3
/Revising
Greg Lestrade hung up his mobile phone with a small clench to his chest (which he made his best to dismiss). The Detective Inspector then returned his gaze to the poorly ordered paperwork above is desk and allowed himself to sigh before sitting on his chair. Even though he was meant to write the assigned reports, reread some attests and catalogue God knew how many evidence, he couldn't bring his mind to focus on the task at hand. Rather than that, he found his awareness diverging from the tedious pages to reflect upon the conversation he had with John Watson just minutes ago.
Yes, he was fairly worried. It was unlike Sherlock to fall ill (although he recollected an occasion on which the self-entitled consulting detective had caught a minor cold, converting the existence of the people involved in the case he was investigating – including Greg himself – into a living hell). He always appeared to be above all that… sentiment, pain, illness, care. But Greg recognized, even though he kept his judgment to himself, that there was humanity inside that sociopathic shell. He had seen it, even if nobody else we worked with was able to tell. It was the small things, he came to realize, that made Sherlock human. Small things like the violin, like his concealed concern for his landlady, like the small breaks he took for John to have lunch, even if Sherlock wouldn't have any himself. Small things like John.
The Detective Inspector acknowledged the great influence the ex-soldier have had in the younger man's life and, even if said man didn't, and would probably never declare it, Sherlock also knew and valued this friendship. Perhaps it was the ability that John had to cope with Sherlock's difficult, narcissistic personality. Perhaps it was the loyalty they progressively came to proffer one another. Perhaps it was just the fact that Sherlock's adventurous life hoarded John from his otherwise gloomy one, as much as John's equilibrium saved Sherlock from himself, bringing up the best in him. Greg observed this. Silently.
Now Sherlock had fallen ill, it seemed. Not that the Detective Inspector was too surprised: it had been a far too busy fortnight, for all of them. Not only he had to administer the admittance of three new members in his forensics team, he had to deal with ten cases in a row, eight of which required Sherlock's presence. No, Greg wasn't at all shocked; the man was human, after all. Even if he was always sponsoring his 'mind over matter' ideals, his body would certainly succumb at some time.
Lestrade grabbed the small transparent bag containing the pointless, bloodied handmade silver pen – the murder weapon of the latter case. Thinking about such matters, he acknowledged that he should have read the signs earlier that day. It was definitely not like Sherlock to simply tell him who had assassinated the poor woman and then just let him go arrest her, without even wanting to inspect her flat himself. It was not as the case was that 'dull', after all…
/
"Did you really have to call that psychopath again? We can barely stand his arrogant know-it-all talk, anymore."
The coroner's whining was unquestionably aggravating Lestrade's already questionable mood.
"Shut up, Anderson." With any luck he would. For a while.
At the sight of a tall man in a dark coat, followed by the always appeasing presence of his not-so-tall colleague, the Detective Inspector permitted himself a deep breath. It had been a long week, actually two weeks so nerve-racking that they seemed to agglutinate into one agonizing hebdomad, deprived of decent sleep. He needed Holmes to help him; he knew that otherwise we wouldn't see the end of it. Oh, what he would give for a cigarette, right now.
"Sherlock. John.", he greeted.
"Lestrade.", was Sherlock's short reply, along with a small nod from John. They were, despite the invincibility they apparently exhibited, also tired. John had dark circles beneath his eyes, probably from concealing his work at the clinic with… well, with Sherlock Holmes. Holmes had himself a strained look, his pale skin contrasting the dark coat.
Sherlock then moved to the centre of the living room, where there was a dead woman laying on her back, dry blood staining her extravagant shirt and plastering the long blonde hair, dark red dried puddles blighting the expensive carpet. Taking his magnifying glass, he squatted beside the body, is brain deducting the woman's life through his calculating eyes.
"Her name is Valerie Brackenbury, 42 years old, married to Trevor Brackenbury. She was found by the maid this morning; it seems that the husband was out for the weekend, in business." Lestrade tried to remember all the useful details, but his mind felt dim and his mouth parched.
Sherlock surveyed the corpse, his deductions rapidly flooding through his fast paced dialogue.
"Descending from a wealthy family, by the coat of arms on the ring of her right hand, as well as some old jewellery, probably passed through generations. She was home most of the time, judging by the marks on the couch and her legs, although she still took the care to look glamorous at all times, but there is something different on her choice of clothing, it is far too formal for someone who spent most of her time home or in the gym or in the beauty salon. No, she had not yet left the house, there is nothing on the coat hanger and her shoes are too clean. She was about to leave the house for somewhere official, an office of some kind. She had an apparently happy marriage, but only apparently, dyed her hair to charm the husband, oh this is getting interesting. Close your mouth, Greg, you are making a fool of yourself. John's customary astonishment is enough."
Greg only stared at the consulting detective. He never ceased to amaze him. Still squatted beside the body, Sherlock invited John to take a look. As he approached the lifeless woman, the doctor voiced the questions inside the Detective Inspector's head, the usual dazzled, gleaming expression he held whenever Sherlock made his deductions.
"And how exactly do you know that she goes to the gym? Or the beauty salon? Or that her marriage is not a really happy one?"
The younger man simply stared at John, then at Lestrade, and rolled his eyes. Lestrade knew what was coming.
"How tedious it must be to have such a minor mind. Her legs, John, do you see them, or do I happen to be the only person in this room with the capability of seeing?" he looked around, as the living room fell silent. "She obviously worked out, and a woman of her status wouldn't jog on the street, she would go to a gym, an expensive one, that is. The woman was wealthy, John, she dyed her hair, of course she frequented a beauty salon. As for the marriage, this house is all decorated by one person only, her, of course, because who else would put flower-patterned pillows on the couch? Her husband is seldom at home, there are plenty of pictures, all of them showing her with him, but he smiles in none of them; the house is oversupplied with exclusive, expensive, useless gifts, some of them are more than five years old. A way to make up for something, a lover, probably more than one, within their time together." He roused, looking around with his sharp eyes. He then sat on the couch, dismissing and masking a wave of nausea and waited for John's judgment.
'Must be tired', Greg thought to himself. John, meanwhile, his back turned to his flat mate, carefully examined the body. Unlike Sherlock, even though he was scientifically accurate, he had a very humane manner of holding the dead woman's pulse, a gentle way of slowly moving her chin to access the wound on her bloodied neck as if she was, somehow, still able to feel.
"She's been dead for little more than seventeen hours… perforation of the jugular vein. She passed out from the loss of blood, probably died within five or seven minutes after that. It was extremely precise… She would have been helpless.", he said, a note of sadness in his voice.
"I don't get to see the reason for his presence. The professionals can manage." Anderson made sure to accentuate the word "professionals", even though he said it in a low voice, talking to Sergeant Donovan, both of them with their eyes fixed on the consulting detective.
Lestrade opened his mouth, intending to scold, but was muted by Sherlock's quick reply.
"Of course, Anderson, because if you were ever able to see any reason, you wouldn't be lowing everyone's I.Q. by gabbling mindless idiocies. Now, I suggest you shut up before you expose your obviously mediocre so-called "love life" which I am certain you are blaming Donovan for."
The room was suddenly filled with thick air. Donovan held a vicious look, but was unable to retort. Anderson, on the other hand, held the most comical twisted face, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly before sulking, muttering something barely audible about "freaks" and psychopaths". Lestrade made his best to restrain a laugh.
"Did you see anything, John? On the wound, I mean." Sherlock asked, not looking at the doctor, probably thinking ahead.
"I don…" John moved his gloved hand through the nasty, cold wound "Yes, there's something here. It's a small piece of…" He took out something so small that nobody else could see from their distance. Anderson watched in disbelief, for he had found nothing at all. Lestrade came closer, taking a look at the piece John held.
"A piece of what? Looks like silver, to me."
"Yes, more precisely the tip of a handmade silver fountain pen.", Sherlock stated, eyeing Lestrade. "Now where is it?"
"Where is what?"
"Anderson's minuscule brain, it must be lost somewhere around here.", Sherlock said with a humourless reproduction of a smile. Then his brow furrowed. "Am I talking some language you fail to understand? The pen, Lestrade!"
"There was no pen." Donovan stated.
"What?"
"There was no pen here. We searched the whole house. There is nothing in here resembling the murder weapon."
Sherlock focused his thoughtful stare in something nobody else was able to see. Lestrade assumed it was his so called "mind palace".
"Shut up, Lestrade." He said. "Anderson, go away."
"But I didn't…"
"I'm not going any…"
"Shut up! All of you!"
"Sir?"
Sherlock snorted and roled his eyes, turning around "Didn't you hear me tell you…" He stopped.
Lestrade also turned to see one of his forensics team's new acquisition. A shy, smart girl from Bristol. What was her name? Alice? Her face was flushed and her blonde hair seemed out of place. He sighed, the girl had yet much to learn.
"Sorry sir. Detective Inspector, sir, the husband has just arrived."
/
Well, here is the third one :) Still more to come, of course :D
Review, please, I hope you enjoyed it :D
