AN: To A (Maybe) Human. I don't know who you are, but I need you in my life. Seriously, get an account, get in contact. I wrote this chapter specifically so I could contact you.
Now that I've written this chapter, I'm going to start on another another another fic. Because this is what I do and this is why I need a wrangler (hint hint Human).
This is all completely un-beta'd and totally fresh off the top of my brain!
London in the winter has a certain aesthetic beauty that even Sherlock appreciates. Jo certainly does, a little quirk tripping up her lips as she nestles her chin into thickly knit scarf. It takes the cabbie a mere thirteen minutes to deposit them at the frigid white entryway of Number 15, Trevor Place.
The tape parts for them, with only a few strange glances at Lady. Anderson is perched in the hallway, glowering as Lestrade escorts them past. For one blessed moment, Anderson's mouth remains shut, and then they are through and into the study.
"Mr and Mrs Worthington in the study!" Sherlock crows, clapping his hands and veritably bouncing through the door. "With the gun!"
"This is not Cluedo, Shirley," Jo huffs from her perch against the doorframe, Lady standing patiently behind her and away from the doorway. Her eyes light up and she tilts her head to address Lestrade, as John is already bent over the bodies to inspect them. "Cluedo was Shirl's favourite game to play, ever since he was old enough to talk. He was so taken with the game that he would play it by himself. In fact, he would steal my dolls and -" a large hand claps over her mouth and her eyes twinkle at the glare Sherlock levels at her.
"You swore you wouldn't tell," he hisses, but her eyes just crinkle further with mirth.
Lestrade gives them an exasperated look. John stands up and snaps his gloves off.
"They were both shot in the back of the head with a nine mil," John says, turning to face them.
"But she wasn't killed here." Sherlock spins on his heel and stalks forward, peering into the exit hole in Mrs Worthington's forehead. "No splatter, and she would have seen his assailant the moment the door opened." His head cocks to the side and he looks intently at Lestrade. "Where is their daughter?"
"Bedroom upstairs, same style," Lestrade replies.
Lady tugs on her lead.
"The drawing room!" Sherlock spins out the door again and down the hallway. "WATSON!" The dutiful John Watson gives them a brief glance before trailing after the youngest Holmes.
Jo sighs and lets her eyes roll upwards. Lady tugs on her lead again, throwing her chest into the harness, and Jo braces herself. She gives the lead a small but sharp tug. "No," she says firmly, but Lady only whines and drops her haunches to push against the restraint. When she gives a yip, Jo stops bracing and, head cocked to one side, follows the cream curled dog as she navigates down the hallway and up the stairs, into the spare bedroom. This area isn't cordoned off. No blood splatter, nothing of great interest.
Lestrade stands in the doorway as Jo lets go of Lady's lead and the hound shoots forwards, around the bed and up to a funny little nook in the corner. It's a peculiarly trapezoid shaped bit of wall, squished in between a built-in cupboard and the outside wall and a sloping ceiling. Under normal circumstances, it would be nothing, but with Lady scrabbling at the floor in front of it, trying to dig her way through, it suddenly becomes something.
Jo stands over her dog, straddling the high back (but only just) as she investigates the wall and cupboard joinery.
"There's something here," she says, stepping back, but Lestrade has already called in a couple of men and she steps back, letting them take over. It's not long before they give up any pretence at finesse and take a mallet to the hollow wall, pulling it apart with gloved hands and hurling bits to one side. When the opening is big enough to fit half a person, a torch is handed forward.
"There's stairs here, sir," the man says, and he passes the torch back to take up the mallet once more.
"The sheets are too clean," Sherlock says from behind them, making Jo twitch and Lestrade jump in surprise. Jo spins, hand pressed against her chest, and stops. Her foot scrapes, eyes narrow, shoulders tip forwards as she spots something. She takes two steps towards the door, fingers reaching then curling back into her palms.
"There's..." she leans down further, eye nearly level with the lock. "There's a number pad here," she says, finger brushing the lock edge. "It controls a secondary lock, separate to the key lock. Look, Shirley," she steps to one side. "It's a microfilm pad, I may not have noticed it if the light hadn't hit one of the circuit wires."
"This wood is thicker than the other doors," Sherlock comments, fingers tapping the painted panelling. "The seal on this door is perfect. Total sound deadening."
Jo runs her fingers down the walls around the door framing, rapping the wood. "Excellent sound deadening in the walls."
"We're through." The men move back, Lestrade taking the torch and point. He eases down the narrow stairs, carefully illuminating the dark before him until he is swallowed up by it. There's a quiet clatter from down there, a breathed "oh shit", and a scuffle. A low murmur, slow and soothing. More shuffling.
"Get a medic!" Lestrade calls from the bowels of the deep dark. One of the men extracts himself and runs down the hallway, no questions asked.
Jo shoves her head out the doorway. "JOHN!" she bellows. There's a startled clatter from down the way and John emerges into the hallway, past a team of techs lurking at another doorway. He blinks owlishly at her. "Medical expertise required," she explains and ducks back into the room, eyes intent on the drama unfolding beyond a crumbling hidden door.
Wobbling torchlight hits the stairs immediately inside the gaping hole. Lestrade's steps are laboured and heavy as he climbs. It's only when John rushes forward they realise Lestrade is carrying an emaciated boy swaddled in blankets, the metatarsalia and ossa tarsi of his feet pressing through his skin with each move. The rest of him is hidden beneath rough wool, but would fare no better.
Lady barks and draws the boy's sunken eyes to her mistress. There is a moment of silence while his eyes widen, pulse jumps in his throat, rattling lungs haul in air, before his screams reverberate through the house.
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