford had continued to love his wife or not would need to wait for the examination of the body, but his wife had clearly loved him.
Her weding ring was in immaculate condition, but that was to be expected in any wealthy family. Married parties in any family that felt themselves to be influential and powerful would keep up appearances, regardless of how they actually felt. No, the tell for a happy marriage in a person of influence was the skin underneath their ring, and Sherlock could see a distinct tan line and impression in the skin when Mrs. Wallingford brought her hands together and began to fiddle with her wedding band.
Sherlock lifted his gaze from Mrs. Wallingford and scanned the room; it contained three other people. There were two reasonably tall, mildly athletic males in their mid-twenties, and a slender dark hared young woman who was approximately eighteen. The men were not twins, but they bore a striking resemblance to each other. Each wore a personally tailored suit and an expensive tie, and each had a clean shaven face with neatly trimmed brown hair that looked quite a bit more manageable than their mother's. The biggest difference between them was that one of them, most likely the oldest and heir presumptive, had a much harsher expression, and the other looked more sad.
The brothers stood by the fireplace staring at Sherlock in silence while their mother prattled on and on about useless details. The young woman, meanwhile was sat on the sofa, looking down, with her hands folded in her lap. She was quiet in a way that had more to do with personality than situation. Good. The quiet ones were usually the most observant. Sherlock's gaze flickered to her elder brothers, who had, once or twice, glanced meaningfully in her direction. Unfortunately, the quiet ones also tended to be poorly treated. Now that he had family dynamics out of the way, it was time to get to the important details.
"I will speak with each of you individually," Sherlock declared, cutting off Mrs. Wallingford mid-sentence. To prevent any delay he quickly added, "I will speak with Ms. Wallingford first." Sherlock leaned forward slightly, offering his arm to the young woman. It was an archaic gesture, but one that she was likely to find charming, and thus she would be more relaxed.
Ms. Wallingford lifted her eyes to his, spied his proffered arm and smiled slightly. Her gaze started to shift to her brothers, then halted, and fixed on her mother instead. Mrs. Wallingford nodded and reached her arms out to her daughter, pulling her from her seat. "Yes, come along, dear. Mr. Holmes will help us get to the bottom of this, I'm certain. He is very thorough."
Ms. Wallingford placed her hand in the crook of Sherlock's arm and he lead her from the room before her brothers could properly form a protest. Lestrade met them outside and ushered them into another room five doors down and to the left.
Once they were alone they seated themselves on opposite sofas, facing each other. Sherlock sat forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands steepled in front of his chin. Ms. Wallingford sat as she had before, with her hands folded delicately in her lap, her gaze fixed on them. Sherlock let the silence build between them for a long moment before he spoke.
"Would you like some tea?"
Ms. Wallingford peeked up at him from beneath her long black hair, her brown eyes sparkling in amusement even as her face remained impassive.
"This is my home; I should be offering you tea."
A wry smile made itself known on Sherlock's lips. "As you may have surmised, Ms. Wallingford, I do not play by the rules."
A small, reserved smiled curled the edges of her lips, and Sherlock knew he had pleased her. Good. She was so shy she wasn't likely to say anything if she wasn't comfortable.
"Tell me about your father, Evelyn," he prompted.
Her dark brown eyes widened dramatically and her mouth fell open slightly.
"How-?" She began, but Sherlock quickly interjected.
"I read your name beneath your portrait in the hall," Sherlock clarified. "It really doesn't do you justice."
Evelyn ducked her head for a moment, a blush sweeping over her pale cheeks, and Sherlock smiled. He had made her comfortable, amazed her, and flattered her. She would tell him everything she could.
After a short moment she licked her lips, just as John was in the habit of doing when he was thinking. Then, she spoke. "I didn't really know father very well. Most of what I do know I learned from eavesdropping or piecing things together."
"What did you piece together?" Sherlock asked gently. If he pushed too hard she would only shut down.
Evelyn looked up again and said, "He was in trouble. I don't know why, or about what, but he was worried. He started coming home late, even for him. He never really listened to me to begin with, but he wasn't even trying to pretend to anymore." She trailed off for a moment, glanced at the door, then added in a voice close to a whisper. "He was fighting with mother."
"He didn't usually fight with your mother?"
Evelyn shook her head emphatically. "No!" Then she blushed at her outburst and added, in a more normal tone, "They did argue occasionally, everyone does, but not like this. Father always spent Saturday nights with us, but the last few months he stopped all of a sudden. Mother knows how demanding Father's business is, and that he needs to spend long hours at work, but she wanted us to be a family still. That's why she always insisted on having him home on Saturday nights."
"What was your father's business?" Sherlock prompted.
Evelyn frowned and stared at the carpet for a moment before lifting her gaze back to his. "Something to do with investments? He's explained it before, so have my brothers, but I don't really have a good head for math."
That was obvious. The slight discolorations around her fingers declared her to be an artist, probably a painter. She wouldn't have done the family portraits, naturally, that was always a commissioned project, and her work was likely a good deal less formal. The higher ups in the family probably hoped to have her quietly married off soon.
Sherlock meticulously solicited information about Mr. Wallingford's declining health through his final day, but Evelyn added nothing that he didn't already know. When he had concluded his interview Sherlock stood, held his arm out to her once more, and escorted her back into the family sitting room.
The moment they entered the space the eldest brother, Bryan if the name beneath his own portrait in the hall was t be believed, stalked forward from the fireplace, and crowded Sherlock's personal space.
"I don't approve of your methods, Mr. Holmes! Why not question us all at once?! My father is dead and I need you to find answers, not waste your time questioning the victims!"
Sherlock, his eyes never leaving Bryan's, released his grip on Evelyn, allowing her to slink back towards the sofa she had been formerly occupying, where her mother now sat. "If a murder has taken place then there are secrets that will be better uncovered if involved parties have less time to generate a moderately cohesive lie."
There wasn't enough evidence to prove it was murder, but it could be. Sherlock hoped so, and he hoped it went beyond the conventional motivations and suspects. Non-conventional murders were always the best.
Bryan's face flushed a livid red and his jaw muscles clenched. "We have NOTHING to lie about!"
Mrs. Wallingford reached out her arm and opened her mouth, but before she could calm her son, Sherlock gestured out the open sitting room door. "Then you will have no objections to being questioned next."
Bryan huffed in irritation and strode out of the room at a pace that was almost a jog. Sherlock, unperturbed, closed the sitting room door. Bryan had halted a few paces from the door, but he had not turned to face Sherlock, and his whole body was rigid. Sherlock strolled past him at a deliberately slow pace. Only when he had reached the door of the room set aside for them and opened it did Sherlock hear Bryan's rapid footsteps. Bryan was fit and long legged so he nearly brushed past Sherlock as they entered the room, despite his silent protest of remaining by the sitting room until the last possible moment.
Sherlock sat calmly on his sofa and watched Bryan pace the floor. He was young, ambitious, and honorable. He took great pride in his father's work, and saw his father's untimely death as a betrayal or an attack. This much was obvious from the suit Bryan wore, to the way he spoke and held himself. The fact that Sherlock had agitated him only magnified these traits.
"Your sister mentioned that your father was an investment banker," Sherlock began.
"Did she?" Bryan scoffed. "Nice of her to actually remember the term for once, but you should have known that from the police report or debriefing."
"What was he afraid of?" Sherlock pressed, leaning forward into his usual, thinking pose.
"He wasn't afraid of anything!" Bryan snapped. "Business has risks, but you manage them, that's what he did!"
"How did he manage them?" Sherlock pressed.
Bryan's face flushed anew, and a twitch had developed by his right eye. His silence lasted just a moment too long. "My father's business dealings are none of your business."
Sherlock leaned forward even more. "You don't know, do you?" Bryan whirled around, his jaw clenched shut and his hands balled into fists at his side, looking very much like a petulant child. Sherlock smiled and pressed on. "You've been well educated, you're of the appropriate age to start taking on some real responsibility, but you haven't yet, have you? Daddy didn't trust-"
He'd known the blow was coming, but it was stronger than he had expected, and Sherlock's deflection was only partially effective. It was more a graze than a direct hit, but Bryan's family ring nicked the skin of Sherlock's cheek, and he could feel a small trickle of blood welling at the injury.
"Attacking the police consultant will not bode well for you in the investigation," Sherlock murmured. He hardly needed to speak up, Bryan was still pressed menacingly over his personal space.
Bryan shoved Sherlock violently into the sofa once more before storming out of the room with a gruff, "We're done here!"
Sherlock stood, adjusted his suit, and used a small kerchief to dab the blood from his cheek. It wouldn't conceal the injury, but that was to his advantage. A visible mark would certainly win Mrs. Wallingford's sympathy and, more importantly, it would help soften the younger brother, Nathan.
Sherlock strolled down the corridor at the same easy pace he had used when walking behind Bryan. When he arrived back at the sitting room Bryan had both hands braced against the mantel piece and was glowering furiously at the embers burning there. Mrs. Wallingford, who had been leaning towards her eldest son, speaking quietly with him, turned and gasped when she saw the small cut on Sherlock's cheek. She whirled immediately on her son.
"Bryan?! Why would you do such a thing?!"
"He's supposed to be helping, but he's poking around in all the wrong places!" Bryan ground out, his gaze never wavering from the dying fire.
"I understand that tempers are running high at this delicate time, Mrs. Wallingford," Sherlock soothed. It was tedious placating the family, but wealthy and powerful families had many secrets and they were used to keeping them. His best chance to gain ground was to keep them amiable. Having Bryan angry with him was advantageous because it kept him off-balance, but if they were all angered or felt threatened it would cost him time he didn't have.
"I'll speak with you next," Nathan volunteered, rising from the seat he had taken beside his sister.
Sherlock nodded and gestured with his arm. "After you." They walked in silence the short distance to the study Lestrade had commandeered on Sherlock's orders. Nathan was more muscular than his brother. His movements, and his slight tan indicated he was a true athlete, probably rugby or football. Nathan was the second son, so while he had received education paralleling his brother, he was not expected to be the heir unless his brother met an untimely end, and so felt less pressure than Bryan. He likely wasn't even truly expected to join the family business if he didn't want to, which left him more time to pursue his own interests. He was a middle child and thus, a natural negotiator. Even so, he came from a family with an old-world reputation and high standards. Excelling in team sports was a natural by-product of such an upbringing. Nathan had likely been on a professional team until very recently; his tan was starting to fade at the edges... perhaps he had left or taken a leave of absence from his athletic career when tensions began to mount at home.
Nathan seated himself calmly on the sofa opposite Sherlock and ran his fingers over his own cheek, mirroring the location of Sherlock's injury. "I'm sorry about my brother. He's tightly wound, and the thought of stepping into our father's shoes on top of such an unexpected loss..." Nathan trailed off, his gaze shifting to the floor. He swallowed thickly before making himself meet Sherlock's eyes once more. He loved his father, they all did in their own way. The Wallingford's were a surprisingly well adjusted family, all things considered. But even well adjusted family members cracked under the right pressure...
"What was your father really doing before he died?" Sherlock asked.
Nathan sighed long and loud, looking up at the ceiling. "That is the question, isn't it?"
Sherlock hadn't excepted more answers about Mr. Wallingford from his second son, not when the first and heir knew so little and Nathan had only recently turned his full attention back home. Still, Nathan's response made much of his character clear to Sherlock. He was more level headed than Bryan, due in part to the limited pressure of being a second son in a prestigious family, but he was sharp enough to see that more than everyday business had occupied Mr. Wallingford's last weeks...
It was becoming readily apparent that Sherlock would need to look elsewhere for the details of Mr. Wallingford's secret. It would be foolish not to be thorough, however. The family was on edge already, and he had done everything in his power to maximize the advantage. If there was any more to learn here, now was the time to do it.
Sherlock didn't want to put Mrs. Wallingford on her guard by returning too soon, so he made a point of ruminating useless details of the case which only appeared important, for at least twenty minutes, before switching Nathan's company out for hers.
Mrs. Wallingford mangled a handkerchief between her two hands as she sat across from Sherlock. Her grief was genuine, that had already been established. There was no point or advantage in wasting time at this juncture, so Sherlock was direct. "What changed in your husband, Mrs. Wallingford?"
The question brought forth a small flood of tears before she managed to collect herself enough to answer. "Is it that obvious?" After a small pause she added, "Do you think it has to do with Andrew's death?"
"It might if there was deliberate murder as opposed to medical neglect."
Mrs. Wallingford's eyes watered again. "The world's come to such sorry state, hasn't it? We can't trust our doctors, our friends, our neighbors..." She trailed off but the idea of being unable to trust one's spouse was heavily implied.
"It was so different when we were first married," Mrs. Wallingford pressed on, "I helped Andrew at the office, organizing the filing, supervising the secretarial staff. He didn't need the extra help, but I was good at keeping the minutia organized and the staff underneath Andrew and his colleges in line. He could trust me, and I helped free up more of his time."
"It was always that way, until recently," Sherlock surmised, and Mrs. Wallingford nodded sadly. She might not be schooled in old world politics but she was organized. Sherlock had surreptitiously peered into her purse during his many comings and goings and he highly suspected her wallet was alphabetized. She had a good sense of accounting too, as Mr. Wallingford wouldn't have tolerated her frequent efforts in his business if that weren't the case. She had probably grown up expecting to work for a living, unlike many of the women Mr. Wallingford could have married, and Mrs. Wallingford had made a point of doing so. Not being forced to work, however, had allowed Mrs. Wallingford to have an active hand in raising her three children as well; they all exhibited mannerisms and expressions which mirrored her own. She was certainly no murderess...
Mrs. Wallingford began to shake her head violently, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, I don't know what changed. Andrew wouldn't breathe a word about it... That was the worst part. Andrew always told me everything..." She paused to pluck another Kleenex from the box on the low table between their two sofas. "It was bad, though, whatever it was." Something in the timber of voice changed, catching Sherlock's attention. Mrs. Wallingford looked up again and their eyes locked. "The way Andrew looked at me, in those last week's was the same way he looked at me when we thought I might miscarry Evelyn."
Under the presumption that Mr. Wallingford had loved his wife, and that evidence was slowly mounting even if his left ring finger would hold the final proof, Sherlock could surmise that his difficulties were grievous and personal. His family was tediously normal, and his parents were long dead, taking any objections about their son's marriage with them. Personal, but not personal... This case had potential.
"Mrs. Wallingford, I would like to examine your husband's body before the funeral. My review shouldn't delay anything." Normal Sherlock wouldn't bother with such pleasantries, but being that the Wallingford's were so well connected politically, and so wealthy monetarily, any other option would be more tedious. Sherlock could play this particular game, and do it well, he simply didn't care to.
Mrs. Wallingford's eyes were large and round as she nodded at him. "Of course. Whatever you think will help."
Sherlock nodded and thanked her, escorted her back to the sitting room, and only just managed not to roll his eyes when the door shut behind him as he made his way back to Lestrade. The preliminaries were over at last.
Lestrade stepped meaningfully in front of him when Sherlock tried to brush past him. "Nope, not this time, Sherlock. Where are you going?"
Sherlock sighed and fixed Lestrade with a sharp glare. "To examine the body. I'm done here."
Lestrade shook his head. "No, Sherlock, not until tomorrow morning."
"That's hours away, Lestrade," Sherlock complained. "Wasted time!"
"It's not wasted," Lestrade reasoned, "the medical examiner is performing his own autopsy as we speak."
Sherlock fidgeted at the news, trying to get around the Detective Inspector with renewed vigor. "He's only going to contaminate the evidence!"
"Sherlock, Mr. Wallingford only died this morning! The family requested the autopsy, and I'm not about to let you interrupt it." Lestrade fixed him with a firm expression that he could only have picked up from Mycroft. "You'll get your turn tomorrow."
Sherlock would have pressed his luck, Lestrade was as easy to get around as any other member of the New Scotland Yard, if only he could be assured this wouldn't set Mycroft on him. The two had been seeing each other for several years now, and this was a case of enough importance that Greg would call Mycroft if he was needed to keep Sherlock in check...
Sherlock scowled, roughly jerked his arm out of Lestrade's grasp, and straightened his suit.
"Go home Sherlock," Lestrade continued firmly. "You can't break into the autopsy today, even if you manage to convince John to help you try."
Lestrade's voice was warm when he said John's name, and Sherlock bristled at the implication that John was an expected part of his life. He had been who he was for a long time before John Watson ever came on scene.
"If you'd known shagging my brother would give you a perceived edge in controlling me, would you have started earlier?" Lestrade gaped at him for a moment, but Sherlock, collected his Belstaff from the hall closet and pressed on. "The body should be ready and waiting. I want him transferred from Charing Cross Hospital to Barts by 9am, they have a more comprehensive work space." And with a flourish of said long black coat, he was gone.
Lestrade blinked thoughtfully at the closed front door. He was very familiar with Sherlock's cutting and heartless comments, if they weren't deductions they were calculated barbs, attempts to wrench open a person so he could get to the truth of a case. This though...something about this felt different.
Mycroft had said very recently that he hadn't worried about Sherlock half as much as he used to since 'Dr. Watson established himself at 221 B' and Greg had readily agreed John had been a fixture in Sherlock's life for so long that Greg had almost forgotten what it was like before, chasing Sherlock into filthy houses, dragging him to the hospital, and waiting in utter silence with Mycroft, listening to the heart monitors lonely beeping. Lestrade frowned and shook himself, unsettled by the long buried memories resurrected with such sharp clarity. He pulled out his phone and immediately sent John a series of texts.
First time in a long time I haven't seen you at a crime scene, mate.
Sherlock's on his way back home... I hope.
Try to keep him from climbing the walls...or shooting them if you can.
I'll make sure the body is ready for examination first thing tomorrow.
Greg never received a reply, but Lestrade wasn't quick to panic. He knew that reigning in Sherlock Holmes when he was on the scent was more than a full time job, it was damn near impossible...
Sherlock, having resolved to spend his next few hours hacking everything he could find about Mr. Wallingford's business associates, burst through the front door of 221 Baker Street. He leapt up the stairs and swept into the sitting room. He was almost upon the desk by the windows before he realized there was no laptop waiting there for him.
John's laptop used to be the one he used.
Sherlock sighed in irritation and changed course to his bedroom. He did have his own laptop, using other peoples was just easier. Sherlock scooped said laptop and charger up from the flotsam and jetsam on his bedroom floor and headed to the kitchen; it had the best lighting.
The kitchen was nearly the end of his laptop.
Sherlock's feet hit cold, water and slipped on the tile, a misstep compounded by the tiny shards of ceramic, leftovers from a broken mug which also littered the floor. Sherlock cursed softly as his ankle twisted under him, but he kept his balance. Gingerly, he set his laptop down on the table and bent to mop up the water; an electrical short would only result in more wasted time.
Sherlock recalled as he blotted up the worst of the water, he had been about to make tea when Lestrade had called. He had left the kettle on. It had shrilled so long that Mrs. Hudson, ever the 'concerned landlady' walked upstairs to see what was the matter. Her footprints were clearly visible in the carpet, the indentations sharp enough that they had to have been made today. Upon finding 221 B empty, she had made to lift the kettle off the stove. Most of the water had burned away at that point and the kettle was burning hot. The heat jolted her, causing her to fling the kettle into the sink, where it now rested, spilling the remainder of its water on the floor and knocking the mug which Sherlock had left on the counter to the floor.
She had cleaned up, she always did, despite the fact that she 'wasn't his housekeeper,' but she was getting older and had missed the smaller fragments and a slick of water that had made its way nearly under the table, just beside Sherlock's usual chair.
That sorted, Sherlock pushed his fatigue aside, plugged in his laptop, and took a seat. It was time for the real work to begin.
